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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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.
Friday, November 14, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.
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.
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