Saturday 2nd February - Hello Beautiful!

A good night's sleep does wonders for us and we are first into breakfast. After the delights of the Hermitage hard boiled eggs and chicken sausages seem a bit ordinary but at least they have passable luchis this morning. D's first job is to secure a late check out for later today. There is a modest charge for this but we can't complain as they have been very good to us. The late checkout will allow us to go sightseeing while our washing dries and to get a shower before moving on to the next phase.

Ricky Rickshaw must have looked too happy yesterday after bringing D back from the station. Outside the hotel a flock of rickshaw wallahs jostle for our custom. Ricky elbows his way through and ushers us onto the back of his bike. D insists on agreeing a price and destination before we set off which seems to disappoint him a bit. We ask him his name which is long and for us unpronounceable. Today's plan is to see some of the sights of Old Dhaka, starting with the Lalbagh Fort, built by one of the Mughal Emporers' henchmen in the 17th century.

It is a fair step to our target and our man earns his fee hauling us two. On the way we pass some interesting signs and shop names. At the Fort we settle our bill and join the short queue at the ticket office. It is quite a long queue by the time somebody stirs inside. Inside the gate we are in a spacious grassy compound with a few large buildings and some flower beds. We are a total sensation as young people queue to take selfies with us. One young woman rushes up to R, hugs her and cries out "Hello beautiful!". Another tells her that she is cute. We will miss the adulation.

Like many parks and monuments in this part of the world the main customer base is young couples looking to escape scrutiny. Things are all very demure and the large squad of gardeners probably ensure that nothing untoward happens. There is not much birdlife but we do get a couple of sightings of mongooses (mongeese?). As usual they move too quickly for D to get a photo. One of the buildings houses a small museum which allegedly features a collection of Mughal miniature paintings. They appear to have gone missing.

Outside the gate Ricky is waiting. We have difficulty explaining that we want to walk for a while and get pictures of some of the entertaining things that we saw on the way. Close to the gate is a Death themed restaurant. We give it a swerve. Amusing pictures taken, Ricky is still shadowing us. We study the book, decide what we want to do and agree a price for a visit to Shankharia Bazaar, also known as Hindu Street, followed by a return to Hotel 71. Time is passing and it is getting rather warm.

We set off in roughly the right direction and sit back to take in the sights. Ricky whizzed past a small restaurant called Pizza Hunter too quickly for a picture. After a while he pulls over at a shop and speaks to a man who asks D to explain where we want to go. The conversation confirms Shankharia Bazaar but there must be something about D's accent that they cannot follow. We set off again with D keeping an eye on the map. We have certainly not travelled the shortest route from Lalbagh Fort to our destination.

Ricky is imperious as he waves off buses, cars, CNGs, other rickshaws and pedestrians. At one junction a policeman holds his hand up to indicate Halt but our man glides by and across the incoming traffic. Our route goes through the heart of the Old City passing down narrow alleys and through various bazaars - gold, recycling, steel, lino, bicycles (again) until we start to see a lot of garland sellers. This is the start of Hindu Street so we get down and ask Ricky to wait.

Shankharia Bazaar is a straight and narrow alley, just about wide enough for two rickshaws to pass. The traffic is not too bad and we walk and look. Before long we find a workshop where idols are being painted for the upcoming Saraswati Puja. The painters seem happy in their work. There are plenty of shops selling wedding paraphernalia and the biggest party poppers we have ever seen. Towards the far end of the street most of the shops sell or repair musical instruments. By now it is time to head for base. Ricky tries to persuade us to do some more sightseeing but we need to watch our time.

The traffic in Dhaka is chaotic, worse than Amritsar, and gets madder as the day goes on. Rickshaw drivers really have to have their wits about them as larger vehicles just ignore their presence, cutting them up and squeezing them into the sides of the road. They get their own back by threading through small gaps when the rest of the traffic seizes up. Our next journey will include all of our luggage and cycle rickshaw is not going to be an option. We thank Ricky for his services, pay him with a bonus and try to explain that we are leaving later today.

After sorting ourselves out and repacking the bags we check out and the staff help us with the bags. On the pavement one of the security guards is detailed to find a CNG for us. Ricky is there bit having seen our mountain of bags even he balks at offering to take us. There appears to be a problem persuading a CNG driver to take us down to the landing stage, some kind of "Sarf of the river? Not likely mate." type of Spanish practice. One chap is reluctant but is eventually bribed with D's money. £3 seems better than walking.

We go 200 yards and pull in to a CNG filling station. If the traffic is chaos this is just Bedlam unleashed as drivers jockey for position at the two available pumps. Our chap keeps jumping out to manhandle other CNGs out of the way. All of the time we are locked in the cage on his vehicle hoping that nobody strikes a match. Once we get back on the road progress is stop start. We squeeze past an ambulance that is stuck with emergency lights flashing and siren blaring. At a particularly chaotic junction we see quite a heavy collision between two cycle rickshaws that knocks a passenger off the back of one. He appears unhurt. There is a police car with two policemen in it, sitting right in the middle of this junction but they apparently see no need to intervene.

We eventually arrive at the Sadarghat Terminal where our driver drops us and D gives him a tip. As we move towards the dock a man asks if we are here for the Rocket Boat. We confirm and he tells us we are in the wrong place and that he will take us to the right one. As we have no idea where to go we fall in with this. We walk about quarter of a mile and descend to the floating dock. We can now see our target. The man tells D to have his ticket ready, which is shown at the gangplank, and he leads us onboard, up the steps to the first class saloon and opens the door to cabin no 3 for us. D offers a tip and is told that it should be 100 taka. Smoothest scam we have encountered in Bangladesh. Never mind. We still have our belongings.

The PS (Paddle Steamer) Mahsud was built by Denny's of Dumbarton in 1929 and converted to diesel engines in 1995. By all accounts it is the smartest boat in the fleet of four. Our cabin is near the front of the boat with one door opening onto the outside deck and the other into the First Class Saloon. It is quite spacious with two single berths, a wash basin and various electrical gadgets that appear not to work. We make ourselves at home and place an order for dinner. Chicken, rice and veg just for a change. The waterfront is a hive of activity with a myriad of small boats ferrying people and goods across the river.

Outside darkness falls and with three shrill blasts on the hooter we are under way. The first ten minutes of the trip is in reverse until there is room to spin the boat around. Mahsud seems to have a reasonable turn of speed and we make good progress down river. We pass miles of shipyards where people are welding things to other things. Sailing down the Clyde must have been like this seventy years ago.

Wary of biting insects we retire to our cabin and declare the cocktail hour. The TTE knocks on the door to check our tickets. The next notable event is that an electric fan, fixed to the wall above R's bunk, crashes down onto her pillow next to where she is sitting. D leaps into action and removes the fan from above his bunk which does not seem to be very secure either. Both fans are stored under a bunk.

Dinner is called and we eat, almost in isolation, at the smaller table in the saloon. Most other people seem to be going hungry or eating food that they have brought with them. Back in our cabin we wonder how firmly the television is fixed to the wall.