What is happening to me?

Shaela's House
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

The left side of my body, in particular my left hand, is slowly but surely being taken over by the right, and while it is not, and cannot, be made completely redundant, it is beginning to feel a bit like the dirty, uglier and less capable employee in a workplace that used to be equal opportunity.

Over the past few months, I have been subconsciously trained into making sure that everything that involves hands is done with my right one, including:

(a) eating;
(b) handing anything to anyone;
(c) waving;
(d) holding things (unless doing this will prohibit me from doing any of the above);
(e) scratching myself (ditto).

I even went to hand something with my left hand to my Australian friend the other day, and I caught myself changing it to my right half-way through the motion. I must say, I don’t enjoy having a “dirty side” and a “clean side”. I like my body to be equal on all accounts. But the stigma that goes with the right hand/left hand thing is not merely a hygiene issue (not that it is for me – I use toilet paper), it’s also a social one. Thus, my poor left hand is being frowned upon, not only by the general public, but also by me, it’s once faithful owner.

I will add here, for your information, that I am not aware of any left handed people in Bangladesh, and I know the reason why. From a VERY early age, children are trained out of using their left hand for anything, including writing at school. This was caught on video at a friend’s NGO school, where a 6-year-old child picked up her pencil with her left hand every time she started writing, only to have it taken out and placed in her right by the teacher whenever he happened to catch her. Ditto the 1-year-old child who reached out with his left hand to take a guava that I was handing to him (with my right hand, of course) – his mother lovingly swatting the left hand away and awkwardly yanking out the right.

What is happening to me (again)?

I just got a kick out of “miss calling” someone. The smile is still on my face. What can this mean?

I like Footy

Today I watched a group of young kids playing soccer in the mud for half an hour, and not one harsh word was spoken between them. No, “OH, COME ON, REF!” (they actually didn’t have one) or “WHAT, ARE YOU BLIND? THAT WAS A GOAL!!” or “YOU WERE THE LAST TO TOUCH IT. OUR BALL!” Nothing. Just flashes of pearly white teeth and the most marvellous sportsmanship I’ve ever seen. It was a pretty rough game, too. They had four piles of rubbish carefully marking out the “goals”, and when the ball was accidentally kicked into the pond, they just jumped right in and got it out.

To give or not to give…

One of the biggest challenges that I find living in Bangladesh is the issue of begging. It is an issue that most people that I’ve spoken to here have justified to themselves in some way or other, as I have in my own way. I’m not about to discuss the ins and outs of the issue here, nor my own response to it, but it is something that, no matter how much I talk about and justify my own actions, it still challenges me regularly.

I find it more of an issue when I’m in Dhaka, perhaps because it is more prevalent there than it is when I’m tucked away in my village. But here, I get to see a much more personal side to it. One of the most meaningful experiences I’ve had so far was a couple of months ago, when I went to my local bus station, about a 15-minute rickshaw ride away from my house. In the bus station, I was approached by a young beggar (about 16 years old) who couldn’t walk. I gave him the small change I had and he smiled and shuffled outside again. A couple of weeks later, I was invited to visit a local village of some friends of mine. As I walked into the village, I saw the same boy sitting on the ground, smiling and waving at me. My friend Mijan, whose house I was visiting, said, “You’ve seen him, in Dhoabunga.” It turns out that he is related to Mijan. It is the most personal experience I have had with a beggar, and was very emotional for me. I saw him again today, two months later, sitting on the floor of a rickshaw. He waved and smiled as he passed me. I guess the reason why it affected me so much was that I could see that he comes from a loving family, and he has a life outside begging, which all beggars do – but we usually don’t get to see it. I feel privileged to have met this boy.

The ”Real” Bangladesh?

The grass is always greener and all that. I feel the need to articulate for myself (and, subsequently, you) the pros and cons of city and village life, so that next time I need a reality check, it’s right here in black and white.

I love Dhaka because…
Many of my friends are there.
I can “webcam it up” with my family and friends back home.
It’s crazy, and you need that sometimes.
It’s crazy, but I can escape.
I feel a sense of achievement after successfully reaching any destination, no matter how far or by what means of transport.
I can have a drink!
Mango Café lives there.
There are good places to eat out, as well as good bread to buy.
I can talk to strangers in Bangla, and it makes them happy.


I don’t like Dhaka because…
I’m just another bideshi.
My snot is black by the end of the day.
The rickshawallahs try to rip me off. (But I still love them anyway.)
I am challenged 24 hours a day by the inequalities that exist in our world.

I love my village because…
I’m THE bideshi.
Coming home is like riding into paradise.
I learn things like: Even little cows sound like grown up cows when they moo.
The kids call me “Aunty”.
I’m getting to know everyone, even the rickshawallahs.
I can “take rest” pretty much whenever I need to.
I am learning Bangla quickly.
People go out for afternoon strolls.
I know that if I don’t feel like being sociable, if I push through the barrier, they often make the most memorable experiences, like getting a joke in Bangla for the first time EVER and being able to laugh alongside the locals.
It challenges me just enough to learn from it, but not so much that I want to give up.

I don’t like my village because…
I’m the ONLY bideshi.
Silly teenage girls giggle behind my back (I know they mean no harm – it just annoys me.)
People mistake my personal space for their own.
Cheese and chocolate are not available.

Ami Bangla bolte pari… almost

My Bengali language development has moved onto the next phase. It is one of the more satisfying phases so far, because it is the one where I am actually able, with intense concentration, to follow parts of conversations. The phase before this was more like picking out single words that I know and can understand, but my brain being too slow to put them all together. Now, there are times when I can recognise a few words in a row and actually make sense of them, at normal speed. However, there are often times when a question is asked or I hear a sentence and I know every single word, but I can’t for the life of me understand the meaning. I am also now able to work out, at the very least, when I’m being talked about, if not what’s being said about me, which comes in handy. There are many times when I’ve walked past people in my village and I’ve heard them asking each other questions about me, like, Who’s she? What’s she doing here? Where does she live? Can she speak Bangla? etc. It’s kind of like being a fly on a wall. And I like it.

Burning the Candle at both ends…

Not that I gave it much thought, but the one thing that I didn’t expect to have to do when I arrived back home today after spending a week away, was to clean candle wax off my toilet seat. I was prepared for the usual airing of the petrii dish that is my room; the cobweb sweeping; the routine check for ants, spiders and frogs hidden in the four corners of my room as well as the bathroom; the close inspection of my clothes and bed sheets for (a) bad smells; and (b) mould – these are all things I have come to expect from abandoning my home for anything longer than about a normal day’s work. But candle wax? Off the toilet seat? What happened in there while I was gone?

And speaking of toilets, I had the unfortunate experience of getting to know one (almost) intimately while on my week away in the field. I will put it to you to decide which of the following foods caused this short-lived, but intense relationship between the toilet and both ends of my person:

(a) too much junk food on the bus on the way;
(b) one too many cups of cha; or
(c) the prawn “chop” from the street stall in the small town of Birgonj.

I was laid out for 24 hours, as I’ve heard is usually the case with these things; and it was a miserable 24 hours. I will unashamedly admit that I reverted to my childhood at one point where I craved for my mummy to bring me an ice cube to suck on because I couldn’t hold down the water I was drinking. But, in the absence of my real mum, I did have three lovely ladies tending to me – one working my brow with the cold, damp cloth, one on “hair caressing” duties and one massaging my hands. They each adopted me as their honorary sick daughter, so I’m glad I was able to fill some kind of void for them while they were spending their precious time tending to me.

I think I’ve been extremely lucky to have avoided such a bout in my time here so far – and I’ve eaten some pretty dubious foods, let me tell you. At least now I know that my stomach is only part cast iron.

Anyway, getting back to the original story, as it turns out, I had a plumber come to look at my toilet while I was away. The problem was diagnosed before I left. They named it “leaking”, although I couldn’t see any water anywhere it shouldn’t have been. I assume that the power blacked out half way through surgery, which would explain the candle wax. However, this was not the only thing the plumber left. He also left me with a REAL leaking toilet, so that now when I flush, water dribbles out of the s-bend all over the floor.