November 4, 2010
Dhaka to Daulatpur
via Sonargaon and off highway N1
My puncture repair has worked and after a warm sendoff from the hotel's bemused staff, I pedal down to the Old Town, towards the waterfront, where yesterday I spotted a small road that goes west - one that will be better than tackling the busy and truck-laden highway. The N1 is the country's main and only strip of tarmac that links the capital with Chittagong: the Dhaka-Chittagong Highway.
I'm wrong. The riverside lanes are chock-full of rickshaws and the odd truck. Gridlock, Dhaka style.
I quickly give up on the path beside the water and head down lanes that my compass says are generally taking me west, but it's impossible to know my location.
At times these lanes are jammed solid, leading me to simply stand still and wait and it's at one such spot that I see some men sat down, having a shave. I lean my bike up against a wall and take a snap.
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Typical of what's happened so far, people gather round and look. Many call it a stare, which has negative connotations, and although they are staring, it doesn't seem an aggressive look - more one of bafflement and incomprehension and maybe a little bit of 'what the hell is this crazy bastard doing here?'. Then once the photo's taken, people smile and laugh when shown the image on the camera's LCD screen. No words except the odd 'thank you' or 'very good'. Smiling works really well.
I ride past all sorts. The lanes are single lane, tight and compact, with delapidated buildings forming the parameters, some surfaces are tarmaced, others just dirt.
It's already hot by 8:30.
At one point pairs of labourers are swinging sledge hammers in tandem at large, industrial-size sheets of thick steel that's probably reclaimed from old ships. It goes on for a few hundred metres, men pounding away for whatever reason in workshops and open-air yards that have an apocalyptic air. The noise is such that I'm sure the workers have serious hearing problems.
Somehow I find my way back to the river - pure luck. I can see a bridge in the distance, which is a big, a gentle arc crossing over the wide expanse of water. I make for it.
Another mistake.
After pedaling across, I realise this wide road is leading me south, not west. Back again.
It's hotter now and diesel fumes from trucks are really bad. There's dust in the air, kicked up from the messy roadside and I see a large sign directing to Chittagong and the big intersection is complete and utter chaos. A policeman looks on, powerless and resigned to that fact and I nudge my way between static vehicles and pedal towards Sondargaon.
I knew this initial stretch would be bad and I wasn't wrong.
About 30 kilometres since starting off from my hotel this morning, the junction to Sonargaon is reached - a quiet lane leading to an ancient capital.
The place is now in ruins. There's a museum, but it's closed. That's OK, as museums are really my thing.
A young guy who speaks reasonable English soon latches on to me and becomes a self-appointed guide. We are followed by about 15 children, all rather over-excited by the sight of me and my bike. I feel like the Pied Piper as we walk around, across a football-cum-cricket field, through some woodland to see a Moghul-era(?) tower.
We pass a Moghul bridge, which looks wonderful, then stroll back and I give him 100 taka - about a dollar-fifty. He wants 500 taka, which is way over-the-top for 30 minutes, but I can't blame him for trying it on. As he see it, I'm a tourist - a rich guy - a mug.
Back on the main road - I know it's not too far to turn off and head south as I saw small lanes on Google Maps.
A highway restaurant that looks pretty snazzy, with its tiled façade and clean lines, look inviting. Inside it's wonderfully cool, with ceiling fans whizzing around over each table and the smiling staff show me to the washroom and I wash my hands under the running water. This'll be my first real public display of dining without cutlery.
There's no menu in English, so I look at someone's leftovers and say I'll have the same - chicken something. The manager says they don't have any roti or nan bread and I have to soak up the curry with rice - making it into a ball isn't a skill I've yet fully mastered, but I make a go of it and enjoy the food.
Back out into the heat, across another long bridge that presents more risk as its very narrow and just wide enough for two vehicles - one going in each direction - yet most trucks and buses ignore logic and overtake.
I opt to walk my bike across the Megna Bridge but ride over a second one, tailgating a slow moving truck and then at the village of Daudkandi make a right and escape to where I want to be - on quiet lanes.
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This is a different world: a cycling paradise. My shoulders relax as the countryside becomes much more enjoyable - it's flat and a lot of it is covered in a water-growing plant that people are collecting, standing up to their knees in the stuff and leaving heaps like mini haystacks. The plant has pale purple flowers.
I don't really know where I'm going - it's just a case of looking at my compass and veering south-ish. My goal is the town of Chandpur, but it's a way to go and I'm off the map here. Only satellite images show these dinky routes and at times it's tarmac, at other times it's smooth, compact dirt. if it rains it'll be horrible.
Houses are spaced so that I can always see one and someone, and they can obviously spot me and they wave and shout 'how are you' or some Bangla phrase that I don't understand, but something that instinctively sounds friendly and I wave and say 'hello' or 'very good' back.
The afternoon slips by. Where will I sleep? My panniers have a one-man tent inside, one which I can use as a mosquito net if needed. We'll see.
By 5:00 the sun has got low and I've already talked to some villagers about finding a hotel - a word without much meaning in Bangladesh, as it really refers to any place, such as a shopping complex. Apparently an 'abershik hotel' is the thing, which means a place to sleep. There doesn't seem much chance of finding one on these small back roads and finding a camping spot will be hard too, but my eyes are peeled.
Near six it's pretty much dark and I stop at a large pool and take a photo of the dying sun's light on the calm surface of the water. A man walking past asks in English what I'm doing and when he hears I want to find a room he tells me a nearby house is owned by a German who is in Dhaka and that it is a place to sleep.
What's a German doing here is a mystery.
Another man brings the key and we all enter the large house - now a group of 20, mostly children. Five of us older men sit in the living room under a fan that's been turned on for my benefit and it whizzes around and keeps us cool.
Ten minutes later the owner arrives unexpectedly from Dhaka to find a bunch of people in his home and my guess is he was looking forward to a quiet weekend. He's doesn't look too happy to see me, but his English is good and he's clearly not German, but a Chairman, meaning a sort of mayor of this locale.
Thankfully he says it's OK for me to stay and my bike and bags are already in his spare bedroom, which is quite basic but it has a ceiling fan to keep it cool and the mosquitoes away.
This area - and the whole of Bangladesh, for that matter - has an intermittent electricity supply and once the fans are off, the heat inside the concrete building becomes unbearable. After taking a shower, sweat is pouring off me.
We all sit outside near the doorway's portico and they give me a rotary fan that I have to turn with my hand to keep myself cool and I spend a couple of hours swinging it around like a rattle.
I take some photos looking into the nigh sky and decide to call it a night at around 11:00 as it's had been a full, enjoyable, eventful albeit tiring first day on the road.
Today's ride: 85 km (53 miles)
Total: 98 km (61 miles)
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