Banger Race to Ad-Din

The disorientation I felt on leaving Zia Airport abated somewhat on the way to Ad-Din. Life was no less frantic or intrusive, but I was cocooned in the familiar surroundings of car.

Travelling by road in Dhaka can be a terrifying, exhilarating or frustrating experience, and on most occasions a combination of all three. Rickshaws, baby taxis, cars, buses and trucks compete for space where there isn’t any to be had. There is no lane discipline whatsoever. If your vehicle is small enough to fit into a gap then you can swerve from one side of the road to the other at break neck speed. If the space is too small then a little honking will make it bigger.

As far I understand it, using your horn means one of two things: I’m here, not going anywhere, so don’t hit me, or I’m here, going over there, so you’d best get out of my way. And as you can see, those two options are clearly not compatible, which explains why almost every vehicle has some kind of dent in it.

I think our driver considered Mark and my western sensibilities by keeping the ride just the right side of exhilarating. Occasionally he strayed into terrifying, but there are situations in life that only a crazy person can survive in one piece, like when a truck and bus simultaneously decide to move into a space in the middle lane that you happen to be occupying. The frequent traffic jams – it took about 45 minutes to travel the 4-5 kilometres to Ad-din hospital – are the frustrating part, but they serve a useful purpose. They allow you a little time to collect your nerves and give the drivers opportunities to test their horns.

Welcome to Dhaka

Mark and I had a smooth trip to Dhaka; getting through customs proved another matter. His visa was marked ‘Date of Expiry: 28-01-2006’, not 2007 as it should have been. The custom’s official was the first person to spot the mistake. He took a deep look at Mark, cogitated for a while and called for a more experienced colleague. 

I hoped to see an avuncular official with a kind smile and gentle eyes. Instead a stern faced man, about 5’8” with orderly demeanour and penetrating eyes, came across from the other side of the hall. Peering over his gold rimmed glasses he barked a few questions at Mark. Barely waiting for an answer he barked again, this time in Bengali into his walkie-talkie. After a nervous wait of 5 minutes a response came back over the radio. He fixed us with his glare: 

‘This is clearly ridiculous, very ridiculous.’

‘Ah, yes… Well, you see… this is what happened’ replied Mark.

‘They have made a stupid mistake. Welcome to Bangladesh. Please have your visa corrected when you return to England.’ 

With that he waved us through customs to collect and bags and on into the heat and dust of Dhaka. 

Stepping out of the air-conditioned comfort of Dhaka’s Zia Airport a wall of air, at once dense, hot, humid and thick with pollution, hits you. It rather like being smacked in the face with a wet jock strap –  or so Mark tells me. After this initial blow the sights and sounds of Dhaka begin to assert themselves. You find yourself in what appears to be a large holding cell fenced off on 3 sides with mesh and walls, with the fourth side being provided by the airport itself. Policemen guard the exits as crowds throng about pushing onto the fences. Some are begging, others are hustling, all are shouting and reaching out to you. The mass of activity numbs the brain. As an observer there is no way to absorb it all that doesn’t end in paralysis. The best option is join the great flow of life. Get moving! 

Dr Rezaul Haque, our host for the next 3 months at Ad-din hospital, emerged as our saviour from the crowd. In a few minutes we were making our way along Airport Road still trying to get our bearings in a taxi ride that was just as disorientating as Zia Airport.