Vengeful batons. Crippling strikes. Decaying acid. Consuming fires.
That was the picture that our wedding hosts painted for us when we wanted to venture out to Old Dhaka - the poor parts of Bangladesh's capital . . . or rather the real parts. One of the wedding events was scheduled to take place in the safer diplomatic zone, but was ultimately delayed because of a concern for guest safety.
The hotel receptionist looked at our faces for once and dropped her carefully practiced smile onto the scattered notepads on the concierge table. You want to go to Sardarghat? No, no, no. Hartal - strike and permission to riot - starts at sun down. You read the newspapers? What happens if you get stuck when it all begins?
We would be back before sun down, I promised.
Mike and I hopped into the car, grabbed a shawerma at a stand with the least number of flies swarming around it, and headed into the gridlocked traffic. Cars in Dhaka crawled because even the wealthiest diplomatic zones were riddled with random pot holes. Many times, while bouncing along the uneven alley ways perched on a rickshaw, I had nearly bounced off and fallen into the 12 ft deep holes filled with suspicious curry/urine yellow rivers.
The heart of Old Dhaka was thumping constantly with angry rickshaw horns blaring, men shouting while balancing thirty watermelons in baskets on their heads, and ferries bellowing their impatience to cross the diesel-black waters. We breathed Dhaka in the oil-fried fritters, the lazy entrails of incense on Hindu Street, and the pervasive stench from the freshly decomposing trash.
We knew we were spoken about in rapid Bengali because of the finger pointing, the confused looks, and the occasional jokes in broken English. When I was buying neon holi powder in a small corner store, laborers crowded around Mike and pointed to me and asked him about his "Chinese housewife." Whenever we insisted that we were just friends, they nodded with mock seriousness and jabbed his side, smirking ahh special friends.
In contrast with the wealthier zones, where cars were perpetually at a standstill and ladies chattered as they strolled into beauty parlors, Old Dhaka was the nervous cousin who couldn't stop twitching because he was always anxious about something he had to do. But the general frenzy entered a fever pitch when the sun started to set. Rickshaws competed even more aggressively for moving space in the densest city in the world, trapping us at one point in the middle of an unholy triangle of three rickshaws, unable to move until we physically pushed aside a rickshaw and carved our way out.
I was bold and felt the strength of my youth when I laughed at the receptionist's caution. But I shrank a little bit as the sky grew dimmer and unconsciously huddled closer to Mike. I pulled on his sleeve and asked if he noticed it. Noticed what? I motioned, sweeping the street with my arm, where are the women and children?
The men stayed tense on the streets. They were no longer joking.
It was time to go.
-------
I wondered if some of my friends would still treat me as an equal if I didn't hail from a similar economic background. Some had commented, bored, about how inconvenient the hartal made everything. They raised their eyebrows when I was eager to see Sardarghat. Why? That's just where the poor people live.
The hotel receptionist looked at our faces for once and dropped her carefully practiced smile onto the scattered notepads on the concierge table. You want to go to Sardarghat? No, no, no. Hartal - strike and permission to riot - starts at sun down. You read the newspapers? What happens if you get stuck when it all begins?
We would be back before sun down, I promised.
Mike and I hopped into the car, grabbed a shawerma at a stand with the least number of flies swarming around it, and headed into the gridlocked traffic. Cars in Dhaka crawled because even the wealthiest diplomatic zones were riddled with random pot holes. Many times, while bouncing along the uneven alley ways perched on a rickshaw, I had nearly bounced off and fallen into the 12 ft deep holes filled with suspicious curry/urine yellow rivers.
Apparently, a guy once become famous for trying out all
the most dangerous forms of transportation around the world.
Dhaka ferries made the list.
They capsize.
Regularly.
You may not have clothes, but you can
always make a boat out of trash.
The heart of Old Dhaka was thumping constantly with angry rickshaw horns blaring, men shouting while balancing thirty watermelons in baskets on their heads, and ferries bellowing their impatience to cross the diesel-black waters. We breathed Dhaka in the oil-fried fritters, the lazy entrails of incense on Hindu Street, and the pervasive stench from the freshly decomposing trash.
Buying holi powder so we could recreate the color
festival on a lazy afternoon.
Armed with only five Bengali words and a comedic bargaining act,
I teased, I entertained and I got the price I wanted.
You couldn't out-bargain a China girl.
In contrast with the wealthier zones, where cars were perpetually at a standstill and ladies chattered as they strolled into beauty parlors, Old Dhaka was the nervous cousin who couldn't stop twitching because he was always anxious about something he had to do. But the general frenzy entered a fever pitch when the sun started to set. Rickshaws competed even more aggressively for moving space in the densest city in the world, trapping us at one point in the middle of an unholy triangle of three rickshaws, unable to move until we physically pushed aside a rickshaw and carved our way out.
I was bold and felt the strength of my youth when I laughed at the receptionist's caution. But I shrank a little bit as the sky grew dimmer and unconsciously huddled closer to Mike. I pulled on his sleeve and asked if he noticed it. Noticed what? I motioned, sweeping the street with my arm, where are the women and children?
The men stayed tense on the streets. They were no longer joking.
It was time to go.
-------
I wondered if some of my friends would still treat me as an equal if I didn't hail from a similar economic background. Some had commented, bored, about how inconvenient the hartal made everything. They raised their eyebrows when I was eager to see Sardarghat. Why? That's just where the poor people live.
On the banks of Sardarghat
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