Dhaka: Everything, Everywhere, All At Once

City life in Dhaka screams 'everything, everywhere, all at once.' Stepping into the unrelenting noise, color, and people-filled streets can be a little intimidating even for someone who already lives in South Central Asia. With Dhaka, the energy has an urgent vibe where cars, trucks, scooters, rickshaws, bikes, and people jockey their way to the front of never-ending traffic. A single, green uniformed police officer might be around to attempt to control the impatient crowds, using maybe a light stick or single plastic barricade. The melee of constant pushing, revving, "strategic" lane changing, and blatant disregard for traffic lights (which often have 360 second countdowns) make for impressive choke points in the gridlocked streets.

Sidewalks are not much better, especially during peak commute hours. People of all shapes and sizes show up, walking, begging, proselytizing, and vending. Some are masked to protect themselves from the persistent dust and pollution that unfortunately pairs too well with the constant, rock-concert-level decibels of the city. Five times a day, call to prayer is played over speakers loud enough to be heard on top of everything else. Mosques are everywhere. While Bangladesh's constitution designates Islam as the state religion, the government also upholds the principle of secularism, so flourishes of Hindu, Buddhist, and Christian religion can been seen too.

A recent tour of Dhaka's old city made efforts to prove the secularist look is a thing. I was working at the embassy there, teaching mass casualty management classes for two weeks and I only had one weekend to explore, so I hired a guide to check out the prides and joys of Dhaka. We started with a 7am pickup to visit a wholesale market that runs daily from 4am-9am. Bulk purchases only and bargaining is required. Zia, our guide, told my friend and I to lead and he would follow so as not to lose us in the crowd. We walked through the aisles packed with fruits and vegetables, over piles of discarded greens and garbage, and under dimly lit warehouse roofs.

Hoping to impress buyers with bright, fresher-than-thy-neighbor's, green colored foods were placed under green colored lightbulbs, red with red, etc. Papaya vendors wore thick rubber gloves to sort their stacks because the pesticides sprayed on them would leave blistering welts and cause organophosphate poisoning if they didn't. We smelled luxurious mint and coriander, admired huge sized green lemons, and pondered what some of the root vegetables even were. Emerging on the other end, we walked past the bulldozer whose driver impatiently waited to for the crowds to disperse so that he could begin the job of shoving the refuse... somewhere else.

After several attempts to track down his driver, Zia ushered us to walk through a tunnel of rush hour, horn blaring traffic, and hastily run-walk on the haphazardly placed rocks to skip over the muddy sections where asphalt had long disintegrated. He perched us on a corner like everyone else who was waiting for a ride, under an overpass that was meant for their future metro line. I stood on that corner, catching my breath, and appreciate our victory of not dying from carbon monoxide poisoning or vehicular manslaughter. I watched lines of double decker busses pick up and drop off passengers without actually stopping. Finally, the driver picked us up and we continued into the city for more fun.

Cabbage life.

No such thing as two way traffic in the market.

Papaya.

Dried fish.

Closing time.

 Modems and bike delivery service.

Sidewalk-less tunnel that we had to hoof thru.