Journeys Beyond the Front Door

by James Hastings

  Arriving back at the hotel that eve, it was agreed that we should attempt to get an early night sleep as we had a full day of travel, beginning at day break to beat the expected morning road blocks and bonfires. We briskly stuffed our belongings into our bags, clinked a couple of beers and turned the television on to the local Bangi soaps. There were no English sub-titles nor over dubbing but the story line could still be grasp to a point. Barely. From what was gathered to be a live action and overly dramatic version of Indian folk law, with blue man creatures and half animal hybrids with magical powers battling away for the love and attention of animal girl. Hilarity ensured. This experience was topped off with more dream-inducing melatonin while the titanic battles of demi gods faded into the back ground and melted into the subconscious.

  At approximately two in the morning, three hours before official wake up time, I awoke and bolted upright. Passports. Where the fuck is my passport?

  Throwing the covers to the side and flipping the light switch, I began rifling through the logical places of where I would probably stash such important documents. Firstly, through the bumbag that had encapsulated things of importance throughout the trip so far . . . but alas, no. Empty. The small backpack that sat propped up on the chair next to the door was the next to be rifled through. Out came the folders of all the paper work, phones, cameras and assortment of weird shit. Sifting through key rings, pamphlets and lollipops - nothing. With anxiety rising, it was then onto the main backpack. The one skilfully tethered together only hours before. Where the jamming of hands in between rolled up pants and soiled shirts also came up empty. It was as this point the panic and urgency kicked into high gear and the calm sifting of items made way for the delirious throwing of things across the room in desperation. Bags were ruptured and turned upside down to no avail. In a wild state of desperation, I stumbled my way down to the front desk to hopelessly enquire if I had perhaps indeed left it absentmindedly for safe keeping with the staff.

  I descended the half dozen flights of stairs to find both the hotel security and staff asleep across the lounges in tranquil ignorance. After tapping on a couple of shoulders and motioning minions to the front desk, words were spoken and a very half-arsed 'just been woken from slumber' search was underway. Papers were flipped over and moved from side to side with a nonchalant urgency while draws were opened and hands swished through them. No passports.

  I ascended the stairs three at a time, adrenaline and panic had well and truly set in. I entered the room to find Sarah sitting upright from her slumber, with a slight bewilderment upon her face, curious to know why the lights were on and half the room deconstructed. After a quick and hastened explanation of the situation at hand, a snort and a laugh was heard and she rolled over back to tempt the oblivion of sleep. I leered at her and a conscious decision was made that a cigar and a quick sit down in front of my belongings coupled with the attempted brain strain of trying to reconnect failed memories was required. I needed to get out of town, I need my passport. If I can get to the embassy I can acquire a new one for travel . . . but the embassy was in the capital. I need to fly to the capital. Yet I need my passport to fly. Bugger.

  As I shook the now predominantly empty backpacks, I heard a glimmer of hope. The school supplies. I had neglected the one unopened and remaining pocket left in my belongings - the section jammed packed full of pens and pencils, erasers and sharpeners. Tipping out this assortment of stationary and finding numerous items snapped in half, my passport dropped out onto with a slap onto the floor that immediately made spirits rise. With the debacle of missing travel documentation necessities out of the way, I fisted my belongings back into the bags with a reckless abandon and threw myself back into bed n an attempt to snatch the remaining couple of hours of sleep before the journey out of dodge.

  Awaking at the arranged pre-dawn schedule, bags packed and ready to go and awaiting for a knock at the door, I found myself red eyed and uneasy on the feet as I made my way to the entrance with the confusion of a lavish dream state and exhaustion. Tan stood beaming like a rabbit, somehow energetic on the morning after his wedding night. We brought our things down to the lobby and paid our bill whilst bidding the staff and diligent armed guards farewell and entered the small motorbike driven carriage. In the pale blue light of morning the streets were relatively quiet and had a spirit of freshness. Traveling through the winding narrow streets we soon found ourselves at the local train station before dawn, just before the predesignated time of riot. The station itself consisted of a sparse blue tiled building with a small ticket booth to the front corner, railing to designate lines which were not used and a chalk board above the wall with copious amounts of scribble which can only be assumed was the local language and numerical designations. We sat against the wall as our trusted Tanveer organised our transport once again, managing to sneak forward in the line due to the wide eyed wonderment that we provided the other prospective passengers.

  Passing through the fares we were again greeted by a small market place selling snacks and other essentials and with the purchase of more Pringles we found our train and made our way up the carriages to find our spot. With a small amount of time to kill, we examined the surrounds, finding a small pond filled with ducks just meters away while chain smoking occurred. Within too long we boarded the train and found ourselves in a first class cabin consisting of two bench seats with windows and lockable door. Funnily enough this trip by train would cost us less than what was paid for the Pringles.

  For the next four hours many small villages past by the window, the occasional brick building but for the majority of time consisted of small stick huts nestled against the occasional lake or river. The livestock themselves seemed to have free run of the area either chewing for food near the tracks or in between them with no care for the steel monstrosity making it's way past. At Jessore station we were greeted by the traditional wide eyed stares and gaping mouths as we were hurried to awaiting rickshaws that would take us back across the lands to the air port. This time as we passed through the town there was a completely different feel as there were people going about their day, children playing on the streets and riding their bikes. Whilst barely a week ago this town had an air about it with similar tensions of a pre war Kabul as we boarded our ambulance for our escape through the jungle, now there were nothing but smiles and even cheeky high fives caught from passing kids.

  Arriving at the air port with an hour to kill we passed ourselves through the non existent customs and purchased ourselves some more Pringles and chocolate to await the journey before us. We bid Tanveer farewell at the appointed time and between thanking him for his gracious hospitality and best wishes for the future, we sneaked a highly illegal bottle of gold leaf vodka into his bag as an extra thank you. Whilst being perfectly fine for myself to carry, such contraband for a local, especially under the political turmoil of the area was quite another. Illicit goods indeed.

  Once the flight was called we walked the forty meters across the pavement towards the aeroplane. Being a military base we also passed what consisted of the local areas Air Force. In this case, front central propeller powered aeroplanes that resembled spit fires and other assortments of pre World War Two fighter planes. Seeing as the British left Bangladesh to relatively its own devices one can only assume that these had been left in the exodus. With that said, we boarded what resembled a converted old bomber and took our seats next to the shaky propellers once more and we were soon on our way back to the capital.

  Upon landing back in Dhaka we found ourselves somewhat lost trying to get back to the international section. Thankfully one of the workers was considerate enough to not point us in the right direction but to escort us through the airport and to the section that was required before demanding money. Once this worker and the subsequent security guard were paid off we handed over our backpacks to the check in guest and found ourselves wanting for food. Soon enough we found ourselves in the duty free markets purchasing more scotch and other localised nic nacs be
fore finding a small restaurant where sandwiches were acquired. Once the bill was paid, and incidentally one more bribe to another worker we boarded our flight out of these lands and towards Nepal.

  Chapter Six: Arrivals In The Mountain Kingdoms

  After a longer than expected delay aboard another abysmal flying coffin, we sailed the skies over the Himalayas and descended down into the city of Kathmandu. Unfortunately for us, this meant that our flight was two hours delayed and so we arrived in the dead of night instead of the intended light of the afternoon. As a result, there were no mountain vistas to behold out of the side windows, only the blackness and occasional spattering of lights. Regardless, we arrived safely in one of the most uneasy and treacherous landing strips in the world.

  Making our way to the customs area, there was a sheer and obvious difference between the two country’s airports. Walking the gantry to the main building there were copious greeting signs and well wishes mixed in with a cocktail of serene Buddhist quotes and a welcoming sense of tranquility and equilibrium that was far away from the tense and chaotic atmosphere of Bangladesh. Arriving at the immigration hall, various documents were signed and our brains farted out - in classic short term memory loss fashion - that passport photographs were indeed required to be produced for entry. These photographs were still on the bedside table back home, thousands of kilometers away. I had been told by various sources that the local photo booth racket inside of the airport would charge an exorbitant amount to produce photos on the spot. And really, why wouldn't they? You can't enter without a photo . . . and there's only one guy doing them. The definition of a racket.

  Not being in possession of any local currency it was a trip to the money changer on the other side of the room where it seemed logical to with draw a couple of hundred dollar bills since there would still need to be hotels and taxes to pay and taxis to obtain. With that done, it was back to the photo booth for said mug shots. After sixteen hours of travel mixed between trains and rickshaws, two separate flights with hours spent in transit limbo on a stomach filled with only Pringles and half a sandwich and little to no sleep, the photos were less than glamorous but would no doubt do the trick. And at a price of 50 c, who could argue? Unfortunately being such a cheap price versus the wads of cash just exchanged, we had to return back to the money changer to break down this phenomenal amount of currency into smaller denominations that would be accepted by our photographer. Eurgh.

  Once through the customs checkpoints, we descended the stairs to what was presumed to be the baggage area to reacquaint ourselves with our belongings and proceed to the land of mystics and spirituality. At the bottom of these stairs, the over-tired expression and sheer desire for sleep must have been quite evident on our blank and dead-eyed faces as a smiling worker beckoned over and queried if we would require a trolley for our bags. Not wanting to carry what was the equivalent of a bag of cement on my back I vaguely shrugged in indifference and he rushed into action. He pulled our bags onto the trolley and rushed his way through to the exits. Sarah, in her infinite wisdom, pleaded with me to tell him to stop and say no, and whilst agreeing with her, in my exhausted and semi-conscious state, I could not catch up with the man to reason nor had the energy to yell across the hall. By the time we met back up, he was outside the terminal and discussing sly plans with taxi drivers. Evidently such help is not without its costs and as the locals surrounded us and started probing us with a barrage of questions and passively aggressively informing us that compensation for his helpfulness was in the form of ten dollars. Whilst fatigue and general misanthropy had at this point truly sapped away the energy and politeness that inhibited any of my being, all I wanted was to be left alone for a time to collect my thoughts. Waving off the sway of taxi drivers bidding for our attention, we thusly scurried to the vacant area to the side of the gates to sit down and consume cigarettes and plot our next course.

  A hotel had been booked for the night which, in theory, was the closest to the airport. The idea was to check-in, sleep, check-out and then be on our way into the centre of town. After our moment of chain smoking in the crisp mountain air in a direct attempt to recharge the bodily equilibrium of nicotine, we re-adjusted and felt our sense of self restore and mild levels of socialization recover. I begrudgingly made my way back to the taxi ranks and a price was eventually agreed to take us to our hotel. Half way down the exit road of the airport, our trusted driver stopped the car on the side of the road and made some phone calls to query the exact location of our hotel. It seems that assurances of supreme knowledge no more than a minute before had been made up as he went along and with questionable expert advice over the phone we were on our way again. Approximately two hundred meters. To the hotel directly opposite the airport entry. We literally could have walked there, even in our most haggard of states. With our ten dollars pre-paid and offers of hash politely declined, we alighted, removed our bags and made our way to the entrance. Regardless of being the victim of the fresh fish tourist scams, I was glad to be at the hotel and more than keen to just find refuge in sleep.

  Greeted with friendly, warm smiles at the front desk, we were quickly checked in and brought to our room on one of the upper floors to be left to our own devices. The room itself was very clean, if not slightly small, with a small TV on one side and a double bed on the other. Whilst I was unconcerned with our lodgings my traveling scoundrel had reservations. Being one that shies away from human touch and any sense of closeness, mixed with the fact that she had no romantic inclinations towards myself in the way one that is stoically asexual does, she had concerns with sharing a bed. Let me backtrack a little here.

  Sarah and myself had become friends nearly fifteen years earlier while we were back in high school. We attended rival schools and had met in conjunction through mutual friends and the love of trolling Christian forums on the internet. We had spent many of these years smoking cannabis in primary school parks and parking lots as well as eating mixtures of drugs at illicit raves in warehouses scattered around Perth. Whilst I always had a soft spot for this delinquent hood rat, during these years she had been spoken for and our relationship remained platonic. Being a couple of years older, I finished school first and we lost touch as our lives went in different directions. It disappeared completely as a result of a combination of many years without having the Internet and both of us being in intense, long-term and time consuming relationships. It was not until recently that our friendship had rekindled and we had started spending time with each other as we both began to emerge from some dark times in our lives. Whilst we would spend many hours a week talking to each other over new technologies, we had physically spent an entirely small amount of time together on the whole. But still, this illustrious she beast from my past had agreed to come with me on this adventure into the unknown, which would also be her first trip away from home soil. As we were both naturally introverted with elements of misanthropic anti-social and schizoid behaviours, neither of us had in reality spent too much time with anyone and the expectations of fiery outbursts and violent confrontations were high. However, this was not to be the case, our mind sets seemed to complement each other and were somewhat tolerant of each other's quirks, to the point that I was finding her eccentricities to be a calming influence and had reinvigorated emotional responses that had long since been dormant. While my affections for this strange creature seemed to increase the more time that we spent together, it had however been made well known that such things were not reciprocated and it would be a fools errand . . . but I am a glutton for punishment.

  At any rate, it was agreed that a celebratory drink of multiple scotches was in order to commemorate our escape from the wild lands of Bangladesh, the survival of suspect aeroplanes and our triumphant arrival to the mountain kingdoms. This mission would, of course, entail that I would be the one required to venture the unknown blackened streets to find suitable mixers for this nourishment. As I exited the hotel, I queried the front desk and door security as to where such items could be pu
rchased and was directed down the street. There was a chill in the air, which was unsurprisingly due to the fact that we were in the high mountains at night in the northern hemisphere in December. It was vastly different to the warm humidity of the Bangladesh lowlands but still, shorts, thongs and t shirt were the order of the day.

  I ventured outside and surveyed the scene. The shops directly surrounding the hotel were blacked out, although there was a hive of activity in the streets. There were multiple small hatchback type cars, rickshaws mixed amongst motorbikes and large tourist buses scooting around the roads, whilst the local population huddled in small groups around small roadside fires. Walking the path to the left of the hotel, I passed a cow tied up to a large sign denoting the presence of our hotel as well as a military jeep with driver and passenger sound asleep. Continuing my walk and finding nothing but closed shops, I double-backed to the hotel and found that the restaurant inside the building was still open and I was able to purchase a single cola for our refreshment.

  Upon returning to the room the duty free scotches were brought out from their bags and given their due respect as the only English-speaking program on television provided background entertainment. Funnily enough, ‘The Last House On The Left’ - a movie about a bunch of teenagers being raped and the violent retribution by their family. Comforting viewing. As would be the tradition for the majority of the trip, once we were to share a bed, I fell fast asleep on my side whilst Sarah, in her insomnia, stayed up writing e-mails and watching movies to some godforsaken hour of the early morning. At some point, the she-beast eventually must have fallen into a slumber, as we awoke on opposite sides to pangs of hunger. A complimentary breakfast was surely on the cards before we would venture our way over to our next designated hotel in the heart of Thamel.