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.

Where did it go?

Oh, my brain is tired.

I am in two classes for language: the first in the day is a phonetics class and the second one in the day is a script class. The phonetics class I am doing semi-decently in, but I think that’s because I had a good start from two years ago.

However, I’m not going to lie; I feel like the slow kid in the script class. Granted, the class is comprised of Melissa and me so one of us is bound to be slightly better, right? I can learn the letters, but when it comes to reading, it takes me so much time to put the sounds together and form the word. Compared to me, Melissa is quite fast. When it comes time to the reading, I cringe. It’s quite humbling.

Just to be clear, there are 39 consonants, 11 vowels, and a gazillion combined letters that sometimes make sense and other times are a complete crock (so says the American).

And I think I have learned something about myself (it’s either a lacking synapse in my brain or an excuse . . . take it as you will). A ton of language study is learning the vocabulary. Before I learned the enough of the Bangla letters to form words, all my vocabulary was written phonetically in our English script. I found that I was relatively decent at learning vocabulary in the beginning. However, now that my vocabulary is coming to me in Bangla script, I cannot get the words to stick in my mind. I can say the vocabulary over and over and over, but when I try to come back to it, it’s gone.

Where did it go?

I am thinking that my brain is wired to learn in English script (because that’s all I’ve ever learned in)even if it is another language. And I am a visual learner. I think. Now I have to develop new synapses in my brain to learn in Bangla, and it is just slow in coming. Ugh. My brain is working very hard.

It doesn’t help that Melissa is a whiz.

So today during script class I, the slow one, was trying to sound out a word and I kept coming up with the word Bangkok. Now, mind you, we had read the word for Bangkok yesterday, so it was in my mind. I kept saying it, Melissa kept laughing and the teacher was trying to have me look at it and say it again. Gosh. The word was bank.

Later on in the day, Melissa and I were sitting in the front room pretending to study, and the teacher who had taught our script class said he was leaving. I replied in Bangla, “kothaY jaben?” Where are you going. “Bangkok,” was his reply, holding up a ledger. I hung my head sheepishly, laughing. To the bank. We all laughed.

Our teachers like us. It helps that we are almost always here when they are here because we live here. We get many free lessons as we ask questions while the teachers are trying to take their breaks. I don’t really think they mind, though; they seem to get a huge kick out of us. We all laugh a lot. Several times they have told us they are going to add all their extra teaching to our bill.

Instead, I will give them chocolate. Who doesn’t like chocolate?

To be like Jesus in pain

I don’t know what I saw the other day. Half of me wishes to know so I could dispel the rampant horror stories going through my head, but the other half of me knows that if I really knew, I would probably hate.

Melissa and I were walking on a footpath along the river, heading to a friend’s house. I was in the middle of speaking when something made me look across the river to the other bank. Thinking back, I assume it was the commotion that turned my attention there. What I saw was a man with a large bamboo pole beating a woman who was lying on the ground; several people stood around. She was screaming. The screams were distant to my ears, but I heard them clearly enough.

“Oh, God.” I gasped, but by the time Melissa saw where I was looking, the beating was over.

What had I seen? I was terrified, but it wasn’t for myself that I was terrified. It was a scene I wanted to still be a world away from. Sickness rose in the pit of my stomach, and I looked away, but then I looked back. What was happening?

More screaming and yelling. The man was circling the woman on the ground. I looked away. I looked back. He threw the pole down and started yanking at a tarp the woman was lying on.

My heart was beating wildly. I know my pace sped up. What was going to happen to the woman? Was she alive? And I was sick inside.

Disbelief wanted to set in immediately because I didn’t want what I saw to be true. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was. Maybe that wasn’t a woman on the ground . . . Melissa didn’t see it, so maybe my own stress within the culture is projecting out what is not there . . .

It’s the fact that humanity has been degraded. It’s the fact that humanity is not seen in a beating, that the image of a Creator “whose love endures forever” is nowhere near that portrayal of mankind. It’s that I know this happens over and over everywhere around the world, but it’s also that here, in this new world that I am walking in, it’s acceptable . . . well, maybe not acceptable, but it’s accepted.

Oh, God, what do you do with this? What do you do when humanity becomes animal and no trace of your character remains?

I can do nothing, and I feel trapped. I know truth that sets people free, but in this situation, I can do nothing. I don’t even know what I saw. My insides churn; my heart aches.

And then I remember what someone said to me when I related feeling helpless in a brothel room not being able to communicate or to fly the girls away. He said that when I am in a room and want to be like Jesus, it’s not just in the giving of hope or love that I become Jesus to others; it’s also in the suffering and feeling what they feel that I become like Jesus.

Jesus, if this is where you lead, help me not to become skittish and flee. If bearing pain means becoming like you, make me more like you.

Another reason I am thankful for Melissa

I mentioned earlier that at the Westin Hotel Melissa and I encountered some athletes who were competing in the South Asia Games.

Melissa used to play soccer at our university. Her dad used to coach track. She loves the summer Olympics. So, when we asked one of the teachers how much tickets cost to the South Asia Games, he told us it was free. Free? How is that possible? If Olympic-class athletes were anywhere competing in the States, there is no way it would be free.

Bangladesh is a different country.

I like to say I am an adventurer, but the ideas behind my adventures are often not my own. This was the case when yesterday Melissa and I ventured down to Old Dhaka to see if we could catch some of the events of the South Asia Games.

Old Dhaka is a much more congested area of the city, a place that is not as safe as where we are staying. Going there by ourselves made me nervous--definitely outside my comfort zone. We made it to the stadium without difficulties. When we entered the outlying area of the stadium, we immediately saw an entrance that appeared to be the main entrance. There were many men (no women) crowded around trying to get in. Just looking at that entrance was a little overwhelming. Melissa commented how it was relatively empty for such a huge event, but even if we went in there and found seats by ourselves, we would soon have a crowd around us. So it goes.

Before we entered there, we decided to see if there were any other entrances . . . and there were, but they were all VIP entrances. After walking to the other side of the stadium and approaching the third VIP entrance (realizing there was only one main entrance), we decided we needed to bolster our courage and just go in through the main entrance. Very smartly, Melissa decided to ask an official-looking man first if we were at the right stadium before we faced the crowds of men. Immediately he says yes yes and motions us toward the third VIP entrance. He walks with us there and ushers us through the security guards.

Melissa and I act like we belong there. Just go with it. Everyone around us had badges; we simply have white skin.

Compared to what one finds in stadiums in the VIP section in the States, this was a little shabby, but talent is talent, and we were watching amazing athletes run and no one was bothering us.

I loved watching the track events as Melissa explained rules and critiques to me. I loved watching people warm up running--they looked so free and fast. I loved sitting in the same section that other athletes sat to watch competitors. I loved watching the hurdlers. I loved when the women's soccer game started and Melissa explained the positions and tactics of the game.

Soccer is football. Track events are called athletics. The medal ceremony is called the prize-giving ceremony. Not many people pay much attention with the medals being given, and few people cheer. Still, we stood for the national anthems. It was the first time I heard the Pakistani and Sri Lankan national anthems.

There were so many thoughts flying through both Melissa's and my head as we watched the women's soccer game. Nepal crushed Pakistan (it was 4-0 when we left at half-time). The Pakistani players had on long-sleeve shirts and pants tucked into tall socks. The Nepali players wore shorts and short-sleeve shirts. There are so many questions about what it means to be a woman in cultures here in Asia. I have no understanding of it. And what about poverty? That affects everything, including how we play and the fact that we have the chance to play. And what about my white skin? If my skin were darker, I am pretty certain I would not have gotten into the VIP section so easily.

I am fairly certain this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. As Melissa said to me on the way back, "I am all about taking advantage of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities."

Thanks, Melissa. I would never have had the courage to think of this on my own.

Some Adjectives

Funny: We are in a Muslim country where alcohol is frowned upon, so instead of alcohol menus in restaurants, there are cigarette menus.

No smoking in public places is an American thing.

Scary: The sidewalks are in pretty bad shape. Walking them is like walking a minefield. Last night while walking home in the dark, I was dodging sewer holes (that are actually large squares) where the covers have been removed. If you don’t look at the ground as you walk, you are liable to fall to your death; if you don’t look up, you are liable to run into men.

I’m not sure which is worse . . .

Nice: I’ve seen real coffee for sale.

Score!

Interesting: The building behind the language school is being torn down. Yesterday at lunch while Melissa and I were sitting with all our teachers at the table, we heard commotion from the house behind. Men were shouting and whooping. To my ears, it sounded angry and chaotic. However, Susan, the principal, informed Melissa and I that the men shout and become lively to gain more energy because the work is so hard.

I should try this while studying . . .

Cool: The South Asian Games are going on in Dhaka right now. Melissa figures that these games are happening because most of South Asia does not have winter Olympic sports. Yesterday, we were waiting for a friend at the Westin (a 5-star hotel) and athletes began walking in. We assume these are world-class athletes who would be in the summer Olympics.

I was close enough to touch them . . . J

Astounding: Bicycle rickshaws are the way to get around here. Yesterday I saw a bike rickshaw that looked like it had a cab. In the cab were five people. They were being toted through the congested roads by a thin, small man who looked like he was used every ounce of strength to pedal just one stroke down . . . yet he did it over and over and over and over.

And I thought biking with thirty-five pounds as a load was difficult . . .