What happens when you let me loose in Dhaka?!

Dhaka is a 5 day city, which is a pretty big deal.
But the real reason I’m in Bangladesh catches up to me and says, “Hey Alisa, quit having fun. We’ve got work to do.” I shrug my shoulders and saunter down the road of responsibility.

Our driver picked us up at 9am after a breakfast of Nescafe, white bread toast, and fresh pineapples. He flew down the street barely avoiding collisions left and right. There are no lanes. We swerved into oncoming traffic and back again. I could see the beads of sweat on the rickshaw divers’ foreheads; we were that close to them.

We parked at the bEARN office and Rustin and I sat in the air conditioning with Gulandaz and our little cups of sweet tea for some awkward small talk. Then we were escorted upstairs, where we were presented with a spectacular view of Dhaka. They led us into a room full of chatting students and their parents and sat us at the table facing them. We were addressed as honorary guests and they had us give out certificates and baseball caps. The students snapped photos like the paparazzi and I was convinced that this was some kind of press conference.

After assuring a few parents that we’d take good care of their children, we were ushered downstairs for a meeting with two board members. They talked about iEARN logistics and funding, which I am not really a part of. I just daydreamed about all the things I’d rather be doing and eavesdropped a bit.

Finally we were allowed to leave after some apricot curd (doi) and a tour around the office. We lounged in our rooms to beat the mid afternoon sun and subsequent monsoon. Then it was go go go go go go!

The guy at the gate of the guesthouse told us we’d need a rickshaw to get to the New Market, but we decided to walk. And it was a good thing too because there was some major rickshaw traffic heading onto the main street. I’m glad we weren’t stuck in it!


We weaved among the crowds, dodged shop owners, danced through people’s stares, tiptoed over the sidewalk’s broken cement, breathed in the aromas of fried dough, my eyes tried to take in all of the colors and movement.

Before we could say “pass the guavas and live chickens”, we found ourselves in the thick of it all. Wall-to-wall people. We turned left into a covered walkway lined with clothing shops. I could hardly hear the vendors talking to us above all the noise. At the end of the corridor, the path opened up to the street. We stood there for a moment, in awe of what we see.


Apartment buildings of all colors rise above the street. People push by and some stop to stare at us. We try to take it all in, but the amount of time that would require is unfathomable. All I can see are bobbing heads in all directions. By this time, we’ve been stationary enough to have drawn a small, but growing, crowd. I whisper to Rustin that we should keep moving. So we immerse ourselves in the mass of bobbing heads. What an indescribable experience, rivaled only by NYC subways during rush hour.



We stopped at a food vendor and had some lunch. They WAY overcharged us, of course. But we were full, so we let it go. More wandering ensued.





We passed more clothing shops displaying brightly colored cloths than I’ve ever seen. Then we moved on to my favorite part of the market. Food. We were introduced to colorful fruits and people. I hardly recognized half of the produce. I wanted to try them all, but wasn’t in the mood to be ripped off. Chickens. Jack fruit. Eggs. Potatoes. Spices.







I whipped out my camera to sneak a few pictures, but quickly figured out that I didn’t need to use discretion. Children started flooding out of the woodworks at the chance to have their photo taken. But not just kids, adults thanked us for taking their picture. I thanked them back.




We found ourselves on another street full of rickshaws and pedestrians. Men sold sugar cane juice and fried dough. We walked over the unpaved walkways, drawing stares from almost everyone. We attempted to get ourselves back to the hotel via side streets and found ourselves heading the wrong way on a very narrow road. Cars and rickshaws squeaked by. I found myself jumping over open sewers to get out of their way. Then we were in a park were children played cricket and chased each other on bicycles. Another right turn led us to a significantly poorer neighborhood that reminded me of a Palestinian refugee camp and Rustin of certain should-be-avoided neighborhoods in Guyana. I decided that we’d better find our way back to the hotel before dark… you know, just in case.

So I bit my tongue and backtracked. It wasn’t hard to find our way back to the market, the main street, and back to the hotel. The streets were still jam packed with rickshaws, unhappy honking cars, weaving pedestrians, and overwhelmed apathetic traffic guards. We were moving faster than the traffic was. The same street that was jam packed with rickshaw traffic that morning, was still just as jammed.

Back at the hotel, I stuffed my ears with plugs to drown out the perpetual ringing of rickshaw bells, honking of cars, and the sounds of a busy city that had shown us a great tiring day.

But as great as yesterday was… just wait until you hear what we were up to today!