Monsooning

Today was Friday, the holy day, the day of the monsoon. Despite staying up super late last night, I was up at 6 a.m. I cannot get my sleep schedule on track at all! I read in the morning, then went to breakfast, came home, and read some more while it poured outside.

In between the storms, I took some pictures from my balcony of the men at the mosque, and the people begging outside.

At 2 p.m., I went to an area called Banani – just to check it out and see a different part of town. While I walked around, I was stared at constantly… as I am very obviously western and white, and therefore stick out like a sore thumb. I gave some bananas out to kids and took some pictures, even though I am incredibly self conscious about taking my camera out and taking pictures of people. I’m not really pleased with the pictures, but until I have enough vocabulary to ask people permission to take their photos, this will have to do.

I got home around 5, just in time for it to start monsooning again. I doubt monsooning is a proper verb, but there’s really nothing else you can call it – raining just doesn’t fit the bill.

I watched a pirated movie (Blades of Glory) with my roommates, which they had bought for about $1.25, until it was time for dinner.

When we went to leave the apartment for dinner, the guard tried to stop us because it was raining so hard. (All of the buildings in Baridhara have guards. They’re really more like doormen, as they don’t have weapons or anything, but since it’s the diplomatic sector, I think more precautions are taken.) We went anyway, and were glad we did, because we had the best dinner yet: some sort of fancy rice with cardamom, mango pickle, spicy chicken and potatoes, and curried vegetables. It was awesome, and we all kept telling Milan, the cook, over and over again how much we liked it (hoping that he would cook it again).

Our dinners are long because we all tell our stories of what we did during the day and the people we met, etc. Now it is nearly 10 p.m., and I am beat. Khoda haphej ‘til next time!

Introduction to the Script

School was pretty brutal today. We learned how to say the numbers 1 – 10, and were also taught the script for them. I can say all the numbers (slowly), but definitely cannot recognize the script (except that their 4 looks like our 8). Numbers were easy compared to what came next: the script/alphabet!

We learned 6 consonants, 4 vowels, and one invisible vowel. Oh yes, I said invisible. We learned how to pronounce them as they are identified (such as a – b – c), and also learned how to pronounce them as if we were reading them in a word (such as “cab”). Then we practiced writing them, which was incredibly painful. Like little kids, it took us forever to shape the “letter” on our paper, trying to stay between the lines, etc. We would just write the same letter over and over and over across a line, the same way that little kids learn to write in cursive. In fact, our homework is to practice writing the letters and numbers. I can't realy recognize the characters at all yet, except I can tell if it's a vowel. A sample is provided below.

By the end of the class, at least two people were on the verge of tears, and another was ready to drop out of the program. (In this context, I love being the underachiever… I was like them when I was an undergrad – had to be perfect, had to get it right the first time… Possibly the greatest perk of growing up is not taking yourself quite so seriously.)

Some people came home after class and kept practicing the letters… I sent some emails and read a book instead. It’s nice to have the time to read books that haven’t been assigned!

At 5 p.m., we walked to the program director’s flat for a “casual reception” with the vice chancellor (equivalent to a university president) of Independent University of Bangladesh (the school that hosts our program). Let me just say, his apartment could have been lifted straight out of Manhattan. He had lots of very “mod” furniture, lighting, and art. He also had a full bar – which we all indulged in after such a frustrating day at school. Our teachers were also at the reception, along with a few of the director’s personal friends. One was an artist, who, upon entering the apartment, proceeded to pull a bottle of wine (Black Swan) out of his pants. The teachers looked slightly horrified (as Bangladeshi’s are not allowed, by law, to drink), but only slightly… as if that sort of thing happens from time to time and the appropriate thing to do is look shocked and then look the other way.

At 7, we had a quick dinner (very sketchy looking – it was quick because no one ate anything but potatoes) and a dessert of the most delicious pineapple I’ve ever had.

My apartment was the place to be, as we offered to host a “party.” We played card games and sat around and talked until nearly midnight – determined to stay up late enough finally be able to sleep through the night. (It didn’t work, by the way, we were all up by 6 a.m. on Friday.)

I am looking forward to the “weekend” (Friday and Saturday), and hope to go exploring in different neighborhoods.

The video below is of my first rickshaw ride.

Did the principal call my mom? (Because I definitely got in trouble at school.)

So it’s 10:30 at night, and I totally want to be sleeping, but am trying to beat the jet lag, so I’m going to write instead to keep myself up a bit longer.

We learned all sorts of random stuff in class today – I’m a bit skeptical as to the lesson planning that is (or is not) going on behind the scenes. We learned body parts and classroom objects (which apparently include things like road, tree, and water bottle). Then we learned a bunch of words that don’t really belong together… morning, can you make change?, I want to drink tea., how are you doing?, and so forth. Regardless, I was paying attention and taking notes like a good little student, and apparently, because I was writing, my teacher thought I wasn’t paying attention, and she called me out in front of the whole class and asked me a bunch of questions. I answered one of them incorrectly – the wrong vowel sound – and she says (in front of the entire class), “Noreen, tomorrow you sit in the front row.” I was so angry! I felt like I was being treated like a naughty little kid… just because I was not doing it “her way.” This whole situation put me in an incredibly bad mood.

We had to go to lunch with the teachers today as a huge group, and we went to this ridiculous “world cuisine” buffet… which had everything from dal (lentils) to deviled eggs and flan to kebabs. I completely avoided talking to the teachers the entire time because I was still (in fact, I am STILL) hung up on the whole treating me like a child/chastise me in front of my peers thing. I really hope tomorrow I am able to let it go (though I’m sure my classmates from GMU know how much I DETEST sitting anywhere other than the back row!).

In the afternoon I went to a tailor to have some traditional clothing made. The women’s outfits are called shalwar kameez, and consist of baggy pants, a long tunic top, and the “backward scarf” called an orna. To have them custom made cost $20 each (1000 taka), so I ordered two, and they should be ready by Monday, June 18.

The best part of my trip so far came this afternoon, when I bought a package of crackers and handed them out among the children who were begging in the street. I didn’t even have the package open yet and there was a swarm of about 20 kids around me – it was completely heartbreaking. I handed most of the crackers out to them, then crossed the street and gave the rest to some women with toddlers and babies. I definitely think I will make this a regular activity… when I get a little more familiar with numbers and currency I am going to buy a bunch of bananas and nuts (and things with generally more nutritional value than crackers) to hand out.

After that, of course, everything else I have to say seems rather unimportant, but alas, the details of my evening go on…

I washed my pants in the afternoon and hung them out to dry, figuring that I could sneak the three blocks to dinner in the dark wearing Capri pants without anyone noticing. For the record, I was completely wrong… everyone noticed, even in the dark. Oh well… those pants were getting pretty gross – it had to be done!

Dessert tonight was hilarious… They gave us some “strawberry” ice cream. It tasted EXACTLY like the liquid penicillin that kids get… and if you don’t remember what that tastes like, think about the taste of a “strawberry” Tums. Yup, it was really exactly like that. Milan (the cook) was laughing at all of our faces as we tried it – which we all did just for the sensation – and afterward said, “No strawberry? Next time I buy chocolate.” Very funny.

Oh, I’m pretty sure I didn’t mention this before, but the chocolate thing reminded me… The chocolate in Bangladesh has a really high paraffin content – to keep it from melting. So basically, it tastes like you are eating a candle. Yum!

Well, that’s all for today folks… I’ve got to go through my flash cards a couple more times before bed!

Rickshaw Adventure

The picture to the left is directly across from my balcony. It is a mosque under construction. The park is the only one our director has found in the whole city (he's lived here for 7 years). You can sort of tell how thick the haze is from the photo too.

We had breakfast at the house before class today, which consisted of fried eggs, toast, bananas, tea, and Nescafe (instant coffee). This, they said, will be the same every day. It was good, and I am totally cool with having it regularly.

Class began at 9:30, and most of us were pretty groggy from a rough night and the set in of jet-lag. We introduced ourselves one by one to the teachers, then they did the same. We then spent an hour learning the vocabulary necessary to use a rickshaw:

Aye rickshaw walla! (The equivalent of haling a cab, with a hand signal)
Baridhara jabo. (I want to go to Baridhara).
Koto neben? (How much are you asking?)
Tika che (Ok.)
Na (No.)
- I should mention that nothing has a fixed price, and everything is up for negotiation. This made the whole rickshaw thing kind of futile, since we don’t know the numbers, we didn’t know how much they were asking for, and couldn’t bargain with them.

Dani jan (Go right.)
Bami jan (Go left.)
Shota jan (Go straight.)
Tamo (Stop.)


After parroting this exact dialogue back to the teachers over and over again, we went outside to hail rickshaws. They are EVERYWHERE, so actually hailing them was not a problem. As I mentioned, however, since we didn’t know the words to bargain with them, our teachers had to intervene, explain that we are learning Bangla, and get them to commit to five taka. Our teachers got on with us, and off we went.

Riding a rickshaw is pretty scary. They dart in and out of traffic (there are no lines on the roads in Bangladesh, which means it’s pretty much a free-for-all, as long as you generally stay to the left), and you find yourself inches from, if not touching, other cars and buses. Additionally, because there are so many rickshaws, their wheels got stuck together a few times, and they yell at and purposefully bump into each other with relative frequency.

We went to a tea shop and had tea with our teachers and talked about how to dress properly, then went back to our classrooms. We were dismissed for lunch, and being that I was so overwhelmed, I just came back to the flat and began to write for awhile. I’m not sure if I’m putting too much pressure on myself or not enough, but either way, I still feel like there are far too many words being thrown around for me to absorb at this point.

After lunch, we went to the American Embassy to get a security briefing and register our location. After waiting outside of the security gate for nearly an hour, we were finally told that the regional security officer, who was supposed to brief us, was actually out sick, and that no one else was available to help us. It was really a pitiful experience, considering that we are here on a sponsorship from the State Dept. It seemed as though it were just too much of a bother to actually meet with/say hello to us, and we were turned back to our bus without any further explanation.

Free to explore, Kira again offered to take us around, and we were very appreciative. She took us to a sort of upscale department store called Aaroong, which is run by an NGO, and boasts that they pay a fare wage to those who supply their goods. It was a pretty nice store, but that upscale department store snobbiness was apparent even in the workers here, which I found to be quite ironic. I bought another orna, also $2.70, so that I’m not wearing the same one every day.

We were about ready to leave the store, when the monsoon started. Picture that you are standing beneath a giant tarp filled with water, and that someone runs along beneath the tarp slitting it with a knife. That’s what a monsoon is like. It literally poured quantities of rain like you have never seen for well over an hour. When it started to let up (i.e. be just like a normal heavy rainstorm) we ventured back out and hailed down a couple of auto rickshaws to take us home. I was so tired that I started nodding off despite my awareness that my left leg risked being smushed in traffic.

Back at the apartment again, I wrote for about an hour and studied a little before dinner. We waded through ankle deep water on the way there, and that was after it had gone down quite a bit after the rains. My feet are already in a state of disrepair, and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll be like in a couple of months. You can’t really get the dirt off your feet, and because your feet are always wet, they rub against your sandals and you get all sorts of blisters. It’s pretty gross really. And yes, for those of you who are wondering there is sewage in all that standing water. Not only do the men relieve themselves on the side of the road, but when it rains, the sewage drains overflow into the street. On the plus side, I’m building up my immunity like you wouldn’t believe!

After dinner I studied briefly, then went to bed – ready this time with my inflatable neck pillow.

For the record, that huge landslide that killed about a hundred people happened south and east of here. The teachers tell us that this is the worst monsoon on record so far, with more rain and more deaths than ever previously recorded. I appreciate the concerns of everyone who is now thinking I am extra crazy, but so far so good!

Arrival!

17 hours on a plane and 24 hours of combined travel time (actual travel + waiting in airports) is not my idea of a good time. I made it to Bangladesh, however, so all is well. When the plane was landing, I eagerly looked out the window, trying to get an aerial view of the city. I had no such luck, though, as the humidity quickly fogged over the windows. Zia International Airport is unlike any American or European airport in that there are no shops or seated waiting areas. Upon disembarking, everyone must get into their appropriate queue – Bangladeshi Passport, Immigration, or Foreign Passport. Our group waited in line and had each of our passports and landing cards processed for a grand total of about an hour. Then we were finally able to go out into the world again.

My immediate thought upon exiting the airport was that I had stepped into a greenhouse. The air was thick and breathing required extra effort. A small bus, owned by the university, was waiting to take us to our housing. As we rode, many of the other students remarked how clean the city was, particularly in relation to Calcutta, where many of them have been before. I should clarify that Dhaka is not clean. It is merely not dry and dusty, as I gather that Calcutta is. Many of the larger buildings look as though they are only half built, or as though they were hit by a hurricane and never repaired. This appears to be true throughout the city. As we moved further into the city, I saw many “stalls” lining the streets. Constructed of bamboo and corrugated tin, all of these three-sided shops tilt awkwardly to one side. Approximately every fifth shop had a display of bananas hanging in the doorway.

We made our way into the Baridhara district, which is where our housing is. Baridhara is in the diplomatic sector, and we were repeatedly assured that it is very safe and far more luxurious than any other place in the country. “To Let” signs boast European style flats. It is my interpretation that European style means tiled floors and bathrooms with showers and toilets. I share a flat with five other girls, and am lucky enough to have my own room. (There are only four students that have to share rooms in the whole program, but I am so thankful that I am not one of them!) We have three bathrooms, but only one working toilet – and the seat of that toilet is broken and held together by clear packaging tape. There are three showers though, and all of them have hot water. (One of the other flats had no hot water the first day, and on the second day had no water at all.) Also, there are cockroaches the size of a big toe in our kitchen, despite the fact that we don’t have any food or even a trash bin. I don’t know what they are eating, but they certainly don’t look malnourished! So yes, the luxury is that we have a toilet and showers! On the plus side, the flat I live in is 3 blocks from the house where our breakfasts and dinners are served (henceforth referred to as “the house” because it is the central meeting place), and 4 blocks from where our classes are held.

We were given a couple of hours to shower and rest, then a lunch of rice, mixed vegetables, and fried fish was provided for us. We have a sort of chef/butler named (or at least pronounced) Milan. I think all of the work is actually done by a woman, as I have seen her in the kitchen, but she doesn’t ever speak, and Milan seems to take it as his sole duty that we are well fed. He (or more likely the mysterious she) also does our laundry for us. It’s sort of a strange feeling to sit at a table and have someone put food in front of you, and to have someone else do your laundry. We are all a little uncomfortable with it, but still very grateful.

After lunch, we went to our first class, where we met our teachers. There are 6 of them altogether, though I can’t even begin to tell them apart yet. After being given the “don’t drink the water” lecture for the 7th time so far, we learned how to introduce ourselves to others and how to ask another person what their name is. We also learned a greeting and a farewell. The greeting translates roughly to “Peace be upon you,” but the farewell is very specific to the Muslim culture, and translates to, “God be with you.” The transliteration for the farewell is “Allah haphej.” You can also say “Khoda haphej,” which is a more general word for “God.”

I’m all about the transliteration. The teachers keep insisting that we just listen and repeat what they say, but the acoustics of the room make it incredibly hard to hear them, and even harder when we all parrot back some garbled interpretation at the same time.

After class, Kira, one of the students from last year, took us out to Golshan Two – another district. Some of the girls bought Salwar Kameez at a fixed-price shop (no one is able to bargain at the marketplace yet). I bought an “orna,” which is basically like a shawl you wear backwards. I’m not too keen on it, as it makes me feel like I’m choking, but it’s a modesty thing, and people tend to look at you like you’re horribly immoral when you don’t wear one (so much so that we were aware of it on the first day). It was 190 taka, which is roughly $2.70.

We met back at the house at 7:30 for dinner (oven baked chicken, spicy potatoes, something like vegetable tempura, and lychee for dessert). After dinner, we waded back to our respective flats and all of us went straight to bed. My bed, in optimistic terms, is like sleeping on the beach – which is to say that it is softer than lying on concrete, but not softer than sand. Additionally, Bangladeshi pillows are the most useless things ever. They are about 9 inches tall, and just as hard as the mattress. The first night, I tried to use them, and found that the only way to do so was to prop my head and shoulders on them (to avoid having my neck at a 90-degree angle) so that my body was in a half sitting position. That didn’t really work, so I tried getting rid of them altogether. Also quite uncomfortable. At 1:45 a.m., I had the brilliant idea of inflating my little neck pillow from the plane. While by no means ideal, I was finally able to sleep!