A day out in Old Dhaka

In a city of 16 million people it can be a hard commute into town from the suburbs. On our first day in Dhaka, my wife and I left our lodgings early in the morning only to be informed at the local station that the next available train would leave at 3pm! “Trains too busy”, the cashier informed us pointing to a passing locomotive packed with passengers clinging to the open doorways and crammed onto the roofs of the crumbling wagons. 

“We’ll have to get the bus then!”  I exclaim, looking at my wife in some relief at having avoided the overcrowded trains. Any feeling of contentment quickly subsides though as the equally packed bus stop comes into view. The buses are also full to bursting and without any timetables or destinations indicated outside we have to enlist the help of locals to find a connection to Old Dhaka.

1 hour of waiting later, our fellow commuters indicate the arrival of our bus. In Dhaka however, the buses don’t so much stop, but slow a little, meaning we both have to run and leap into the moving vehicle. Luckily there is a little space on board and we are amazed to even find a couple of seats at the back. We sit and watch the traffic sweep past outside the grimy windows. Buses here seem particularly unsafe, they are so dented and scratched that they have lost all shape and appear to be made more from papier-mâché than metal.

Finally things seem to be looking up soon we are almost in Old Dhaka. Suddenly though we hear an immense crash and both slide forwards into the seat in front. Another bus has slammed into the back of us and the journey will stop here. Other passengers seem unsurprised by the turn of events and calmly file out of the bus and start the long wait for a replacement. We decide to walk the rest of the way.

Another hour later and we manage to reach the labyrinthine streets of Old Dhaka. Seemingly free of western tourists the city is a fascinating mix of old bakeries selling exquisite pastries, tiny workshops making traditional clay pots and chaotic marketplaces selling everything from live chickens to intricately decorated gravestones. Weaving their way through all this are the colourfully painted cycle – rickshaws of which there are over 400,000 in Dhaka.

While in the city we take in the Ashan Manjil or the “Pink Palace” as it is more popularly known. Its shady gardens offer some respite from the heat and noise of the city. And from the airy, oak-panelled rooms of the palace we can enjoy some fabulous views of the much abused Buriganga River, covered by boats of all descriptions and sizes.

 

As the shadows behind the passing rickshaws begin to lengthen we decide the time has come to make our way home. Finding a bus stop however we find out that a “hartal” has been called. These general strikes are all too common here in Bangladesh and we will have to find an alternative way back. As night falls in the city we notice how ineffective the street lighting is, leaving many corners dangerously hidden in the gloom. Our pace quickens to try to find an available taxi, but all seem to be taken and the few that are free refuse to take journeys so far into the suburbs with the streets so jammed with traffic.  Suddenly we feel very isolated in these big crowds of people, desperate to get home. We clutch our bags tighter and search the streets for green vacant lights. Hours pass and then by some miracle a blue taxi pulls up nearby. We offer him a few rupees more than usual and he is only too happy to accept the fare. Much to our relief we jump in and slowly make our way through the crowds of traffic back to our hotel.