It’s all about communication

I think alot about my ability to communicate with people here in Bangladesh. Sometimes I have to remind myself that what I’m doing is really tough, so that I won’t get discouraged. There are moments when Rashida and I will be speaking to each other in such a way that it seems as if language and culture were not a barrier at all. And there are other moments–not often with Rashida, but with other men and women in Char Fasson–when I can’t understand a damn thing they’re saying, and I feel so upset and disheartened.

Part of the issue stems from language learning, and it’s totally expected. I learned most of my Bengali in Calcutta, where people speak both more slowly and more clearly. It’s not true, unlike what Bangladeshis and West Bengalis both think, that Calcuttian Bengali is ‘better’ (that’s my humble, academic opinion). In fact, there’s a sweetness to Bangladeshi Bangla that I really appreciate. But it’s undeniable that West Bengalis speak in a way that is much easier for me to understand.

One step removed from the Bengali I learned is the Bengali spoken in Dhaka. The Dhaka dialect is obviously different, especially in the use of Perso-Arabic words and a slightly different way of producing verbs, but I can usually understand Dhaka-ites. I say that cautiously, because I still have trouble with the newscasts (people speak very fast) and with complex vocabulary.

Two steps removed is the local dialect of Char Fasson. In the last few weeks, I’ve caught up fairly quickly on the language spoken by educated people, and sometimes I can even understand older people, who may or may not be educated. But there really is a very different way of speaking that sometimes is a complete mystery to me. Sometimes it’s all I can do just to get the general topic of the conversation!

Being Sick on the way to Dhaka

On Thursday morning, I thought I felt well enough to start on my way to Dhaka.  Two hours before I was supposed to leave the orphanage, I threw up several times, and Shiraz advised me not to leave.  But I was determined, and so we (Shah Jahan and I) got on the rickshaw to go to the bus station in Char Fasson town.  Upon reaching the bus station, however, we realized that no bus would be going to the town we needed to go to (Dullarhat), and I hurriedly agreed to ride in the Tempo.

The tempo.  Someday I’ll post a picture of it.  But for now, imagine this: a small, small truck that looks a bit like the ones from the 1930s.  Over the bed of the truck is a rounded iron cover, and inside are two benches that face each other.  Fifteen to twenty people attempt to shove themselves inside on the benches, knee to knee.  Of course, I’m taller than most people in the rural areas, so it’s even more uncomfortable.  As I sat down, I immediately realized that I would have no where besides my lap to throw up if my stomach began to roll.  So, with every ounce of strength and will, I forced myself not to throw up as we bumped along another terrible road for 45 minutes.  Every minute or so the boy hanging off the back would hit the top of the truck–smack, smack, smack–to let the driver know if another vehicle was passing.

The most comfortable of all vehicles, the tempo

After we reached Dullarhat (which means, the market of grooms, oddly enough), we had to take a rickshaw several kilometers to the actual launch site, in Ghosirhat.  From there, we climbed aboard the ferry-boat and settled in for the 18 hour trip.  thankfully, I did not throw up again, but I don’t think this ‘bug’ is quite gone.

Being Sick in the Orphanage

I knew before coming to Bangladesh that I would be sick. It was really just a matter of when and how many times. When I woke up this morning, I knew I was in for a bad day… my stomach and head hurt, and I was feeling very weak. But I went to breakfast anyway, thinking that it might go away. Because nothing else seemed appetizing to my already agonized stomach, I chose to have some oatmeal and milk. I thought that since the milk was boiled that it would be ok, but it occurs to me, in hindsight, that of course it was not pasteurized, and god knows what other bacteria had not yet been removed. Yes, yes, I know. I must be more careful. But it’s still not clear to me that milk was the only problem, since I had woken up not feeling well.

When I returned to my room, I thought I might take a nap to rest, but the first of my visitors appeared. Shiraz came to discuss with me my Dhaka departure plans, but once he saw that I was in pain, he told me to lie down. Then came the children, as they do every day, to color in the coloring books I brought; and then the aiyah, who cleans the rooms, and then Shiraz’s wife, Rashida, and then the cook. Hard to rest in such a situation, but they were all worried and uncertain about what to do. One of the boys sweetly rubbed my head for a while. Somewhere in all that the vomiting started.

At around 3 I attempted to eat lunch, but the only thing I could get down was some fresh pineapple, which I promptly threw up once I reached my room again. Sleeping for the next two hours lessened the headache quite a bit. Rashida returned with oil (mustard seed oil) to rub on my head, because she said it was ‘hot.’ I didn’t have a fever, and she knew that; I’ve never been able to understand why Bengalis use oil to ‘cool down’ the head, but it did feel nice. Another hour of sleep, and more kids, more staff, and… well, now I’m awake and feeling better.

When I’m sick, I generally don’t want people around me, but I have little choice here. And I know they’re all just concerned. After a while, I even get used to it.

The most important part of my day: Food

Feeding the guest is very important to Bengalis, and more often than not I have to beg people not to feed me more.  People are generally surprised that I can’t consume the amount of rice that they can, and I simply don’t eat as much here as I do even in the U.S.  Rashida, who does the majority of the cooking for me, is always watching to see what I like and don’t like… and this time I have successfully convinced her that I would prefer to eat more veggies and fruit than meat.

Breakfast can be a variety of things, but the main staple (for me) is ruti, a flat bread that looks, and sort of tastes like, a flour tortilla.  Rashida will often make a hard-boiled egg, or noodles, or aloo bhaji (fried potato slices); she often has papaya from her own tree.

Lunch is always with rice and a few types of veggie dishes, sometimes with chicken, fish, or little shrimp.  The shrimp kind of scare me, because the still have a semi-hard shell, but they’re so small that i can’t imagine taking off the shell of every single one.  Plus, they’re REALLY good in a milk-based curry.  Vegetables vary; they’ve been expensive lately, but usually some combination of spinach, potatoes, pumpkin, and gourd.

Dinner, for me, is small: again with ruti, and usually smaller portions of whatever was for lunch.  Often when I return to my room I take down a few gulps of 7up.  It may not be true that it helps with digestion, but I like to believe it so that I can indulge in that small luxury.  I also have a supply of ‘biscuits’ (semi-sweet crackers, really), peanut butter, and cereal in my room.  The peanut butter and cereal obviously came with me from Dhaka.

The Poor and the even Poorer

I wrote the last entry because I wanted to provide a sense of what it’s like to live here.  But really, it’s only a small, small picture.  Indeed, as K mentioned, I’m actually not living in a village.  Char Fasson is the local governmental ’seat’ (upazila), and the guestrooms in the orphanage are rather nice in comparison to some of the homes nearby.  There’s running water, and sink and toilet and a desk.

The boys who live here live in rather bad conditions.  They don’t get enough nutrition, and they cannot now stay in the orphanage building because it is falling down.  The building now houses, oddly enough, cows.  Cows are the first step in a large plan for self-sustenance.  You can’t imagine how many things need money around here…

But it does get worse.  Today (Thursday) I went to see the land leased by the orphanage.  Alongside the fields are the houses of the very poor in Char Fasson upazila.  Their children don’t go to school–even when school is free, a child needs clothes, pencils, paper, etc.. and they just don’t have the resources.  They work in the fields, but those fields are owned by other people.  They barely make enough to eat and feed their children.

Couple that lives beside the orphanage paddy fields

Of Rats and Bugs and All my Favorite Things

The first night I was at the orphanage, Leslie, an American volunteer who is also staying at the orphanage, saw a rat in her room.  Now, before anyone gets too excited, i should note that I have never seen a live rat here.  Leslie, unfortunately, has now seen two in her room.  That was the start to my visit here.  She was, understandably, very upset and emotional, but I didn’t know what to do or say.  Since then, though, I’ve felt very wary of any nighttime noises in my room…

Bugs, on the other hand, are a constant nuisance.  There are no screens on the windows, so bugs freely fly and crawl in to my room.  While there are few remedies for ants or flies, there are a number of tools one can use against mosquitos, none of which, in my opinion, work very well, except for the mosquito net.  The coil has a very pungent odor, but I’m not convinced it works… and the gadget I brought from Dhaka requires electricity, which we often do not have from 6 pm to 10 pm.

You can imagine how nice it was last night, when I got food poisoning and began throwing up around 6:45 pm.  No electricity, fumbling around for a bucket to vomit into, then clumbsily trying to put the mosquito net up long after I had been bit multiple times.  At one point, as I searched in my suitcase for some gum to counteract the taste of vomit, I almost found the whole situation humorous. Almost.

A Trip to the end of the world for Reshmi

The day after I got to Char Fasson, I was invited on a trip to Dhal Char to hand out saris, lungis, and some cash to those people who had lost their homes and belongings during Tropical Storm Reshmi.  Reshmi, in fact, was the reason I couldn’t leave for Char Fasson earlier.  I agreed to go, not realizing how far away Dhal Char is from Char Fasson town; in fact, it is the last char (island) before you get to the Bay of Bengal.  It took an hour bus ride (over a terrible, terrible road), then a 15 minute rickshaw ride to the river, then an hour and a half boat ride around the chars till we landed at Dhal Char.  The boat ride came at the middle of the day, with the tropical sun beating down on us.  It was hard to think of the Bay of Bengal as beautiful at that point!

Once we arrived, the members of the charity group went to the Union Parishad building to explain to people in the area what would happen that afternoon.l  Then we rested, as Bengalis are wont to do, ate lunch, and the event began.  It was mass chaos, as the charity group (all men of course) herded men and women into separate lines; the rest of the people who were not receiving anything all crowded in to watch.  Each person in line was quickly given a sari or a lungi and then roughly commanded to go away (unless, of course, they were one of the lucky few picked for a photo op with the group).  I sat there in disgust, knowing that this is probably what usually happens in Bangladesh.  Poor people are looked down upon, and are only of use when one can use the opportunity to show one’s wealth and power.

Once it was over, we quickly headed back to the boat, reaching Char Fasson by 8 or 9, at which point I was completely unable to eat dinner.  Thanks, Reshmi, for such an eye-opening experience.