I am in a tiny steel cage attached to a motorcycle, stuttering through traffic in dhaka, Bangladesh. In the last ten minutes, we have moved forward maybe three feet, ince by ince, the driver wrenching the wheel left and right, wriggling deeper into the wedge between a delivery truck and a rickshaw in front of us.
Up ahead, the traffic is jammed so close together that pedestrians are climbing over picked truck and through empty rickshaws to cross the street. Two rows to my left is an ambulance, blue light spinning uselessly. This is what the streets here look like from seven o' clock in the morning until ten o' clock at night
