MATADOR ABROAD: The Origin of the Ugly American

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A Dhaka Thanksgiving

Who would have thought that even though I'm away from my Chuchi Nancy, I still got drunk on Thanksgiving?

Well, it certainly was a night of beautiful randomness. I went with my friend and her family to Patrice's house, with several ex-pats (ex-patriots) and their children. All American by birth or marriage, everyone consistently lives abroad working for different NGOs and departments of the US government. It was nice to speak in my New Yorker accent, eat REAL cheese and chocolate, and see an alternative side to life in Dhaka. Even more so, I was spoiled when Patrice insisted I allow her driver to drop me off at my friend's house in her SUV.. Our government treats our employees well, and rightfully so--they are intelligent, hard-working people with open hearts. I'm grateful for the hospitality of my American friends here, and grateful for the endless amounts of love from my family and best friends sent from Northport, Long Island!

Click here to see full photo.

.. and Northport, New York :)

My First Rickshaw Accident

In the oldest part of Dhaka, aptly named, Old Dhaka – a friend and I went to do some shopping. Taking a CNG from Banani to Old Dhaka, we wandered around aimlessly until we realized we were not near Hindu Street, the main (and best) shopping street in Old Dhaka. It was my friend Sara’s One Year Anniversary of arriving in Bangladesh on the Fulbright, so her Bangla is impeccable. However, as always, none of the dozens of Bengalis following us understands our accent nor can I understand how a sentence is slurred together into one word.

Finally, one rickshaw driver knows the street – which shouldn’t be surprising because it’s the only street to buy all things Hindu. Then we climb onto what we don’t know to be the Rickshaw of Death.

Driving down new streets in Dhaka is bumpy, so driving down old streets is a whole other game. Dhaka makes a joke out of the video driving games in sports arcades. We keep yelling (yes, yelling) at our driver, “Bhai, ashte!” (Brother, slow!) But he is dodging around and through throngs of people, small streets busy with carts full of animal skins and boys playing futbol. At one point, on fairly wide part of the road, two men were walking hand-in-hand from our right side (reminder, South Asia drives on the left side of the road). Our rickshaw-wallah keeps ringing the bell, warning them of our path. To avoid them, he starts to steer around them—to the right. But, they saw us approaching and stopped walking. So, in this misunderstanding: we kept turning right, they stopped walking to our right…

We smashed in one man with the front wheel and kept rolling until we pushed him up onto the wall and into the sewer. As we are colliding into him, Sara clutches my left knee then jumps to the left off the rickshaw. Being on the right side of the seat, I can’t jump out because I’ll hit the wall, so I grip onto the back of the seat and hang on. We plow into the wall—and the man—and ram to a complete stop. I jump out to see that the back wheels of the rickshaw are in the air.

Within 4.7 seconds, 39 Bangladeshis rush to gawk at the scene. Sara grabs my arm and we exchange glances with eyes widened. We have been told that it is not safe to stay near an accident. It is common for people to attack the driver who caused an accident, in essence to punish him. But no real damage was done to anyone except shock. People start to argue but we get onto the rickshaw and drive off. Our wallah apparently didn’t learn his lesson because he kept pedaling and swerving.

We survived, thank Allah. The rest of the day was spent buying cool Hindu pictures and finding cheesey Bangla movie posters. I found one of the singer I danced in the video with, and we found the movie that Sara starred in called "Chaichi Tomar Bondhuta." I bought the movie—it’s a classic, I'll tell 'ya! Some shop owners recognized her and asked her to autograph their hands. Her one-year survival of Bangladesh, gaining the ability to converse in Bangla, have unique experiences (i.e. starring in a movie) and survive the bureaucracy and accomplish her goals gave me hope to do the same. With several promising meetings this week, I hope my field work will begin soon!

Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss: Backpackers Vs. Expats

“Tell me more – I want your life!” I said to Kim, an Australian cyclist that travels the world on her mountain bike. She responded, “That’s funny, because I’m trying to find ways to have your life…”

I met this woman during tea break of our Bangla classes. There are many foreigners coming in and out of the centre: here for a few weeks or a few years. Kim only plans to stay in Dhaka until the end of the week, then is biking to eastern Bangladesh, Sylhet, then back west into and throughout India. Like the Brit, Marc, she had all these beautiful things to say about Bangladesh, being here once before for a few weeks. She described biking through the endlessly flat and green scenery; through tiny towns not knowing the name where men on their motorbikes will ride up beside her and offer to buy her some tea in the next town where she is surrounded by villagers all excited by her presence.

She described previous trips, through Southeast Asia into South Asia , flying over to Africa where she said it was too dangerous to bike. I asked her what she considered dangerous – “after all, you are a white woman on a bike.” She responded that her gender doesn’t have a negative effect on her experience, but that people are so surprised by her then feel a need to take care of her. She said, “the best thing here is that 99 out of 100 people smile back at you, so I smile at everyone. I don’t want to be one of those travelers that walks around sunglasses on ignoring the people.”

I told her how refreshing it was to hear her perspective, sharing how I’ve stop smiling my experience here is that it invites negative attention more often than not. And I think here’s the key: I’m living here. A different perspective exists between traveling abroad and living abroad, between backpackers and expats.

My experience as a woman has been more negative than hers because the reality is that it is not easy being a woman in Bangladesh. The root of the positivity and negativity is in the art of moving. My negative experiences occur on the buses and trains – while she is biking around. Sitting still on a bus makes you more vulnerable, while biking summons an image of strength, and you move too fast and often for reality to sink in.

I wish to see the world, and this country, the way I used to, the way she is now: with broad optimistic smiles. When everything is new and exciting, you’re open and no need for the armor myself and other expats wear. The armor worn from the monotony and reality may protect us but weighs us down. It’s easy to find the good where you are offered tea due to your constant newness as you ride by; rather than attempting to become a local, understanding real life and studying topics like violence against women.

But, while clichés like “rolling stone gathers no moss” hold true – as does, “the grass is always greener on the other side.” While I was envious of her ceaselessly stimulating travels and positive outlook, she was jealous of my life of puncturing a culture to fully understand as well as deeply exchange with its people. How could I understand the emotions of trafficked victims if I wasn’t consistently digging deep? As my friend Sayaka said about a slum she works at: “I’ll see other white people coming into the slum with NGOs, taking pictures, playing with kids – then never come back. And locals notice – they remember names and ask for people who visited once months ago, but are now back in their country. They leave an impact but it’s so superficial.”

So there’s the argument – what is more important to you: nonstop traveling with a big pack brightly viewing the beautiful new diversity, but maybe on a more superficial level? Or living in a local apartment drudging through the ups and downs of reality, but grasping a deep and well-rounded understanding?

Both are valuable and important, but maybe the best is to drudge through reality of the latter with the bright, open smile of the former. To add one more cliché: is the glass half empty, or half full?

For the sake of my sanity with 9 more months left in Dhaka, I will look at it in this light: the difference between eating the skin of an apple, or munching on through right down to the very core – what’s more nutritious? I just need to enjoy each bite, even if I find a worm..

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 :)