IF DANTE had been born in Dhaka, I suspect he wouldn’t have written about nine circles of hell — he would have simply described a morning commute involving the BRTA and a short stroll along a Bangladeshi footpath. Because truly, what else but infernal suffering could explain a place where getting a driving licence requires divine intervention, a briefcase full of bribe money, and the blessings of your local broker chacha?
Let us begin with the Bangladesh Road Transport Authority — a name so misleading that calling it ‘transport authority’ feels like labelling a street vendor a ‘financial consultant.’ The BRTA is a masterclass in how to create a government institution that builds beautiful offices, paints impressive walls, digitizes forms with cutting-edge software, and still functions with the efficiency of a broken bicycle on a muddy rural road.
Recently, the Anti-Corruption Commission, perhaps having grown tired of reading the same horror stories in newspapers for the last three decades, decided to conduct raids in 35 BRTA offices. And what did they find? Bribery! Brokers! Fake fitness certificates! Ghostly driving licences handed out to drivers with the steering control skills of intoxicated squirrels! We must congratulate the ACC for their Herculean courage — going into a BRTA office is not for the faint-hearted. It’s like entering Mordor with a notepad.
But there’s more. Did you know there are reportedly 78,000 vehicles with fake number plates cruising merrily along our highways? It’s like a nationwide costume party, except the costumes are licence plates, and the clowns are behind the wheel. One can only imagine the police trying to catch one — ‘Sir, we stopped a car with the number plate ‘Dhaka Metro Cha-1123’.’ ‘Oh, that’s fine, officer. There are seven of those on the road. Catch whichever one looks shadiest.’
In a moment of unusual honesty, the BRTA chairman admitted that 600,000 vehicles haven’t updated their documents yet. But don’t worry — he has handed over a list of the fake-number-plate vehicles to the police since the problem seems to remain exactly where it was.
Now, some sceptics might ask, ‘But why can’t the BRTA just fix it?’ Well, you naive citizen, have you forgotten the golden rule of public service in Bangladesh? The more broken the system, the more income opportunities it generates. If getting a licence was easy, how would hundreds of brokers pay their bills and invest in real estate? If fitness certificates were issued after actual testing, how would aging trucks with the emissions of a coal factory stay on the road?
In fact, applying for a licence in this country has become an Olympic event. First, you meet the broker. He introduces you to the guy who knows the guy who knows the peon who knows the official. Then you pay a ‘processing fee,’ a ‘speed-up fee,’ a ‘tea-fee,’ a ‘file-movement fee,’ and sometimes, just a plain old ‘bribe-fee’ labelled as ‘miscellaneous.’ Eventually, you get your shiny licence, and the road is yours — whether or not you can tell a brake from a clutch is secondary.
But this is just Act One of the Bangladeshi Public Infrastructure Comedy Show. Act Two brings us to the footpaths — or what used to be footpaths before they were adopted by hawkers, encroachers, motorcycle repair shops, street barbers, and, in one notable case, a full-scale poultry shop. Yes, our footpaths now host more diverse businesses than an online shopping platform. You could walk a few hundred metres and get your shoes polished, your phone repaired, a haircut, a plate of fuchka, and possibly a goat — all without leaving the pavement.
That is, if there’s any pavement left to walk on.
Footpaths, those quaint inventions meant for pedestrians, have now become parallel bazaars — vibrant, bustling, chaotic, and utterly unwalkable. If you try to use a footpath for its intended purpose, you will be either scolded for stepping on a vendor’s tarpaulin, stabbed by a clothes rack, or gently nudged aside by a woman frying beguni on the corner of a manhole. It’s like participating in a real-life obstacle course designed by a mad urban planner.
The authorities occasionally launch ‘drives’ to reclaim the footpaths. They arrive with great fanfare, chase out the vendors, tear down a few structures, snap some heroic photos, and disappear faster than a BRTA official during office hours. Within 48 hours, the hawkers return, possibly with better furniture and a fresh coat of paint. It’s not urban management — it’s performance art.
Of course, no one wants to be the villain who ‘snatches food from the mouths of the poor.’ The hawkers must eat too, after all. But here’s a wild idea: maybe — just maybe — the state could simultaneously enforce laws and offer proper, designated spaces for small traders? I know it sounds revolutionary. Almost like a functioning government. But we can dream.
What’s more laughable is the justification given for the inaction. ‘We can’t remove the hawkers, because it would affect their livelihoods.’ Okay, but what about the lives and livelihoods of pedestrians who can’t walk safely to work? What about the mother carrying her child while balancing between moving traffic and a juice stand set up over a sewer drain? What about the daily commuter who survives three hours of bus rides only to be sideswiped by a rickshaw while walking on the road because there’s no footpath left?
And we mustn’t forget the sacred footpath leasing industry — an invisible economy operated by local political leaders, police, and ‘influential people’ who collect tolls in exchange for the right to squat. It’s like Airbnb, but for illegally occupied public land. Some say footpaths are the new real estate frontier — low investment, high return, zero accountability.
Now put it all together — the broker-infested BRTA, the haunted vehicles with ghost plates, the lawless footpaths, and the tragicomic administrative efforts to clean things up — and what you get is a city planning strategy that could only be described as ‘inspired by chaos.’
And yet, every year, reports are written, policies are drafted, and summits are held in five-star hotels where officials speak solemnly of ‘smart cities’ and ‘sustainable urban mobility.’ I always wonder if these officials ever try walking from Shahbagh to Farmgate during rush hour. It would be cheaper than a Pan Pacific Sonargaon seminar and vastly more enlightening.
So, what is the way forward? Well, for starters, we must stop pretending that modernisation means putting up LED screens and launching mobile apps while the basics are left to rot. If we can’t issue a driving licence without a bribe or let people walk 10 feet without dodging a fruit cart, then no amount of digital dashboards will help.
Maybe we need to start treating footpaths as national assets — places for movement, not money-making. Maybe we need to treat public institutions like BRTA not as sacred cows but as service providers that can be held accountable. And maybe, just maybe, we need to remember that public space belongs to the public, not to the politically connected, the corrupt, or the conveniently ignored.
Until that day arrives, all we can do is enjoy the spectacle — the Great Bangladeshi Footpath Circus and the BRTA Magic Show. Tickets are free. Just bring your patience, a sense of humour, and some elbow pads.
You’re going to need them.
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HM Nazmul Alam is a Dhaka-based academic, journalist, and political analyst.
