From the BBC.

This one isn't about Bangladesh, but it's interesting.

My host brother, Salahuddin, recently got married.

This is him with his wife, Kintu.

Pretty, huh?

And a recent BBC article about Bangladesh.

And another.

I swear, the only news out of Bangladesh is bad news.

"Do you want some tea?"

Anyone who's ever spent any time in Bangladesh has certainly heard this plenty of times, probably a few times every day.

Every once in a while one's able to find a nice article about Bangladesh, i.e. an article about something other than riots, political discord, or Islamic militancy. This is one such article.

In a previous post I talked about hartals, which are general strikes organized by an opposition party with the intention of shutting down the country and, basically, inconveniencing as many people as possible. I think they're ridiculous for a few reasons, but mainly because they're generally enforced using cricket bats and other blunt instruments. The main opposition party Awami League, however, has managed to rise to new a new level of ridiculousness by laying siege to the capital.

Allah!

Can you imagine if the Democrats announced that they were going to close all roads into Washington? Evidently the Bangladeshi High Court has taken the "unprecedented" step of declaring this siege illegal, which will probably just stiffen the resolve of Awami League activists determined to unseat the BNP-led ruling coalition.

I really have to admit that I don't understand the Bangladeshi political culture at all. Opposition parties regularly organize these types of disruptive activities. Do they really think these things endear them to ordinary Bangladeshis? The very same people whose votes they want at election time they're regularly inconveniencing, saying that they want to call attention to the injustices being perpetrated by the ruling party. Bangladesh is an extremely impoverished country with tens of millions of people living a hand-to-mouth existence, and these opposition parties are preventing them from working and earning a living. I just don't get it.

In other news, I'm headed back into the Peace Corps. I'm headed to Georgia, birthplace of Joe Stalin, on June 13th. I set up another blog, ongeorgia.blogspot.com. I'm going to try to keep up to speed as far as news of Bangladesh is concerned, but don't expect many more posts on this blog.

Khoda hafez.

Read it!

Modern Love

Now for a Quick Lesson in International Relations

By EVAN RATLIFF

Published: April 30, 2006

New York Times

SHILPA was the first and only Bangladeshi woman who ever flirted with me. In fact she was the first woman who had even returned my glance in public since I arrived in the country two weeks before to report on Islamic fundamentalism and politics. Bangladesh's population is 80 percent Muslim and correspondingly socially conservative. On the street I received plenty of stares but no coy looks.

Shilpa, however, didn't just return my glance. She even smiled. We were at a political rally downtown, the climax of one of Dhaka's notoriously violent general strikes, started by the opposition party to paralyze the city. She was working riot control, wearing her olive drab police uniform and a black helmet with the hard plastic screen flipped up, together with a gaggle of other policewomen. (Later I learned they were deployed to arrest female marchers, an effort to uphold the social taboo against men and women touching. I also learned that they weren't excepted from the violent reputation of the Dhaka police.)

The protesters sat in the street, blocking traffic and making antigovernment speeches. The police surrounded them, but peace reigned, and I wandered around taking photos. Whenever I lowered my camera, I found myself locking eyes with Shilpa. At first unsure if her look was suspicious or friendly, I tried a smile. I couldn't see her mouth, but saw in her eyes that she was smiling back.

Eventually I took shelter from the sun with a group of other reporters. A moment later, a photographer approached a reporter I knew, Sharif, who first seemed confused and then pointed at me, laughing.

Turning to me, Sharif said, "He says there is a policewoman who would like your phone number."

Dumbfounded, I wrote my mobile number on a business card and handed it to the photographer.

"O.K.," he said, sounding annoyed. "You come see her now."

Feeling suddenly like a shy 10-year-old in the playground, I pretended not to understand. But he walked off, and there was nothing to do but follow. I was already uneasy in Dhaka, unable to blend in or communicate, and now self-consciousness was joined by a simultaneous thrill and fear that I was walking into some vortex of cultural misunderstanding.

Perhaps she felt similarly, because when I pushed through the crowd she covered her face and hid behind her fellow policewomen. The photographer handed her my card, but I could tell from her gestures that she was refusing to speak to me.

Not knowing what else to do, I sat down on a nearby fence, occasionally glancing up to find her smiling again. When it was time to go, I walked past the group and mustered the nerve for a kind of half-bow and said, "Dekha hobe" (See you later), drawing a chorus of giggles.

She waved my business card and called out, "Thank you!"

I assumed she wouldn't call, but hours later my phone rang, and a woman's voice said: "Hello, it is me. Ladies' police."

AFTER the exchange of names we reached a communication impasse, which she broke with a string of English phrases. "Golden hair, beautiful eyes." I excitedly recalled the translation for "You have a beautiful smile." To which she replied, "What?"

She gave me her address — she lived, it seemed, at a police station — and I promised to write. I asked for her phone number, but she didn't have her own.

I hung up disappointed. The next afternoon, however, my phone's display showed the same number calling. Riding in a noisy motorized rickshaw at the time, I didn't answer. It immediately rang again. And then again eight times.

After I arrived at the newspaper offices, it rang again.

"What's your problem?" she demanded.

"No problem."

"I calling you!" she said. "What's your problem?"

"I was in a rickshaw."

"You come here now," she said.

"I can't come now."

"You come here now."

"I don't think we are communicating very well."

"Why no meet?"

I turned and asked someone for the Bengali word for Saturday. "Shonibar," he said.

"Shonibar," I said into the phone.

"What's your problem?"

"Shonibar!"

"Thank you. You come 4:30. Ladies' police hostel."

On Saturday I went to the district police station, the entrance to which was an unmarked opening in a corrugated metal fence. Several dilapidated buildings and decrepit cars were policed by chickens in a dirt courtyard.

I hesitated at the fence, debating whether to forget the whole thing. Finally gathering my nerve, I approached a group of policemen. They seemed baffled when I tried to ask for the ladies' police hostel. I gestured to represent long hair and repeated "ladies" until they let out a collective "Ah" and broke up laughing. One led me cheerfully to the hostel.

A minute later Shilpa appeared, sweeping down the stairs in a bright orange sari. She was tall and trim, and without the helmet her black hair hung almost to her waist.

She seemed simultaneously pleased to see me and annoyed that I was late. "I wait for you," she said.

We sat on a wooden bench in the lobby, but our conversation foundered on her limited English and my tortured Bengali. Then, seemingly on cue, Shilpa's sister — also a policewoman — arrived. Through her sister's superior English, Shilpa began to reveal details about herself. She was 23 years old, from a small village in the west of the country.

The only clue that we might actually be on a date came when she pulled out a small notebook and wrote two questions: "You are married?" and "Were is your wife?"

I wrote, "Not married" and "No wife."

"Why no wife?" she asked out loud.

A fair question, and I had come to Bangladesh at 29 in part hoping to try to clean the slate of past half-hearted and blown relationships. Now I was sitting on the bench in the police hostel, pursuing the most unlikely possible romance, if that's what this was.

I assumed she was looking for the short answer, however, so I wrote, "I haven't found the right person yet, I guess."

For the next week, I talked to Shilpa at least once a day. Although we barely conveyed more than simple details — "chicken for dinner," "hot today" — I looked forward to it. For days I tried to invite her and her sister out to a restaurant, but no combination of English and Bengali produced the desired result.

Then one day Shilpa called to say that she was going home to celebrate the Muslim holiday of Id al-Fitr. "You go to my village?"

The offer threw me. Meeting her family seemed premature. I told her I couldn't, but regretted it as soon as I hung up.

The following day she woke me up with a call from the train station, and we had a short but unexpectedly intimate conversation: she wanting to say goodbye, I groggily wishing her a good trip. In my half-asleep haze I imagined meeting her family and taking her home to mine, and for the first time I admitted to myself feeling more than curiosity.

Several days after she was to have returned to Dhaka, though, she hadn't called. Perhaps she had stayed longer. Or had I offended her by declining her invitation? I was leaving the country in a week, a fact I had never successfully conveyed. I began to worry that I might never see her again.

Finally, two days before my flight, I decided to go to the police station. I wrote out a note, had the desk clerk translate it and bought some flowers.

Once there, I hesitated in the lobby before peeking into an adjacent room. There she was, talking with a bearded, portly man, whom she had identified earlier as the house master. She jumped up and ran over to me, but under the guardian's unwelcome glare, she said she couldn't leave for dinner. She promised that we could have lunch the next day.

When I arrived under the house master's disapproving stare the next day, she greeted me coldly. She pulled out her notebook and wrote down, "Mokali flyover."

I knew the Mokali flyover, the newly opened (and only) overpass in Dhaka. But what did she mean? Sensing my bafflement, she whispered, "You go Mokali flyover. I come there."

WE said pretend goodbyes, and I caught a taxi to the overpass, waiting until she arrived by rickshaw. She beamed at her plan's success. We were alone at last. Another taxi ride took us to a small amusement park, where I bought us some chocolate ice cream bars. We watched the kids and took turns translating the objects around us, laughing. She scribbled something in my notebook.

Soon it was time for her to get back, and we got up to leave. On the way out I convinced her to have our picture taken. Handing my camera to a passerby, we stood together, smiling. But when I tried to put my arm around her, she shrieked and leapt away. I realized that in all of our meetings, we had never actually touched, not even a handshake. Our mysterious passion cut an innocent path through the thickets of miscommunication.

Twenty minutes after we had parted my phone rang. "Mokali flyover meeting place! You go? I am so much needing to see you."

I agreed to meet, waiting a half-hour before her taxi pulled up, and sat down next to her. She apologized for making me return and then pulled out some pictures of herself. She wrote "Forget me not" in English and Bengali on the backs and handed them to me. "This is our very last meeting," she said.

"Maybe I'll come back," I tried.

She demurred, and I knew she was probably right. So we said another round of goodbyes. This time, as I climbed out, she offered her hand, palm out as if expecting a high five. I put a hand up against hers, and she folded them together with a gentle squeeze. Then she let go and was gone.

Sick of the traffic, I walked the hour back to my hotel. When I arrived, drenched in sweat, I turned on the air-conditioner and let the cool air wash over me. I pulled out my notebook and flipped through it.

Her note was written in English on an otherwise empty page. It said:

When I will die

please come to my grave.

Don't cry for me,

only say I love you.

Evan Ratliff is a writer in San Francisco and the co-author of Safe: The Race to Protect Ourselves in a Newly Dangerous World (HarperCollins, 2005).

But it might make things sound a little worse than they are.

I MEANT TO POST THIS ABOUT A MONTH AGO.

Not much going on lately. It’s getting hot again already. Like 80’s and humid.

I don’t have anything in particular to write about, so I figured I’d write a little about my host father, Jaman Mollah. He’s a character.

I remember when I first moved in, I was sitting down watching T.V. with him when the call to prayer came on. A lot of Bangladeshis will mute the volume out of respect for the call, so when I saw him reach for the remote I figured that’s what he was going to do, but instead he turned the volume up. He really likes his television. There might be a few things that he’ll allow to interfere with it, but religion doesn’t make the cut.

He’s told me a few times that I have to get a T.V. for my apartment, and I tell him that I really can’t afford one (not to mention it’s not really in keeping with the PC lifestyle). And he says, “What will you do all day?” I say, “Well, I’ll read a lot.” He says, “All day, reading is... not good. All day sitting and thinking is not good for the heart. Sometimes man need to HA HA HA laughing. Is good for the heart. If you not have money, I will provide. Credit. Maybe three... uh,..." "Payments," I offer. "He he he ('he' means 'yes'), payments," he says. "Okay, I'll think about it."

We were watching T.V. once and this commercial for ACI Salt came on. It shows these scientists in white protective gear and masks and goggles doing all these experiments with test tubes and beakers, and shows this really big state-of-the-art factory, trying to show how high-tech and technologically advanced their salt is. I’m sitting there and I’m thinking, “It’s salt. It occurs naturally. Humans have been using it for thousands and thousands of years. There’s nothing high-tech about it. It’s salt! Who buys into this line of advertising?” The commercial ends and Jaman Mollah turns to me, nods his head and says very proudly, “This is the salt we use.”

A month or two ago he was doing something that I found very strange. He’d be sitting down relaxing, but he’d have an extension cord with a screwdriver stuck into the end of it. Then he had a piece of wire from an old lamp or something with both ends cut off. One end he wrapped around the screwdriver and the other end he wrapped around the blade of a butter knife. He’d set the knife on his sandal and then just sit there with his foot on the knife, letting the current run through his body. He did this for maybe two weeks, and every time I saw it I’d want to ask what he was doing, but I always refrained (You see a lot of stuff here that just seems so strange, and you learn pretty quickly that often times the answers don’t make any sense and you end up just being even more confused, so it’s better to just not ask). So finally this one night he asked me if I knew what he was doing, and I said, “Uhh, no, I can’t say that I do.” He explained to me that when you are young, you are healthy and strong because your blood is thick, and when you get old you become weak because your blood gets thin, and that’s why he was doing this, to make his blood thick. I responded, “Ohhh! So thaaat’s what you’re doing. Of course. Now I see.”

Bangla has, I think, three different words for ‘uncle.’ There’s a word for your father’s older brother, his younger brother, and your mother’s brother. It’s similar for other relations, and the names are different for Muslims and Hindus. I find it to be quite confusing, but to Jaman Mollah it makes perfect sense. In fact, it irks him considerably that English only has one word for ‘uncle.’ Twice he’s discussed this with me. He says, “In English, what call your father’s brother?” “Uncle,” I say. “Mother’s brother?” “Uncle,” I reply again. He gets this puzzled look on his face and says, “Uncle and uncle, both are... same.” “Yes,” I say. “But why?” “ I don’t know,” I say. “But... how to distinguish father’s brother and mother’s brother?” I think for a second about how I want to respond, knowing that whatever answer I give won’t satisfy him. “Uhh, it never seems to cause a problem. We just know,” I say. He gets this thoughtful look on his face, pauses for a couple of seconds, and says, “When you go back... America, you note the Bush. ‘Why only one name for uncle?’” I bust out laughing. This bugs him so much that he wants me to write a letter to the President demanding an explanation. He starts laughing and then says, “America is good country, but have many... bad things.” Apparently he’d put our lack of names for ‘uncle’ on the top of that list.

Just the other night we somehow got to talking about religion a little. I try to avoid this, since it’s difficult enough trying to explain the Doctrine of the Trinity to someone who shares the same language and is familiar with Christianity. “No, we only believe in one God, just like you do,” I say. “But Jesus is also your God.” “Well, yes, he is,” I say. “So then you have two Gods.” “No, we believe that there are three persons in one God,” I say. This confuses the hell out of them. So anyway, we’re talking a little religion, and Jaman Mollah mentions the Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him) cartoons. Knowing that this has been a pretty sensitive issue for a lot of Muslims I got a little uncomfortable, not knowing exactly where we were headed with this. He asked me if I knew what the cartoons were about. Now I had heard that they referred to Mohammed as a terrorist, but I haven’t seen them, so I didn’t know any details. “No,” I said cautiously, “I don’t know.” He goes on to explain the context, and he gets to the part where Mohammed has a bomb in his turban, and he starts laughing. I’m sitting there looking at him sort of wide-eyed, thinking, “Uhh, how am I supposed to react? He’s laughing, am I supposed to be laughing too? I guess he’s allowed to laugh at this since he’s Muslim. But I’m not Muslim, so is it okay for me to laugh at this?” It was quite a dilemma for a few seconds, since he was clearly expecting some sort of reaction. He evidently understood my lack of reaction to mean that I didn’t understand, so he repeated his explanation, and again when he gets to the part where Mohammed has a bomb in his turban he starts laughing. At this point I figured he wanted me to laugh too, so I figured, “What the hell!,” and I started laughing too. Now I don’t find Mohammed being depicted as a terrorist to be funny, but Jaman Mollah’s reaction to it was quite unexpected and, I have to admit, quite funny.

He seems to have a rather unusual sense of humor. He definitely likes laughing at others’ misfortunes, but not in a mean way. Schadenfreude I think it’s called. Sometimes we’ll be watching cricket and a player will slip and go down hard, and he finds it quite amusing. Or we’ll be watching the Discovery Channel and we’ll see, for example, a crocodile leap out of the water and snatch a zebra from the river bank, and he’ll start laughing. This seems to be one of his greatest sources of enjoyment, seeing one animal catch and kill another. It sounds pretty disturbed, but he’s really a nice guy.

Some more about him I guess, he’s mid-50’s, a retired electrical engineer. He just sits around all day watching cricket and chewing paan (betel leaf, super popular here). He was a Freedom Fighter in the 1971 Liberation War against Pakistan. He’s told me several times that whenever India and Pakistan play in cricket most Bangladeshis support Pakistan because they’re Muslim, but he supports India because India helped Bangladesh during the Liberation War. He’s told me this a few times, but I’ve watched India-Pakistan with him a couple of times, and he clearly supports Pakistan, so I don’t know what he’s talking about. I get the impression that the only India cricketers he supports are the Muslims. Whenever we watch India he loves to point out the Muslims. "Zaheer Khan, he is Muslim." "Irfan Pathan, he is Muslim." "Mohammed Kaif, he is Muslim." Every time. I'm thinking, "Yeah, I know. I've been here long enough to know the difference between Muslim names and Hindu names. They're really quite easy to distinguish."

For those of you who don't know I'm back in the States. The PC Bangladesh program has been suspended indefinitely due to a deteriorating security situation. They flew all of us out a few days ago and we're doing some exit processing in D.C. at the moment. I'll be back home in PA pretty soon.

According to PC head honcho Gaddi Vazquez we did not leave due to a specific threat or incident, but rather due to a variety of factors which combined to pose an unacceptable risk to volunteers.

The Bangladeshi law enforcement agencies have recently made a lot of arrests involving JMB members, including its top two leaders, Sheikh Abdur Rahman and Siddiqul Islam, but ironically these arrests may have made us more vulnerable. Some people are afraid that JMB may become more desperate and that they may try to kidnap a volunteer to put pressure on the government to release JMB members.

Captured JMB members have admitted on several occasions that they have discussed targeting PC members. A story broke in a Bangladeshi paper in January that the JMB planned on sending suicide squads into action against us when we were training in Gazipur in November, and Sheikh Abdur Rahman has recently admitted that they wanted to kill us in response to our oppression of Muslims in Afghanistan, Chechnya, and Iraq. I wasn't aware that PC volunteers were serving in those places.

So that's the basic story. I didn't want to leave but I had no choice. It was the right decision, and in fact it probably should have been made a little sooner.

Assalaam oalaikum.

That was a sentence I got from one of my students when I was teaching future tense. “No,” I said, “The President of the U.S.A. will destroy Iraq. Remember, proper nouns do not take articles.” Bangladeshis have a hard time with articles since Bangla doesn’t really have any (it sort of does, but not in the way Western languages do).

Speaking of Dubya, I managed to catch about fifteen minutes of his State of the Union last week. I found it rather unremarkable, although I did get to hear him say “nucular” twice, so it wasn’t all bad.

Not much going on here. I’m still living with the host family. I’m not sure when I’ll move out, maybe only another week or so, maybe not until March. Finding an apartment was tough. I found one but construction was still ongoing. I was told it would be ready February 1st, but, unsurprisingly, it’s still not finished. I knew that construction is 90% of the time behind schedule in the States, so I knew it wouldn’t be done on time here in the 3rd World. So then I was told it would definitely be done by March 1st, no problem, which I took to mean that there was a 50-50 chance it would actually be done by then. Now my supervisor is telling me he may have found a different apartment in a different neighborhood that is available now, but he’s not sure. So I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just trusting him to tell me what I need to know.

Living with the host family really isn’t bad, but I’m definitely ready for my own space. It’ll also be nice to be able to walk to and from work rather than having to take a rickshaw all the time. It’s nice having someone cook all my meals for me, but rice and fish everyday, twice a day has definitely gotten old. And Bangladeshi cooking is REALLY heavy on oil. It’ll be nice to be able to change things up. The one thing I’m not looking forward to is the amount of preparation that is necessary before cooking can begin. It’s not like in the States where you can just run to Giant Eagle and buy everything all ready to go. If you want fish, you have to buy the whole fish, head, scales, entrails and all. Chickens you can get plucked, but you gotta deal with the head, feet, and guts. It probably doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, but it definitely takes a lot more time. I mentioned in a previous post how women spend so much time in the kitchen here, and that’s the reason. Cooking three meals a day requires a lot of time, even more than in the States.

Just checked ESPN India's local listings, and it looks like I should be able to watch the Super Bowl. Coverage starts at 4 A.M. Monday morning.

Better known as Eid-ul-Azha (“Happiness of Sacrifice,” I believe), and it’s enough to make anyone think twice about converting to Islam. Well, maybe not, but to someone from a culture with no history of animal sacrifice it’s not the most pleasant thing in the world. This Eid commemorates Ibrahim’s (better known as Abraham to Westerners) willingness to sacrifice his son, Ismael, to God. He had him on the altar and was about to do it when God told him to stop. It’s basically the same thing Christians and Jews believe, except we believe Abraham was about to sacrifice Isaac, not Ismael, if I’m not mistaken (but I may be).

I traveled out to my host family’s village in Sonargaon around eight A.M., and all the men met at the village mosque to pray at nine. (Unlike last Eid, this time I got some pictures, unfortunately this time wasn’t as impressive since there weren’t as many people.) Then everyone went home and the fun began. The men changed into their slaughtering outfits, while the women continued to cook. (It seems like that’s all women really do here. I swear they’re in the kitchen 85% of the day.) Five or six men wrestled the cow to the ground, hogtied him, and pointed him towards Mecca, then a man came over with a knife (and by “knife” I mean “sword”), yelled “In the name of Allah, the most compassionate, the most merciful,” and then sawed two thirds of the way through the cows neck. The cow was struggling so he was breathing pretty heavily, and once the knife got a decent way into his neck his breath got all gurgly, I guess as he was breathing in his own blood. I learned that, like in the movies, when a major artery is severed the blood really does shoot into the air like a geyser. It was shooting a good six to eight inches into the air, but unfortunately/fortunately none of my pictures capture that. Then they set right into to skinning and butchering it, which took probably a good five or six hours for four or five people working continuously. That part didn’t bother me, but the actual killing was rather unpleasant. It didn’t make me want to vomit or become a vegetarian, but I didn’t like it. And I know, animal rights people will say, “Well, how did you think beef winds up on your table?” But it’s one thing knowing it and quite another seeing it. I feel really bad for all the Hindus here.

After the butchering is all done they then distribute a third of the meat to the poor, a third to their family, and the last third they keep for themselves, per Islamic regulations.

So that’s Eid-ul-Azha in a nutshell. I’m glad I saw it, simply because it was an experience, but I think next year I’m going to show up to whatever Eid celebration I attend conveniently late. On the bright side, I got a lot of pictures, not just sacrifice pictures, but a lot of pictures of the village, which was beautiful

That’s how I spent my Christmas. Not for me, thank God. For my host brother, Salahuddin. It was interesting.

First of all a little background. Salahuddin is approximately 30 years old. He’s lived in Japan for nine years, and because of that he isn’t Bangladeshi in a lot of ways. He’s experienced a modern, westernized culture, and I think because of that he’s more open minded than the majority of Bangladeshis. A lot of Bangladeshis think that everyone else all over the world lives exactly how Bangladeshis do. They know that there are differences, but when they learn about a specific cultural difference they are often shocked (e.g. “Americans don’t eat rice everyday?!?!”). It’s different with Salahuddin. Unlike most Bangladeshis he’s experienced cultural differences firsthand, and it shows.

Salahuddin evidently doesn’t want to get married, and I think it’s just that he doesn’t want an arranged marriage to a girl whom he doesn’t know. His father, however, was explaining to me how Bangladeshis must get married, because if they don’t have any children they won’t have any means of supporting themselves when they retire (“Your country have a system. When a man is old, cannot work, government will give him money. Our country, this type of system do not have.”). So he took me out into the village to meet some prospective wives. (He told me he prefers village girls because they’re cheaper. City women are evidently always asking for taka.) And of course this turned out to be an all day affair. It took eight hours to meet three girls. Merry Christmas to me!

As far as I can tell the protocol is as follows. The man’s father shows up at the girl’s house. He goes inside, exchanges small talk with her father for fifteen to thirty minutes, eats some mishti (sweets), drinks some cha (tea), and shows off his bideshi. Eventually the girl is brought into the room looking very nice (i.e. dressed nicely, but not with the gaudy makeup and jewelery that Bangladeshi women love for special occasions). She sits down and proceeds to stare embarrassedly at the floor while her father and the man’s father talk about her. The man’s father takes some pictures of her, asks her a question or two, not-so-discreetly passes her a few hundred taka, and then dismisses her. That’s about it.

Now I apologize if any feminists are upset at my referring to these females as ‘girls,’ but that’s literally what they were. We saw three, and the oldest one may have been 19, but I’d say 17 was more likely. It’s illegal for anyone under the age of 18 to get married, but evidently child marriage does still happen occasionally (and when I say ‘child marriage’ I don’t mean 17, I mean 13 or 14). Now my family is educated and fairly progressive, so I seriously doubt they’d marry their son to a child, but these girls really did look young.

My host father’s nephew came along. He was about 16 or 17 and I had never met him before. The funniest part was he kept asking me all these questions about the girls while they were sitting right in front of us. And he was doing it in Bangla, and I’m thinking “Uhh, they can totally hear you talking about them. Why don’t you wait until we leave?” But he’s saying, “How do you like her?” “Is she beautiful?” “She’s tall,” “Do you like her better than the last one?” “Which one do you choose?” and so on. I thought it was hilarious, but I was trying not to laugh in these girls’ faces. They were uncomfortable enough as it was. And then he and my host father both started telling me to ask these girls questions in Bangla, and I’m thinking, “No, no, no. This is an extremely rare situation where I’m NOT the center of attention. Let’s keep it that way. I’m fine just watching.”

So that’s basically the way it was. Sort of like shopping for a car in the States is probably the best comparison I can come up with right now. It was actually a great way to spend Christmas, all things considered. When it’s 75 degrees and you’re surrounded by palm trees, rice paddies, and Muslims you don’t even realize that it is Christmas. Out of sight, out of mind.

I mentioned in a previous post how Bangladeshis have some misconceptions about Americans. The other day I was watching TV and a program came on about horse racing. My host father was there and he turned to me and said, “Horse meat eating, America have?” “No,” I replied. “Elephant?” “No,” I said again, feeling a chuckle coming on inside. Then there was a pause for about three or four seconds. “Monkey?” “No, we do not eat monkey.” I don’t know why, but I thought it was pretty funny. I didn’t bother to tell him that we don’t even have elephants or monkeys in America. My host father’s a pretty funny guy.

Speaking of Bangladeshi TV, it’s actually quite bad. They don’t have a lot of money to work with and it shows. The acting is bad, the sets and props look bad, and the special effects are certainly not special. I realized recently that they’re actually a lot like American porno films in a way. Everyone makes fun of porn flicks because they have no plot, and any pseudo-plot that is there is just used as an excuse for nudity and sex. It’s sort of the same thing with Bangladeshi TV, except instead of nudity and sex it’s singing and dancing. They are FANATICAL about singing and dancing. The idea of a TV show totally devoid of singing and dancing is probably as alien to them as a meal without rice. It doesn’t matter what the show is about. If they did a program about the Holocaust, I’d wager a fair sum that they’re going to have Anne Frank and Adolf Eichmann serenading each other in the middle of Auschwitz. That’s probably a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s probably not too far off either.

The weather here is great. It’s probably about 65 or 70 degrees everyday and it hasn’t rained in about six weeks. It’s still rather humid I think, but it’s cool enough that you don’t even notice it. Bangladeshis, however, think it’s freezing. They walk around in sweaters, scarves, winter hats. They tell me it’s cold, and I just laugh and say, “No, this is not winter.” When we arrived in August the weather was unbearable. I’m really not looking forward to summer. I thought it got hot and humid in the Northeast in the summer. I was way off. And when the power goes out and your ceiling fan stops spinning, you may as well be in hell. So I am enjoying this weather right now. The only bad thing is that the lack of rain means that it’s pretty dusty and dirty. The rain, though it causes a lot of mud, does do a good job of keeping the dirt and dust out of the air, and thus, out of my lungs.

Not a whole lot of real news. There haven’t been any bombings in close to two weeks, which is good. PC is getting pretty worried, but I think the odds of me getting blown up by a suicide bomber are about the same as the odds of me getting struck by lightning. I think most other volunteers feel like I do, but there are evidently a few who are rather worried. Sure, the bombings are scary, but I think when you put it into perspective, we’re more likely to come to serious harm in any of the following ways: rickshaw accident (definitely number one), eating something bad and becoming violently ill, getting attacked by one of the countless packs of feral dogs roaming around everywhere, getting hit by a bus crossing the street, tripping and impaling oneself on the rebar that is sticking out of everything, etc., etc. I don’t think a lot of people realize that we face these risks on a regular basis, and at this point they are all probably more of a threat to us than the bombings are.

Many volunteers are convinced that the bombings are going to increase as the election next November approaches, but I disagree. Political instability will certainly increase, but it’s going to be Awami League stuff, and the Awamis aren’t the ones behind the bombs. It’s going to be more hartals, demonstrations, maybe clashes in the streets, but those aren’t things that should threaten volunteers too much. The people behind the bombings are the JMB (Jama’atul Mujahideen Bangladesh), and they’re really a fringe element of Bangladeshi society. They don’t enjoy a significant amount of support from the public. Their recent attacks have caused the government to step up security significantly. The cops and RAB (Rapid Action Battalion) are everywhere, which is going to make it more difficult for them to operate successfully from now on. In the last ten days there have been a few arrests and seizures of weapons caches and things have been a lot quieter, so I think that the government is really turning up the heat on the JMB, and it seems to be paying dividends.

Bangladeshis are by and large committed Muslims, but they are by no means fanatics. Many will come right out and say to you that Islam is the one true religion and that your religion is false, but they’re tolerant of other religions. They know that the Quran does not sanction killing in the name of Islam, and so they are very angry at the ‘jongi’ (terrorists). They realize that this extremely small percentage of the population is making all Muslims look bad, and they’re starting to speak out against the bombings. Two weeks ago I heard a crowd of angry men chanting something outside my house, and it was men coming from mosque protesting against the bombings. And just yesterday I saw these giant dumptrucks driving around that are usually full of sand, but this time they were full of young men, and they were protesting against the bombings as well. Apparently imams are reading statements in mosques all over the country about how these jongi are not true Muslims, and how everyone needs to be on the lookout. So I think the JMB is going to have more trouble since people are starting to get fed up and are going to be keeping their eyes and ears open from now on. Now I do not believe that the bombings will stop entirely. But I don’t think they’re going to get significantly worse. I think things will wax and wane. There will probably be short periods where there are a few attacks followed by longer periods where there’s not much of anything.

On a side note, it’s sort of ironic that the people I see protesting against the bombings are the sort of people that many Americans, unfortunately, would assume to be terrorists. They’re rather young, serious-looking, usually wearing a plain white Punjabi and white tupi (Muslim skull cap), and many of them have the big, bushy Muslim beard. They often times fit the stereotypical American image of a terrorist, but they’re actually the furthest thing from terrorists. My first month in country my host family in Gazipur took me to a wedding. They stuck me in a little room where there were some older men watching cricket. Now cricket is seriously more boring than golf, so I said, “I gotta get the hell out of here,” and I got up and walked outside. Someone grabbed me and sat me down in this room with about twenty of these “terrorist-looking” young men, and, naturally, they were all staring at the bideshi. I got sort of nervous. When I told them I was American I was afraid they were going to start yelling at me about Bush and Iraq and call me an infidel, but they didn’t. They were very friendly and just started asking me how I liked Bangladesh and if I was married. It was good for me. It reminded me that I’m not entirely free of prejudice.

Hartals are general strikes organized by an opposition party with the intention of shutting down the country to show that the ruling party does not really have effective control of the country. In theory they sort of make sense. In fact, when I first heard of hartals before coming Bangladesh I was sort of excited. The will of the people being exercised in defiance of the ruling class. That’s what I thought. Unfortunately that’s not how they work in reality. In practice they don’t really make sense. They’re annoying, counterproductive, and probably immoral.

Currently the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) is in power and the Awami League (AL) is the major opposition party. Like in American politics the opposition party blames the ruling party for anything remotely bad that happens and refuses to give the ruling party credit for anything good that happens. But unlike in American politics whenever something bad happens the opposition party calls a hartal in protest, basically saying, “If we were in power this never would have happened.” Which of course is bullshit. It still would have happened, and it’s quite possible that things would be even worse. Now if any of you back in the world have been following current events here in the Desh, you might be aware that bombs have been exploding here and there throughout the country, killing a few and injuring a few more. And of course, after each blast, the AL calls a hartal to draw attention to how bad of a job the BNP is doing.

Now not all hartals are exactly the same. It depends on the issue being protested and on who is calling the hartal. For example, a few months ago the commies called a hartal and no one took any notice. But when the AL calls one it’s noticeable. I’ve still to witness a really big one, one where (so I’ve heard) the majority of shops close and not even rickshaw wallas operate, more or less making cities into ghost towns. The ones I have experienced, however, are bad enough. The major feature is that buses stop running, which prevents people from traveling outside of their immediate area. This may not sound like that big of a deal, but this isn’t the U.S. where most everyone has their own car. Bangladesh is the most densely populated country on the face of the planet, and all but the positively affluent depend on buses if they are traveling any further than just across town. So when a hartal is called, you can bet that A LOT of people aren’t going to be able to get where they’re going.

So they’re annoying because you can’t get where you’re going. For example, I planned on going into Dhaka last weekend to celebrate Thanksgiving with some friends, and of course, the one day I want to travel I can’t, because the AL is pissed that they’re not in power. (That’s really what hartals are, sour grapes. They’re just excuses for the opposition to bitch.) They’re also annoying because they’re never planned more than three or so days in advance, so it’s not like you can see one coming and plan your schedule around it. They’re also liable to change. The hartal last week was originally supposed to be Tuesday and Wednesday, but the AL changed it to Tuesday and Thursday, meaning no one could travel on Thanksgiving.

Hartals are counterproductive because the party calling the hartal is inconveniencing (and often pissing off) the very people whose votes they want. And then they say, “It’s not our fault, it’s the current government’s fault. We didn’t want to call this hartal, but we had to for the good of the nation. We had to point how bad of a job the government is doing.” Bullshit. Now you’re probably asking, “How do the Bangladeshi people not see that hartals are bullshit? Why do they tolerate them?” The answer is that hartals have been ingrained in the Bangladeshi political process since before the country of Bangladesh even existed. It was Gandhi’s hartals that helped bring about the fall of the British Raj when Bengal was part of British India prior to 1947. And hartals were also used in the in the lead-up to the Liberation War, helping to ferment and unify Bangladeshi opposition to Pakistani oppression. And since gaining independence in 1971, hartals have been a regular feature of Bangladeshi politics. So it’s not that Bangladeshis don’t know they’re bullshit, it’s just that they’ve become resigned to them, believing that they’ve always been a part of Bangladeshi politics and always will be. And they’re right. The BNP bitches about the AL’s hartals, but if the AL comes to power next November, you can bet that the BNP is going to call just as many (if not more) hartals than the AL has called since 2001, when the BNP took control.

Now I would venture to say that hartals are immoral for two reasons. First, they’re NOT the will of the people. While the AL took about 45% (I think) of the vote in 2001, I’d hazard a guess that not all of those who voted for the AL support their hartals. I’d say 30% of the country, maybe, supports the hartals. So those 30% effectively shut down the country for the other 70%. So why do the other 70% choose to adhere to the hartal? Well they don’t. They have no choice. Each party has an unofficial cadre of goons and thugs, and if they witness someone breaking the hartal they will make it very clear that they do not appreciate this person’s lack of cooperation. Think Stürmabteilung. So depending on the particular hartal, it can be rather dangerous just to go to the bazaar.

The other reason I would say that hartals are immoral is because there are a good deal of people in Bangladesh living a hand-to-mouth existence. If they can’t work one day they can’t eat. And if they have a family, their family can’t eat. And while the Bangladeshi economy has evidently been making slow but steady improvement the last few years, this is still a developing country, and the economy can’t afford to shut down for a few days just because the opposition party is upset that they’re not in power.

So, in summation, hartals are bullshit. Unfortunately, the political/security situation seems to be slowly deteriorating, and the election is still almost a year away. That means things are only going to get worse, which means that hartals are going to be called more and more frequently.

So why will I be yanked out of the country? Political instability, the appearance of bird flu, or dysentery? The polls are open. Let me know what you think.

Seriously. But that's a story for another day.

In previous posts I’ve often pointed out things in Bangladeshi culture and society that seem strange and funny to me. I realize that I may have done so somewhat mockingly. My intention was not to ridicule Bangladesh or Bangladeshis in any way (I like both Bangladesh and Bangladeshis), but rather to describe some ways in which Bangladesh is different from the U.S. In order to be fair, however, I must also point out that there are things about American culture and about Americans that seem just as strange to Bangladeshis. That’s what I’ll try to describe in this post.

--They find it odd that Americans don’t stop what they’re doing two or three times a day to take tea. They know that Americans are educated and cultured, and how a people can be civilized without breaking regularly for tea is beyond them.

--The same goes for cricket. How a person (a male, no less) from a civilized country can be totally ignorant when it comes to cricket is enough to make them laugh out loud in your face (my host father literally did just that when I told him I didn’t understand the rules).

--Tell them that the average American doesn’t eat rice three times a day, or even once a day, or probably even once a week, and they will be totally dumbfounded. “Well then what do you eat?!?”

--They think all Americans are rich, white, Christian, and gun-owning.

--Last week I told a friend that I had never seen the movie Titanic and I seriously thought he was going to punch me in the face. Well not really, but you really should have seen the look on his face. That movie is über-popular over here, you can’t imagine.

--Their view of America is somewhat skewed, in my opinion, since the things from American popular culture that have successfully made it over here are things which aren’t representative of America as a whole. I’ve already mentioned their fanatical love of Titanic, and the same could also probably be said for the music of Michael Jackson as well as for professional wrestling.

--Short pants. Shorts aren’t culturally acceptable over here for anyone over the age of 12 or 14. I think it may have something to do with Muslims not being allowed to show their legs or something, but Hindus and Christians also do not wear shorts. I wear them around the house, and while no one has ever said anything to me about it, I think they think it’s weird.

--‘Free sex’. A lot of Bangladeshis seem to think that Americans just run around and have sex whenever and with whomever they want, and when you tell them that this is not the way it works in America they’re skeptical.

--The fact that Americans move out of their parents’ house at around age 18 is something that they don’t really understand. “Why would anyone want to leave their family?”

--Similarly, why Americans occasionally want privacy/alone time is something they can’t really fathom. Especially when you’re annoyed or upset, their instinct is to get closer and bother you more, and you just want to yell in their face “Goddamn it, just leave me the hell alone!” They don’t understand why we feel that way.

--They think America has either 51 or 52 states, and when you tell them that there are only 50 they think you might be lying.

--They think Americans eat snakes. I have no idea why. My neighbor in Gazipur asked me if we eat “snacks” in America, to which I replied “Yes, of course. Snacks are very popular in America.” From the way the discussion progressed, however, it soon became apparent that he had meant “snakes” rather than “snacks.” And I’ve since come across one or two other Bangladeshis who also think Americans eat snakes.

--They think it’s funny and strange that Americans like dogs. Dogs are considered filthy animals by most Bangladeshis, respected just slightly more than pigs (and they hate pigs).

--They don’t understand how anyone can not like Hindi music videos.

Penn State's in a BCS bowl. I'm in Bangladesh. Go figure.

If your answer was ‘yes’ you’re obviously not Bangladeshi. It doesn’t matter that I breathe pitch-black exhaust, dirt and grime, and god only knows what else on the road every day. It doesn’t matter that every person in this country wipes their ass with their hand. It doesn’t matter that our kitchen floor is used as a countertop for food preparation. None of these things matter. But when I have the sniffles, under no circumstances may I shower with or drink cold water. If I do I’ll die.

I experienced this phenomenon with my previous host family in Gazipur as well. They, however, were not college educated, and it was to their lack of education that I attributed this aversion to cold water. (On a related note, one of the funniest things I’ve witnessed so far was one of my host brothers in Gazipur walking around the house in nothing but a lungi [Bangladeshi man-skirt] and a scarf wrapped very tightly around his neck in 90+ degree weather. Why? Because he had a cold, naturally.) But my new family in Narayanganj also believes that colds come from cold water, and they are college educated. I so want to break out my copy of “Where There is No Doctor” and point to where it says, “Contrary to popular belief, colds do not come from getting cold or wet. A cold is ‘caught’ from others who have the infection and sneeze the virus into the air.” So instead of worrying about cold water, maybe they should be a little more concerned with covering their mouths when they cough or sneeze.

Or maybe they shouldn’t spit everywhere all the time. Everyday since I’ve been here I’ve had the pleasure of waking up to the sounds of more than a few throats being LOUDLY cleared of phlegm. You know that sound that a very boorish person makes before letting loose with a big wad of spit? That happens all the time here, most frequently in the morning soon after waking (public snot rockets are also not out of the ordinary). The worst part is that it’s not just the men who do this, but women as well. The sad part is that Bangladeshi women are, generally, quite attractive. I hear one of them do this and I cringe and say to myself, “Now why’d you have to go and do that? You’re pretty good looking, and you just ruined it.” It really doesn’t matter, since I could never get involved with a Bangladeshi girl, but it just destroys this nice mental picture that I have.

Not much real news to report. I saw a pretty big snake today, but I don’t think it was a cobra. Some Bangladeshis had caught it, tied its tail to a post, and were tormenting it as I drove by on a rickshaw (they really don’t like animals much over here)… A bomb killed two judges in the south the other day… I saw a policeman with a bayonet affixed to his rifle (high-powered rifles and shotguns are standard issue side arms to cops in Bangladesh)… Pakistan rallied to beat England in a test match (soccer is seriously more entertaining than cricket)… It turns out there will be a Koica volunteer (Korean version of the Peace Corps) teaching at my institution for the next two years, so hopefully I’ll have a non-Bangladeshi to hang out with… I tried uploading six pictures using my family’s computer last week. Thirty minutes in they still weren’t finished. Ah, the efficiency of 33 Kbps. I promise I will get them up relatively soon. I’ll probably have to spend an entire day at the PC office in Dhaka, but if there’s one thing I’m going to have plenty of for the next two years it’s time.

Three months in and I’ve still yet to see a cobra. I’m pretty sure I saw a mongoose last week, though, as well as two more dogs stuck together.

So I am officially a Peace Corps volunteer. We swore in at the American Embassy (otherwise known as Fortress America) in Dhaka about a week ago. We took an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic, so watch out. Some perks of being a volunteer as opposed to just a trainee include having my monthly living allowance doubled, being able to get smashed at the American Club and other international clubs in Dhaka, and unrestricted access to the Peace Corps jet.

I have moved to my site, Narayanganj, where I will live with another host family for about three months. Hopefully it won’t be too bad, as this family consists simply of an unmarried man in his mid-thirties and his parents. In Gazipur my family wasn’t too bad, but there were three sons all about my age who could be pretty annoying. Here I should be left alone a little more often. And although I am looking forward to getting a place of my own, one plus to living with a family is that my expenses are virtually nil. The vast majority of my monthly allowance should never leave the bank, which is nice. Also, I do, in fact, have a sitemate, contrary to what I reported in an earlier post. It turns out one volunteer didn’t like the site to which she was assigned, and since there was an opening here, they let her switch. So I will have some company for the next two years. It wouldn’t really matter, though, if I didn’t, as I’m centrally located and am less than an hour from Dhaka. I should have ample opportunity to see my friends. It’s the people who are eight or nine hours from Dhaka whom I imagine are in greater need of sitemates.

Narayanganj is a pretty decent sized city. Gazipur, though also a district town (Bangladeshi districts = American counties), is pretty rural, more like a group of villages than a city. Narayanganj feels A LOT bigger. I’m not sure it’s actually that much bigger population-wise, but it’s a lot more condensed and developed. Some random info:

 I was told that Narayanganj is the second-oldest city in Bangladesh, next to Dhaka. Whether or not this is true, I don’t know.

 Narayanganj is the center of Bangladesh’s textile industry. Clothing is evidently really cheap here.

 Narayanganj is somewhat of a peninsula, as it is at the confluence of three rivers, sort of like Pittsburgh (but don’t imagine it to be like Pittsburgh; they don’t like football here).

 “Narayanganj” literally means “city of the gods.”

 There are a lot of Hindus in Narayanganj (relatively speaking), and many restaurants do not serve beef as a result.

 The ancient, pre-British capital of Bangladesh, Sonargaon, is located in Narayanganj district.

In other news, Eid-ul-Fitr was last week. It’s sort of the Muslim equivalent of Christmas. It was a really big deal for Muslims, but it didn’t seem that special to me. The coolest thing was that all the men gather in the center of town in the morning and pray together. It’s pretty impressive to see a few thousand men all giving namaj in unison. I’m kicking myself for not taking my camera (but on that note, I seriously hope to be posting pictures soon). This Eid is sort of the culmination of Ramadan. Unfortunately I wasn’t faithful the entire month. I broke fast two days when I was in Dhaka for swearing-in. I didn’t want to, but there was a pretty good deal of bourbon involved, and I woke up feeling like death and pretty much had to eat and drink. So I did 27 out of 29 days. Next year maybe I can go the distance. It’s funny, about halfway through I was saying to myself, “This sucks. I’m never doing roja again.” But after about day 20 I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I sort of started appreciating the difficulty. And seriously, come sundown “Allahu akbar” are the sweetest words you’ve ever heard. I don’t regret breaking fast because I had a blast in Dhaka (and I definitely needed it), but it would have been nice to have to have done the entire month. So hopefully I’ll have the willpower to do it next year. The hard part will be that I’ll be living on my own then and won’t have someone cooking me breakfast at four AM. But it’s all about discipline, and that’s really the fun part (if intentionally starving yourself can ever be fun).

Not much going on here. It’s still hot. We swear in in two days which means we’ll officially be volunteers. After that it’s back to Gazipur for five days to celebrate Eid. A few posts ago I mentioned that the streets may literally run red with blood. Unfortunately that’s not this Eid. There are two Eids. This is Eid-ul-Fitr, which is about almsgiving, from what I understand. The sacrifice Eid is Eid-ul-Azha, which takes place in February, I believe. So I got to wait for a few months.

I visited my site, Narayanganj, last week. It’s only 40 minutes south of Dhaka, which means I could go everyday if I want. Narayanganj is a lot bigger than Gazipur. It has a White Castle. Unfortunately it’s a Chinese restaurant and not the burger place.

Today is day 21 of Ramadan, and I have been faithful so far. I almost had to break fast about 20 minutes ago, as I couldn’t stop coughing. I was seriously considering taking a sip of water. But I held out. For the last 21 days I haven’t ingested anything during daylight hours. I’ve had a cold for the past week or so, and it’s been difficult as I’d like to drink just to wet my throat and take some medicine. But it’s supposed to be difficult. I wake up every morning at four for Ramadan breakfast, which is called seheri. After I’m done eating I brush my teeth and then go back to bed. I wake up around eight or so and do my daily bullshit, and then break fast at sundown with a meal called iftar. The days are getting shorter, so iftar gets a little earlier everyday. I think tonight’s is 5:27.

The fast (called rozha) isn’t that difficult, but it’s not easy either. The no food part isn’t too difficult. Your body gets numb to the hunger, and after about day 15 you’re rolling. It’s the no water part that’s difficult. Especially since I’m a little sick now. I load up on decongestants and ibuprofen at seheri but then have to wait until iftar to take more. And although it’s October, it’s still hot. The current went out about 30 minutes ago, which means the fans stop running, and I was sweating just sitting still in the shade. It’s still got to be in the 80’s. Fortunately it’s not that humid (and by ‘not that humid’ I mean not 98% humidity). But I only have a few days more. I go into Dhaka for three days for swearing-in, and there it’s going to be tough. I won’t have someone cooking me breakfast at 4 AM. I also will probably indulge in a little alcohol, which will probably make it difficult to wake up before sunrise. But whatever. I really have no choice but to continue fasting. If I quit now I’ll be really disappointed in myself. Plus a lot of Muslims know I’m fasting and they’re all really impressed I’ve made it this far. I want to go the distance.

Not much going on here lately, but here are a few random things.

--A Daily Star headline last week read, “15 pirates killed in shootout with police.” There’s a headline you won’t see in the States.

--I saw two dogs stuck together.

--Bangladesh is one of two countries in the world that still has leprosy.

--A girl in a burqa showed me her face.

In some real news, I found out where I’ll be spending the next two years. I’ll be living in a town called Narayanganj about 20 KM (that's right, I use the metric system now) south of Dhaka. It’s a small town by Bangladeshi standards, as it doesn’t even have two million people. I don’t know exactly when I’ll be moving. Swearing in is set for October 31 or November 1, but there is a Muslim mega-holiday called Eid scheduled for sometime the first week of November (nobody knows exactly when it will be as the date depends on the appearance of the moon). From what I understand the best way to describe Eid is as the Muslim equivalent of Christmas. I think most trainees are going to stay here in Gazipur to celebrate Eid with their host family as opposed to moving to site and having to celebrate with a new host family whom they don’t know. That’s what I’m planning on doing. I’m pretty pumped for Eid, as I think the streets may literally run red with blood, since basically every family sacrifices a cow.

I was originally supposed to have a site-mate (i.e. another volunteer from my group was to be posted in the same town), but there’s some rumors going around that she is ETing (i.e. leaving to go back home to the States). Now I won’t really mind being alone, but the fact that no one in the administration has let me know and I’ve had other volunteers say to me, “I hear your site-mate’s going home,” is annoying. I sort of requested a site-mate, and on the day of site placement they gave me one, and now no one is telling me what the deal is and I’m hearing rumors from third parties. You’d think I’d be in the know.

But I’m really pumped to get out to site. I’m sick of training. Most of it is B.S. and I’m sick of it. Our two-week model school just ended which sucks, because I had a lot of fun teaching. Now that it’s over I won’t be having so much fun and I have to do more administrative B.S. It’s gotten to the point now where the staff can’t even hide the fact that they’re just trying to kill time. The stuff they give us to do is clearly pointless and they stretch it out to take as long as possible. Then they tell us how important community integration is, but they don’t give us anytime to actually go out into the community. Then when we tell them that that’s the best way to actually practice and improve our Bangla and get to know Bangladeshi culture, they say, “You’re absolutely right.” Well if they agree, then why don’t they let us do it? The only thing I can come up with is that they have so many people on the payroll whose salaries they have to justify that they have to keep them busy. As a result, it’s us volunteers who suffer. But we’ve only got a month of this B.S. left. We go on site visit late in October, so that’ll be a few days when I can get away. The only thing not to look forward to is having to live with another host family for three months. I’m ready for my own place.

Yesterday was a fellow volunteer's birthday, and to celebrate his mother put together an afternoon boatride. I got some good pictures that I know I'll never be able to post (USB ports nai?), so my description will have to suffice. Imagine "Apocalypse Now" sans the guns and surrealism. There were about 30 bideshis and about 10 Bangladeshis on this rickety little boat just cruising down the river. No one really knew where we were going, it was hot as balls, and I just kept waiting for waves of spears to come flying at us from out of the treeline. Luckily for us that last part never happened. We finally stopped at what turned out to be a school right on the river, and it was seriously like the scene in the movie where they finally make it to Kurz's village (again, sans the corpses and Dennis Hopper). We pulled into the shade from out of the bright sunlight and couldn't really see what was around us at first, and all we heard was someone screaming in Bangla over a P.A. system (Bangladeshis seriously love P.A. systems). It was REALLY strange.

Switching gears, cricket is hands down the most popular sport here in the Desh, but I've recently come across a game that is all the rage among children eight and under. It's called "Howru!" I'm still pretty fuzzy on most of the details, but the way it basically works is whenever a group of children see a bideshi they immediately sprint in the bideshi's direction screaming "Howru! Howru!" at the top of their lungs. Then, without giving the bideshi time to respond, they yell "Imfine! Imfine!" Upon reaching the bideshi they thrust their right hand forward in an attempt to make hand to hand contact with the bideshi (the purpose of this contact is unclear, although I believe that it is for the purpose of transmitting their germs to the bideshi). This seems to be the most important part of the game, and if germ transfer is successful that player walks away contentedly. If the germ transfer fails, however, the player will follow the bideshi all the while yelling "Hi! Bye! Hi! Bye!" As I've said I still am unclear on the finer points of this game, e.g. it seems clear that the louder one screams the more points one receives, but I still haven't learned just who it is exactly that is tallying up these points. I'm certainly not. While "Howru!" is wildly popular here in the Desh, I have no idea as to it's level of popularity throughout the rest of the subcontinent.

In some serious news, I have begun teaching model school, which is just two week mini-school with genuine Bangladeshis so that we can practice teaching. So far it's a piece of cake. If I would have known that teaching is this easy I would have majored in education. I'm lucky in that I'm a DYD volunteer rather than a TEFL. The difference is that TEFLs are teaching the national curriculum in governemnt schools. So they have no say over whom they teach, when they teach, or what they teach. Us DYDs, on the other hand, work out of the Department of Youth and Sports. We basically teach at adult education centers (in the Desh a "youth" is someone 18-35). We get to choose our students personally, choose what we want to teach, and choose when we want to teach. Our classes are much smaller and we don't have to deal with little kids. My students right now are 17-24 (I think) and there are only 16 or 17 of them. There are two TEFLs right now who are teaching ONE class of 200(!) students. The TEFLs have basically been told that they can't really accomplish anything in their English classes and that once they get to site they should just concentrate on their secondary projects. I definitely lucked out in drawing DYD.

And I'm gonna need it. That's because Bangladeshis don't eat with utensils, they use their hand (right hand only--very important!). I know this sounds simple, but keep in mind that they're not eating quarter pounders and french fries everyday (and by 'everyday' I mean 'ever'). To get a picture of what this is like, go down to the nearest Chinese restaurant and buy some rice (not the sticky white rice), a chicken dish, and a vegetable dish. Dump them all on a plate and eat them using nothing but the fingertips of your right hand. It's not that easy, at least not without getting your food all over yourself. I'm not very good at it yet, and I just know I'm going to be a source of great amusement for my host family.

Speaking of host families, I meet mine today. All I know is that there are five of them and that they control the bug population in their house by using "spray medicine." We've begun to learn survival Bangla so that we can at least communicate with our families a little. In reality I probably know enough to pass about two minutes, then it's going to be a lot of awkward silence. They've taught us such basics as "father" (abba) and "mother" (amma). We've also learned such useful phrases as "OK, now I'll leave" (Thik achhe, ami ekhon jabo) and "Are there any snakes around?" (Ashe pashe ki sap achhe?). So I figure I'm set.

We got in yesterday but haven't been able to see much of the city. We're not allowed to leave the hotel, which is certainly a wise policy. Dhaka is a lot like the Bronx, only wetter. That won't give you a complete picture, but it's not too far off. It's a little dirtier, a lot poorer, and a lot more crowded. And it's WET!!! My god. It's got to be like 99% humidity.

They've put us up in a pretty nice hotel in the diplomatic quarter where all the embassies are, so we're in basically the nicest neighborhood in Dhaka. So far the food is excellent and I haven't become violently ill, so I got that going for me. Tomorrow we leave for our training site at Gazipur where we'll meet our host families, with whom we'll be living for the next three months. Today we get shots. Lots of shots. And I don't mean the good kind. But have no fear, I made sure to pick up a few duty-free bottles in Bangkok, so after the bad kind I may do a few of the good kind.

It's my last week in the States, and I think I'm starting to get a little nervous.

You may have noticed that I've posted links to the blogs of some of my soon to be fellow volunteers. I recommend checking them out for two reasons: first, these are going to be the people I'm spending the next two years of my life with, and second, many of them have posted links to articles and websites on Bangladesh. I haven't done this because I am lazy, and it's just much easier to point people in their direction.

So Peace Corps has been sending me a ton of stuff for the past month or so. It seems like each week I receive a giant envelope in the mail full of all kinds of papers and documents. I had just been throwing these in a pile without really paying them any attention, but I decided to sift through them the other day to see if they contained anything of real value and I came across something from the health unit that was of some interest. When I tell people that I'm going to Bangladesh some of them get this weird look on their face, and I imagine that they're picturing me dying some slow, painful death from some exotic tropical disease. Anyway, this letter I found says that immunizations are required for Malaria, Dengue Fever, Hepatitis A, Hepatitis B, Rabies, Japanese Encephalitis, Meningococcal, Typhoid, Tetanus, MMR, and Polio. So while Bangladesh does seem to have its share of exotic diseases, the odds of me dying from one of them are probably quite slim. In fact, if I had to wager some money on how I'm most likely to die over there, I'd probably put it on 'cyclone' or 'cobra bite' before any of the aforementioned diseases.