Reflections from the Sonargaon Hotel (5th May 2009 )

The Sonargaon is one of Dhaka’s premier fancypants hotels. To a VSO volunteer like me – and to most of the population of Bangladesh – it’s the kind of place one can only dream of. Perhaps you hear stories of the wonders contained within, but the chance of your seeing them with your own eyes is slim to none.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself in the lobby of this very hotel, witness to the luxurious parallel world that it offers to those who can afford the (absolutely outrageously extortionate) prices.

It was an accident, really. Places like the Sonargaon are hardly on my radar in Dhaka, so far are they from my range of possibility. But I had a meeting to go to (discussing the legal system and violence against women in Bangladesh, don’t ya know), and the Sonargaon just happened to be the closest landmark. When I asked for the Sonargaon hotel, my CNG driver assumed I meant actually inside the hotel, and by the time I realised what was happening, it was too late to turn back (there’s a stupid one-way system and a lot of guards with rifles to enforce it). Then, the man outside hotel (you know, the one that opens the doors – I don’t even know the proper name for that) also assumed I was a guest and ushered me inside. I can only assume it was my bideshi status that made him think this – nothing else about my rumpled and sweaty appearance can possibly have given him that impression.

Now, I know I could have stopped this turn of events from unspooling at any point. I’m not saying I was a helpless victim who was forced into the Sonargaon, kicking and screaming. But I also didn’t plan to end up there. I want to make that clear. I’m not the kind of person who’d choose to hang out in such mindboggling dens of indulgence. I suppose there were a range of factors at work:
1. I was intrigued. I don’t think I’d ever been inside such a fancy hotel in my life before being swept into this one. The sight of the indoor fountain, the starched uniforms and the GRAND PIANO rendered me temporarily dumb, and sadly unable to protest as I was shown inside.
2. I was ninety minutes early for my meeting. I know, I know, quite ridiculous, but I didn’t have a clue where I was going and the traffic in this city is usually shocking.
3. I was flattered. Don’t think I don’t recognise my own pride. I was definitely flattered that anyone might think I belonged in such a place, despite my torn clothes and my dusty hair and the generally dishevelled appearance I cultivate here. If it had been England, I’d have been out on my ear in moments.

As soon as I came to my senses, however, I began to panic. My palms began to sweat, despite the powerful air conditioning. I knew I had to act as if I knew exactly where I was going, or there’d be suspicions. And so began Operation Blend In With The Ridiculously Privileged Crowd.

I spied a comfortable and thankfully empty seating area, and made a beeline for it. The ‘Guests Only’ sign nearly felled me as I strode towards the seat I had already selected (I have a schoolchild’s fear of signs and instructions), but my nerves held out. I’d chosen a seat a safe distance from the waiters’ station, but which also faced the main atrium of the hotel, so I could keep an eye out for any armed guards coming to escort me from the premises.

But the first person to approach me was a bow-tied waiter, who enquired if he could bring me anything. I smiled my sweetest smile, and told him I was waiting for a friend. I graciously accepted the menu he offered me, and let out a deep sigh of relief as he glided silently away.

After a few moments, when it appeared that I wasn’t going to be ejected from the building imminently, I began to relax and take in my surroundings. The lobby is all pale stone, polished to a high shine, and vases and vases of real orchids. The staff are legion, and all dressed in a theatrical array of different uniforms, presumably marking out their place in the pecking order. But the truly incredible thing – the thing that made my jaw drop in astonishment when I first stumbled through the doors – is the grand piano. A full-size grand piano sits in one corner of the lobby, being played by a small Bangladeshi man in a dinner jacket. The medley of songs he treats passing guests to is quite astounding, from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata to a nineties boyband power ballad that I couldn’t quite identify (owing to my poor knowledge of pop music rather than his playing, of course).

The range of guests was intriguing. The majority seemed to be Middle Eastern businessmen, in expensive-looking shirts and dark sunglasses, talking quietly in groups around the lobby. Then there were the middle-aged white business men, marching through followed by porters toting briefcases and suitcases. I spied one white guy, in shorts and a multi-pocketed fisherman’s vest, who was almost definitely a journalist of some kind. The porter dragging the enormous tripod was a dead giveaway.

I couldn’t help but wonder at the kind of people who would use such a hotel. I mean, I know all the practical reasons of convenience and comfort, of course. But my brief perusal of the café menu informed me that a coke would set you back 115 taka, and a cup of tea 177. Although this might be cheaper than in England (that’s about £1.20 and £1.80), outside on the streets of Dhaka, coke is expensive, at maybe 40 taka, and tea is a snip at about 4 taka. Clearly only the very rich and the unhinged would come here. Perhaps there’s not much of a distinction between the two…

Although my fears – and my pretend telephone conversations with the ‘friend’ that I was meeting – proved unnecessary, and I was not unceremoniously booted out, I couldn’t help but wonder what the other people in the lobby thought of me. Perhaps because of the colour of my skin alone, people I assume I am a guest, one of them, the kind of person who belongs in that kind of hotel. That thought makes me a feel a little bit sick: I don’t want to be one of these people, I don’t want to be the kind of person who stays in such a bubble of luxury while outside there is both a lot more life and a lot more poverty. I’m guessing my ripped salwar, my dirty sandals and my chipped toenail polish are surely glaring signals that I’m not exactly five-star hotel material? But perhaps, the fact that I am a bideshi, that I come from the UK and can go back any time, (probably) get a decent job and live with the comfort of social security and an adequate salary my whole life sets me apart. Maybe – in fact probably – I am more like the people in the Sonargaon than those on the streets outside, and no amount of wishing will make it otherwise.

But then again, maybe my superb acting fooled them all. Those fake phone calls were the work of a genius, keeping all overly-attentive waiters at bay until it became clear that my ‘friend’ had been held up and I’d have to go and help him, and would be returning soon. Maybe my top-quality dissembling caught them all in a magnificent double-bluff, and the last laugh will be mine. I couldn’t say for sure, but I’m plumping for the last option.