It is early afternoon. We look absently from the back windows as the driver swerves around several small three wheeled rickshaws and CNG's (containerized natural gas vehicles). The driver maneuvers us down the commercial streets punctuating each shift in direction, or perhaps internal thought, with a loud beep of the car horn. Soon we pass beneath the shadow of a sprawling multistory blue box. The man with me says it is to be south Asia's newest super mall. And if all the right bribes are paid--permitting the partially illegal structure--it will open in 2013. A monolith to consumption, a totem for the economic future of Dhaka.
Quite suddenly the road turns to dirt and we realize we have passed our turn off. Things are changing in this part of the city so rapidly that directions are somewhat dynamic--with new landmarks being constructed almost daily. We pull ahead a bit further until we find a place to turn around. We arrive at an intersection. The narrow streets of a slum stretch off to the left. Newly built high rises supported by bamboo scaffolding loom over us on the right. An old cow and a handful of brown ducks scratch around in the dusty roadbed ahead of us. We turn around. Some children play on swings made of twine and brown paper bags. We drive past them and turn off down the next lane.
The road is lined with high rises in various stages of construction. Dwarfed by these condos are trees in various stages of death and decomposition. Their lower bark has fallen away. They look like skeletons of trees. At the end of the road is a low building with a tin roof and some words spray painted on the outside wall. Inside are 30 smiling children.
A group of second graders show me how well they can count in English--they are well on their way to 100 when their teacher stops them, whispering to me that they will continue onto 1000 if she doesn't stop them now. I admit to them that I can only count to 12 in Bangla. This starts a dozen voices yelling out numbers. With almost no time to repeat what they are saying I quickly mispronounce 34, 35, 36...soon we are all reduced to uncontrolled laughter.
It is now late in the day and the students must go home. They live in slums all over the city, some live on the streets. The school, funded through donations, is where they go for lessons in English and science, a square meal, and a clean place to bath. It is a place that hopes to help the students out of the slums.
The drive back across the city is uneventful. We pass the remains of rivers and ponds--now filled to the top with rubble and soil--the newest high rise building pads. Unfortunately the school also sits on prime real estate--and it will not be long before the landlord forces the teachers and students away. But the new super mall needs nearby customers. Not to mention that broken walls make great fill.
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