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.

Watermelon (and Men of) in Uzbekistan

Tis nearly the end of melon season and nobody is as regretful about it than I am. Every September, I find myself in an angsty teenage phase where I am unable to appreciate the next round of late-summer fruits, like plums and figs. Though delicious, these purple-hued mini treats don't hold a candle to the mouth feel or sweetness of watermelon, and it makes me feel like Sadness.

The roadside vendors don't have the same draw either. Melon men: they cradle their giant fruits, bending over in denim jeans, stacking melons into tidy piles. Some like to knock on the rind when choosing the perfect one, others prefer to shine them with cotton towels, like Jesus Quintana before presenting them for inspection and purchase. Glistening with sweat and effort, they sell these Hulked-out pieces of sweet, chin-dripping flesh like it's going out of fashion.

We tried twice to grow watermelon from seed in our patch of grass at home, but to no avail. We just don't have the touch, so I will impatiently wait for their return next summer and I can horrify my children again with my nightly rendition of eating the famous Great Outdoors 96-ounce steak - but with watermelon.

 

Yangiobod Flea Market

I am glad to report that both of my kids take Halloween planning very seriously. They enjoy being creepy and scary as much as I do, so when Deets asked if we could find a gas mask as part of his costume, I eagerly agreed. It gave me an excuse to return to the Yangiobod Flea Market, one of my favorite jaunts in the city. It's rowdy, dusty, and always stuffed with people on the weekends. Most of the market is divided into reasonable sections. One alley is specifically for selling only gas stoves, another for doors and windows. Rotors live in one section and wires/cables are in another. Antiques, clothing, and cell phone stalls are in between the food stalls selling drums of sunflower oil, shashleek grilled on aluminum spears, somsa, and plov. Above the melee, faded signs of good looking white people warning others to wear masks and stand 2 meters apart are totally ignored - Margo commented how this could be useful information for archeologists to discern human behaviors and value systems several hundred years from now. 

We cruised the aisles, eyes scanning for anything resembling military and found all the camouflage and lace up boots one could want. Rubber gas masks galore too. In a matter of minutes, Deets found what he was looking for. In a matter of minutes, Deets found that wearing a gas mask might not have the best "breathing material" for his Halloween costume. Braving the bargaining process on his own, he bought one anyway and opted to create a different costume for next month's holiday to avoid suffocating himself. Retro gas masks are about 5 USD these days, and he also bought an army issued aluminum canteen for the same price. He was pretty darn pleased with himself. Me too, actually.

On the way out, I stopped in my tracks to peruse the table selling surgical instruments. It was all I could do to not buy a box of expired suture, a glass syringe, metal tongue depressor, or a tenaculum clamp. You never know when you might need to perform emergency GYN surgery... for various... reasons...

Lenin items everywhere. 
EVERYWHERE.

Cable district.

Accordions, cameras, and clocks.

Antique hall.

Historic newspapers and fabrics.

Surgical delight.

Food court.

Face rugs and oil paintings.

Tashkent TV Tower

Do you own a tower with a public observation deck for tourists? Have you measured its height and included distinguishable characteristics such as King Kong traipsing around its pointy top, have elevator speeds that even Aerosmith wouldn't be able to keep up with, or hydrate with a 32 dollar G&T? If you can say yes to these questions, you too can apply to join the World Federation of Great Towers, all for a small fee of 2,000-3,500 dollars/year! (Most of the towers on this list cost millions, even billions of dollars to construct, so three grand is a drop in the bucket...)

The Tashkent TV Tower happens to be an exclusive, elite member of the WFGT, with 50 other proud members. Over 1,200 feet tall, the tower is responsible for broadcasting radio and tv throughout the province and a wee bit of Kazakhstan. There's even a hydro-meteorologic monitoring device perched on top. If the day is clear (which it usually isn't) the blue, white, and green stripes of the Uzbek flag are seen on the exterior of the observation decks/restaurants. At night, the tower lights up, shining more brilliantly than the entirety of Rod Roddy's suit collection. 

After walking through security checks, handing my Swiss army knife and surgical scissors over for safekeeping, and paying a 4 dollar entry fee, we enjoyed looking at mini tower replicas, post-Soviet decoration, and 360 degree views of the hazy city before sitting down for a snack in the rotating restaurant, 8 floors high above the world. Steve Winwood covers played while we waited 45 minutes for beers and defrosted pizza, and we practiced fixing our gazes upon non-moving objects to stave off nausea as we drifted around. We made it three quarters of the way around before the restaurant started back in reverse, making that our cue to exit. 

7th floor

 Museum and Monument of the Oppressed 

Ladies Trip!

Elevator anteroom

Fancyish restaurant with not-so-fancy food
on the 8th floor.

Missouri Summer 2022

Cycling in the Missouri hills is a special kind of torture. Instead of slow, thigh burning climbs and long descents like we get in Colorado, we get short steep hills that result in disorganized pedal strokes and spiking heart rates without any real reprieve. That and armadillo carcasses splatter the asphalt everywhere make for some interesting gore to navigate around. However, since biking and more family visits were a must, onward we went to Grandmother's house.

Dismantling four bikes meant for creative packing in the car, but our efforts were rewarded by riding bikes with Grandpa along the James River, through the Battle of Wilson's Creek, and down nameless country roads. In between spandex shorts washings, we took advantage of getting into the water as much as possible because Missouri in July means sweltering heat, the kind that leaves you saying "that's gonna leave a mark" immediately after you leave the air conditioning. We canoed, fished, boated, floated, water-parked, and swam. We went camping where the temperature never dropped below 90F but still had to sleep in tents because Missouri mosquitos take prisoners. 

These trips in the great outdoors were especially fun because their Uncle Danny joined. Usually, he worked long hours at the bar he owned, or had projects that demanded attention: remodeling his house, planting his garden, or planning his next big idea. Danny always had something going on, so the fact that he took off some time to spend with his niece and nephew meant a lot. He taught them how to throw a proper frisbee. At least tried to. He glowed when Deets caught a huge fish and cheered on Margo when they avoided dumping their canoe over a river drop. The kids died of laughter when Uncle Danny showed up to a bonfire night wearing choo-choo train overalls without shirt, and we made ourselves sick eating s'mores.

Childhood friends of Mark's heard we had returned to the great Midwest, so they threw their kids in the truck and drove up from Dallas on a whim to introduce their kids to our kids, and remember the glory days of Oregon. These guys are the raucous kind who skateboard in random and dumb places, just because it is something to do. Natural thrill seekers, they grew up jumping from roofs, skipping over fences into private pools, and getting mullet haircuts purely based on a dare, and they probably parkour too. The children of Mark's buddies are the exact same. On this heart filled reunion, we all piled into the J.O.B. public house, Danny's bar, and an evening of chucking frisbees at each other began.  Even when a frisbee hit the one of the boys' faces, the debauchery continued with laughter, beer drinking, and making suicides from the soda gun. 

Missouri meant reconnecting with grandparents, friends, and neighbors who owned heavy machinery. The kids went to their first baseball game, drove their first backhoe, and burned their feet on the waterpark sidewalks after frost-burning their tongues on Dippin' Dots - giving them a pretty good sense of what it means to spend summer in Midwest America. 

Neighbor Steve's Backhoe

Battle of Wilson's Creek. The North lost. 

J.O.B. under David's plaque:
"This Spot Reserved for David Thomas Schlink,
July 7, 2031"

Morning mist on the North Fork

Camping when it was so hot. Too hot, probably. 
But we were too proud to admit it.

Gramps

Unca' Danny with the kids

Brothers gon' fishing

Rooftoppin' at the J.O.B.