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 . . .

Oh, the adventures to be had . . .

I am thankful I am traveling with someone who has traveled more than me. In certain situations--like border crossings--I wish I had more experience to lend wisdom in, but, alas, the only border crossings have been in the air, and compared to what we experienced yesterday, all my customs and immigration passings have been relatively painless up to this point.

The first thing to know is that most things about India appear on the surface to be exceedingly chaotic, but in the midst of the chaos, things get accomplished . . . somehow . . . sometimes . . . after much wandering and going from here to there with lots of activity and "Yes, okay, maam. No problem," and a bob of the head.

Melissa and I set out at 5 in the morning for the bus station. Our bus left at 6. There wasn't too much exciting about that part of the adventure. However, the excitement started at the border where everything that we are told not to do we did. For example, we had to hand over our passports that then got passed around a bit. This is very irksome. If there were signs where to go, they were hidden by all the other signs, so thankfully, we were herded to where we needed to go. So when we got to the exchange place, our passports were handed to an older man who put them in his pocket and then walked out, motioning for us to follow him. Our eyes were glued to that pocket.

We then went to immigration to get a stamp. It was an open room with three random chairs. "Sit down," we were told, and off our passports went to the men on the other side of the room behind the counter. The question on our minds was, where are our bags? We had been taken off the bus and told not to worry about our bags but not worrying about our bags is very difficult to do. Then we walked from one building to another amidst a very busy street. How on earth would our luggage make it to us? Oh, but somehow amidst the language barrier, we got our stamp and found our luggage outside this room, surrounded by men who wanted to carry our bags for us (because a tip is expected). At the customs counter, a gentleman asked where were from in the States. We proceeded to tell him, but when I said Ohio, he said very matter-of-factly, "In my country we call it Okio."

Huh? Just go with it.

Then we walked across the border, through the fence (we had our passports at this point). Confusion persisted with the tipping problem and not having small bills. Then off we were hustled through customs, where the man just waved us through. He didn't care about our bags or even our passports. Down the busy road filling with men and trucks and bicycles we walked and into a small room we led where someone again took our passports and filled out our immigration papers for us (he even put in an address to where we will be staying . . . I didn't even know this information). Then off we went, he with our passports and our bags once again left deserted in this small, crowded room. In immigration, we stood close to the wall that read, "Waiting corner." Before too long, we were motioned out of the room back to the small crowded room from whence we were then herded onto a van. Eventually, we saw our bags make it onto a cart, but when the van went down the road, our bags remained motionless on the cart.

All this to say, we and our bags made it onto the bus. Maybe an hour and a half total elapsed and then we were off--but only for a little bit. Too soon our bus came to a halt. We thought maybe it was just a jam. And it was, but it was a traffic jam to get onto the ferry, and this traffic jam lasted 7 hours. We were expected to make it to Dhaka by 7 in the evening. We arrived at 2 in the morning.

Through it all, though, we were taken care of. Melissa was able to call ahead and let our friend know we would be very late. For that reason, our drop-off point changed, but once arriving in Dhaka, it changed again because the bus driver intelligently ran over a cement median that scraped the bottom of the bus bringing it to a very quick halt. I saw a median. Melissa saw a median. What did he see?

At two in the morning when Melissa and I were sitting atop our luggage on a bicycle rickshaw, I had to smile at this bit of the adventure. I can't say I want to relive any of it, but we made it.

All this to say, I am very thankful for Melissa.

On the move.

This past weekend in Chennai, the k-town staff was with the Nepali, Thai and Chennai staff. We had many meals and meetings together, gathering updates and prayers from one another. In the current of these events, there were many languages being spoken and translated. It was so beautiful. One of the Nepali staff commented after he had translated for one of the Bengali staff, "A Bengali speaking in Hindi while a Nepali translates into English." It was great.

We were by the beach in Chennai, soaking in the sun and warm weather. Kolkata has been in the 60's mostly. Not bad, but chilly in the evenings. We arrived back late, late Sunday night (Monday morning). In the morning we saw off the Nepali staff.

These past two days have been preparing and gathering what I need for Bangladesh. Today is India's Republic Day, a holiday. I woke up to very loud music blaring that has not stopped all day. Where I am staying, the flat is on the 5th floor, but the height of a building does not diminish noise. Last night as I was going to sleep, I had the feeling of trying to fall asleep at a tractor pull . . . and that's only a slight exaggeration.

I think I am over jet lag by now. I am feeling good during the day and at night I sleep well. Walking the streets hasn't felt nearly as foreign as it did two years ago, but it still takes so much getting used to--all the stares, all the crowds, all the pushing. I find myself getting defensive too easily when someone tries to push past me in line, and then I remind myself to let the fight go; it's not worth getting upset over. Right now I am able to keep a balanced perspective because I have not been here long. I think my fight lies deeper within. What I know happens, though, is the longer I am here, the more quickly the fight comes out. I just keep praying for a soft heart always. And then I pray that I keep praying that . . .

Tomorrow, bright and early, my teammate, Melissa, and I head for the border. We travel by bus to Bangladesh where we will be spending the next four months. New adventures are coming our way. School begins Sunday.

If I pop into your mind, send a quick prayer up for me in learning this language. I need to be confident and outgoing, both of which are difficult for someone who hates to make a fool of herself. Silly me.

Always with hope . . .

I'm back to Kolkata.

On arrival, I waited until the conveyor belt stopped, telling me that although there were no hitches to my arriving safely to K-town, the same was not true for my luggage. Alas, for the first time while traveling overseas, my luggage did not make it. Poo.

However, waiting for me outside the airport were the WMF staffers, and a whole lot of welcome. The feel in the air was not what I remembered because I have never been here while it is "cold" (50's-60's); most everything else feels slightly familiar. It doesn't seem like a lot has changed with the exceptions of new stops on the metro (extending farther than Tollygunge, for my old Servant Team who might care), new buses around the city (that might even have a/c, I'm told), and green rickshaws (rather than black & yellow--those are now outlawed). The streets are still very crowded, the horns are still blaring constantly, and the food is just as spicy.

Today we called the airport and found out my bags had arrived--I just had to go clear them through customs. We went to the airport and other than running around a little to find the Air India offices, we had no difficulty. My bags were intact. Thank God for my luggage! I felt like I was receiving a gift today . . . it was very fun to unpack.

Tomorrow bright and early we leave for South India. From now until Melissa and I leave for Bangladesh, we will be traveling a lot. It feels more like vacation right now than it does a big life move. All the transition is going well. I am feeling pretty okay.

Thank you for all your thoughts and prayers!

Until next time, always with hope.