As the term comes to an end, I realize that I have both settled into my life here and am longing for a break at home. For the first time I am seeing the end of a college semester from a teacher's point of view and understand that it's just as time-consuming and stressful no matter what side of the fence you're on (my friends in grad school may still beg to differ). I'm running into my sixth month in-country and was thinking the other day how different Chittagong seems than when I first arrived. My ride from the airport was a chaotic jumbled mess, but now I can pick apart the pieces of this city and there is a growing familiarity with all the unknown that makes me feel a bit less foreign in my surroundings.
So in honor of the term's end and in tribute to a country that has welcomed me, I thought I'd write about the signs that let you know Bangladesh is no longer that strange country with a weird name but a kind of second home at a University that is quickly becoming the most incredible place I have ever worked.
Without further adieu, you know you've been in Bangladesh six months if...
You have ever feared for your life in a rickshaw.
I named my blog before I arrived in Bangladesh but as luck would have it I could not have chosen a more appropriate name. Rickshaws are everywhere. I was nervous of taking rickshaws at first and also uncomfortable with the idea of a tiny man made of bones and little else pedaling me a distance I could otherwise walk. But I've grown more accustomed to the rides now and even enjoy sitting inside a brightly colored flimsy basket, wind whooshing through my hair, the slight nagging feeling that I'm about to be run over by a giant bus. But there's a closeness to your surroundings and the road feels more real in a rickshaw than a van or a CNG.
(scariest rickshaw ride ever, as you can tell from my face)
The rickshaw drivers, known here as rickshawallas, generally do not own their rickshaws but instead rent them for a daily fee. The cost of a rickshaw ride is unbearably low though it does vary based on distance. Most of what they make during the day goes toward the rental fee with little left to support themselves or their families. In the States college kids pull tourists around in rickshaws with the air of the ridiculous. Here the men carrying other men often seem hollow and sad, all of their energy poured into getting strangers from one place to another while they go nowhere.
You have gained ten pounds from eating too much mishti (and curry, naan, pratha, rice, ghee...)
While my stomach situation has been less than ideal these past months, I have eaten some incredible food here. I could dedicate a book to the bread alone. But it is impossible to talk about Bangladeshis and not mention their sweet tooth. They use sweetened condensed milk in their tea. Sweet shops are everywhere with rows and rows of syrupy, sugary treats (known as mishti). The last few weeks we've been too busy but for awhile, we had a ritual every Thursday night (your Friday) to stop into one of our favorite shops, Fukoli, and each buy a box. An exciting weekend night included us huddling over our flour, butter, and confection with a pirated bollywood movie and thai diet coke. You are now aware of the extent of my social life. Despite it's limitations, I looked forward to laughter and sugar every week.
You have had to get up at 5am to go to work because of a hartal.
So it seems the Bangladeshis like strikes just as much as the French. We've had two this year so far-- political strikes called hartals, announced for various partisan reasons too silly to bore you with, by one of the major parties in the country. Everything is shut down. Businesses don't open and schools are closed from 6am-6pm. Supporters roam the streets to ensure everyone is complying. The first time, AUW was called off. The second time, determined not be interrupted by the nonsense again, the University bussed us in at 5:30, all of staring at each other blurried eyed in the early morning van, not quite sure this was actually happening.
You have a pet goat named Mutton Chop.
Down the street from our apartment building is a small set of corner shops where you can get pretty much anything under the sun (including a Thanksgiving turkey but that's another story). Our favorite of these shops is called Ms. Moonshine. It's tiny but is literally covered floor to ceiling with stuff: peanut butter, dish washing soap, brooms, mops, diet coke, bread, butter, chocolate digestives, corn flakes. The people who work there are really nice, have never tried to overcharge us, and the shop is often better stocked than the grocery store nearby. Next to Moonshine is a small hole in the wall restaurant that looks like a shack. Passing by the open windows there's always a man rolling out dough and popping naan into the oven. There's also a goat that is often tied outside the restaurant nibbling a stem of green leaves or the bits of grass. After passing this goat for several weeks and making a fuss over it the restuarant owners began to point her out to us encouragingly each time we walked by. Once the owner, a jolly man with a round belly, pointed her and said "mutton" with a grin on his face to which we all groaned noooo.
None of us wanted to get too attached to dear sweet Mutton Chop because Eid was fast approaching and we figured she was a goner for sure. So we said our goodbyes to her before heading up to Dhaka figuring it was the last time we'd see her. However when we returned to our utter joy as well as confusion we found she was still alive. Calynn pointed to Mutton Chop and said simply "Eid?" The owner laughed and made a motion over his stomach indicating that our goat was soon to be a mother. It's forbidden to kill any pregnant animal at Eid. And so Mutton Chop lives! And we have babies on the way.
You are a little in love with all of your students.
Just a few hours ago, I came home from the kick-off of our big sister mentorship program (undergraduates paired with Access Acaemy) and dance party. It was similar to the welcome party I wrote about at the beginning of the year, but seeing how much the girls had grown in confidence and English ability left me speechless. The Afghan girls, who are generally never seen without head scarves, danced merrily along with the others. Their hair coverings occasionally slipped down around shoulders revealing youthful pony tails and braids beneath. I chatted with many of the students I have been lucky to know the past five months, wondering how much progress they will have made by the end of the year. For a brief moment I felt a tug of sadness inside to be leaving, even for just three weeks.
Heading home for Christmas tomorrow. So looking forward to being home with my family and in a country with redlights. See you all soon.
