Dhaka reigns as king of the unexpected. As I’ve mentioned numerous times before in friendly conversations and with the few of you who actually end up reading SSN, Dhaka never ceases to surprise me with her unique, utterly peculiar sights. One of the inexplicable highlights of randomness that I see on a regular basis is the bizarre Kyrgyz Consulate Beautification Scheme near Banani Bridge. This “beautification” of Dhaka consists of several weather-beaten, scratched concrete animals including a horse, a tiger and a pair of zebras with their…um…man-parts rather well polished. I shake my head with barely suppressed laughter every time I bike or rickshaw past these haggard creatures. I truly love them, obviously not because they turn Dhaka into a tourist hotspot but simply because they make me smile each time I pass by. The beautification scheme is random for several reasons:
First of all: Kyrgyzstan. Why would the consulate of the gorgeous, mountain-country of Kyrgyzstan (one of my dream travel destinations coincidentally) bother to install a series of poorly constructed concrete animals in the megacity of Dhaka, Bangladesh? Why adulterate the reputation of such an amazingly beautiful and historic nation? What do the citizens of Kyrgyzstan gain from placing these animals in a remote corner of the South Asia? Secondly, there is no Kyrgyz Consulate in the country of Bangladesh. “Where is this Kyrgyz consulate,” you might ask? Apparently it’s in New Dehli, a solid 1,700 kilometers away. So the Kyrgyz consulate in New Delhi decided, in their infinite wisdom, to place a series of concrete statues in a neighboring, country that bickers incessantly with the consulate’s host government of India? Great choice! Thirdly, the choice of tigers makes sense; Bengal tigers do in fact live in Bangladesh. The choice of a horse is very fitting for the equestrian-heavy culture of the nomadic Kyrgyz people. But ZEBRAS?!? How will zebras ever be relevant to the relationship between Dhaka and Bishkek? I digress. In my humble opinion, Kyrgyzstan’s mission to beautify Dhaka has largely failed to make Bangladesh more scenic but it has certainly given me many a laugh. If I ever end up in Kyrgyzstan I’ll do my best to construct a concrete llama or ostrich. You know…to improve Kyrgyz-Canadian political relations. It would be the obvious choice!
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A few weeks ago, I hit a goat with my bicycle.
Let me preface the aforementioned incident with an explanation. Danielle and I use bicycles as our primary mode of transportation through the gritty streets of Dhaka. When we first purchased our bikes in October, each time I wheeled onto the street my heart would pound with excitement and my bloodstream would course with adrenaline. Now, almost a year later, each time I pedal onto Dhaka streets, my senses still heighten to an almost supernatural level of sensitivity. I keep my head on a swivel, listen for the slightest changes in the noise around me and even rely on rancid smells to alert me to incoming gutters. The more I pedal through Dhaka’s traffic, the more I realize that it functions a bit like an ecosystem. There are unspoken rules that result in a sort of food chain that I thought could be useful in cataloging my Dhaka street experience. I wish I had some animation skills, so I could create something more visually appealing, but I suppose language will have to suffice. Here is the Dhaka Traffic Food Chain…in text form! 1. The Environment: The streets in Dhaka are filled with trash of various sizes and smells. The streets have massive cracks, deep pot holes and copious amounts of junk. Oozing gutters filled with sewage line the roads, police barriers bristling with barbed wire jut out randomly into the street. These and a myriad of other random obstacles could lead to your downfall if you don’t pay close attention. I suppose that, in our food chain metaphor, the state of the Dhaka’s infrastructure could be interpreted as, you know, volcanoes, meteorites and other catastrophic stuff that can have grave consequences if you are not sufficiently evolved. 2. Buses: Buses are the apex predator of the Dhaka ecosystem. Their size, aggressiveness and skull-shattering horns are the road equivalent of a megalodon! A bus will not avoid you; you must avoid it! Seriously, Dhaka has one of the highest traffic accident fatality rates on earth, and I suspect that buses are the primary culprit. I have experienced few things more terrifying than a bus sneaking up a few feet behind me and then blasting its horn. In these moments, my heart stops and I literally go into survival mode like the small fry that I am. Afterwards, I check the seat of my bicycle. And feel lucky my underwear remains unsoiled! 3. Begging Elephants: For real. These elephants are trained to beg and accept money from passing cars. They don’t tend to mess with buses but beware the windscreen of your vehicle if you refuse to fork over cash. These elephants are essentially in the business of blackmail: give us money or lose your windshield. Hence, their place near the top of our ecosystem’s hierarchy. 4. Cars: The next level of our Dhaka Food Chain is plain old cars. Vehicle drivers in Bangladesh appear to have no qualms about running you over. I’ve been hit on my bicycle, albeit gently most times, on close to a dozen occasions with no apologies or even a glance to see how I fared. Once, an aggressive driver almost knocked Danielle off her feet as she was walking, and he berated us for hitting his car! Dhaka vehicle drivers are also selfish and will often stop traffic for half a kilometer rather than let another car turn or back out of a parking space. As a result, a chorus of horns sing communal displeasure and frustration. The noise levels of Dhaka traffic are astounding. An independent study measured average daytime noise pollution from traffic at from 83-108 decibels. For comparison, a commercial jet emits 110 decibels during takeoff. Cycling in Dhaka is loud! If buses are the megalodon of Dhaka in our little allegory, then everyday cars are the, you know, normal sized sharks. Sharks that scream. Loudly. 5. CNG: The algae-green CNGs that pepper Dhaka roads are, for me personally on my bicycle, the least of my worries. They are the tuna or swordfish of Dhaka’s roads, a force to be reckoned with if threatened but relatively benign if left to their own devices. As tuk-tuks, they have the dual advantage of mobility and speed – I don’t often run into conflict with them as I pedal around town. However, their growl adds to the chaos and noise and confusion. 6. Rickshaws: The 500,000 rickshaws operating daily in the city cannot be described as anything but a massive school of herring. Herring with small sharp teeth. This analogy holds true not only because there are so many of them, but because they have no engines to warn of their arrival and seem to move in ways that appear pre-orchestrated. The rickshaw wallah’s just know how to move in the traffic; watching hundreds of them move together simultaneously is strangely mesmerizing, much like watching a school of herring in a Blue Planet documentary. For me, however, rickshaws tend to be my biggest threat because, unless the wallah chooses to ring his little bell to alert me to his presence, they expect you to react to their movements and choices rather than paying attention to your actions. They can be insanely aggressive. Much of the danger comes from being forced into vehicular traffic by overly enthusiastic wallahs jockeying for position but I’ve also been knocked off my bike, once into a car, by rickshaws. Perhaps a rickshaw is so close to a bicycle that there is some ambiguity as to who top dog in the food chain is but, in my books, the rickshaw comes out on top. 7. Me! Whoo! I’m here! This is me in the food chain! Now that I know my place, I can survive accordingly. Hopefully. 8. Pedestrians: Pedestrians are the only sentient participant in the Dhaka traffic food chain who are below me in the dominance hierarchy. They are the plankton of the streets. They are everywhere. It is difficult to walk in Dhaka without bumping into others at every turn; the same principal holds true for biking here. Luckily for me, so long as I ring my bell loud and clear, the pecking order holds, and I cruise on my merry way. 9. Goats: And now, the one you’ve all been waiting for. Goats. And other animals such as chickens, cows, the occasional sheep and, on one special occasion, a vibrantly pink rooster. As I was biking home from a squash match on a recent, sleepy Friday morning, a goat, fleeing from some unseen threat, smashed into my front wheel and tumbled into a bleating pile of hooves and fur. I managed to stay on my seat but couldn’t believe my eyes. I mean, how many other people can say that they have hit a goat while riding their bicycle down the street? I was inspired enough to write this blog post. Despite the risks, Dani and I learned to brave the chaotic traffic and now understand our role in the traffic ecosystem. Now that I’ve learned my place in the food chain, biking is one of my favorite aspects of life in Dhaka. It gives me a degree of freedom and autonomy previously unavailable due to our over-reliance on rickshaws and CNGs for transportation. It has saved us a surprisingly large amount of taka and time. As hard as it is to believe, I might miss the pandemonium and adrenaline of cycling in Dhaka when I relocate! And don’t worry, in the end, the goat I struck was okay. His pride was hurt and nothing more. I’ll never forget the first time I stepped out of my apartment gate and found her devouring food-scraps from my garbage. She blissfully ignored me as I did a double-take and stood in somber, shocked silence for several seconds that felt like an eternity. My mind whirred as I attempted to fully register the magnitude of what I was witnessing. Another human being was eating from my garbage. She perched precariously on the edge of the rickshaw-dumpster and contentedly rooted through watermelon rinds and crusts of fuzzy green bread I had thrown out hours before. She let out an enthusiastic shriek of delight when she discovered the shredded carcass of the small chicken we had used for noodle soup. As she gnawed greedily at her newfound prize she glanced my way and her eyes brightened. With a beaming, toothy smile she waved her grimy hand at me and turned back to the dumpster.
The biggest lump I’ve ever felt settled firmly into my throat. I know her. Her name is Ratia. She is one of the beggar-girls who ply the blocks around my house. Each time she sees me she gifts me the brightest smile you’ll ever see and blurts out a cheerful “good morning!” (It doesn’t matter if it’s nine o’clock at night; it is still “good morning”!) She proudly tells me that she is nine years old and that she lives with her brothers and sisters in Korail slum, about a ten minute walk from our house. I taught her how to count to ten in English and she performs admirably, with the exception of the number seven, which she always skips. As I saw her eating my rubbish scraps, a powerful wave of emotion struck me and I fought tears as I continued on my errand. I wrestled (and continue to wrestle) with frustration over the knowledge that I am powerless to truly help her. If I give her money, it is simply handed over to her organized-crime handlers. I have given her food in the past only to see it snatched away by her older peers. I tried to teach her English but, after a few sessions, her handlers pulled her away from my street in an effort to keep her away from me because she wasn’t earning money. The anger, sadness, helplessness and frustration I feel about Ratia’s fate is difficult to express or quantify. She is literally one of the sweetest children on the planet. She is bright, energetic, optimistic and perceptive. And because of a corrupt government, a morally impoverished society and oppressive poverty, she will never be educated, will never be empowered and will never have the opportunity to attain her full potential. And Ratia is only one. There are millions upon millions of Ratias in this country who currently do not have the access to health care, clean water, employment or education. So much intelligence, so much talent, and so much potential is being wasted in Bangladesh. I have no solutions. I can’t express how badly I wish I did. For a second consecutive year we participated in the Hindu celebration of Holi, a technicolor holiday that essentially involves aggressively smearing vibrant powders across random stranger’s faces, pouring buckets of dyed water over your friend’s head and dancing rambunctiously in the streets to blaring Hindi pop music. A detailed history of Holi is actually somewhat difficult to ascertain and scholars disagree as to the exact religious significance and origins of the holiday. What is certain, is that Holi predates Christianity and has been celebrated across South Asia, particularly in Eastern India, throughout recorded history. The tradition of lighting bonfires and throwing colored powder has existed for hundreds of years and is a highlight of the Hindu calendar, marking the beginning of spring. There are numerous religious legends as to the origins of this unique holiday but the dominant tale involves a classic plot of good overcoming evil. Holi derives its name from Holika, the sister of a demon king who essentially (and this is greatly simplifying the story FYI) was burned alive on a pyre to save her brother who had declared loyalty to Vishnu which, obviously, angered his demon father. Her sacrifice was honored by Vishnu who came and avenged her death by killing her demon father. The story of sacrifice and the ultimate triumph of good over evil are dominant religious themes of the festival. In reality, I haven’t observed a single example of true religious overtones to the celebrations over the past two years. From my experience, it’s simply an excuse to party.
Holi is actually not widely celebrated here in Dhaka. Most streets are conspicuously absent of messy revelers and, compared to our experience in Nepal last year, the city is relatively quiet. However, there are some wild parties in the Hindu-dominated Shankaria Bazar area of Old Dhaka. That’s where we went this morning. On a normal day, Shankaria Bazar is the quintessential vortex of humanity that characterizes Old Dhaka. It is a fascinating area with craftsmen selling Hindu idols, paper kites and intricately woven fabrics. It’s a definite must-see destination for the few tourists who brave the winding, crowded labyrinths of Old Dhaka. Today though, the workshops were shuttered, energetic Hindi music was blasting from tarpaulin-covered speakers and thousands of dancing revelers were crammed into the alleys armed with rainbows of powder, crude water guns and buckets of dyed water. Everyone is a target and we were no exception. After half an hour of frenzied, dye filled chaos, we retreated to a CNG and set out for home. The real adventure began when we attempted to wash up. In Nepal last year, the dyes and powder required approximately ten minutes of vigorous scrubbing until we reached the stage of squeaky cleanliness. Dani and I have spent approximately an hour and a half each in the shower and our bodies and faces are still a riot of pastel colors. It is not for lack of innovation or Google searches. Shampoos, hand soaps, conditioners, bar soaps, dish soaps, hand sanitizers, coconut oils, among other implements have all been tried on our bodies and faces. Danielle’s hair is still green. We believe it might be permanent. I look like I have two black eyes and my beard has taken on a distinctly beetle-shell purple hue. We have a many showers and probably several days until our appearances return to normal…but it was well worth it. We have stories to tell, Danielle apparently always wanted green hair as a child and I have never tried a purple beard. It’s been a blast of a day. Wish us luck as we try to clean ourselves up! My adventurous weekend in Srimongol last week led to a radical shift in my worldview. I was hanging on to the rails of a truck as we sped through tea plantations when I made my discovery. As the sun beat down on my furry arms and the wind whipped through my voluptuous, flowing beard, I saw a weird plant I didn’t recognize. I asked our local guide. His answer blew me away.
His response shook everything I thought I knew about the wonderful world of vegetation to the core. The philosophical implications of my newfound discovery were profound, challenging my conceptual food-group framework. My definition of what constituted fruits and vegetables is now in ruins because I discovered that pineapples do not grow on trees. They grow in the ground like carrots! Boom! Worldview shattered. It is funny some of the random things that you learn while living and traveling abroad. In addition to the obvious cultural and historical knowledge I’ve gained from meeting new people, eating new food and visiting historically important sites, I’ve also learned some fairly common, everyday things that add up; slowly but surely changing the way I see the world. For example: apparently the game of Clue is only called Clue in the United States and Canada. Everywhere else in the world it is christened Cluedo. Corn is actually pretty good as part of a dessert. Marmite and vegemite are disgusting! Bangladeshis use “bai” far more than any Newfoundlander. Tesco is amazing. Oranges are actually green when grown in tropical climates. Etcetera. It may be slightly hyperbolic to claim that my recent discovery of pineapples growing in the ground has changed my personal philosophy of life. However, when combined with the copious amounts of little tidbits of information I’ve picked up in my journeys here in Asia, it might not be far from the truth. I’ve changed over the two years I’ve lived in Bangladesh. I can’t really pin-point how, but the small discoveries, random, insignificant pieces of trivia and daily cultural experiences have profoundly changed me as a person. My pineapple revelation was a catalyst prodding me to think about how traveling and living abroad has transformed me as an individual. I'll be doing a lot of thinking as our adventure in Bangladesh draws to a close this summer. One thing’s for sure though; never again will visions of pineapple orchards dance through my head. Cheers! |