"You know you shouldn't really be doing that."

I was sat down on a wooden bench flicking cigarette ash off my trousers irritated with myself for not getting Zea to get me a train ticket back to Dhaka. I was going to have to take the bus. A few years back I was riding back up to Nepal and buses took me off the road three times in as many miles and one time on the bus back to Kathmandu I was sat by a lady who had a kid goat in a sack. I fell asleep and when I woke up the goat had thrown up all over my trousers.

"What shouldn't I be doing then? I answered rather annoyed that my thinking had been interrupted.

Mohammed showed me his anti-smoking lapel badge - he is a Health Advocate and his organisation is lobbying the government to ban cigarette smoking. He had a point. So I stood up and squashed the butt into the pavement then kicked the end into the gutter.

For my dinner I had just had freshly fried pirattas and chick pea curry and for the journey I had bought some singaras: the same triangular shape as samosas. However, baked rather than fried, and filled with slightly spicy fresh vegetables. They tasted delicious. I have never seen them in the UK and when I get back to London I am going to sell the recipe to Gregg's (a bakery chain), and retire on my windfall.

The cook in a bright red turban handed them to me in a white cardboard box tied up in a bow with bright blue twine more suitable for a birthday cake.

I chatted to Mo for a while and explained my predicament. He and his friend reassured me that I would enjoy the bus ride. I still wasn't convinced.

I walked back up to where I had left my luggage. There was a row of brightly lit reception rooms with counters surrounded by large leather sofas more like chic lounge bars than departure halls.

A group of students played on their smart phones their heads bowed as if they were praying. They were all saying good-bye to their parents and promising they would phone again when they reached Dhaka. A particularly studious one wearing black-rimmed glasses kept on flicking from one page to another.

I asked him what was the best phone I should buy. I should have taken notes because it did sound awfully complicated. I showed him my old Nokia. The keys have been rubbed clear and smooth and you can no longer make out the numbers.

He laughed and showed it to all his friends. One said it should be in a museum. He was probably right.

They told me they were all going back to Dhaka to start college again the following Monday. I asked them to tell me where to get off. They said they would and one of them ran off to the coach to tell the driver.

We all boarded the bus and right on time at 10.45 we set off. We proceeded to drive slowly out of Khulna; the Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina had visited the city that day and all available walls and lampposts were plastered with her poster.

She looks like a bespectacled middle-aged aunt. But don't be taken in. She is ruthless and puts down any dissent, particularly by her nemesis Khaleda Zia of the Bangladesh National Party.

We picked up a few more passengers before leaving the empty streets behind.

I nodded off as much as I could, however, every time we came to a village or town we would go over a sleeping policeman and it would jolt me awake again.

When I woke up again we had stopped and were queuing up behind a long line of other buses and trucks.

So I got off the bus and got a glass of tea. A couple of my fellow passengers were hanging around. I asked them what was the hold up? We were waiting to get a ferry across the Meghna River. As I shared out my singaras the bus started up, so we all ran across the road being careful not to be hit by a passing petrol tanker.

I dozed again and every so often I would wake up to find we had only moved around 3 truck lengths or so. The driver had his legs up on the dashboard and his helper lay out on the engine cover. When he heard the vehicle in front start up he would too… move forward then go back to sleep again. It made me chuckle that he had it down to a fine art. He must have done it so many times before.

Eventually we drove down onto the beach and through the thick fog and swirling mist a ferry came up and we drove on board. The ferry could carry 4 or 5 buses and a couple of cars and trucks.

We would soon be on the other side and start our journey east again towards Dhaka and the big city.

After half an hour or so I got off the bus and through the thick grey haze two large spotlights stabbed through the fog and two ferries came along side - one on either side. The freezing underdressed deckhands jumped towards the side of the boat to grab the thick ropes thrown over by the other boats no doubt glad for some action. They tied the larger boats to our side as if to shield us from any danger.

The other boats escorted us for about 30 minutes or so. We were not crossing the river we were travelling along it every few minutes or so our anxious helmsmen would sound our foghorns and a lookout would dash from one side of the bridge to the other. At the first sight of an approaching freighter we would slow up to a crawl and wait until it had passed us by.

It was cold and the fog was condensing on my face making it damp and pallid. The deck hands dressed in lungis with scarves wrapped around their heads shivered and kept on wringing and blowing into their hands.

I got back on the bus and rested my head against the window until we hit dry land again.

Off-loading the ferry was like the Normandy beach landings roaring up the steep beach but instead of a bombardment a throng of young men greeted us. On their heads they had baskets of oranges, bright red apples, beaten rice, and toys to sell.

At this time of the morning I had no need for a plastic spinning top so I settled for some oranges and a white plastic cup of coffee, which I was careful to drink before it imploded in on itself.

It was dawn and the rising sun cleared the fog to reveal an endless sea of paddy fields lined with palm trees and on the edge of the villages' were large circular ponds full of gasping bubbling fish.

Triangular shaped nets on the end of bamboo poles were being dipped into the water, and young boys scrambled to pick out the flapping slippery fish - not always successfully, which they then threw up the bank to another boy who tossed them into a rattan basket.

There was so much joy on their young faces they must have looked forward to it every morning.

Our bus was now on the home stretch and apart from the speed bumps to slow us down we were driving at break neck speed towards Dhaka. The road was flat and empty and nothing was coming our way.

We slowed when we reached the outskirts of Dhaka. Queues of people waited patiently to board: minibuses, coaches and double-decker buses not unlike the Routemasters we used to have in London.

As I wondered how long it must take these commuters every morning to get to the centre of the city one of the students tapped me on the shoulder and went up to the driver to tell him where to let me off.

I got off the bus and a smiling Nannu was waiting to meet me.

We both waved as the bus passed by.

Not the classic railway journey I had wished for but a magical bus ride instead.