Dhaka may be the last Asian capitals where trishaws remain more common and convenient than cars or motorbikes.
Sitting on the back of a trishaw feels like straddling a small colorful raft in furious waters. They are cheerfully adorned and led with strength and perseverance that seems quintessentially Bangladeshi.
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Unlike trishaws, the grilled sides of Dhaka’s auto-rickshaws (called CNGs) provide a false sense of security and separation from the rage of Dhaka’s traffic. It was for this reason that I opted for one on my first day in Dhaka.
I soon learnt however, that CNG drivers are the worst of all. Fuelled by their superiority over cycle rickshaws they keep their hand on the horn and foot on the pedal and aren’t afraid to bump the cyclists that dare cross their path.
The lady in the photo approached my CNG at an intersection, first to beg, and then just to stare and smile as the roar of the traffic dissipated with the change of the lights.
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I gripped the sides of the Trishaw as my driver wove slowly through the port avoiding piles of fruit and vegetables being stacked for delivery around the city. Although the roads are only wide enough for one truck, determined drivers manage to angrily dance their way around one another, edged on by the honking of the drivers stuck behind them.
It didn’t seem to bother my driver, nor did he react to the motorbikes grinding our back wheels to push us forward. I, on the other hand, found myself swinging around to bang on the side of one particularly obnoxious auto rickshaw in a desperate attempt to save my ear drums. The driver cracked a smile, before blasting his horn longer and louder than before: Bangladesh!
Dhaka, 2018.
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