Kim Kardashian and the Kindness of Strangers 2/8

This country is beautiful. Hideous from the air due to ambiguous mist/pollutants, but so far the reception I’ve had from the people have led me to believe that these will be a happy five months. During the descent I kept thinking we were either in or above a cloud because of the intense fog, until the monitor above me showed that were actually too close to the ground for that to be a reality. The truth is this place is as thick and dusty as a Joseph Conrad novel. Flying in the scenery changed from jungle to fields, to a sprinkling of village-sites, and waterbeds. Then we passed at least 20 smoke pipes pumping away the delusion that the plane had previously been in a water-filled  fresh cloud.

We arrived in Dhaka airport a bit earlier than expected, and so we picked a seat near the front entrance to await the arrival of Colonel Salam, one of my greatest friend’s uncle, who was scheduled to pick us up. After two hours of waiting, and many awkward glances in our direction, Kelly and I decided to switch seats again. Now, honestly I only carry trashy gossip magazines on two occasions: the one time a year when I formally get my hair done, and when I travel long distances. Having nightmarish visions of dropping this trash in front of our kind hosts, I decided to throw the couple of magazines in the trash in the airport. Both are now the proud property of two Bengali men. Oh the things and the sights that I have just imported into this conservative country. Americans analysis of stars’ beach bodies and Kim Kardashian’s tips on how to have a “sexy bod” have now been added to the literature of Bangladesh’s youth. Perfect. The grins on the faces of both men respectively will haunt me. So too will the teenage boy who held up the pinup of Kardashian’s half naked body to his fellow female-employee, who whilst draped head to toe in elegant fabric, punched the boy in the arm after the 2D peep show.

I don’t think traffic in Dhaka fits such a word. There seems to be no rules or enforcement, or even standards of driving other than cutting off the other person while lanes are filled with 4 cars across in each direction, oh and you need to consider the 10-20 cars trying to squeeze in wherever there’s oxygen, as well as the children and older men and women weaving in to tap their fingers on windows for change or food. It’s an eerie sound—as was expected after talking to Shams, but I’m not quite sure how my guilt-ridden helplessness will escalate with the inevitability of it. So far I’m ashamed to say I can’t make eye contact with them, especially the children, who have to be between 5 and 8. Knowing that the majority of the children are forced to turn in their money to thugs later that day, I want to try and find some packaged snacks that I can carry so that I can at least slip some food out the window. I don’t know how these kids and adults face their situation in a city that has about 2-3 inches in between vehicles. What’s interesting about this crazy traffic and road saturation is the precision. Even with all of our rules in America I doubt even 2% of the population could maneuver a car or a bus the way Bangladeshis do. An impossibly skinny man driving a rickshaw carrying 3 adults and their luggage can stop the thing at half a seconds notice to avoid getting hit by an oncoming bus. Oh the buses! It is straight out of a movie. People clutching on to the top of buses and trains going at least 45 mph, while others chase them from behind and jump on if luck is on their side. This city is fearless. And oddly enough I’m not afraid in the traffic. I think mainly because Colonel Salam’s drivers have thus far been excellent.

I think I have been too spoiled already with having a driver though to my own detriment. This will end tomorrow when Kelly and I move closer to the bank and begin walking, but right now I’m losing the benefits of photogenic memory and landmarks that are easier to pinpoint when walking. Earlier today I went to the Colonel’s office with him down the street to send a few emails, and after talking to a few people in the office headed back out to walk home. I knew from the drive and everyone’s reassurances that it was just down the street, but the second I headed out everything looked exactly the same as every other dusty street. Salam’s driver told me to take a right and go all the way down and our flat was number 93 on the right. After spending 20 minutes walking down the street and smiling at the people working alongside the path I realized there was no way the flat was down there. Pushing away a moment of panic, I started re-looking at all of the signs and inconveniently they all seemed to lack a 93, and would go straight from 92 to 94. I circled back a second or third time, back to the pile of bricks I remember admiring while in the car earlier, and after talking, more like gesturing and signaling the number 93, to three or four people I decided that maybe I was told right but it was really left after hearing their directions. This story may seem pointless, but in the moment it was funny because it must have been so amusing to the neighborhood , to watch this tall white girl, in way too much clothing from my flight from New England, walk circles around their streets—smiling and calm because I didn’t want to appear lost or uncertain, but by the third time passing their street it had to of been obvious. What’s worse is that I spent 30-40 minutes looking for our flat that I later realized was actually right across the street from the office if I had taken a different road. Good start, Sarah. Ps carry your stupid bangla dictionary.

On our first day in the city Mr. Salam took us to Grameen after making a few phone calls. The surrealism in driving up to the 20 story complex was lost upon the locals, as this is a far bigger deal to us than we could even begin to explain. The very top of the building has Grameen’s small house logo with the green and reddish orange, which will now be our north star in Dhaka, similarly to the Prudential Center in Boston. It stands above every building in that region, and although is massive it remains modest. After passing through security we entered the drop-off area that was surrounded by lush plants and rose gardens, simply as if we are arriving at a palace to meet the prince charming of poverty alleviation. From the doorway you enter into an atrium that is surrounded by 6 or 7 massive photos of the Bank’s work, and of course Dr. Yunus. My favorite photo displayed of him had to of been from the 70s or 80s when he first began his work. Wearing identical clothing that he is infamous for now, Dr. Yunus had very dark hair and was shown lending money out to one woman, while there were at least 30 women sitting facing him. Seeing his face displayed on every floor we entered made me wonder if he gets a kick out of seeing himself everywhere when he comes to work.

Colonel Salam walks into places like he invented the concept. He had phoned one of the managing directors of our arrival in the country prior to our visit, and so we immediately took the elevator to the 18^th floor to speak with him about our internship. With the Cricket World Cup beginning on the 17^th, most of the hotels in Dhaka have been completely booked, and therefore we have been staying an hour or so away from the bank at one of Mr. Salam’s flats. Grameen is worried that if we were to stay so far we would fall behind, and so they began making phone calls to hotels where they have various deals set up for their employees and trainees. After receiving a few fun business cards we went down a few floors to speak with the head of the international department and our coordinators. This scene was marvelous. Three impassioned men rapidly talking in bangla to each other about our accommodations as we are scheduled to begin work this coming Sunday (Bangladesh’s weekends are Fri and Sat). I started chuckling quietly out loud as I realized that my immediate fate and circumstances were being controlled by men in a foreign country who I had only known for 30 minutes, while I sat there with Kelly drinking the tea provided and trying to act cool, as if sitting in a meeting at the Grameen Bank was normal.

With grateful thanks to both Grameen and Colonel Salam we have been given a room in the hotel down the street where Grameen sends the majority of its international folk. Despite wanting to stay in the comfort of Salam’s familial zone, it was the best decision, as Salam kept reiterating, as it is already equipped with the security and health detail for foreign travelers, has a restaurant upstairs, free internet, and is only a short walk to work rather than an hour or more in Dhaka’s traffic. With an agreement to arrive on Sunday, the three of us made it to the elevators, but only after I stopped to look at all the literature they had displayed on a bookshelf. It looks like the original copies to Dr. Yunus’ publications and other various works on development, microfinance, banking in general, and one memorable pamphlet on effective ways of building a solid legal structure in MFIs. I really hope those types of materials will be available to us—I’ll have to find out Sunday at our orientation.

It was so exciting to be in that building. But also very strange, and reminiscent of how small the world is. As the elevator doors opened up on each floor with new entrances, I could see the different offices labeled with all of the various members of Grameen’s family…the Grameen Fund, Kanyar, GrameenPhone etc….One of the most memorable moments of the day was when the managing director was discussing how we would be learning about the many members  in more detail, and then he said that now, an interns, we are now a part of the family. What heritage.

After that, we drove to the hotel to see the room and speak with the manager. It is perfect and small and simple, and nothing fancy. Exactly what we need.  I’m almost positive the Colonel has frightened the staff subtly to death, as he explained heavily his new role in our life as our “guardian angel” and father in Bangladesh. The manager kept smiling, in that smile that all managers possess, but definitely looked impressed upon. This is no man to mess with, and therefore treat these girls well so he doesn’t come knocking.

We left the room and decided to try out the restaurant upstairs for dinner, at the Colonel’s suggestion, to make sure that the food was satisfactory enough for him to allow us to stay there. Oh his humor has already become one of my favorite parts of the city. He has a smile and a laugh that if brought to the right level sounds just like a 5 year old boy. He ordered us delicious appetizers that I still cannot pronounce well enough to pick it off a menu, and a soup that was so spicy that Kelly turned bright red and started sprouting beads of sweat. 2 bottles of water later, 90% of our soup was still remaining while Mr. Salam sat there with an empty bowl and looked confused as to why we were not getting seconds. Delicious. But fierce. The chicken curry we ordered for dinner was thankfully wrapped to go before it reached the table due to the indulgence in appetizers, as the first bite down felt like I was rubbing the back of my throat with vodka, slowly. However, the coughing fit after definitely would have gotten that boyish chuckle going. He has been so generous and helpful, and has answered most of our outstanding questions about our situation. Also while we were at dinner, he sent an employee to pick up a local sim card for my phone so that tomorrow before we switch accommodations we can log in and test out his numbers and those of his family. His open offerings of spending time with his family have been very comforting. He said whenever we want to come stay at his house or the flat he will send a driver, and that if we ever want to go out to eat we can call him and we’ll all go to one of the restaurants that family members own. As we have a few days to relax before Sunday, we’re taking a drive out of the city with him and his family this weekend which we’re both really excited about. Earlier today his son Samit was telling me about a new project they have going on at the office. I’m not sure what the company does entirely, but I know they are heavily invested in construction, property, and I’m assuming hospitality. This new project is located about an hour and a half outside the city in a more remote and natural region where they are building an eco-lodge type accommodation that focuses on the simple life. Salam elaborated Samit’s description at dinner when he told us about his traveling experience. Apparently after seeing the greatest achievements in architecture, in his own opinion, ranging from Italy to Dubai, the Colonel was heavily disappointed by Manhattan. After asking to travel elsewhere with his family he went to an omish community in Penn  and was inspired by the simplicity of it all, and decided to recreate it here in Bangladesh. After briefly experiencing the indescribable chaos of Dhaka, Kelly and I both whole heartedly understood the themes behind this new project, and he has promised to take us to visit it this weekend.

Kelly and I are awkward about having maids here at the flat. I don’t know how to operate with one and I’m really thankful we’ll be moving to a hotel so that I don’t have to let someone do my dishes. When we were first left alone in our flat I had no idea how to interact with them because we don’t share a common language or age, and I had to resist just throwing out the sheepish wave. Some of them are younger girls who I catch smiling at me at out of the corner of my eye, but they never stay to chat, even in bangla, please, something! I realize that these are the roles they may be accustomed to. It’s just unfortunate because many seem very young and even if we couldn’t carry a conversation it would be nice to invent some form of communication. Perhaps I should bring charades to Bangladesh in place of offensive magazines. ;)

Despite having an ambiguous identity here, being if not one of the only white people, DEFINITELY one of the tallest, I don’t feel weird or scared. Even though I feel eyes everywhere, they’re accompanied by smiles…with the exception of the two little boys who apparently walked in awe behind me with their necks craned. I think the Colonel’s four-year-old grandson (Samit’s little boy) is afraid of me too. I mean I would be too, I stand a full 4 feet taller than him and my skin turns pink all of the time at any sudden change of emotion. Like a freaking chameleon. Who can blame him? Today he taught Kelly and I the word ‘momba’, which in bangla means mosquito…which Mr. Salam likes to say that for every one of the 20 million people living Dhaka there are at least two mosquitoes. And with that thought, and a few sprays of my 100% deet (net has yet to be purchased) I am going to go to bed. Good morning America, enjoy your hot showers for me!