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.
