Borders and Bicycles

by Mark Gresser (Australia)

Making a local connection Bangladesh

Benapole border control presented itself as a well-oiled machine and I watched a parade of Indians and Bangladeshis flow through it smoothly ahead of me. I had plenty of time to be impressed by its apparent efficiency while I waited in a plastic chair to the side, having been pulled from the queue and told to sit quietly. I hadn’t bothered to ask why, as my modus operandi in such circumstances is to remain polite, don’t ask questions and do as I’m told. Eventually, I was called into an office. Behind a desk at its centre sat an imposing figure who introduced himself as the Immigration Superintendent. “You are tourist?” “Yes.” “Why you come here? Bangladesh is poor. Not safe for foreigner.” “I like to travel. I want to see all countries.” “You travel by bicycle?” “Yes.” “Hmmph. Wait…I make call.” Call over, the Superintendent stared for a moment at the receiver he’d just placed in its cradle before glancing up, a resigned look in his eyes. “Okay. You can come. But be careful. Some dangerous people here.” An hour later I was pedalling hard, putting as much distance between myself and the border as quickly as I could. I hadn’t made it very far before a passing electric rickshaw pulled over ahead of me, its driver waving me to stop. In four words the man exhausted his knowledge of the English language. “Country?” “Australia.” “Come my home?” With the Superintendent’s words lingering in my mind, I paused for a moment to consult my instincts. “He seems friendly”, they whispered. “Okay,” came my answer. I followed the rickshaw onto a rough dirt track, the abrasive sounds of the main road fading into the quiet of village life. Old men hunched over walking sticks chatted on corners, middle-aged women bent over clay pots prepared food, and children, crouched over scrap-metal toys, squealed happily. I was led into a courtyard surrounded by three mud-brick homes, where I parked my bike and took in my surroundings. Girls gossiped shyly behind veils while guys curiously approached. I looked at my escort for instruction, but he only offered me a nervous smile. It seemed he had as little idea about what to do next as I did. The mounting tension broke when a youth stepped forward and introduced himself with practised English. His name was Imran and he wanted to know what I was doing there. “I don’t know”, I laughed. “He invited me”. We both looked over at my escort, who was now beaming at the crowd that had gathered. “Look what I found,” his face announced to them all. Aware of the overwhelming attention I was receiving, Imran whisked me away, taking me to a nearby clearing where a large cauldron hung over a fire. An old man had control of the pot’s contents, stirring continuously, tasting a spoonful every so often and carefully choosing a colourful spice to add in response. Imran and I lowered ourselves onto two of the woven mats that encircled the fire and by the time the meal was ready the other mats had become occupied by twenty-five people from four generations. Any residual nerves and shyness dissipated as food and rice wine did laps and the air filled with joyful chatter. The following night, as I lay beside Imran on a wooden platform that was a lounge and eating area by day and a communal bed by night, I told him I felt like I was in paradise. I’d spent two days learning how the community grows and shares all their own food, with their water coming from underground, and it was the most idyllic lifestyle I’d ever seen. I couldn't get him to understand. “But we're just poor farmers. We have nothing.” As I prepared to leave the next day, I felt like I was losing something important, something I needed. I held it together as I said goodbye and cycled away, but as soon as I was alone, I burst into tears. “Your country might be poor and in some parts dangerous”, I wanted to tell the Superintendent, “but it’s also home to the kind of beauty the world so desperately needs.”