Touring Old Dhaka

Zia, our guide with Tours and Trips BD, covered a lot of Bangladeshi history in a short amount of time. After the morning market, we proceeded south into Old Dhaka to see a handful of heritage sites: a Catholic church, Armenian Orthodox church, a Hindu temple, their famous Star Mosque that is also on their currency, a garish pink palace/museum, the state university, a red fort, and a port on the Buriganga River.  

Even though he did a splendid job explaining the importance of each place, I had more fun making my way through the narrow alleys that were full of textiles for sale, street food, and jewelry vendors. Most people, he explained, lived upstairs and ran their shops downstairs on the main level. Housing is super narrow, some apartments legitimately measuring no wider than 6 feet across, but are 50 feet long and several floors tall. Lighting and wiring these places are nightmare, so the wiring stays outside, and most buildings under construction are never completed, lest the tenants have to start paying taxes. Legal loopholes, he said, are key to surviving and thriving for many.

Not all experiences in Dhaka were marvelous. Amongst dodging people and rickshaws, we also had to dodge open sewage and men taking leaks into them. Most of them wore lungis without underwear so they could gain easy access for a pee. I wondered aloud how women made it through the day, and Zia said they had to either hold it, or plan their days around bathroom breaks because modesty is a MUST. Women would get into serious trouble if they were caught "popping a squat" anywhere in public. 

Trash was everywhere. The sanitation services in Dhaka are lacking and underfunded, plus the communities are apathetic to a problem that seems insurmountable, according to journalists from the Daily Star (link). They argue in order to change into a habit of accountability, the community needs to change their psychology of how they think about trash management and break the habit loop. That said, the government needs to develop and enforce policy (link) and prioritize funding for municipal services. It doesn't help either that the land of Bangladesh is seated upon a delta, and countless inlets from the ocean mean they inherit whatever the ocean washes up to shore. In the end, the country deals with over 25,000 tons of trash per day (link) so a multifaceted plan of attack is needed, no matter who's to blame. (And to be fair, depending on who is conducting the study, Americans (link) generate the most trash in the world, so we can't really point fingers either. Unless it's to blame Canada (link), who are also listed as big time trash monsters.)

Regardless of the trash and pollution and noise, it is the local staff at the embassy with whom I spent the majority of my time, and shine brighter than anything. Hospitality in Dhaka is amazing, and kindness was noticed everywhere. We ate delicious homemade food, and were given valuable advice and knowledge about thriving in a hardcore city like Dhaka. We trained hard, laughed a lot, and shared common goals and ideas in deepening and strengthening community relationships. I walked away with more memories and appreciation for the country than I could have hoped for.  That, and lot of scarves. I may have gotten carried away with their beautiful cotton scarves.

Standing on the wall at Lalbagh Fort and not knowing what to do with my hands. 

First president of Bangladesh upon gaining independence from Pakistan, 1975.

University of Dhaka campus.

Port of Dhaka, Buriganga River.

Kids playing in the Buriganga River.

Buriganga River Port: overnight ferries and water taxis.

Piles of pineapple at the port.

Pink Palace, aka Ahsan Manzil Museum

Inside the Pink Palace: where all fashionable ladies gave birth,
on a marble bed self-draining capabilities. Metal cradle for bebe.

Netflix installation.

Marigolds and garland available for purchase
outside a Hindu temple.

Early morning setup before the breakfast rush.

Hazy commute to embassy,
crossing over Gulshan Lake.

Daily commute from annex to chancery through the Field of Snakes.

Bengalis capitalize on cricket,
but football will never die.

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.