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Chowdhury View 1
A view from the balcony off my bedroom at the Chowdhury's apartment in the Ramna district of Dhaka. I’m in such a good mood. Work kind of sucked, as observed by my ramblings above, as well as freaking myself out about the H5N1 virus having its first human victim in Bangladesh. This place is fantastic and like nowhere else in the whole world, I think. I’ve been very nervous to do much on my own because the upper class is driven absolutely everywhere. I was somehow afraid I’d step on the street and be swept up by a killer. Or at least have my bag stolen and harassed. But anyway, so my driver took me to have my photo taken (for my work ID card) at a studio but I had to wait an hour and a half for it to be developed so I told him to bring me home. After I got home, I mapped out my route to hit up the HSBC ATM machine at the Westin Hotel, then go to a grocery store, then pick up my photos, and head home. I wanted to do it all before it got dark, which it is starting to do now.
So I put all my stuff in this jute bag I found (there is a
Chowdhury view 2
A view from the balcony off my bedroom at the Chowdhury's apartment in the Ramna district of Dhaka ton of jute here--it's what we used to use to make rope before synthetic plastics) and headed to Gulshan Ave (the main road that I live off). You can tell this area is the richest of the rich in Dhaka, but it’s still Dhaka and so it shouldn’t make one think of the nicest parts of Manhattan—it’s not like that. It’s so interesting here how I am treated because of my skin. I don’t know if I’ll get used to it. People stare, and I hear them talk about me in Bengali because they assume I can’t understand them.
Shaaadddaaa I heard one man singing after me—whiiitttte. At the Westin there are some white people. They sit in the 5-star hotel lobby until their drivers in shiny sedans pull up to the door. I’ve begun to realize that a lot of the rich people here spend no time outside with the normal people. They sleep in their guarded flats, are picked up by drivers at their door, etc. Can I blame them? I guess not—I appreciate one’s fear for one’s own safety but all the same, it’s a shame.
After I left the Westin I waited with the group
Chowhurdy view 3
A view from the balcony off my bedroom at the Chowdhury's apartment in the Ramna district of Dhaka of pedestrians trying to cross Gulshan Avenue. A nicely dressed Bangladeshi man came up to me and pointed across the street “You want to go there?” “Yeah,” I responded hesitantly. “Follow me,” he said and quite literally jumped out into the avenue, which if you’ve spent 2 minutes in Dhaka, especially at rush hour, you know is nuts and beyond nice. He took me across the avenue and left me. You can’t say thank you in Bengali really and it’s difficult. All I can do is smile and nod and look awkwardly gracious.
I went to the supermarket (like an outdoor shopping mall) in Gulshan-2 (there are 2 major traffic circles that designate Gulshan-1 and Gulshan-2) and went in the first grocery I saw. They had a good amount of things and I picked up a shopping basket and began to walk around. This young Bangladeshi man began following me through the short aisles and so I began to speed up. I weaved through the aisles and by the cashier but still he followed me. Finally he caught up with me and said “Madam” and touched my basket gesturing he should carry it for me. I seriously can’t get
Gulshan flat view 1
View from my balcony off my bedroom at my apartment in the Gulshan district of Dhaka used to this society. I felt so awkward. I would walk around, pick up a can of chickpeas, hand it to him, and he would put it in my basket. I bought a good amount of stuff and it only came to 16 dollars. He bagged it for me and the manager guy said he would bring it to my car. “No I am walking,” I said. “Oh, okay…take it like this then,” he said rather surprised. And so I left and went to the photo studio.
Rickshaw driver after rickshaw driver would call to me asking me if I needed a ride. I would say “na, na” and he would drive away disappointed. I read that it is difficult to be a rickshaw driver in Gulshan because they must pay mafia dues here. But I’m definitely not so afraid of them now, so that’s an improvement. At the photo studio, everyone held doors for me, I was served immediately, before the other Bangladeshis waiting. I had forgotten my receipt to pick up but they kept saying “No problem! No problem!” It’s so weird. My walk home was along quieter streets. The poverty here is impressive. I mean that
Gulshan flat 1
Our living room at the apartment in the sense that it truly impresses upon you the gravity and immensity of it. I walked past one of the very few parks there are in Dhaka. Boys were out playing soccer and men stand all around the perimeter watching. It’s fun to see. And the streets can be beautiful—you feel like you are walking down a street in the jungle with tropical trees overhanging everywhere.
When I got home, I had huge blisters. They hurt like the blazes—stupid flip-flops. Going to go make some pasta for dinner! So psyched! And mango juice!
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