Old Dhaka

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I am having trouble writing about what I saw today. I love the intensity and sharp contours of the Bangladeshi lifestyle but what I witness daily is also hard to process. Entering Old Dhaka, I stepped into a world where a man’s body is abused for a small cost and where forgetting who and where you are is not an option. The narrow streets are places in which man and steel fight for dominance. Rickshaws, taxis and pedestrians push ever more forward in the hopes of gaining a few more inches, while on the sidelines, narrow waisted men move melting soil and rows of tailors with small fingers make delicate stitches.

Walking down to the river with my Indian friend, we hired a man who spoke some English to guide us on a small wooden boat. The giardia infested water released a murky burp and amidst the gray, green ripples floated decayed garbage. Huge boats would move along besides us and at one point we hopped unto a cargo ship weighed down with black sand to snap a photo. There were also large passenger ships starting their 27 hour ride to Kolkata with men and women scurrying to claim their small plot of deck before the long journey.

Then, the boatman decided to pull us onto the shore in order to show us a village. I clumsily jumped onto the shore, narrowly avoiding a woman and her small child shampooing their hair in the polluted water. On either side of me on the bank stood massive ships with hundreds of workers saudering metal and piecing together the broken bits. We then proceeded to enter the heart of the town. Every shop was working to build a particular part of the ship. It was fascinating to see how all these small parts eventually become the finished products.

A group of about 50 people began to follow me. I felt like Angelina Jolie with swarms of children wanting to hold my hand and say hello. What really surprised me about this excursion was the boatman’s insistence that I truly understand the extent of his peoples’ poverty. He explained that in a quarter square mile area there lived over 300 families. Opening a door to a house the size of a bathroom, he explained that this was where the family ate slept and carried on their daily lives. He then looked up to my face expectantly, but my only response was silence. I do no know if my empathy was all he desired or if he expected me to have the answer.

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