The making and breaking of rule #1

When someone asks me, "kemon acchen?" (how are you), the most honest answer is usually, "motamoti" (so-so), except that I feel like it would be more accurate to be SO-SO because normally the variance is extreme both ways.  But yelling probably wouldn't go over so well, or communicate the basic point I was trying to make.

But, sometimes, I have a day where I'm just truly appreciate of being here and everything it enables.  Including the many, many inside jokes that I've had the chance to develop with myself, that just get funnier over time.  

And the jokes that Bangladesh plays on me.  

Rule of thumb number one, which I know WAY too well to ignore:

1.  Do NOT try to get to a specific destination unless you have an address and/or really good directions and/or someone else with you and/or someone to call who will answer the phone and speaks bangla.

Rule number one is like gravity: it's absolute and non-negotiable.  Nonetheless, when Tawsif called on Friday to tell me where the field that the soccer tournament was being held was, he said, "you know where rex's is in Banani?" (No).  "How about ecstasy?" (Potentially).  "On the main road?" (which main road.....?) My thoughts in parenthesis, but of course what I said, still a little high on those endorphins that a good session of bikram yoga releases and the deliciousness of the parata that Rashida makes for special Friday morning breakfast, "Yeah, I'll find it!"  And was out the door moments later.

Things can get Messi on the field.

Forty-five minutes later, I've not located the field, nor ecstasy, nor any tea stall owners that have any idea what I'm talking about (I contemplate whether it's a good idea walking around asking men I don't know if they can direct me to "Ecstasy" but decide that's me overthinking things, and am proven right based on the blank looks that I get at my inquiries).  And it's getting a little warm, and I'm impatient to see my boys play.  So, I decide to respond in a way that's possible in Dhaka: I found a rickshaw driver willing to let me hop in and made it his problem.  He can go around asking for Ecstasy.  He tried the guards at a few shops and found them as unhelpful as I'd found the cha guys, but he had a plan B--go to the taxi stand.  If they don't know (they didn't), they have some magic number they call to get the answer.  Off we go, and it turns out that the field is the one that's under a five minute walk from my house.  If I'd taken a right instead of a left at the end of my street, I would have inadvertently walked past it.  But, based on rule #1, I had to take a left.  You don't mess with the rules, bro.

I get dropped off at the field, and find that the entrance to the field is a huge puddle of water--it's at least 2 ft wide and would come up to my ankles.  I'm in flip flops and who knows what's in that water!  Now that I've stood still for 5 seconds studying the water, I've attracted a crowd--several guys in lungis have come over to stare at me staring at the water.  I decide to leverage them, my gender, my assumed helplessness.  "Eto panni!!  Kemon jabo?"  (So much water!  How will I go?).  Fluttering of my eyelashes to communicate my feminine helplessness.  As anticipate, the crowd mobilizes.  Bricks appear out of nowhere, and suddenly there is a path of steps across the water.  These are the moments when I love Bangladesh--never assume that something is impossible.  Or who/what will be waiting you on the other side--I'm greeted by two little goats before my team members motion me on over. I've missed the first game, but I'm there in time to join a bunch of sweaty guys for a long discussion in Bangla in their analysis (I just shake my head a lot. given that it can mean yes or no; I can't be wrong!).  A couple smoke a cigarette or two while waiting for the next game (I'm pretty sure the irony of that habit on the pitch will never cease to amaze me). 

Tawsif looks up at the sky and complains about the sun and the mid-day heat.  The guys scarcely begin playing when a massive storm moves in.  I've got my camera and my mobile, but I hand these to the kid that the team pays some small amount to watch everyone's stuff while we play, and he runs off with all of our electronics to find shelter to keep it dry.  Meanwhile the subs and I wander over to stand under a tree and experience the placebo effects of feeling like it should provide cover (it doesn't).  The goats have the same idea.  Meanwhile ducks come flying in out of nowhere to experience the ever-growing puddle at the front gate.

The rain is warm and it feels great.  I have no illusions about how ridiculous I look: my teammates giggle at me hopping around the puddles.  One says, "We look like wet tigers.  You, you are a wet cat."  Oh well, at least I'm enjoying myself!  The soccer game gets pretty ridiculous.  Beforehand the guys had been joking that maybe they should let me play after all (foreigners generally aren't allowed to play in these tournaments, but I don't think that applies to foreign girls.  Or no one's ever asked), especially if I was willing to serve essentially as a distraction technique so that they could sneak in a few goals.  Frankly it looks like they might need my help after all.  It's slick from the rain; several guys take their shoes off and play in socks.  It looks like fun.  Hell, standing on the sidelines drinking a cup of tea is fun too.  It's hard to take anything or anyone serious when you're soaking wet and look like a drowning cat.  Meow.

After the tournament wraps up, the guys are going out for some lunch and they INVITE ME.  Big moment!  Tawsif and I split a rickshaw and get stuck in serious mosque traffic—that is, as we pass the mosque, everyone is coming out from their mid-day prayers, and we just have to sit as wait and they stream around us.  The staring is a little intense for me, so I wrap my scarf up around my head.  I’m still not sure that this works, but the “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me” logic makes enough sense that I find it an effective strategy.  I find that my scarf never stays in place and am constantly observing (i.e. staring) at Bangladeshi women to learn the secret.  The guys assure me that I seem to have the style down, but when I share with them that I’m worried that the reason the scarf won’t stay in place is that my head is too big, they also assure me that it’s probably true.  So I’m not really sure what to make of their opinion (also, top 10 signs I need more girl friends—I’m discussing scarf styles with teenage guys?!).

Honestly though, it's not every day I get to go out for kitcuri with a bunch of mud covered, sweaty younger dudes.  Kitcuri is new to me--it's a "rainy season" food that's essentially rice and dal (lentils) mixed together, with random other things thrown in like an occasion raisin or tamarind.  It's tasty.   The longer I get to know these guys, the more they remind me of the somerville boxing club crew--conversation devolves into a combination of gossip and increasingly dirty jokes--a few that they even venture to translate into English (the one that has a punchline of "Where's Canada?" unfortunately loses its meaning in the process, but the rest are pretty good).  When one asks, "What's brown and sticky?"  (A stick), I get deeply homesick for my brother.  He and I have told that joke more times than I care to admit.  I think about breaking out a few others from the sibling collection (“Why are pirates mean?”  “What do you call cheese that’s not yours?”), but refrain.  I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, after all.

After lunch, we say goodbye and head our separate directions.  As I wander home, I hear someone saying, “Where do you live?” and as I do given that this happens not that infrequently and rarely leads somewhere good, I just ignore.  The person repeats the question two more times, and then gives up.  I finally sneak a peek over towards the sound of the noise, and realize it’s one of my teammates!  Oops.  I cross the street to apologize and find out that we’re neighbors!  He lives just two blocks away.  Now I have a buddy for the walk home from the games at night.

The guard, after saying “Good morning!” to me as I walk in the gate (he says it so earnestly I say it back to him at all hours of the day) says, “Kemon acchen?” and this afternoon (or morning) I get to smile and say, khub bhalo (very good).  While the rules (so far there are three: #1 get good directions; #2 say inshallah whenever talking about the future, and #3 point often during conversation) are absolute, that doesn’t mean that the adventure that results from breaking them once in a while won’t be fun, you just have to be prepared for it to take you for a ride.  Speaking of which, I got a chance to ride on a motorcycle last night, but that is a story for another day…….

Happy Memorial Day weekend!  Enjoy your Monday off—here we’re already deep into the work week.  Big jonmodin hugs to amar mama Paul (my maternal uncle) and amar chacha Craig (my paternal uncle)!!!  Happy birthday to you (cha-cha-cha)!