A Trip to a Dokan

(Note: this picture is, sadly, not of the dokan and dokan walla I describe in the post below, but I thought it would help you get the idea none-the-less ;-)

I just returned from a trip to a dokan (shop) where I have been buying the majority of our household items since we moved to the city of Gaibandha. It is a few blocks from my house right at the junction of the main market road. The dokans here are sort of open stalls lined up along the roadside crammed with various goods from birthday cakes (that sit in their cases for longer than I want to imagine) to Dove shampoo (they have an astonishing number of soaps and shampoos here!). The same boy (the dokan walla) is always there. He is always sweet and nervous when I come which makes him speak in a mumbled, laughing Bangla that leaves me constantly nodding and smiling, clueless. Every time I go basically the same scene plays out, ending at various points depending on what mood I am in.

I arrive and the dokan walla tells me “bosho, bosho!” (sit down!). I refuse, he says it again, I give in and sit on the small bench that just barely fits on the open floor in front of the counter. I try to tell him what I need that day, but he ignores me and walks to the small freezer that sits in the dirt outside the shop.

“Ice cream kabe?” he says. Will you have ice cream?
“Na na na, kabe na” I answer. I will not.
“Aske onek groom, kao.” It’s so hot today, take it.
“Na na na, lagbe na.” No, I don’t need it.

And thus we continue arguing until the point where he puts the ice cream in my hand and I begin eating it. By this time (if not earlier) people have begun to notice my presence at the dokan and a group makes their way over. While I attempt to get the ice cream into my mouth (the freezers are usually not especially cold, so it begins to liquefy immediately upon contact with the hot hair) some people will stand outside the shop staring at me, while a few brave souls will squeeze in to begin the normal barrage of questions (usually these are a mix of Bangla and English, I’ll just stick with English).

The men: What is your country?
Me: America.
The Men: What is your service?
Me: My sister works for Jivita. I care for her son.
The Men: How long have you been in Bangladesh?
Me: Since last September.
The Men: How do you like Bangladesh?
Me: I like it very much.
The Men: How do you like the people of Bangladesh?
Me: They are very nice, I like them.
The Men (while exchanging smiles and patting each other on the back, they come to the question they have been working up to the whole time): Are you married?
Me: No.
The Men: Hmmm... so you are unmarried?
Me: Yes.

My hands are sticky and the dokan walla hands me a glass of water which I take outside and pour over my hands.

The men are unconvinced about my singleness. They ask in a few different ways just to make sure I am, in fact, available, then the joking begins. Would I marry a Bangladeshi, how do I feel about their skin color, could I take any of them to America, etc.

During all of this I try to work in asking for my various groceries. The dokan walla will look a little nervous when I ask for an item or two. He glances around the shop, taps his chin, and tells me he has it and then runs off. It took me a while to figure out what happened then, but I came to realize that the small dokans (all lined up together and having almost the same things) just buy from each other for their customers. So my walla goes out and buys my things from someone else, and then runs back 5-10 minutes later.

The crowd then asks about my education. I say I am getting a masters in psychology (because it is the most simple answer… have I mentioned this before in the blog?). They all nod and repeat the clearly strange word knowingly, “ah, psychology.”

When all of my things are assembled they are packed away in small net bags, or makeshift paper bags of used papers stapled at the edges, and (depending on the quantity) sometimes a big plastic bag that was obviously the packaging for something else.

I look out to the road and make eye contact with a passing rickshaw walla. I reach out my arm and with my hand down open and close it once (the sign here for “come”). He pulls over on the dirt and waits.

As the dokan walla totals my tab the men tell me to stay and have cha with them.
“Shamoy nai” I say, shaking my head. I don’t have time.
“Apnar mobil ache?” Do you have a cell phone?
“Ji.” Yes.
“Apnar nombar den.” Give me your number.
“Na” I say with a smile that lets them know I am their friend, but won’t be their girlfriend.
“Acha!” they say with a laugh. I see!

I pay. I get a few taka discount. I walk to my rickshaw with everyone calling “abar dekha hobe!” See you again!

And that my friends, is a typical shopping trip in Bangladesh.

Ponderings.

I’m not sure what this blog is about. I wrote it a month or two ago and discovered it again recently. It seems worthy of posting though, if only to share an important piece of what goes on in my mind while I wonder and wander in the East.

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Yesterday I stood on the roof holding Ezra. It was about dusk, and for some reason there was none of the usual clatter coming from the road. It was just an ordinary moment when quietly a change came over me. My skin registered the feeling of the light breeze; my eyes took in the leaves of the rain tree dangling over me; my ears noticed the bird calls; and then I became aware of Ezra, still and listening and feeling too, taking in the coming evening with me. Then the words of a psalm came to mind:

“I have calmed and quieted my soul. Like a weaned child is my soul with in me.”

And I thought, oh, this is beauty.

Though my blog never seems the appropriate place to talk about it, since I came to Bangladesh I have made a concerted effort to face pain and suffering. Part of the education that I have sought here was a deeper understanding and experience of these things. So I have paid attention to pain and suffering. I have thought about it, I have tried not to allow myself to ignore it, or soften it, pretending that the people I see living lives of constant deprivation are really not feeling so bad, pretending that the children I see begging on the street don’t mind. I am glad of all of this (if you can use the word “glad” for it), but this moment, as others earlier have, reminded me of one of the traps you can get caught in when choosing to see the dark side of life: I forgot the beauty. Truly when I looked around me it was like I hadn’t been in this place before. In seeing and believing in the scum of the earth, I became blind to the beauty.

Now reflecting on this experience, I wonder, how can I do both? Sometimes it seems to me that when I have eyes looking for the impoverished and oppressed (who are often invisible to those of us fortunate enough to be out of the group), I render myself unable pick up on the good. Like a hypochondriac who comes to see everything as a possible symptom of disease, I come to connect everything with darkness. But the opposite problem is so often true. I want to see things as beautiful. I don’t want to experience pain or believe in its existence, and so I reject or gloss over much of the dark reality around me.

I find it easier to skip both of these experiences actually; to walk through life seeing beauty and pain alike as a tourist. You see something pretty, snap a picture and go back home to tell about it. You see an abandoned man in a nursing home, a documentary about the children in Africa, and you hold a picture in your mind, shed a tear perhaps, store away the knowledge for your next intellectual conversation about humanitarian crisis in the world, and get back to life. This is what I do.

The real experience of either light or darkness I think is profound and often difficult to come to terms with. I think the truly wise people are those that learn how to accept both, those who find a way to walk through life with eyes wide open to beauty and pain, darkness and light, holding real joy in one hand with sorrow in the other.

But as for me, I am not yet so wise nor so strong though I seek to be; not yet so deep though I pretend to be. I throw up my hands and admit that I do not know how to deal with both. My mind and heart turn to putty in the face of it. The darkness is too dark, and the light too bright for me to look at them steadily. I just take quick glimpses.

I hope though. That’s what I do most of the time. I hope that I will learn. I hope that one day my words will mean something more than the grasping wonderings of a romantic mind. I hope that eventually my forced glimpses will turn into a holding gaze. A gaze that will give me the knowledge and wisdom to experience the moments of life in their totality, not pretending, imposing, or snapping pictures. I hope to live a life that enables me to give good gifts to others, gifts that can only come from one who is living in the truth.

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For a while I looked for a photo to go with this blog entry. After not being able to find one that seemed good for it, I re-read it and felt the irony of my quest. Of course there is no picture to go with a blog about not experiencing life in pictures… being human is such a paradox.

Oh Bangladesh.

So I am now almost exactly two months from my return journey. After the 9 months that have passed it seems like not long at all and my mind drifts more and more frequently toward that day. As such, I have begun making a list of things that I will be leaving behind to help me remember when they are far away and I wonder if I dreamed this year. Some of these things I will miss dearly, others I can hardly wait to free myself from, but most are a little of both. I often find myself thinking how something drives me crazy, but then the idea of it not being there makes me a little sad. You know what I mean. It has become standard for my sister and I, when experiencing many of the things on this list to give a little sigh and say "Oh Bangladesh."

1. The constant jingling of bicycle and rickshaw bells.
2. “Announcer” rickshaws blaring out music, advertisements, or community news at all hours of the day and night.
3. Random groups of people riding by in large trucks shouting.
4. Riding in rickshaws and haggling over taka.
5. My bathroom floor always being wet because they don’t have separate shower areas here.
6. My digestive system not being crazy (I’ll spare you the details, but man, this is definitely something I am excited to leave behind).
7. Conversations of crazy mixes of Bangla and English… and speaking in English slowly, loudly, and without contractions (i.e. “NO I AM NOT HUNGRY”).
8. Bangladeshi food… and having some one else make it… and on the flip side, American food, and getting to make it myself.
9. GIANT spiders.
10. GIANT mosquitoes (now that I think about it you could really just have a whole list of insects here…).
11. The panic of realizing I just accidentally stepped out my door without my orna on, and our guard turning the other way and pretending he hasn’t noticed anything.
12. All the green and the blue (i.e. coconut trees, mango trees, litchi trees, rice patties, rivers, streams and ponds, EVERYWHERE, oh, and rain).
13. Sweating. All the time.
14. Knowing that when I walk down the street everyone notices me… and the occasional excitement of having men burst out into love songs when they see me coming.
15. Going to 15 different tiny shops to find item I need.
16. Hearing gossip about who had a “love marriage.”

17. Scented facial tissue that I swear has been dipped in men's cologne.
18. Arguing with “servants” trying to get them to stop calling me “madam.”
19. Trying to explain why I am not married and why "no I am not interested in marrying you” (although especially since I live in Abilene and my age is breeching the legal Church of Christ limit this problem may follow me home ;-).
20. Ezra. I can’t say more about that or I’ll turn into a worthless puddle of sentimentality.

Whoops, it’s too late. The list will have to stop here for now.

Happy New Year! Or “Ceasper, I’m just acting!”

Remember how once upon a time I said I would post a blog with a video of my next drama? I have finally remembered that myself. So here it is my friends. I couldn’t put up the whole thing because after I explained asides* to Ceasper he took full advantage of the new understanding and a skit that should have been 4 minutes turned into 15…. Oh, and it was lengthened by the fact that Ceasper refused to believe that any drama (even an improv about a foreigner) was complete without a song and a poem.

So, the basic plot: I am an American tourist named Britney (yes, I chose the name on purpose because everyone here knows Britney Spears) who has been in Bangladesh only a week and is having trouble figuring out how to catch a rickshaw. My friend Ceasper (in the skit named “Dumketu” which evidentially means “comet”) is a Bangladeshi man who happens upon me and decides to attempt to seduce the witless bideshi. The skit progresses as the two try to understand each other using Britney's Bangla phrase book. In the course of things Dumketu sings for Britney (something that actually does happen to me here) and he has Britney mimic a poem he recites.

The section I am putting up here is the big finale. Dumketu has just told Britney that the celebration she sees is the Bangladeshi New Year (which is actually what we are performing at, is this brilliant stuff or what?). Britney argues at first, not knowing that there can be any new year other than her own. Once Britney is brought up to speed, Dumketu asks "tomar deshi ki hoy?" (what do you do in your country?). I, of course, do not understand ("Ami buji na") and attempt to look up the words in my phrase book. He then begins to act out** what he thinks we do (leaving out the hilarious, but inappriote immitation of being drunk he did in rehearsal), building up to our New Year kisses "choomoo." At the critical moment, Britney sees a rickshaw and jumps up to catch it.

So I feel like I could have done an entire blog series just on our rehearsal process, which I think was more interesting than the performance itself. In the midst of cutlural and language confusion trying to direct and be a part of a quasi improved skit was more of a challange than I expected. The biggest obstacle was overcoming Ceasper's missunderstanding of realistic acting. Even though he knew that my character, Britney, was the one who didn't understand his Bangla (not me), over and over again we would be in the midst of a run and Britney would say "ami buji na" and Ceasper would kind of furtively look around to see if anyone could hear, then lean over and translate his Bangla into English. Though I was patient with this at first eventually it propelled me into yelling "Ceapser, I'm JUST ACTING!" Following the outburst was a speech about the importance of staying in character no matter what (to which I wanted to add "or I'll strangle you" but held myself back).

So that is the end of my short lived acting career in Bangladesh. Though the experience is one I wouldn't trade, two performances were enough to satisfy me for the rest of my life. Since then I have begun teaching an English class at my NGO, an activity I find demanding as many of my theatre skills as drama itself. Like for instance, frequently I must "act" like I understand English grammar... :-)

*Asides: If you happen not to be a theatre buff yourself, an aside is dramatic convention often used in Shakespeare where a character speaks directly to the audience unnoticed by other characters.

** Cultural Note: If I haven't made this clear in earlier blogs, in Bangladesh (outside of the capital) the vast majority of men and women make no physical contact in public, and in private only between close relatives or spouses. One of the funniest things here has been guys who get excited about shaking my hand. At the end of this performance there was a long line formed to do just that.

Ceasper Part II & My Acting Debut

In case you don't have the motivation to read this entire blog, but just want to look at the pictures really (I often feel that way) I'll make a long story short by letting you know that one could sum up the following episode by saying: I've been discovered.

If you have not you may want to take a quick jog down memory lane by reviewing my post from Feb. 9th ("Crazy Women Drivers") in which I describe having a conversation with one of my co-workers about John F. Kennedy and Shakespeare. I now lovingly calling this man (to my non-Bangladeshi friends and family): Ceasper.

So a couple of weeks after the JFK talk, Ceasper was giving me a speech comparing sentences to the body and soul ("the verb is the soul of a sentence!!") and low and behold it finally came up that I am an actress. Ceasper practically fell all over himself at the word. Next thing I knew I was agreeing to do a Shakespearean (Ceaperean?) monologue at a cultural performance on their Independence Day (March 26th). In Bangladesh they have a phrase that they use in many more situations than we would in the US and this is how I responded to Ceasper when he asked me to do the performance: "keno na?" or "why not?"

I thought "keno na" because:
A) The people in the audience will not understand the language I am speaking (I mean, heck, half of the people who do speak English say they can't understand Shakespeare)
B) The acting style here (from what I have seen) is pretty over dramatic, therefore as long as you seem pretty emotional people think it is great, and...
C) I'm an American, GIRL. Most people will probably be so struck dumb by simply seeing some crazy American chick up on stage they won't even consider that I am acting.

So, I went forth my friends. I chose Juliet's "banished" speech from Romeo and Juliet and Ceasper created a Bangla translation of the monologue which he performed after me (cracking me up by trying to act as much like me as possible, a little of this is in the following video). And before I was given the "go ahead" to be in the show, I had to perform the monologue about 10 times for this group of men (who did not know much English) and have them direct me over and over again to "move around more" and "be more emotional."Oh, and also they asked me if I could dress like Juliet would have. I told them I didn't have anything here like that. They said "you do not have jeans or a t-shirt?" I tried to politely explain that though we do wear jeans and t-shirts in the West now, Juliet would not have.

I was also privileged to get to watch part of the rehearsal for the bangla drama (part also included in the video) that was in the show. It amazing how despite the vast differences in local, culture, religion (the list could go on and on), I think I can safely say now that there is something inexplicably similar about theatre people across the board. Sitting down and watching the last dress rehearsal (which meant that everyone was wound tight and suddenly couldn't remember anything they were supposed to do) felt like coming home. The director even reminded me a lot of Jay Reese.

So, the night came. I'm not sure what was said for my introduction because up until the moment I walked on stage I was frantically trying to get the "stage manager" (maybe?) to make it clear to me whether I was supposed to carry around a mic or not, however, Ceasper told me beforehand that he planned to introduce me as "Emily, big Merican (his version of "American") stage actress from Texas University." The following performance that a group of probably 100 Bangladeshis (and my sister, brother in law, and nephew) saw on Independence Day was something I rather cringe to think about (which is why, I'm sorry to inform you, my pride will not allow me to put up a clip from it). I did as I was directed. I moved around, threw myself on the floor even, used a hysterical voice, and pretended to weep. As I expected the audience seemed rather dumbstruck, but I was told afterward that my performance was (and I quote from Ceasper) "unlike anything we have ever seen before," with the caveat that they wish I had carried around a mic.

The next day at the office Ceasper informed me that the bigwigs at the cultural club were eager to have me back, but that this time we should do something together. "What did you have in mind," I ask. And without missing a beat Ceasper replies "the death scene from Othello." Now, if you are not laughing here perhaps I should remind you that this scene is perhaps one of the most dramatic duet scenes in Shakespeare's dramas. It begins with Othello caressing Desdemona as she sleeps, then, when she awakes, him chasing her around and eventually smothering her to death. If you don't think this is funny yet, watch the video and see who Ceasper is.

Though I must admit the prospective hilarity of the performance was tempting to me, in the end I convinced him instead to do a skit I made up making fun of clueless foriegners (such as myself a few months ago) in Bangladesh. We rehearsed about a week ago and I was quite impressed at Ceasper's improv skills when speaking his own language. I am still not sure what to expect, but we perform this coming Tuesday for the Bangladeshi New Year. I promise to put up a video of it this time no matter the outcome (however, this time it will be English speakers who do not know the language).

And now, the evidence that it all really happened.



Clips from the Bangla Drama and the end of Ceasper doing his version of Juliet's monologue... with me trying to keep a straight face.

Me being dramatic, #1.

Me being dramatic, #2.

The whole cast at the end of the Bangla drama.

The tech guys at the sound system.

The village set.

And now, to tag on something completely unrelated, a quick mosquito update:
1) My nephew has learned to react to the Bangla word for mosquito, "mosha," by frantically swatting the air
2)They keep getting bigger - I JUST killed one the size of a nickel!

3) I find myself wondering what it will be like to go a day without getting bit... that may be a big part of my re-acculturation process. I'll be paraniodly (can I say that?) slapping imaginary mosquitoes and one of you will shake me and say "Emily get ahold of yourself there's nothing there!"

I raced a rickshaw...

to work this morning.

I know what you are thinking: yes he was pulling his "rickshaw cart" and a passenger, and I had only myself. However, I would like to point out his advantages which you may not realize: a) experience, he's probably been on the road since he could walk and therefore does not have the cumbersome trepidation I have, b) he is on a three-wheeled vehicle and cannot easily be toppled over, AND people get out of the way for him whereas: c) people are stopping in front of me to stare.

The race was of course accidental, but I think we both knew what was happening. When he first passed me he leaned over and gave me a patronizing "hello" (how do you say "hello" in a patronizing tone you ask? I just knew people, I just knew). I was not going to stand for this. I bid my time well, and when the opportunity arose I flew past him with a little "hello" of my own. This went on for a couple of kilometers before, I am happy to report to you, I beat him by at least a few feet.

Today, I have tasted sweet victory.
However, I also moved up to 4th grade today. I had to do math... I was not as victorious there, but you know, you can't win them all.

Auntie!

So since my first nephew was born just a little over three years ago I have dreamed of the day that I would be called “Auntie” or “Aunt Emily,” “Auntie Em,” "Big E"... you get it. March 31 my third nephew, Luke Russell Savage, was born and my dreams have come true. Someone is calling me Auntie non-stop… it is just not one my nephews.

This is Bonnie (and me... obviously). She is Rina’s (our cook, and my best friend) youngest daughter. For the first 6 months I was in Bangladesh, Bonnie, despite Rina’s constant prodding, wanted to have NOTHING to do with me. When the family and I came to the little birthday party Rina threw for her, and offered her presents she looked us over very suspiciously for a long while before snatching them from us and moving to the other side of the room to open them. I tried a lot of tactics to win her over, you know, buying her with candy, giving her a lot of special attention, trying not paying any attention to her but just being in the vicinity using something I thought she might be interested in to lure her... all to no avail. After so many months of of failed attempts at befriending her I had all but completely given up, when about a month ago Rina happened to bring Bonnie to the house one day when I was working outside and I accidentally started a game of hide and seek with her. That was all it took. An accidental game and next thing I know I am constantly hearing "Auntie!!!!" yelled by Bonnie as she searched for me through the house.

As much as I am still looking forward to hearing one of my blood-related nephews call me their aunt, it is pretty wonderful hearing it from Bonnie who knows no other English and (as far as I can tell) does not speak to anyone outside of her family. I am very thankful that friendships can form without sharing a common language, because though at this point I can communicate what I need to pretty well in Bangla, Bonnie's five-year-old method of speech is completely out of my realm of expertise. She talks to me non-stop, but luckily doesn't seem too frustrated by my lack of understanding and simply pulls me wherever she needs me to go. In the picture above, Bonnie had just pulled me out in to the yard and decided it was time we adorn ourselves with flowers.

So, since I am on the children topic, I should let you know that I have began attending 1st grade (or "phela class") here. My office runs a school on the grounds and I've begun sitting in when I have time. I have got to tell you, I wish so badly I had been doing this since I got here! They are learning all the things I have needed, the alphabet, the numbers, correct pronuciation, and of course the teachers are really patient and repeat things a million times. I need one of them as a tutor. One of my favorite moments in class so far was one day when they had game time and I was told they were starting a game called "good morning." This game is just like duck duck goose, except when the "goose" is tagged, the children run opposite ways around the circle and when they meet they have to shake hands and yell "GOOD MORNING!" before racing to get to the open seat first. I can not describe how utterly delightful it was to watch these little Bangladeshi children racing around shouting muddled "good mornings" to eat other... perhaps I'll catch it on camera next time.

And speaking of next time, I really am going to write about Ceasper and my acting debut... next time. Until then... GOOD MORNING!!