Daily life in Bangladesh (2)

Daily life in Bangladesh (2)

On Eid-ul-Azha, all Muslims in Bangladesh must slaughter an animal, and the streets of Dhaka are red with blood. On those days, I prefer to stay home after breakfast.

But normally, the streets of Dhaka are a major source of inspiration. In the morning, they look quite different, possibly because I already leave the house around seven, when the city is not completely awake yet. It is still quiet in the streets, apart from the weird expat who is on the way to work in a car. But you can also suddenly see a young boy, clenching in his hands the ends of 12 ropes, with which he is walking his goats. Their black and white legs are entangled and they move nervously to stay away as far as they can from motorized traffic. Close to the garment factories, you see the long rows of colorful saris of the young women, walking in long rows between the dirty dark buildings, on the way the work. Long rows are also waiting for the embassies, but these are men, without exception. They are waiting for the doors to open, to request a visa, often in vain. If you are unlucky, in the evening you still have not entered the building. That is why anybody with a little spending power will hire a “stand-in”, who gives them a call when they are almost at the counter.

In the early morning, a lot of bargaining takes place. Close to the railroad, the vendors are lined up with their mountains of fresh vegetables and fish. Men with heavily loaded baskets on their heads run to and fro. The multi-colored flags in from of the pink “Pan Pacific Sonargaon hotel” give an extra flavor to the street life; in the small street alongside the hotel, which is created with the help of a rope, the rickshaws are speeding to pick up the businessmen, who will be ready to leave for the office soon. Some girls are waiting at the side of the road, keeping an umbrella up against the still bleakly shining sun. The Rapid Action Battalion soldiers, looking grim from the backside of an army truck, are also wearing black sunglasses, not so much against the sun, but to give them cachet and status. The black head cover combined with the sunglasses guarantees fear and awe from the average citizen.

 

In the evening, when I go home, the streets of Dhaka look completely different. There are millions of cars, one giant traffic jam from office to home. Cars are honking and rickshaws are ringing their bells, in a futile effort to bring a bit of movement into these commuters. Nobody can go anywhere and therefore, no movement takes place. Totally different things are on sale now. Boys run between the cars with bottles of water, books and bags of popcorn; on the siBridge without connectionde of the road, somebody is selling car bumpers. The big lights, illuminating the huge billboards, attract extra attention to advertisements for things the average Bangladeshi cannot afford: travels abroad, camera’s, diamonds. The meters high LCD-television on Gulshan 2 circle is showing more modest goods, like spices and rice. As it takes at least 15 minutes to pass the traffic light there, even looking at the Indian woman who with a broad smile is praising her meal is a welcome entertainment.

There are no sidewalks in Dhaka and the pedestrians walk alongside and in between the cars, which move in snail pace in five rows on the three-lane street. At the side of the road, a man is studying the traffic. With his right hand, he holds up his lunghi in a knot, while scratching extensively with his left. Other men are clearing away rubble from the centre strip, risking their lives. Rolls of barbed wire are nailed to wooden poles, to keep the pedestrians on one side of the road and prevent them from crossing. Not that they are impressed, they just step over the wire and continue their way. A gloomy looking policeman at Shit kebaba crossing slaps his hand at the cars as if they were annoying flies. Near the traffic light, disfigured beggars crawl from car to car, hoping to find a good-mooded traveler. Standing in a traffic jam unfortunately normally does not increase the generosity, and the catch is usually meager.

The roads are not always in perfect condition either, if available at all. Three years ago, a bridge was built in Bogra, which is close to Mahastangarh. A small detail was overseen, as the connecting road was missing, from the left side as well as from the right side. After three years of complaining in vain, the local population decided to find an alternative purpose. Now the bridge is the main village center to dry the clothes.

Even if you are very poor, apart from clothes washing, you still need to eat. As rice is the staple food of Bangladesh, you need fuel, because raw rice does not taste well. And fuel is very expensive. But the rural people have found a solution: they wrap cow dung around a stick, and leave it to dry in the sun. It costs nothing and burns well. And they also found a poetical name for this fuel:

"Shit kebab!"

 Bathing the goddess in the Buriganga riverDurga kills all evil with her 10 handsA big yearly event in Bangladesh is Durga Puja, a Hindu religious festival. Puja stands for Hindu religious ritual;  Durga (one of the forms of Devi or Parvati), is a goddess and the symbol of truth and as such, she is killing evil and injustice with ten weapons in just as many hands. On the picture, you can see how she kills the wicked Mahishasura, who, as he is the product of a god doing his thing with a water buffalo, can obviously not be a noble creature.

Durga Puja is actually a five-day festival, but at the last day, it culminates in a public holiday, thus benefiting non-Hindus as well.

In the Dhakeshwari Temple in Dhaka, the struggle between good and evil is celebrated. In the middle of the beautifully dressed and red-dotted crowd, which was watching the statue of the goddess, tables were installed, on which horizontal men were involved in blood donation. Women armed with bowls full of red and yellow paint tried to put dots on us. They could reach Elodie's forehead, but as I was far too big for them, the colored spots ended up in my neck and on my clothes.

Bathing is one of the steps of the Puja ritual. Therefore, in the end of the afternoon, the goddess was taken off her tiger and bathed in the river Buriganga, followed by many worshippers and just as many armed policemen.

Golfing is a popular sports, among expats as well as Bengali retired army staff. But golf balls are expensive...so if the balls land in the water, there is always a Bengali man ready to jump in and dive for the ball, to sell it at a bargain to the poor golfers.

As Bangladesh is a Muslim country, a woman is not supposed to show a bare ankle or shoulder. If a man speaks to her, she lowers her eyes modestly. This makes it difficult for me, to understand the big billboards, which are everywhere in the city. One of them shows a woman, rising up from a sea of blue jeans to just above her breasts, with the promising text:

"Call to uncover more."

But also Aarong has impressive advertisements, even though they only try to sell saris. A lady of more-than-life-size is laying uncomfortably in a rowing boat, with eye makeup and nail polish, wantonly waiting, but it is unclear for what.