It is winter. Pale morning sun hangs over the city bridge, obscured by the heavy smog. The weak light darts over the murky river, crawls through the streets, and slips through the cracks between tightly-packed apartments. Shadows form on the dirt-streaked buildings, as wiry trees and dusty billboards poke at the horizon and creak in the early morning wind. The city begins to stir, and with it, the pigeons and crows, the buses and the tuk-tuks, the people, the street dogs and the rats in the gutter.
Look. Towering apartments. Weather-bitten and black with dirt stand the solemn sentinels along the narrow street. Concealing the skyline, they smother the place in shadows, yet fail to ease the heat of the stagnant city air. Thin bamboo scaffolding slouches precariously at the sides of half-built structures, biding it’s time for the dusty breeze to collapse it’s tired legs. On the balconies of the moth-bitten rooms above, shirts and towels slump over the railings, the ghastly colours already grey with smog. Flimsy pot plants wilt on the concrete, barely surviving in the grim heat. A shriek from a fat, black crow signals the day to commence. As the street begins to fill, the broken cobblestone footpath waits, preparing for the first unsuspecting walker to trip on it’s wobbly, cracked brick surface.
The daily market begins to take shape. Mounds of malnourished pumpkins and withered beans appear from sacks on the soggy ground. The stench of hanging meats and warm fish wafts through the alley as clouds of angry flies buzz in the air. Creaky wooden tables, overloaded with trinkets and counterfeit brands, groan in protest at the junk they have to carry for another long morning. Stallholders chatter rapidly between each other, paying no attention to the impatient customers in front of them; how the place functions is a mystery. Scrawny, muddy children tie knots in thin ropes, as sweat drips from the brows of their siblings banging metal tools into shape. Drainpipes weep watery sludge into the pungent, rubbish-sodden gutters. Street dogs sprawl alongside them on the grimy path, scratching and yelping at flea-bitten patches in their dusty fur.
Listen. Hear the irritable traffic as it honks and splutters, startling dazed tourists who try to navigate the torrent of vehicles in the crowded street. A clamour of unfamiliar dialect arises as cultures clash beneath the grand, white halls and the dirty homes of the native people. The chatter of women pierces the air, as heavy golden jewellery and richly patterned dresses hurry past the filth on the streets. With bloodshot eyes and parched lips, the dirty filth sits, watching, wordlessly begging for a few coins from those who saunter past. A placard boasting of the ‘Clean and Green’ city droops from a heavy wire, layered with grime so thick the lettering is barely visible. Stares are directed to the lone tourist in the street; at their clean, pale skin, closed-toed shoes, and the apprehension on their face.
You watch. As you take in the noise, the stench, the dirt and the dust, you wonder why you chose to come here. The rude people, the broken buildings, the strange language and culture; all is so different to what you know. The utter filth of the place is repulsive. You think of your little town; clean, safe and far from here.
You can’t wait to go home.
