I pride myself on my ability to sleep on road trips, but today I’m wide awake. It has nothing to do with the skills of my driver, Hridoy, who navigated us out of Dhaka this morning. The reason I can’t fall asleep is the incessant honking that has rattled my brain nonstop since arriving in Bangladesh the day before. Even here, far beyond the hum of Dhaka, the noise continues without reason or rhythm. Even sleep offered no escape.
I’d arrived in Dhaka in the early afternoon on a flight from New Delhi, no bastion of calm, but nothing compared to the chaos of Dhaka. Bangladesh is a country I’ve wanted to visit for a long time, and I was anxious to make the most of my time. After quickly dropping my bags at the hotel, my guide Fahad wedged us both into a rickshaw bound for the center of the Old City.
Our rickshaw driver maneuvered us through the streetscape, until finally he could bring us no farther. Hopping out, we proceeded on foot through Old Dhaka. Fahad led the way as I struggled to keep up. I kept wandering dangerously off course, only for Fahad to yank me back seconds before I was struck by a motorcycle or rickshaw.
Our first stop was Shyambazar, the center of Dhaka’s spice, garlic, and especially onion trade. I’d never seen so many onions in one place. We passed warehouse after warehouse brimming with sacks of onions. The air was heavy with spice and it tickled the back of my throat. In the fading light, the brightly lit warehouses, open to the street, appeared like a theater stage. Observing the merchants inside felt voyeuristic, yet I couldn’t turn away. Their faces suggested an intensity I hadn’t previously associated with onions.
But there was more to see. Fahad led me through the small lanes and alleyways of the market down to the steeply sloped banks of the Buriganga River. Dozens of small boats, called sampans, crowded the shore, their captains deftly pushing aside the water hyacinths that clogged the waterway. We boarded one of the small crafts and made our way across the wide, gunmetal gray river.
On the opposite shore, men were busy breaking apart massive old ships – removing and reusing anything of value. As the sun set, their blow torches glowed brightly against the dark, rusting hulls. I was left with the sense that the work of these men would continue long after I returned to my hotel.
We had an early start the next day, so after a short wander along the shore Fahad let me know it was time to return. We headed to the boat launch and dove back into the human current that would carry us back to the hotel.
Back on our road trip outside the city, we arrived at the Hatikumrul Navaratna Hindu Temple. We waited around for a while for a man with a key to materialize, a routine I’ve become familiar with on this journey around the world.
The finely restored temple was beautiful, but small enough to take in within a few minutes. I quickly realized that the temple visit was really a pretense to visit the village itself, a small settlement of well-kept homes and emerald-green rice paddies, home to both Hindus and Muslims.
Fahad had been there many times before and was greeted warmly everywhere we went. Everyone we encountered seemed engaged in some sort of task or another. A smiling man asked to have his picture taken with the dozen brooms he’d made, while a less gregarious woman shared homemade yogurt, made fresh that morning and handed to me in a small terracotta jar.
I would have liked to stay longer, wandering the narrow dirt paths between the rice paddies, but Fahad had planned an ambitious day, so we climbed back into the car and moved on.
The fading grandeur of Baliati Palace, a complex of seven decaying palaces that had once belonged to a salt baron, is a reminder of a time when Bengal was among the richest places on earth. To my eye, the elaborate buildings were absurdly ornate, with imposing Corinthian columns, elaborate wrought iron, and crudely carved cherubs.
Looking at the map, I noticed that we would be passing close to the National Martyrs’ Monument and asked Fahad if we could stop along the way. He said we’d be lucky to arrive before closing time, but that we would try.
We arrived before it should have been closed, but the gate had already been shut. A small group of people stood gathered at the entrance hoping to get in, their entreaties politely dismissed by the guard. Having found myself in similar situations in the past, I quickly resigned myself to missing out, but Fahad wasn’t ready to give up.
Telling the guard that I’d come a long way, he gently scolded him that it would be inhospitable to deny me the chance to see the memorial. The guard countered that it would be unfair to let me in when so many others were being turned away. At this, one of the men hoping to enter, said that he would take no offense to letting me, a traveler, proceed. With that, the gate was opened for us.
The solitude of the place was what struck me first, a quirk of the circumstances of our visit. Had we arrived earlier, we would have been two among a multitude. Instead, we were two of only a handful. In a country as flat as Bangladesh, the height of the memorial felt more imposing than it actually was. The restraint of its design was surprising.
My favorite moment, though, came while we were heading back to the car, when we came across two young boys trying to fly a kite. There wasn’t much wind, and their efforts met with little success. Fahad called them over, took the kite, and sent it aloft.
Back in Dhaka, there were a few more places that Fahad wanted me to see. First was the famous Star Mosque or Tara Masjid which was much smaller inside than I’d expected. Its size felt inadequate for what is considered to be one of the country’s main mosques. I was surprised when Fahad told me that it was favored among the capital’s elite for Friday prayers.
Inside the walls and ceiling were covered in elaborate mosaics created from broken Japanese and English porcelain tiles. There were lots of stars of course, but also flowers and geometric designs. Art deco borders and relief tiles depicting Mount Fuji completed the aesthetic. It was exactly the sort of over the top design I’d come to expect in Bangladesh.
Nearby, the Armenian Church is far more austere. The 18th century sanctuary serves the community of Armenian traders who have lived in Dhaka since the 1700s. The entirety of the church yard has become a final resting place for the congregants. Marble tomb stones, some carved with the Armenian script, serve as pavers. I was drawn to a small statue of a young maiden standing on a pillar near the walls of the churchyard. Based on the inscription the statue is from the 1870s and was erected by a grieving widow in memory of her beloved husband. She’s missing her right arm but has managed to remain standing through wars, revolutions, and cyclones; one woman’s declaration of love.
Our final stop, Karwan Bazar was crowded beyond anything I’d experienced in Dhaka. Every inch of the market was in motion. Men scaled fish and skinned goats. They stacked watermelons and unloaded cabbages. They shouted. They bargained.
I kept one eye focused on the ground beneath me and the other on the scene around me. There were so many people that I struggled to stay near Fahad. It was loud – honking and beeping, and yelling in Bangla. I dodged between rickshaws and stepped confidently over murky puddles. I found myself swerving and contorting through the crowd. Fahad looked back and I was smiling.
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