Bangladesh Diary: La Dolce Vita (A Day Out In Upmarket Dhaka)

Such a perfect day. A silken breeze blowing, but not strong enough to wake up the guards snoozing in the shade outside the villas of Gulshan - barely enough to stir the vivid bougainvillea. An ideal day, in fact, for setting out to find out how the other half (a percent) lives.

I get into my rickshaw and ask Sumon, my rickchauffeur, to take me round the mansions. Aware that the impressions given so far have been of noise and chaos, of demented baby taxis and tumble-down shacks, of haunting children and royal welcomes in the houses of the poor, I now bring you a glimpse of the lives of the middle and upper classes - a term which, by the way, correlates here almost entirely to your bank balance. There is old money here, but essentially you can earn and spend your way into the upper classes. You too can drive a flash BMW and live in a gated palace.

We pass the British Club with its rattan chairs, its lawn and its pool. It is empty at this time in the morning. Outside, in the ubiquitous trees, monkeys whoop and swing. As we ride slowly round, I look through wrought-iron entrances, at balconies, shrubberies, marble-floored hallways. Some of the houses would grace any Beverly Hills driveway - so much space you could happily accommodate a small village in each one. Nothing stirs. What reason is there for these newly-rich to be about at nine on a Friday morning? The only movement here is of the silent gardeners lovingly tending the abundant flowers. Meanwhile, out here on the streets, one or two ex-Brigadiers take their morning constitutional, their backs ramrod-straight, elegant moustaches and carved walking sticks fully present and correct.

Time for a little fashion shopping? Into a baby taxi and on to the Basundhara Shopping Mall - the biggest in Asia - a gargantuan glass and steel temple of chic. Outside, I am asked by a young guy to have my picture taken with him. He stands there earnestly next to me as the shutter opens. I manage a wan smile and walk in - wondering what on earth he will make of this picture when he opens his little folder of photos.

Inside you are initially struck by the monumental architecture - the giant steel rings on each floor, the golden lift which glides up the wall and the stained glass ceiling. You are cocooned by piped music, and Sting warbles from an outsize screen. A raffle promises a car - but whereas in Singapore or Dubai there would be a sleek Bentley on offer, here there is a little orange family Kia. The young and smart congregate, ogle the clothes shops and each other, compare the latest smartphones.

Your gaze travels up with the lift to take in eight floors. On three of these, the sign informs that you can meet all your ‘suiting and shirting’ needs. Above these are floors groaning with rainbow saris and the latest Bollywood CDs. The top floor offers the Food Court, a Multiplex Cinema and a Theme Park etc. I am intrigued, and baffled, by this ‘etc’.

Only one way to find out. But on getting to the top I find I have been reborn as a pinball, rocketing around a table. Deafening electronic noise, rapid-fire pop songs, shrill laughter fill the air. There is an amusement arcade, and a dodgem rink - though you wonder why anyone would bother when the roads outside offer far more thrills for free. There are couples looking earnestly at each other, touching each other’s hands: it’s not great as romantic trysting spots go but it may well be the only place they can sit away from prying eyes and family pressures.

There are groups of giggly girls on bright plastic seats and packs of hopeful boys. The air is acrid with the thin smell of frying fat - Neon Signs advertise Dolce Vita Gelato, Hello Fried Chicken and, best of all, Tongue & Tummy Fast Foods. Tempted though you surely are, you manage to pass these nutritional oases by, stopping only for a paper cup of unappetising Nescafe. Come back Starbucks, all is forgiven…

Three English-medium students out for the afternoon sit at a table. Their clothes are smart, their faces are intelligent and their English is fluent. It’s spiced with the phrases of the international MTV generation: it's all cool. Though I have invited myself to their table, they are immediately friendly and welcoming, at ease with this stranger, confident of their place in the world. As we talk a woman passes. She wears a black burka from head to toe - and therefore appears to glide along the floor. Her daughter walks defiantly alongside her, in strappy top and torn jeans. Oh to be a fly on the wall during their rows…

There is something unsettlingly familiar and at the same time strange here. On the one hand, these young people are just doing what their contemporaries from Singapore to Frisco are up to on a weekend. They are hanging out. The odd thing is that so few Bangladeshis have the opportunity to relax in this way - to have leisure you first need time, and to have time you need money. But looking around at these carefree people you are reminded how essentially liberal Bangladesh can be.

Out once more into the grey city afternoon, and an uneasy dose of reality. My baby taxi stops at a red light, but this time something is not quite right. The usual chugging of engines is penetrated by a sweet plaintive song. Suddenly, she steps into view - a blind woman, led by a young girl. Her milky eyes seem to fix eerily on mine as she sings. Guiltily, I drop some pennies into her hand, and she moves on, her face momentarily lit up. It is a strange thing to see a woman with blind eyes smile.

A few minutes later I arrive at the destination of choice round here for the upwardly mobile: Café Mango: a trendy place where you can at last sip an espresso. Potted plants, edgy urban music, soft lighting and the low buzz of intimate conversation.

But I end off the night with a meal back in Gulshan at Le Saigon with two friends. Live music this time: mellow covers from the 60s, expertly performed. All around are the older brothers and sisters of the kids I have seen all day - silk-shirted, dripping in jewellery, expensive cuff-links, frameless glasses, designer make-up. They all bear the tell-tale signs of the Dhaka middle classes: a certain glossy plumpness, loud self-assurance, manicured nails, knowing laughter.

But eventually the bottle of red wine is drained and the last melodies die away. As I head home under the huge futuristic TV screens relaying adverts into the black midnight air, it seems for a while that the living is easy, down here in our fragile bubble.