Chittagong traffic flows all around
me, literally filling every available space. I rest comfortably on the rickshaw
seat, enjoying the privacy and relative coolness provided by the raised
sun-shade. Still, I am conscious that I must keep my foot wedged against the
driver’s seat support, one hand clutching whatever bit of frame I can find, and
my body prepared for a sudden jolt from behind that could knock me from my
perch into the river of vehicles.
A few weeks ago, I read an article
that prompted me to study how Bangla ladies ride in rickshaws. Since then, I try
to sit demurely, with my book-bag held tightly to my lap. I cannot convince
myself to let go my clutch of the rickshaw frame, but I’ve seen a few ladies holding
on – maybe I don’t stand out too much.
Some days I’m able to fool myself
better than others – that perhaps with my sunglasses on and my dark hair, I don’t
stand out as a “bideshi” (foreigner) very much. Maybe the problem today is that
we are inching through traffic. Twice, a passing man has spotted me and called
out “Hello! How are you?” I know this is likely the only English phrase he
knows, and that it is fine for me not to acknowledge him. Still, that it has
even happened tells me that I’m standing out some!
My rickshaw-walla (driver) is
especially polite today. He has agreed to drive me from school to the area
where my home is for 20 taka – about 25 cents US. He is not only careful to avoid
whatever sudden stops and bumps he can, but he also allows other vehicles to
slide into the flow of traffic. This is unusual – most drivers simply squeeze
into any opening, making their own “hole” if they believe the larger vehicle
has time to stop. They could drive for NASCAR!!
One benefit of the “jam” today is
that I am going slow (or sitting still) enough to observe many things:
·
The bare feet of the “van-gari” men – they transport
heavy loads on flatbed carts, one man pulling out in front, and one pushing
from behind.
·
The open-bed truck which is piled only a foot or
so higher than the rails – it must be a heavy load, or they would have piled it
much higher!! Still, one man is perched on top of the bags. It’s probably
cooler than being packed into the narrow truck cab with 3 or 4 other men!
·
I spot a couple in a passing rickshaw, the lady
holding a tiny baby.
·
Another family is riding a rickshaw home from
picking up their daughter from school. Still wearing her uniform, she sits on
her mother’s lap and leans back to take a nap.
·
The policeman who is directing traffic at the
intersection (there are hardly any traffic lights, and people don’t pay
attention to them anyway!) is holding a black umbrella. Ah, yes! Even just a
little shade from the tropical sun makes such a difference.
·
The smell isn’t too awfully bad today – more just
the smell of humanity and traffic than the smell of dried fish that tortured us
yesterday! Except for the trash-truck that passes me. I’ll just hold my breath
for a minute…
I wish I could take video and
pictures of all of this for you, but to pull out my phone or camera would draw
attention, and could potentially make me a target for thieves. So I offer only
these recollections…
As we approach the side-road that
leads to my apartment building, I catch the driver’s attention: “Brother,
please turn right at that road.” The exact Bangla words I say every day…
“That one?” he replies, gesturing
with his chin.
“Yes, that one,” I affirm.
Here, near home, stores and other
landmarks are familiar – the pharmacy shop where one of the guard’s sons works,
the food-stand where that same guard sometimes “hangs out”, the traffic circle
ahead that marks my arrival at home.
“A little to the left, at the blue
gate I’ll get down,” I explain. As the gate comes into view, I add, “That blue
gate.” It always seems to sneak up on them, for some reason. Once he has the
rickshaw stopped, the driver gets off so that I can use his seat as a handhold
while I descend. I hand him a little more than he had asked for; these
guys work hard and I very much appreciate his courteous service. “Dhonobad,” I
thank him as I head in the gate.
One of my favorite guards (OK, they’re
all my favorite!) answers my knock and opens the small door in the much wider
gate for me to enter. I greet him, check on his daughter who has been sick, and
then head upstairs for lunch and to check on my roommate. How odd that this
has become normal life for me…
