Dhaka

Dhaka is the rickshaw capital of the world — half a million of them, hand-painted like rolling galleries with film stars, peacocks and mosques on their backboards — and the beating center of the Bengal delta, where the Buriganga performs a ballet of near-misses that has somehow run for centuries without a conductor. This city once wove muslin so fine it was called woven air; today it weaves the wardrobe of half the planet.

The sensible traveller takes a wooden boat at Sadarghat and simply floats an hour in the river's traffic, which no description survives; walks Old Dhaka from Lalbagh Fort to the pink Ahsan Manzil palace, pausing for biryani where the pots are older than the waiters; stands at the Shahid Minar, where students died in 1952 defending the right to their own language — the world now marks Mother Language Day on their date; and lets Dhaka's famous curiosity work: you will be greeted, questioned and welcomed, roughly in that order.

The Guide's honesty: the traffic is beyond category — plan two things per day and take the river when you can —; agree the boat price at the dock with fingers and a smile; the crowds are dense and the friendliness is denser: expect to be photographed, and ask before returning the favor; and monsoon Dhaka floods with biblical confidence — pack sandals you can trust and a sense of humor you can wade in.