Strike One

Dhaka is very quiet today. There’s an occasional honk in the distance, but compared to the normal cacophony of cars, rickshaw drivers, hammering and construction, guys carrying weird looking machines over their shoulder and broadcasting their services in that weird monotone yell (chaiiiiii, chaiiiiii), and all else that takes place in the streets here, it’s silent.

We have a hartal (strike) today. I’m still trying to understand the specifics of it all, but essentially the Bangladesh National Party (arch nemesis of the Awami League, who is currently in power) called a dawn-to-dusk strike to call attention to a list of complaints, including everything from plans to try the party leader, to the initiative to build a new airport, to the exploding costs of food staples. When a hartal is called, all businesses are forced to close. Often there are riots, although I’m told that in my neighborhood, Banani, that is uncommon. So far, there are no reports of violence.

I figured that I would work from home today to avoid any issue. My boss said that was fine. Then I realized that most people treated today as a holiday, and I realized that unlike with my work cohort at Harvard, it was a faulty assumption to assume that everyone here had a computer and internet access at home, so closing the office inherently meant a day off. Even with my grameen phone usb modem that connects me to the internet over the phone lines, I’m struggling to have a consistent and speedy signal. So find myself drifting towards other activities, such as digging deeper into Fatima Bhutto’s gripping narrative in Songs of Blood and Sword, where she collects the stories of her grandfather, Pakistan’s first prime minister, who was ultimately assassinated in 1979 by General Zia, who took over in a coup, her father, a political advocate and former guerilla who was murdered by the police in 1996, and to a lesser degree her aunt, Bezanir Bhutto, also a Prime Minister of Pakistan and assassinated in 2007. Few people could combine Pakistani history and a personal memoir more naturally. I highly recommend it; she’s an amazing writer and it’s quite a story. Right now I’m following a Greek woman posing as a journalist to try to gain passage into Afghanistan in the days after it’s invaded by the Russians, to make sure that her lover/fiancée (it’s complicated) is alive and well. Now that's the kind of history that keeps me on the edge of my seat!
I’m settling into life here. Starting to appreciate the subtle differences in the various types of curry, now that my mouth has ceased to feel like it’s on fire every time I eat it. Even warming to the “sweets” (mishti), including the vermicelli with condensed milk, sugar, cardamom, and pistachios, though I definitely have a stash of chocolate in my room just in case. I’ve learned how to ask for my tea (or in some cases, coffee!) specifying whether I want milk and/or sugar (quantity I’m still working on). It sounds minor, but given that I’m served tea on average 4-5 times a day and never given the chance to make it myself, it’s kind of important. My delightful host family thoughtfully bought me peanut putter to have at breakfast, so I’ve been happily spreading that on the alternating toast, chipati, and paratha, which is a pretty awesome way to start the day.

One thing I’ve always liked about Dhaka is the relative freedom (compared to other large cities in the developing world) that I have on foot. If I’m willing to brave the ridiculousness of the traffic (two days ago I had to step into a store for a few seconds since motorcycles had claimed the sidewalk in a particularly heinous traffic jam), it’s relatively safe to roam. The rickshaw drivers have this misguided idea that trying to run you over head on will convince you to let them drive you around, but if you ignore that and keep your eyes open, it’s actually fairly pleasant. I’ve been walking to/from work every day, which takes about 30 minutes each way. Assuming the sidewalk is reserved, for the most part, for pedestrians. Walking also allows me to see things and map out the neighborhood in a way that’s tough from a moving vehicle. There is in fact a grid system of street numbers (odds run North-South, evens East-West, with letters corresponding to blocks, vs. intersections being the point of the reference; ok I double checked this in my walks today, and it's actually nowhere near that systmatic). There are, as always, names that totally crack me up (we’ll soon have a “Kenny Rogers Roaster” in the neighborhood, specializing in lower sodium, lower fat fast food; for Valentine's day I might check out a "live BBQ with spot soft music), and commercial diversity that I either missed last time (likely) or is new (also possible), like a high end sports equipment store, coffee shops with wifi, and other things I didn’t anticipate. I’m creating a mental map of guilty pleasures for when I eventually have a rough day and need something familiar to comfort me.

Speaking of which, I’ve been on a mission to check out the athletics scene here in Dhaka. Supposedly there is a basketball league at the American School (which I still need to find). There is a gym around the corner from me (tagline: oldest gym with newest equipment) that has ladies hours from 8:30-2 every day when men are not allowed (luckily for me, women are allowed at other hours, so I could come after work). More excitingly I found (found is totally the right word because I had the address and without asking for directions once I got there! Though I did take the "scenic" route) a place called Dazzle Yoga yesterday. Not only does Dazzle Yoga have yoga, it also has Bollywood dance aerobics, which oddly, the woman at reception did not think would appeal to me (there’s also salsa, which would be fascinating both on a cultural level and gender dynamics level, I bet it’s ladies only, but alas, it occurs in the middle of the workday so I'll likely never know). So, I think I’m set for participatory entertainment for at least the next week. I’m prepared to be dazzled. OM-G.