Rickshaw: Bangla for "crash waiting to happen"?

For all their bells and whistles and gold doo-dads, there are a few things that rickshaws lack. Namely lights and rear view mirrors. Which makes driving down a narrow road full of other rickshaws, cars, women, men, children and goats somewhat of a hazard. I discovered this yesterday after being stuck in a meeting until after dark. I also discovered that it gets dark at 5:30pm. What I have not yet discovered is how on Allah’s green earth I have not yet seen a rickshaw so much as touch another earthly object. To the many sounds of life here – prayers over loudspeaker, people spitting or blowing their nose into the street, rickshaw bells, car horns, the strange words of Bangla – I cannot add the sounds of crashing rickshaws or yelping pedestrians who have just had their toes run over. I cannot even add the slightest clink of a rickshaw brushing another as it careens past in a narrow lane. Even in the moments where the imminence of a crash is beyond doubt and I feel my hands clench into a death grip, the driver somehow manages to swerve out of harm’s way at the last millisecond. I am convinced that, while it appears that anyone – correction, any man – can drive one of these 3-wheeled pieces of art, there must be a secret exam that ensures that anyone without peripheral vision of 360 degrees and night vision is banned from engaging in the extreme sport known as rickshaw driving. I am also convinced that Bangladeshis must be tested at birth for the gene that allows them to nonchalantly wander the streets without getting run over by said rickshaws, and that all those who do not possess such a gene are shipped off to neighbouring rickshaw-free countries.

Don’t get me wrong, the terror is amusing to a certain degree. And I’m sure eventually I will get used to a daily routine where my cup of coffee is followed by 15 minutes spent fearing death on my way to work. And in the meantime I may entertain the pointless question of whether or not I would be better off walking. Not to say I would be worse of, but I think on the streets of Dhaka there is no such thing as better off. The upside is that I am finally at a point in my life where I wake up grateful not to own a car, which, having just come from my hometown where I pined for the freedom of my own gas guzzler, is a nice change.