Motorcycle Diaries

I’m fairly certain I didn’t actually ask Mikey if I could come along for the ride; if I recall, I simply informed him that the back of his motorcycle would be occupied, by me. What can I say in my defense? Simply that he had just told me he was heading up to Sylhet for the long weekend on his motorbike and in the excitement that created there was no time for manners! Fortunately, he seemed to welcome the idea of some company and greeted me with a smile and a (perfectly sized!) helmet early on Thursday morning.

There are few places that you will find me happier than on the back of a motorcycle. I can’t help but surrender myself to the feel of the wind rushing past and the sensation of the road underfoot. I’ve only actually driven a motorbike once and unfortunately it didn’t end happily ever after: the exhaust pipe and I didn’t agree on a few things, namely how to treat my right ankle. But I’ve accepted my defeat graciously and decided that the back is much better anyway – there you get all the pleasure and none of the responsibility for dodging buses that careen down the highway straight at you, keeping the bike upright during endless traffic jams, or fording streams. We’ll get to that.

The journey got off to a bit of a slow start. On the early morning streets of Independence Day Dhaka, we made it to the south end of the city in no time. But unfortunately, getting through the 1 km stretch over the Sitalakhya River bridge and onto the Dhaka-Sylhet highway was a 90 minute affair. Fortunately, I was on cloud nine just being on the back seat of the bike, so I happily chatted with passing popcorn-wallahs and neighbouring cars and failed to remember how miserable I was supposed to be.

Eventually, we got onto the highway and I began to feel the world streaming past me in that way it only does when on a motorcycle. It was a strange day, weather-wise – overcast and muggy – but somehow that made it all feel more…real.

There was a significant amount of bus-dodging involved and I sympathized with Mikey, who I realized was actually working while I sat taking everything in. Eventually, however, we pulled off the main highway onto the old Dhaka-Sylhet highway and began weaving our way down the smooth, windy road than threads through idyllic tea plantations. According to Mikey, technically speaking it’s a biker’s paradise. I wouldn’t know, but it felt pretty heavenly from where I sat.

We weren’t in heaven long before we pulled off the highway on a smaller road, and then a smaller road still, until pretty soon we were driving down a dirt path in the middle of nowhere. Well, that’s not quite true; there’s no such thing as the middle of nowhere in Bangladesh. In a country this populated, you can’t go long without passing someone, and we did ride past a few astonished faces. It’s always entertaining to observe yourself being observed here; to approach people engaged in their own business, see them spot you, watch them freeze like deer in the headlights, follow the drop of their jaw, see their eyes glaze over with what can seem like disapproval but is simply astonishment, and then feel the heads follow you as you go past and disappear into the distance.

I was just settling into the bumpy rhythm of the dirt track when we were forced to a halt by a bridge that looked like it wouldn’t support the weight of a cat named Ginger, not to mention an Enfield named Lynn. Our other option was the aforementioned stream. I left that decision in Mikey’s capable hands and prayed for once that I wouldn’t be sitting on the back for either.

He opted for the river – a wise choice I found later as I made my way delicately and with much difficulty over the dilapidated bridge. I then watched from the safe, dry shore as Mikey prepared himself for the plunge. It’s beyond me how someone can manage to drive a motorcycle straight into a body of water, no matter how shallow, but he did it and emerged on the other side with wet shoes and a big grin.


When we eventually made it to the Taraf Hill Eco Cottage I was glad to find a clean, comfortable room in a pleasant rural setting. We set off for a walk in the Rema Kalenga Forest Reserve that we had come to see while there was still daylight, and enjoyed a lovely wander through the trees, dipping our feet into cool streams, enjoying the sounds of nature and even spotting one jungle fowl. On the way back we stopped at a few Tripura villages, where we were greeted friendly people of Tibetan-Burmese decent. Visits to the villages of Bangladesh’s ethnic minorities are always a welcome taste of diversity.


We had grandiose and deluded ideas of getting up early the next day to walk through the forest in the early morning, when it is at its best. Fortunately, one of the year’s first rains gave us permission to stay in bed and listen to it drum on the tin roof until a more decent hour came along. Eventually, however, we did go for a walk through more beautiful sections of forest to the villages of the O-rang people. I sometimes find it hard not to envy the beautiful simplicity of village life here, even when I know all the people I envy want only to have exactly what I have. But these villages, dancing to the tune of wooden cow bells, were so serene it did make me consider adding a mud house of my own to their charming collection, many of which were decorate with turmeric-coloured paint and some of which even had design sculpted into the mud walls. My fantasy came to an end however when I asked one of the shy children if they went to school and their tired looking mother piped in “What school? There is no school here…” When reality comes crashing down around me in Bangladesh, it always lands with a bang.


Eventually we dragged ourselves away, declining our guide's offer of a mid-morning rice wine break in the next village, and got back on the road. The drive between Rema Kalenga and Srimongal was spectacular – my favourite stretch of road all weekend, without a doubt. The scenery went from rice paddies, to dense jungle, to tea gardens, to Hindu villages of tea pickers, all within an hour and a half. Mikey, however, wasn’t quite as fond of the route as I was; at one point in the thick of an incredible stretch of jungle, I leaned forward to shout through the wind “THIS IS INCREDIBLE!” His response was to inform me that he hadn’t taken his eyes off the dirt track in front of him for 10 minutes and that I should enjoy it on his behalf. I think that’s when I decided once and for all that I quite like the back seat and won’t be rushing off for driving lessons anytime soon.

Srimongal was the driest I have ever seen it, but still stunning. Tea plantations are such an unusual and pleasant landscape: calm, orderly, peaceful. We headed straight out to another Eco Cottage where Mikey had some Danish friends staying before we went into town to a room of our own at the simple but adequate Tea Town Hotel; no Hilton, but it was about the only room left in Srimongal, so I wasn’t about to complain. We went for a quick lunch at a local Chines (yes, I spelled that correctly) Bangla restaurant, had a much-needed rest and then went out exploring again on Lynn. Mikey wanted to track some cycling routes on his amazing i-do-everything-including-GPS phone and for once I actually got to be of some use by snapping photos of the things we zipped past to link to the GPS data.


After a lovely ride we made it back just in time for sunset G&Ts by the stream with Mikey’s Danish friends. When we ran out of T, we dipped into the other supplies we had managed to muster up, and ended up inventing what shall be known from now on as the Srimongal Special: grape juice (preferably with eyeball-like peeled grapes inside), Sprite and Gin. Worth trying, although it probably tastes better when you can take pride in simply having found something as exotic as grape juice in a place where the nearest Tonic is at least 150km away.

The next day we had to head straight back to Dhaka in time for my Mom’s arrival back from Bhutan. The plain old highway lacked the zing of the more adventurous trails we had blazed the previous days, but once again just being on the back of a motorcycle, out in the surprisingly chilly morning air, feeling my weight rock back and forth with the every curve of the bike, was an immense pleasure.

It was painful to drag myself away from the bike when we eventually got back to Dhaka. If it hadn’t been for the prospect of a shower to remove the thick layer of grime that had collected on every exposed part of my body, I may just have stayed there forever. You’d be alright with that, wouldn’t you Mikey?