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I was the only westerner on board on the flight to Bangladesh, but this did have unexpected benefits because when we eventually landed there was no queue at the Foreign Passport Holder's immigration desk. It was a hot and humid evening by the time I hit the road to my hotel and being up so early two nights in a row had left me dog tired and irritable. All I wanted was to get to the hotel so I could go to sleep. Alas, it wasn't to be. Despite being only 14 kilometers from the airport, the hotel took almost two hours to reach. The road from the airport was one gigantic traffic jam. “This is normal traffic for this time of day, sir,” explained the driver.
I sat back and thought about the fact I was in a foreign country by myself. On the flight over, I'd managed to come to terms with this situation and I was feeling calm about things. True, it was nice to have a travelling companion to share the experience, to share a meal with, and to simply be there to cope with the strange things that were thrown at a visitor in a
new city, but on the plus side, I'd not stepped foot inside a clothes or shoe shop as of yet, and furthermore I had no inclination to do so whilst in Dhaka.
Outside, the lack of street lighting made it hard to see things beyond the beeping traffic. Buses, hands down, easily won the contest for the most dents, scrapes and missing tail lights, and all of them were crammed to capacity with some passengers even sitting on the roof. Dhaka reminded me a little of Delhi, especially with the yellow and green auto-rickshaws beeping about the place, but unlike the Indian capital, street lighting seemed not a major concern for the authorities of Dhaka. The whole city seemed bathed in darkness, no doubt caused by the government-induced powercuts.
We came to another standstill and a beggar approached my side window. With his one good arm he pointed to his stump. I tried to ignore him even though the traffic wasn't moving anywhere. After a few seconds he sloped off and was replaced by a girl of perhaps eight carrying a bundle of red roses. “Only ten taka for one piece!” she yelled through the glass.
Thirteen
hours after leaving my hotel in Kuwait, I arrived at my hotel in Dhaka. From what my weary mind could gather, the Best Western La Vinci (why it wasn't called the
Da Vinci, I couldn't fathom) was an oasis amid the chaos. I was soon asleep, evening managing to blot out the ceaseless beeping from the streets below.
The next morning, my only full day in Dhaka, I opened the curtains to see the lay of the land around the hotel and couldn't quite believe my eyes. On one side of my panoramic view from the 9th floor was a hellish snarl of traffic, all squeezing and beeping their way along at less than a walking pace. I looked over to my left and saw the mass of humanity known as Kawran Bazar. There seemed to be thousands of people crowded into the sprawling fruit and vegetable market, and the scene really brought home to me that I was in the Third World. Corrugated metal roofs covered some of the stalls, but most were open air, with produce laid upon the dusty ground. Rickshaws and dilapidated trucks inched their way through the thronging mass while people scurried everywhere in
all directions.
After breakfast I was met by a man in his forties called Asraf. He would be my guide for a half-day tour of the city. We shook hands and he led me outside to the car and driver. Jesus bloody Christ, it was hot and humid as hell out there. I quickly climbed into the back of the car waiting for the tour to begin.
As we joined the traffic jam, Asraf explained that we would visit a few of the city's finest landmarks and that this would take about four hours in total. I nodded excitedly at the prospect of being in Dhaka, a place well and truly off the tourist map. “There is too much traffic in Dhaka,” Asraf stated. “The city was never built for this amount of vehicles. But actually, today is not too bad compared to what the driver and I were expecting.”
The slow pace gave me ample opportunity to look at what was going on outside. People were everywhere, jammed together in the biggest mass of humanity I could recall ever seeing. Tiny stalls lined the streets with the ever present coils of cables hanging around their awnings.
A man carrying a fistful of chickens by their feet wandered past and a woman wearing a brightly-coloured sari balanced a large tray of oranges upon her head. Large piles of rubbish lay everywhere, often with people poking about trying to find some useful item amongst the stench. Crows and buzzards summed up the bird population, the birds of prey circling overhead while their black counterparts scavenged near the meat sellers fighting over scraps of discarded offal. And what the guidebook had said about Dhaka being the city of rickshaws was indeed correct - they were everywhere, their wiry drivers peddling like fury whenever the traffic started to move.
I asked Asraf about the powercuts Dhaka was experiencing. Already I'd experienced a number of them at the hotel myself. Every now and again the power had gone down, causing the hotel's generators to kick into swift action, a luxury most of the population didn't have. Asraf shook his head and frowned. “They are not good at all. Every district of the city has a powercut at a different time of day, and they last for two hours before it comes back on. But two hours later it is back
off again. Where I live we have no power when my daughters need to sleep. It is too hot because we can't power the fans, so they wait until the power comes back on at 1am to go to sleep. The next morning they are too tired to go to school!” The powercuts were happening as a result of power being redirected to fertilizer plants which were needed for the rice growing season. “But the government should build more power plants!” said Asraf. “It's crazy!”
Eventually we arrived in Old Dhaka, a complex web of narrow streets and alleyways, all jam-packed with people, shops and rickshaws. Our first stop was the Dhakeswari Temple, the city's main Hindu place of worship. Dating from the 12th century, it was a rather small complex, made up of a few statues and engravings but it did have a nearby man-made lake which was overlooked by a set of decrepit buildings which Asraf informed me were less than ten years old. At the water's edge, an old man was washing his clothes in the murky water. Soon we were back in the car heading further into the old town towards Lalbagh Fort, an old
Mughal complex dating from the 17th century.
Once again the heat hit with me with a blast as soon as we left the car, actually making my head hurt. Asraf led me around the fort, pausing to look at some tombs located inside the main building explaining that they belonged to the daughters of Shaista Khan, who up until 1688 had been the Governor of Dhaka.
Back in the car, we passed the city prison and Asraf became animated. “This jail used to be full of corrupt government officials,” he explained. ”When Bangladesh gained independence in 1971, I was only a small child, but I remember things clearly. Everyone was excited because we were told things would be better for our people. Hindus and Muslims were living together peacefully, which is still true today - we have none of the fanatics that places like Afghanistan and Iran are plagued with.” Asraf's monologue was broken because our car came to an unexpected stop. After speaking with the driver, Asraf told me that the car was overheating. The driver got to open the bonnet in order to literally let off steam, and while we waited, Asraf continued. “But like many
countries, our hopes were short lived. The government became corrupt and the people suffered. In fact today, the people cannot rely on the government at all. If they get sick, they have to deal with it alone, and if they do not have a job to feed their families, they have to fend for themselves.”
Outside the driver was busy pouring cold water into the radiator and soon the heat inside the car became unbearable so Asraf and I stepped outside. “Eventually the people had had enough of all the corruption in the newly appointed government and they demanded change. And unbelievably many government officials were arrested and thrown into prison. Bangladesh now had a chance of righting all the wrongs from the past - a golden opportunity - but it was not to be. The new government was just as bad as the previous one, and besides, all the corrupt officials were eventually released and allowed back into their positions.”
The Sitara Mosque was located next door to a boys school and when I got out of the car they all stared. In fact, I'd been stared at quite a bit in Dhaka and was getting quite
used to it. The mosque was also known as the Star Mosque, and was a medium sized white building complete with ten arches and lots of domes decorated with blue stars. We couldn't go in because it was closed and so we headed back to the car.
“That building there,” Asraf said, “is one of the oldest buildings in Dhaka.” I looked at what he was pointing to and saw a broken down building in dire need of repair. I asked whether the government would renovate it but Asraf shook his head. “No, it will be pulled down to make way for new residential quarters. This building, like many others before it, will be gone in less than one year. The person who owns it does not think of the historical importance of the building, only of the money he can make. If a man owned such a building and left it alone, he would be a poor man and his family would starve. But if he sells it, the land can be used for a new building and he will be very rich. It's understandable why they do it but it saddens me nonetheless.”
At a particularly
busy section of road a young woman approached my window. The tiny naked baby in her arms was clearly in need of medical attention because instead of just a bare bottom, this poor soul had a two-inch long and half-inch thick bright red protrusion emanating from its nether regions. Initially, when the woman had first approached, I'd thought it was some kind of stopper, like a dummy for the arse, but what I was looking at was no joke. It looked painful as well as disgusting, and I was thankful when our car finally moved away.
Our next stop was in my opinion the best part of the tour. The River Sadarghat, though smelly and muddy, was the lifeblood of Old Dhaka. Asraf led me to the busy Boat Terminal which turned out to be a feast for the eyes as well as an assault on the nose. Triple-decked ferries were docked along the side of the jetty while small wooden boats plied their trade in between. Numerous tiny boats were crossing the river with their single oarsman standing at their bows, and it suddenly occurred to me that the place reminded me of Venice, albeit after the Italians
had ransacked the place and left rotting turnips everywhere. Stalls had been set up on the gangways and while Asraf bought himself a tiny cup of tea from one, I wandered to the end of the concourse where larger boats were offloading large sacks into the waiting divisions of rickshaws.
“So tell me what you think of the river?” asked Asraf who'd joined me at the edge. I told him I loving it - all the sounds, sights and even the gag-inducing smells; it was a world away from everything I was used to. Asraf nodded. “Sometimes I like to ask tourists what they see through
their eyes because mine are old and have seen things like this many times.” He suddenly paused to look at something in the water. “But sometimes even my eyes see things I don't understand - look!”
Two naked boys of about ten were swimming in the murky brown water. They seemed to be having a whale of a time but it made Asraf shake his head. “Even if you paid me one hundred thousand taka I would not swim in that water.”
We had one more stop to make on our
tour and that was Ahsan Manzil, otherwise known as the Pink Palace, due to the colour of its exterior. It dated from 1872 and was a rather grand building surrounded by a nice garden. Inside was a museum which depicted photos, thrones, old coins and lots more besides, but the power had been switched off in this part of Dhaka which meant I was given the abridged version of the tour by a rather annoyed Asraf. “The government really needs to sort out this power shortage.” I nodded in commiseration even though I was secretly pleased about the lack of lights. Museums were not my cup of tea at all, and call me a heathen, but the thought of traipsing around every exhibit had not filled me with joy.
An hour later (after suffering yet another overheated engine stoppage) I said goodbye to Asraf and went into my hotel for some lunch. Afterwards I felt brave enough to tackle the streets of Dhaka alone. This was aided by the fact that Asraf had earlier told me that Dhaka had very little crime of the normal kind - only political crime, he added. I opened the door of the hotel
and stepped back into the heat with a mission to have a drink at the Sheraton Hotel, which according to my guidebook was only about 2km away.
At first things went surprisingly well. I avoided the large potholes that seemed to be a fixture of Dhaka's pavements, and I managed to sidestep most of the rotting vegetables and black puddles that dotted my path. I even managed to cross a railway line which only moments before had seen a large locomotive juddering past. And I was ignoring most of the stares I was receiving quite well too, even though I must have looked quite a sight, sweating my way down a street lined with auto rickshaw repair shops.
After consulting my map I took a left-hand turn, praying to God, I was going in the right direction. The thought of retracing my steps back past all those mechanics didn't exactly fill me with merriment. As I traipsed along in the hellish heat, my mind recalled the English language newspaper I'd read earlier. The main story had been about powercuts but another story described how a young mother had strangled her eight-month-old baby daughter to death because the man
she loved refused to marry her after finding out about the child. Also making the news were reports of fires all over the city. Dhaka it seemed was a veritable tinderbox, with the worst one gutting 100 shanty houses, their occupants rendered homeless. But the strangest story had been on the back page. According to the article, plainclothes policemen had been dispatched to patrol in front of some all girl schools in Dhaka. Apparently 'delinquents' had been harassing (or as the newspaper put it, 'eye-teasing'😉 the girls.
My thoughts were broken when I spied a man crawling about in front of me. One of his legs was clearly not in working order judging by the way it trailed after his body, but his other leg was worse, bent upwards at some unnatural angle, causing the man to wriggle using his elbows for propulsion. Thankfully he didn't see me and I moved onwards, hoping I was near the Sheraton.
But of course I wasn't. I was nowhere near it because foolishly I'd turned in the wrong direction and was now in the process of getting totally lost. Nothing in the immediate vicinity seemed to offer any hope of salvation
and so I briefly considered heading back the way I'd come, but in the heat, I couldn't face such a long walk back to my hotel, so I flagged down a rickshaw.
“The Sheraton Hotel,” I said as clearly as possible, but I might as well have spoken Latin. The man simply stared at me like a galoot. Wiping my brow, I showed him the map and pointed at where I wanted to go. “SHER-A-TON HO-TEL,” I repeated to blank eyes. Mercifully another man approached who'd evidently overheard my pleas and translated for me. Two minutes later I was sat in the back of a contraption designed exclusively for not being in the thick of motorised traffic. For the next thirty minutes I sat in the sweltering heat while my man peddled his way to the Sheraton. His fare was 40 taka (38p) but I gave him a 50 taka note and entered the large hotel with glee.
Inside, I had a soothing cup of coffee and pondered how to get back to the hotel. My map was clearly as useless as my navigating skills; therefore the best course of action was to get the lobby staff to
order me a taxi, which was exactly what I did.
While I was waiting, I sat on a wall outside the lobby entrance, and soon became the focus of attention again. This had already happened to me in the restaurant of my own hotel during lunch. A softly-spoken man in a suit had approached me, asking about why I was in Dhaka and what I thought of it so far. He turned out to be the hotel manager and had been a really nice guy. Sat outside the Sheraton I was approached by a young man in some sort of hotel uniform, and after witnessing his bold approach, a hotel guard decided to join us too, though he took no part in the following conversation.
The man in the uniform asked where I came from and after I'd told him, the conversation stalled. But instead of walking away he simple stood gaping at me with a toothy grin. The guard was also watching with interest and he nodded when I nodded to him. I turned back to the uniformed man and felt compelled to speak to him. “What job do you do at the hotel?” I asked. He
appeared nonplussed and so I rephrased my question. “What do you do here at the hotel?”
“Ah!” he said. “You mean duty, sir?” I nodded encouragingly. “It is from 1pm till 10pm, sir!” which just about summed up the language barrier we were experiencing. My car arrived and I shook hands with both men and departed. My day in Dhaka had come to an end. But what a day!
So what did I think of Bangladesh? At home, when I'd told people I was heading off to Bangladesh, nearly every one of them had been incredulous:
Why on Earth do you want to go to Bangladesh? Are you of sound mind? And a lot of reports I'd read had described Dhaka as a smelly, crumbling, disease-ridden hell hole that was constantly flooded. But I had enjoyed my short time in Dhaka. I had enjoyed seeing things that ordinarily I would never have had the opportunity to experience. It was obvious the city would never compete with the likes of Delhi or Kathmandu as a tourist destination - there simply wasn't that much to see - but Dhaka had a raw energy that pulsed in the streets, in the
bazars, and most especially by the rivers. I caught my plane out of the airport happy I'd been there.
Strengths: -Friendly people
-Cheap
-Western hotels offer sanctuary from the hordes!
-The Sadarghat River - a feast for the eyes
Weaknesses: -Hot and humid in April
-Endless traffic jams
-Smelly and dirty
-Not that many actual tourist sites
-Getting stared at
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joe
non-member comment
loved it
i was there ..bd for 30 days..i loved it..i am going back....for another month..i go in january..just posted 375 pics....if u have the chance...go to myanmar/burma//been 3 times..also going back...