Day 1-Meeting the Chowdhurys

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Today was my first full day in Dhaka, but I don’t know if you can call it that since I slept until 2:30PM, which in my defense is 4:30AM in New York. I also had not had a full night’s sleep since Sunday. I was very tired in Dubai and I know I usually do not cope so well with being very tired, yet I could not sleep because I could not get too comfortable in the vinyl lounge chairs they provided, clutching my heavy backpack, ignoring stares by people, and especially under the Persian sun. So my layover in Dubai was not particularly pleasant though I felt quite safe and it was plenty air-conditioned. My flight to Dhaka was nothing short of awesome. Coincidently (or not so?) I was seated next to the only other Americans on the whole flight. They were a couple from New Orleans. The husband is a professor and he was going to go a commencement address at a Dhaka University at the request of a Bangladeshi student who spent time at the New Orleans university. But thanks to the little Bangladeshi chelera (boys) kicking the backs of our seats, we split and I claimed four fabulous middle seats to myself, across which I had five hours of sleep interrupted only by a quick meal of rice, chickpea salad, and some creamy Bangladeshi dessert. It was very important, otherwise I think I would not have been in good shape when I arrived in Dhaka.
Going through customs and getting baggage was fine, if you didn’t mind being one of 2 white people in the entire airport and one of about twelve women. Certainly the only woman getting her own baggage and wheeling it out into the steamy Dhaka night. There were policemen who looked straight out of a Rudyard Kipling book with light blue uniforms and wooden rifles strapped across their backs. Everyone was helpful though, if a little bewildered about what I was doing. Outside there was a very long and big black metal gate, behind which were many people. I was diverted from that by the security. At first I thought they were waiting for their families, though I now think they were probably beggers. As I moved further from the airport, a little boy came up and started balancing my bags for me and steering my cart. I met my driver easily and proceeded to his jeep. A security officer approached and talked to the driver. I think he was asking about the boy and if he was a bother and the driver was saying no, no, and gladly gave him some money. It seemed like little children got through security and would help people with their bags for some money. Being me, I seemed like a prime target, though target isn’t the right word. I appreciated the boy’s help for the 10 cents it cost. So a prime customer, I guess.
Driving through Dhaka was crazy. The traffic is just plain crazy. It’s like being in Manhattan if Manhattan had no lights, no signs, no road lines, no policemen, and everything from big trucks to rickshaws to men guiding cattle. People are everywhere at all times of day. New York sleeps much more than this city. At night and during the day it is mostly men. The only women out were usually well-dressed and alone, which made me think that they were also working. During the day women go to the mall and markets but certainly most people out are men.
This city looks like someone slashed out a jungle and dropped a bunch of high rises and baskets of people in it. There are 140 million people in this country the size of Alabama. Dhaka is the most densely populated city in the world with Tokyo in second place.
When I arrived at the apartment building, a man carried my bags for me and we took the elevator to the eighth floor. I tipped the driver but I am bad at being suave and appropriate in America, I highly doubt I nailed it in Bangladesh. The Chowdhurys and their helpers are very nice and hospitable. My teacher told me to only go in the living room and dining room at Bengali houses but this is not true. They have welcomed me as any other. For each meal we have had a large assortment of dishes. Most Bengalis, including Mrs. Chowdhury, eat with their hands. There is a sink in the dining room and you wash your hands before and after you eat. Mr. Chowdhury prefers cutlery though and I am provided with cutlery and napkins though I am trying to eat with my hands. The helping girl laughs (kindly) at me and tries to show me how to use all five fingers, eventually going and getting me a spoon.
I haven’t told them I don’t eat meat because I realized they would have difficulty understanding why since I am not Hindu and it would inconvenience them. Instead I take as little meat as possible and stir it into other things so I can taste it as much and don’t eat much. I figure once I live in my apartment I can go back to my ways of eating. Until then, I’m a grown-up and I can deal. It could be worse, it could be France with their bloody steaks and everything. And they spice everything. Mrs. Chowdhury always says “You can eat this this this and this.” The others are too jhal—spicy. So in a bizarre twist, I have eaten rather bland food served with a new bottle of ketchup that was obviously bought in preparation for my coming from America. So now I’m eating pork with ketchup on it and it kind of makes me laugh. My mother would love for me to eat this with her at home.
Mr. Chowdhury always tries to put spicy foods on my plate and Mrs. Chowdhury yells at him in Bengali telling him it is bad for my heart. He laughs and she is serious. When he does win and she gives me a spicy piece of okra, it really isn’t that bad. I want to tell them that this is how my boyfriend makes everything he touches and so I am used to it but I am unsure how approving they are of dating. I am sure they are but I still have not mentioned it. They, like most Bangladeshis and Indians, had an arranged marriage. As it’s been said, “Marriage leads to love, not love leads to marriage.” Your parents know best. They say most marriages now are “love marriages.” The times, they are a-changing. But the Chowdhurys never met before their wedding day. “No my parents hear oh there is this boy and his parents hear oh there is this girl and they check out the status of the families and we both come from similar families and my father work in judicial department and his had a similar job and so it was set,” Mrs. Chowdhury tells me, spooning rice crisps mixed with green chiles into her mouth. We are sitting on the veranda overlooking the evening city, having jol khabar—teatime. I am even plain rice crisps and some flan and told no I cannot try the chiles. “She will come back here after 8 weeks and eat the chiles!” Mr. Chowdhury declares. The night is hazy and rather dark as the power has gone out, a common occurrence. Only generator lights and flames show. In the sky, heat lightning cuts through the haze constantly, all through the night with no rain or thunder. “It’s like in Florida.” Mrs. Chowdhury says as the help brings us tea and extra chiles for Mr.Chowdhury. The tea is delicious—sweet and creamy though I asked for only a little sugar. It is also rather fresh, a tea experience I’ve never had. Phil would be in heaven.
Since it is goromkal—the hot season—there are many tropical fruits growing that only come during this time. I have arrived during licchi season, which only last about 20 days. Licchi are little fruits shaped like strawberries with tough prickly skins. When you peel them, inside is a juicy white fruit much like the consistency of the inside of a grape with a flavor all its own. They are very refreshing. The helper, who is very sweet and always smiling, took me into the kitchen to show me katal—jackfruit. The jackfruit are like watermelons with green prickly skin. Inside is yellow and like the inside of a pomegranate on serious steroids. She rips out a piece of jackfruit and I pop the whole thing in my mouth and wiggle the seed out with my tongue. She laughs and says something in Bengali I have no idea. She only speaks Bengali and I barely do. The jackfruit is very meat and also has its own flavor. Its fruit is very similar to the mango. She keeps giving me more and more pieces—they feed me too much, until I say through the jackfruit “Ami shesh!” I am done. She starts laughing and tells Mrs. Chowdhury what I’ve said. They also give me this paste made of fresh tamarind berries, fresh molasses, mustard, and spices. Mr. Chowdhury says “The girls love it.” We eat it straight and its got a kick. It’s really okay though, they seem to be afraid some spice will hurt me. At one point I comment that it is hot, they start yelling too the kitchen and I say no no the weather! The weather is hot! Ohhh they say. We will make less spicy food.
After lunch we go to the mall. First I put on sunscreen and bug spray and then our driver picks us up. It is the biggest mall I have ever been to in my life. Hold on, there is a funky little bug on my bed that I need to go kill before it kills me…(I joke, Mom! No real harmful bugs up here as we are too high for mosquitoes to fly. Thankfully that means no hot bednet to sleep under though my bed is sprayed with pesticides before I go to sleep. Let’s be honest, I’d rather have a slightly higher risk of cancer years from now than dengue fever tomorrow.) Okay so the mall is enormous! It must have 12 levels. “Biggest mall in Bangladesh,” I am told. Though it is not enormously spread out. They explain to me that space has run out so all the houses in Dhaka have been leveled with only high-rises replacing them. When you can’t go out, you go up. There are no department stores here, but many boutiques. Mannequins with pale faces show off salwaar kameez after salwaar kameez. A salwaar kameez is basically pants, a tunic, and a scarf. They are almost all made of cotton or silk and are almost all exquisitely decorated with hand-stitched patterns and decorations. They come in every color under the sun. I wear the only salwaar kameez I have out because the shirts I have are not very long and many of my clothes are too hot. Mrs. Chowdhury says she will take me to a market where one can get better deals, if I can stand the heat (the mall is air-conditioned). I say for a deal, I can take the heat. Though, even at the fancy boutiques, a beautiful handmade salwaar kameez goes for about 20 to 30 dollars. I can’t imagine what the “deals” cost.
We also go to GrameenPhone to get me a SIM card for my cell phone. There are identification procedures. I am told this is because they want to make sure terrorists aren’t using cell phones. “Bangladeshis are very afraid of terrorists.” Who isn’t? “We are very moderate. We are very accepting of all religions. It was much more important to be a good person than a Muslim. It is the extremists that we fear. True Muslims do not deny Christ, as he is written into our holy book, the Quran. If you deny Christ, you cannot call yourself a Muslim. If you discriminate based on religion, you cannot be a good person. You are Christian, I am Muslim, but before that we are humans.”
Enlightening would greatly understate this experience and I’ve been here for 25 hours. Outside the call for nammaj—prayer—is broadcast from loudspeakers. It says in song “Come pray, come pray.” It calls for people to remind them to pray to God before they go to sleep. It reminds them to be thankful and thank God for their homes, their safety, their loved ones, and their food. That is all. “We value humility.” Mrs. Chowdhury tells me. I nod. Then she asks me if I want to rest before dinner, I saw okay, maybe I’ll read a book.
“You are a bookworm!” she says. “I can tell, I can tell, you are one of those people I see in America always in a book,” she says making gestures as if she is reading an imaginary book. “You are not interested in fashion or those kind of things. You like to read. You thirst for knowledge.” “Um, thanks, I say.” I have a sudden urge to read Vogue and put on some make-up, but there is no Vogue here and when I try to put on any make-up, it melts off my face. There is no internet at home, so no Facebook or chatting. So yes, I have books and I can type on my laptop. I wish I could communicate easier with my family. Instead I will write e-mails and send them when I can. I hope they do not worry. I am told repeatedly I am brave for coming here and so are my parents for letting me. There aren’t many of me. Not only have I yet to see a white person, I have yet to see a foreigner. I do not think I have ever fully appreciated our heterogeneous country. We are truly a nation of immigrants and that has created our own character. I think that also means to better understand who we are as a people, we need to better understand where we have come from.
I think it’s almost dinnertime. I hear cutlery being set out for me.

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