Don't Order the Chawmine

First and foremost: HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MOM! It’s a bit of a painful mother’s day for me, since it’s making me think of home so much more at a time when I’m already feeling a bit homesick. But I miss you Mom and love you lots! J

It’s been a bit crazy these past few days, with plenty of ups and downs. Much to tell! By the way, we’re now at day 11 of my 100 days! Over one tenth of the way through! I’ve been gone from home for just over a week (though it feels much longer than that!) and yesterday marked one week in Bangladesh!

Tuesday morning, Robi brought me to get my SIM card working; now I have a Bangladeshi cell number! I’m pretty sure the guy ripped me off completely with what he charged, but that’s kind of just the downside of being white in Bangladesh.

In the afternoon, I had my first language lesson. Robi accompanied me in a CNG, which makes driving in Dhaka that much more frightening (which, to be honest, I didn’t think was possible). CNG stands for Compressed Natural Gas, which is what it runs on, but it’s also known as a baby taxi. Basically, it’s a cage on wheels. You cram in the back, and are divided from the driver by hard metal mesh, which also makes up the rest of the body of the CNG. Since they are small, CNGs love to weave around other vehicles, making it a hair-raising experience.

Snigdha, my Bangla teacher, is very nice and very good at what she does. She is very fluent in English, and clearly understands the common issues and mistakes Anglophones make in Bangla. Plus, her classes are structured in a very practical way. The first lesson, for example, I learned how to hire a rickshaw or CNG, which is basically essential here in Dhaka. Some things about Bangla are really easy and make so much sense, while other things seem unnecessarily complicated. Numbers, for example. While in English, our number system has a pattern (twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three) with minimal exception (eleven & twelve), Bangla numbers do not have as much of a pattern. Basically every number up to one hundred is different!

In the evening, a little while before dinner, Shumon invited me to join him for another trip to the market. I was wearing my brand-new lungi (a reminder to those that missed it or forgot: a long sarong-like cloth you wear kinda like a long skirt. Or kilt. Yes, for masculinity sake, let’s say kilt), and because it was just an informal trip to the local market it was ok to leave it on. We bought some fish, which was interesting, because the salesman takes the scales off right in front of your eyes. Then we went to Shumon’s favourite vegetable salesman. He and Shumon are obviously close friends, because they laugh and joke a lot. They tell me to “sit, sit” and the salesman sent the boy who works for him (his son I presume?) to get tea and biscuits for us. Everyone was especially thrilled with my lungi. “They say you are real Bangladeshi now,” Shumon said. While I appreciate it, I do not yet feel like a real Bangladeshi. Still lots to get used to.

After dinner, Shumon and I sat outside in the hot night air (it doesn’t seem to cool down at all) and talked. [This next bit is just what I gathered/interpreted. Since Shumon’s English is limited, and my Bangla virtually non-existent, it’s hard to know for sure if I understood everything correctly.] Shumon told me about his family. His wife and kids live outside of Dhaka, and he only gets to see them once every two months or so. He is Christian but his wife is (or was) Muslim, which was a big deal for his parents who did not really support this idea (it was only thanks to his brother, a Muslim, that they could work things out). We talked about poverty in Bangladesh. Shumon, for example, is very poor. His family owns no land, and this is why he needs to work and live in Dhaka to properly support his family. Even so, he does not make very much. At Dipshikha, I gather that most of the employees are pretty well-off. Shumon, then, provides my only real immediate contact right now with a lower economic class.

Wednesday, Sophie invited me to visit a photo art gallery in Dhanmondi, another neighbourhood of Dhaka. We planned to visit it before my language class, but unfortunately it was closed until after my class. So, we instead retreated to a small café for tea and chatting. While sitting there, we laughed about the menu. It was in English, but had some strange items. For example “fried chicken lollypops.” We were curious, though, about the menu item ‘Chawmine’. We asked the waiter what it was but we were obviously misinterpreted (you’d think a café with an English-only menu would have waiters with some English, no???) and instead he just brought it for us. It was noodle-based, with egg and vegetables. There seemed to be no real reason to waste it, so I ate it. It was quite bland and apparently had some small shrimp pieces too. What I’m doing here is called foreshadowing.

We left the café and took a rickshaw to a park area on the river. There was a kind of large open area facing a river, with some columns, and then a large semi-circle of short wall which we could sit on in the shade. It’s quite a beautiful area, with lots of green. However, we were immediately set-upon by begging children, and children trying to sell us small candies. Obviously we had no intention of giving up and cash, but they just kept on asking us. To me, it became more and more ridiculous. I had no idea what the child was even saying, and so his steady stream of almost-whining sales pitch was even more pointless than normal. And so, at this thought, I laughed out loud. What a mistake. The children suddenly became much more annoying, probably in the hopes of getting another reaction out of me. But to me, it kind of crossed the line when they began physically poking me. I was no longer amused. Luckily for us, a local came to our rescue (another case in which it was probably only because we were white…) by shooing them away. Now able to take in our surroundings, I noticed a game of cricket being played behind us by another group of kids. While I couldn’t understand them, I could see the universal characteristics of children playing sports: fighting over whether the ball was in bounds or not, asking bystanders who were obviously not paying attention to referee the last occurrence, and shamelessly blaming teammates for the last missed opportunity. Cute.

After my language class, Sophie and I returned to the gallery. Stopped in traffic in our CNG, a motorcycle pulled up beside us and the two riders asked (Sophie’s translation) how far we were going and what we were paying for it. The driver told them, and they sped off, laughing their heads off. It’s not that we didn’t know we were being overcharged, it’s just that there’s not much you can do. Skin colour helps determine price. The photo gallery was of the International Press Photo Exhibit (or something to that effect. I forget the actual title). So, it wasn’t a super-duper ‘Bengali’ experience, but still very interesting. Fascinating, beautiful and emotional picture capturing everything ‘2011’, from the Arab Spring, to the Norway shootings, to the Japanese earthquake. Then there were photos that were simply taken in 2011, but that were more “everyday life”: the war in Afghanistan, the world’s largest cave, child marriages, rhino hunting, green spaces in Moscow. It was a really neat exhibit, and I recommend it to anyone else who gets a chance to see it!

Sometime in the wee hours of the next morning, my trip took its first major downswing. Remember the chawmine? I think it’s to blame. I was vomiting often, and not even water would sit. Dipshikha staff was super great about things, and brought me to an English-speaking doctor. However, he was across town (in the district known as Gulshan. Known to be more upper-class), and the traffic was terrible. Given the heat and the fact that I couldn’t keep water down, this was pretty bad (not that, really, staying in my room would have been any less problematic). So when I got to the doctor’s, I was severely dehydrated, and they put me on an IV to get some fluids into me properly. This was a bit scary, since I’d never even had an IV in Canada, but the doctor did really inspire trust, and the IV made me feel a lot better.

I was prescribed some medicine, but stayed bed-ridden up until yesterday, when I finally started getting better. Perhaps the most difficult thing about this whole situation, though, was communicating about eating. There seems to be this idea here in Bangladesh (Sophie and I independently came to the same conclusion) that one of the most severe health conditions is an empty belly. I don’t just mean literally starving, because of course that’s bad. I just mean skipping a meal. When at first I couldn’t even keep down water, I was brought rice and fruit and told that eating would make me feel better. I begged to differ. Once my belly had settled but was still a little sore, I was suddenly offered the regular spicy foods, which included vegetables that would “make me feel better”. But as far as I was concerned, nothing spicy could do that for me! It’s been a struggle, especially with my reduced perseverance to be understood due to health. Luckily, Bangladeshi DO understand dehydration really well (with heat like this, how could you not?). They had rehydration formulas on hand immediately, and brought me green coconut water, which is very thirst-quenching and truly does calm the tummy.

Today I’m completely back on my feet, in time for the parade of office staff coming back to work (remember, Sunday is the first work-week day), and all asking me tons of questions about my sickness. They really are all great people and I’m so fortunate to be with an organization that can be so supportive!

The other exciting thing today was that I rode to and from my Bangla class completely alone! Babul ordered the first CNG for me (and also, thus, got me a good price), but I ordered the one home (and also, thus, paid twice as much! Good thing taka is a weak currency…). This means my Bangla is good enough to give directions, understand price, and tell a driver when to stop. Though, that being said, on the way back, the driver just eventually stopped and told me we were there. We weren’t and I didn’t recognize my surroundings (though I had 5 minutes previously). Anyway, I knew I must be fairly close, so I just ordered a rickshaw and asked for the well-known hospital beside my office, and it turned out to be just down the street! Ah well, rickshaw rides are SO MUCH FUN! I should try to post of video of one in the future… (which reminds me. Sorry for no pics… a) I haven’t been taking all that many recently, and b) computer and internet complications make it harder for me to get them up. Hopefully more soon. Who doesn’t like pics?)

So anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to! Another long post (they’re just getting longer and longer, aren’t they? I’ll try to stop sharing mundane things), I know, but there you go. I just want to share EVERYTHING with you guys :D Cheers!

-C