Mohakhali: commuting

It takes half an hour to get to work by rickshaw.

The rickshaws in this town are not built for 5’10” ladies – with the canopy up to protect from the rain or the blazing sun or the continual sexual harassment has my head, tilted to fit, smashing into the metal frame.

Hair covered, body completely shrouded, I’m the object of comment, random suggestive noises, and hostile stares from the men as I pass by.

Rain.

And when it rains, it pours. The commute during the monsoon is a delicate art of not drowning. Ricksahw pullers get down in the mud to haul the rickshaw through submerged portions of road.

It rains a lot.

Whilst it has its difficulties, I enjoy this part of my day. Curious children smile shyly, and there seems to be a little more acceptance as the local shop-keepers see me every day.

And when I arrive at work, I’m welcomed by my local colleagues with a cup of tea, and I eat eggs.


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