Morning moments, election dreams, and the question of existence.

A moment of my life today:
Though I frequently wake to the sound of a cow (that I could swear is using a megaphone) mooing outside of my window, this morning I received a new wake up call. I was jolted from my sleep by the noise of loud banging on my window. My initial thought was that someone had scaled the wall, and was now clinging to my second story window bars wanting in. This may seem like a rather fantastic first thought, but you must understand that more than once I have opened the curtains in the morning to find myself face to face with someone perched in a papaya or coconut tree working to get the respective fruits. After a few moments of panic (Should I stay in bed? Should I bang back and yell “jao!!” – go away? Why do they want in!??) I heard a loud “khaw khaw!” A bird. I fell back asleep, to be woken up minutes later… same bird. It was early on an off day, I contemplated homicide… but instead got up, flung the curtains open to face my enemy, and thanked him for welcoming me into a new day.

Today is an off day (my sister and brother-in-law’s office is closed) because for the first time in 7 years Bangladeshis are voting for a new government. Two years ago, when the last election should have been, the process was cut short by a military take over in light of charges of corruption and election rigging. Since then they have been in a state of “emergency government” and though I am told Bangladesh has been a little more stable in this state, many rights of the Bangladeshi people were lost to ensure this stability. It is an exciting time to be here. The current atmosphere reminds me a lot of what I imagine the 60s to be like in America. I can’t wait to show you all news paper pictures of huge groups of people protesting and forming human chains around buildings or in roads. The young adults of today are simmering over with desire to see the sacrifices of their parents and grandparents, who won them their sovereignty as a nation separate from Pakistan only 37 years ago, come to fruition. Rina came in this morning late from giving her first vote. She proudly showed me her thumb where a thick black line was drawn to insure that she did not try to vote twice. The papers are oozing with hope for a new tomorrow, often referencing America’s choice of Obama and “change” with faith that Bangladesh can have change too.
Today I say a prayer for Bangladesh, for justice and peace. Things may be a little crazy this next week as the new government comes to power, and I ask you all for prayers as well.

For more info on the election click here.

But what I really need to get off my chest this morning is the question of MOSQUITOES. Listen to this my friends, last night as I was putting down my mosquito net I counted ten of the blood sucking vermin (you don’t have many opportunities to say that and it be literally true) ON my net. ON THE NET! Their cockiness overwhelms me. We assumed that the mosquito population would decrease with the onset of winter here, but evidentially we are now in prime mosquito season. We are told that the mosquitoes are cold outside so they come in… hmmm. Here is the age old question I contemplated last night as I fiercely hunted the intruders – WHY? Why do they exist? What is the point of their presence on this earth? With most animals and insects that interfere in human business there is some underlying environmental reason, we know that somehow the fragile chain of life would be thrown off with out them. But mosquitoes? If any one knows of any reason, ANY, for their presence here, it would give me great peace of mind to be informed.

And now, for your veiwing pleasure, a few pictures:

Us trying out sandals on Ezra for the first time. Didn't take. Who came up with "baby shoes" anyway. Crazy idea if you ask me.

I finally roped Rina in to smiling in a picture with me, she may have given in because she just go this new pink shalwar kameez for Eid.

Thanksgiving cooking. Jeremy is pretty excited.

This is one of those colorful work trucks I mentioend before... except the paint isn't so good on this one, but you get the idea.

Picture taken out of the car window one morning (as is the one at the beginning of this entry, it is of baby banana trees). ISN'T BANGLADESH BEAUTIFUL?? Now in the mornings there is a lot of fog, and over the rice feilds... yeah, it is something to see.

Me after my first time out wearing the orna over my head. I'm feeling pretty proud of myself for my steps in the acculturation process. Do I look natural or what?!

And that's all!!

Ami Khushi!

There are currently quite a few things that I should tell you about (e.g. the huge Muslim Eid holiday that just happened and me watching cows being sacrificed; Ezra making the transition from baby to crazy crawling little boy), but what I have to say is, WE HAVE A BANGLA TUTOR!

We met with her for the first time to plan out our lessons just a moment ago, and we start TOMORROW! The title of this entry says "I am Happy" (or literally "I happy")in Bangla, and friends, I am. I am ECSTATIC actually, but I don't know how to say that in Bangla.

I have not given updates on my Banlga progress mainly because there has not been much of it. I can pretty much get around (buy what I need at markets and introduce myself correctly) but I have yet to have simple conversations entirely in Bangla, and this has driven me crazy.
I am ready for this to change.
It will change.

It is time for cha. More later my friends. More later.

Happy Holidays...

I bet you are all anxious to know what I ate for my Bangladeshi Thanksgiving dinner. I will give 10 taka (ruffly equivalent to 20 U.S. cents) to anyone who can guess correctly from the following options:

a. a large bowl of rice which I attempted to make turkey-shaped

b. a large bowl of curried yams which I attempted to make turkey-shaped

c. a wild Bangladeshi goose which I made say "gobble gobble"

d. all of the above

e. nothing

Everyone consider the options carefully...





And the answer is: E, yes that is right, nothing.

I have been told by many foreign travelers here that you haven't really lived in South Asia until you have been really ill in South Asia. Well, it looks like I've lived here now. After a week on the road with my first real cold, I returned Wednesday evening to my comfortable room in Rangpur only to spend my Thanksgiving Eve running to and from the bathroom. On reflection, I must admit that I am deeply thankful that I was blessed to throw up in the comfort of my own bathroom rather than one on the road.

After my third day spent mostly lying in bed another seasoned traveler explained to me that this was just my internal self "experiencing Bangladesh." I'm praying my internal self is satisfied now.

Now before you start feeling too sorry for me I should let you know that I didn't miss Thanksgiving festivities altogether. On Saturday we had a Thanksgiving party of sorts with a few other Americans (and one Chinese girl) here -- complete even with a miniature plastic turkey and Thanksgiving napkins my mom sent, and cranberry sauce, gravy, and canned yams brought to us by a visiting professor. No turkey though, we went with the wild Bangladeshi goose. Though I couldn't engage fully in the festivities I was able to soak up some holiday cheer.

I must confess that with the onset of the U.S. "holiday season" I have grown a little homesick. I realized it when I was going to sleep recently. You know that time when you are lying in a semiconscious state right before falling asleep and your mind is free to wonder? Well on this particular night I came back to full consciousness realizing that I had been repeatedly counting the number of months until I return home. Of course the truth is that I am not ready to leave, I want to learn and experience a lot more first, but you know, the holidays just get to you.

I yearn to sit in my parents' living room watching A Christmas Story for the millionth time, drink tea with my mom, and discuss the cutting edge church eldership quandaries with my dad. I want to practice somersaults with my nephew Ethan, and stay up late having deep philosophical conversations over wine with my siblings. I want to wear red sweaters, go to too many Christmas parties, and sing Christmas carols too loud too late at night with my crazy college friends.

(long sigh)

After ruminating on all this, and feeling sorry for myself a little, I remembered all those who have been displaced from their homes for much longer than I, and those without even the possibility of returning. So I think this holiday season I will not forget to be thankful for all my loved ones, for having a place to call home, and for years of happy memories, and pray for all who are missing these.

AND I plan to start playing Christmas music around the clock. This will be funny since Bangladesh has a tropical climate (palm trees everywhere), but you just can't pass up a Christmas with out a lot of Jingle Bells and R0ckin' Around the Christmas Tree... even in Bangladesh.

Turning British

Those of you dear friends who journeyed with me to Oxford, England may remember that I had one serious pet peeve there. A pet peeve that in fact turned into a mission of sorts for me. Those of you Texans who were not there may be able to relate. When you are walking down the side-walk in Texas and you pass someone, what happens? YOU ARE ACKNOWLEDGED. There is eye contact, a smile, maybe a nod, a "hello, how are you" or even a "howdy!" In England (in my limited experience) this is not the case. No one notices that you exist. I could have fallen dead on the street and people would have just continued on their way not wanting to cause a scene (yes I'm completely exaggerating to make my point). So while in Oxford I vowed that I would change their ways. I would prove to them how nice it was to "connect" with all those nameless people you pass everyday, what countless possibilities exist when you simply say "hello!"?

Now I am in Bangladesh. When I walk down the street EVERYONE acknowledges my existence. I know I have mentioned this before, but the novelty of it has not worn off yet. Each minute I get a few greetings. If I give even the slightest indication that I am willing to engage with someone 9 times out of 10 a long conversation (sometimes in Bangla I don't understand, and sometimes in an always exciting Bangla-English mix) is commenced.

So here it is, today I realized not only do I miss people ignoring me in England, but I am actually like them here! Most of the time I am out I walk very fast not looking at anyone, and hoping I can keep from having to talk to anyone. Oh how the tables have turned. You can laugh at me now Amy.

Also, I keep having this urge to use a British accent when speaking to people in English here.

Since we have been here people have guessed that we were: English, German, Australian, American, and (the kicker which has happened more than once) Chinese. No joke.
You all just chew on that until my next post.

Pictures!

I have a good internet connection for a while so I thought it was time I put up some pictures!! However, I couldn't figure out how to move these around (I'm so inept with this computer thingamagigger) so in no particular order...

This is one view from our roof deck... not especially exciting, but you'll notice that there is a whole lot of foliage. I love that about Bangladesh, it is so green. And a couple of coconut trees! There are so many fruit trees growing everywhere here!

This is Rina cutting up some papaya (or in Bangla, "pepe"). You can't see it really here, but there is this extension on the knife that she has her leg on to hold it in place. It is amazing what she can do with that thing.

This is some kid who wanders in to our house occasionally... he always wants food.

This is a fancy dinner we had on Jeremy and Alison's birthday. We got sprite!! Also, of course, rice, curried meat and vegatables.

Here is Alison, Ezra, and I on the main road heading for the market. The shawls we have around our shoulders are our "ornas," the long shirts are the "kameezes," and the baggy pants are the "shalwars." And Ezra is wearing a "hat" :-)

Here is Ezra, being held by Rina, and next to her is her mother Fulmoti who watches Ezra. Oh, and they are in our house.
My sister and I hanging out around the house... WITHOUT our ornas on. Scandalous. This is my favorite kameez though. I'll definitely be sporting this in the states so get ready.

The Beggars.

It is late at night (or early in the morning, however you look at) and though I have been pretty avid about going to bed early since I arrived in Bangladesh, tonight after lying in bed for a while, I thought I might as well share some of my wanderings.

Picture this, you are walking down a city street and you see him coming. He approaches you and starts off on the typical story about how he ran out of gas down the road and only needs a few bucks to get him back to X where his 5 children are waiting. And in your mind you are assessing the situation, assessing the man. What is the probability that he is telling the truth? Is he really in need or just scamming you? Is it his own fault that he is in this position?

Now, picture Bangladesh. Though I have been approached by more beggars here than all the rest of my life combined, nothing close to a scene like the one above has ever occurred. And why?? Why because no one in his right mind could question the intense need of people here. No beggar need tell their sob story, it is written on their emaciated faces. As they tap on your car door and put their hands to their mouths, you don’t wonder if they are really hungry. As they lay, barely clothed, along the road, baking in the sun with their hands outstretched, you don’t wonder if they really just want to by beer and party.

The other day while walking home I saw a man with no legs rolling himself down the street while singing loudly. And I mean THE STREET, the street where cars and bicycles are swerving to avoid him. It was at this moment when I suddenly remembered that people with disabilities being simply lain out on the street to beg was not normal in the U.S.

What is bothering me is not guilt as I thought it would be before coming here. Though I do sometimes feel guilty, the greater feeling is flat out rejection. I walk down the streets and starving, disfigured, abandoned people hold out their hands to me. I reject it. I will not believe it. Because if I believe it, if I stand and stare into their eyes, I fear the weight of this reality might crush me. I have read about much worse things, and yet, the first time you see something… well, I guess sometimes seeing is believing in a whole new way.

So there you have it, I have finally allowed myself a negative post.

I am thankful that Mother Teresa did not reject what she saw in Calcutta.

A New America

In this precious moment when I actually have computer access and internet access at the same time, here is what I must say:
I think for the first time in my life I am filled with joy because of the knowledge that I am an American. I am filled with hope because of an election.

Those of you who know me well know I am practically ignorant when it comes to politics and government, but my overflowing heart has little to do with that really. It is because of the people of the United States of America. It is because the whole world has watched a nation that once so completely dehumanized a people that they enslaved them, now hail a man of this same descent as our leader.

I'll say it again, whole world has watched this my friends! For at least the last month everyday in the Bangladeshi paper I read there has been at least one article (and many times more) on the U.S. election. When the outcome was announced the articles read that change had come to America and to the world. That hope was real. Bangladeshi friends I talked with gasped when they heard the news and could not hide their excitement. The front page of the paper had 7 articles about it, one entitled "A US lesson for Bangladesh in positive politics" and another "Dream of US generations personified."

As soon as I heard the news I began praying for our president-elect, who almost literally has the world on his shoulders, and with tears I began thanking my creator that hope and love are alive.

The funny thing is that if you had asked me a few years ago if I thought my country could have a president of African descent I would have said “yes” without a moment's reflection. This answer would have come not from my hope for better days, or my faith in love overcoming racism, but (once again) ignorance. I would have said yes because I had no comprehension of the deep scars that something like the pure evil of slavery could leave on a people. I would have said yes because I was unaware of the sickening inequality and injustice happening all over the world and in my own home town day after day.

But, if only for the moment, a different story has just been told in my homeland. A story I will be glad to tell my whole life. As I confessed before, I still understand little about politics, and little about the man who I will soon call my president. But what I do know is that for once I can say with overwhelming conviction that I am truly blessed to be an American, because I got to see this day and say that I am part of the victory.

Wearing blue jeans

Yesterday about 2pm our little family set out on a trip to the capital. My sister and bro-in-law had work to do and I, of course, came along as the nanny. Picture this all you with children: a seven month old who has only taken a couple of 30 minute naps with some kind of minor stomach issue that is keeping dirty diapers coming around the clock, a sick mom, and four other helpless adults locked in a van for 7hrs with only one opportunity for a pit stop. I won’t go into details, but let me just tell you it was an exciting ride where some new funny faces, sounds, and ways to make water bottles amusing were discovered. We will be taking the train back to Rangpur, thank you Lord.

Now one of the most exciting things about the capital city (besides being able to buy foods we can’t get anywhere else – like CHEESE. A couple of weeks ago I was trying to remember what I ate on a normal basis back home, and suddenly I remembered cheese… what a glorious food) is that because there are so many travelers here you don’t have to wear Bangladeshi clothing. My sister and I have been very excited about this (my brother-in-law could already wear whatever he wanted all the time because he’s a man) and pulled out all our American clothes to sport while we were here. This morning came and I pulled out a normal, fitting, cotton t-shirt and jeans. I put them on with great anticipation. I looked in the mirror: wow, I am soooo American. I look normal! I could be in Abilene right now! I walked around the hotel room. There was no extra fabric hanging down, no designs, it fit! I walked out the door half jogging down the staircase to meet my sister for breakfast in the hotel dinning room. We arrived at the door, and as my sister was opening it I had a mortifying realization: there are other people in the restaurant… they are going to SEE me looking like THIS! There was no way to turn back now as people had already seen me and I needed to take care of Ezra while my sister ate. I walked in and had breakfast feeling awkward the entire time thinking how tight my clothes suddenly seemed and wishing I had an orna to cover up with.

As soon as we were done I ran upstairs and changed into a kameez and orna. Relief immediately followed. I know that western clothes are totally acceptable in Dhaka, but it is amazing how exposed I feel wearing a t-shirt after less than two months here. As frustrating as the clothes can be some times (I’ve already ripped a shalwar and a kameez because of the extra fabric) there is something comforting about being so covered up.
However, I kept the jeans on. Jeans are simply too awesome to give up. So today I am in Bangladesh wearing a kameez and blue jeans and feeling good to be me.

Thank you all for your responses to my plea for help on the blog, they were very helpful! When I have a little more time on the computer I plan to answer the questions you asked.
Oh, but one answer now, the toilet paper here is normal, but most of it is pink – a lot of the tissue is pink too which I find odd. Lots of things are decorative here that aren’t in the states. My favorite is the work/dump trucks. In the U.S. these are generally plain clay-orange, in Bangladesh these are colorfully painted often with elaborate scenes on every side! During the Hindu Durga Puga holiday, we referred to these as “the party trucks” because they would be packed with people in the back riding around jumping up and down and celebrating – I wished I could join them.

Ok, I’m pretty sure my nephew is going to wake up from his nap soon – but I promise one of these days I am going to talk more about learning Bangla.

Till then: Banglavista (word my brother Joe made up to say goodbye before I let for Bangladesh).

Ezra is awake!

The Proposal.

After my long wait it looks like my single days are over, today Jakiralam has asked me to be his wife... or almost. The thing about the language of Bangladesh is that there are no words for "would you." You don't say "would you give me that stapler?" or "would you like to come with me?" It always sounds like a command "give me the stapler", "come with me." And with my western sensibilities it always takes me a moment to realize this is a question, I can say no. So my relationship with Jakiralam started yesterday when I decided to actually stop and say "hello" back to someone. I don't know why but they always seem to want to talk politics (which I know almost nothing about, and even less because they are speaking broken English), and I can tell you it is no fun having to say that I am from "Texas" (they always ask if they know enough English). Then I get to hear all about what they think of our current president. I considered lying and saying I was from Wyoming or something, but I just know it will be the one person who knows something about Wyoming. Anyway, I only chatted with Jarkiralam for a minute yesterday and went on my way thinking nothing of it... then I ran into him again today on my way home.

Jakiralam: "you go to my house, meet my mother and brother."
Me: "uhhhh... what?"
Jakiralam: "you are not married."
Me: "uh. No"
Jakiralam: "why no married?"
Me: "umm...(tyring to think of something that will work with simple language) because I am strong and happy."
Jakiralm: "Oh Em-ee-lee Em-ee-lee, you do not remember my name do you?"
Me: "umm...no."

He preceded to tell me that he was only 30 years old and single and that he had "so much emotion" which I'm guessing meant something to the effect of being in love. I was really caught off guard so I just said "pore dekta hobe" (see ya later) and went into my house.

Rina told me she would tell him off for me tomorrow.

Though everyone here generally keeps a pretty "stoic" attitude, it seems that they get attached really quickly. Rina reminds me everyday that I am her best friend, and now I'm practically engaged. I have got to learn Bangla.

The picture below is of a couple of rickshaws riding by my house, taken from our roof. I really want to get more pictures but actually taking them on the street would be madness. I'd be surrounded by a crowd in no time.



P.S. Thanks for the advice Kelly.

Blog Coaching.

This is the issue my friends, it has come to my attention that I am not naturally talented at blogging. Every time I sit down to write I feel overwhelmed. I think: "is what I have to say interesting? am I droning on or not explaining enough? should this be like a journal of my day or do I explore the philosophical and intangible here? IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?" I guess I've realized I am a little blog-shy (possibly akin to the student who wants more freedom with essay writing, but then can't think of a topic when they are given no direction). Since some of you actually asked me to do this, and I do want you to be connected to my experience out here, I feel it is my duty to continue blogging. However, I need help. I will continue trying to find some sort of flow/focus and overcome my phobia, but in the mean time if anyone would like to tell me what sort of things you'd be interested in knowing it would be much appreciated. For now, so this entry isn't totally void of substance, I am going to give a completely random list of experiences and facts that I hope will be interesting. So... in no particular order:

- I was really worried about there being lots of large strange insects in the house out here, but it turns out what we have the most of (besides ants and mosquitoes) is geckos! They are really cute, but they make this really loud sort of clicking noise (who would have thought?) and they especially like to do it at like midnight in my room.

- I sleep with a green mosquito net on my bed and sometimes I pretend I'm sleeping outside in the jungle or something when I get it.

- We have electricity here but it goes out at least 4 or 5 times a day, at which point the guard (which is always posted at the gate to the house) is supposed to go turn on the generator which doesn't provide as much power, but can keep things up at about 75%. When this happens in the night sometimes it is a few minutes before the guard realizes he needs to turn on the generator, and so frequently I will wake up in the night knowing something is terribly wrong but I can't figure out what, then I realize my fan is off and the temperature is rising every second! Anxious moments go by, while I pray for the guard to get up.

- Most men here wear normal western looking clothing (ie t-shirts and jeans, button down the front shirts and slacks) however women wear saris, burkas, or shalwar kameezes (this is what i wear). It is really funny to see men and women going down the street together, it's like two worlds meeting.

- The other day Rina and I were walking to the market and this man stopped to stare at me and he said (in Bangla) "are you a bideshii?" It took me a moment to process this, and just as I was about to answer in the affirmative Rina grabs my hand and pulling me away says "no, she is Bangladeshii." It was great.

-Oooh, another funny moment with Rina: So she is teaching me words all the time, and in one lesson she taught me a few different words for "dirt" (i.e. sand, clay) and she also happened to teach me the word for man (does anyone see where this is going?). So later as I am reviewing the lesson I got mixed up and pointed to some men and said "bahloo" (dirt), then pointed to the dirt and said "mahnoosh" (man). Rina and I laughed so hard that even more people than usual stared at me.

- I have been reading this book called Affluenza that is about "the American consumption epidemic." It is a great read, and especially poignant when living in a poverty stricken place. One of my favorite quotes (which they actually quoted from "anonymous," honestly, what is the point of quoting "anonymously?") is "Americans must live simply so others may simply live."

-Usually we eat some kind of curry fish or chicken with rice and vegetables at our meals. For a while though Rina started trying to "cook American" and made us fried chicken (which still had curry seasoning in it) and french fries three days in a row. We then had to explain to her that Bangladeshiis eat better than the average Americans, and we wanted to stick with the Bangladeshii way. Though - as I have said before - on the whole my food experience has been great, I am really missing cold cereal. Evidently most of the world thinks Americans are crazy for liking cold cereal for breakfast. I don't care though, I love it... ah cereal...

- This past Sunday, after many failed attempts due to language difficulties, I finally attended a service at a little Baptist Christian church here. It was entirely in Bangla but I completely enjoyed it. I have missed church. One of my favorite moments was when the electricity went out (which made it pitch black since the service was at night) and the preacher did not miss a beat, just kept right on. Oh, and when I realized that all the other women had pulled their ornas (big scarf that women where over their chests) over their heads for service and I had not. Ah!

- So a lot of you have been asking me things like "so Emily what do you DO over there?" And the answer: currently not a lot. I know it's ridiculous but mostly I've been reading. I plan to find a place to volunteer, since I only watch Ezra a few days a week, but our living situation has been up in the air. I couldn't start anything not knowing what city I would be living in. It looks like now that we will actually be moving to Gaibandha, a city a couple hours away. It is good to finally know where we will be, but the news is pretty sad because our staff may not be able to come with us, and I had high hopes for being a part of the church here.

- The other day I went to the vegetable/meat market with Rina (which was CRAZY) and for the first time in my life I saw my food alive before I ate it. Very scary.


Ok, that is all for now. I wanted to put some pictures up but the computer is having problems so I am just going to go ahead and get this out.

Asalam Walekum <-The Muslim greeting meaning, "peace be with you."

Don’t worry Mom, I only got one tattoo… so far.

When you find yourself in a foreign culture totally ignorant, you learn to become constantly inquisitive. And, when this culture also happens to speak a foreign language, you must confine yourself to questions of the physical nature. The story of my “tattoo” (take a deep breaths Mom, this will be alright in the end) begins with a simple question. This question was directed to our cook Rina (pictured above holding my nephew on our roof deck), as most of them are.
Rina is the daughter of the other nanny (we have different shifts) Fultmoti. She is 27 years old, has two daughters, and she is a Christian, which is an amazing rarity in Bangladesh, but she is married to a Muslim man. As soon as I saw Rina, I knew we would be friends.

Since I’ve mentioned them, I should take a detour to tell you about our staff: We have three staff persons, Rina, Fulmoti, and Anwara. Rina cooks all our meals (and sometimes snacks!) which are mostly very good, although I am still getting used to some of the strange vegetables, and constantly being on my guard for fish bones and hidden chili peppers (they are like landmines that explode in your mouth!). Anwara cleans, which entails sweeping and mopping everyday (otherwise we’d have crazy ant infestation in no time), making our beds each morning (it is soooo weird to have someone make my bed for me, I feel like I am five years old), and washing all our clothes by hand, among other things. As I said before, Fulmoti also takes care of my nephew Ezra. These ladies are all very nice and they have a great sense of humor about my Bangla. They giggle at me as I pace around muttering things like “Robibar, Shombar, Monglebar…” (i.e. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday..).

As I was saying before the tangent, I knew Rina and I would be friends. After about a week of awkwardness where the staff stayed in their area, and the rich, white, American, princess (for this is how I usually feel here, I’ll have to go more in-depth on this issue in another entry) stayed in hers, the barrier was broken. I marched in the kitchen where Rina and Anwara were and said, in my best Bangla, “Ami dekte pari?” (“Can I watch?” or literally “I see can?”). I got blank stares. I said it again, they began to talk to each other trying to figure out what I meant. I eventually gave up and got my Bangla phrase book and showed them the sentence in Bangla script. They laughed and pronounced it correctly for me. After this I was given some Bangladeshi cha (tea) and Rina proceeded to sit down with me and pronounce practically every word in the little vocabulary section of my phrase book. Since then Rina and I have been as close of friends as two people with completely different backgrounds and close to zero common language can have.

Our conversations generally go something like this:
Me: (pointing) What is that?
Rina: *word for it in Bangla*
Me: *Repeat word*
Rina: Do you like it?
Me: Yes, it is very nice.
Rina: Good *goes off on things I don’t understand*
Me: I don’t understand.
*we laugh*

This, my friends, was exactly how the tattoo incident began. I noticed on one hand Rina had her fingernails half dyed clay-red, like a French manicure of sorts. So the conversation went as usual, except that I really punctuated the niceness of it since I was talking about her personal appearance. During the part where Rina talked and I had no idea what she was saying, I came to understand that she wanted to do it for me sometime. I thought “a little dye on my fingernails is no big deal – sure this will be fun.” So I heartily agreed. Little did I know reader, this enthusiasm was to be my downfall. The next day Rina shows up very excited with a tube of dye. She hands it to me and with a special smile says “pore” (later). I look at the box and see pictures of hands with designs all over them.

*Pause: Rina has just called me in to have cha with her.*

And I’m back – I really love Bangla cha. As far as I can tell it is just regular black tea, but they make it very sweet and put extra spices in (all I am sure of is cinnamon) and let it brew for a long time.

Ok, really I am going to finish this ridiculously long blog.
So, later Rina calls me in the kitchen. She has the dye and is pointing to the pictures asking me which one I like. I’m totally confused and point to my fingernails. Rina says “yes yes,” smiles and points to the pictures again. We go on like this for a while before I give up. I think “I’m not really into this kind of thing, but a flower on my hand would be fine, hey, I’m getting acculturated!” We proceed. I won’t go into the play by play, but a flower on my hand turned into a two day process including the gathering and mulching of leaves and me with out the use of my right hand for hours. Through most of the “design process” I was able to confine Rina to the top side of my right hand (well, and my arm where evidently she wrote my name in Bangla script), but in the end she pleaded for me to let her put a simple design on my palm. I acquiesced since my hand was already a mess I figured why not let her finish the job? I was surprised as she finished shaping the object on my hand. It was a heart. I pointed to it and said “English, heart” expecting Rina to tell me what the shape was in Bangla, but instead she smiled at me and said “yes, I love you.”

Now, to be sure, the inside of my hand looks like it is the artwork of Ellianna Carter, and though it is challenging to my vanity to know that evidently for a couple of months I will be constantly adorned this way – how can I be anything but thankful? For no apparent reason, someone here loves me.

So that is the tale of my quasi-tattoo (enjoy the pictures). I hope to learn this art well enough that I can pass it on to all of you when I get home. Oh, and in case you are worried about being left out boys, never fear; the men here dye their hands too!

Still Me & Still Monolingual

So, I have now traveled thousands of miles over land and sea, by planes, trains, and rickshaws, bought a new wardrobe, completely changed my diet, and been so befriended by a Bangladeshi army doctor that she asked me to call her so we could “gossip.” However, the issue remains: I am still me. I don’t know if anyone else has ever suffered from the fantasy that changing your local will magically transform you as a person, but I definitely have. The word for foreigner here is bedeshii. I am so bedeshii. When I walk down the street (no joke) almost everyone stops and stares at me.

One of the biggest delusions I had was concerning language. The language spoken in Bangladesh is Bangla (in English sometimes people refer to it as Bengali which makes no sense to me since Bangla is just as easy to pronounce). It is derived from Sanskrit, and the closest spoken language to it is Hindi. Bangla just happens to be very different from English (shocking right?), yet somehow I came to believe that if I just moved here – where everyone speaks Bangla – it would come naturally. This was a very miscalculated assumption. Far from coming naturally I have become mute here. The other day I was in my room reflecting on my predicament when Miracle Worker (a play I was in about Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan) rushed into my mind.

Mrs. Keller: Miss Annie, what will you teach Helen first?
Annie: First, last, and in between, language.

Annie goes on to describe the importance of language, how it could be Helen’s eyes and ears. I definitely identify. I am completely handicapped currently. I find myself longing for an Annie Sullivan to fight me till I learn the words. But, alas, it seems I will have to fight myself.

The truth is, this place is incredibly interesting and I want so badly to truly be a part of it. There are people everywhere ready to talk to me – ready to teach me about this new world I’ve dropped into. Everyone who goes to school here learns a little bit of English, so on my daily 5 minute walk to the research office I hear at least 10 “hellos” and “how are yous?” as I walk, usually from school children riding by who giggle when I turn and look at them. We also have three household staff in the house with me everyday, but the most I have been able to say is the Bangla words for “yes” and “no.” Mostly I smile a lot. It’s ridiculous.

Well, thanks for reading my blog! I will keep you updated on my language process (if you have any tips on learning, please send them my way), and in my next entry maybe I’ll remember to actually talk about what life is like here.

Khuda hafiz! ("Goodbye" in Bangla, I actually remembered that!)