The sun beamed upon the bustling city full of pigeons, food stands bursting with color, children playing. I wore leather sandals that day along with a t-shirt and shorts and still felt as if I was going to melt in the 100 degree heat. I was about 8 years old and this was one of the times I went to Bangladesh, my parent’s home country. My mom, big sister Irada, and I came on a plane to celebrate my cousin’s wedding and were staying at my Aunt’s. I walked along huge buildings that towered over me and my ears were being filled with the sound of cars honking and drivers from different cars swerving aggressively to different lanes, which looked very illegal and dangerous. I walked with my sister, mom, and two other cousins to a local hair salon which was recommended to us by my Aunt. We needed our hair to look nice for the wedding and my mom refused to let me do my own frizzy, inflated hair. Once we got to the hair salon we sat in mint blue chairs excitedly choosing what hair style we wanted from the variety of choices we saw on menus. Irada chose to get her hair straightened while I wanted to look as mature as possible at 8 years old, so I settled on a bun. I felt prim and proper, surely thinking I was a grown adult. 

Once we all got our hair done we left the salon and prepared for our walk back. But suddenly I heard Irada begin to beg my mom and say an endless thrill of words that really made no sense together. I asked my mom what was going on and my mom irritatingly replied,“Your sister wants to take you on a rickshaw to your Aunt’s.” I was not opposed to this idea at all, if anything I was excited. My eight year old self was finally starting her journey to adulthood! The bun must've really been doing its job well.

“That sounds like a amazing idea!” I vocalized, siding with my sister.

“It’ll be so fun! I’m 19 now and can take my little sister on a rickshaw for a couple of blocks to Auntie’s house. What could even go wrong?” Irada was beginning to plead and continued to explain why we were mature enough to go on this rickshaw. I joined in along the fun and said an endless amount of words along with lots of begging. 

“Do you even know where you're going?” my mom questioned. “The city’s a lot more complicated than you think.”

My sister rolled her eyes, “Oh mom it’s only a couple of blocks we’ll be fine.”

My mom had finally had enough and looked around the city of Dhaka, Bangladesh once more with it’s jam packed traffic and hundreds of people around, “Fine,” my mom gave in and told my sister the rules and precautions of this rickshaw ride.  “If anything goes wrong, you're done for,” my mom glared at Irada and began walking with my cousins to our Aunt’s house. Irada and I said our hoorahs and cheers and then attempted to hail a rickshaw. 

Now, a little break down of a rickshaw if you've never heard of one. They’re very popular as transportation in South Asia and are like taxis in New York. Except, the driver of the rickshaw is basically pedalling like how you would a bike and sits up front, while about two to three people sit in the back. The people in the back sit on a bench with a little roof covering their heads. They are quite fun to ride but there’s not really any barriers on the side, I guess it’s just a big fancy three person bike with only one person pedalling.

Eventually my sister waved a rickshaw and we had a very nice driver. Now keep in mind, me and Irada are very American and have poor Bangla accents. As Irada spoke her phony sounding Bangla, the driver continued to work with us and smiled as she handed the driver the bengali currency, taka. The driver nodded and invited us into his rickshaw and my sister and I settled into the back seat. The driver begins to ask for directions to my aunt’s apartment and my sister says them confidently. I gaze outside watching the busy streets and feeling the golden glow from the sun. As I’m staring out to the landscape of the city I’m starting to realize this rickshaw ride was taking a while for being only a couple of blocks. Landing back from my daydreaming, I also notice Irada is starting to get very nervous and her voice begins to crack, along with her legs bouncing up and down crazilly. 

“Miss, do you know where we’re going?” The rickshaw driver seems to be getting a bit nervous too, probably not wanting to work with two lost sisters. At this point I’m believing we are doomed and are going to be lost forever. We were going in useless circles, the same pitha food stand, the same group of boys playing soccer in the dust. My thoughts were racing very fast. Panic was overtaking me and the street noise blaring only added to the stress I felt. At this rate, my sister and I would have to buy our own apartment and live whole new lives with the closest circus there was. The ride was beginning to feel never ending and a box was slowly trying to squeeze us in, trapping us in the city forever, without any comfort but each other.

“I know it must be a few blocks away,” my sister began pleading, worried this Rickshaw driver would drop us off in the middle of nowhere. The rickshaw was now moving very hesitantly and slowly journeying on, with small sudden breaks. I was confused with how his patience had not yet broken with us. We had been riding in circles for about 20 minutes when this was supposed to be about a five minute ride.  

“Maybe try that turn? Oh, maybe this way!” My sister was babbling nonsense at this point;we all knew her directions were not reliable. I could tell the driver was about to say something, but as we took a final turn that we must not have taken before my Aunt’s apartment lay before our eyes.

“Oh my goodness we made it out alive,” I laughed, the fear I carried began to plummet. 

“Thank you so much,” my sister sounded apologetic, handing him a very big tip. The driver smiled and rode off, looking for his next customers who hopefully wouldn’t be as astray as we were. When we met my mom she was livid. She truly seemed like she wanted to throw us both out of the second floor apartment window, but in the end she was glad we were safe.

So, just because you wear a tight knotted bun on the top of your head at 8 years old does not solidify your chances of knowing directions on a rickshaw ride in Bangladesh.