Dhaka

There are numerous previously foreign sights, sounds and smells that I have become accustomed to since I arrived in Bangladesh.
It is no longer strange for me to see various forms of raw meat being swarmed by flies and hanging from hooks at a dilapidated roadside stand or to encounter chickens and sheep roaming freely through the streets while a herd of goats on leashes are being walked by a native through the swirling conglomeration of trucks, cars, busses, motorcycles, rickshaws and bicycles that make up Dhaka's traffic.
The sight of a man squatting on the side of the road to urinate no longer merits a second glance.
My ears no longer perk up when airplanes going to and from the nearby international airport fly low overhead but I must admit it still does make my heart race.
I fall asleep easily after being woken by the early morning Muslim call to prayer emanating from as yet undetermined nearby speakers instead of remaining wide awake and alert for the following half an hour with chills running up and down my spine.
My nose no longer wrinkles as I pass through the market replete with all the animals that pass their existence there or as I pass lots and lakes filled with rotting trash where stray cats and dogs make their home.
The past couple of days, however, have introduced a new sight, sound, and smell that I have yet to get used to.
In preparation for a Muslim holiday celebration, bulls have appeared on the streets of Dhaka to eventually be offered as a sacrifice and eaten.
So in addition to attempting to steer clear of ankle sprain producing potholes and periodic open sewers as well as trying to avoid getting hit by the components that form the maelstrom on Dhaka's streets, I now also have to keep my eyes peeled in order to avoid sinking my foot into a heap of putrid, steaming, literal bull crap.