A Return to Mohammadpur

One of the most fun experiences about returning back to a foreign country is the moment you start talking to the taxi drivers after exiting the airport.  After a familiar US context for a month, a familiar Bangladeshi context, you then realize, is a unique thing to also be familiar with.  Which place are you going to?  How much will you pay?  Bangla comes out.  You know the place, what the price should be.  You open a paint-chipped car door and sit in the small interior, maybe missing the inside paneling, maybe with a small single light bulb dangling in the middle.  You grin, because at that time, like a whoosh, you're back.

The apartment I just moved to sits on the roof of a 7 story apartment building.  No lift (and by 'lift' I mean elevator) but yes daily exercise.  The floor is concrete; it's harder to clean than the tile from the last place I lived, maybe because of the few places it's chipping.  No worries, the apartment owner says it will be fixed, along with the broken bathroom lock, but then again, it's probably more likely that we forget to pester him about it again.  Three sky blue blue painted rooms open into a small common space large enough to keep your shoes.  There's a kitchen, a quaint one, but the concrete counter is only just big enough to fit the burner, so I tend to chop vegetables on the 5 inch wide rim of the sink, which is an area of the floor in the corner.  The water from the sink in the bathroom flows down a tube and opens up onto the floor, an informal drainage setup that I've certainly witnessed before but never lived with.  The shower water flows out with it through a small hole at the base of the wall, and soapy water runs through a funny little canal just outside that crosses through the entry way leading to the front door.  Instead of heading to the stairwell by hopping over the canal (you could call it a three inch wide moat), you could make a left and walk along it, just past the bathroom hole, and climb a 1.5 foot wide stairway to the rooftop of the apartment next door to us.  On top of that roof top (which itself is above the portion of the roof on which our apartment is built) is another even slimmer stairway up to the top of the square concrete water tank that supplies the building.  There is an incredible view from there.  Although there really isn't space to dry laundry, I've been using the roof of the adjacent building with a nice wide open roof top that is tangent to ours and only slightly higher.  While up there hopping rooftops, you'll see that the roof of our apartment is tin, mostly rusty.  Avoid touching it when the sun is out, it gets very, very hot.  Inside the apartment there is a thin wooden sheet in most rooms that rests just under the tin, so that space fortunately traps heat.  When the power goes out, taking the fans with it, it can get a bit sweaty, but not as nearly as bad as it would be during the summer.  Rainy season has been bringing rain just about every day, and especially when it rains at night, it cools down so much that the other day I used, for the first time this year, our heavy blanket in addition to my usual bed sheet.  Tiktikees (geckos) the size of small lizards occasionally are spotted on our sky blue concrete walls.  If you go up close to them, they'll scurry away back to their roof space or behind my bamboo shelves.  Don't leave food out because the ants will crowd in, but fortunately they cause no other harm, and of course the tiktikees do need something to eat; their usual mosquito fare is happily absent in this place, maybe because we are up so high, able to peer out over the blocky grey Mohammadpur rooftop horizon line.  The ants are one thing if they get in your food, but the rat I saw the other day would be even more unwelcome.  I'm not sure where he lives, but my guess is that he spends most of his time away since our apartment is small and I've only seen him once.  As you leave the apartment, don't bolt the metal door shut because we wouldn't be able to open it from the inside, just leave it ajar.  You can lock the next metal door you come to (the one just after you step over our thin bathroom water moat) which you'll go through to get to the stairwell.  When you slide the bolt open, don't worry about how much noise it causes, everyone is used to those metal doors doing that.  Go ahead and close the lock on the door's bolt in the stairwell that's behind you as you leave, we can still get to it with a key to get out, we just have to reach around through the broken window that's right next to it.  The next door you'll come to is down 7 flights of stairs, don't trip when you're going down the ones on the second floor, they are each noticeably less high than the others.  Close the door leading onto the road behind you; it will lock, but don't worry because you should be able to get back in if you need to by reaching through the small hole for the doorbell and stretching your arm as far as it can possibly go all the way to the handle on the inside.  You'll want to come back.  I know, I know... we wanted to search for another option when we first moved in too, but I guarantee it will grow on you.  It's been 3 weeks, and now I'd have to say it's the coolest and most distinctive place I've ever lived.

Perhaps familiarity comes not only in the form of a familiar language or a familiar location, but with familiar people.  Those moments are the ones that make you smile the most.  I was walking back from school today and caught sight of a familiar face walking the other way.  Although I didn't immediately recognize him, he stopped, smiled, and said that he got new bananas today and asked if I wanted some. I usually buy from him on the way back from school because he carries the variety I like (one of the two main smaller varieties, not the sweet one that gets brown quick, the other one).  He may have been going to visit a friend or go to pray, but we walked back with me to his small cart-stall 50 feet ahead.  He knew just which batch I wanted, the batch of 8 hanging right in the front.  I carried them, dangling from a small rope loop, along with my net bag of eggplant and red spinach that I had just bought.  In my other hand was my trusty blue nalgene that I carry everywhere, having just been filled to the brim with water from school (the water at home has lots of residue in it, better suited for something else like washing dishes and clothes).  It wasn't quite rush hour yet, so it was fortunately still possible for me to find space on the compact mini bus that seats only 12 on two benches facing each other.  It's the most frequently run transportation from Farmgate back to Mohammadpur.  An empty one pulled up to the place they usually stop at next to the Farmgate fruit market.  I wasn't feeling pushy, so I let the eager riders dart their way in for a seat as I said hi to a kid that I recognized from before.  Despite his young age, maybe about 11?, he's a fare collector for the mini busses.  They ride along standing on the step at the back, one arm gripped around a metal bar supporting the roof while clutching the fares, the other hand pounding the metal roof to let the driver know when to let people off or collecting the red 10 taka notes from passengers as they decide to reach into their pant pocketed wallets.  As I waited for people to shove their way in, it was the boy actually who came up to me first to ask how I was doing.  I was happy to see his grungy toothy face again.  The tempo (as it's called) filled up with its 12 passengers, but no worries, I still got on by standing on the metal stair at the back, arm dutifully clutching the bar supporting the roof (especially as we'd go over the speed bumps in front of the parliament building) and eyes peering ahead over the top of the yellow weathered tempo roof.  As we waited in traffic, a bus-full of people stared at me with smiles; it was quite a site to see a foreigner, let alone one who was riding the tempo from the fare collector step.  After I hopped off in Mohammadpur and started walking up Noor Jahan Road to the apartment.  I heard a greeting to my right from someone standing in a refrigerator shop doorway.  He had a bright smile on his face as he came up to me to shake my hand.  I wasn't wearing the same look of recognition that he was.  "Don't you remember?" he said in Bangla.  After I shook my head he took his cell phone out.  I chuckled as I realized he was searching for a picture that he had taken on his phone of me and him.  Sure enough, there we both were.  My hair was much longer and I was wearing a shirt that I haven't worn in a long time (it's probably actually back in my room in the US).  Nicholas and I had bought our fridge from him nearly 2 years ago when we were first moving in before I had started my time at St. Joseph's.  I guess his memory was sharper than mine, or at least my face is more recognizable being foreign, or perhaps he had occasionally refreshed his memory by glancing at his picture of us from time to time as he would show it to his friends.  Before I headed home, I stopped at a road-side cart selling fuchka, thin hollow golf ball shaped chips with chickpea paste stuffed in and sprinkled with a variety of deliciousness, including chili, cilantro, egg shavings (I think that's what those things are), and a tart tamarind sauce.  After hiking up to the apartment, my shoulders shrugged to see that we were out of rice.  I had planned to cook while listening to an NPR/TED Talks Podcast from my computer iTunes as I had the past 3 days.  Such captivating interviews and talks!  The perfect background as I go about my chopping, washing, sizzling, and stirring.  I'm sure the modest kitchen hasn't seen such a heady addition before, but there's no better way to unwind as the daylight fades away and the warm glow from the single incandescent light bulb takes over.  You can glimpse out the window across the Mohammadpur rooftops, listen to the evening calls to prayer, and study the patterns of the paths the ants walk in on the sky blue kitchen wall as you feast on rice with fried eggplant and cooked spinach with potato, all the while pondering TEDs cognitive inputs about where creativity comes from or the future of cities or Eric Whitacre's digital choir or recent Harvard psychological studies.  Yes, that's what I'll do.  After I go back down to Noor Jahan Road to get rice.  We need yogurt for tomorrow morning too anyway.  Then I'll try to make it an early night; tomorrow I'd like to wake up early again with the first call to prayer to do yoga on the water tank rooftop and to gaze across the city as the sun rises. 

Traveling Back to Bangladesh

After a difficult goodbye at the security queue in Pittsburgh airport, I gave a few people a call while I was still in the country. Christy Sommers, a good Fulbright friend from last year in Bangladesh, was in Boulder working at the head office for "Where There Be Dragons," a program that takes high school students abroad. On the horizon for her are her marriage in July and working in Africa. Aunt Karin was on the way to go skiing; I asked her to thank my cousins for texting me goodbye. To some others I left messages on voicemails. Another call to Mom to say the plane was boarding on time (although Delta had delayed it over the course of 2 months about 3 times). Feeling a bit empty, and much more mixed than I would have anticipated, I was on the plane to New York, my port of exit.

A few others were going to Amsterdam fortunately, so we hurried together through the corridors and bus ride to the KLM gate. With only an hour layover there, I wondered if my checked bag would be able to make the plane, especially if I - with legs for jogging - had trouble. Shortly after sitting down at the back of the Boeing 777, we were off to Europe. I have always been trying to chose to sit in the back of planes if possible. That way you can see so much in front of you, you can chat with the stewards and stewardesses more easily, and if there is a screaming baby (ah, so inappropriate for long plane rides), it will be in front of you, not right behind. The woman in the airplane safety video made me smile; I remembered how deliberately and sincerely she spoke on my KLM flights over to the US in December. "It is not allowed to block the aisles…" There's something funny about that English. Understandable, but uncommon. "We ask you not to stand until…" Hmm, would it be preferable to say "We ask you to not stand until…?" Not sure, interesting. KLM is great; they're the oldest commercial airline but also the most environmentally-conscious globally, investing in biofuel research extracted from algae. For some reason I didn't think that biofuels would work in jet engines. Why isn't everyone doing this? And the algae absorb CO2 in the process - a sustainable way of recycling the emissions during flight. And they recycle. I haven't heard of other airlines going through the trouble to separate glass and plastics onboard.

My row of 4 seats was empty, so I took advantage of the space by laying down and stretching out. Fortunately, I was able to sleep a good amount. I don't remember what food was served. Flying felt so familiar; it certainly wasn't new and exciting like it had been before. Looking around the cabin…yep, here I am again. I watched the Halloween episode of Modern Family on the screen, but had already seen it twice coming over in December. It was still funny. I started Pirates of the Caribbean 4 but lost interest.

It was in Schipol Airport in Amsterdam that a good deal of excitement emerged. I remembered walking through there in December with its Christmas decorations. Did the automated, recorded voice at the end of the mechanized walkway say "Mind your own step?" That's interesting. Hmm, this place is huge! And look, a meditation room. Eh, I'm not so interested in the 3.5 euro commission fee to exchange dollars for euros, but I need to pay for the train into the city. Schipol is just…other-worldly, with all of it's lights and directions and mechanized this and that. Found the ticket booth, found the platform…WOW the train has two stories! And 16 minutes later I was at Amsterdam Centraal. I wondered where my checked bag was. First a layover practically too quick to work, then a loooong layover of 24 hours. We'd see if it showed up in Delhi the next day.

Just outside of the train station was the tram stop I needed to take to get to Westermarkt. I wasn't so good at figuring out how to use the tram, but in a few moments the women in the ticket booth INSIDE the tram helped me figure it out. Those things are so cool, whizzing around everywhere, amongst the cars, with big windows you can see everyone sitting inside through. And an electronic ding-dong bell that mimicked what the trams must have sounded like. The massive churches, brick sidewalks, quaint multistories crammed side by side, trendy juice shops, pubs that looked like antiques…It was hard to believe how little time had passed between home and this. Ah! The Dam. I remembered cycling there years ago to hear an organ concert. And then Westermarket.

I stepped off the tram to see Sebastiaan ("bas"), the couch surfer I had arranged to stay with, coming towards me. Even with all the unpredictability of how and when I would get to the market square, I guess our meeting time of 1:30 was perfect because we both arrived at the same time. He is a medical student, from Holland, my age, and still busy assembling his thesis from college on human geography. His apartment was for one, but had a nice couch I was happy to stay on. The steps in the apartment stairwell were the tiniest, thinest, steepest things I've seen, taking up practically no space at all to ascend from one level down to one level up. The door knobs didn't turn. All the door knobs there didn't, they were just for pulling, not turning. Europe is western, but certainly unique from the US.

Shortly after I put my stuff down in the apartment, we went out to the Saturday open-air market. I had a beaming smile on my face the whole time. "Bas! Look at those cars! they're parked RIGHT along the edge of the canal, and there's NO GUARD RAIL!" *haha, yeah, I never noticed that.* "You know I bet in the US people would sue the government for not making it safe enough" *I've heard people there sue a lot* "I guess so, I mean, even for things like when McDonalds makes their coffee too hot. Don't the cars fall in?" *Hmm, I've heard of it once, but I don't think people are concerned about it.* "EVERYONE'S riding BIKES!" *Yeah! But be careful, they don't like it if you get in their way* "And so much space…is it this empty on the streets always?" *Yeah I think so. Look, there's Albert Heijn, it's the largest grocery supplier in Holland.* It was much smaller than the massive Costcos and Giant Eagles I was coming from, and then over a conversation about organic food and gentrification we arrived at the market. I remembered that Samantha Brown from one of the Travel Channel shows I had watched came here and sampled the cheeses. The stalls were one-by-one lining both sides of the streets making up the market, but it wasn't too crowded to walk through. I thought about getting a cup of the blended wheat grass I saw, but 2.5 euros just for a small shot of it didn't seem worth it. We saw a girl sitting playing this…circular hollow metal drum, where each side struck a different pitch. I remembered that my room mate at the Tushita center in Dharamsala 1.5 years ago had one too that he was lugging across central and south Asia, but never heard it played. It was quite mesmerizing, emitting a soft-edged melody that couldn't quite be minor nor major, but something limbo-like and incredibly soothing. Then Bas got us both a fresh oyster, which I think was my first ever. It tasted like the beach. He continued to get vegetables, and we headed back to the apartment for tea and a pastry he bought at a bakery on the way back.

After chatting some, I took a nap and he worked on his thesis, and soon enough it was the evening and we headed out for another walk around the area. It was a bit colder than the hoodie I brought could contend with, so Bas gave me one of his jackets. That evening he made a delicious dinner: whole wheat noodles with garlic, oil, and lima beans cooked with bitter orange rind, accompanied with a boiled artichoke head. At least I had contributed dried fruit, a scone, and teddy grahams I had brought for appetizers. And then yogurt with honey and nuts for dessert, what a combination! It was all a taste I was certainly excited to have linger on my palette for as long as possible. I showered in the tiny tiny bathroom so I wouldn't have to worry about it in the morning. In the warmly lit apartment, we had more discussions and watched an episode of Star Trek on my computer (he hadn't seen any yet, but was interested). It was late before I was finally asleep, and early when I woke up. Bidding Bas the best of luck and a heart-felt thank you (and leaving the bag of teddy grahams that he seemed like like quite a bit), I headed out again, this time walking to Amsterdam Centraal, on the brick streets which were very empty at 7:30 am on Sunday.

On the train, I talked a bit to a Mexican business man, a car head-light seller, who was heading back home. Schipol Airport and the propriety, smiles, and dutch accents of the royal-blue uniformed KLM attendants everywhere put a smile on my face. Mechanized luggage check-in? A big cage would come over the suitcase and it got swept away on the belt. I had never conceived of such a thing. Hmm, I wondered where my bag was and if it would actually get to Delhi.

The time I had to spare ended up being quite a blessing. Without a care or concern in the world, I approached the KLM check in at the gate. That's right, I remembered now, when I was flying through Schipol back to the US in December, I was struck blind at how strict the process had been to board. Every gate had it's own security battery, with attendants checking every single passenger, interrogating them, where they had been, where they were going, why, a second form of identification please? Let me flip through your passport again. Did anyone else handle you bag? Please confirm, are you *positive* that *no one* has handled your handbag, and that you are aware about every single article inside? And that was before security. Which included some x-ray, or something-ray, device that enclosed you and spun around while you had your arms up. Keep your passport out, you'll get checked again after security at the end of the ramp before you board the plane. I had never seen anything like it.

So I go up to the lady before security and handed her the passport. I had so little concern for anything not working out as planned that her words didn't quite make sense. *No no, you'll have to go to the embassy.* (It's Sunday) "I'm sorry, what?" *You were stamped into India less than two months ago, they won't let you in.* For some reason, I simply wasn't impressed. Of course they'll let me in. Either they won't notice or they'll forget the rule or I'll distract them by talking in Hindi or I'll beg or I'll show the documents that I'm going to Bangladesh or I'll ask for a transit visa or whatever. *No, I'm sorry, we can't let you board* Oh my. The thought hadn't occurred to me that the KLM/Schipol barrage of security would be the ones to contend with rather than the unpredictable but schmoozable Indian passport stampers. It still didn't make sense. I explained my case, still without much concern, I mean, because well, what the heck do you mean I'm not allowed on the plane I bought a ticket for? A supervisor came over to help. "But you see, I was only in India in December for an hour or so before getting stamped back out; there was no system for me to get my bag and re-check it on the next airline without stamping out of the airport and into the country" *I'm sorry, the stamp still remains on your passport* "But, actually, when I was stamped in to go to baggage claim, it was before 2 months had been up since my previous visit in India; I had just been there in November, and at that time it was no issue to get stamped in in December." *That must have been a mistake, you need to wait 2 months.* "I was unaware this would be an issue; I'm very confident that I'll be able to get into the country no problem." The plan was to stay in Delhi for a day and a night, and ride the train over east to Calcutta, then take a bus to Dhaka from there. It was much cheaper that way than booking flights to Dhaka.

This 2 month requirement before re-entry into India started after the 2008 Mumbai attacks in order to prevent rapid movement between India and bordering nations, a tactic which the bombers had employed somehow to smuggle weapons I think. In any case, maybe the rule looks good on paper, but I do believe that if you're planning on attacking a country, you'll find a way to skirt it's security processes that travelers contend with...by, for instance, going across the border anywhere else. Perhaps this rule might inconvenience would-be terrorists, but one thing is for sure, many a traveler has had quite the bout with this new visa-stamp legislation. Sometimes it's no issue, and evidently, sometimes it definitely, definitely is.

The supervisor with me never seemed confronting in the slightest, and although the situation seemed like it should be a bit dire, I also wasn't confronting or upset, just explaining my case. Another supervisor came. He was very matter-of-fact and explained that it would be impossible for me to board the plane for India because of my stamp from December, even if it was just because I needed to collect and re-check my bag and even if I had entered the country before 2 months had been up in the past (which had actually happened twice). He explained that I would be sent back and that the airline would get fined $5,000. I hadn't heard of such a thing, but KLM knew their rules, probably much better than India knew them anyway. There was no argument. I was not boarding the plane as matters stood.

But he was incredibly helpful, taking me to a booking service center while he explained the situation. He explained things to the woman at the glass desk there. Her expression was incredibly empathetic, and very aware and understanding, as if this had happened before. She looked at me and with concerned eyes said again "Yes, you see, because of your stamp in December you can't enter the country now; it hasn't been 2 months yet, the airline will get a major fine." I completely acquiesced; there was no defying this. We schemed up options, including flying to the middle east instead, getting another flight, etc. This didn't seem like anything cheap. But I loved how it totally felt like she was on my side, her undivided attention trying to think up a solution.

It was a good thing I was ultimately heading to Dhaka rather than India. If it were India, well, I simply wouldn't have been able to go. But the woman at the desk found flights from Delhi to Dhaka the day after I would arrive, claiming it might be the best option to get one of those last minute flights. I churned a bit, eh, that must be horribly expensive, booking a flight for the next day. She admitted that it would be about 400 euro through her system. Luckily I had my laptop with me, and she quickly set it up with the Schipol wireless system so that I could get the ticket myself for cheaper. Time was running out, the plane was leaving in about 30 minutes and I was intent on not missing it.

It was the quickest ticket I ever bought, slamming in the information it required in the Jet Airways website to purchase it as fast as possible. As soon as the credit card information had gone through, I appeared on her system too, and within 5 seconds she printed my new boarding pass to dhaka. I advised that I'd have to enter the country anyway to collect my bag and re-check it on Jet Airways, but she was already half-way finished getting it checked through all the way…somehow. There were a few quick phone calls in there, a blur of Dutch, and bam, within the span of about 5 minutes, I had a ticket to Dhaka and that silly bag was checked the whole way through. I thanked my animated, concerned, and outrageously helpful booking woman profusely and scurried off to the gate again. I had just been the witness of a space that had access to the inner workings of this complicated airline system. How had she pulled up my ticket information the moment I purchased it? Who had she called to advise about the bag being checked through? I understood none of it, nor the Dutch that was flying around during the whole process, but it was time to try it again. That woman at the check in before security that had started this whole mess gave me a funny look as she verified my ticket to dhaka on her little system, making .abolutely. .sure., and checking twice, that indeed it was lawful to let me onboard. The spinning x-ray cage machine afterward found the wooden prayer beads I had in one leg pocket and the discarded paper receipts I had in the other. I guess I hadn't followed to rules to empty *all* of my pockets. But I didn't realize, however should now learn to expect, that their security system would know everything. Every time. All the time.

I slept most of the flight. Good thing those crying children were in the row in front of me rather than behind. One stewardess, Irmgaards, was happy to answer all my questions I had about what it was like to be a KLM attendant. My relationship with the airline evolved into one characterized by fear but also respect, love but also hate. I asked about her visa situation, evidently flight attendants don't need any visa to enter countries, except the US, so the stringent 2 month role and all these silly strings attached for an average 'tourist' like me seemed to be way below her radar. I exited the plane in Delhi and recognized immediately the spot just before you go down to get stamped into the country, the line of desks at which several of us had waited for hours in December trying to figure out if we could collect our bags without actually entering the country. I may have been more persistent then if I knew now what a hassle it ended up becoming. I approached the desk to explain to the Indian KLM attendant there, in the royal blue suit coat, that I already had my boarding pass for the next flight to Dhaka and wouldn't need to enter the country. After briefly flipping through my passport, his response caught be a bit off guard, but somehow I subconsciously expected it…*Oh, well, yes if you like you can go through security now and wait at the gate, but…the flight doesn't leave for another 12 hours, you're welcome to exit the airport if you like, you have a multiple-entry visa."

The irony.

I had briefly thought about canceling my Jet Airways ticket and proceeding as planned, meeting up with friends in Delhi, a 24 hour train ride to Calcutta, bus to Dhaka, etc., but just decided to go with plan B as it had been shaped by the vigilant KLM security eye and wait out my hours in the fancy Delhi airport, watching people, exploring, revisiting my notes from the November Buddhism course I took in Nepal, and writing out this silly experience. There was probably a cancellation fee anyway. Who knows, maybe KLM had paid me a big favor, I'd get to Dhaka 4 days early, and I didn't have to worry about the energy-consuming hassle-adventure across India to get there. I've spent all night in the food court typing. I'm not sure what time it is, but with a 12 hour layover, I can bet there's still time to go. It is light outside though. Maybe I'll try out the McSpicy Paneer Burger at the beef-free McDonald's in front of me before meandering to the gate for the last leg of this unexpected unfolding of events. Then, before boarding, I'll pay a visit to the store downstairs that's having a santoor and tabla concert. That checked bag, with all my clothes, I wonder if it will be waiting for me in Dhaka…