We arrive in Dhaka early, early after 12 hours of travel. Doe eyed, we make our way to the front of Zia International airport to find our ride to the hotel. From there, chaos, as we are swallowed up into traffic.
Our hotel in Binani - a well-to-do area North of Central Dhaka - is clean. Each of us has a suite with a comfortable queen-sized bed and a bathroom with a bathtub (hooray!)
After having settled in, and despite suffering from extreme jet lag, we decide to venture into Old Dhaka, the market area surrounding the river, Buriganga. How can I begin to describe this city?
Our hotel in Binani - a well-to-do area North of Central Dhaka - is clean. Each of us has a suite with a comfortable queen-sized bed and a bathroom with a bathtub (hooray!)
After having settled in, and despite suffering from extreme jet lag, we decide to venture into Old Dhaka, the market area surrounding the river, Buriganga. How can I begin to describe this city?
An ant farm, a zoo where we are the central attraction. Everywhere people staring, eyes wide and unashamed. Us with nervous smiles, I cling to my shawl as we scramble over stenching gutters festering with trash, weave in and out of constant traffic, people everywhere, noises, colours and smells, babytaxis, rickshaws, cattle-drawn carts, men with baskets filled with stones balanced atop their heads. And every direction staring, pointing, laughing, screaming. We are on parade, it seems.
But I am making it sound unpleasant, which it is certainly not. The people are friendly, almost embarrassingly so, and expect nothing from us but a smile. They want to talk to us, find out where we are from and what we are doing in their city.
We decide to take a rickshaw ride to the river. At least, we try to get to the river but the driver thinks we are asking for the bank. Now we are overwhelmingly lost. A group of Bangladeshi men crowds around when we ask for directions, straining to understand our English, trying desperately to be of help. They call over others, hoping to find a translator, and before we know it, we are surrounded by a veritable sea of inquisitive faces. One amongst them, a young student in a collared shirt, speaks English and offers to take us to the river.
What an excellent tour guide! He asks us if we also want to visit the market. Sure! He leads us into what appears to be a store-front hawking party supplies (streamers and horns and confetti) but in fact it is merely a gateway into a maze the likes of which I could never have imagined. Narrow halls winding like trenches lit up by the sparkle and shine of imitation jewlery, children's toys, plastic baubles and odds and ends (see Blade Runner for a fairly accurate representation.) And all men, only men, everywhere staring at our sweating red faces as we jostle through this pinball machine.
But I am making it sound unpleasant, which it is certainly not. The people are friendly, almost embarrassingly so, and expect nothing from us but a smile. They want to talk to us, find out where we are from and what we are doing in their city.
We decide to take a rickshaw ride to the river. At least, we try to get to the river but the driver thinks we are asking for the bank. Now we are overwhelmingly lost. A group of Bangladeshi men crowds around when we ask for directions, straining to understand our English, trying desperately to be of help. They call over others, hoping to find a translator, and before we know it, we are surrounded by a veritable sea of inquisitive faces. One amongst them, a young student in a collared shirt, speaks English and offers to take us to the river.
What an excellent tour guide! He asks us if we also want to visit the market. Sure! He leads us into what appears to be a store-front hawking party supplies (streamers and horns and confetti) but in fact it is merely a gateway into a maze the likes of which I could never have imagined. Narrow halls winding like trenches lit up by the sparkle and shine of imitation jewlery, children's toys, plastic baubles and odds and ends (see Blade Runner for a fairly accurate representation.) And all men, only men, everywhere staring at our sweating red faces as we jostle through this pinball machine.
Then, the river, the river! Boats and cattle and stones, greasy oil drums and mountains of fresh coconuts. Filthy water. A radio blaring a solemn Bangla chant. Surreal. More staring. I begin to feel lost and a bit afraid. I am so far from home.
Before we leave our impromptu tour guide Efrath offers him a 10 taka note but he refuses and requests a kiss. She does not oblige.
In stark contrast from the busy streets, we then visit a public garden to which the entry fee is 50 takas, cost prohibitive for many Bangladeshis. It is peaceful here. A group of teenaged school girls approaches us giggling and offers me a dusty slice of mango. A young couple asks to take our picture. Of course! we cry.
We take a cab back to the hotel, nap, and then decide on a restaurant for dinner. Chickpeas and cheese in a thick spicy curry. Delicious!
On the way home, in the dark night, I am blissful. It is cooler now, and as we walk down the dusty streets, children follow us, dancing and laughing, begging for candy, circling around and around. A few bolder ones grab my hands and wrap themselves into my arms. I want to play with them. One child speaks a little English and I try to speak with her. She dances for us, trailing her fingers across her eyes Bollywood-style. To their delight, I show them how to give highfives. I wish I could stay longer but the traffic is so intense that you must move with the current.
Now, late at night, I am sitting on my balcony, writing these first impressions into a notebook. I glance up and notice across the way, a curious face staring up at me from behind the high wall that encircles our hotel.
What does he see?
A strange woman, perversely dressed in bare shoulders, writing away in the forbidden night? My pale skin must look ghostly in this thin light.
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