Ali in Bangladesh!

I'm finally here, though as "Alison." "Ali" is a common Muslim male name so I'm opting to go by my full name for the first time in my life. Here are some thoughts I've collected over the past few days.


January 19, 2006

First times only happen once; today I arrived at a third-world airport for the first time, namely Dhaka, Bangladesh. I had been traveling for two days straight: Klaipeda-Riga by car, Riga-London by plane, a day-long stopover/delay in London, and then finally a 10-hour flight from London to Dhaka. I was exhausted when I arrived this morning, already tired of keeping things together as a single white woman traveler. But I steeled myself upon arrival, straightening my posture, putting on my glasses, being as alert as possible. I wanted to look like the competent young NGO-worker ready for a new challenge, yet I was totally transparent.
We touched down at 10:00 a.m., and through the window of the plane I could already see the differences: the patchy tarmac, the decaying apartment buildings, the clusters of rickshaw drivers. Inside the airport the lines were long and slow. I stood with the other Westerners and listened to their chitchat, and although I was tired and hungry, I had time to be grateful for my long hippie broom skirt which I had been advised to wear for Muslim modesty’s sake. Yesterday, as I sashayed around Heathrow I felt like some sort of religious radical, but today I was grateful that another part of my body was hidden from the curious eyes of men.
There were swarms of men everywhere. First, I saw a plane-load of pilgrims back from the Hajj, most wearing long white tunics and white caps. Then, as I left passport control, I saw the first of many Bangladeshi men. There were hundreds of them, small and dark and squished against the glass, spilling onto the road, shouting and whistling and hissing. I stood there, the only white person in sight, looking conspicuous. Where was the CRWRC* sign? Finally I saw it, held aloft by a Bangladeshi man in Buddy Holly glasses. We wave, then he signals and disappears. Meanwhile, another man with a badge indicates that he’s brokering our meeting. I wait by a pillar with my luggage and watch as other white-skinned people are ushered into waiting cars on the crowded road, where small cars and SUVs honk and jolt their way in and out. The CRWRC man appears again and introduces himself as Gregory. He has a big smile, and makes pleasant small talk as we wait for the driver and the car. I’m feeling more at ease, but there’s more action when the driver arrives. The man with the badge helps us put the luggage in the car, then when I sit down in the car, he reaches in, rolls down my window, and demands money. I was warned of these rogue porters, but the badge threw me off. Gregory rolls up the window, locks the door, and we drive away.
It’s hardly a swift exit. The street is clogged with people, all men, who leave barely enough room for a car to pass. I am so curious to look at them, but I don’t want to attract more attention. They are already bending down and peering into our little car, touching the window, staring at me. I am so glad that Beth (Bangladeshi guide and wonderful Canadian woman) had warned me about this attention. I know that today is just the beginning.
I’m at my guesthouse now, a cool, clean place where I can relax. Outside, the sun has set and someone is playing the tabla. What a foreign country I’m in.

*The Christian Reformed World Relief Committee, the organization I’m working for.

January 21, 2006

For three days I’ve been living in luxury like a diplomat. All of my trips in the city have been in air-conditioned jeeps with drivers, my first guest house had enormous beds and cable t.v., and I’ve been eating out a lot—we had dinner at the American Club last night, a sort of country club where Americans can go to play tennis, read books, or eat familiar things like “southern fried chicken” and “American burgers.”

Another part of my luxury is my attire; I’ve been parading around in gorgeous shalwar kameezes, the tunic/baggy pants/scarf ensemble that women wear here. My boss, a cheerful Bangladeshi named Kohima, took me shopping the morning after I arrived. (I have to admit that this was a slightly unusual “get-to-know-you” activity). Since yesterday was the Muslim holy day, only one clothing store was open, an expensive department store called Aarong where they had gorgeous handmade outfits. I hadn’t been out enough in Dhaka to see what people were wearing, or even how they were supposed to fit, so I took Kohima’s advice and bought two shalwar kameezes in varying patterns of blue, green, silver and gold. They are lovely, but I see from the fashion on the street that I am comparatively pimped out.

The people at CRWRC are easing me into this, with nice restaurants, nice clothes, a nice guesthouse, etc. Part of me is anxious to hop in rickshaws and explore, but they know what they’re doing. What do I know about culture shock anyway?

January 22, 2006

I’ve moved to another guesthouse, one that actually feels like it’s in Bangladesh. There was a hartal today, namely a general strike/protest by the opposition party and their supporters. Most Bangladeshis stay inside to avoid possible violence, so of course I did too. I sat on my little balcony and read, or watched the kids play cricket in the alleyway. I also got to talk to a number of Bangladeshi Christians who are staying here. I have to say that it’s easier to make initial connections with Bangladeshis than with Lithuanians; smiles and laughs invite more of the same, not stone-face stares.

Ah, nations. National differences. Nationhood. Why can’t I take off my postcolonial lit hat? It’s a funny-looking little Spivak number* that I’ll undoubtedly keep referencing. (Why can’t I make smooth transitions? Because it’s late and people are yelling outside and maybe I have jet lag and rabies, okay?)

I thought in honour of the Canadian election I would meditate a little on our national spirit, using Bangladesh as a point of comparison. Here’s the national anthem of Bangladesh, written by their beloved poet, Tagore.

My Bengal of gold, I love you
Forever your skies, your air set my heart in tune as if it were a flute.
In Spring, oh mother mine, the fragrance from your mango groves makes me wild with joy
Ah, what a thrill!
In Autumn, oh mother mine, in the full-blossomed paddy fields, I have seen spread all over sweet smiles!
Ah, what a beauty, what shades, what an affection and what a tenderness!
What a quilt have you spread at the feet of baneyan trees and along the banks of rivers!
Oh mother mine, words from your lips are like nectar to my ears!
Ah, what a thrill!
If sadness, oh mother mine, casts a gloom on your face, my eyes are filled with tears!

Can Canada pull off the patriotism with such emotion and specific praise? I put it to the test:

My Canada of all colours, all of which are equally important, I love you
Forever your prairie skies, your arctic air set my heart in tune as if it were a flute
In Spring, oh mother mine, the fragrance from Vancouver’s early crocuses makes the westerners wild with joy (and others wild with envy)
Ah, what a thrill!
In Autumn, oh mother mine, amidst the bright coloured leaves, I have seen sweet smiles from hockey fans and snowbirds
Ah, what a beauty, what shades, what an affection and what a tenderness!
What a diversity of cultures and climates you stretch across the Rockies to the Rock!
Oh mother mine, words from the much-missed CBC commentators are like nectar to my ears!
Ah, what a thrill!
If another minority government, oh mother mine, casts a gloom on your face, my eyes are filled with tears!

That doesn’t quite work, I know. The tone isn’t consistent. But I found it interesting where I got stuck—on half-hearted self-deprecating humour, an obligatory celebration of diversity, and the real acknowledgement of our provincial differences. I feel a little sad that I can’t rewrite this with a straight face; Canada just doesn’t take itself that seriously.
Good or bad? Discuss.

* This is an inside (but perhaps forgotten) joke with Mr. Steven Lappano, who should “post on my blog!” if he is indeed following my plea to “read my blog!”