Rickshaw Babies

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Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

I love rickshawallahs. I love the way they know exactly where their wheels are, as if they were an extension of their own body. I love the way they make the front wheel go into the pothole so that the back two wheels miss it altogether, thus making their ride a bumpy one, but yours nice and smooth (as far as these things go). I love the way they can predict the traffic. I love the look of concentration on their faces when they’re riding, and the smile you get at the end of the trip. I love their patience when dealing with my clumsy directions. I love the way they put a plastic sheet over you when it’s raining and they put the hood up for you when it’s too sunny (although they are designed for shorter people than me, so it really hurts when you go over a bump and hit your head on the wooden bits).

My love for rickshawallahs is growing every day.

Having said this, it is heartbreaking to see a 10- or 11-year-old boy pulling a rickshaw. Often whole families will get on a rickshaw, and even the “fully grown” rickshawallahs are already pulling four or five times their weight. It is wrong for so many reasons. But then again, it pays the bills. Sort of.

What is happening to me?

I just caught myself doing something completely out of character, but it’s not the first time it’s happened. As I was typing on my computer, I looked over and saw a bug-like creature sitting on my bed, in semi-darkness. I walked straight up to it and picked it up, without even ascertaining what it was first. It could have been anything – it might have bitten me or something – and I picked it up and put it in the bin. (I still don’t exactly know what it was, but it was dead, so it didn’t hurt me.) As I was writing to AB recently, I actually picked up a moth by its wings and put it outside the other day. And today, I had a number of wasps flying in and around my room. I think there must be a nest just outside my window. I simply continued on with my business (of eating lunch) unphased, but for one cautious eye that I kept out, just in case.

I have come a long way since my first night here, where I camped out under my mozzie net all night, in complete darkness (thanks to “current nei” – no electricity) except for my laptop screen (which attracted lots of micro-bugs) and my torch, which I frantically flashed around every now and then to make sure no spiders had crossed over into my territory. Country life must be growing on me, although I haven’t picked up a frog and put it outside yet, but I do allow them to jump around my room rather than getting Anju or Immam to come and get rid of them.

By far the coolest bugs are the fireflies. Everyone loves a firefly, don’t they? Sometimes when I go to bed I see little green lights flashing around my room. They’re the fireflies. I assure you. I’m not hallucinating or anything.

Falak Faneer

There is a brand of lolly at my local market which, for some reason is called “Lips”. With the aforementioned local speech impediment, this turns out to be pronounced as “Liffs”. I think that is hilarious. Here is a little dialogue that happened at Manik’s shop this afternoon (I have translated it for you, because I know not all of you speak Bangla):

Manik: Do you want a lolly?
Me: No, I’m fine thanks.
Manik: Oh, go on. Here. It’s a Liffs.
Dolly: What is it? Liffs?
Manik: Yeah. Liffs. They’re really nice.
Unknown person standing, watching: What is it? Liffs?
Manik: Yeah. Liffs. They’re nice.
Me (aside): He he he.

Tea for Two

I go to my little market almost every afternoon with Dolly. There is a tea shop there, run by a man (I’ll call him Mr Cha) who is always sweaty and his white singlet is always dirty and his teeth are black from all the paan he chews. But every time I walk past he gives me a huge wave, usually some free food and asks me if I will visit his house. And every time I smile and say either “ar ek din” (another day) or “aajke na” (not today). This has been happening since I arrived two months ago. To tell you the truth, I never had any intention of going to his house. I had visions of him, Dolly and I sitting in his house and not really knowing what to say. But the other day he said, “When are you going to come? You ALWAYS say “another day”. So WHEN?!’ And with that, I was locked in, Eddy.

Today I finally said, “Ok. Today. I’d love to go.” His beaming, black smile warmed my heart.

Dolly and I went to finish our shopping. When we came back, Mr Cha was frantically rushing around, getting ready to, I assumed, take us to his house. He was putting some ready-made tea from his shop into a jug and some biscuits into a little bag. He handed them to a young boy and sent the boy to us to lead the way. I wondered who was going to look after the shop while we were gone, but then I realised - Mr Cha wasn’t coming.

The village was very close to the market and when we arrived we were warmly greeted (except for one little baby who took one look at me and screamed) by Mr Cha’s family (about 30 people). Mr Cha’s dad bore a significant resemblance to Gandalf and he had the same air about him that I imagine Gandalf would have if you were to meet him in real life. Needless to say, he had a warm smile and a long, white beard. Dolly and I were led into one of the homes; A tiny little room, big enough for a bed and a couple of wooden chairs, one bideshi, one local and about 30 family members, all squashed in the doorways to get a good look. Dolly and I were served the tea and biscuits from Mr Cha’s shop (no one else ate or drank anything) and we had a nice chat (I wowed them with my Bangla). It was very hot, and one of Mr Cha’s female relatives took out a hand fan and fanned me for the duration of our time there. I met Mr Cha’s two gorgeous sons, one of whom is in Year 5, but reading at a Year 8 level – he has been given a scholarship for him to attend his school. Mr Cha’s sister told me that she wanted me to come back another day and spend the whole day. I took a couple of photos of everyone as we were leaving and the best part was looking at their faces as I was showing them themselves on my digital camera.

Throughout my time there (about half an hour) I couldn’t help but imagine the reverse situation in Australia. It is with great sadness that I realise again and again that us westerners could never come close to offering this type of hospitality.

When I left the village I went back to Mr Cha’s shop to thank him and show him the photos. He can’t quite know how meaningful this offer of friendship was for me – he probably doesn’t realise that he has changed my life forever, for example. The first thing he said to me was, “I am very poor”. If only you knew, Mr Cha, how much better off this world could be if more people were as poor as you.

Brishti Ashbe

"Rain is coming," I keep hearing people say. Yes, but where IS it?! This is supposed to be the monsoon. “Still hot and humid, but with cooling rains” says the Banglapedia’s “Climate” section, Sub-heading: “Monsoon”. We had a little shower today (Ew! A bug just flew up my nose!) and all it did was create more humidity. As Raju put it today, “Gilliand. I am very hot. This heat is causing me great botheration.”

Me too, Raju. Me too.

Visit to Sunapur

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Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

I went with Upsana, Dolly and Nizam (from work) to visit the village of Sunapur, which is about a 10 minute walk from my house. Many people I work with and know come from this village, including Ali Immam (far left), Anju (3rd from right) and Mijan (from work, not pictured). We visited four different homes and at each one we were fed with so much food and drink that I didn`t eat dinner that night! It was a very moving experience.

Honesty, Honestly

“She is a fatty,” remarked Dolly, pointing to a very not-fat friend [name withheld] in one of my photos on my computer.

“He says you’re getting fatty,” remarked Dolly, translating the words in Bangla that Shorip said to me, while motioning towards my body.

“I don’t like tea very much,” remarked Mr Hossein after I presented him with a lovely packet of green tea that I bought especially for him in Srimongal.

“I think you’ll find Shahrasti quite dull,” remarked Mr Haq in the car on the way to my new home for the first time.

“Everybody loves me very much,” remarked Raju on the bus one day during a conversation about our work colleagues.

Sponsor children

I have been sponsoring a child in India for about the last two years or so. Every six months I get a letter or a picture from her. The letter has obviously been translated by a World Vision staff member and I’ve often wondered what happens at the other end – Who does the translating? When do the children write their letters? Who tells them what to write? Who takes their photos? Where do they go to get their photo taken?

I was at work the other day and I was chatting to Masud (Amazing Smile), who was working on what looked like an interesting and colourful project. On closer inspection, I realised that he was translating some sponsor children’s letters from our village! I didn’t realise that we had a sponsorship program at my work, and all of a sudden I thought, “Wow! I didn’t know we were one of THOSE organisations.” It gave me a whole new perspective of where I’m living and working. Our program runs though ActionAid and the sponsor parents come from Italy. The sponsor children were recently given some small, colourful little folders and asked to write about their life and their school (which is what Masud was translating), as well as drawing a picture. Even seeing Masud’s handwriting, which is not at all accustomed to writing in English, brought back images of my translated letters that I had received from my own sponsor child.

Also, the other day a little girl came to our work. She was about 8 or 9 and she was wearing a lovely dress that, judging by the state it was in, was obviously the only one she owned. She had bare feet and her hair had been lightly oiled with coconut oil and combed very sensibly with a neat side part. I asked Masud who she was and he said that she was a sponsor child who had come to get her photo taken. I instantly had images of my own sponsor child come flooding into my mind, and I remembered the sensible side part that she too had been given, and her pretty dress. As I watched, my heart both smiled and broke as I saw this little girl being asked to stand up nice and straight while Masud took three shots of her, each with a different background. My mind suddenly raced to an imaginary (but very real, somewhere in Italy) home of her sponsor parent who, in the very near future will receive a lovely letter and photograph in the mail, and she will look at the photo and see the little girl with the temple (or the tree or the river) in the background. And the sponsor parent will probably wonder somewhere in the back of her mind, like I did, who took the photo and where, and who translated the letter and who told her what to write?

And where a single image was captured and sent across the other side of the world, I got to see what lay beyond that photo. And with that, my mind opened up a little more and my heart became a little richer. And I was very grateful.

Short and Sweet

I look like a giant compared to most people here. Even the people who I think look tall (in comparison to each other) are actually only about my height.