Crazy Women Drivers, Part II

Back by popular demand, more stories from the road.

As a general note I must say that since starting my bike riding adventures I have gotten a lot better. I am not constantly feeling that I am about to die (although it is not an infrequent feeling) and I've even begun to enjoy the scenery a little. However, every time I complete an event less journey I feel a bit like I should be given some kind of recognition or something. Sometimes I show up to the office and the guard opens the gate and I want to exclaim "Can you believe I just rode my bike all the way here! I am awesome!", but then I remember that 8 year-olds ride bikes all over the place here, and of course, I don't know how to say all of that in Bangla.

Now, a story.

So one day not long after the incident mentioned in my last entry, I am on my bike coming back from the office. I am feeling pretty good about myself as I have avoided multiple accidents and even woven my way through a conglomeration of at least 100 elementary school students hanging out on the road, when I approach the site of my accident. This time I am not taking any risks. I approach with utmost caution slowly scanning my surroundings for other vehicles and/or animals/children etc. that might suddenly appear. I am almost to the bridge moments from being home free, when I see two rickshaws coming at me with a large truck behind them. Now, I will admit, there was a little space left on my side of the road that I could possibly have gotten by on, but remember I am in the "take no chances" mode, so I decide instead to simply hop off the bike on the little dirt shoulder and wait for them to pass.

- A moment of reflection: Is it just me or did this seem like a smart idea? I mean it did right? Vehicles are coming at you, you get out of the way, smart girl. And yet, Bangladesh always has surprises for me. -

So, I hop. Next thing I know I am sinking quickly through the dirt heading for a fish pond at the bottom of the drop. I mean, it is seriously like quicksand on some cartoon. The bike and I would have ended up in the pond moments later had we not been caught... by a brick wall.

Now I am waist deep in (I now realize) newly laid dirt with my face against the wall still clinging to one handlebar of my bike. This could have been pretty difficult to get out of but luckily in Bangladesh one would be hard pressed to find a place where at least ten people aren't hanging around just waiting for something (like a white girl falling off a bike) to happen. So, before I am even able to fully assess my situation two young guys are picking up my bike and pulling me out of the ditch with expert speed (later I think how grateful I was for the momentary breech of the normal "men and women don't touch in public" custom). I do a quick body scan and note that I am covered in dirt, but uninjured, AND (this is the important thing) I have not lost my orna.

The guys look at me with concerned faces and say "hospee-tal lagbe? hospee-tal?" I begin laughing. The guys look more concerned. I thank them and get back on the bike, still covered in dirt.

Later that day:

My Sister: What happened to your leg?

Me: What do you mean?

My Sister: You're all cut up.

Me: (looking at my ankle) Oh... you know, the bike got me.

Ok! That is all for bike stories now, but you can get yourselves ready for my next post:
"Ceasper, Part 2 & My Acting Debut." You won't want to miss it.