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!