Dhaka in Heat

Bangladesh in May steams in heat. It's a cinch to teach hot yoga. You just shut off the fans in the Black Belt Academy studio, and voila, instant humidity, and a constant temperature of oh, 90 degrees (32 C). I didn't have as many students as I did last year, but it's easier and more fun with fewer people in class. As I discovered last year, I love watching different bodies approach and gradually master the poses. It's the only kind of teaching I've ever enjoyed, and I've taught a lot, from business to writing to test taking. It's too bad it's so expensive to get certified to teach yoga in the States ($4000-$12000, depending on the style), plus it's a hustle finding work. Yogis in NYC are a lithe dime a dozen, so it's not a good way to make money. BUT if I ever decide to settle in Bangladesh, I know how I'll be making a living.

One of the highlights of my month in Dhaka was when my childhood friend, Madhurima (who used to live in Nigeria as well) came to visit from India. Mads is hands down one of the sweetest loveliest people I know, a joy to be with. And I finally got the chance to (partially) return the enormous favour of her hospitality whenever I've visited her hometown of Kolkata.

Unfortunately, we spent way too much time in the hot boxes that are Dhaka's CNGs (three wheeled compressed-natural-gas-powered taxis). Rampant theft and assault have resulted in the CNGs being caged, literally. Green metal grids block both sides of the vehicle, making the whole experience hotter and more claustrophobic. The city traffic worsens every year, and we must have spent between 2-4 hours a day boiling away in jam after jam. A trip between the neighbourhoods of Dhanmondi and Mohakhali could take less than 10 minutes after midnight - or 5 to 10 times as long during the day. And travelling between Old Dhaka and anywhere else? Forget about it. Two traumatic hours, minimum.

But I'm hoping that Mads will focus on some of the nicer parts of her visit to Bangladesh. Such as when we couldn't find a CNG near Dhaka University (thank god), and instead took a bicycle rickshaw to Old Dhaka. One should never travel that route any other way. First, it's breezy. Second, you can see! And what a fantabulous sight Old Dhaka is from the vantage point of an open rickshaw.

This was my second trip to Old Dhaka in less than a week. I would ordinarily not subject myself so, but my intense and beautiful ex-boyfriend, Ram, was shooting a film in Bangladesh, and had only one measly day off before he returned to Bombay. So we spent part of the day on a boat ride on the Buriganga River in Old Dhaka. The ride was hot as hell, with dark smelly waters, but as Ram noted, keenly romantic, and a visual treat. I heart boat rides.

Mads and I also went sari shopping in Hawkers Market, where she found an ashes of roses Jamdani which she fell in love with (Mads - I'm still waiting for a photo of you wearing said sari, as is my mom). When we exited the market, we found that the sky had opened and flooded the streets. Cue yet another CNG ride, but this time in the glittering cool of nighttime rain washed Dhaka.

It was with Mads and teh awesome Tarfia that I discovered the new Bongo Bazar. The original landmark market burned down a few years ago, and now the place to fulfill all (and I mean all) your wardrobe needs is Dhaka College'r Oolta Dige (literally, "Opposite Dhaka College"). If you can bear tropical jungle conditions, crowds of determined shoppers, no fitting rooms, and clothes with any number of defects, then you're set. Not for nothing is Bangladesh one of the world's major suppliers of garments. Look carefully for misplaced pockets and missing text (ONGE OB Squarepants, anyone?), and don't pay more than 70-100 taka for anything ($1-$1.25). [Note: If you can't take the heat, then Artisan in Banani is a great alternative. Their prices are twice as much and there isn't as big a selection, but they have fitting rooms (yay!) and AC (double yay!).]

My fabulous cousin, Sabbir, accompanied Mads and me on a day trip to Tangail, about three hours from Dhaka. There we were treated by the wonderful nonprofit UBINIG to yummy food, a tour of the local seed bank, a meeting with master Jacquard weaver, Kartik Bashak, a look at the silver jewelry shops, and of course Tangail sari shops (thank you Sabbir for my boudoir red Tangail sari skirt).

But the best part (for me anyway) was our long bike ride through the rice paddies of rural Bangladesh. I can still hear the man who sang as he worked in the field, his voice a bell in the clear bright air. Our bike ride ended at the ornate and beautiful 17th century Atia Mosque, in the middle of wondrous nowhere.

Dhaka has always proved a feeding frenzy for me. I eat myself into a stupor every time I visit my various families: Hasina Fupu and her family in Uttara, Shirazi Bhai and family in Dhanmondi, and everyone's favourite chef, Mala Mami in Shantinagar (see her send off dinner for me to the right). YUM.

Plus I scarfed momos at Hot Hut, fuchkas at Prabarthana (see left), margaritas at the American Club, biryani in Old Dhaka, steak in Gulshan, and tons of hilsa and vegetable mashes and shutki at Neeta's.

Speaking of Neeta, I'll end with my curly girl who hosted me for the month of May, and it was to celebrate her bash of a 45th birthday that I even considered this last gypsy turn (6 years come to an end). She's one of my favourite people in the world, outrageous, outspoken, stylish, warm, and generous, and a kick ass mom to two lovely girls. Her wardrobe is incredible and varied, and her shoe collection even more impressive, but it's our midnight to dawn conversations that I heart (and miss) the most. She's not on Facebook, erratic on email, and hard to pin down even in person, unless you're living in her house. I don't know when I'll be back in Bangladesh, but it'll be for her that I go. And of course, the myriad pleasures of my adopted/inherited home.