Talking about the weather

Well, I said earlier that I felt like the frog in the pot that's about to boil. Yes, well, my sentiments are still the same, only, it is now even more evident that I am the frog in the pot, which makes me even more nervous about the pot boiling.

Today it reached 100. And next week is going to be the same. And I have heard through rumor that May is the pinnacle month for distressingly hot weather. Oh, glorious day.

It is definitely bearable . . . but the humidity is picking up. I've never lived through this, so when I wake up at night now when the power is cut, I lay awake pondering what the situation will be in a month when the power is cut more frequently and the heat and humidity are even higher. It's weird: as soon as the fan stops, I wake up.

Last week is rained hard for an evening. During the rain, the air cooled and was cleaned. That night I slept so blessedly with the window open. The next morning when all the teachers got to school, the principal asked me if "sheela hoeche?" which means "did it hail?" Yes, hail is called sheila. I feel so special.

This Friday, Melissa and I will be flying to Nepal for a week. We are going on a visa run, which simply means we have to leave B-desh so we can come back again. Many countries require visitors to leave every so many days (every 180 days for B-desh). We are leaving now because we have a break in school. The break will be good because both Melissa and I are feeling a wall of Bangla-learning coming up. For me, frustration comes just a little quicker than it should, and moments of discouragement are easier to come by. Leaving for a week will be good for our hearts and minds.

There is a huge praise with this. I have heard from our British friends that it is only the Americans who are able to get long visas (mine is good for 5 years). So, our visa run is simply to leave B-desh. We do not have to go to the embassy to work out any issues; we get to simply enjoy the rest.

I appreciate your thoughts and prayers!

Always with hope . . .

Generosity

Change is always a challenge in this part of the world. And when I refer to change, I am referring to money. Small bills are difficult to come by. And when I say "this part of the world," I also remember that change is difficult to find in Bolivia, too.

Sometimes, this lack of change causes a lot of grief. You have to constantly be thinking about small bills, making sure you have enough, and then hoarding it away so you'll have it when you need it. I realize the hoarding is what just perpetuates the problem.

When you really need the small bills is either for transportation or for the market. Sadly, this lack of small bills causes a lot of frustration and anger in my heart because it can be used by those providing services as an excuse to get more money from the foreigners. If I go to get on a rickshaw, I am always certain I have the exact amount of money because when I go to get off, inevitably, the rickshaw driver asks for more money, and if you have a 50 but had agree on 20, the rickshaw driver may only have 10 or 20 Taka change.

The problem is, I know they have the change. And this makes me angry. But the anger is not even about the money because 10 or 20 Taka is not a lot of money--less than 50 cents.

It's the principle.

Also, it's the foreigner who always gets charged a higher price, but we have figured a good way of working this system. If we know what a Bangladeshi would pay for a rickshaw ride, and if we know what is fair for a foreigner, we don't even ask for a price when we get on the rickshaw. We get on, take the ride, and when we get down, we hand the driver the money and walk away. We know we are being fair. He knows we are paying more than we should. Somehow we all walk away satisfied because we didn't have to haggle and fight for justice in this small thing.

The other day, Melissa and I took a ride that we figured would just be a 20 Taka ride, but the driver, legitimately, had to take a long way around to get to where we wanted to go because there are certain roads he can't drive. At first we figured we'd be generous with 30 Taka rather than the standard 20, but the harder he was working, the more we thought that 30 is just too little for what he was doing. We decided to give him 50. One of my concerns with our system is that some driver might try to fight us once we get down even though our price is fair. Who would win? The Bangladeshi. So the closer we get to our destination, the more I am wondering if 50 is fair. But it is more than double the normal rate.

When we get down, I hand the driver the 50, and this time I pause to see his reaction. Is it fair?

He looked grateful.

He didn't have to fight the foreigner. I didn't have to haggle with the Bangladeshi.

It was at this point that I realized how easy it is to be generous. It does my heart so much good to not fight and become angry. I stay in a better place mentally, and although my system may fail a time or two, overall, my attitude is much better.

A Mennonite thing?

I have loved many of the Mennonite values I was raised with. One of those values is taking care of those in the community who are in need. That has often presented itself in the form of meals. Whenever a baby is born or someone has surgery or someone dies or someone moves, there are women in the church who are there with meals. I have loved how my mom helped institute this tradition/value in many of the churches we attended.

As a small admission, I remember times when either my mom or my dad had surgery, and although I didn't like the fact that they were going through something terrible, I loved the surprise of what we were going to have for dinner. It's quite fun to be on the receiving end.

About a week ago, I started with a sore throat that developed into a chest cold. By the third day of coughing through class, people were starting to ask if I was okay. At the peak of my cold last Tuesday, I received a phone call late afternoon from my Pakistani friend. The conversation went as follows.

"Hello?"
"Hello, Sheila, you want soup?"
"Soup? Do you mean tomorrow?"
"No, tonight. I make you soup. Okay?"
"Oh, okay. Tonight?"
"Yes, I will send over around 7:30. Tik?"
"Yes, okay."

I hung up the phone a little stunned. Really? How did I get so blessed to have this kind of treatment?

And with that, I found out that the Mennonite tradition of taking meals to people who are sick is not just a Mennonite thing. It's a Pakistani-thing, too. Around 8 that night, my friend's driver brought over pulao (fried rice), amazing chicken, tomato soup, and delicious mishti (dessert). I was blown away by the kindness of my friend.

A funny note to this was that Melissa and I couldn't eat all of the rice or the mishti, so we offered the rest of what we had to the guard here at the school. We didn't figure that the rice leftover would be nearly enough for him for his evening meal (since Bangadeshis can pack away the rice). We also figured he would eat only a little of the mishti (since there was still three-fourths left after we had our fill). Later we realized when we went to put the mishti in the fridge that there was no mishti left. He ate all the mishti?! Yep. We figured he substituted the mishti for the rice.

Not that I blame him at all. Who wouldn't want to eat mishti rather than rice? But, dang, I really liked that mishti.

Heating Up

I am beginning to wonder if I am not the frog in the pot that’s about to boil . . . slowly, slowly it heats up until it’s boiling and you’re cooked without ever realizing what’s happening.

Despite knowing what’s happening, though, I can’t prevent it. Darn that.

When I first got to Kolkata at the end of January, sweaters and warm pants were necessary—especially at night. When Melissa and I got to Dhaka, it was still sometimes cool, even to the point where I had a blanket I covered with at night. The blanket is gone now as is the sheet for the most part. The fans are now on, and I find that as I am writing this early in the morning, I am still sweating slightly as I am sitting beneath the fan.

Gosh, the humidity hasn’t even come yet.

This is not complaining—I will do my best not to complain. I have never been in Asia during the hottest, wettest months. This is going to be quite an adventure.

Yesterday a new month of classes began. Last week we took our test to see where we were level-wise. At first I was a little nervous because the word “test” just has that effect. However, I found out that here at language school I simply have to get above a 30% to pass to the next class.

Just so you know, I passed with flying colors (for here, anyway . . . maybe not for Indiana Wesleyan's nursing program).

Life stays interesting. The other day I accompanied a Pakistani girl to a design institute so she could get admission papers. I went because her sister was sick and she’s not allowed going alone (even though her driver was with her). After that we went to our friend, Sue’s house who is in our class. She is from Texas, so she was treating three of us American girls and one Pakistani girl to Mexican-food-cooking lessons at her house. The whole time we are cooking and jabbering away in the kitchen, I wondered what this experience is like to a Pakistani girl . . . I’ll never really know.

Please keep my Pakistani friend in your prayers.

And if you send up any prayers on my behalf, I would be grateful.

Always with hope.