The
day after my arrival I spoke with a policeman who told me that the
streets were ‘empty’ due to a holiday. Friday begins the weekend
here as in other Muslim countries. Empty? The definition of empty is
apparently defined by a lack of chaotic insanity. Want fun? Stuff
yourself into a caged Bangladeshi baby taxi and let the good times
roll. Claustrophobia would not be an asset. Through the caged
doorways you can catch glimpses of the festival outside. Buses, cars,
motorcycles, rickshaws, and baby taxis swerving every which way while
jockeying for position. Negative space is anathema. Fill it all. And,
like always, gratuitous use of your horn is mandatory regardless of
utility. Every bus you see resembles a recent contestant in a
demolition derby as dents, chips, scratches, and missing chunks are a
permanent part of the ornamentation. I’ve read that the accident
rate here is the statistical equivalent of “not
if but when”,
especially on buses. Combine that with the palpable nature of the air
and you have a very pleasant, if not unique, experience.
How
about a leisurely stroll? Nuh-uh. Sidewalks are not in the best of
condition, assuming there is one. More often than not you find
yourself walking in the road weaving in between vehicles and
rickshaws. Only some sort of magician could manage to walk in a
straight line. Rickshaw drivers love to pull up right in front of you
thereby impeding your lie of progress and exclaim, “Rickshaw?”
You either maneuver around them or give them the “It’s
your move Skippy” penetrating glance usually to no avail.
Old
Dhaka is no exception, just a rather fine example of compact chaos
due to much narrower streets. Swarming with people and rickshaws you
really have to set your Spidey Sense to high alert. I was sideswiped
by more than one rickshaw. Luckily, they were merely glancing blows.
If that was not enough the streets are not well marked and I’ve
turned not having a clue into a science. My outdated version of
the Lonely
Planet is
often inadequate to assist. So I wander around trying not to look to
out of place. Impossible. I might as well be wearing a green sequin
dress and a sombrero. As I plod through the chaos everyone pauses to
consider this tall white mutant that wanders aimlessly through their
streets. If someone were to poke me with their finger in order to
verify my existence I would not be the least surprised. Folks will
approach, say hello, ask me where I am from, thank me and then walk
away. It feels a bit like someone dared them to approach the freak
just to see what would happen.
The
following is a typical encounter between me and a stranger (typically
male) on the street:
Bangladeshi:
“Hello. How are you?”
Me:
“I’m fine. How are you?”
Bangladeshi:
“I’m fine. What is your motherland?”
Me:
“America. USA.”
Bangladeshi:
“Why you [something unintelligible] Dhaka?”
Me:
“Uhhhhh….just going for a walk?”
Bangladeshi:
“Sorry. I don’t understand your response.”
Me:
“Ummmm….sorry what was the question?”
Bangladeshi:
“Why you in Dhaka?”
Me:
“Oh, I am tourist.”
Bangladeshi:
“Thank you.” They then point their gaze forward and continue
walking.
Conversation
over.
There
are variations on this of course but that about sums it up. You are
approached, asked for a few details, and then dismissed. It is all
benign and friendly. I assume that their curiosity extends only so
far as their English ability. I do not want to offend so I often find
myself stifling laughter. Whenever I have that ‘where the hell am
I’ look (which is frequently) someone is always offering to assist.
And many, especially children ask to have their photo taken, often
without any expectation of reward. Cute and hilarious.
 |
| My driver needed a wee wee break |
 |
| The gentleman at the right with the blue-white checkered sari had just emerged from the hole at the bottom. He had to completely submerge himself in what I can only presume to be some of the most foul smelling nastiness imaginable. I believe he was attempting to unclog the sewer drain. |
I’d
planned to wander the streets of Old Dhaka for some time but fate had
other ideas. A man approached, introduced himself, and started to
lead me….somewhere. I’ve actually forgotten where the hell I was
headed at the time. I mentioned something about a palace and the
river but I forget where we were actually going. It did not matter
because at one point I was intercepted by a few students from
Jagannath
University. They were quite intrigued with me and wanted
desperately to show me their campus. I hadn’t the heart to say no
so I followed. As it turned out we were standing right in front of
the school so it was quite a short walk. One of the gentlemen was a
journalism student and was dying to show me his office. Along the way
two other students tagged along. Due to the language barrier I was
never quite sure what was occurring but it all seemed harmless enough
so I just went with the flow. Besides, I too was intrigued.
So
there I sat in this campus office trying to field a fusillade of
questions about, well, everything. My head is still spinning a bit.
Photos were snapped, business cards handed out, and phone numbers
exchanged. At one point I was adorned with a ‘Victory Day”
headband. They had recently celebrated their victory over Pakistan in
the 1971 war for independence (December 16th). It makes a suitable
fashion accessory and I look damn good with it on.
We
discussed many things but to be honest I remember hardly anything.
Torun (the journalism student) had work to do but his two cohorts
offered to take me to the Ahsan
Mazil (Pink Palace). It was built by a wealthy landowner in
1872. Although not particularly stimulating it was worth the trip
just to speak with my new friends. After we took a short excursion
inside we adjourned to the grassy area in front for a chat. This is a
popular pastime for the younger folks and ‘lovers’ as my new
friend put it. They asked about my family, my age, and all the normal
facets of a person’s background. It even got political and I found
myself trying to explain the US’s position in Afghanistan and Iraq
in broken English. That was not awkward at all.
As
always people were staring and girls were smiling. Groups would
frequently beckon me over for some light conversation (my new friends
helped translate). One of my new comrades was constantly putting me
on the spot with utterances like “Do you have question for them?”
or “Ask him question?” while pointing directly at an individual
I’d just met. My friend’s way of describing someone uneducated
was to refer to them as ‘illiterate’. One of the ‘illiterates’
challenged me to a game of pool (somewhere nearby I presume) but my
friend advised against it. We moved on.
The
encounter ended with a fond farewell and the offer to assist me in
the future should the need arise. All I have to do is call. I thanked
them profusely but was a little relived when I found myself in the
baby taxi amusement park ride headed back to my hotel. Encounters
like that, although extremely gratifying, can be as equally draining
since you are always trying to figure out what is happenning and
respond accordingly.
Roaming
the streets of Dhaka can be trying for another reason. I’ve seen
extreme poverty before but for some reason it has hit me particularly
hard here. As I walked along the sidewalk near a park I encountered a
few individuals living on it. All of their belongings were spread
along the wall that separated the sidewalk from the park. One
particular individual lounged on his card board mat as if he did not
have a care in the world. He asked me to take his picture so I
obliged. After showing him his visage on the small LCD and eliciting
a fervent smile I continued on.
But
just as I was walking away I noticed a very small child covered with
a blanket lying on the sidewalk. The child was sleeping. I really
hope the child was sleeping. Its eyes were closed and it was covered
with flies continually buzzing about . I took about 30 steps and
paused. It felt like I’d hit with an emotional Mack Truck. I stood
there staring at the sky attempting to hold back tears. I was
surprised by the intensity of my reaction. I realized that it was not
just the pathetic scene I’d just encountered but the also the
futility intrinsic to the circumstances. What should I do? I could
have turned around and given one of the men money. I seriously
considered it. And it was not the loss of a few bucks that stopped me
from doing so. It had more to do with the consequences of my actions
and how much that would really help. Would that money even benefit
that child? Whose child was it exactly? Who should I give the money
to? Futility. So I kept walking haunted by the encounter. It is not
an easy situation to face, especially when you consider that the
value of my shoes and my camera could probably feed a family of four
for six months.
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'Love me or hate me, but spare me your indifference.' -- Libbie Fudim