First Month in Bangladesh

After Bangalore I headed back to Hyderabad for another week. Much of it played out as before in Hyderabad, and it never got old. Visiting with old friends, eating at favorite venues, meeting new people…loving on Hyderabad in general. After my last train ride in India—lasting 26 hours—I was in Calcutta. I took a bus to another part of town where I had stayed last year while volunteering through an NGO called CRAWL. Isn’t it a funny feeling sensing where you are or things around you, but not knowing where you are? The bus dropped me off in Sealdah, and I had simply a sense of where to go, although no explicit explanation for it. Perhaps this is the subconscious saying “I used to walk these streets, and so I’ll let you feel something about it, but since you are not actually conscious of me, I can’t actually tell you about it.” This has happened a good deal when revisiting these old places. When it happens, it’s one of the most refreshing and triumphant feelings. Literally you can have no recollection of where you are, and then think, there is a sweet shop around this corner, and then there it is. At any rate, as I recalled more and more, eventually I knew exactly where I was. Soon I was passing shops and people that I used to visit pretty frequently. As I stepped into my old guest house unannounced, all my old staff friends where right in their places, just as I remembered. We all recognized each other immediately and sounded excited shouts.

The visit was short-lived, as the next afternoon was my flight to Dhaka. In the morning I visited a sweet shop (the owner of which was born in Dhaka, but relocated to Calcutta during the independence movement because of difficulties he encountered being Hindu), a sweet lime fruit juice stall, a lassi sweet yogurt drink stand, and random streets jam-packed with anything from sound system speakers to colorful bed sheets to flashy apparel to keys and locks to hanging racks of lamb with accompanying gutted entrails in a pile underneath. I also went to the same spot at the train station where the NGO and I used to visit, distributing food and hygiene supplies to the homeless as well as coloring with kids. As I was about to leave, some homeless guy started trying to say something to me. From his smiley face and energetic demeanor, I figured he was mostly messing with me. Soon enough, a woman I recognized emerged with her child, as well as several others. The woman I immediately recognized and in my broken Hindi and Bangla I greeted her and gave her an update on what I was up to. She was happy to see me, but mostly she would be yelling at her friend who was trying to get me to say illicit words in Bangla. Always a laugh when a foreigner unknowingly curses. Fun crowd, and at least it wasn’t more of the same old begging.

The flight to Dhaka went smoothly (as short as I expected, maybe half an hour in total—but interestingly about 16 hours by bus due to so many rivers). I was the only foreigner on the plane; but here’s how you could tell the mentality on the plane was also predominantly South Asian: As soon as we landed, people started unbuckling despite the stewardess’ requests, and as soon as we stopped taxiing….WHOOSH as if rehearsed, the entire cabin arose and started pushing to get their bags. I have no problem letting go of personal space, but vying for train/bus seats, wanting to be the first to get off, and never honoring queues (sometimes despite the shouts of policemen) easily piss me off. Perhaps I project self-centeredness onto the individuals acting this way and place a strong negative value judgment on that. In reality it’s probably more like…everyone does this and it’s part of the culture, so I’m a part of it too.

‘Chalking’ things up to cultural difference is always a tough one. The culture is different, things operate differently in a new culture, and so in some way you need to let certain things go that you would rather change, lest you try to confront an entire engrained system in the minds of these people. At the same time, is someone groping me (in most cases only if were female) or overcharging me 10x the usual price ‘part of the culture’ so I shouldn’t worry about it? Obviously not. What if an auto driver is circling around and around, trying to run over a barking dog. Is that part of the culture? If so does that mean I shouldn’t do anything about it? Does my possession of the care for the dog mean that I should do something? Does the fact that I can’t change ALL the irritated auto driver’s distaste for barking dogs mean that it doesn’t matter even if I try now? Where do we draw the line? When do we stop caring about something and disengage our passion for it simply on the ground that we are unfamiliar with the context, when we are in a new culture? When do we apply our values? When do we say, this is not my taste? When do we say, this doesn’t look appealing, but I’ll try it anyway because I don’t even know whether or not I like it? When am I being mistreated? When am I not being tolerant enough?

How about another example. Teachers that have been brought up in South Asia and then participate in a teacher exchange program to the US are baffled at how the students treat the classroom space. Falling asleep, slouching, having feet on the desk, tipping the chair while sitting, leaving the classroom, wearing baggy or informal clothing, calling the teacher by the first name…maybe even not standing when the teacher enters the room…are all different ways of conduct that you might see. Whenever I ask these exchange teachers what their impressions were of this, they claim that they were utterly astonished that the teacher tolerated it, to the point that they were speechless. So they were shocked. And yet, they explain that they simply saw it as a cultural difference. Now come, come. Is that really the case? Did you really walk into the classroom, have your jaw drop, and not think that these students are undisciplined? So which part is lack of discipline and which part is cultural difference? If I claim something to be a cultural difference, an implicit naturalization of the behavior emerges. It is natural to the culture. Therefore, we can’t apply the same judgment values that we grow accustomed to in our own method of going about things. We don’t stand when a teacher enters, maybe that’s a cultural difference (I don’t think I’m lazy when I don’t stand because no one else does). Acting out in class or something (come up with your own story) is an entirely different situation. Do I say then that it’s just a cultural difference? No, whether or not it’s cultural difference it’s a demonstration of lack of discipline. These incredibly difficult questions allude to so many of the difficulties of traveling, and undoubtedly will arise in explicit ways as I begin teaching in an unfamiliar classroom setting.

Back to the plane. I knew we weren’t getting off for some time, even though the plane stopped moving. So I sat. One of the only ones. Indeed, we didn’t disembark for another 15 minutes. A minute after we had stopped though, a man a row or two back had leaned up to right beside me, as if trying to push ahead. Right or wrong, I had the feeling that I should be off the plane before him because he was sitting behind me. I started to get annoyed. He pushed further, leaning into me harder as he tried to get forward. In South Asia we joke about how there’s no personal space, right? Just got to get used to it because as Americans we put personal space way to high on our priority lists, right? He reached his arm to support himself on the headrest of the seat in front of me. His elbow was in front of my nose. It’s just a different culture right? Right…but yeah, not happening. Fuming, I gathered my bag and pushed my way up to stand, forcefully pushing him behind me as I rose. I don’t really remember how he reacted, and didn’t look at him anyway. Overreaction? Justified? Who knows. The intricacies of dealing with a new culture take a lifetime to know. But in a moment, what mattered most was being sufficiently violated. That level of sufficiency changes as we grow accustomed to new things. Its dynamic nature to me means that there seems to be no inherent sufficiency to the threshold of any behavior. It’s a relative phenomenon, just as a value judgment that prompts a behavior is subjective in nature, and hence relative to any given individual. Similarly, how do we think about right and wrong? Are these relative? Which right and wrongs are absolute? What about human rights? Are they universal?

Although I had no happy sign reading my name waiting for me as I exited the main airport area, after some time I located the VIP parking lot and found the embassy driver waiting to take me to my residence. The nicer areas of Dhaka include Gulshan, Banani, and Baridhara, and they are closer to the airport (in the north) than the rest of the city. My flat is a 3 person apartment in a multistory building in Baridhara, an enclave that, having police at every access point and hosting most of the international embassies, is arguably the safest area in the whole city. Several of the building’s flats are owned by BLI, the Bangla Language Institute, which operates through IUB, Independent University of Bangladesh. 7 Fulbrighters are living in 3 apartment suites, our classrooms are located in another flat in the same building, so the commute is all of less than 2 seconds. Entering my suite was a jaw-dropping experience: spacious living area, 3 separate rooms each w/ private bathroom, every room w/ a/c and fans, television, computer, dvd player, tables, windows with great views, kitchen, and even a small room just outside the kitchen for the ‘servant’. Such a term doesn’t carry the heavy connotations here that I’m used to back home. Cooks, maids, drivers…they are everywhere, especially in a place like this. We have a cook, his name is Suranjan, he also cleans. He makes food and buys groceries during the day, then leaves to go home in the evening. Suranjan is…a wonder. Indescribable food, simply knee-buckling. So far we’ve had rice, kichri, okra, mixed veg bhaji, eggplant, chicken curry, veg curry cucumber/tomato/onion salad, chapatti, spinach…I must be forgetting something but anyway, words don’t do it justice. I NEED to know how he does this; unfortunately I’m usually busy when he’s preparing lunch, and since he goes home in the evening, dinner is reheated leftovers. He is paid by the program (everything I’ve mentioned, including the apartment, free internet, and laundry service, is $1,000 USD for the duration of the 3 month program), but the food items he uses we pay for. I’ve spent so much of the blog talking about food; the task of describing Suranjan’s cooking is too tall an order, I don’t have the energy anymore. Just come. He’s my cook for 3 months, come visit and you’ll see.

The evening I arrived it was already pretty late, so I ate dinner with our housekeeper at a nearby pizzeria/deli. I met up with Olinda, living two floors up, the next morning at breakfast. Olinda Hassan is another ETA Fulbrighter (all of us are the same age) and was actually born in Dhaka. After living in Bangladesh for 4 years, she and her family moved to Japan for 5 years. She spent the rest of her time in the US and now lives in Arizona, but has graduated from Wellesley College in Massachusetts. Olinda’s fluency in Bangla, as well as acquaintance with Bangla culture, constantly prove to be an asset for us other non-Bangla-speaking ETAs. After breakfast our first day, Olinda and I set out with Suranjan (cook) to the marketplace to buy vegetables for lunch. The marketplace is not a frequent stop for foreigners, who rarely would be preparing their own food. Suranjan would be scurrying about the stalls for the best prices (more hectic than usual for him, as with foreigners, all the vendors were skyrocketing their prices), and Olinda and I would try to stand to the side and watch it take place, observing which places he was going to and how he judged a good product. I was totally unknowing of the heap of conversations happening all around us by the locals, but from time to time Olinda would whisper to me, “they’re making fun of us.” Or, “all those people over there keep talking about us.” Or, “they’re wondering why I’m with you, they probably think I’m a slut.” Most of the time she’d laugh it off, but she told me stories (and it must have happened more than once) where Bangladeshis would be talking about her, assuming she was totally Western without an ear for Bangla, in a demeaning way. If prompted sufficiently, she would read them a riot act in her fluency, completely shocking them. It was difficult for her to specifically translate what they were saying about us, but at times it was things she was insulted about. At the same time, we were a fascinating sight to see and she assured me we weren’t unwelcome. Olinda’s Bangladeshi-American identity puts her in an interesting position. Fluency in both English and Bangla is obviously an assent. At the same time, in one day she was approached in a condescending way by a Westerner for translation help, as well as regaled by a rickshaw driver for not paying more. Her assumed Bangladeshi identity meant that a foreigner could approach her in a way as if to say “you should be thankful that me, a westerner, has come to approach you for help.” Her assumed western identity meant that a rickshaw driver could treat her inappropriately just the same, demanding inflated and unjust prices.

Laule’a was the next to arrive, deeply relieved to finally see my familiar face after days of tiring travel and an entirely unfamiliar environment. Laule’a, the other female ETA, lives in Portland, Oregon and studied Political Science and International Studies at Kenyon. She’s also worked through an NGO in Ethiopia and studied abroad in Kolkata. She certainly brings a familiar taste of America with her, and is always the one to be found joking, laughing, and talking at the dinner table.

The first few days I also spent time with the research Fulbrighters, Christy and John. Christy is older and has traveled extensively, especially through West Africa, as well as taught classes there. She even leads groups of high schoolers through African villages and has worked through USAID in Washington. Later on she hopes to be working with women’s cooperatives and other organizations at the local community level. From rural Iowa, she can’t wait to complete language training in Dhaka and relocate to a village.

John, the oldest, is married and has children, he has been in the military for some time and is also a registered nurse. He hopes to do research related to nursing here. During dinner conversations, John will sometimes reference his past in the military and the soldiers that he had been responsible for. Our questions afterward will end up in full-fledged stories of the military system as well as his personal accounts. He’s mentioned once or twice about his experience related to the war in the Middle East; his battalion was one of the first to be mobilized after 9/11.

The night before the ETAs were to meet with the embassy for the first time, our fourth member, Keith, had not yet arrived. Keith lives in San Antonio and graduated in International Politics from Pepperdine in LA. He’s traveled extensively and always seems to have stories to share, as well as a great deal of international perspective. He has also been awarded a Pickering Fellowship which will fund his graduate studies after Fulbright at Columbia University in International Affairs with concentrations in Human Rights and South Asia. The fellowship also places him for 3 years in Foreign Service with the US Department of State after his master’s. To my surprise, Olinda told me that she had heard he was driving here from India by auto rickshaw. I wondered how he’d be able to navigate the roads of South Asia, let alone find our apartment amongst the thick city. At about 1 am, right before I was going to head to bed, I heard Keith’s voice in the common room and excitedly ran out to greet him and hear of his adventure. He had purchased an auto (I think it was about 800 Euros) in Chennai and drove it all the way to Kolkata, almost 2,000 km away. This is the same distance as between India’s furthest westernmost and easternmost points. The journey took him 10 days, and involved so many tales. First he spent a day or so learning how to drive and switch gears. He said that with a little practice, the motions become second-nature. At some point it must become automatic, as the concentration of any auto driver must mostly be on avoiding the potholes, people, and other vehicles. He said potholes were a huge problem, especially in the state of Orissa; he even referred to the road as having a ‘mars-like’ terrain. One time his front wheel axle even broke, but fortunately he was able to pull off to a roadside repair shop and get it fixed for less than 5 dollars. In the evenings he would find a village to stop at and spend the night. Without fail locals would be ecstatic to take him in for the evening, showering him with village tours, meals, and even meetings with the village leader. Locals would be shocked to see a westerner driving an auto; such a job is only held by low-class Indians. He would sometimes pick up wandering locals alongside the road, offering to drive them to their destination if it was in his direction for no fee. One couple he even drove 80 km. What a surprise it must have been for them to be spared such a journey by foot for no fee, and by a foreigner nonetheless. Even though Keith only had a squeeze-horn on the side of the auto (one that you might find on a trike), he was able to alert massive trucks—and have them move out of the way—as he sped past (needing to cover 200 km a day, there was no time to wait around). He referred to driving the auto as a ‘zen’ experience because you become so hyper-aware of your surroundings. The motions of gear-changing and response to the changing environment around you become fluid, and your awareness of changing stimuli rests atop a flood of subconscious and schematic motions responding to everything. Talk about concentration. After 10 eventful days, he drove into Kolkata to stay overnight with a friend. The next day at the border to Bangladesh—disappointingly—his prized vehicle was denied access into Bangladesh because he didn’t have the proper paperwork (despite the embassy’s advice that it wouldn’t be a problem). He hired a driver to take it back to Cal where it will wait until he can file the papers and retrieve it; so he hopes it will be in Dhaka in about 2 months. After a long bus ride from the border into Dhaka, he took a CNG auto from the bus stand to our flat with only the address to refer to, and bam, made it just in time for our appointment the next morning.

The next 3 days we would travel with the Embassy’s Public Affairs Officer, Shaheen Khan, to the schools we’d be teaching at. All schools are high schools, and whether private or public, are extremely competitive and rated amongst the best in the country. Sometimes parents will apply for their kid’s admissions against competitive odds of at least 50 people applying for one spot. Olinda will be teaching at a coed school in the north of the city, Laule’a at an all-girls school in the thick of the city, and both Keith and I will be at an all-boys school called St. Joseph’s in a similar location. During the school visits, we met with the administrative boards and the English departments, having discussions over snacks and tea; we would also visit classrooms to see the student arrangement and to get a taste of how classes were taught. With many ceiling fans, concrete walls, and many (although silent) students, it would usually be really hard to hear the teacher. I’m not sure how the students did it. I’ll have to remember to keep my voice up. There was a microphone through in the classrooms at Laule’a’s school. Class sizes averaged 40 to 50 students. They would be extremely excited to meet us, bottling in their energy while we were there and then letting it all out in excited chatter right as we would have exited the room. The eyes of entire classrooms would divert and peer through the windows as we’d walk past. Laule’a’s school even offered each of us bouquets of freshly picked flowers. After introducing ourselves to a class, we’d always ask if there were any questions they’d have for us. In the class at St. Joseph’s that we visited, a boy in the back excitedly raised his hand. Astonished at such a quick response, I asked him to offer his question. Standing up (as students always do when asking a question or offering an answer), and looking at me he asked, “Do you play basketball??” We all started laughing. It seemed to be a question that was on more minds than just his. My height was baffling to them. Lots of questions came up about sports; about which ones we played, about which teams we liked…even if we watched wrestling. One student remembered that I had said my major in school was Music, and he asked me to sing a song. Without anything else coming immediately to mind, and knowing that I wouldn’t easily be able to come up with anything memorized that was more contemporary, I went with one of the first that came up as I thought back to college choir…. “Oh come, all ye faithful. Joyful and triumphant, O come, ye, o co-me ye to Be-eh-thle-hem.” They seemed to like it. I mean the school is called St. Joseph’s, founded by a Catholic brotherhood called Holy Cross. We are the first Fulbrighters to teach at these schools, but the program seems well organized, and we’ve even been appointed Bangladeshi English teachers—who had previously been awarded Fulbright grants to teach English in the US—to aid us in our transition to the Bangladeshi classroom, as well as offer advice.

The next day we had an orientation at the American Club (a club for people involved in the embassy, consisting of a gym, pool, tennis courts, and restaurant) for the ETAs. A Fulbright English Language Fellow (having received a grant to teach at BRAC University) who had just arrived in the country had prepared a captivating presentation on his past teaching experience in China and Vietnam, as well as teaching English as a foreign language in general. The day after that, we had an orientation with the rest of the Fulbright crew (about 6 researchers) where we had general introductions to everyone associated with the Bangladesh Fulbright program as well as presentations on Bangladesh’s political history, security awareness, the services of the embassy, and living in Bangladesh. Research projects of the other Fulbright members include the construction of the Bengali home, Bengali poetry, local response to environment conservations efforts, garment workers, and women’s cooperatives.

The day off from the week here is Friday. Since we had lots of time our first Friday with no orientation meetings, Laule’a and I decided to go exploring through our northern part of the city and find a concert that has happening in a stadium a few kilometers away. Baridhara, where we live, is separated from the other area of Gulshan by a lake, which itself is separated from Banani by another lake. To get into Gulshan, there is a scenic footpath that leads you along the side of the lake all the way to the nearest bridge over it. As Laule’a and I started out, we decided to take this path and enjoy the views of the water, as well as have a break from the cars on the roads. As we were walking, I sensed someone coming up from behind me and for whatever reason, felt that I needed to casually look and see who it was. As he came into view from the side, my attention shifted entirely to him, as I realized he was smiling and looking intently at me. My jaw dropped and eyes widened. It was Jan from Germany; we had gone through the same SIP program to study at the University of Hyderabad 2 years earlier. I was dumbfounded, how had it come to be that a German student and an American student, after having studied abroad in the same program in South India, randomly converge on the street at the same time in Dhaka, Bangladesh 2 years later? We excitedly chatted the whole 45 minute walk into Banani and the three of us had lunch at an acclaimed restaurant that I had been meaning to visit. After returning to Germany at the end of 2008, Jan had traveled through Pakistan for a month through an Urdu class during his next semester as well. After another year of schooling, he decided to take a break and apply for foreign embassy service. With his background in South Asia, he was placed in Dhaka and will be here for 3 months, the same 3 months that I’ll be taking my language classes and living in BLI housing, only 2 doors down from Jan’s rented flat. Running into old faces has been a theme during my past 2 months in India, but I guess you neither need to plan for it nor even be in the same country to have that pleasure come to fruition.

After a long walk, Laule’a and I stumbled upon the stadium having the concert. There must have been about 10,000 people there, nearly all male, and nearly all seemingly in the age range of 18-26. The stadium was only about 15 rows of concrete seating high, but circled around an entire field, so that the capacity maxed out at 15,000 I think. There was a stage at one end and a big screen at the other showing shots of the crowd and close-ups of the bands. Massive speakers blasted the music through the stadium. The genre was heavy rock/metal, a favorite amongst the upcoming Bangladeshi generation. Being two of very few foreigners there, Laule’a and I did attract the stare of many eyes, as well as an excited software company customer service employee who intensely wanted to practice his English. Having spent much of the day walking and catching up with Jan, it started to get dark only about an hour after we had arrived at the stadium. That’s ok, it was enough; certainly not as excited about the songs as the cheering Bangladeshis, especially those up by the front of the stage involved in what looked like a small mosh-pit. After leaving the stadium and as we rounded a corner off the main road, a funny familiar feeling caught my attention. The massive waist-high steel lever, guard house, steel doors, and barbed wire atop a high concrete wall looked familiar. Not a jail, but the American Center, the Public Affairs branch of the US Embassy that we had gotten driven to every day this week to pick up Shaheen Khan before heading to our respective schools. See? You never get a solid sense of where you are by being driven around. Satisfied that we had explored enough, and not keen on walking the rest of the way in the dark, we took a rickshaw back to Baridhara.

The next day my number one priority was observing our cook, Suranjan, prepare lunch. I had realized by now not only how heavenly the food he cooks is, but also that I would only be free to watch on Saturdays with the daily morning Bangla class schedule. After a breakfast of omelets, honey, toast, bananas, peanut butter, and tea, I accompanied Suranjan to the nearby market to buy lunch’s produce. Baridhara is a high-end residential area, but just a few streets north of us is a steel-plated entryway that separates Baridhara from a more similar Dhaka scene: the hubbub of busy local streets, shops, and an open market. Although I couldn’t make out the Bangla that Suranjan would be exchanging with the street vendors, it was useful to see where he went, what he bought, and to get more of an idea of how much things cost. One of his friends also guided me to a nearby tailor where I was measured for pants and a button down shirt. The $20 dollar price was worth being able to hand-select the fabric you wanted, as well as having the articles custom-made for your size (as premade clothes in South Asia and my lurpy body don’t mix well). I had asked Suranjan to prepare my favorites from the past week: daal, okra, and Bengali vegetable bhaji. He threw in a vegetable salad and fried rice as well. Although exact ingredient measurements succumb to the effectiveness of experience and tasting-as-we-go in home cooking, I wrote what I could collect from Suranjan’s rapid-fire multitasking, somehow preparing everything in under 2 hours. Right now I can only help by cutting a few vegetables, but hopefully soon I will have observed enough to actually contribute more (although Suranjan only gave in to me helping after I demanded several times to lighten his load), or at least have the experience to cook this kind of food later on.

A US embassy Cultural Affairs officer, Garrett, had invited all the Fulbright crew and related embassy personnel to his apartment for a reception on Saturday evening. The girls taking the time to dress up in their finest salwar kamizes was not a moment of overdressing; Garrett’s embassy-owned apartment was nothing short of the most luxurious I’ve seen in Bangladesh. Comfortable seating areas, fancy artwork on the walls, an entirely marble kitchen, and a cloth-and-votive candle-dressed table under an arrangement of miniature sandwiches, a hummus platter, brownies, sugar cookies, champagne glasses, wine, and beer were sights that I doubt I’ll come across very often in the next year. However, the stories of our past travel experiences and aspirations for our futures that we all exchanged are substances that I’m sure will grow in number and sentiment as this next year marches on.

Classes have been going very well so far. We have four different classes (emphasizing topics like conversation, listening, writing, grammar, and the like) shared between two different teachers. Since our class size is only Keith, me, Laule’a, and Elizabeth (Biz is another Fulbrighter, having just graduated from Tuff’s in Boston), the individual attention prompts participation. All coursework is done at 1 pm for the day, so lunch follows (something I need to make a conscious effort to keep my mind off of during our last class). Our lunches have been lasting well into the afternoon, accompanied by conversation that sometimes lasts for hours.

Keith and I have also been hosting some couchsurfers, who always seem to be the most fascinating people to fold into a discussion. Couchsurfing is a facebook-like web network that puts travelers in touch with locals who offer anything from an afternoon to show someone around an area to a place to stay as lodging. Despite the hesitation many might feel in participating in the uncertainty of an internet-based network, Couchsurfing is a tool that I hear about more and more, and only with fantastic outcomes. Keith for instance has stayed with many people during his travels through Europe, and frequently references the conversations he had had with his hosts, especially the Swedish feminist and the French neuro-physicist. Our first couchsurfer, Hiro from Japan, had couchsurfed while traveling by bus all the way from South America to Canada and from the UK to the Middle East. Christoph from Germany is staying with us now; he’s a psychology student who is taking a break from the university to pursue an internship with a Bangladesh-based Swiss NGO that deals with arsenic contamination in Bangladeshi water wells. Bringing such perspectives into the mix of our already entertaining discussions, it’s easy to imagine how lunch conversations seamlessly evolve into dinner conversations, and then easily dovetail with late-night conversations. For such reasons, an aspiration to check email one day may fall on the back-burner until the next, although that’s catalyzed by the power going out. Although our building has a diesel generator that kicks in to power lights and fans during our sporadic hour-or-so-long power outages, at times the internet goes with the power as frequently as every other hour. Occupational hazard I suppose; of course, internet is an entertainment interest that quickly subsides in the wake of so many other activities. In addition to however long our discussions go, we also fill our afternoons with visits to the market, meeting up with friends in cafes, napping, exploring, reading, and working into the mix a bit of Bangla study. And being cooked for. Yes it’s a hard life.

For a few weeks my throat hadn’t felt quite right. I figured it was some form of cold, but when swallowing became more difficult, I investigated the situation further. Peering back to my tonsils in the mirror, I was awestruck by alien-looking white matter veining about my red tonsils. Obviously something was wrong, although it didn’t feel too painful. I decided to visit United Hospital, a private hospital located only about a 10 minute walk away. ‘Hospital’ nominally, Resort aesthetically. The massive building with beautiful glass paneling and warm lighting is a sight that sweethearts love to admire as they sit across the lake, enjoying the twilight hours together. The reflection of the hospital on the lake is by far the brightest and most beautiful thing in this area of the city at night. Walking into the hospital was just was majestic, with high ceilings, intricate dangling light fixtures, and marble covered floors and walls. The call to prayer that echoed throughout the halls was incredible too, my favorite that I’ve heard so far; its mysterious drifting vocal lines were so captivating, I found myself standing under a loudspeaker for its duration. When it had ended, I realized I had work to do. First, there was a short registration process (200 bdt, 3 usd), then I went to the front desk to pay for my visit to an ENT (600 bdt, 8.50 usd). No appointment, no problem; I traveled to the 6th floor and waited a few minutes in the waiting room for the doctor to arrive. After being taken into a private room, I described the history of my sore and now strange-looking throat. With one glance at my tonsils, a concerned look fell upon the doctor’s face. “Your throat is TOO MUCH infected. It’s HUGELY infected.” He prescribed antibiotics (300 bdt, 4.25 usd), an antihistamine (practically free), gargling with a hydrogen peroxide solution, a throat swab to culture the bacteria (400 bdt, 5.75 usd) and blood tests (800 bdt, 11.50 usd) to make sure the infection hadn’t spread to the blood stream. I revisited the hospital a few days later (free of charge) to check the tests, which turned out favorably. Additionally, within 6 days the infection was gone. Grand total? $33 USD. At a luxurious hospital, easily accessible, and without more than about an hour of cumulative waiting time. So, are there really people in the US who still think that our healthcare system isn’t broken? When a visit to…umm….BANGLADESH makes you think…*wow, that healthcare experience was much easier and cost effective than I’m used to* …well, point made.

One day last week we visited a taco restaurant in Gulshan-1. Keith, from south Texas, found the restaurant to be a hint of home, or at least an allusion to it. The restaurant was in a location with a few eateries that I had visited a year ago, but I hadn’t remembered that until I actually went there. That place had come into my memory a few times since I’ve been here, always wondering if I’d be back there again. Then, unexpectedly, there we were. To Keith and everyone else it was a nice place to eat; for me, it was a walk down memory lane. On our way there, several street kids jumped onto our rickshaws and we chatting away with us. They joined us in the restaurant, and we happily had lunch with them, amongst practicing Bangla and making funny faces. To my surprise, the kid that I was next to kept feeding me by the spoonful. When I insisted that he have some to, he would only take bites in alteration with my own. This same method of feeding went for not only spoonfuls of food, but straw-sips of Sprite.

Later that afternoon, I went to Wonderland, a theme park very near to where we are located. The whole 3-block-or-so area is enclosed by a yellow and purple brick wall; I’ve always wondered what was inside Wonderland. Keith and them went for Biz’s birthday. Keith also went another day and played his harmonium in a central area of the park. The spectacle attracted such a massive crowd, the manager had to come by and ask him to leave, as the attention he was getting had become a “business threat”. Just a funny thing. Anyway, upon returning, everyone told me that I HAD to go on this one ride there called Adventureworld. And also that they had to be present with me when I went on it the first time. And also that it would blow my mind, and shatter my ideas of reality. And also that they couldn’t tell me about it so as not to ruin any surprises. I approached the ride skeptically…how was this ride really that great? This visit, we saved it for last. The park consisted of a water ride, bumper cars, some other small things, an aquarium, stuff like that. We also went on a roller coaster simulator. The screen showed us on the rails of a coaster, then suddenly we were flying around in a forest in the twilight, then BAM back to the roller coaster. Adventureworld began with a railed-car train (fitting about 20) entering into darkness. Flashing lights emerged, and faint images of the cavernous space inside Adventureworld. We circled around, then in about 10 seconds, were outside where we started. “Well, that was dumb,” I thought. Nope, we went in again. This time the space was fully lit, and a museum-like model scene of paper-mache hunters hunting tigers in a forest was visible all around us. Suddenly, the train stopped and everyone started piling out. Surprised, I followed the crowd. We entered an entirely concrete room next to the train. The room had a door at the other side. I started to step forward toward it. Out of nowhere, a mouse mascot with a disproportionately large head stepped out of the door. Dance music turned on, along with flashing red and green lights. People giggled and danced; I was motionless with a gaping mouth, completely dumbfounded. We piled back into the train. With a crooked look on my face, the train continued toward the exit. Suddenly I realized that the forest scene on the wall had given way to a war scene, with a medieval-looking city under siege. Just as I realized how out of place the war mural was, we were outside and the ride was over. I was so confused it was hard to stand. I’d like to open a ride like this in the suburbs of Wexford. I imagine it will become the new hang out location for the bored-crazy teenage generation.

Last weekend was Durga Puja, a Hindu festival, and Kristen came to visit. Kristen is a girl that I know from high school; we were in the same organic chemistry class. She lives about a 4 minute drive away from my house. We hadn’t interacted throughout our college years, but when something about my being in Bangladesh showed up on her facebook news-feed, she was sure to get in touch with me because, by coincidence, we would be in Bangladesh at the same time. She is working through a program called WorldTeach, which she had also done in Chile. She and about another 10 girls from the US are all teaching at a university in Chittagong, a city 5 hours southeast of Dhaka. I happily offered Kristen a tour of Dhaka and a place to stay along with a few of her friends. It was a wild experience to become reacquainted with an old friend in Dhaka of all places. Kristen and I traveled around to many locations of Dhaka during Durga Puja. The first evening we visited a nearby Hindu area and became the subject of attention at a temple with several hundred people in it. Volunteers running the dance performance there invited us into their home to meet their family and enjoy snacks and sweets. The next day we ventured through an old Hindu part of Dhaka and visited many temples, most of which would offer us candies or spiced rice dishes. The narrow streets were, you guessed it, jam-packed with a thick crowd of people. The streets were covered with ‘Christmas’ lights above, illuminating everything below in a warm light. Incense wafted about. Music played from massive speakers on street corners. While we were on a side street, Keith noticed what looked like a rat and avoided stepping on it. Giving it a second glance, he realized it was a desolate kitten. After a brief pause, he picked it up, unable to walk and covered in sludge that likely was comprised of both sewage and mud. With so many people walking about in a street that was about as wide as a doorway, I wondered how the kitten had survived as long as it did. Keith knew anywhere he left it, it would be in a position that was just as bad as when we found it. Ducking into a nearby temple, we washed it off with water and someone gave us a rag to hold it in. Keith named it Durga, appropriate for the festival time. For the rest of the evening, it was mostly unconscious and looked to be near death, that evening we bought an eye-dropper and fed it some milk. The next day it was livelier, taking a few steps and meowing. Things really looked up until the seizures started that evening and continued through the night. A house-call vet came the next day and determined that intestinal/lung worms was depriving her of nutrition, and a low glucose level was causing brain imbalances. After a day of anti-worm medicine and more milk, Durga has been purring practically non-stop and spends most of her time wrapped up in a cloth in a bundle on Keith’s lap, occasionally learning how to control her limbs by stumbling about the apartment, and of course, entertaining the other Fulbrighters and language teachers with an adorableness that will make anyone smile.

It’s difficult for me to not problematize the record of my experience here. For one, I’ve reacted so strongly against photography. One side of this coin is judgment. With a camera in hand, I find myself constantly steeped in a perspective of judgment as to whether or not a spectacle is worthy of snapping a picture or rolling a video. Then, inevitably, you come across something later that is even cooler than before. Soon enough, you’re snapping pictures of everything and living your experience through that judgment and not through the experience itself. Another side of the coin is spectaclization; photographing something makes me feel removed from it, it’s a moment of here’s *I* and here’s *you*, we are separate. Also, my judgment of what’s around me as a spectacle is problematic. The other day the street flooded due to rain. As I walked to the market in knee-high water, I thought about getting my camera for a picture. But…why? First of all, this is not a representative picture of my experience here, this flooding has only happened one day out of the 25 I’ve been here. Second, what does this mean to someone I show this to? I likely overestimate that this person will interrogate their own notions of comfort upon seeing people respond to the flood as if it’s no big deal. More than likely, this person will simply re-edify their notions of Bangladesh as being among other things, an uncomfortable place to be. This is due to the spectacle of Bangladesh, and a spectacle that is shaped in a certain way and which tells a certain story. Yet, by all means, this is not the experience of Bangladesh, and that, I argue, is more important. Many sorts of perceptual undertones riddle spectaclization as well…what do people think when I take pictures of them, or of things in their country that they may or may not want me to see? To what degree is my privilege as a Western traveler being flaunted to the public when I photograph? By extension, to what degree does this privilege reify the notions of Western wealth that is harbored in areas like this? Disproportionate idealizations of the West are constructs that I’m constantly bumping up against here. With the beggar: “Why don’t you give me money…I KNOW you have it!” With the high school student: “I can’t wait until I get an education in the US so I can get a job that makes so much MONEY.” With the businessman on the street: “Why have you come to Bangladesh, the West is so much more comfortable. And why are you learning Banlga? Use your English, that’s obviously the most useful and economically competitive language.” To which my friends and I reply… “No, the job market is incredibly competitive in the US, that is one reason why we are HERE and not back at home.” “No, I don’t have as much money as you think.” “No, many people struggle to be financially comfortable in the US.” “No, there is more to life than just living comfortably.” “No, there is so much to learn by engaging a new culture and language.” Back to photography. Privilege. Economic comfort…I don’t have to participate in the trials of the busy street, I can simply stand on the side, photograph it, and show it to my friends. This alludes to another side of the coin: nominal value. Frequently we do things based on their value by name, or as a narrative. We know these instances, when it will “make a great story.” Why is this so valued though? The other day I was at a temple and, to my surprise, the prime minister was scheduled to come in half an hour. We left before she came, and I found myself disappointed. But why? Was I going to learn something from Sheikh Hasina? Was I going to speak with her and have some sort of engagement? No, probably just a glimpse. And what does that mean? More likely than not, it’s a good story. “Wow, Matt, YOU got to see Sheikh Hasina?? You’re so LUCKY!” And that is a stroke of the ego. So, I react against rationale for behavior that is based on nominal value, there doesn’t seem to be anything to gain other than praise motivated by self-interest. There is so much more to what experience is than just what it’s called, and even the story of it all does not capture it. If I do things for the story, the experience behind it has been nullified. The last side of the coin: consumerism. What is travel? In so many ways, we live travel (and our daily lives) through consumption….clothes, food, culture. What is it that we want from traveling? Consuming psychologically feels as if it’s a way of owning. Both are pillars of a Western-constructed paradigm of what should be valued and how we should go about our lives. Both are projections onto the world that have consequences like depression due to comparison, obesity, and—when going about consumption though economic self-interest—the subjugation of the third world, among many others. The negative judgments of value that I place on materialism, consumerism, and needless ownership are so great that I even read things like photography in this problematic light. Although what travel means and where travel gets you is an inquiry that I constantly am learning more about, one thing is for sure, the beauty of travel has a lot to do with keeping your wallet closed. In an oblique way, photography is a mechanism, much like money, of ownership. In reality, it’s not just photography that I’m talking about, but the objectification of experience. How do I understand what my experience is? If it’s something that I can tell, hold onto an own, or something based on a motivation of nominal value, well, see above. I am striving to live things in a more subjective light, where I’m not as concerned about the story I can generate to stroke my ego, or the picture I can capture to prove to someone what I saw, where I’m not judging everything around me as a spectacle of worthiness or unworthiness, where I break away from the desire to own and consume. The stuff of an experience is a non-objective substance. Yet, we don’t live in ourselves. Our social selves seem to be seeking an objective grasp on things, to compare to the experience of others, to portray ourselves, to elicit the opinions of others. The sharing of ideas and engagement in dialogue is a fantastic opportunity for growth and learning, but it is not propelled by petty objectifications. It is not propelled by showing my friends the cool shirt I found at this one store that an NGO owns. It is not propelled by spectaclizing a culture. Bringing something to the table in a good discussion comes from the essence of personal experience. And the qualia of such experience is NOT sharable directly. We need to get over this. We do not live in an objective world. We live in our relative subjectivity. We do not project the same perceptions of the world outward. We are shaped differently. I do not know you. I do not know Bangladesh. I do not know the culture here. I know my experience of these things. And as life always seems to go, we never have the whole story of it all.