by Kathryn Hummel

It’s an unfortunate aspect of my personality, but to become passionate about something I need to view it in terms of side versus side, and inevitably as underdog versus favourite. When it comes to the plight of the rickshaw and their wallahs (pullers) in Dhaka, I immediately think of cars as their mortal enemy.

Living in Dhaka has made me realise what little affection I have for cars.  Here, the automobile is one of the biggest status symbols there is and owners have attitudes to match. The majority of the population, the working class and the homeless, struggle to fuel themselves, let alone a vehicle.

It’s the middle class, who favour slightly dinged-up Toyotas and maritime-themed window sunshades, and the uppers and otherwise rich with their expensive-smelling Mercedes Benzes, that pollute the streets with their honking, exhaust fumes, and utter disregard for road etiquette (I would say ‘utter disregard for road rules’ but I don’t think road rules exist in Bangladesh). While there is an increasing number of private car owners in Dhaka who want to sweep aside the rickshaw for their own convenience, the issue, as it so often is in Bangladesh, is not quite as simple as a war between wheels.

For those who have never seen that brightly-coloured vehicle of everyman, the Bangladeshi rickshaw, the typical model consists of a gearless bicycle at the front, connected by an extended chain to the axel of the carriage, which curves like a boat underneath.  The small bench seat where passengers sit is covered with a hood, much like a pram. Underneath the rickshaw is where the wallah stores most of his earthly possessions—a spare shirt, lungi (sarong) and gumcha (scarf/towel), a plastic sheet to keep the customers dry in rainy weather (the sides are open and subject to weather), he’ll use this himself to nap behind, some tools, cigarettes, and maybe a small wodge of taka.

Rickshaws are moving works of art that make a statement by gathering in packs, outside shopping centres, at stations where wallahs eat their morning meals of dhal bhat (lentils and rice), stop for a cup of cha (tea) and a cigarette, a snooze under the hood of their ride with their feet propped on their bike seat, or you’ll see wallahs squatting on the dusty ground, to fixing tire punctures and oiling chains.

In addition to the artfulness of their social presence, books have been dedicated to rickshaw art – that is, the painted vehicle—which is more than the large, enamel-painted tin panels at the rear of the rickshaw where number plates should be, bright with Dhallywood stars, landscapes, flowers and animals, but pretty much everything that decoration can be attached to: the vinyl on the passenger seat and hood, mudguards and metalwork. Most rickshaws are hired out to wallahs, and the decoration seen is a collaboration of work; creating a moving canvas, if you will, created by multiple artists.

Wallah fashion is also an art that defies the crush of the city. Shirt, lungi and flip-flop are the standard ensemble, with lungis either in a practical checked fabric, flashing against a plain background, or tropical themed with palms and flowers. Shirts are the main pieces, however, and what pieces they are: shirts with glitter, flowers, cityscapes, landscapes, braying horses, quarrelling monkeys, stripes, and geometric print.

In cold weather, these masterpieces are covered by woollen vests, jumpers, or a gold-buttoned blazers, and topped off by a gumcha around the head, neck or waist. Close observation of wallah couture reveals the harsh, day-to-day reality of these valiant garments, and show the thousands of washes and slappings they’ve endured. Some shirts are at the point of wearing thin, some have succumbed and sport holes, some are nicely mended and in monsoon season, some are dotted with black spots of mould.

So who would dream of waging war on the humble rickshaw and the colourful men who ply them? Car owners, traffic police and the World Bank, that’s who. The growing gap between the rich and poor in Bangladesh can be reflected in the increasing use of privately owned vehicles:

In 1998 the data showed that Rickshaws took up 38% of road space while transporting 54% of passengers in Dhaka . The private cars on the other hand, took up 34% of road space while only transporting 9% of the population — Voice of South.org.

Given the insanity of Dhaka’s roads, where motorised and non-motorised vehicles struggle violently for a place of their own in laneless traffic, it is not surprising that cars, bullied on the road by buses and even the tough, boxy little dodgem car that is the CNG (autorickshaw), make rickshaws the scapegoat for Dhaka’s maddening traffic congestion and accidents. One particular morning on Satmasjid Road, my rickshaw wallah had no choice but to veer into the path of a car to avoid a pedestrian who had mistimed his crossing. Sideswiped, the wallah caught most of the car’s weight on his right arm.

We stopped at a rickshaw station, and as my wallah wailed in pain and his brethren tended to his injuries, I demanded to know what the bloody hell the car’s female passenger thought she was doing. Not realising at first who I was shouting at (and, as a friend pointed out, the driver of the car was also to blame, but the woman was a much better symbol), she replied that my rickshaw wallah was a “stupid guy”. With literally pointed finger, I called attention to the fact she was a rich woman in the back of a chauffer-driven car and he was a poor man trying to earn a living, then ended my rant with an acrimonious “Shame on you!” Her only response to this was to tell me that I should be ashamed, and with the pressure of one manicured finger on the button of her electric window, the issue was neatly shesh (ended).

Like car owners and drivers, traffic police view rickshaw wallahs as a menace. In their case, since they rely on control of rickshaw traffic as part of their living, they only try to maim, not kill, wallahs. These men, and you can always spot them because of their white helmets and tight green tunics, enforce traffic management strategies by way of a large wooden stick. They literally beat wallahs, hit rickshaws, slash tyres and in fits of childishness, even let the air out of them. But don’t blame the uncouth element of a developing country for these wicked ways—the World Bank recommended the following methods, which may sound innocuous, to be freely interpreted by the police:

…traffic management measures…will [not] work without discipline on the streets and effective performance by the traffic police…Physical investments to improve traffic management won’t pay off unless they are backed up by enforcement of traffic management and traffic rules —World Bank.org.

In addition, and despite emphasising the importance of accessible non-motorised transport for people living in developing countries, and the benefits of non-motorised transport in the face of climate change, the World Bank nevertheless announced in 2001 that Dhaka’s traffic flow would improve only by:

…banning or separation the movement of non-motorized traffic on major corridors…The needs of the city’s rickshaw pullers must be recognized, but they shouldn’t be allowed to clog the cities’ main arteries. Separate lanes can be installed for them, or, in some places, they may have to be diverted to alternative routes on side roads.
—World Bank.org

This, too, may seem innocuous – an effort to improve vehicle and pedestrian safety, perhaps – but until separate lanes are provided for rickshaws, if separate lanes are ever constructed for rickshaws – the already marginalized wallahs and their relatively ‘lowly’ passengers are forced off major thoroughfares and thus ‘ghettoized’ from the growing affluent ‘mainstream’.

Funded by 180 million of the World Bank’s dollars, the Dhaka Urban Transport Project (DUTP), declared in 2004 a ban of rickshaws and other forms of non-motorised transport on Mirpur Road from Russell Square to Azimpur, a major thoroughfare in the south of the city. The World Bank report started a subtle movement to push rickshaws to the sidelines. A
Daily Star article from 2004 describes unlicensed rickshaws as one of the prime causes for “constant traffic jams and violation of traffic rules”. Dhaka Deputy Traffic Commissioner Anseer Uddin Khan Pathan added that “the ban will make commuters ‘happy’ because it will reduce traffic congestion.”

Yet the rickshaw is a magic vehicle with a magnetism of its own, and popular outcry against the ban worried the government, especially considering the national election was approaching close to the time of the initial Mirpur Road ban. As a result of popular and organisational pressure, the World Bank reversed its policy and withdrew its support of rickshaw bans and indeed conceded in a final report on the DUTP that “wider civil society consultation” is “essential for potentially controversial measured, such as non-motorised transport-free conversion.”

Rightly so, for banning rickshaws would mean the collapse of an important web of culture and economics in Bangladesh. Not just the loss of art and street vibrancy, and an easily available and environmentally friendly form of transport, but the economic ramifications stretch far: not only to the wallahs, but to their families living in rural Bangladesh, to the mechanics and artists who create and fix rickshaws, and the vendors of the cha and food stalls.  It is general knowledge amongst local patrons of rickshaws that the average daily earning of the wallah is 200 taka a day, of which about 80 taka goes to the owner of the rickshaw they hire. A report conducted by the WBB (Working for Better Bangladesh) Trust, showed that the Mirpur Road ban resulted in a 32 percent net loss of earnings for the average rickshaw wallah, increased the cost of trips for passengers, as well as time taken to travel.

For me, and this could well be the maudlin aspect of my personality coming out now, it is the personal culture of the rickshaw and the wallah that is just as valuable to Bangladesh as art or economics or traffic management.  Further, the preservation of the rickshaw (and all that requires in traffic management and road safety) is a smart approach to the infrastructural development of Bangladesh – and the process needs to be done at a steady ‘Bangladesh’ pace, rather than in rushed leaps and bounds.

Despite language barriers between wallahs and myself, I’ve found that they are quick to teach me Bangla phrases, happy to practice English with me, and eager to converse about the Australian cricket team and crack a joke. Indeed, the best rickshaw drivers double-duty as cultural ambassadors.  They race each other up busy streets, curry sly favour with the traffic police, hop off their seat in a traffic jams to buy a single cigarette, slow down for you so you can chat with friends moving in the opposite direction, point out local landmarks, and ride you to safety during street riots.

Express a dislike for the police and you’ll earn their respect; barter too hard and bad-naturedly for the local price (as opposed to the fare with a bideshi tax attached) and they will keep themselves detached. Collect yourself from being tumbled out of a rickshaw during a prang by grabbing onto your wallah and you’ll find yourself more intimately connected to the wallah and his rickshaw than you’d probably like.

Oh, there are nasty wallahs who agree on a price upon departure and charge you double on arrival, and then they’ll yell at and humiliate you when you refuse to pay the unexpectedly increased fare.  Others will, perhaps feeling their tip was not sufficient, give you change in the dirtiest, most crumpled two taka notes imaginable.

But when I ride the rickshaws, I think of the lovely, strapping, curious country boys who, like Oliver Twist, come innocent to the big city to make their fortune.  Or I remember the wallah who, alarmed by the fact that I burst into tears at the end of a hard day, rode me home in such haste that his chain slipped and he almost crashed into the gutter. Then he drove into the carpark so that I wouldn’t get wet from the rain. Fixing a price tag to such a constant mobile display of human nature might prove as difficult as banning the rickshaw in the face of such need and sentimentality.

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