Guns and border guards. I have often wondered if border guards would shoot someone for trying to cross a border illegally to enter a country. Getting out of India, the border guards there made me think they might shoot me for trying to leave a country!

A major contributor to this thinking was a boozed border official and his drunken assistants at Haldibari, India, the border between India and Bangladesh. It was a small border crossing, one where no vehicles crossed into Bangladesh. Getting stamped out of India at Immigration was not a problem, but the customs officials half a kilometer down the road were another matter.

They would not give me "permission" to take my India registered motorcycle out of India and into Bangladesh. The officer in-charge claimed he could not allow me to export the vehicle from India without a Carnet de Passage. "Dog turds!" I told him, I was not exporting it, and was riding it back into India in ten days. We spent 45 minutes talking, him about how much authority he had, and me, about anything I could come up with to try to find a way out of India.

I tried my Indian (American) Identification Card, which he liked; knowing that America had screwed the Natives of America like he perceived America was screwing the people of India. He liked my International Driving Permit with all the rubber stamps in it, but did not believe it was a "Carnet" like I tried to tell him it was. Unfortunately for me he could read English. He and his two drunken associates smiled a lot, waved their hands and leered, but would not accept the bribe I put in some of the papers I showed them. I was about out of ideas until I came up with a solution: "Why not let me go past the checkpoint, without his permission, therefore he would not get in trouble if I got caught?" Like any good bureaucrat he could see he would be safe making a decision that would keep him from making a decision, so he agreed. So, after 45 minutes I was allowed to leave.

The train stops at the Indian border at this crossing and the tracks have been pulled up for about 5 kilometers into Bangladesh. This is probably due to some political differences years ago. I had the ride my motorcycle on a footpath parallel to the tracks for twenty minutes. Imagine the surprise of the villagers along the way as I rode through their village, probably the first vehicle they had seen on these paths in years.

Eventually the footpath came to a 20-foot high fence and a paved single lane road, which ran along it. I followed the pavement to a guardhouse, where two armed guards were manning a gate through the fence. Here I had to make more small talk, sign a book, show my passport and answer numerous questions about why I was where I was, without a Carnet de Passage. It seems the drunk officer-in-charge had called these border guards to tell them I was coming and did not have his permission! I hope in his next life he will be a fire hydrant in New York City, a relief station for all passing dogs.

As dark approached, several more telephone calls were made between the drunk and the gun guys at the gate, and I was getting worried. I had been stamped out of India so did not want to go back, especially along the 5 kilometers of footpath. The guards were well enough armed that I thought making a run for the gate or doing a Steve McQueen-style jump over the fence was out of the question, especially on my laden 22 horsepower Enfield. Finally they yielded after I convinced them I was only going to the first town in Bangladesh to find out what the requirements were for entry. This was more bureaucratic jargon, but as evening was approaching I think the two guards were thinking of their "happy hour" more than what to do with me. It might have also helped that my motorcycle fell over with a loud crash in front of their shed while unattended, and I was looking for someone to blame.

They opened the gate and I rode out of India and into Bangladesh. But to get to a road I had to cross about a kilometer of rice paddies. It was no fun to ride through the rice paddies with a fully loaded motorcycle. There were little footpaths on the built up sections but far too narrow and slippery for a wallowing bike. I had no choice, however as they had locked the gate behind me. Eventually I flipped and flopped though the paddies towards a waving crowd standing on some pavement giving me directions and cheering me on. I must have been the most exciting show they had seen in years.

Once on the pavement I rode into Chilahati, where the railroad starts up again. There the local officials had to be rounded up from where they were praying (it was sunset and this was Muslim land) to stamp my entry visa. The Customs official did not know what to do about my motorcycle, so I filled out a form, declared that I was bringing it in, and he stamped my passport. "Bingo!" I was into Bangladesh, without a Carnet de Passage.

I do not suggest this method for someone trying to get into Bangladesh. It took several hours, was frustrating, and in the end, highly illegal. My motorcycle could have been confiscated anytime when I was in Bangladesh. The Lonely Planet book for Bangladesh says you must have a Carnet de Passage to enter, and they are right.

When, 10 days later, I was leaving Bangladesh, the Customs officials at the Bangladesh border (a different one from where I entered) did not know what to do with me, so just let me leave, kind of scratching their heads wondering how I got into the country without a Carnet in the first place. When, 100 meters later, I arrived at the Customs office for India side of the border crossing, there was more head scratching and the official there said, "You are not supposed to be here, without the Carnet. How did you get into and out of Bangladesh?" I shrugged, smiled, scratched my head and said, "Dunno, maybe I am here because I am stupid and from Texas." That seems to work all over the world. They shrugged, told me to leave, and "Bingo," I was back in India.

Bangladesh is a country as flat as a pool table filled with people. The crowds when I stopped were overbearing. Fortunately I am about a foot taller and twice as heavy as any of the locals, so besides being curious they were also a bit wary of me.

Whenever I stopped in Bangladesh I was immediately surrounded by hordes of people. They were friendly, but sometimes too much so, pressing right up against me and the motorcycle. To start the bike I would have to wave the crowd away from the bike, as there was not enough room to kick the kick-starter. To these people, often looking to me like midgets, I must look like the Man from Mars. I found that loudly reciting poetry or Bible verses generally spooked them, as did a sudden yell. If you want to know what a movie star feels like when they go out in public, go to Bangladesh on a motorcycle. At times it is ugly, like when you want to stop by the side of the road and pass water. Suddenly 20-50 people seem to appear out of nowhere to surround you. When I was in Africa I came to learn "You are never alone in Africa." In Bangladesh I learned that "You are never alone in Bangladesh, you have a crowd wherever and whenever you go."

Traveling through Bangladesh was interesting and definitely unsafe on two wheels. On the roads the buses are boss and they run everything smaller off the roads. Next come the trucks, which move slower, but also force a motorcycle onto the shoulder. Lower on the ladder of vehicle survival are the cars. At the bottom of the list are the rickshaws, motorbikes and bicycles. If a motorcyclist is not adept at dodging oncoming vehicles they will soon be flattened. It is a tough country to survive riding through, a definite test survival skills on two wheels.

Camping is nearly non-existent. A good hotel room, if one can be found, will have a clean room, TV, hot water, private bath, towels, clean sheets (possibly washed in the local polluted river), and a sitter shitter. The price, outside the capital of Dhaka, would be $10.00 to $20.00. Some of the hotel dumps I stayed in were $2.00-$3.00 and lacked any of the amenities above, but were all to be found in some smaller towns. Hunting a place to sleep at night is an ongoing adventure in Bangladesh as the country is so poor and lacking many tourists. I have never met another motorcycle traveler who has ridden through Bangladesh, but I suspect there are some who did so just to see what was there. I did, and will opt to use a flight next time I visit.

The Enfield motorcycle had a few problems in Bangladesh nothing that kept me from moving, but minor annoyances. My clutch experienced a problem with adjustment, which turned out to be a large nut working itself loose from the clutch basket. I was able to make roadside repairs, albeit with 50-100 onlookers. A major disaster was averted when my throttle cable broke, 50 kilometers from Anywhere. As I coasted to a stop, the usual crowd started to gather. It was hot, and working on the hot bike made it hotter. By the time I got the gas tank off I had 75 onlookers pressing in on me. Luckily I had purchased a spare throttle cable when I bought the bike. I almost never carry one as they seldom snap, but usually start to fray slowly enough to get to a repair shop. This time something whispered into my ear "Take a spare throttle cable" and I listened. In 30 minutes I had the new one installed and was back moving again, after having provided entertainment for 100 of the locals.

The Enfield Bullet 500 has now taken me into three countries (and one former kingdom). While it may not have the acceleration of an elephant, it has the advantage of being simple, something I can fix by the side of the road. I was smart enough to bring a good supply of my own tools with me. The tool kit that came with the motorcycle is good enough to work on about ½ the nuts, bolts and screws. When I stopped and took out my tool kit, the gathered crowd would stare in awe at my array of implements. Each day, before I started to ride, I had a small routine to go through of tightening what had rattled loose the day before, so there was a lot of "Oooooing and Ahhhhing" every morning as I pulled out and used another spanner or Allen wrench.

My travels through Bangladesh on an India made motorcycle was interesting. The Enfield was known in Bangladesh, but not often seen. Due to the high import taxes to Bangladesh, the Enfield was very expensive for Bangladesh. The onlookers were often inquisitive, wanting to know how much it cost (I never answer this question) and where I got certain parts, especially the large aluminum panniers and tank bag from ("Wolfman" in Colorado, USA). To be here on a BMW or a Harley-Davidson, only seen in movies or magazines, would have been overwhelming! The questions and crowds would have been never ending.

Bangladesh was a motorcycling experience I will remember for the rest of my life. I will not remember it like I do riding in the Alps of Europe, or across the Nullabor desert of Australia. Instead I will remember the road carnage/death, flatness, friendly people and Muslims. It is a strange country, quite different from India next door and the Hindu life there. It is also far different from Nepal and Sikkim, nearby countries. The drunk India Customs official I encountered was wrong when he told me, "Don't go to Bangladesh, they are not nice people." I found the people quite the opposite; meeting some who I hope to meet again, not necessarily motorcyclists but ordinary people I came into contact with as a tourist. Many invited me to return, which I may do some day.

(Next I return to India, a country that is known as having the worst drivers anywhere on the planet. After first riding in India, when I landed in Asia, I concluded that trained monkeys could perform better at the steering wheel of a TATA truck than did most of the Indian truck drivers. I will give India another chance in the coming months to prove that theory wrong. My travel plans also include some Ganges River excursions, a look at the monks in "Monk Central", a.k.a. Bodhgaya, some sand, love temples, the Taj and several thousand kilometers of India roads.)