(Malumgaht Village)
(me as a Hare Krishna for Halloween)
(Two Rickshaw Drivers and the Hindu Goddess of Knowledge Saraswati)Saturday, October 30, 2010
Malumgaht and Halloween
(me as a Hare Krishna for Halloween)
(Two Rickshaw Drivers and the Hindu Goddess of Knowledge Saraswati)
Friday, October 29, 2010
Rules of the Game
As I hone in on busy month number four in Bangladesh, I thought I'd write about a few rules I've come to live by in my attempts to adapt to a new lifestyle and culture:
Rule Number 1: The crows are King.
I'm not sure there's anyone or anything in Bangladesh with more chutzpah than the thousands of crows that swarm the garbage piles of Chittagong. They are large and sharp-beaked with a collar of feathers around their necks, making them look like members of some ancient, evil royal family. They aren't scared of people or dogs and snap at each other with eager ferocity. I was walking to our favorite bakery one afternoon when a large chunk of raw meat landed on the ground inches away from me. I stared, flabbergasted, wondering where it had come from and if more was on it's way when suddenly the giant black bird swooped down, tossed the flesh in the air once and caught the meat in its mouth. Don't mess with the crows.
Rule Number 2: Electricity is precious.
Power is a constant problem here. I'm pretty used to it by now-- every four or five hours the electricity switches off. The outage time varies, lasting anywhere from a few minutes to a stretch of a several hours. The reasons behind this issue are a little complicated but basically there isn't enough electricity to go around. And the system for transmitting the electricity is not designed to support the demand of a country that has a population of 150 million. And so this is the system we have-- the government which controls a large share of this sector cuts off power at various intervals throughout the day.
I'm really lucky. My housing and the University are so nice that we have back-up generators. That means a few minutes after the power cuts off we get it back. Air conditioners don't work and certain outlets aren't connected but for the most part the building hums along like nothing has changed. Most houses do not have generators so that when the power is out all you can do is swish your hand held fan and wait for it to come back.
At night, the streets are transformed into a world of flickering orange light. Each stall has a tiny lantern and one right after the other the rows give the appearance of a constant candle light vigil. Rickshaw drivers gather around a single flame to repair a broken bicycle wheel. Men play cards in tight circles, squinting to see how good their hand is.
Rule Number 3: Ask for help and people will.
One of the volunteers broke her ankle this past week and had to have surgery. You can imagine that this led to much anxiety and frantic searching for a good doctor. High on my lists of things I hope I never do is have an operation in Bangladesh. But through some faculty recommendations and help from many people we ended up at a Christian missionary hospital called Mulamgraht three hours south of Chittagong. The American and local staff were extremely kind. A nurse from Canada who has lived on the mission for 22 years since the death of her husband was very attentive, explaining everything as we went along, speaking in Bangla to most of the staff in her flat northern accent. The mission also had a school-- little Hindu girls in blue chased after me along their fenced in playground, their hands coming together as if in prayer, with slightly bowed heads as they greeted me with a giddy Nomoshkar.
Rule Number 4: There's no road so narrow that a rickshaw, CNG, car, and a giant bus won't fit.
On my several harrowing trips to and from the hospital this week, I oscillated between genuine fear and outrage at the close calls, near head-on collisions, and utter disregard for my idea of driving courtesy to complete awe of the ability of these drivers to go anywhere at all on roads much to small for so many passengers.
Granted it took us 3 hours to travel roughly 50 miles but the slow pace also allowed for some beautiful views of the tiny villages that cropped up in intervals along the way. One especially spectacular late afternoon an evening rain came in, brushing the twilit market with moisture. As we crawled along I watched black umbrellas blossom like upside down lotus flowers while men bargained for fruits, vegetables, and paan. One vendor sat straight-backed, his arms and legs crossed on a carpet of bright yellow bananas. In the half gray, half golden light, seated amongst his bounty, umbrella overhead, he didn't look like a poor farmer. He looked like a king.
Rule Number 5: Exercise is good for you.
A few of us have started waking up around 6am to run through the quiet neighborhoods near my apartment en route to a place called the Forest Research Institute. Inside the park it's quiet, green, and there are no cars. There are, however, an astonishing amount of people exercising. Old men with bright orange beards, dyed with henna. Younger men jogging in tight shirts and pants that are too short and barely reach their ankles. Women chattering together in abayat and hijabs, covered down to their toes, only their identical exercise shoes peaking out from underneath.
These morning runs have been a lesson in how tolerant Bangladesh truly is. Calynn was the one who pointed out what an amazing country we live in where it's acceptable for us to run in our t-shirts and sweats in the same park with women with varying degrees of covering. Sure there are stares but that's the case wherever we go. People are often bewildered by our presence but never angry. Of course I haven't forgotten that the rules governing me as a foreign woman are very different than those reining over the local women. I have the liberty to be free and strange and independent with few consequences.
Rule Number 6: Make friends.
And this I have. Every day I am thankful for the company of the people I have met here. Tonight is our Halloween celebration. Trick-or-treaters will be knocking on our door, eager for candy. And I'll be wearing a costume. Be on the look out for the pictures.
Rule Number 1: The crows are King.
I'm not sure there's anyone or anything in Bangladesh with more chutzpah than the thousands of crows that swarm the garbage piles of Chittagong. They are large and sharp-beaked with a collar of feathers around their necks, making them look like members of some ancient, evil royal family. They aren't scared of people or dogs and snap at each other with eager ferocity. I was walking to our favorite bakery one afternoon when a large chunk of raw meat landed on the ground inches away from me. I stared, flabbergasted, wondering where it had come from and if more was on it's way when suddenly the giant black bird swooped down, tossed the flesh in the air once and caught the meat in its mouth. Don't mess with the crows.
Rule Number 2: Electricity is precious.
Power is a constant problem here. I'm pretty used to it by now-- every four or five hours the electricity switches off. The outage time varies, lasting anywhere from a few minutes to a stretch of a several hours. The reasons behind this issue are a little complicated but basically there isn't enough electricity to go around. And the system for transmitting the electricity is not designed to support the demand of a country that has a population of 150 million. And so this is the system we have-- the government which controls a large share of this sector cuts off power at various intervals throughout the day.
I'm really lucky. My housing and the University are so nice that we have back-up generators. That means a few minutes after the power cuts off we get it back. Air conditioners don't work and certain outlets aren't connected but for the most part the building hums along like nothing has changed. Most houses do not have generators so that when the power is out all you can do is swish your hand held fan and wait for it to come back.
At night, the streets are transformed into a world of flickering orange light. Each stall has a tiny lantern and one right after the other the rows give the appearance of a constant candle light vigil. Rickshaw drivers gather around a single flame to repair a broken bicycle wheel. Men play cards in tight circles, squinting to see how good their hand is.
Rule Number 3: Ask for help and people will.
One of the volunteers broke her ankle this past week and had to have surgery. You can imagine that this led to much anxiety and frantic searching for a good doctor. High on my lists of things I hope I never do is have an operation in Bangladesh. But through some faculty recommendations and help from many people we ended up at a Christian missionary hospital called Mulamgraht three hours south of Chittagong. The American and local staff were extremely kind. A nurse from Canada who has lived on the mission for 22 years since the death of her husband was very attentive, explaining everything as we went along, speaking in Bangla to most of the staff in her flat northern accent. The mission also had a school-- little Hindu girls in blue chased after me along their fenced in playground, their hands coming together as if in prayer, with slightly bowed heads as they greeted me with a giddy Nomoshkar.
Rule Number 4: There's no road so narrow that a rickshaw, CNG, car, and a giant bus won't fit.
On my several harrowing trips to and from the hospital this week, I oscillated between genuine fear and outrage at the close calls, near head-on collisions, and utter disregard for my idea of driving courtesy to complete awe of the ability of these drivers to go anywhere at all on roads much to small for so many passengers.
Granted it took us 3 hours to travel roughly 50 miles but the slow pace also allowed for some beautiful views of the tiny villages that cropped up in intervals along the way. One especially spectacular late afternoon an evening rain came in, brushing the twilit market with moisture. As we crawled along I watched black umbrellas blossom like upside down lotus flowers while men bargained for fruits, vegetables, and paan. One vendor sat straight-backed, his arms and legs crossed on a carpet of bright yellow bananas. In the half gray, half golden light, seated amongst his bounty, umbrella overhead, he didn't look like a poor farmer. He looked like a king.
Rule Number 5: Exercise is good for you.
A few of us have started waking up around 6am to run through the quiet neighborhoods near my apartment en route to a place called the Forest Research Institute. Inside the park it's quiet, green, and there are no cars. There are, however, an astonishing amount of people exercising. Old men with bright orange beards, dyed with henna. Younger men jogging in tight shirts and pants that are too short and barely reach their ankles. Women chattering together in abayat and hijabs, covered down to their toes, only their identical exercise shoes peaking out from underneath.
These morning runs have been a lesson in how tolerant Bangladesh truly is. Calynn was the one who pointed out what an amazing country we live in where it's acceptable for us to run in our t-shirts and sweats in the same park with women with varying degrees of covering. Sure there are stares but that's the case wherever we go. People are often bewildered by our presence but never angry. Of course I haven't forgotten that the rules governing me as a foreign woman are very different than those reining over the local women. I have the liberty to be free and strange and independent with few consequences.
Rule Number 6: Make friends.
And this I have. Every day I am thankful for the company of the people I have met here. Tonight is our Halloween celebration. Trick-or-treaters will be knocking on our door, eager for candy. And I'll be wearing a costume. Be on the look out for the pictures.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Evening Commute
Happy October, everyone. Here it is still 90 degrees with 150% humidity, so I'm guessing that means I don't get a Fall. Sorry for my brief hiatus. School has been in full swing and I've been sick twice-- nothing too serious but definitely unpleasant. I've been able to work more directly with students this past month and that has been like a breath of fresh air. By and large they are earnest and hardworking, and curious about the world around them. It's clear that they are trying to figure out exactly who they are out from under the shadow of elders but mindful of their families' expectations. Still-- these women aren't a homogenous group. Some work harder than others. Some write better than others. Some have incredibly tragic pasts. Some are funny. Some are demanding and inconsiderate.
After most (long) days at AUW, I enter the Circus of Crazy otherwise known as the hours between 7-9pm on the streets of Chittagong. We don't live far from school but their are nights when the walk home feels twenty years long, mostly because so much is happening in between here and there. It's dark. Bodies are everywhere, crawling along the narrow avenues we pretend are sidewalks. The streets are choked with cars, trucks, CNGs, rickshaws, and pedestrians weaving in and out each other, like ants making paths in their encased plastic farm. The smell of sweat and dirt and heat mix with the abundance of street food, popcorn, chicken rolls, curries, fried anything. Men wrap paan by candlelight for passersby. Tiny generators vibrate outside the bright one-room stalls that sit one right after another and act as anything from restaurants and tea shops to pharmacies and fruit markets.
People shout. Men stroll holding hands, enjoying each others company. The women out and about are few and easy to spot and the later it gets, the more scarce they become. Sometimes I feel a bit like an endangered species, always amazed when they find one of their own kind. There are beggars galore. Children who pull at your arms, old men with deformed arms and legs, women with matted hair and soiled clothes, the blind of all ages, wearing white and chanting softly in Bangla.
Crossing the street becomes an adventure all of its own. We all have different methods. Julia is the calmest of us all, certain the cars and CNGs will stop, no matter how fast they barrel in our direction. Calynn's feet start in a walk but quickly fall into a scurry reminiscent of a chipmunk just before it is squashed. Trishna and I are somewhere in between, often waiting for a local to cross and tagging along behind him. But we're either doing something right or are just plain lucky. Their haven't been too many close calls.
I always feel a sense of relief when I finally get back to the apartment. The quiet of my solitary room is an incredible contrast to the journey home. But there's something in the heat and immediacy of the city that cannot be shut out by the gates we foreigners surround ourselves with. The smell, the memory of the old woman lying on the ground covered in flies, the brush of CNG metal as it whirs by my shoulder. There's a kinship in this chaos, in this exposed, unvarnished exchange of life. I barter with my students, trading nouns, verbs, and adjectives, simply hoping that knowledge will be currency enough to buy change. The rickshaw driver barters with his customer so that he can eat at the end of the day. The call to prayer barters with souls, giving us five reminders a day of faith's discipline and demands. We are all vendors, selling our street food, whether the goods we are peddling are religion, the English language, addictive betel leaves or even just our point of view.
I just wish I could find a stall that carried the colors of leaves changing and roasted coffee beans. Maybe next week.
After most (long) days at AUW, I enter the Circus of Crazy otherwise known as the hours between 7-9pm on the streets of Chittagong. We don't live far from school but their are nights when the walk home feels twenty years long, mostly because so much is happening in between here and there. It's dark. Bodies are everywhere, crawling along the narrow avenues we pretend are sidewalks. The streets are choked with cars, trucks, CNGs, rickshaws, and pedestrians weaving in and out each other, like ants making paths in their encased plastic farm. The smell of sweat and dirt and heat mix with the abundance of street food, popcorn, chicken rolls, curries, fried anything. Men wrap paan by candlelight for passersby. Tiny generators vibrate outside the bright one-room stalls that sit one right after another and act as anything from restaurants and tea shops to pharmacies and fruit markets.
People shout. Men stroll holding hands, enjoying each others company. The women out and about are few and easy to spot and the later it gets, the more scarce they become. Sometimes I feel a bit like an endangered species, always amazed when they find one of their own kind. There are beggars galore. Children who pull at your arms, old men with deformed arms and legs, women with matted hair and soiled clothes, the blind of all ages, wearing white and chanting softly in Bangla.
Crossing the street becomes an adventure all of its own. We all have different methods. Julia is the calmest of us all, certain the cars and CNGs will stop, no matter how fast they barrel in our direction. Calynn's feet start in a walk but quickly fall into a scurry reminiscent of a chipmunk just before it is squashed. Trishna and I are somewhere in between, often waiting for a local to cross and tagging along behind him. But we're either doing something right or are just plain lucky. Their haven't been too many close calls.
I always feel a sense of relief when I finally get back to the apartment. The quiet of my solitary room is an incredible contrast to the journey home. But there's something in the heat and immediacy of the city that cannot be shut out by the gates we foreigners surround ourselves with. The smell, the memory of the old woman lying on the ground covered in flies, the brush of CNG metal as it whirs by my shoulder. There's a kinship in this chaos, in this exposed, unvarnished exchange of life. I barter with my students, trading nouns, verbs, and adjectives, simply hoping that knowledge will be currency enough to buy change. The rickshaw driver barters with his customer so that he can eat at the end of the day. The call to prayer barters with souls, giving us five reminders a day of faith's discipline and demands. We are all vendors, selling our street food, whether the goods we are peddling are religion, the English language, addictive betel leaves or even just our point of view.
I just wish I could find a stall that carried the colors of leaves changing and roasted coffee beans. Maybe next week.
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