The streets of Dhaka are bustling with all kinds of activity. It’s a metropolis after all, of over 15 million people. Add to that: Hundreds of thousands of cars, autos, some buses (not nearly enough), motorbikes, pedal-bikes, and the ubiquitous rickshaws. Only about 20% of people own motorised vehicles, but they use almost 90% of the plying space available on the roads.
About 40% people use public transport and rickshaws, but 40 or more percent people walk, unless they have to go great distances. Very little space is allowed to these people commuting on foot.
The footpaths are uneven, the slabs used to make the walkway have long partially collapsed, making walking an exercise of paying due diligence in not only looking ahead, but constantly checking where one is about to land one’s next step.
During traffic jams, this scant allotment to pedestrians is invaded by “marauding” motorbikes who pay little (read: No) respect to the law banning them from “saddling the footpath.” I have had many a fracas with these errant bikers, but to no avail, and I get no help from others in my lone battle against them.
Then there are construction material dumps that take up footpaths as if the land were given to them by their forefathers (baaper shompotti). Footpaths are also a preferred place for parking cars of various sizes, from the mini Maruti to the latest American/Japanese/European monstrosities. The end result is the inevitable descent of the hapless pedestrian to the main street, who get into an uneven battle with the “millions” of cars with ear-splitting horns and artificially affixed bumpers, which not only save the cars but try and give nasty bumps to a person trying his damnedest to keep himself in one piece.
There is also the overflowing of goods from shops onto the pavement, another baaper shompotti type affair. The pavement in front of a car workshop is an established part of the shop itself, as mechanics are deep in concentration dealing with a faulty engine part, with his head under the hood and his upraised bum giving the pedestrian the message: “Mind where you walk, men at work.”
I have no qualms about roadside tea-stalls or the sellers of various stuff, from shirts to raw-fish to mobile phone chargers, they are of great utility to the weary pedestrians walking home after a day of slave-like labour. However, whenever there is a swoop by the police, these small traders fall victim to the suddenly awakened “monster’s eye” of the law. These traders have to pay regular tolls to those “monsters” and also to the local “mastaans.”
I often write sitting, standing, squatting on footpaths -- walking helps me think and write. The ambience of flowing sewers and sure signs of open air defecation, the incessant noise, the ever-awaiting open man-hole, the chitchats at the tea-stalls, and the garment workers walking to and from work, give me the inspiration to write.
It’s the city I live in, and I have to make do with what’s at hand. I still love Dhaka, with its heat, the chotpoti of the streets, the condensed milk tea, its street-turned-river situation after a heavy downpour, its never ending traffic jams, VIPs making their own rules and routes, 5 million people running-screaming-scrounging for 500 seats on buses, the air filled with Bengali swear words that are hard to visualise, let alone translate, its dead night life, and not to mention the boring conversations at most of the social gatherings.
So, Dhaka is the one of the worst places to live in this world? It provides terrible end of life care (again one of the worst).
So be it. I would much rather live in a vibrant city than some safe and secure not-to-mention pristine city like Christchurch (no aspersion to my friends living in New Zealand).