A Walker in the Suburbs

Today’s adventure led us through a cattle market. Young goats and old cows, bulls with horns, skinny animals and fattened ones, all in a crazy, crowded, mooing jumble.

Traveling the roads and lanes of southwestern Bangladesh, I see narrow brick lanes disappearing into shady groves of banana and palm trees, and narrow strips of land slicing through the rice paddies.

Every village has one pond or several, and I can’t always tell where the ponds end and the flooding begins. Many Bangladeshis are homeless this season because of the rising water and swollen rivers — and this in a nation already tested by hunger and poverty and climate change.

Flooding is just one more trial, as being wet is just one more condition. The rains fall and the clothes are wet — but they will dry out. Let us hope the country does, too.

In Bangladesh, goats seek out the warmest part of the road and stretch out there, oblivious to the traffic that flows around them. Motorized rickshaws, battered buses, bicycles carrying chickens, beds, you name it — all jockey for position on roads that are buckled and muddy from monsoon rains.

Drivers honk horns whenever they close in on another car — or whenever they feel like it — a cacophony of street noise.

It’s nighttime now in Khulna, but I can still feel the jumble of the road. And I’ll fall asleep to the din of car horns honking.

A sail across canals and oceans of time, a voyage so fantastically different from my normal life that I can hardly describe it. That is the last three days in the Khulna region of Bangladesh.

My photographs will come later, as will more descriptions. I’m writing this post now thanks to the generous loan of a colleague’s iPhone “hot spot.”

But I felt today that I had gone both back and forward in time, seeing a communal past … and a watery future.

Today I flew from Dhaka to Jessore to interview victims of human trafficking. Here are several who became friends through the ordeal and are now growing beans and eggplant together on leased land to pull themselves up from poverty.

Later, we went to a community meeting where a trafficking survivor explained how to safely migrate out of the country. It’s her way of paying forward the kindness shown to her after she was victimized.

“It is my pleasure to help others,” she said, “so they don’t have to suffer as I did.”

These people are no strangers to suffering. They live on rice, endure torrential monsoons — and generally work hard for everything they have. But they offered me their only chair and pressed cold drinks in our hands. As we left, they said one of the only English words they know: “Bye bye”!

Pushing my curtains aside this morning, at first I saw only a gray mist, moisture rising from a thousand rivers and inlets, from the sea that is steadily stealing this country away from the 169 million (about 3,279 people a mile) who live here.

But as the sun rose beyond the haze I could see tall buildings rising, lush rooftop gardens and this view from the breakfast buffet bar.

Almost nine million people live in Dhaka — which means that when it comes to photographing the place, above the fray is the right place to be.

“It’s your Bangladesh welcome, Madame,” said the Winrock driver as we sat in snarled traffic on the way from the airport to my hotel in Dhaka.

I was almost asleep. Now that I’m the hotel, of course, I’m wide awake.  Hoping a few minutes fully stretched out on what looks to be a comfy bed will change that directly.

But there are a lot of thoughts and images jangling around in the brain: motorcycles whisking in and out of the traffic, brightly colored tuk-tuk taxis with wire-cage sides, vendors hawking popcorn and peanuts in the gridlock, and, finally, a quiet hotel down a quiet lane. Ahhhh….

Writing this post from Dulles Airport, a gateway to the world that just happens to be 15 minutes from my house. Out the window: rain, clouds and the gigantic nose of an Airbus. Inside: people from many nations milling around in search of coffee, water and connecting flights.

I’ve been planning this trip for months, and will be preparing even in the hours I have en route. But in truth, nothing can prepare me for the people I’m about to meet, the roads and rivers I’m about to travel, the interviews I’m about to conduct.

In the end all I can expect is … the unexpected. That’s what travel is about.