War Stories
Warning: not for the faint of heart (that means you, Granny!)
Everyone needs a few good war stories, and frankly, for all the years I have spent living in crazy places I have far too few grizzly tales to show for it. Fortunately, however, a pair of fine Bangladeshi gentlemen were kind enough to help me rectify this situation last night...
I got mugged. Yeah, I know what you're saying "Everybody gets mugged, big deal Wheaton!" But I have to say, this one was pretty good.
So, I went to the Canadian Club last night for the last party before they move to a new location, where concrete and modernity will replace the hundred year old trees and run-down coziness of their current location. After I wore myself out on the dance floor I decided to head home - after all, I did have to get up at 6am the next morning to get a bus up north to visit a friend. I had tried 3 times now to get up to see him, but each time my plans had been foiled. And this was my last chance, since he will be leaving Bangladesh in a week.
I bid farewell to everyone at the club, declined a couple of offers for rides home because I didn't want to bother anyone, and hopped on a rickshaw at 11:30pm. Not the brightest of ideas, admittedly, but what's the worst that could happen?
Well, for starters, I could be the victim of a drive-by purse-snatching. But that wouldn't be so bad, would it...?
Well, it wouldn't be so bad if they had simply grabbed the bag and driven off. But that wouldn't be any fun! What would be really fun is if my arm got caught up in my purse, I got pulled off the rickshaw and dragged along beside the car for what felt like miles.
Yes, last night at 11:30pm I was being dragged along Gulshan Ave, the Champs Elysee of Dhaka, emitting screams that I never thought myself capable of. I'm not sure why my arm remained attached to my bag for so long: most likely a combination of being determined not to let go and a genuine entanglement in the straps. Nor do I have any idea how long I was dragged along for, but it was long enough to register at least two thoughts:
1) "Hmmm. I'm being dragged along Gulshan Avenue by a moving vehicle. This is pretty scary."
2) "I can't believe these people are dragging me along the pavement all for 200 taka, a shitty mobile phone and a copy of Brick Lane. Bastards!"
Perhaps the latter is the most frightening thought of all. It's shocking to realize how little your life can mean to a stranger...
Eventually I either let go or became untangled. I felt the tire run over my fingers as it drove off, but they don't hurt that much today, so perhaps it was just the edge of it (or my imagination). I lay there crying for a brief moment as my stunned rickshaw walla came over to me, and then I hopped up and told him to take me to a friend's house. At that moment a police van passed going the other direction and he insisted on going over to flag them down.
I didn't have high hopes for the police, but even the meager hopes I had were not met. His first question? "Is there a problem?" I'm not exactly sure how I looked at that moment, but I would have thought the huge scrapes on my arm, the ripped shirt and the tears would have been a sufficient indicator. After the huge crowd of men that had gathered all relayed the sequence of events, with much excitement, he looked at me and said "Well, did you get the license plate number?" "Oh yes, of course, Officer! As I lay there being dragged along the pavement I pulled out a pen and paper so that when I was finally left lying in the road I could look up and write down the Bangla numbers on the license plate of a car driving 50km an hour." I told him not to worry about it, and he emphasized that "Unfortunately, without the license plate number, there's really not much we can do," and added "but if you HAD got the license plate number, then we could do something." I can't blame him for not being able to do anything, but I didn't appreciate his lack of sympathy or the ephasis on how this was somehow all my fault...
At the end of the day I was pretty damn lucky. Had there been other cars around I would have undoubtedly been run over. Had the scarf around my neck got caught in the wheel I could have been strangled. The possibilities are endless. As it is, I have only a few bad scrapes and bruises, a sprained wrist, and a little trauma to deal with.
But hey, I did give a lot of Bangladeshi hanging around Gulshan Ave last night a great story to tell. And I finally have a good war story of mine own. One for the memoirs, as they say.
Everyone needs a few good war stories, and frankly, for all the years I have spent living in crazy places I have far too few grizzly tales to show for it. Fortunately, however, a pair of fine Bangladeshi gentlemen were kind enough to help me rectify this situation last night...
I got mugged. Yeah, I know what you're saying "Everybody gets mugged, big deal Wheaton!" But I have to say, this one was pretty good.
So, I went to the Canadian Club last night for the last party before they move to a new location, where concrete and modernity will replace the hundred year old trees and run-down coziness of their current location. After I wore myself out on the dance floor I decided to head home - after all, I did have to get up at 6am the next morning to get a bus up north to visit a friend. I had tried 3 times now to get up to see him, but each time my plans had been foiled. And this was my last chance, since he will be leaving Bangladesh in a week.
I bid farewell to everyone at the club, declined a couple of offers for rides home because I didn't want to bother anyone, and hopped on a rickshaw at 11:30pm. Not the brightest of ideas, admittedly, but what's the worst that could happen?
Well, for starters, I could be the victim of a drive-by purse-snatching. But that wouldn't be so bad, would it...?
Well, it wouldn't be so bad if they had simply grabbed the bag and driven off. But that wouldn't be any fun! What would be really fun is if my arm got caught up in my purse, I got pulled off the rickshaw and dragged along beside the car for what felt like miles.
Yes, last night at 11:30pm I was being dragged along Gulshan Ave, the Champs Elysee of Dhaka, emitting screams that I never thought myself capable of. I'm not sure why my arm remained attached to my bag for so long: most likely a combination of being determined not to let go and a genuine entanglement in the straps. Nor do I have any idea how long I was dragged along for, but it was long enough to register at least two thoughts:
1) "Hmmm. I'm being dragged along Gulshan Avenue by a moving vehicle. This is pretty scary."
2) "I can't believe these people are dragging me along the pavement all for 200 taka, a shitty mobile phone and a copy of Brick Lane. Bastards!"
Perhaps the latter is the most frightening thought of all. It's shocking to realize how little your life can mean to a stranger...
Eventually I either let go or became untangled. I felt the tire run over my fingers as it drove off, but they don't hurt that much today, so perhaps it was just the edge of it (or my imagination). I lay there crying for a brief moment as my stunned rickshaw walla came over to me, and then I hopped up and told him to take me to a friend's house. At that moment a police van passed going the other direction and he insisted on going over to flag them down.
I didn't have high hopes for the police, but even the meager hopes I had were not met. His first question? "Is there a problem?" I'm not exactly sure how I looked at that moment, but I would have thought the huge scrapes on my arm, the ripped shirt and the tears would have been a sufficient indicator. After the huge crowd of men that had gathered all relayed the sequence of events, with much excitement, he looked at me and said "Well, did you get the license plate number?" "Oh yes, of course, Officer! As I lay there being dragged along the pavement I pulled out a pen and paper so that when I was finally left lying in the road I could look up and write down the Bangla numbers on the license plate of a car driving 50km an hour." I told him not to worry about it, and he emphasized that "Unfortunately, without the license plate number, there's really not much we can do," and added "but if you HAD got the license plate number, then we could do something." I can't blame him for not being able to do anything, but I didn't appreciate his lack of sympathy or the ephasis on how this was somehow all my fault...
At the end of the day I was pretty damn lucky. Had there been other cars around I would have undoubtedly been run over. Had the scarf around my neck got caught in the wheel I could have been strangled. The possibilities are endless. As it is, I have only a few bad scrapes and bruises, a sprained wrist, and a little trauma to deal with.
But hey, I did give a lot of Bangladeshi hanging around Gulshan Ave last night a great story to tell. And I finally have a good war story of mine own. One for the memoirs, as they say.
posted by ash at 9:44 AM
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