I want you to close your eyes and imagine you’re back in school sitting in a crowded assembly hall. You’re fidgeting, your bum is numb and your legs start to ache. You stretch them out in front of you, pushing your weight onto the back legs of your chair, rocking slowly to get the blood pumping, you’re bored. Suddenly, in a split second, your pulse is racing as you lurch forward to stop yourself from toppling backwards. Remember that heart-stopping, jaw clenching feeling of impending doom? That’s how it feels to ride a bus in Bangladesh.

My Dad and I love to travel and when he moved to Dhaka, Bangladesh I jumped at the chance to visit him. After battling with the Bangladesh High Commission for a visa and booking myself an overpriced flight I braced myself for the culture shock of a lifetime. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to come and nothing will beat the sense of achievement I earned from two months in this challenging country. As I walked out of Shahjalal International Airport I was taken aback, not by the heat but by the horde of people staring at me.

I felt at home in the peace of Dad’s third floor apartment, away from the constant honking mass of traffic. I could nap in my portable hammock and watch the sun set below the smog on the roof garden. I enjoyed the city with it’s 400,000 rickshaws and endless markets. It was when we ventured out of Dhaka that I was pushed well over the edge of my comfort zone.

Each adventure started with a death-defying bus ride, weaving around everything from man-powered rickshaws to huge trucks capable of destroying small villages, each moment resulting in that heart-stopping feeling. A much safer, almost boring option was the train, however unreliable. Our journey to the beach town of Cox’s Bazaar was delayed by three hours, it took another hour to leave the station after misplacing a carriage and we arrived three hours late. The only thing we came close to hitting were the huts built inches from the track.

The morning after our peaceful Sunderbans boat trip was spent on a wooden cart towed by a motorbike. We watched the sunrise in pain as we swerved down potholed roads to a small jetty where we boarded The Rocket, a paddleboat that winds its way slowly north. A first class cabin, traditional Bangladeshi meals and an outdoor seating area with an ever changing view of the remarkable countryside, ending in Dhaka with a final hair-raising rickshaw ride through endless traffic to safety.

All of a sudden I was thrust back into reality, it was time to leave. The time I spent with my Dad was mysterious and frightening, a true life changing experience that I recommend to anyone brave enough to risk their lives not on silly things like bungee jumping and skydiving, but on a true challenge like Bangladeshi transport.