09/04/09 A scenic tour of Gazipur

For those of you who don’t know (and I’m sure the only people who know Gazipur are the ones unfortunate enough to live there), Gazipur is a noncommittal kind of place. It’s one of those faceless towns on the outskirts of Dhaka that kind of blend into one another as you travel out of the city, like a tiresome extension of the capital which you really don’t have time for.

Given this town’s less than enchanting nature, combined with the circumstances of my visit to it, my introduction to Gazipur could have been the sort of experience that breaks a person. After all, after a nine-hour journey in which, because the lights on the night train don’t switch off (wtf!?) and the AC in the AC compartment doesn’t work, and because you’ve been so surrounded by dodgy-looking guys that you’re too paranoid to do much more than sit nervously in your seat and try not to catch anyone’s eye lest they smile too familiarly and shout ‘You’re countree?’ in your face, you’ve not been able to sleep A WINK, no-one’s in their best state. Some would even say that, in such circumstances, you’re close to the edge. But I like to think of myself as an optimist.

I fell asleep on the aforementioned night train around 5.30am. It must have been sheer exhaustion, and the fact that, in desperation, I wrapped my scarf fully around my head so that no light (and no air) could penetrate. Anyway. When I awoke about an hour later, the train was pulling into a station. My thought process was somewhat disordered, owing to the lack of sleep and fresh oxygen beneath my scarf, but it went something as follows:
a) Although the sign said Joydevpur, and I didn’t recognise this, I knew that there were 2 stations in Dhaka and the two previous times I’d travelled by train I’d got off too late, therefore maybe this was the station I should be getting off at?
b) The lechy men were all leching again once they saw I was awake, so I didn’t want to ask them if this was the right stop.
c) I’m far too cool for school, so couldn’t seem like a confused, sleep-deprived bideshi who doesn’t really know where she’s going

So in a highly composed whirl (bearing in mind it was 6.30am and I’d had basically no sleep in the last 24 hours), I swept up my enormous, cumbersome bag and swept off the train. Oh so cool, oh so smooth. I’m sure everyone thought I knew exactly where I was going. I’m sure none of them were sniggering at me as I blundered into the middle of some forlorn, back-end-of-nowhere outskirt, wearing a sleep-deprived face, a rumpled shalwar kameez and toting an oversize backpack.

You might, therefore, say that pride led me to my fall into Gazipur. I’d prefer to put it down to my adventurous, go-getting spirit. But this is just speculation – let’s get back to the story…

By the time I’d discovered my error (a succession of exceedingly nice people helped me to the realisation that getting a CNG to Lalmatia was going to be something of a challenge, though none pointed out that I should just get back on the train, which stood in the station for a good ten minutes after I’d swept off it) it was too late. The train was pulling out of the station.

And that’s how I found myself taking a scenic tour of Gazipur, perched atop my overly large backpack, beside a very nice Garo (indigenous) man in the early morning light. And really, Gazipur isn’t that bad. It’s home to Bangladesh’s rice research institute, for instance. It has some lovely looking paint and cement shops. The Dhaka-Aricha highway bisects it, rather like an infected wound might bisect a not-so-healthy limb. The highway aside, it isn’t horrible – it just isn’t much to speak of. It’s probably not somewhere you’d be particularly chuffed to find yourself ever, let alone in adverse circumstances. But like I said, I’m an optimist.

When I found out that a bus to Mohakali (a place in Dhaka about half an hour from where I was supposed to be going) would take approximately two hours, I’ll admit, my optimism was somewhat challenged. And as the people piled onto the bus, the temperature climbed and the traffic slowed to a stutter, I began to wonder at what point it was okay for optimists to lose their rags.

An hour and three quarters later, we passed the station where I should have got off the train.

But then I realised that the bus was trundling through Bonani – only a ten minute ride from the glorious Bagha club. In other words, only ten minutes from a hot shower, a full English breakfast (with bacon!) and a dip in the pool. As I jumped off the bus and into a CNG I smiled smugly to myself. Even though I was a total prat, at least I was a prat who would soon be having a hot shower, a full English breakfast (with bacon!) and a dip in the pool.