[ALOCHONA] Travel article on Bangladesh in UK Times

: Travel article on Bangladesh in UK Times

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/travel/destinations/asia/article4611957.ece

(Photographer: Ben Stubbs/The Australian)

Dhaka Rocket Steamship

Rocket travel, elsewhere the preserve of ostentatious oligarchs, is really the only way to arrive in Old Dhaka.

 

However, in Bangladesh, to bag a seat at the sharp end of a 100-year-old paddle steamer it's not prerequisite to first steal the birthright of the proletariat, and at less than £5 for the 24-hour journey from Mongla to Dhaka, going sub-orbital with Richard Branson seem distinctly overpriced.

 

After the kind of sleep that only a First Class cabin provides, an unforgiving nudge combined with the earnest thrashing of paddles acts as an early morning wake-up call.

 

Sadar Ghat's wall of throbbing, grating sounds, scenes of frenzied activity and overwhelming miasma of corrupt odours greet travellers like the collective belches of uninvited guests who failed to make it home after the mother of all house parties.

 

From the rocket's berth an uneasy clambering across the steel decks of other vessels, linked tenuously by wobbly wooden planks, leads to the shore. Stepping carefully, I really don't want to fall in, and doubt anyone would want to pull me out, not even one of the many privateer boatmen plying the Buriganga River. Once ashore, I pass scores of Bangladesh's headliners, those perpetually unstable and unfortunate passenger ferries, the ones that have beaten the odds, lying tied up, strangely passive after disgorging their still warm cargo of humanity.

 

Taking a substantial wooden gangplank to street level I'm coughed up amid a mob of three-wheeler CNGs, baby taxis, bicycle rickshaws, trucks and buses. It's early in the day and already they're mostly nose to tail, going nowhere with a vengeance.

 

'Hey! Look out your money. Look out your money.' From across the road a man in an orange shirt catches my gaze and points to his eye. I look around to see a group of boys suddenly veer off in the same direction. I nod to my unknown guardian and he wiggles his head in the Bengali way.

 

Staying close to the Buriganga, avoiding the street furniture of immense long abandoned engine blocks, even the fragrant organic odour of the water is thankfully soon overtaken by that of fresh fruit. Precipitously piled Tata and Ashok Leyland trucks give little quarter in manoeuvring for position, their engines snort angrily as metal grinds on metal past unwisely parked vehicles - 'Tik asay, Tik asay, Tik, Tik.' (OK, OK etc?) - no one is exchanging insurance details.

 

Cargoes of mangos, grapes, oranges and apples hailing from China, Egypt, India and beyond are carried aloft by sinuous stevedores, adjusting their cushioning headgear between loads.

 

'What's your country?' I stop to answer this most frequently asked question and for once am not immediately surrounded by sixty-plus idly inquisitive souls – everyone is too busy. Eager kamikaze rickshaw wallahs balance yet more produce on their ill-suited steeds before standing high on the pedals and inveigling their way through the jostling traffic.

 

Among all of this, restaurant boys bash out breakfast paratas, skilfully braving scorchingly hot tandoors, tobacco sellers proffer single cigarettes and peripatetic tea wallahs hawk an already strong brew thickly reinforced by sweetened condensed milk and served in espresso-sized cups and saucers.

 

It's apparent that to tour Old Dhaka is to be led by the nose, and as if to emphasise the point, fish is the next olfactory highlight at Swarighat's wholesale market. As with many things in Bangladesh, there's no apparent industrial process here, just hundreds of fishermen, a plethora of small boats and fish from all over Bangladesh. Freshly flapping pink snapper, Indian salmon, grouper and croaker exclusively occupy a muddy square close by the water, their number only slightly exceeding those attempting to buy and sell. Forget gentrified Mediterranean photo opportunity, think WW1 battlefield with fish and you're almost there.

 

Away from the river the sky is ensnared by cables and enclosed by tall crumbling buildings in Shakhari Bazaar. Here, the air fills with incense and the scent of religion seamlessly replaces that of fish. Old Dhaka's Hindu Street denies the presence of an Islamic state. Colourful posters of multi-limbed gods adorn grubby walls, equally colourful women draw water from streetside pumps. A spaced out sadu opens up a temple for business and then returns to his recumbent musings while a diminutive street character sporting full leather flying helmet briefs his wingman on the day's mission.

 

Elsewhere, those more worldly are intent on crafting conche shell bracelets, harmoniums and tabla sets while paan vendors do their best to become the Willie Wonker of the beetel nut chewing business. Stopping is safer than wandering, the headline 'Ogling Tourist in Fatal Rickshaw Ricochet' is never far from reality. Indeed, Hindu Street's corpuscular stream of bicycle rickshaws though occasionally slowed is never arrested.

 

What keeps all these wheels in motion becomes apparent in the well-named Bicycle Street, just remember this is Old Dhaka and luminous lycra isn't yet de jure among the city's peddlers. If you can't find that unobtainable, irreplaceable wheelie widget in Bicycle Street then you probably don't need it. However, despite the hand to mouth economics of rickshaw pulling, here too there's scope for self-expression, manifest in the alarmingly gaudy metal side panels and seat materials sold to pimp up the average three-wheeled road warrior.

 

Fortified by Haji Ali's substantial portions of biriani, the best in Dhaka and uniquely served in bowls of pinned dry leaves, a few moments for calm contemplative digestion are required. Remarkably, the two or so acres of tranquillity surrounding Old Dhaka's 400-year-old Armenian church in Armanitola are at hand. A little shouting and a bit more banging rouses the on site custodian and hubbub of the street is locked out behind wrought iron gates.

 

Once at the head of Bengali society through their pre-eminence in the jute trade, Bangladesh's Armenians are now quite literally a minority of one. Inside, an English-speaking woman announces herself to be Acer 'as in the plant' and puts the lights on. 'You want to worship?' I suck down some more incense, and in a temporarily theistic moment, light a candle. I ask about the congregation. 'Some people of Armenia visit, anyone can come along. There's just one Armenian here now, Mr Martin. He keeps it going.'

 

The church is in need of some extreme housekeeping, despite its long history it's future is far from certain. Walking through centuries-old gravestones recording death at the hands of pirates it's easy to empathise with those on a sinking ship.

 

In the cause of equal opportunities, the Star Mosque is my final call in Old Dhaka, so called through its repeated use of a star motif in both painted and ceramic decoration. Again wrought iron gates keep inner calm contained, though here the presence of overflow carpets to accommodate an expansive al fresco congregation indicate that the Star Mosque lies on the A road to absolution.

 

Within, beyond stylised Arabic calligraphy, the usual mihrab and minbar are in evidence but this time accompanied by convenient easy-wipe ceramic surfaces bizarrely featuring Mount Fuji – a gift from Japan apparently. Leaving, resting against the railings while struggling with my many laced boots, a chorus of youths asks 'Are you Muslim?' I admit, not exactly, but after brief expressions of puzzlement I needn't have worried, the next question leads to very familiar ground, 'What's your country..?'

 

Old Dhaka is an honest exception to the global trend for 'old towns' to become parodies of themselves, losing authenticity through self-indulgent submersion in nostalgia. Here, those searching for a reassuring trail of interpretive signs repeating tired clichés in seven languages had better be in for the long haul.

 

Unleashing a sensory maelstrom, Old Dhaka is not for the faint hearted, sharing little in common with quaint, car-free, world heritage designates, but for an 'old town' experience like no other it's streets ahead.

 

Need to know

 

Nick Redmayne travelled with The Guide Tours, Bangladesh's leading tailor-made and small group operator

 

Getting there: Emirates (Tel: 0844 800 2777) operates to Dhaka from six UK airports with return fares commencing at £532 including taxes

 

Reading: Bangladesh (www.bradtguides.com; due 2009)

 

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