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!)