Bangla, buses, and birals

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Teaching English is more fun than I ever would’ve thought teaching could be, particularly taking into account that I don’t actually know Bangla (my pupils’ native tongue), making things a bit more on the tricky side. But hey, ke garne?

The women are split into three groups, separated by ability level (based on a very simple assessment of their “Hi, how are you?” greetings.) And we jumped right into the learning a few weeks ago. (Wow! Does time really move that fast?)

We began with the basics, the most crucial stuff. After working on their ability to tell where they work, what they do, and to greet an individual, we began to expand to some of the elementary basics: shapes, colors, the alphabet, body parts, food, and objects. Next, we’ve gotten to working on basic actions and identifying things around them. (The full sentences are certainly the more difficult part.) But like I’ve repeated over and over, their progress is pretty astounding, and I certainly couldn’t be more proud.

Last weekend, I tagged along with Robin and one of her previous interns, Iris, on a quick journey to Mymensingh. Of course, the legitimacy of using the term “quick” in regards to our actual transit is debatable. After a very hot, soakedwithyourownsweat wait at the bus stand, we boarded and began the journey away from the crowded city. It was strange to see trees, and even fields of grass. Of course, there are plenty of beautiful countrysides in Bangladesh (particularly in the villages), but it’s remarkably easy to forget that they’re even in existence when you’re living in the hustle and bustle of the city. We arrived mid-afternoon (much later than our initial expectations) and as Robin headed off to a prayer meeting, Iris and I went to meet up with an old friend she’d stayed with the following year. After deciding the three of us were going to try to get some food, we headed into the town, exploring on a rickshaw. Of course, with our hearts set on naan bread (and NOT rice), the task was far easier said than done. Stop one: no naan, no tea. Stop two: no naan, no tea, no daal. Uhm, those were pretty much the only restaurants open. So we resorted to a street stall and got some pau roti and daal (a delicious option) takeaway.

That evening, we took a short boat ride along the river (of course, it was the place to be, and suddenly there were again, crowds of people everywhere), and had a dinner with more naan and fuschka.

boatride on the river

We spent the next morning visiting MCC (an NGO both Robin and Iris have worked for) worksites throughout Mymensingh. One involved the production of paper, all by hand, from the fiber of pineapple, another was where they made soap. Of course, Robin and Iris had the opportunity to meet up with old friends in the process, though suddenly it was time to head out again.

The bus stand was packed. There was to be a hartel (strike) for the next two days in Dhaka, and it seemed that everyone (including us) was trying to get back to the city before being stuck unable to get in. Hartels are very similar to the bandhs in Nepal: all main businesses and virtually all transportation shuts down in the name of some sort of political issue. In this case, apparently, it had something to do with taxing. Of course, they seem to be a bit more serious than anything we experienced in Nepal. Unfortunately, hartels include throwing rocks or large objects at some CNGs or busses that do choose to operate, and other busses are flipped on their side or burned. Yeah, don’t want to get caught inside when that’s going on.

We finally made it on the bus for the long ride back (one that should’ve taken a few hours that dragged out to more than five). Of course, once we did make it back to the city, the battle wasn’t over as Robin and I wandered up and down the road looking for any rickshaw wallas that would be willing to take us the final leg of the journey home. Not that there was a lack of people, the streets were full (regardless of the late hour at night) and rickshaws were everywhere. But inconveniently, they were all occupied or unwilling to take on passengers. After twenty minutes or so, one man agreed to take us, and we finally made it back. Just in time for a late dinner, bed, and a new workweek ahead.

But it went well! (the workweek, that is) Unfortunately I was out sick for parts of it, but I’m proud to announce that the women were shining stars when we had our first group of visitors at Hand & Cloth. They were so excited to meet the new people, and they were able to successfully converse with bits of “I am fine, how are you?” and responding to “What do you do here?” with “I make blankets.” Really, it sounds simple. But I could not be more proud.

Yesterday, between some homework catchup and room cleanup (had to clean the mold I found covering my shoes and half my clothes. That’s hot and humid for ya), I adopted a kitten. (Sorry Robin!) It’s been unusually and pleasantly cool for the past couple of days, as Dhaka has been covered by rain clouds and an intermittent pattern of drizzling showers. Two nights ago, we noticed a kitten meowing into the night, somewhere just outside the house, and when I woke up to hear it still crying, I wandered from window to window, trying to figure out where it might be. (It sounded so close!). Sure enough, I opened a little side window in my room, looked down, and saw a tiny little heap of wet, matted fur, barely moving (but clearly crying) in the mud just on the other side of the wall. Towel in hand, I headed out into the rain. Sure, ya can’t save ‘em all, but the poor little thing looked miserable. After a nice drying off and some picking off of bugs, she was looking much more feline-like, and her black coat is nice and soft. After a quick trip down the road, I had an eyedropper for feeding (she’s tiny, we’re talking 100 grams and probably two weeks old), and today she accompanied us for an exciting day at work. Of course, the women are both baffled and disgusted (birals - cats - are not typically pets in Bangladesh), but she seems to be settling in okay. So a new member is added to the family (until a better home is found, at least). I’m calling her the word night in Nepali: Raati.