Comenzando la aventura...

And before I know it, I’m on the move again. The 11 days in New York since Bangladesh have flown by, and now I find myself in a very familiar setting: the airport.

New York was fantastic, as always, full of amazing people and bizarre goings-on. Take my past weekend for example...
Friday’s thunderstorms delayed both Julia and Christina’s journeys into the city. Tapas at a dimly lit brick walled SoHo restaurant pushed back to 9:30pm. Which was perfect timing because by 11:30pm, they had cleared away the tables to reveal a dance floor full of cocktail-sipping minglers. Christina and I danced as the DJ spun sets from our Spanish past. We left the bar and my feet, unaccustomed to high heals, went barefoot all the way home.

Waffle breakfast and stillsleepy eyes led to a midday nap. Nate, the knight in shining Volvo, pulled up to the Upper West Side. Preparations were underway for my going away potluck. Delicious aromas radiated from the kitchen. Humus with pita and veggies, broccoli rabe and onion quiche, cheesecake bars, salad with a Dijon vinaigrette dressing, and sangria (of the red AND white varieties)! All homemade.

The mix of people at the gathering was eclectic. My elementary school, middle school, high school, and college years were all represented. The night eased into colorful puzzles and we were left with only a few people. Two decisions were made: find Whitney and roofparty.
Both were accomplished to great success. Whitney and Mark met us in Union Square bearing a gift of fantastic vegan cake. I love that girl; it’s been way too long. Catching up ensued and colorful terminology was invented that night.









Roof party was a lot of belligerentstockbrokertypesincollaredshirtsdrinkingbadbeer. So Whitney, Patrick, Nate, the occasional whoaisthatahookah?! person, and myself managed to sit off to the side and have our own awesome party within the lame spectacle around us. The night was crystal clear and the moon was full; time flew by without drawing our attention. Toasted bagel with cream cheese at the Palestinian deli before bed at 5:30am.

Sunday morning brought more bagels. Note: I would eat New York bagels all day everyday if I could. We said goodbye to Nate; see you in Ecuador!

It’s 8pm, I get out of the subway at Union Square to find a huge crowd of kids dancing. Just dancing, no music. Intrigued, I approach to find that everyone has their headphones on and is dancing to their own beat. This, I find out, is a silent rave. People meet in a common area and groove to their own secret music. There are glow sticks involved and every so often the crowd would let out a collective yaaaaaay only then to go back to silent dancing. Patrick and I were ipodless, but danced anyway. The 9-11 conspiracy theorists and other disgruntled folks grabbed the megaphone at the open mic. If you closed your eyes and made a mashup of it all, it went something like this: Your government is responsible for the deaths and deception of millions of people… Yaaaaaaaay!... Anthrax is still a threat… some girl in a banana costume runs by screaming. This is why I love New York.

When we tired of the scene we found Whitney at her job waitressing at an organic vegan restaurant. Everything on the menu looked fantastic and, when the food came to our table, Patrick and I were filled with tastebud ecstacy. It was that good.

We then roamed the streets with a bottle of chardonnay in search of Patrick’s ipod ending up at a hookah bar. Liz meets us and we sit smoking hookah, drinking colorful fruit juices and watching the Olympics. Whitney and Mark bike to find us. And it’s one last hug. But you know what? I’m not at all sad because I know that these friends of mine are friends for life. They are some of the best people I know and there’s no doubt that I’ll be seeing them later. So this is a “see ya later, alligator.”

Errands, packing and cleaning keep me busy on takemymalariapill Monday. My mom and I, vaccinated and excited, hop in a cab to Newark. I’m not surprised when our flight is delayed and multiple babies wail. I write this several thousand feet up in the air from seat number 21C. Panama, brace yourself.


Newest Edition to my Blog:

Food Highlights:
The cleaning out the fridge meal. Lettuce, parsley, tomato, cucumber, carrots, sunflower seeds, whitefish salad, humus, Dijon vinaigrette dressing, goat cheese and pickled beats. It may not sound it, but it was tremendously delicious!

The (Very) Long Journey Home

Last half day in Bangladesh.
Rustin and I sit at the big table in the main community room for our last breakfast. The guesthouse staff are getting ready to bring out our white bread toast, but I peak my head into the kitchen. Despite my tummy’s mumbling, I ask them if we could have some Bangladeshi breakfast. They get really excited at this request and run outside to bring us some. We break our fasts with warm flakey flat bread and curried vegetables.

Sonet arrives at 10:30am. I have my checklist of things to do this morning before our flight: 1. Drive a rickshaw and 2. Eat a guava.

The morning streets are hustling with restless energy of another workday. Sonet hails a rickshaw and explains to the driver my bizarre request to borrow his rickshaw. The driver is willing at no cost and hops in the back. I take my position at the front and hop onto the pedals. Lots to remember: drive on left side of the road, look for oncoming traffic, pedal, don’t crash.

But it’s a lot harder than it looks. Not hard, but different from a bicycle. Once I start turning, it was hard to stop. Within seconds, I found myself veering uncontrollably towards the sidewalk. The driver quickly hops down and prevents a small accident. He insists that I take a seat in the back, but I’m not done yet.



Back on the street, I set off again. Steady steady… No sudden turns or movements. Look for traffic. Pedal. Oh no! Turning turning!! TURNING! Crash. Right into a pole.

Ok. One more shot. Turn the corner and follow the winding riverside road. I almost hit the cameraman, Rustin, causing a small traffic jam. An oncoming car stops to allow me to get back to my side of the road. Meanwhile, EVERYONE stops and stares at the crazy foreigner who can’t drive a rickshaw. I just smile, wave, and continue on my way.

By the third block, I have the swing of it. Going over speed bumps is a breeze. I turn my head in time to see a chicken slaughter on the side of the road. I smile at all the curious looks I’m getting.



When I’ve had enough, I hand the driver 20 taka with an onig onig doh noh baad. He looks like he regrets the whole ordeal. But now I can check that off of my to-do list.


Next up: eat a guava. Apparently you can’t buy just one guava. They come by the kilo. Reluctantly I buy the whole kilo. As I munch down on the first one, it is hard, crunchy and tart. The vendor pulled a fast one and gave me all unripe guavas. I grudgingly check that one off my list.

Gulandaz meets us at the bEARN office. We have some tea and a dessert made with cardamom. We’re supposed to meet the students at the airport at 5:30pm for our 9:30pm flight. That’s 4 hours early! But we get calls as early as 3 saying the students are starting to arrive. So we take one last picture and head out.





On the ride to the airport we take one last look at Dhaka. I tried and failed to get the perfect photo, so you’ll have to settle for this one.




At the airport, we started to meet the students. And their parents. And their extended family.

“Hi, I’m so-and-so’s mother. You will take care of my baby won’t you?”
“Hello, can you remind my son to take his medicine. He forgets sometime. It’s very important.”
“Can you change my daughter’s home stay location? To New York? Or DC?”
“Let my son buy a digital camera in the Dubai airport!”
“What do we write for this line on the custom’s card?”
“What do you mean you’re not in charge of placing the students in their host families’ house?!”
“Remember, his medicine is very important!”
“What’s the weather in Washington DC right now?”
“How long is the flight from Washington DC to Kansas?”
“We are handing our daughter over to you”
“So, you have a lot of responsibility!”

And so it went for two hours. Introductions. Questions. More questions. Irrelevant questions. Questions I didn’t know the answers to. Rhetorical questions. Tearful questions. Persistent questions.

I breathed a sigh of relief when it was time to start checking in. We passed through the first wave of security. I jotted down the attendance, acquainting myself with the students. The overall feeling was excitement, but a little nervous. For many of the students it was their first time in an airplane.

They opened up a check-in counter just for our group. 29 students lined up with their bags. We handed out luggage tags and I entertained them with silly jokes. Rustin and I gathered them for another attendance before customs. One girl was missing. Already?!

Rustin and I got through customs just fine, but then waited for the students, “my kids,” I called them. Finally when we had everyone through customs, we took a quick attendance and we were off. Somehow a sneaky few parents had somehow managed to get inside all the security and customs. They waved to their children through the glass.

Once in the airplane, the students were super excited. They let out a whoop! of excitement as the plane lifted off of the ground. The excitement, however, didn’t die down for the whole flight. They were up and chatting all night. I had to take out my earplugs and remind them to be respectful of the people around them.

We landed in Dubai. There were buses shuttling passengers from the plane to the terminal. Our group got split up. I didn’t know how I would count the students. Rustin arrived on the next shuttle. When we did a headcount we only got 24. Not good enough.

Panicked, I flew past security, picked up some students and took them upstairs past the glittery duty free shops. All in all, I made three trips shuttling students upstairs. Took attendance. They were all there. The students wanted to explore the airport, so we established a meeting place and told them 15 minutes.

However, we misjudged the time because 15 minutes would be cutting it really close to our next flight. So, as they returned from stretching their legs, I led the way and counted the students as they checked in, ushering them onto the plane. I counted all 29, but just in case we had the airline confirm that they all had gotten on.

7.5 hour flight to London. In London, the kids dropped off their bags and I sat down to watch them. The kids dispersed into Heathrow’s Terminal 3. One by one they wandered back asking where they could buy calling cards and complaining that everything was too expensive. Well, welcome to London!

One kid had a different flight than ours into Washington DC. He was nervous, which made me nervous. I gave him my cell phone and told him to turn it on when he got to Washington. We would call him when we arrived and he should wait for us before customs. I walked him way to the end of Terminal 1 for his flight, told him everything would be okay, and then ran back to my Terminal. I must have looked awful suspicious running back and forth through security.

Crisis. The tickets that they had printed for us in Dhaka were no longer good for this flight. We had to get new boarding passes. 30 boarding passes in 30 minutes. The woman working for United Airlines gave me a look that said: you’re kidding, right? Nope. Not kidding.

After a brief panic moment when we couldn't find a student, we found him already on the plane, we were on the final 8 hour stretch. Rustin and I parried and riposted a million questions about immigration forms.

The baggage claim was a mess. One teeny tiny baggage claim for all international flights into Washington DC. I found our luggage in a big mess on the floor. Attendants were shoving bags on the floor because the conveyor belt was too swamped. It took for-e-ver for the students to get through customs. I checked them off the list and told them that they’d meet a YES representative outside.

Crisis. One girl was near tears. She couldn’t find her bag. One girl couldn’t find her passport. She had checked everywhere, but didn’t have it. She told me she must have handed it to another student to hold. And of course, that student had already left. I bulldozed through security with one thing on my mind: find the passport.

I went up to every one of my Bangladeshi students and frantically asked if they knew who had the passport. Everyone said that someone else had it. Some one else said he didn’t have it. I was at my whit’s end. Finally after running all over the aiport, I located the passport. Triumphantly I walked back through the one-way doors back to the baggage claim.

One security guard tries to stop me. She says I can’t go through. I tell her the situation, but she won’t let me go back. I start walking any way and there she is following me demanding I stop. I get into an argument with her and a police officer gets involved. I am responsible for these students and I won’t let a few uniforms stop me from doing my job! Then I see Rustin in the crowd and I wave the passport at him. I am content with letting the security guard feel important now. I hand it over after they promise that they’ll give it to him.

The adrenaline carries me back through the doors. Half of my students are on a bus to American University. Half are with me. I’m tired and relieved not to be the chaperone figure anymore. I am turning over responsibility to the YES coordinators. My job is done.

We jump on the next bus and are whisked off to the University. At the University, I say goodbye to my kids. What a wonderful group! I’m sure it’ll be an awesome journey full of exploration and discovery! I wish I could see them in 9 months on their way home.


I hop on the bus, which will bring me to the metro, which will bring me to Union Station. Soon after I board the train, I’m fast asleep. New York City Penn Station is the last stop and I wipe my eyes and gather my stuff. The subway ride uptown is the last leg of this 40+ hour journey.

Mom is asleep on the couch and I wake her up for a brief hello, then to bed with both of us! What a long day, but it’s good to be home.

Countryside Wanderings

Monday brings meetings with important people for Rustin and exploring for me. I win.

I love going to the outdoor markets and feeling the energy chaos of the third world country. There are sights, smells, and poverty that we don't have in the U.S. It just seems full of life, love and passion. But Sonet made a decent point the other day. If you see the poor side of a country, you should also see the richer side. So I complemented my experiences at the New Market and Old Dhaka, with trips to the mall for my 3-piece outfit.

Taking that same philosophy, I’m ready to complement my city wanderings with countryside adventures. So we head out of Dhaka. Without Gulandaz knowing, of course.

Disclaimer: My description and poor photography do no justice to the beauty and awe of the place. The experiences I had were beyond words and the sights could not be captured in a single diluted frame or countless words. But I do what I can.

Suddenly the city ended. The change was abrupt and unforgiving. How does a big bustling wild clamoring city of 11 million people just end? Like an angry fist on a solid wooden desk. Whaam. Just like that.


And what’s left in its wake are shantytowns made from scrap metal. There are people walking barefoot on the severely potholed road. Some carrying loads on their heads in amazing balancing acts.


Some shading themselves from the hot sun with umbrellas. Some herding water buffalo. There were weaving rickshaws. And water. Great expanses of water right up next to the road. And where there’s water there are all sorts of boats.





Tiny boats.

Huge sand-hauling boats.




Row boats. Fishing boats.

Homemade boats.


And Party boats!


I would have ridden in the party boat if I hadn’t been worried about my safety, economic and otherwise. But the people dancing on the colorful roof to pounding music seemed to be having a good time.




We continued to drive. I would have preferred to walk, but everything was far apart and I would have been mobbed by curious villagers. Pictures taken from car windows are never as good.



We ate our lunch at a restaurant on stilts. Our waiter brought us our chicken tikka and kabab. Mmmm. And some warm bread to scoop it up with.



I’m getting more comfortable using my fingers as eating utensils even though it gets my hands very greasy. Mmm… Finger lickin’ good.





My stomach that day was not feeling particularly good. I think my adventurous eating caught up with me and yanked me down to the ground. Unfortunately for my digestive tract, there’s not much that will stop me from trying new delectable edibles.



So we kept going. On a whim, Sonet and his friend decided we should go to a water park. So we hopped in the car, crossed the bridge, paid a toll and proceeded through little towns until we reached Water Kingdom.


The route was spectacular. My eyes tried to take in all the people and places that whizzed by the window, but they were overwhelmed. Little shops lined the streets. People seemed more laid back than in Dhaka. Rickshaws were still everywhere, but everyone and everything wasn’t as strained and frantic like in the big city.

We passed huge structures that were identified as garment factories. I asked casually if we would be able to take a look inside. I had done some work during high school working on eradicating child labor and labor exploitation. I always wanted to see the factories first-hand. It didn’t surprise me though when they said we’d probably not get in.

I didn’t have a change of clothes for the water park, so I bought a new shirt from the gift shop and rented a pair of shorts. First stop was the wave pool. We ran and jumped and swam! It felt so nice after being in the sun and humidity. After a little bit, the waves turned off and the water started at another section. Apparently they only have one thing running at a time, I guess it’s to save water. So, the crowd of people there went from one station to the next. We went down the water slides. Played in the kiddie area. Then back to the wave pool. After a while the chlorine got into our eyes and we decided to head out.

On the drive back, I just stared out the window. The guys thought I was asleep, but I wanted to take it all in before it passed and I’d never see it again. I took a few videos to help me share the experience with you all. Check it out!




And another one as we approached Dhaka.




We met Rustin at the guesthouse and set off for dinner. We went to Yum Yum and ordered a few things. I think we were all pretty exhausted, but we ate until we couldn’t eat any more. The car kept stalling when we turned it on, so we walked back. Dhaka is still busy at night. Rickshaws lined the darkened street. We passed pedestrians and the military base. We passed the small mall and the Star Hotel. When crossing the street I still look the wrong way and almost get hit by a rickshaw.

That night I’m so tired that I fall asleep with the light on, wake up an hour later to turn it off, and fall back asleep. It's been a long day.

Why did I take a picture of my guesthouse bathroom?

Look a little closer and you'll see why...

That's right. It says Alisa. I share a name with a toilet paper dispenser cover company.

Hai. Onig onig doh noh baad.

2nd Full Day in Dhaka.

Woke up to the monsoon. We met Sonet and the driver outside the hotel at 9am. Jumped right into the traffic mess of Sunday. I still get excited to see the chaos of the Dhaka. It has energy and life unlike any other city I've been too. I try to take a few pictures, but of course they'll only capture one dimension of the moment.



We drove deep into Old Dhaka. The streets narrowed. The ground isn’t paved. Huge puddles form from the rain.


First museum. Closed. Second stop was a salmony pink building. Ahsan Manzil Museum. Political mansion turned museum. We wandered through the hallways looking at portraits of politicians and poked our heads into the guest bedroom. Outside it was still raining, but we took pictures anyway.




Rain splattered in through the open windows, but it was too hot to keep them closed. The traffic was worse than L.A. during rush hour. Bumper to bumper, rickshaw to rickshaw. We didn’t move. I took the opportunity to take pictures.



We drove through the University of Dhaka campus. It was unlike any university campus I had ever visited. No neatly trimmed quads or crisp architecturally matching buildings. Soldiers with old rifles milling around, goats eating things, and children begging everywhere. We stopped at the memorial to martyrs who died protecting Bengali from Pakistan, who wanted to change the language to Urdu. We were flocked at all angles by begging children. I was in an energetic mood due to being cooped up in the van while the world was passing us by. So I shook the outstretched hands of the children. They tried to hide their giggles as they gave me their hands again hoping for a few taka. This time I took their hands and spun them around. I did this again and again. Children are children and love to play. Then they hung onto my arms and I tried to haul them all around the courtyard. When I was done playing I told them charro and reluctantly they left me alone (especially when the armed guard walked toward them).

It was food time. At the Star Hotel we ordered some kachhi biriyani and washed our hands. They gave us forks because we were foreigners, but we whipped out our right hands and dug in. Greasy rice and goat meat are usually things I don’t scoop up with my fingers, but I have to admit, it tasted better that way. We washed our hands before some firni, a rice pudding, which we did eat with a spoon.

After hours in traffic we arrived at the small mall. Exchanged dollars to taka. The Bangladeshi CD I bought cost more than Rustin’s Coldplay CD. I asked the guy at the counter why that would be. He told me frankly in flawless English that mine was authentic, but Rustin’s was pirated. Fair enough, I said, handing over the 60 taka (less than 1 US dollar)



Next, we stopped at a Hindu Temple. I had seen one before. We took off our shoes and wandered around awkwardly taking pictures.


Sonet didn't know too much about Hindu, so we ceased our incessant questioning. The rain pitter pattered outside.



My dad had suggested that I visit Aarong. Aarong is a store that provides local Bangladeshi artists a way to sell their products to a wider consumer base. Sonet was weary of it, saying it would cost more. And it did. And it was a four-story department store. I didn't find what I was looking for.

On our way to a big mall, we stopped for pictures of the Parliament. It was designed by Louis Kahn and every Bangladeshi person that we talked to said that we should visit it. After a few pictures of the geometric building, I almost talked my way into the heavily guarded complex. But the guards were unwilling. They said we needed to get permission from the American Embassy. Sonet gave us an idea of what was happening in Bangladeshi politics. Apparently the political leaders are very corrupt. They get rich by stealing from the people. Recently they were all arrested and are now in jail. But they won’t be there for long. Until they get out though, some army officials have taken office. That’s why security is a little tighter these days.

A little way down the road we stopped to walk through a park. People were out and about and strained their eyes to get a better view of us. In the middle of the park was an elaborate tomb of a former president. Kids ran up behind us, but I had learned my lesson from the memorial courtyard and ignored them.

We pulled up at the big mall. Why? Ok. I think that Bangladeshi women are beautiful and wear the most amazing clothes. They tend to be very brightly colored and flowing. Even before I got here, I was determined to buy some clothes. I was told that what I was after was a 3-piece outfit: pants (or trousers), a shirt and a scarf. We walked into the 8-story mall and I was blown away. Everything was modern. Escalators, shop after shop after shop of clothes, fountains, palm trees. I was overwhelmed with options. At each shop they had hundreds of clothes. The problem was that they sold the 3-piece outfit as a set. You couldn’t mix and match. So, I found that I liked the shirt of one outfit, but didn’t like the pants. After a while, I threw my hands up in defeat.

So we went to the food court for a snack. “All the girls love fushka” Sonet tells me. Bring it on. Out came little crispy shells with some kind of chickpeas-like food inside, covered in onions and chilis. We poured some sauce over it and it was awesome! I could have eaten them all day!!! This girl approves.

With my new found energy, I dive into shopping mode with new vigor. They pull out outfit after outfit and I shake my head at each one. Too glittery, too plain, the colors don’t match, to gaudy, too… But then- I see it. It’s pretty. And blue. I try it on. I like it. Bargain the price down to 1,700 taka. We waste 20 minutes while it is being altered.




In celebration, we go to the smaller mall near our guesthouse to smoke some shesha. Two apple flavor. That pretty much does me in because when I get back to the guesthouse, I fall fast asleep.

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!