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.