Vanna doesnt speak much English, but excitedly whips out his Khmer-English dictionary when he finds out I am single. So we chat via translations for most of our journey. From Phnom Penh to Sisophon near the Thai border, Vanna travels the seven hour journey every second week to his job at the local police station. His mum and dad own the Casanova tailor shop in Phnom Penh, so I may pick up a few things on my return now we are about to get married – I think the tailor shop was named after him.

I am always talking to people – it really is the only way to learn about the culture, what the locals enjoy doing in their spare time (Im booked in for a karaoke session on my return), their hopes for the future, their family and what they really think about the $100 million + Khmer Rouge tribunal. Vanna was more than happy to share with me.

He also didnt hesitate at any of the toilet / snack stops to fill me up with food. For every stop, there were a couple more local snacks to try: my taste buds worked their way through bananas coated in sticky rice, boiled peanuts, guava and chilli salt, stuffed eggs, pomello, sour soup, steamed vegetable buns. I think I ate more in seven hours than I had in the previous week. But I enjoyed the taste sensations and the rarity of a local shouting me.

On our arrival at Sisophon, Vanna insisted on taking me to the taxi station on the back of his moto. Two wheels, two bodies, four bags, two bunches of bananas and a 1m ruler later, we headed to the taxi station to bargain my seat on the 30 minute trip to Chupvary. As most locals had already come into town and headed back home, I was the only one around who wanted a taxi, and I wasnt keen on paying the cost for the entire taxi. After liaising with Houen in Chupvary, she organised a taxi to come and pick me up – it just meant I had to wait until the taxi had only one seat left, otherwise I would have to cough up the $10 for the fare.

Vanna didnt want to leave me. He was worried that the taxi wouldnt find me. That I wouldnt be looked after. That I wouldnt be fed. He wanted to be my bodyguard and refused to head home when I said Id be fine. So, we waited. And waited. zzzzzz. And waited. Finally, my taxi arrived. As we said our goodbyes, I got the feeling Vanna would not have minded if the taxi never turned up.

To ensure you have the pleasure of a true John West sardine experience, you will find the taxi drivers in rural areas squeeze in as many people as possible into their taxi. So as Vanna dissappeared into the dust (literally due to heavy roadworks on the highway), I was on one butt cheek with two others in the front passenger seat. In the rear, were five adults, three children and two babies. At least I respect the driver for not being selfish and taking a seat all to himself. After a little bit of shoving, one more managed to squeeze in with his legs around the gear stick and an army major offered his lap to the driver. So all up, 16 of us headed off on our bumpy ride over countless potholes to the village of Chup. All in the size of nothing bigger than a Toyota Corolla.

On a few occasions, we veered off the main road into villages, tucked behind vast rice fields and sugar palm plantations. The major also needed to get back to the base, so we headed into the military zone to drop him off at his door. One of the babies needed a feed, the toilet was desperately required, some bananas needed to be purchased, three phonecalls had to be made and parcels had to be picked up and delivered. Just over an hour after departing Sisophon, I was the sole sardine, surroundered by a slick, oily residue of tissues, banana peels, plastic and nappies.

My trip to Chupvary is one of many off the beaten tracks I have taken over the years. The only difference is, this time I have a small reminder of the journey. Vanna wanted to provide me with a permanent reminder of our seven hour bus ride, and tucked inside my bag is a photograph of him outside a miniature replica of Phnom Penh´s Grand Palace. Together with a nice shiner from the gear stick jammed into my leg, the photo lays testimony to a journey well worth making. Food, entertainment, people, hilarity, kindness: I don´t mind having that kind of residue sticking around for a while to come.

As we head into the snakepit that is Dhaka´s congested peak hour traffic, you will have to make sure you keep your hands in – the buses tend to bite around here as you might have guessed by the number of dints and scratches covering their bodies. I´d also hate for you to have your bag stolen, so tuck it behind, sit back and prepare yourself for the infusion of colour and movement that will surround you at every turn.

If you get a little hungry while on our tour, just let me know. There are plenty of opportunities to fill the stomach – a market stall on every corner. Look at the size of the mangoes, fresh pineapple, guava or perhaps you might like to try a giant plum, which when squeezed and cooked on the stove with some sugar makes a delicious local treat, a bit like jam. One of the best quick snacks around is poprice. Look to your left at the young boy helping his father control the heat from the gas tank. We mix the rice with some sand and turn it very quickly until it pops. No oil. It takes a little while but well worth it. Sometimes we add fresh tomato and onion, but I like it with some spices and chilli crisps mixed in.

Would you like some tea?

What is your favourite colour? You only have to look around to see every shade and colour imaginable. Saris, rickshaws, even our trucks are covered with decoration and colour: images from our lives, our country and our hearts.

Can you hear that noise? It is the humming tones of our city´s entrepeneurs. Let´s head towards the market and I will show you where it is coming from. Each vendor is calling out what he is selling and the prices – perhaps you would like some tshirts, jeans or dresses. We have so many garment factories in our country – in fact many western clothes are made here. Perhaps a vibrant sari or some rickshaw art?

I am glad you aren´t too heavy, it´s pretty hard work on this bicycle. Pity some of the beggars cant work a little harder. For some of them, it is their job. And they make pretty good money. For some, it is their only means of existence – with 50 million living in the city, there is not opportunity for everyone to have a job. So the only opportunity for some is to beg. Mothers with babies, young children who look like they have never washed, amputees, disabled – the city is filled with them.

Let´s head somewhere that will get you out of this congested traffic, and to another form of transport. Water is the lifeline of many Bangladeshis considering the number of waterways in our country. We have the largest delta in the world, with a multitude of rivers winding across the country´s landscape. Sadarghat is a main boat terminal in the old town and the panorama of life on the river is vibrant. You can see all aspects of life in a 360 turn – cooking, washing, trading, eating, sitting. Down to the right is the wholesale market – traders coming in from all over the country to sell their fruit and vegetables to the city´s market stall holders. Would you like some fruit to take back to your guesthouse?

Perhaps a hair cut? Or do you need something mended? Look at them cutting up that cow – oh, perhaps I shouldn´t have pointed that out. Anything you like can be found in the laneways of the old town and everything you would do at home in a shopping centre is done out in the open – we have no space to hide ourselves away in buildings, nor the money to pay rent, so our offices are the lanes, the footpaths, the bridges: infact any space where a stall will fit, you will find someone selling something.

As we head back towards your guesthouse, you will have noticed it´s a little quieter in this part of the town. The government does try to clean it up as it is where all of the embassies are located. I don´t think it shows most visitors the real Dhaka – but they will learn soon enough. I don´t think you should hide yourself away from our city, but attack it with a desire to learn, admire and be shaken.

Donnobad (thank you) for riding with me. Enjoy the rest of your journeys. May you always remember your visit and our journey.

Life does not stand still in Dhaka – it is a constant flurry of movement and colour. We could learn something from it – the raw energy oozing from every square foot of the city is addictive, engaging and dynamic. Life should be like Dhaka. I will be back.

¨What is your father´s name?¨

¨What is your occupation?¨

¨Tina Louise Jensen. Born 13 June 1971.¨ (read out very loudly)

¨Are you married?¨

¨Would you like to be?¨ (glistening smile bigger than all of Bangla´s waterways in the rainy season)

Bangladesh is not the only country obsessed with asking the tough questions. I´d heard the same query from pretty much everyone I met during my stay, along with the subsequent dismay when they finally learned I was a 37 year old single white female, travelling alone, with no children. Shock crossed their faces, along with the lines of speculation as to what was wrong with me.

But at 1.00am in the morning (no wonder the tourists don´t come with the flight times in and out of the country), I wasn´t particularly in the search for an immigration officer as my potential new beau, especially given it would be a long time between visits.

In a society where having a child is as much an obsession as world politics, the Banglas just can´t understand why I wouldn´t be married, or at least have a boyfriend. Now I realise I´m no Jennifer Hawkins or Miranda Kerr, and apart from the fact that I wouldn´t have to look up to everyone I spoke with, I can only imagine what life would be like with Elle´s legs. However, there is the small fact of singledom that I look over daily.

Even the boys in the airport cafe who upgraded me to the Hawkins´ ¨first class¨ league didn´t even get a look in, and I´m still feeling a little guilty about their request for my phone number to which I declined their request.

This is a pretty incredible journey I am embarking upon, and there would be nothing greater to share the experiences with someone special. After incredible days out in the field, there is no one to share the emotions, the experiences, the laughter and the raw honesty about what one has heard, seen and felt. Besides, I intend to keep travelling this incredible planet of ours, and really don´t want every person on the planet thinking I´m odd.

So my friends, I´ve had a day of chaotic imagery and I have no one to share it with. So I ask you to imagine yourself in a rickshaw in the middle of Dhaka town as I, your rickshaw wallah, take you on a ride. It´s not safe to take a camera around, so on our journey I ask you to observe and listen – it´s the only way you will have any record. Like me, the journey may not be first class, it won´t all be postcard perfect, but you´ll let your hair down, observe, try new things, learn, be challenged and learn a little about yourself on the way.

Step up, and as you do, don´t forget to check out the paintings adorning the rickshaw – the beauty of water lillies and cinema celebrities – I chose the design myself.

Which way do you want to go?

I should have guessed the male domination of this country when my full flight had only nine women on it, and seven of them were the hostesses.

80% of the population earns under $2 per day.

You´ll be lucky to blow out 60 candles if you live here.

Literacy is at about 40%, and even if you have a Masters, you end up working in the Movenpick icecream bar.

Today I travelled 9km. It took me one and a half hours. And the fare cost me $2.50. You never make appointments and never think about the precious hours spent sitting and waiting.

Most people when they buy a new car take out full insurance for three years. But then they don´t bother. Why would you when every vehicle has more evidence of accidents than I have of stability.

Beggars line the streets. Horns are constant. And apart from the fact that I look pretty good in my turquoise and pink salor kamis (three piece), all those stares are starting to give me a complex.

I was sitting in a cafe today and spied the Tourism Bangladesh slogan: Visit Bangladesh…. Before the tourists come. Apparently it´s a few years old, but I don´t think they need get rid of it too soon – I´ve seen three foreigners the entire time I´ve been here and they are more than likely embassy or NGO staff given my location in the upmarket Gulshan diplomatic area.

I´m one of those bad travellers who never really reads much about the destination before they go somewhere new. I truly believe that travel is what you make of it. I like to make my own mind up and not be swayed by other´s experiences. I want to go out there and find my own.

So in Bangladesh I arrive. 1.00am in the morning is not the best time to arrive anywhere, but at least I only got stuck in two traffic jams as the night time bus/truck rush snaked its way through the main streets of Dhaka.

As I watched from my balcony as the shroud of smog lifted after early morning rain, I knew that it wasn´t going to be a peaceful stay in Dhaka. I was up for one hell of a ride inside a kaleidoscope, filled with colour, movement and quite a few shakes. You know, when you pick one up and want to give it a really good shake and see what changes at the other end. It´s just what I wanted to do. I didn´t want to block it out – I wanted to be a part of the chaos and see what it´s like for the locals every day of their lives.

After 40 pages of notes from only six days, there´s plenty of chaos to share in future reports. We only ever hear the bad news about life in Bangladesh – floods, cyclone, disaster relief and my country highlights above. It is the reality of this country. But the sun always comes out after rain, and along with it, the smiles, hospitality and appreciation of those whose lives have been changed thanks to a wonderful NGO, Tarango. So stay with me.

Visit Bangladesh. And not just before the tourists come. Not only is it the world´s most densely populated country with the privilege of Bangla hospitality from 150 million new friends awaiting to be experienced. But visually, physically and emotionally, you are guaranteed of a journey densely crammed with nothing but life – in its brightest kaleidoscopic form.

Visit Bangladesh. Shake it.