Today I Lived Well!

Today I lived well! I saw beauty in the guise of dirt smudged, barefoot children with brilliant smiles at a street school in Dhaka. When I say street school, I don’t mean that the school is on a street; I mean that the school is ON the street.

Ever complain about the quality of the school your child is in? Maybe got frustrated because they didn't have the latest technology? Try this one on for size. Seventy or so brown faced children sitting cross legged on the ground, being given lessons by dedicated teacher’s right there on the sidewalk because they don't have a building.

I was there with a devoted group of volunteers from an organization called Thrive. Thrive began when three mothers saw a need and decided to do something about it. There are hungry school children all over Dhaka who often have no lunch. Schools can't afford to provide them. Have you ever tried to study, or do your job on an empty stomach? I know I can't concentrate with visions of cheesecake or subway dancing in my head.

It began with a banana. A simple banana to provide vitamins and potassium to school children, and it has grown into an average of 60,000 lunches a year. The lunches include a banana, hardboiled egg, a handful of peanuts and a piece of seasonal fruit or vegetable.

Last night I went to their volunteer meeting and instantly fell in love with the diverse array of beautiful and interesting women (and a couple of great guys) from all walks of life. There were Americans, Bangladeshi's, Indians, Malaysians and I’m not sure what else but they were all there united in one purpose. To feed children.

I was thrilled to be asked to photograph their volunteers efforts and the children and to help with their website.

I woke up giddy this morning, bursting with anticipation. Today was my first day. I will never be the same.

Liz and I arrived at the 96^th street school just after 1:00 pm. I somehow thought there would be an actual school there and was surprised to find a large group of children, all sitting cross-legged on the ground doing school work and listening attentively to their teachers. There was a red brick wall behind them and large folded tarps beneath them to keep them off the dirt. Some were in uniforms and some in ragged street clothes, but they all wore smiles.

They LOVED my camera! Children clamored to have their photo taken, often photo bombing each other and then begging to see themselves in the display on the back of my Nikon. Little groups of beaming children posed and postured, vying for my attention. I snapped away, in awe of their beautiful faces. Then a little girl stood and walked over to me and held out a crumpled piece of dirty paper. On it was a drawing. I admired it and told her “sunder”, then handed it back. “Na! You!”

My heart melted and stretched at the same time. The drawing was a gift. I smiled broadly and told her “dhonnabad, sunder”. Thank you, beautiful. She jumped up and down excitedly smiling and jabbering. Suddenly, I was surrounded by children handing me their artwork. I thanked each of them. I will keep them forever. (The artwork, not the kids).:-)

One of the things the volunteers do is teach the children to wash their hands. It sounds like such a simple thing, but you see, in a school on a sidewalk, you don’t get running water.

One of the predominant causes of death in Bangladesh is diarrhea. This is made much worse by poor hygiene. Even the simplest things like hand washing can greatly reduce the number of children who will become ill or die from diarrhea.

Volunteers take two liter plastic bottles and teach children and staff how to fill the bottles with soapy water. They poke a hole in the lid to create a slower stream and show the children how to wash their hands before eating.

I started snapping away again as a line of children formed to get their hands washed. Once each childs hands were clean, they went back to their spot to sit and wait patiently for the main event. The food! Volunteers began passing out hard boiled eggs a carrot and fruit to eager children. Each ate with gusto, smiling and laughing the whole time. They posed for pictures of silly egg and banana and carrot filled mouths. The volunteers seemed incapable of not smiling.

I will go back; again and again. I will keep taking pictures and I will help educate people. Thrives website is www.thrive-global.org. They also have a Facebook page. Please share both with everyone you know. I’m going to mercilessly post about a hundred (no really), a hundred, pictures on Facebook of these beautiful children and the amazing volunteers.

If you or someone you know can help, you might like to know that it only costs about .25 to feed one child.

I’ve only posted a couple of pictures with this blog. The rest are all on Facebook. I hope you fall as in love with these children as I did!

...and then I didn't die!

Oh dear sweet heaven, I’m alive! Can I get an Amen?!! There were moments this afternoon that it wasn’t a certainly. You know that saying, “Live as though each day was your last”? Yeah…it nearly was.

I know it sounds like a weird blending of 1^st world and 3^rd world problems, but I need to figure out how to fire my rickshaw driver! He’s insane!

It all started out quite innocently a couple of days ago. Derek and I were walking over to street 12 to see where our new apartment was. We are currently living in temporary quarters until the apartment that we have been assigned is finished being built. Being of an impatient nature, I was eager to at least catch a glimpse.

As we headed towards the address, a rickshaw driver pulled up next to us soliciting a ride. We shook our heads and walked on. It is often best not to engage them in conversation as they can be a persistent and persuasive bunch. Shalom was more persistent than most.

After having a look around the apartment building we finally decided to let him drive us home. It was…snug, but Shalom was chatty and pleasant. He seems to speak English relatively well, but I’m not positive because I can’t understand a word he says. It’s not just the accent but the speed with which he uses it. It did eventually become clear though, from his ramblings that he had already figured out how our destinies would intertwine for a long and lucrative partnership. The next thing we knew, he was leaving his rickshaw in our parking space! There’s more, but let’s get to the exciting stuff.

I needed a ride to the American club this morning so we decided to go ahead and use Shalom. Derek arranged for him to pick me up at 11:00 and off we went.

I love rickshaws. In a car with the windows rolled up, you can’t absorb your surroundings; you’re disconnected from them. In a rickshaw the pace is slower and there is time to absorb the chaos all around you and more importantly, time to take pictures. That’s the big one.

The ride to the club was pleasant. Shalom dropped me off and I went in and had lunch and then went to the gym. At the arranged time, I left to go meet him outside the gates. Still good. When I say that the rickshaw ride was good, you should understand that this is akin to saying that a ride with a drunk 14 year old, high on crack, driving through East L.A. with $100 bills flitting out the windows is a good experience. Still, we made it to my next destination, a “department store” called Lavender.

Shopping complete, I climbed back into the rickshaw and told Shalom I was ready to go home. I had long since given up on my plan to plug into headphones and listen to music on the ride. He hadn’t stopped talking since first picking me up. I really was trying to follow him, but trying to decipher his version of English over the heavy din of traffic was nearly impossible.

Finally we were nearing United Nations road. Almost home. Shalom was saying something about fish and comprehension dawned. He was talking about going somewhere to see fish. I have no idea whether he meant the swimming kind or the eating kind. He said “We go now to see fish”? “What? Oh! Um…no. No fish! I have someone meeting me in twenty minutes (okay two hours, but I didn’t want to see fish).” “Twenty minute good, okay.” 

I guess I assumed this was his way of acquiescing but I was wrong. I realized that as we shot past my road and headed to the busy intersection of one of the main roads.

In Bangladesh, they don’t even pretend to have order on their roads. There are no painted lines; at least none that I’ve ever seen. There’s just a big open stretch of road where they play out an elaborate game that looks not unlike stock car races. Each and every moment that you watch the traffic with shock and awe rippling through you, you assume that the next moment will be your last and that the laws of probability demand you will all crash together into startling chaos.

As we turned onto the wide road I did an inventory of its occupants: Buses, cars, rickshaws, goats…wait, what?? Okay…goats,…clamoring and jockeying for position. I watched in mild terror as drivers of all kinds cut each other off, and yet no one seemed to collide until, Whack! I nearly jumped out of the seat of the rickety rickshaw as a bus clipped us from behind.

Too close! I called foul! “Hey Shalom! Watch the road”. He looked back at me and smiled. “It’s okay ma’am. All good”. Apparently realizing that he hadn’t managed to kill me yet, he suddenly turned right directly across the flow of traffic effectively putting us sideways to the oncoming traffic. I watched as a huge bus came barreling towards us noting that I was on the bleeding side. I think I saw God. It literally missed us by inches as Shalom continued on across the oncoming traffic on the other side of the road. Three rickshaws nearly collided with us simultaneously and I squeezed my eyes shut. When I reopened them I found I was, thankfully, still not dead.

We were out of traffic, however, now we were heading down a side street directly into the gritty slums of Dhaka. “Shalom, could you please tell me where we’re going?” He looked back at me and grinned again as a car narrowly missed us. I wished he would stop doing that and keep his eyes on the road. “It’s okay, I show you ma’am”. 

A moment later he turned down another side alley, stopped the rickshaw and with a grand sweep of his arm, announced, “My company”. His “company” was an alley with a derelict wooden fence lined with rickshaws.“Shalom, why are we here”? 

Oddly enough, I still wasn’t worried, but in the back of my mind I knew that there would be a conversation with Derek about this later and it would not go well. Shalom pointed to a small dusky man standing next to the rickshaws. “This my boss. He sell you rickshaw”.

“What?! Sell me…Shalom, I’m not going to buy a rickshaw! Definitely not today. You talk to Sir. You see if Sir wants to buy a rickshaw!” He looked a bit dejected but smiled again and said, “Okay, later you buy”. I muttered a surly "whatever" and said it was time to go.

I was surprised when he turned left instead of right. We headed deeper into the slums. Rickety shops gave way to rickety wooden boxes housing all sorts of oddities for sale. Men in clothing so ragged they looked as though they would disintegrate hunched in front of the “shops”. In our neighborhood they stare at Americans because we’re a novelty. Here I think they were staring because they’re never seen someone…shall we say, like me…in their neighborhood before.

I admit it. I was intrigued. I’d never seen anything like it. I became absorbed in getting this tiny glimpse of the underside of Dhaka. Then as Shalom turned down another street deeper still into the slums I snapped out of it and realized I shouldn’t be there. In a voice sharpened by possibly the tiniest frisson of fear I told him I was late and needed to get home and to turn around.

Apparently I sounded more authoritative that time and he pulled up the rickshaw and turned us around. I breathed a sigh of relief as we edged closer to the main road until without warning he shot out across traffic yet again. This time it didn’t make sense because that’s the direction we needed to go.

Instead of turning with the traffic, he shot across the road to the other side and turned directly into the oncoming traffic. I saw my own birth! We were in a face off with a full sized city bus! It did not make me feel better that the front of the bus was badly dented from what were clearly multiple collisions. I think I saw a rickshaw driver wedged in the left front wheel well. Horns blared; more than usual. Gestures were exchanged. A car bumped us. I felt like the ball in a pin ball machine. I was frozen in fear but finally rallied enough to bellow “Shalom! Aren’t we meant to be on the other side of the road?!”

(should you find yourselves disappointed in the less than dramatic pictures, please be understanding. I am embarrassed to admit that my photographers instincts were overridden by my burning desire not to die.)

He glanced back at me. There was that smile that I was ready to slap off of his face. “It’s okay ma’am. No problem”. I glared at him. “It’s NOT okay! Get on the other side of the road”! Even as I bellowed I realized there were barricades; there was no way to get over. Instead he swerved to the right so we were on the edge of the traffic. I was stunned as he drove directly into the traffic, simply waiting for them to swerve to avoid him. I wondered when we were finally going to encounter some guy who hadn’t had his coffee this morning and would decide to just mow us down.  

As we made our way back to the four way intersection I realized we were still screwed. Traffic was too thick and there was no way to get back to the side of the street we needed to be on. I’d had it. I barked at him. “Shalom, get us out of this traffic now”! Oddly enough he seemed surprised by my consternation. I rolled my eyes as he finally scooted the rickshaw to the edge of the road and found a side street. 

Two streets later we were pulling up to our building and he was still talking about how he would be our driver full time. I’m gonna go with no. As he pulled into the parking garage, I leapt off the seat in relief and throwing a wad of taka on his bicycle seat growled that I would not be needing his services further.

I know why this happened. God has a twisted sense of humor. Earlier in the day, as I was sitting in the quiet of the café at the American club I had been thinking to myself, “What can I write about in my blog next?”

Problem solved.

First Impressions...

We live in Bangla-Freakin’-Desh! How cool is that?! We call it that out of the disbelief and wonder over this huge change we’ve made in our lives.  We’re here because my husband listened to me when I said I was restless and wanted to see more of the world and have new experiences. I will love him forever for that.

Dhaka is indescribable. 

If you can’t feel the sultry weight of the super-heated air or smell the ever present scent of smoke and dirt and garbage, or hear the incessant blaring of a thousand horns, how can you understand its chaotic charm? I haven’t figured out why yet, but the air always smells like firecrackers.

Is it a beautiful city? No. Not really. Not if you just glance at it, but take a moment to stop and look closer and you will see its beauty; Its intrigue. It’s a confusing city. On filthy dirt side streets with huge potholes and no sidewalks you will find stunning homes with architecture to rival the Getty Museum. Glistening-ly exotic and beautiful homes with marble columns and vaulted ceilings, and sleek modern buildings of painted concrete and glass clash jarringly with their squalid surroundings. 

The real beauty of Bangla-Freakin’-Desh is in its people.  Yes, they stare at foreigners like they have just dropped out of warp space and beamed all sparkly and shiny onto the road in front of them, yes they live in what any part of the world community would consider abject poverty, but when you acknowledge them with a smile and nod, or a small wave hello, their returning smiles shatter their laser beam stares into shards of sunshine.  In an instant, genuine warmth replaces their blatant curiosity and you feel very nearly like you do when you are “home”.

The city as a collective is daunting. Even on a sunny day, visibility is generally only about a mile. Pollution chokes the air with heavy fingers, making buildings loom hazily like forgotten giants along the horizon. They are there, but always seem just out of reach. Looking at the skyline, I am reminded of those post apocalyptic movies that always pan the ruins of a city, left vacant for decades; derelict and crumbling. It’s only up close that you discover the vibrant, humming life within.

On the streets, the first thing you notice might be the filth, but the second thing you see will be the color. Pedestrians in vivid colored, beautiful fabrics are everywhere you turn. Over there, a woman in a vibrant purple head scarf contrasting with startlingly beautiful, dark eyes. And smiles. Everywhere you look, there will be smiles.

On a wildly congested road, teaming with hundreds of rickshaws, cars, trucks, bicycles and people, you will see tall gleaming, modern office buildings, yet squatting in their shadow you will find wooden awnings huddled side by side sheltering busy workers. Under one is an a man who seems to be a hundred years old hunched over a sewing machine on the sidewalk, piecing together jewel colored fabrics into a salwar kameez for maybe the wife of a wealthy businessman.

On the other side of the road, rickety wooden stands laden with huge bunches of the sweetest bananas I have ever tasted and fruits and vegetables I can’t even identify.

Did I mention the smiles? They amaze me the most. Amidst the angst of our first world problems; “What do you mean it will take two weeks to get my new iPhone 6”, are a people who can smile with holes in their shoes, if they are lucky enough to have shoes. Who bother to smile and say good morning even if they haven’t eaten recently.

I’m not naive. I’ve been in some of the biggest cities in the world. The poverty here hurts to look at. It eats at a little place in my soul. Pick pockets abound, beggars are endless. Did you know that some beggars mutilate themselves to get more sympathy and bigger donations? I cringe and then I stop and wonder, how would I react if I had a family, or even just myself to feed and no way to do it? What lengths would I go to if this was all I had ever known and all around me were the wealthy elite. Make no mistake, here in Dhaka we are the wealthy elite.

There’s more. There has to be, because we’ve only been here for a week. These are just my first impressions and observations. Sometimes I will get frustrated and I will miss our family and friends; especially our grand kids (sorry kids, they’re cute). I will even miss Target. But I have chosen not to spend my time pining for what I don’t have. That would defeat the purpose of the sacrifices we made to be here. So I am going to keep exploring. Keep learning and I’m going to drink every drop of adventure and experience that I can from this amazing country.