Politically incorrect...fabulously kind

I've had a rough week. I'm laid up still...or again...or something like that, from my hamstring injury. I have finally exiled myself to our apartment in the hope that staying on flat even surfaces will prevent me from reinjuring it. I am staying inside because there don't seem to be any flat even surfaces outside.

Laying here in the couch, feeling sorry for myself, I am reminded of a song I learned as a child, especially appropriate for wallowing in self pity. It begins "No body likes me, everybody hates me, I'm gonna eat a worm" and goes on to describe the kind of worm you should eat, and even how it should be prepared.  It's a silly little song, possibly intended to make one realize just how silly wallowing in self pity really is. Anyway, thinking about the song got me thinking about other things, like the fact that it is in fact, completely inaccurate, as I am surrounded by kind and loving people who care about me. It's comforting, isn't it; knowing that we are loved and cared for? 

This train of thought then led me to another which cheered me up immensely. It got me thinking about the kindness of strangers and in particular, the kindness of the people I have encountered here in Bangladesh. Not just the locals, but other nationalities as well, which, I promise, is bringing me in a very round about way to the point that I am really trying to make.

One of the first things I noticed when we arrived in Bangladesh is the completely genuine and earnest care and concern for others. When we decided to buy a digital piano, I went to a music store in search of just the right one. I found a great one and was ready to buy it right there on the spot but was informed that I would need to pay cash. As I didn't have 200,000 taka laying around in my purse, I left to figure out how to procure said cash. 

It took a few days pulling maximum withdrawals of cash on two cards in order to acquire the needed funds and it was during this time that I injured my leg. Getting into a rickshaw was not an option at that point and we didn't have a car yet so I called the music store manager and asked if they would be willing to deliver the piano and I would pay them when they arrived. Initially he apologized and said that I would need to come into the store and pay first but once I explained my injury, he graciously agreed to bring the keyboard to me and receive payment when they delivered the piano. 

When they got to the house, he expressed such sincere concern for my injury that I was a little caught off guard. He asked questions and expressed his desire that I would heal quickly and then he told me that he would be praying for my speedy recovery. I was touched and surprised and felt quite certain that I would, in fact, be in his prayers. Now, I'm not trying to make a blanket indictment against America. I love America, but we have become so paranoid about being politically correct and so worried about offending that I think a lot of people would refrain from such a gesture in a business environment. 

As days have turned into weeks of struggling with this injury, I have experienced this warmth and concern repeatedly. I have been told I would be in people's thoughts, that they would pray that God heals me, that they would pray to Allah on my behalf. They have expressed their hope for my healing via whatever belief system they hold and no one has been worried about whether we worship they same way, or worship at all. They have simply shown me that they care. 

A couple of weeks after my piano was delivered, I received a call from the music store manager. I was surprised to find that he had called for no other reason than to inquire after my health. In many stores, as soon as they see my cane someone will rush foreword with a stool for me to sit on, even in line at the grocery store. I have noticed this amongst the varied nationalities of the members of the choir that I am in. I am comforted by the warmth and care that I have encountered and by the number of times people have told me I would be in their prayers, often complete strangers.

 What is my point? I'm not sure I have a really specific one. The point might just be that I've been taking a lot of pain medicine and I'm getting a little maudlin, but in my emotional and medicated state, I guess I am just trying to suggest that maybe we could all stop worrying about our differences, about how we look or sound to others, about who we pray to and whether we believe in the same way and just appeciate that in this sometimes tough and prickly world, any kindness and any prayers or positive feelings no matter who they are directed to are welcome and make life a little nicer.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

There is no way to tell this in just a few words. I need to describe it so that you see it...feel it...because seeing it, you can never feel the same again. I found out that looks really can be deceiving. We had the honor recently of being invited into the homes of two of the students from the Piet Van School in the slums of Dhaka. 

To get to the school, Adele, another volunteer and I, had to drive down streets so narrow I didn't think the car would be able to get through. The streets were more a river than a road, swollen by the recent rains, and bicycle rickshaws squeezed past us so closely that I thought we would surely collide. 

At the school we met up with Kanwal, a local volunteer who would be translating for us. Also waiting at the school were two sweet girls both dressed neat as a pin in their crisp blue and white school uniforms. Their dark hair was pulled neatly back and to look at them, one could assume they were heading home from the finest prep school.

Rather than make the ten minute walk slogging through mud and over uneven surfaces, we suggested the girls ride to their homes in my car with us. They looked wide eyed and uncertain at first but finally agreed to climb into the back seat with me while Adele moved to the front. They smiled broadly and giggled as they entered the car. I suspect they have never been in a private care before. Both girls sat bolt upright, their backs never touching the seat as we made our way to their neighborhood.

As we pulled up beside what seemed to be piles of debris, we realized they were actually crooked, rickety buildings that looked too short to be homes. Bamboo poles, lashed together, formed an entrance to the housing where a narrow dirt path cut through crowded structures that looked as though they had been pieced together from whatever materials were available and were likely to fall over in a stiff wind. I looked at the girls again, realizing that their tidy, starched uniforms bore no resemblance to their reality.

For the most part, the houses were built of large tattered sheets of corrugated tin. It looked as though they were held together by string, scotch tape and bamboo. Each house had three main walls, with some having a shorter front wall with an open entrance. Other houses had makeshift doors but many had only fabric hanging across the opening. The roofs were made of many different materials though most were corrugated tin, but I also saw sheets of wood and even old sign boards being used as walls and rooftops. Bamboo was lashed together to hold it all.

The muddy path that wound between the dilapidated shacks was barely wide enough to walk single file and the buildings seemed to stretch on endlessly. Houses crowded together, leaning against each other in a tired fashion. The structures themselves could barely be called houses, but it was the people inside that turned them into homes. Women with soulful eyes emerged from their doorways to watch intently as we passed by, their brightly colored saris and Salwar Kameez a stark contrast to their drab surroundings.

Another couple of minutes walking and we came to a T intersection that dead ended off to the right. One of the girls scurried into the house ahead of us for a moment and then popped back out. Our interpreter indicated that this was the home of the younger girl, whose name I sadly, can’t pronounce. I was startled when a tiny woman in a well-worn sari, looking much older than I think she was, raced out of the house past us and was soon out of sight.

Pulling aside the fabric covering the doorway, I stepped over the threshold and asked if I could come in. The interior was dark and gloomy but I could just make out the outline of a little boy sitting by the door looking up at me. I looked through my camera lens and began adjusting the ISO to make up for the lack of light. As I hit 4000 ISO I jumped slightly at the sight of a man that I had not noticed before, sitting on the edge of a wooden bed, partially obscured by a pole. I lowered my camera onto its strap and tried to take in the scene. Their home was maybe 12 ft. square. The ceiling quite low.The walls and ceiling were a mix of metal sheets and sign boards. The front wall seemed to be covered mostly by fabric. Just to the right of the doorway stood a treadle sewing machine.

Most of the house was taken up by two bare wooden beds. Not the kind of bed you and I are used to but a rustic wooden bed with a headboard and wooden slats to lay on. The two beds sat side by side, a small one and a slightly larger one. There were no mattresses, just a thin-ish mat covering the wood. Kanwal informed us that this was the home of a family of seven. There was five children ranging from 4 to 15, and their parents. She told us that the 15 year old works as a housemaid. All seven of them
 share the two beds.

As I stood surveying their home the mother came back, out of breath from hurrying. In her hands she carried a bottle of coke and a packet of cookies. They were for us, her guests. Tears threatened to overflow. Her husband was a rickshaw driver. This was probably a couple of day’s wages but she had guests to care for. I smiled at her and said Dhonnobad (thank you).

As I continued taking pictures, the woman climbed on the bed and walking across it to the other side of the room, reached her hand up to whisk away a piece of cloth with a grand gesture. She smiled a beautiful smile that took ten years off her gaunt face as she proudly pointed to a small, old style television set on a shelf next to the ceiling; it was clearly her most cherished possession. I smiled back, saying, “You like to watch TV”? I got an even bigger smile and an effusive nod. I could understand the desire for a little escapism. I laughed and told her that I liked Geet. (a ridiculously corny show that I love and that fortunately has subtitles). She smiled and laughed, probably at the thought of the odd America woman watching one of their shows.

The children were clustered on the bed watching the spectacle. I felt voyeuristic invading their home and snapping away like they were a tourist attraction. The house was small, but very orderly. I suspected that each item was a hard earned treasure.

I looked up and could see light through the ceiling and wondered what it was like here during the rainy season. As we had entered the slum, I’d noticed that we stepped down several feet and thought how bad the flooding must be during monsoon season.

Notably absent was the presence of a kitchen or bathroom in the house. There was also no running water, though they must have had some sort of electricity in order to watch the TV. I questioned where they got drinking water and wondered whether it was safe.

Stepping back out into the light, I noticed a little makeshift oven on the ground next to the door, where they did their cooking. It was a sort of earthen oven/stove. Another oven across the way was just a piece of the ever present corrugated tin curved around a fire to contain the heat.  I could see other cooking areas and all of the fires were fueled by whatever they could burn, including garbage. I could smell burning plastic and cringed to think about the toxins being released at they cooked their food.

We were invited to enter a couple of other homes and found them all small but tidy. Everywhere, we encountered smiling faces and gracious hospitality.

We visited a little longer and eventually headed to the car. Back at the entrance to the housing, word had gotten out that we were there and a number of people had gathered. Out of all the people we encountered only one even suggested we give them money.

I felt a little relieved to be out of the claustrophobically close quarters and took a deep breath of fresh air. 


As we exited, we noticed a boy and a young man doing something across the lane. As we looked closer, we realized that they were killing and cleaning a Pidgeon, presumably for dinner.

Piling back into the car I looked once more towards the slum housing and took a moment to worry about its residents. One of the perils of living there is that they are doing so illegally. These neighborhoods are not sanctioned, they just sort of appear and the government can come in, literally at any time, and demolish all of it without notice.

We pulled away and headed back to the school. The teachers in these schools are beautiful, amazing, dedicated professionals. They love their students so much, but they have so little support. There was a boy who used to attend Piet Van. He’s no longer there because he had a learning disability and the schools have no accommodation for disability. There are no IEP’s or special programs. If you can’t keep up, the school doesn’t have the resources to help.

Back inside the school the children waved and hollered enthusiastically as we entered the classroom. The older children were eager to show off their English skills. A tall boy at the back of the class looked tired. He has been ill for quite some time and they suspect it’s his liver. A doctor has volunteered to go back with us to examine him in the hopes of being able to help him.

Mohini

We spoke to Mohini. an employee at the school with a smile that would chase away a monsoon. She tells us that someday she wants to go to America. Not to live but just for a visit.

Adele noticed a girl that was wearing one of the Thrive t-shirts we recently gave each of the children. I hope that the T-shirts serve to help remind them of the lessons that Thrive sets out to teach about hygiene and nutrition. A lot of suffering can be eliminated just by teaching the children to wash their hands.

I asked Adele, the other volunteer about the children’s crisp school uniforms and white tennis shoes. Generally parents are required to buy their children’s school uniform themselves but it seemed unlikely that these parents would be able to afford them. She explained that the uniforms, tennis shoes and backpacks the children wore had all been donated. I hope to never again look at someone’s appearance and be deceived into thinking that I know who they are or what their life is like.

I took so much away from this experience. It broke my heart and healed it all at the same time. The poverty was so complete and yet in the midst of it, a mother sacrificed precious earnings to give us a soda pop and cookies. 

Things I Never Thought I'd...

I’ve been in a lot of interesting situations in my lifetime but  I was thinking the other day that there are a lot of things I never thought I would ever say or write. There are things like:

“I’ll be working late tonight, we’re breaking in a new dolphin at the oceanarium”, or...

“Oh crap! We’re on the wrong train! This one goes to Russia”! How about…

”Um….no honey, those people are just pretending to crucify that man” (they were NOT pretending, Good Friday can get a little graphic in the Philippines).  

I never thought I’d write a book about how we fled the Philippines on a ship to escape the wrath of an erupting volcano and violent earthquakes.

How about, ‘Chi, please don’t dump the cup of poisonous snakes on the kitchen table”! or...

“Colt! Leave the monkey alone and don’t give him any more bananas”! (We were in our back yard)

Maybe..."Samantha, no one is shooting at you". (Someone WAS shooting at them)

There have been loads of things over the years. I’ll bet each of us has been in situations we never quite expected to be in. I know we have definitely hit the jackpot here in Dhaka. I really want this to be an interactive blog, so when I post the link on facebook, I’d like to hear about what you never expected to talk or write about.

So, I’ll go first to get things started.

Here is my list of 25 things I never thought I’d hear myself say or write before Dhaka…

1.      “Derek, do you know where the Turkish Embassy is? I have to stop by there this afternoon”.

2.      (To a rickshaw driver) – “Why are all the cars coming towards us?? Aren’t we meant to be on the other side of the street”??!!

3.      “I figured it out, the car will cost a million, eight hundred and fifty thousand taka”.

4.      “What time should we have the chauffeur come in the morning”?

5.      “What day is your meeting with the embassador?”

6.      “Seriously? 1,200 taka ($15.00) for a string of salt water pearls? That’s too much”!

7.      “Shut the drapes. I don’t feel like watching the cyclone”.

8.      “I wish today wasn’t the maids day off. Now I’LL have to do the dishes!”

9.      “I’ll just take a rickshaw to the embassy”.

10.   “Have you booked the tickets to India yet”?

11.   “Did you know we live across the street from The High Commission of Maldives? Um…Where are the Maldives?”

12.   “Honey, can you bring the extension ladder over here so I can get the peanut butter out of the cupboard”?

13.   “The power in the apartment went out 37 times today but the generator kicked on so that was good! How was your day”?

14.   “Driver, do you know how to get to the ambassador’s house”?

15.   “Did any buses get fire bombed today”?

16.   “Don’t forget to keep the mosquito net closed. It’s dengue fever season”.

17.   “Remember when mosquito nets seemed romantic”?

18.   “What time will the physical therapist come by the house”? (we don’t go to him. He comes to us).

19.   “I have a masseuse coming by at 4:00 today”.

20.   “Why is your business card in Bangla?”

21.   “Oh, so that’s what Hester looks like in sanscrit”.

22.   “Have they taken down the blockades yet”?

23.   “I told the rickshaw driver not to go past Khaleda Zia’s house! The press were crawling all over the place”!

24.   “Everyone is going to Nepal for spring break. I wish we could go too”!

25.   “I like this car best. It has a big back seat”.

You get the idea. Those are all actual phrases, questions or emails that we have found ourselves saying or writing.

Now let’s hear what you have to say. You can post on the blog or on facebook!

The Deconstruction of Dhaka

The building next door is coming down and OSHA would not be happy about it. I don’t think these guys have a clever little sign declaring how many accident free days they have enjoyed.

Dhaka has been around for a thousand years. Everywhere, the city is in flux, old buildings coming down to be replaced by new ones. 

These guys are working about 8 stories up

Since moving into our permanent housing last Wednesday, I have watched in both horror and fascination as workers bring the existing structure down. They aren't using explosives and they aren't using wrecking balls. They're using men; lots of men!

Picture an American construction site; burley men in jeans and T-shirts sporting yellow hard hats, leathery work gloves and steel toed boots. Now picture…not that…at all. Instead picture slightly built, wiry, yet freakishly strong men in all manner of clothing, often button down dress shirts, trousers and flip flops.

Each morning they begin again…tearing down a several story, concrete, brick and rebar structure with their bare hands and a few sledgehammers, one floor at a time. It is terrifying. I have watched as a man stood, without restraints of any kind on the top of a wall and repeatedly swung a sledgehammer at the very wall he was standing on. Over and over the monstrous steel hammer slams into the wall, sometimes inches from the man’s toes. If it were to connect, it would not injure his foot; it would mutilate it. If the wall were to collapse too soon he would be thrown two floors down with a ton of concrete.

From the street, a crazy, elaborate stairway built from lengths of bamboo stretches across the entrance to the job site. Every few lengths of bamboo, another piece is laid on top, forming a step. The bamboo is lashed together. It is a testament to brilliant engineering that the whole things doesn’t simply collapse.

As I watch from my fourth floor perch, the men swarm the worksite like an army of ants doing jobs that seem impossible for their size. Each day more of the building disappears as these men work tirelessly in blistering heat and humidity. Once the floors are knocked out, they walk across nothing more than the left over rebar, woven like an insane basket across the emptiness between walls. I watch in horror expecting someone to fall through at any moment.

One man spent the other day standing on the edge of a demolished stairwell, three floors of nothingness behind him and jagged rebar in front of him. There were no safety harnesses. Only a man in trousers and flip flops.

The property on the other side of that building is under construction as well. The demolition is finished and reconstruction has begun. They recently poured a concrete floor. Again, no machines were involved. Instead a steady stream of men, some a couple of decades older than myself, carted the wet concrete all the way from the front of the site. 

Each had a large, wide, rounded basket covered in a layer of fabric. The wet cement was poured into each basket and they would walk with the baskets atop their heads from the front of the building, up the stairs, and onto the third floor.

The crew lives on site. They work 10-12 hour days and often work in the dark. As work slows each evening, they settle down to eat and socialize. When I take Chumleigh out for his walk we can hear Bangladeshi music coming from someone’s radio. Men cluster together to relax and visit. If it’s raining some scramble to find dry spots and others just sit in the rain. 

Bedtime comes and the men hang mosquito netting from a tree to cover the piece of maybe 6x8 corrugated metal that they sleep on. The men huddle together under the netting, trying to avoid the mosquitos. Some forgo the netting and sleep wherever they can find a bit of shelter. Night and sleep close in on them and the whole process begins again in the morning.

This is the mosquito netting that they sleep under

on the construction site.

It’s like having a television in my kitchen and I found a show I can't stop watching. I return to the window overlooking the site several times a day, fascinated by the hardiness of these men. I imagine that there are no unions to protect them; no OSHA regulations to keep them from being injured and though I don’t know what their wages are, I can tell you that a driver makes around $200-250 a month and it’s far more than a construction worker gets.

So when you go to bed tonight, say a little prayer for the safety of these hard working men who will do what they must to provide for their loved ones.