On why an "I survived Dhaka" t-shirt seems appropriate... (Dhaka, October 8-22, 2008)

I didn't realize until well into my trip that my Lonely Planet guidebook suggests spending about two days in Dhaka. In their highlights of the city, they list, "getting the hell outta there!" Needless to say, I ended up spending over two weeks in Dhaka. In contrast to Bangladeshi villages, it is a jungle constructed of concrete structures and electrical wires with rivers of rickshaws, CNGs and barreling buses, fogging the view with exhaust. Mornings, the call to prayer wakes me, bouncing from mosque to mosque, an asymmetric echo. Traffic seems much more hazardous than that of any city I have visited in India, with unforgiving buses speeding in a sea of cycle rickshaws, each uniquely adorned with paintings of popular film heroes and heroines. Each rickshaw ride feels like my last, as the lungi-clad (a lungi is a cloth wrapped to make a skirt, worn by men in Bangladesh and India) rickshaw drivers have developed the strength to traverse town at impressive speeds, and I fear I will fall off the tiny seat when we hit an inevitable speed bump or pot hole, or nudge the rickshaw in front of us as we slow to a stop.

Jagorani and Bottomley Home Orphanage

We arrive in Dhaka the morning of October 8. Mizan pays a young boy to carry my bag, perhaps half the weight of the boy, on his head. I haven't carried my bag since I arrived in Bangladesh it seems--Mizan either carries it or pays someone to do so. We take a CNG (an auto-rickshaw, called CNG in Bangladesh, because they run on compressed natural gas) to Farm Gate, an area in Dhaka where Jagorani and Botomley Home Orphanage are located. Here is a view of a busy (and typical) street near Shadarghat port, taken from the launch on which we arrived in Dhaka:

My Uncle Mike donates money to Botomley, an orphanage run by nuns of the Associates of Mary, Queen of Apostles for rural children who would otherwise not be able to afford an education. (For more information, visit http://www.botomleyhomeorphanage.org.uk/). The same order of nuns also runs Jagorani, a home for unmarried women who make and sell traditional handicrafts. I stay in a clean room here, under the care of two kind nuns, the affable Sister Protibha and the somewhat more stern Sister Lillian. After a filling breakfast, including toast and jam, which I haven't had since leaving home, I am told once again, "take rest," and happily I go to my room. Here is a picture of Sister Protibha:

I go to the orphanage for the first time, as I had planned to volunteer there as an English tutor. The children are gathered in one space and I am told to sit in front of them. I bring the candy that Mike gave me money to buy as a gift for them, a break from the monotony of orphanage meals. Some of the children greet me with a bouquet of beautiful flowers. Then the kids sing some songs, including "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," which seems to be required learning for grade school children here. Some girls are asked to dance but are very shy and finally give way to the sister's demands. I am surprised, embarrassed and overwhelmed by all this attention.

After the formal presentation, I go with some of the older girls for a tour of the orphanage. It is modeled after a village to accommodate the children who have come from that kind of lifestyle. There are animals and a garden. The facilities seem excellent--classrooms, dormitories, a dining hall and worship room. I am surprised at how nice of a place it seems, given the images that the word "orphanage" usually conjures. In actuality, I learn from Sister Protibha, the orphanage is doing financially well because of recent donations, including those of Muslims who have donated for Eid. Mizan informs me that compared to other orphanages in Bangladesh, this one is well-off. Indeed, the children are very fortunate to have shelter and schooling, compared to the streets where so many other children find their home.

The girls seem very excited to meet me, but a bit too energetic for a traveler in a new land, dragged down by a late summer heat. They make me play badminton on a field where other children are playing soccer, and I don't much like the prospect of being hit by a ball, something I haven't had to watch out for since the elementary school playground. Later, they crowd around me, tugging at my hair, not understanding why I don't have it combed straight. They take out my elastic and comb it for me. They ask about my mother, father and brother. And, most importantly, "am I married?" They ask about my job and my schooling. They try to teach me Bangla, but it is difficult to understand their overlapping shouts. I want to involve the quieter, younger ones but they are not assertive enough to join in the broken conversation, riddled with translations and topics that change with each excited interviewer. Ultimately, I feel like a teacher unable to control her students, failing. On another visit, the same group of older girls decides I should try a sari, a dress made of one long piece of cloth. One of the younger teachers, herself a former Botomely orphan, helps them to dress me in a sari, makes up my face, combs my hair straight (of course) and, despite my protests, manages to dot my forehead with one of the biggest bindis I have seen. I try to avoid volunteering at the orphanage after these experiences.

What to do...

For about five days, I do very little. I am still getting over sickness and the heat makes me very lazy. Also, I find Mizan and the sisters to be extremely protective of me and they won't let me go anywhere on my own. Since Mizan works from about 7 am-7 pm, I am resigned to Jagorani. On Sunday morning, I go to the nearby church, not understanding any words, but recognizing the general structure of the Catholic mass.

Wanting to feel useful, I offer to help Sister Prothiba in whatever way she needs. What is needed is for me to copy the greetings of Christmas cards and write them in the handmade Christmas note cards designed by the women at Jagorani. It is October, but the Christmas season is very busy, so Sister is already preparing cards for the most important priests, bishops and Sisters of Bangladesh. After, I type addresses and distribute them for envelopes. I am happy to help, and even more happy to work with Sister Prothiba. She always seems to be working on or planning something, and she always seems to be happy in a quirky sort of way.

At night, she always insists on coming to my room and helping me put up my mosquito net. One night, she invites me to her room. It is a simple room, with not more than what I have in my room, despite her permanence there. She has a graphic picture of Christ wearing a crown of thorns. It strikes me how universal religion can be, and I wonder if she understands the Christ story in the same way a Westerner would. I wonder what the story looks like through Bangladeshi eyes. When I was at mass, were people having the same emotional responses as people at home? Are the meanings exactly the same, or is there variation? And if there is variation, how can there be one Truth?

On another day we celebrate Sister Lillian's 70th birthday. I can't believe she is 70--she looks so healthy and young, not a day over 60. She said even her doctor thought she was lying about her age. I buy some Bengali sweets to give her, and there is a Western cake as well. All the girls and Sister Prothiba gather to celebrate. Sister Prothiba sings a folk song and dances--something about a person in a boat. I am the photographer. Here is a picture of Sister Lillian (left) and Sister Protibha with the Jagorani girls at Sister Lillian's birthday celebration:

Sometimes I sit with the girls while they are working. They are kind, but the language barrier is quite strong. We watch a TV drama. Something about a woman who is arranged to marry a man, but is in love with another man. So typical here. Marriage problems. Would someone tell something original?

Dhaka's Tourist "Attractions"

Bangladesh as a whole lacks the impressive temples and archaeological attractions that India has to offer. The attractions I get around to seeing in Dhaka include the Bangladesh National Museum, Ahsan Manjil (the pink palace), the modern-looking Parliament building designed by Louis Khan, the pleasantly wooded Dhaka University campus, Old Dhaka and Shadarghat port. Here is a picture of Shadarghat port:

Mizan takes me to the national museum, a comprehensive storehouse of dioramas and artifacts detailing Bangladesh's agriculture, flora and fauna, traditional village life, clothing, weaponry, musical instruments and jewelery. It has artwork by Bangladeshi painters, the most striking of which are a series of paintings commemorating Bangladesh's famine of 1974. The museum also has a large exhibit on the Liberation War and important leaders in the nation's history. After the national museum, Mizan takes me to Ahsan Manjil, an Islamic palace pink in color. We go out for dinner, although the only thing I can eat is the tandoori naan because there is no vegetarian option. Still, it is one of the best naans I have tried.


Surviving Dhaka

I am beginning to feel defeated. The orphanage didn't work out. I have been sick on and off since arriving in Bangladesh. And it seems Sister Protibha and Mizan are too protective to let me travel around Dhaka or other parts of the country alone. I find an out: I tell Mizan about Christiaan, a Dutch traveler I met in Kolkata who said he'd be coming to Dhaka to renew his Indian visa. I receive an email from him with the details of his hotel. "Let's be bored in Dhaka together!" he writes. Mizan and I take a rickshaw across the city to Old Dhaka and find Christiaan! We suggest that we hang out a few days in Dhaka until he gets his visa, and then head off to some other intriguing destination. Here is a picture of Christiann, relaxed despite the stares of curious Bangladeshis:

I email Christiaan about how trapped I am with the nuns, and he is kind enough to pick me up at Jagorani every day so that they won't worry that I've left alone. Turns out Christiaan knows of two other travelers, both of whom had stayed at our hotel in Kolkata (Hotel Maria), and who were in Dhaka dealing with visa issues. We take a CNG to the Indian Embassy, which becomes our meeting point for the next few days.

Magda, a Polish traveler hoping for an Indian transit visa, is already at the embassy. Later we meet Raphaella, an Italian traveler trying to renew her visa for maybe the sixth time. Christiaan is the only one who knows us all. All three have great personalities and I have a wonderful time with them. Christiaan, originally from Holland, resides in London where he was a bike courier living out of his van. Magda, from Poland, lost her job two years ago and has been traveling ever since in India, Nepal and Southeast Asia. She has a list of about 200 sights she was determined to see before going home. She is tenacious and willing to bargain on anything. She loses patience easily with Bangladeshis and their "where are you from?" questions. She makes me laugh. Raphaella, from Naples, Italy, is in India researching for her PhD in comparative literature with a focus on Indian and American writers. She has a wealth of knowledge on Indian culture and politics. I am happy to have someone with whom to discuss contemporary Indian society. Easily impassioned, Raphaela often describes what she is seeing or has experienced--from the greenery of Bangladesh, to its friendly people, to her experience in the US and, in particular Vermont, to the family she stays with in Bangladesh--as, "It is/was so beautiful." Like Magda, she also has a bite in her and is spending her days fighting with workers at the Indian Embassy to ensure she will be able to obtain another (her sixth!) Indian visa. Here is a picture of Christiaan and Magda at our chai break. Christiaan is in good spirits, but Magda is becoming increasingly impatient with the gathering crowd of Bangladeshi men.

Here is a picture of Raphaella and I, sitting opposite Christiaan and Magda, taking a chai break, with an audience:

The three of us spend about three days in Dhaka together, each day meeting at the Indian embassy and then going from there. One day we ride across Dhaka from Gulshan (where the embassy is) to Old Dhaka and Shadarghat port. We rent a boat for an hour and enjoy the sunset from the water. We stop, sit and sip chai, only to find ourselves surrounded by a growing crowd of curious Bangladeshi men and boys, which makes for some photogenic moments.

I observe that the chai is made differently than I have seen in North India. In Bangladesh, it is made with sweetened, condensed milk rather than fresh milk. Another day Christiaan and I go to the American Embassy so that I can cast an absentee ballot for Barak Obama while Raphaella and Magda deal with their Indian visas. There is a Bangladeshi American at the embassy who is also voting, and I ask him the name of Obama's running mate, as I don't recall and it seems to be a required part of the ballot. Now I know my vote will count. We relax one night at the refreshingly arborous campus of Dhaka university. We explore some markets, browsing books, watching workers stamp ink patterns onto cloth, and pausing for chai and cold drinks. Here is a picture of a young boy at work:

Muslim praye caps for sale on the street:

We decide that, after everyone receives their passport from the Indian Embassy, and after I do two day trips with Mizan, we will take the Rocket from Dhaka to Khulna. The Rocket is the government-owned version of the private launch Mizan and I took from Khulna to Dhaka. The trip in the opposite direction will take around 30 hours. We are hoping to organize an affordable tour from Khulna to the Sundarbans.