Transported through Transportation: Visit to the North

My first visit to rural Bangladesh was one of transportation: we rode countless buses, rickshaws, boats and walked on foot through paved streets, dirt roads, shallow rivers and mud puddles.  We were definitely transported to another side of Bangladesh being outside of Dhaka, so it was fitting that we did nothing but use transportation to entertain ourselves: just looking out the window is a cultural experience.

I visited my friend Maude in the town Gaibandha, in the northwest state Rajshahi.  She will be working with the French NGO, Friendship, and interviewing young students from a new project they started.   The six-hour bus ride was certainly a trip – I might have lost hearing from the pleasure the driver took in honking the horn.  But it might have been necessary, because he liked to drive on the right side of the road (which is the wrong side of the road here) to pass the sluggish trucks full of bananas, jute or chickens.

Friday is the weekend, the only day-off the whole week.  But most stores are closed, then most restaurants are closed for Ramadan, as are the museums.  As women, we are not allowed to visit mosques – so what is there to do in Northwest Bangladesh?

Well, quite frankly, nothing.  But Maude and I decided we did not travel here to sit in the NGO office alone.  We hopped on a two-hour bus to the town Mahasthangarh (still having trouble pronouncing it myself.)  We were dropped off at a mosque then wandered down a road to the museum to discover it was closed.  The road was beautiful: lined with rice pattys blowing in a soft breeze.  It was so quiet that we could hear the wind, something lost in the madness of Dhaka.

After discovering there was nothing more to do in Mahasthangarh besides breaking rocks with other rocks, we hopped on another bus to a ‘bigger’ town, Bogra.  It was after noon at this point and we haven’t eaten all day with all the restaurants closed.  But after breaking through the swarm of bus hustlers asking,  “kothay jabe?” (‘where are you going?’), we found a hotel for foreigners that had a restaurant.  We enter sweating, and smile in the breeze of the fans and in the soundlessness of the lobby away from the hustlers – then the electricity goes out.

We wait 40 minutes for the fan and our food, but Maude and I are super chatty so it went fast.  And luckily, in the hour we took for lunch, it began then ended the daily rain.  We talk to our waiter about what there is to do in Bogra: "Nothing," he responds.  “Go to Sariakandi and take a boat ride around the river for 50tk.”  Why not?

Hopping on to rickshaw, we swerve through Bogra into another city for 20 minutes then stop at a bench.  “Bus station.”  We sit on the bench and ask the ticket man when the next bus to Sariakandi is coming:  “Five minutes.”

Twenty-five minutes later, there are a constant horde of about two dozen Bangladeshi men standing around, sometimes so close I can feel the air from their open mouths, staring in curiosity.  None of them try to talk to us.  I try to talk but they just stare.  Their dialect is different and can’t understand me.  I try to make them leave, but they just laugh.  Finally the bus came.

Onto another bus ride, which by the way - women usually sit in front.  Mostly to avoid harassment.  After sitting on the back of the bus at one point, I learned my lesson never to sit in the back ever again.  We arrive at another town, and the rickshaw-wallah takes us to the river.  Now we are in a village, with naked little boys running around, hitting each other with sticks, avoiding their mothers screams not to step on the drying dates in the middle of road.

We arrive at the river and the first thing we notice: no noise. No motors, no yelling, no piercing radios blasting Bangla music.  We only attract a small crowd, of about 15 people and we turned our backs to the land and stared into the river – so we almost felt alone.  We “spoke of many things, fools and kings,” and watched a man try to catch tiny fish with a five-foot long U-shaped net.

Realizing our skin is beginning to burn (the woes of being white in a country where its people don’t sunburn), we head back to the bus stop, which is a bench.  A crowd gathers, and we count: 47 people at one point.  In order for us to keep our cool, we make jokes: “We’re like monkeys in a zoo: they can’t communicate with us, but they just watch how we sit and look.  Go get a banana, and you can feed us!  We should start charging them like a zoo: 100tk to stare.  For 500tk, take a picture.  For 1000tk maybe we’ll smile.  Buy us some food, and maybe we’ll do a dance.  Or, maybe I should just start foaming at the mouth and try to bite them, will they go away?”

One man came over to shoo everyone away.  I smiled softly at him and said, “onek dhonobad (many thanks).”  He smiled sympathetically.  After a minute of pushing everyone away, more people surrounded us after wondering why a man was shooing everyone away.  Mission quiet time: futile.  At least having so many people stand over you blocks out the sun and her harmful rays…

We then, again, jump on a bus that has a lion roaring instead of an actual motor, sit on holey cushions and pick off the ants as we speed through the green landscape.  And when I say green – man, I tell ya, I mean green.  Because Bangladesh is such a wet country, there are always crops and plants growing, whether they are edible or not.  If there isn’t a plant, there is water that reflects the green colors of the surrounding plants.

It’s now evening, almost the end of today’s fast.  We stop around dusk for all the men to get off and smoke their first cigarette since the morning.  Maude and I bolt off the bus to find some food and water – sweet relief!  It’s hard to not eat the whole day, but it’s even worse when you are in a climate that you are not accustomed too.  The weather is so hot and we become so dehydrated.  In trying to be respectful, I never try to eat or drink in front of Bangladeshis who are fasting, but it’s hard to find quiet place alone when everyone follows you like celebrities (without body guards).

Around 8, we’re back in Gaibandha.  The town is beautiful at night – no cars on the road, just motorbikes and rickshaws and a few buses.  We pass all the stores open for the night, lit by candle.  We find our way home by the torch on my cell phone, walking through the sounds of geckos and frogs, running past the growling stray dogs.  Finally, as Maude digs through her bag to find the key to the NGO’s office (where we are sleeping), I stand out from under the verandah and for the first time, see the stars from the view of Bangladesh.

My Life

I am taking a six hour bus for $3 to a village that I can barely pronounce that has a literacy rate of 24% to visit a friend whose last name I just discovered..

Wish me luck!

Video: My First Iftar

My Video from YouTube

My First Iftar for Ramadan

Iftar is the evening meal during Ramadan.  From around 4-7, restaurants and food stands sell traditional Iftari food for Muslims to take home to their families.  I went to help out my friends as they sell their Iftari and was invited to participate.

Quick overview: The month of Ramadan begins at the new moon, the start of the crescent moon, of the 9^th month of the Islamic calendar.  Muslims fast from dawn to dusk all day as well as refrain from impure actions and thoughts (and smoking!).  By doing so, they are reminded of Allah with each moment of hunger and temptation.  Practicing patience, gratitude and additional prayer brings them closer to Allah.  They rise at 3 or 4 to take the morning meal, then fast until the sun sets around 7 for Iftar, the evening meal.  Back to my first Iftar…

[Click here for more pictures]

As my brothers prepared for the meal, the electricity went out.  Candles were lit and the boys hustled around in the dark.  I sat near one candle as the massive plate of muri spiced with onions, dates, garlic and chili was placed on the table.  Gia mixed lemon sharbat and filled seven glasses.  They sat and explained that they must wait for the second to last call to prayer, the signal from Allah that today’s fast is over.  About three minutes later, I hear, “Didi, khabe – ekhon!”  The muezzin’s call was clearly heard as the boys downed their lemon drink, basking in the sweetness of Allah and their first taste since dawn.  Then our hands dug into the platter of spiced crisp rice.  All you could hear was munching and breathing of seven hungry men finally breaking their fast for the day.  All I felt was the spices under my nails and their hands reaching for the same salvation.  Gia spoke, “Allah loves to see us share a plate – it brings our community together.”  I felt that too.

Towards the end of the meal, the boys were practically forcing more food down my throat.  It is this custom that I witnessed that when I share food with Bengalis, they feed my food back to me.  So, I smiled and raised a hand of full muri to Sumor’s mouth; he laughed and took the food.  Then I went around the table feeding one scoop to all the boys.  Of course, like true Bangla hospitality, they feed me a mishti each! 

It was so beautiful of them to share their meal and beliefs with me.   Each time some Bangla man on the street asked who I was, they all responded that I was their sister.  You can’t be more welcoming than that!  In one month, stay tuned for Eid – the last day of the fast!

Movie Date with My Brothers: Part II

The conversation was interrupted when a truck hit our CNG as we were sitting in traffic.  The truck driver jolted us forward slightly when he became too eager to move forward.  Our driver gets out to confront the other driver.   Mind you, I was told at orientation, at my security debriefing, by veteran foreigners and locals alike:  if you find yourself in a traffic accident, get away as soon as possible.  It’s quite frequent that a mob will beat the driver who caused the accident.  Luckily, this wasn’t a huge accident, only a dent, and we weren’t the cause.  But our driver caused a scene as he shouts to the other driver.

Remember, we are in the middle of traffic, and it’s starting to move.  It comes to a halt not only because we are blocking the flow of vehicles, but because now every driver, passenger, pedestrian must watch.  This isn’t the rubbernecking I’m used to, where drivers slow down to crane their neck to witness an accident: this is dead stop, wide-eyed and mouth-agape at the two men grab each other’s shirt collar and flail their arms around in menial jabs.  Gia steps out of the CNG along with other drivers to break apart the fight as Sumor yells at the driver to get a move on.

Finally, we enter at Bashundhara City, the eight-floor mall.  It’s claimed to be the biggest in South Asia and the 12^th largest in Asia.  There are 2500 retail stores and food kiosks of both traditional and Western-style alike.  The movie doesn’t start for another 2 ½ hours so we wander around a bit.  Gia and Sumor were uber-big brothers and didn’t let me out of their sight.  We entered into a Western clothing outlet called Esctasy and there were little cocktail dresses that I have never seen a Bangladeshi woman wear.  I don’t know who buys those clothes.  Certainly not me because I don’t need to get anymore attention.

We sat at a table to chat and we talked about the dating scene in Bangladesh.  American pre-teen dates are much more audacious than standard Bangla dating.  Each of them have had a ‘lady friend,’ but ‘many communication problems’ ended it.  Each question I asked, they became more red in the face, but I’m a nosey Nelly.  I asked Sumor how serious it was, and he said, “I touch her.”  He read the confusion on my face, and asked Gia in Bangle how to say what he meant.  He meant, “I was touched by her emotionally, he really liked her.”  After that was cleared up, I asked if they will choose their own wife.  Gia said his father would let him choose for love, while Sumor said that his father wants to pick his wife.

After a few hours of bumming around the mall, we bought our tickets and some snacks for the movie.  The seats are assigned as we sat in the middle of one of the higher rows.  Soon the movie began.  It was called Monpura.  In short, the main character Sonai is sent to live on a deserted island, Monpura, because his uncle framed him for a murder that his mentally ill cousin committed.  Sonai meets Pori, a beautiful island girl in the rivers of Bangladesh and they fall in love, which consists of holding hands, no kissing.  However, Sonai’s uncle finds Pori beautiful and arranges with Pori’s father to have her married to the mentally ill cousin/murderer.  The police arrest Sonai for the murder he didn’t commit, but is released.  He gets to his uncle's house to rescue Pori to find that she poisioned herself because the family lied that Sonai was killed in prision.  Sonai and his broken heart row to the middle of the river, drop the oar and drift to starvation...

I almost cried.  Women’s rights, man!  Gia and Sumor helped translate though most of the time I could understand from the acting and the few words I know.  I thought the cinematography was well done, it certainly made me want to visit a river village.  After the movie ended, we jumped on a bus back to Bonani.  My first time on a bus.  But, for 15 minutes, it was stuck in traffic – at 9:50pm.  So Sumor hailed a taxi and we sped through the streets home.  Gia assured me as we left the theatre, “Do not worry about your security, we will make sure you get home safely!”  And they did :)

Movie Date with My Brothers: Part I

I was worried last week because I thought I accidently asked out a Bangladeshi man on a date.  Pure accident, I swear.

I have been growing close with these local young men working at the restaurant I eat at.  I asked them about their favourite movies and mentioned how I’d love to see a Bangla movie.  We all said we’d go to the movies the next Friday and I should invite my friends.  The Sunday before the movie, I ask one the boys, the accountant, and he said Friday was no good because it was Ramadan – Thursday will be better.  But he did not tell anyone else, and asked for my number.

"Uh oh," I thought as I refused to give out my number, "I hope this isn’t a date date."  It’s not entirely appropriate for men and women to go out in public together if they aren’t married (though it happens, it’s not at all common. I stress, not at all.)  So I’m sure it’s worse if he’s out with a foreigner.  Did I just break a cultural rule?  I show up on Thursday to find both Sumor and Gia are taking me to the movies.

Phew.

We catch a CNG (baby taxi/auto-rickshaw - see picture) and head to the Star Cineplex inside Bangaldesh’s biggest mall, Bashundhara City Mall.  They said this is the nicest and biggest theatre, with cushion seats and three theatres -- I didn’t have the heart to tell them that all seats in the US are cushioned and one standard theatre has at least 20 theatres in your average suburban Cineplex.  Squeezed between Sumor and Gia, they reveal that this is the first time that they are going to the movies “with a lady.”  Sumor, 25, is dressed up in nice black slacks with a sand-coloured shirt that has a black-and-white imprint of an eagle perched on a tree with snakes for roots.  Gia, 23, also in nice black slacks in a beige shirt with light blue trim that traces the collar, back and wide cuffs.  I ask why and they said, “Oh, I feel shame if I take a lady out alone.  If I take her out, a guardian must come along.”  Well, now I’m embarrassed, I ask, “Do you feel shame in taking me out?”  They jump, “No, no, no, you are our sister, it is no problem.”

We wind through Dhaka traffic around 5 pm.  The boys point out important momuments and buildings and tell me the history of each and it’s effect on Bangladesh.  I cannot echo their deep love for their country through cyberspace.  As we pass a memorial for the citizens and students who were killed during the Liberation War, Gia turns to me and says, “I would fight and die for my country. Would Americans do the same?”  As I think of my close friend and her fiancé in Afghanistan, I respond, “Of course, there are many soliders who are putting their lives on their line for American right now.” (In my head, I question whether the choices of war are for ‘Americas protection’ but regardless, I fully respect the soldiers – who must take orders, as sketchy and imperialist as they may be.)  But Gia then said, “No not soldiers, I mean the everyday American – would they die for their country?”

I didn’t know the answer.  Do you?

stay tuned for Part II: Shakespeare - Bangladeshi Style

The Greatest Acting Feat

She touches me, splintering the armor

That keeps me strong.

The little ones follow me, standing by my side

As if we are friends.

He stands there, painfully staring at me

As I stare into detached space.

They say, don’t give money,

It will circle into criminal pockets.

They say, don’t give food,

Creating dependence is ineffective.

They say, look away,

Act indifferent to detach yourself.

This dogma is preached from the community,

Built into a towering effigy of casual words;

Harsh stature, made of unmoving stone.

They say, maph korun -- forgive me.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, brother, as you sit on a scooter, legless, 

Rolling between cars with a sandal laced through your fingers.

 

Forgive me!

Forgive me, nana, in your beaten leather skin,

With a wrist that cannot rotate towards prayer or alms.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, dada, with your white beard and taqiyah,

Grasping your bamboo walking stick, and your breath in hope.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, sister, breast revealed in a holey sari,

With your exposed child listening to your heart beat faster.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, my children, as you call me ‘a beautiful madam,’

And shake your heads, placing your fingers to your mouth,

Masterfully in unison, as a row of puppets.

Forgive me, for I know not if this is right

-- it is what I’m told.

quiet satisfaction

Now to get personal:

Today was a nice day -- I finally felt that I can feel a part of this country, not just on the outskirts.  I've had a few tough days: insecure about my project, a tad lonely, frustrated with the new culture.  My current contentment is part in due to the amazing, understanding friends and supportive family members who have talked me through it the past week.  But today was all me.

Class is going well, I feel comfortable with trying and I am forming sentences in conversation (slowly, and frequently incorrect and backwards, but forming them nonetheless!)  I like my teacher and my classmates, we make jokes and try to say random phrases: ekta din ami tomar dana katbo (I will cut your wings one day).  My favourite Bangla word is chor, a temporary island.  It made me laugh, because a temporary island can be a common occurrence.  Like Eskimos have dozens of words for 'snow,' a word for a temporary island is needed because during the rainy season, a piece of land can annually be flooded into the river and disappear.  

I study for two hours after class, attempting to perfect my Bangla with make-shift flash cards.  At noon I eat with my teachers a simple lunch and hug my cook.  On the main street to my house, I visit a dorkandar (shopkeeper) who presents a new Muslim blessing each time I visit as I purchase bottled water.  The people on the street are becoming used to me: I'm not surprising anymore (and I think they've stared enough that they could perfectly sketch my image from memory.)

For dinner tonight, I took my french friends (Crystal, Leah and Maude) to my favourite restaurant where I am friends with the owners (who recently told me that they will cry when I leave Banani - 'amra kanna korbo!')  I left my apartment at 8:15pm, the latest I've ever left.  I've been out late but my friends' drivers take me home - it's not too safe to take a rickshaw or CNG at night.  I won't lie, it took a little courage to put on my yellow and purple salwar kameez and venture out that night where there are no lampposts, only headlights and wax candles sitting on food stands.  I love this dress because its color combination reminds me of my grandmother and my mother.  The dress requires you wear an orna (one foreigner friend mockingly renamed it 'the boob scarf' because it's purpose is to hide your chest.)  The orna is longer than the length of my arms and is drapped over my chest, over my shoulders and flows behind me.

Walking into the night at 30C,  a slight breeze blew my orna back as my shadow drew my image in the shape of a superhero's cape.  I laughed to myself winding through the hanging electrical wires and speeding cars to pick up the girls.  As we stepped into Jagiur's Garden, one boy saw me and ran to the other boys to announce my arrival (Queen Sheba, anyone?)  The owners all smiled and scolded me for not visiting the past week.  The girls loved the food: saying it was better than restaurants in the bideshi (foreigner) area, Gulshan (there is apparently a Mexican restaurant that LP raves about, but I haven't heard good things.  I can't imagine Bangladeshis making good guacamole, only Mexicans and CParks can make good guac.)

Tomorrow I have a meeting with a woman at the International Organization for Migration in hopes of collaborating, networking, using resources.. anything to get started on this project!  My friend Darcy works there and is sitting in on the meeting too.  The French girls and I might head down to the Hindu market in Old Dhaka to celebrate Krishna's Birthday (or at least, one of his ten births/rebirths.)  This weekend, Darcy and I are exploring one of the many museums, one of my Bangla friends, Emy, wants to take me shopping, and I am having a girls night Saturday with Sayaka and Kyungai to watch Sex and the City with beers and some sort of Korean liquor.

It's finally becoming a home.  I have a routine, friends, and my work is (slowly) progressing. Best of all -- it's almost the end of the rainy season so it'll start becoming cooler!  But for now, I'm good in my quiet middle ground of satisfaction.  I hope you're in a good place too :)

Chittagong Hill Tracts: Dancing Against Genocide

This weekend myself and some new French friends (to the left) went to a festival honoring the indigenous people of Bangladesh.  The French volunteered for a floating hospital on the city’s main river, Buriganga.  There they met a dentist from the Chittagong Hill Tracts.  Previous to this day, I only knew that foreigners needed permits to visit the country’s only non-plain geography due to human rights violations.  Talk about being selfish: once I discovered how difficult it was to visit, I didn’t learn much more.

However, there is little information available describing the situation in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT).  Gladly, this festival gave myself and my fellow travelers some insight.

Walking about with our new friend, we gazed over the beautifully patterned clothing.  Dhaka dress is much more flowery than the traditional clothing of the hills where the patterns were more geometrically shaped.  It was also interesting to see new faces at the festival.  Most of the tribes are Buddhist and look more Chinese and Burmese than Bengali.  Our friend said that many Bangladeshis think he is a Chinese businessman, and said he loves the look on their faces when he speaks to them in Bangla slang.  He also sympathizes with us foreigners who are always charged more for fruit and rickshaw rides!

He bought us small pamphlets describing the political and social history of CHT.  Briefly, because of the location, CHT is a very valuable natural resource.  And what happens when governments get a hold of valuable resources?  Tribes are evicted, violently, and the people have had little to no rights.  The past ten years have been under a Peace Treaty but an unrecognized genocide remains in the past and constant fear of aggression for their future.  Visit here for more information.

We toured around, sat under palm trees and chat.  The French girls are studying microloans – really interesting  things to say, a relevant topic to dive into, thinking about women after trafficking.  After a bit, we headed inside into the auditorium to watch indigenous dance performances.  (Visit again in a few days, a short video will appear.)  I think dancing is the most immediate of human connections, and my favourite way to learn about other cultures, and exchange with locals.  Dancing always breaks the embarrassment barrier in the presence of a new person.  Just showing off moves, and learning new ones creates this instant connection, where you laugh at each other’s mistakes and smile when you nail a move.  It was an incongruous feeling: to be at an event concerned with an unrecognized genocide, a complete dehumanizing and alienating experience -- but to be watching these magnificent dancers, feeling a deep, instinctive connection through the beats of their feet.  That's life I suppose: a conflicting ride of experiences and emotions that all, somehow, balance in the end -- if you look for it.

Even though there weren’t any more seats, and I was sitting on the suspension bar of a broken seat, I was beaming at the divine humanity of these light-footed women moving in their jubilant attire under lurid lights.

traditional dancing outside

Behind the Scenes: VIP Treatment

YouTube

How to Lose Two Inches Off Your Waist in Four Hours

I’ve been told that I have an amazing capability to put myself in the weirdest situations.

Well, it happened again.

The principal of my school has a friend who is a singer here and is making a Valentine’s Day special – and needs some pretty, white girls as extras for the music video.  Myself, Darcy from Canada and Akiko from Japan were asked to participate.  We meet with the singer who seems nice and arranges us to go to the studio.

If anything great comes out of this, it’s meeting Darcy and Akiko.  They work for the IOM (International Organization on Migration) and UNESCO (United Nations Education, Social, and Cultural Organization).  After mentioning to Darcy the topic of my project, the next time I saw her she handed me a list of valuable articles on the topic.  I hope to visit her office next week, maybe make some connections and get started on this research.  Akiko is asking her boss at UNESCO if I can tag along for one of their site visits.  I hope this luck continues.

We meet on Thursday night at the language school and get into a car with the singer and his driver.  We were three Chatty Cathys (as my mother would say) in the back seat, sharing our projects and goals.  After a bit, we realize we are in a part of the city that we’ve never been in, and we’ve been in the car for 40 minutes.  Then we turn into this alley that only the width of one car.  Pulling up to this building surrounding by wall, we jump out and scurry inside from the rain.  Following the singer through these thin hallways, also only the width of one person, we sit in his office with his manager and producer.  He shows us some of his past photo shoots.  Darcy and I make eye contact as the singer comments on how he wishes that better production equipment was available in Bangladesh.  I’ll say, my own awkward cribs video and my old point-and-shoot camera take better pictures than this.  And cheesy is not a strong enough word to describe the clichéd and mushy poses between ‘lovers.’  One scene was a fight scene, and if anyone remembers Connetquot High School production of Les Miserables, our make-up was more believable.

So we don’t know what we’re getting ourselves into.  Is this even a legitimate singer?  To be honest, we felt guilted into it.  When our principal sat us down to tell us about the project, she called it the ‘Bangladeshi hospitality’ – that we were doing her a favor of helping her friend.

We are then ushered into another room which they called the practice room.  My living room is bigger.  There are a dozen Bangla girls sitting on chairs circling the room.  Then this short, tubby man gets up and starts dancing the typical corny dance moves of Bollywood/Dhallywood.  Then asks us to get up and learn the dance.  Darcy and Akiko were nervous and felt silly, but the moves were terribly easy.  Whatever dance move was done on the right side is repeated on the left.  I learned very young that that’s a sign of amateurs.  I like to describe the dance moves as “clichéd and unelaborate regurgitation of *NSYNC circa 1999.”  The music itself is a whole other story.

The moves were so easy that I was picking them up before he was finished teaching them.  Darcy and Akiko had me break down the moves into counts and words and we were silly school girls giggling the whole time.  The producer kept yelling at us, and believe me, he’s menacing looking.  The Bangladeshi girls got up to learn it, and they weren’t much better than us so we felt better.

Of course, from hearing music, I was becoming silly and did a little pirouette on the side.  The singer stops and says, “What’s this art?”  Then they made me dance ballet around the room in front of everyone.  I was so embarrassed, man.  My body is not as flexible as it used to be and it looked terrible.  But I’m not sure if they’ve ever seen it, so they were all impressed.  Darcy and Akiko are laughing at me and I’m turning seven shades of red.

So after two hours of practicing the same dance moves, they invite us into the office for dinner.  I don’t know if the Bangladeshi girls got food.  The three of us were so uncomfortable that we just chatted to ourselves as the singer, producer and manager keep eyeing us.  We ask to be taken home around 8:30 and with night traffic, we didn’t get home until 10.  

As per the music video, filming was finished last night and taped a bunch of it and am working it into a Behind the Scenes video.  Akiko backed out but Darcy and I had a good time.  They asked us to wear Western clothes and we laughed because we moved to Bangladesh: we didn’t bring much.  We hoped our backpacker clothes would be enough.  Then the bought us the shirts above...

And if anyone ever wants to lose a belt size in four hours -- come to Bangladesh, get convinced to be a 'VIP' white guest in a Bangla music video, propelled into a stage surrounding by at least 60 sets of eyes staring you down, under spotlights in a studio with no air conditioning.  Swear to Ganesh, inbetween one take, I had to tighten my belt another whole notch.  Darcy saw me trying to hide it but laughed and said she did the same thing.

I was asked to be in another movie, but I am going to pass.  This was a funny experience, I gained extra insight into the country, I met Darcy and some sweet Bangla girls and funny guys, and it will be a riot to watch the final cut on TV and eventually show my grandkids.  But it’s not why I’m here.  I think I’ll take a hiatus from my movie career and hide out in the French Rivera, or, you know, somewhere more remote, like Dhaka.

Coming soon --> Behind the Bangla Scenes: VIP Treatment

"Baby... Shooting... Hospital" -- The Case of the Language Barrier

On Wednesday, I was going to head to Dipali’s house for a visit.  I call before I jump in a CNG (autorickshaw).  She gives the phone to her husband Barun.  It is really loud in the background and all I can understand is, “baby… shooting… hospital…”

Umm, what?

He sounded fine, not upset or stressed so I patiently wait in Dhaka traffic to get to their house.  Dipali comes down to get me, and we head to their apartment.  In her room, is Dipali, Dulal, their mother, Dulal’s wife Meethu Mammi, and her son Sudho.  He’s about 10 months old and the cutest thing.  All he does is stare at me but cries when I hold him.  I am reminded of Mum Mum: we all lounge on the master bedroom’s bed, playing with the baby.  Soon, Dipali says that we are leaving.  Dipali, Meethu Mammi, the baby and myself head downstairs, walk onto the street, down a back street and suddenly in this person’s house.  There are people running in and out of the house, yelling at each other, grabbing things.   I realize: I’m on a movie set.  Barun is a journalist but sometimes directs.  Slowly the phone conversation reveals itself: the ‘baby’ is in this episode of the soap opera and Barun is ‘shooting’ near the ‘hospital’ around the corner from the apartment.

Ooooooh!

We sit down on this bed in this large room and Dipali pushes me in front of these two young Bangladeshis, about my age.  I look at them and they turn to me and say, “Hi, we’re from Florida.”  Praise Allah – American accents!  Turns out their names are Emy and Sam, born in Bangladesh but were raised in America.  Their parents moved their business to Dhaka so they are here for bit renewing their papers.  They are awesome and we chat the whole evening.

billboard of a Bangla movie

There are actresses and actors running about, changing, putting on make-up sleeping inbetween scences.  Emy tells me that it is a soap opera that taken place during the Liberation War in 1971.  We watched one scene where a couple reveals to the parents they are married.  The father is upset, but the friend jumps into the scene with mishti to soften the blow.  Emy said that she is unimpressed by Bangladeshi cinema.  I haven't seen much and I tried to compare to Indian cinema, and she argued, "Indian cinema at least has good production quality at this point.  Here we are still stuck in the 70s.  In some movies, you can still see the hand of the sound guy holding the microphone."

It starts to rain, so we head up to this woman’s apartment.  Emy heads inside with me, thank God, because then she can translate the havoc around me.  Being the token foreigner, I frequently assume that I am being talked about, especially when I hear keys words like, "America... scholarship... ekta bochor (one year)..."  They always ask if I know Bangla, which I respond I am learning (note to self: look up the Bangla word for 'slowly').  But instead of understanding that I don't know much yet (at this point I had four classes), they still try to speak.  So the best phrase I have learned is "ami bujhi na" -- I don't understand.  Sitting around, Emy and I share our frustrations of America and BD: governments, culture, selfishness and capitalism, she’s great to talk to.  She decided, since she's here, to take some classes in the University.  There is an entry exam similar to the SATs, but here in Bangladesh, you must know English to pass the exam.

Proof of Bangla hospitality the hostess serves samosa and mishti.  Samosas are this triangle pastry stuffed with vegetables or meat, and mishti are these Munchkin-sized treats drowned in liquid sugar.  I think these alone are the reason that many Bengalis have diabetes. 

After a bit, it starts pouring and it’s getting late so Dipali insists that I stay, but I just wanted to go home.  She is nervous about sending me home by myself but I have class at 8am.  Solution: they arrange for the production boy to sit in the CNG with me all the way to my apartment, and hour ride in traffic, then go back to the shooting.  Mind you, it’s 8:30pm, it’s not that late but it’s dark and I am nervous to head back by myself.  The whole ride the production boy Alal and I sit in silence, not knowing the other’s language, bouncing through Dhaka at night, food stands lit by candlelight and just as much traffic as mid-day.  In the background is the last call to prayer of the day.  I sit back in the CNG and let the city pass by.