Dip in Dhaka

The week that I left Porto, after a wonderful six-month experience, I remember it rained trucks full of buckets. A friend told me jokingly that the city was crying because I was leaving. But I had such an extraordinary time there - growing, making new friends, learning about myself, flexing my strength in discovering things on my own - that I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, the city would miss me just a smidge. Years later, I don't want to go back for a visit, because the city has such wonderful memories for me, and I don't want to ruin them with older and perhaps less romantic eyes.

 

This past week in Dhaka - the last few days of my 2.5 month stint in B'desh - it's just been a constant torrential deluge...but I know this city is not crying for me. Dhaka is an intriguing city. It's not that it's a hard city like New York or Delhi. Nor is it a warm city like Vancouver or Cape Town. The Lonely Planet describes Dhaka as a "giant whirlpool that sucks in anything and anyone foolish enough to come within its furious grasp". But I don't think it's that either. Dhaka is a city with a big hearty, betel-paan stained smile. If you can look past the bad dental work, you can plainly see that it's a beaming, genuine smile. It might be laughing at you, or with you, or a bit of both, but at least it's heartfelt. And for a city that has been fighting an uphill battle against poverty, over population and climate change for decades, you got to have respect for the resilience of that smile.

 

So, alas, Dhaka isn't crying for me…it's just giving itself a good rinse in preparation for the next migrant that might dip her toe in the waters.