(one of the famous rickshaws)
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Sounds of Chittagong
I walked to the grocery store two days ago. The distance was less than half a mile but it was the most intense half a mile I have ever encountered. Having been shuttled around in school vans since I arrived and living on my island of comfort, I was both eager and nervous to break free of this protection and experience the city on ground level. And so I did. I went with a woman from Denmark named Maria who's here for a month helping in the finance office. (Of course her English is flawless). We ventured out around dusk, shortly after getting off of work.
So much of Chittagong is best described in sounds rather than the whirl of indistinguishable colors and movements I see every time I step out of my door. The Muslim call to prayer: a haunting, beautiful song that envelops the entire city five times a day. The tinkling whistles of the rickshaws paired with the chorus of heavy-handed horns on the cars, trucks, and CNGs. The men at fruit stands hollering out for customers and the beckoning voices of children tugging at your shirt for money. And the notes of work being done, bricks forged, ships loaded, our American clothes stitched and sewn.
Our walk was no different. There were hundreds of voices and hundreds of smells all at once. Garbage everywhere. Rotting food. Sweat, including my own. The exhaust from all of the vehicles made it difficult to breathe and I had a headache almost immediately. There were so many people, bodies were difficult to dodge. But we made it. And I was rewarded with extra crunchy peanut butter.
Besides walking to the grocery store, I have been spending almost all of my time putting together materials and a schedule for the volunteers' orientation which will last roughly two and a half weeks after their arrival. Part of that work involves helping to coordinate a community English class we'll be teaching at the Women's Chamber of Commerce. Almost immediately after arriving I was invited to a meeting where the leading women in business and the community were gathered. Everyone was dressed beautifully, the saris so different and yet somehow reminiscent of the grand dresses of the Omatjete Herero women as they stood together speaking in their own language of their own endeavors.
The lack of men in the room was conspicuous and you could feel the change-- the ease and the freedom the women have with each other. Dinner was served around 10pm. And even these women (who are reasonably well off) heaped piles of food onto their plates. They ate with noticeable immediacy, as if they were anticipating future hunger and were trying to out pace it.
In the midst of the clacking of plates and the hum of Bangla (the language people speak here) I was reminded again how much sounds matter here. You can't tell who these women are in a glance. You can't tell if she's a doctor, a journalist, or a hotel owner. You can't tell what's happened to them or what they are doing with their lives just by looking at them but you can if you listen. I feel fortunate to have met these women first-- these sparse but bright towering women-- before I meet the ruins.
We were treated with the highest respect and honor-- offered front row seats, forced to eat the dinner buffet first. In the beginning I naively attributed this to my unusually pale features and status as an American but I don't think so anymore. It was my affiliation with the University and as a teacher that signaled my treatment rather than my skin. Education is so valued here, especially by these women who were buoyed to their unusually blessed lives because they were allowed to learn.
Today is graduation. There will be speeches. There will will be diplomas. There will be food. And I will try to take pictures. Talk to you soon.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Arrival
Well I’m here. After without a doubt the longest trip of my life, I am here: Atlanta to Los Angeles. Los Angeles to Bangkok. Bangkok to Dhaka (the capital of Bangladesh). Dhaka to Chittagong. The Chittagong Airport to where I now live. I include that last leg because the ride from the airport to my apartment took three times as long as my flight from Dhaka to Chittagong. And the distance was only about 15 miles.
I could sense immediately upon flying over Dhaka that I was somewhere new and completely different. The land was green and marshy, the canals of water crowded and brown. On the runway I saw men and women with simple tools like pick axes and shovels tearing up the tarmac. Despite being a spread out city of 12 million the airport was tiny with 2 terminals—the international terminal (which was air conditioned) and the domestic terminal (which was not). There was a single metal detector in the domestic terminal and two x-ray machines. Behind a green curtain a woman guard patted me down with a handheld metal detector.
Everything went smoothly until I got to Dhaka around noon on Wednesday July 7th. My luggage came through. I cleared customs, immigration, no problem. But when I went to check in for my flight to Chittagong the carrier told me that they no longer operated the flight I was scheduled for and they had no more flights to Chittagong for that day. After a brief moment of panic and with help from two friendly airline workers it was arranged for me to fly an hour later than scheduled on a different airline—Biman (the national airline of Bangladesh). I tell you all this because had I not been utterly exhausted when I stepped onto the Biman plane I’m not sure I could have gone through with the flight. If the bright orange and green flowered upholstery was any indication the plane must have been from the 1970s. The arms of the seats were cracked and some broken completely. The windows were so scratched up I could barely see outside of them and the carpeted material covering the side of the plane was pealing off. I watched a cockroach scuttle from the seat pocket in front of me to the window ledge while the flight attendant served us warm juice boxes. I felt a glorious sense of relief that I was too tired to even care and pushed the nagging concern about the state of the plane to the back of my mind as we took off.
I arrived in Chittagong 35 minutes later around 5 in the evening local time. (I’m ten hours ahead of home right now because Bangladesh does not observe daylight savings time). A kind man who works for AUW named Alan was holding up a paper sign with the words the Asian University for Women on it when I exited the “baggage terminal.” He helped me carry my bags to the van and before I could even get the door open I was surrounded by several begging young boys.
Alan warned me the ride would take about 2 and a half hours because of traffic. I tried not to appear too surprised. As we pulled out of the airport I could not stop looking at everything around me. There were people everywhere—mostly men but some women too. Makeshift metal shacks lined the road. The buildings were shops and places to eat. I saw a group of shirtless boys in a dusty field playing cricket. In another field the boys were playing soccer. Fruit and vegetable stands were everywhere with bananas bunched together on long stems and many fruits I did not recognize. We passed the bay where hundreds of the biggest ships I’ve ever seen stood being loaded with cargo from oil to bricks to produce.
Then we hit what I hesitate to call rush hour. I hesitate because that will give you the impression of packed orderly lanes of cars crawling along through a city. And that’s not what this was at all. The extremely narrow road really should have only been used for one car at a time going in one direction but the road was used in both directions. It was paved but no there was no demarcation of lanes at all. There were vehicles like ours, cars, larger vans and trucks but there were also hundreds of rickshaws— driven by wiry men with thin hard bodies and also mini- cars shaped like tiny green Volkswagens (these are cabs). And let us not forget the pedestrians who thought nothing of darting out into this madness. (along with our friends the cows, goats, and dogs).
The folks of Bangladesh make the drivers of New York and New Jersey look like calm submissive saints who rarely use their horns. Alan weaved in and out of this collage of crazy using his horn as a constant instrument (if you’ve been watching the World Cup the buzzing noise of the vuvuzela filled stadiums is an apt description of what this all sounded like only louder). People stared unabashedly as we drove by and I even saw some taking pictures of me with cell phones from their buses. I didn’t see another Westerner until we arrived at my apartment.
The drive from the airport was actually a perfect introduction to this bustling city and a country of 150 million in the space of Florida. But I was relieved to arrive at my apartment which is stunningly beautiful. I’m going to try not to compare this experience to Namibia too much but I could not help remembering showing up to the empty cement room that hot afternoon in January of 2007. This could not have been more different. I feel so spoiled. Where I’m staying is called the Panchlaish (after the road we are on I think) and it’s a series of apartments in a gated area. Mine (which I assume I will share with others soon) is spacious with a large table and a living area with a couch, chair, coffee table, desk and tv. My room had a bed with sheets and a mosquito net and AN AIRCONDITIONER. There’s also a lovely little kitchen with a working fridge (wooo!). And a bathroom connected to my room. Everything was neat and clean and welcoming. There are three other bedrooms in the place—all empty right now.
Omar, the director of operations for the University ordered me dinner and it was delivered to my room. In a word: delicious (rice, dahl, okra, all in a wonderful curry sauce) but I was too tired to eat much. Needless to say I pretty much collapsed for twelve hours straight. I’ll have internet soon in my room so communication should be easy with you all. Thanks for hanging in there with this ridiculously long posting. I hope to take pictures soon.
I could sense immediately upon flying over Dhaka that I was somewhere new and completely different. The land was green and marshy, the canals of water crowded and brown. On the runway I saw men and women with simple tools like pick axes and shovels tearing up the tarmac. Despite being a spread out city of 12 million the airport was tiny with 2 terminals—the international terminal (which was air conditioned) and the domestic terminal (which was not). There was a single metal detector in the domestic terminal and two x-ray machines. Behind a green curtain a woman guard patted me down with a handheld metal detector.
Everything went smoothly until I got to Dhaka around noon on Wednesday July 7th. My luggage came through. I cleared customs, immigration, no problem. But when I went to check in for my flight to Chittagong the carrier told me that they no longer operated the flight I was scheduled for and they had no more flights to Chittagong for that day. After a brief moment of panic and with help from two friendly airline workers it was arranged for me to fly an hour later than scheduled on a different airline—Biman (the national airline of Bangladesh). I tell you all this because had I not been utterly exhausted when I stepped onto the Biman plane I’m not sure I could have gone through with the flight. If the bright orange and green flowered upholstery was any indication the plane must have been from the 1970s. The arms of the seats were cracked and some broken completely. The windows were so scratched up I could barely see outside of them and the carpeted material covering the side of the plane was pealing off. I watched a cockroach scuttle from the seat pocket in front of me to the window ledge while the flight attendant served us warm juice boxes. I felt a glorious sense of relief that I was too tired to even care and pushed the nagging concern about the state of the plane to the back of my mind as we took off.
I arrived in Chittagong 35 minutes later around 5 in the evening local time. (I’m ten hours ahead of home right now because Bangladesh does not observe daylight savings time). A kind man who works for AUW named Alan was holding up a paper sign with the words the Asian University for Women on it when I exited the “baggage terminal.” He helped me carry my bags to the van and before I could even get the door open I was surrounded by several begging young boys.
Alan warned me the ride would take about 2 and a half hours because of traffic. I tried not to appear too surprised. As we pulled out of the airport I could not stop looking at everything around me. There were people everywhere—mostly men but some women too. Makeshift metal shacks lined the road. The buildings were shops and places to eat. I saw a group of shirtless boys in a dusty field playing cricket. In another field the boys were playing soccer. Fruit and vegetable stands were everywhere with bananas bunched together on long stems and many fruits I did not recognize. We passed the bay where hundreds of the biggest ships I’ve ever seen stood being loaded with cargo from oil to bricks to produce.
Then we hit what I hesitate to call rush hour. I hesitate because that will give you the impression of packed orderly lanes of cars crawling along through a city. And that’s not what this was at all. The extremely narrow road really should have only been used for one car at a time going in one direction but the road was used in both directions. It was paved but no there was no demarcation of lanes at all. There were vehicles like ours, cars, larger vans and trucks but there were also hundreds of rickshaws— driven by wiry men with thin hard bodies and also mini- cars shaped like tiny green Volkswagens (these are cabs). And let us not forget the pedestrians who thought nothing of darting out into this madness. (along with our friends the cows, goats, and dogs).
The folks of Bangladesh make the drivers of New York and New Jersey look like calm submissive saints who rarely use their horns. Alan weaved in and out of this collage of crazy using his horn as a constant instrument (if you’ve been watching the World Cup the buzzing noise of the vuvuzela filled stadiums is an apt description of what this all sounded like only louder). People stared unabashedly as we drove by and I even saw some taking pictures of me with cell phones from their buses. I didn’t see another Westerner until we arrived at my apartment.
The drive from the airport was actually a perfect introduction to this bustling city and a country of 150 million in the space of Florida. But I was relieved to arrive at my apartment which is stunningly beautiful. I’m going to try not to compare this experience to Namibia too much but I could not help remembering showing up to the empty cement room that hot afternoon in January of 2007. This could not have been more different. I feel so spoiled. Where I’m staying is called the Panchlaish (after the road we are on I think) and it’s a series of apartments in a gated area. Mine (which I assume I will share with others soon) is spacious with a large table and a living area with a couch, chair, coffee table, desk and tv. My room had a bed with sheets and a mosquito net and AN AIRCONDITIONER. There’s also a lovely little kitchen with a working fridge (wooo!). And a bathroom connected to my room. Everything was neat and clean and welcoming. There are three other bedrooms in the place—all empty right now.
Omar, the director of operations for the University ordered me dinner and it was delivered to my room. In a word: delicious (rice, dahl, okra, all in a wonderful curry sauce) but I was too tired to eat much. Needless to say I pretty much collapsed for twelve hours straight. I’ll have internet soon in my room so communication should be easy with you all. Thanks for hanging in there with this ridiculously long posting. I hope to take pictures soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
