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.