So when a friend from college emailed me in February to tell me that some of his friends at Stanford business school were coming out here for a school project, I thought, "Sweet! I can get them to bring me some stuff". I emailed my brother Travis to ask him to assemble a package for me, which he very generously did, and then we arranged for him to meet the Stanford people.
The Stanford students successfully make it here and are SOOOO busy with work, that we are unable to meet up. So they leave the package with the office manager at the organization where they work. He calls me to come get it, I of course, having schemed this far, have more schemes up my sleeve. I call a friend who works there to see if she can get it delivered to her office. Score. She takes it home with her and gives it to her husband, who works at the American recreational club (10 minute walk from my house), and I pick it up from him there on Thursday. It's super heavy and loaded with goodies!!!! I strut back over to my friends at the bar and we break open a variety pack of ghiradelli chocolates. It's a lot easier to make friends when you come bearing goodies!!
 |
| The goods! Minus the chocolate that didn't make it home..... |
In going through my loot, I notice one small problem. Travis lives near Blue Bottle Coffee, which has some awesome roasts, and he'd bought me a serious supply (depending on how whether I monitor my drinking, it could last anywhere from two months to six). BUT, I while pressing the various bags to my nose to breathe in that lovely smell of good coffee, they were whole beans, not ground. NOOOOOOOOOOO! I exclaimed at the American club. My friend Heather reassured me that she had a grinder, so I could just come over sometime. But not in the next week because she'd be traveling. A week without coffee? Yikes. Time for a Plan B.
I've realized that "plan" is a four letter word in Bangladesh. It's one of those the bigger they come, the harder they fall situations. Murphy's law doesn't even come close to capturing the permutations of how things can get off course. Case in point: one of the people at the American Club on Thursday night is a charming Argentine (sorry for the redundancy) in town until the following evening. We make plans to go to the Liberation War Museum the following day--he's going on a walking tour in the morning, so we'll meet there at 1PM.
Ever punctual, I'm down in the area a little afternoon. I have my camera and am content to stroll through the park, hopeful that I'll stumble across a march of sorts so that I can wrack up a demonstration for April. I get a text from Bernando that the tour is running late--he'll be at the museum around 2PM. I text him back and say, "Where are you all, maybe I'll jump in?" He tells me to grab a rickshaw and he'll have the guide give him directions. Easy enough. Five minutes later I'm cruising through old Dhaka on the back of a rickshaw. Bernando calls again, "When you find another rickshaw, you can give him the phone and we'll do this again." "What do you mean?" "That guy had no idea where we are." "Really? Because he's taking me somewhere?" "Yeah, the guide said he had no clue." "Hmmmm. Ok, why don't we stick to the original plan of meeting at the museum?" "Great, bye." So we hang up. I'm still in the back of a rickshaw being driven with purpose. I reflect for a minutes to decide if any of my increasing Bangla word vocabulary can communicate "Do you have ANY idea where we're going?" and decide it's unlikely ("to go" and "to think" are very similar and since i can't really conjugate, I decide I'm likely to either say "You go where we go?" or "You know where we know?" both of which sound pretty lame and will lead to a much more confused dialog, probably with lots of bystanders who will also be confused. So I settle in and decide to enjoy the ride. Snapping pictures, even getting a little video. I've got over an hour and regardless of how far we go, it'll be tk 100 max (under $2), so as long as we stay out of sketchy back alleys, it's just a fun, informal tour.
Eventually we get to the river port. We try to call Bernardo to see if he's anywhere in the vicinity (I learn later that the answer is NO). He doesn't answer, so I get out. There are about 100 guys in lunghis now crowded around my rickshaw, staring, but not in an unfriendly way. "Friend, your country?" "America." "Good country!" I turn to my rickshaw driver. "How much?" "One hundred." "One hundred?!" I'm being taken for a fool! I have read about this concept called crowdsourcing that's all the rage, so I decide to give it a try. I turn to crowd--"High court to River Port--how much?" Great conversation ensures. There's yelling. A lot of head bobbing and nodding. "50 taka," they inform me. Wow. I like this crowdsourcing concept. Fifty it is and off I go.
 |
| You dock it up. No YOU dock it up! |
I go out on some of the private docks and check out the boats. I'd love to go out, but that's an adventure when there isn't someone waiting for me. I weave through the dirt roads, lined with stalls, and stumble upon a street with ancient sewing machines, powered by foot pumps, all staffed by men. They yell for me to come over. It's still early in the day, so I'm game to have fun. I walk over and pull out my (empty) wallet. It's made of cloth and one of the corners busted awhile ago. I hate to replace it because, well, that would require me to buy a new one, and as it's a souvenir from Zambia, it has some sentimental value. So I hand it over and with some motioning, communicate what it's supposed to look like. They pass it around and inspect it for a few minutes, and then with 30 seconds of sewing, it's fixed, reinforced, probably better than new! I'm thrilled. "How much?" "One hundred." the guy says, unable to suppress a giggle. It's a joke--clearly one would be an idiot to pay that much. And I get it! I laugh and hand him 20. He accepts. I've stopped doing the calculations to dollars in my head, so it takes me a while to realize that the visceral look of indignation I get now whenever someone suggests that the price is 100 taka, is really not a lot of money in absolute terms. But it's the principle of the matter!
 |
| You never know what will be waiting for you at the end of the road. |
To get back to the museum, I outsource the rickshaw task. A man there wants to help, but I'm having trouble communicating liberation war museum (Muktijuddhin museum).
"What? Motijheel?" (the silk market)
No.
"Ohh. Pink city?" (the cheesy amusement park)
No.
"Chawk bazaar?" (fake designer brand central)
No.
Eventually we communicate, and my rickshaw driver nods. But doesn't admit until we're much further that he doesn't know where it is! Eventually after unsuccessfully arguing (If you think that the average man has trouble getting directions from a woman, try a rickshaw driver taking directions from a white woman) for a while, I get out and do the last bit on foot. The museum is on a side street, so I walk past the street a good three times, but start asking directions more often and eventually (as the bouncing ball theory says I should) wind up at the front door. With all these adventures, I get there at 2:30, only a few minutes after Bernardo. I have to laugh at how foolish we were to think that "let's just meet at the museum at 1" would be as simple as we thought. I should know better by now.
The museum was amazing and worth its own post some other time, but I've realized that I've done to my readers what Dhaka does to me, taken you far away from the point. And now I will delivery you back when you least expect it. I get home from my adventures and get ready to go out for the night. I'm meeting up with a buddy Farhan for coffee and snacks. It's tea time at home so I sneak some snacks in before we go. I grab my purse and decide to bring one of these bags of unground coffee. This is Dhaka, all is possible if you try sufficiently.
Farhan and I go to Cuppa Coffee, the coffee shop that has the great balcony. After ordering some iced tea and dumplings, we politely ask if they might be so kind as to grind my coffee. It is no problem. So we enjoy the warm night air and before heading out to meet up with the rest of the guys for dinner, the waiter brings me my freshly ground coffee. I could kiss him I'm so happy (I don't, nor do I mention anything about that thought).
 |
| It's what's on the inside that counts. And inside of this bag, is victory. |
We close out the night with some lal cha (red tea), which they say in English as "liquored tea." My host family had asked me my first night if I wanted "milk tea" or "liquored tea," and I, picturing tea with scotch or something along those lines, had opted for milk tea, thinking it a trick question (these americans will put alcohol in anything! Even tea!). With friends, I can know ask what the *&%* is liquored tea?!?!?!. And find out that it's tea with spices--in this case, a warm blend of cinnamon, cloves and others. MUCH better than tea with scotch in my book.
And, when I wake up the next morning, there are no after effects of my lal cha drinking binge the night before. I'm wide awake even BEFORE I brew a cup of my new brew.
 |
| The breakfast of a champion. That's right, this is breakfast for one. I didn't fit in the picture.... |
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment