That ought to "tea-ch" me

Photo by Farhan Hadi (F.han on flckr)

 The 16th floor is in a bit of a reorganization at the moment; we're expanding so that there are twice as many seats available on the floor.   In the process we manage to keep screwing up the wireless connection and taking desks away, so there are fewer seats.  I sought refuge on the 6th fl in the human rights and legal services department and then on the 15th floor in research and evaluation (this is a fun organizational ethnography of sorts; how do the cultures compare across departments), and then decided that given the amount of running up and down the stairs I was doing (because email only takes you so far, especially when the people you really need answers from are on the 16th floor where internet nai!), and my increasingly crankiness brought on by my forgetting to eat lunch, that I would just call it a day and work from "home" (someone's home at least).  So around 4PM I walked out.

Women and cars need not apply

As close to the spotlight as I want to get.  When we say,
the grass is greener on the other pitch, what we mean is,
Grass acche (there is grass!).

 As avid blog readers may have gathered, I play a lot of “football” (no one calls it soccer outside America).  My guys there have become a family of sorts; I’m one of the older players, so they call me “apa” (sister) and I think of them as amar choto bhai (my little brothers).  They no longer go easy on me most of the time; the number of random bruises scattered across my body continues to increase (not that anyone but me sees them since I am pretty well covered most of the time).  I’m interpreting the increasing amount of jokes that they make at my expense as a sign that they are accepting me.  Also unfortunate for them is that “Mey” (girl) sounds a lot like “May,” which is what my old taekwondo/capoeira teacher used to call me, so it’s pretty easy to tell when they are talking about me (not that I always get the gist, but I was pretty happy when after a nice play the captain of the other team started yelling at the defense, “mey mone nai!” i.e. forget she’s a girl! I think it was followed by, “hit her hard.”  Evidently is used to be, “She’s not even pretty, so you shouldn’t feel bad about hitting her hard.”  There are downsides to learning more of the language).

Bottoms up

I realized this morning that I have acquired a new life skill: I am now a wicked good birdie sipper.  Here people often drink things straight from bottoms, but rarely touch the bottle with their mouth.  I used to think that this was just when you were sharing a bottle (which makes it more hygienic in the absence of glasses), but it's pretty much the norm when you're drinking from a bottle.  I figure they know something I don't (like where the bottle has been), so I've started birdie sipping all the time too.
Like backflips, birdie sipping isn't something you can ease yourself into.  It's all or nothing.  You just go for it, and if you miss, well, everyone will know because it will be all over your shirt.  Once you master it though, you're unstoppable.  You can drink anywhere, anytime, anything.  Nothing can stop you, except perhaps backwash, but don't think about that.  I got in a conversation yesterday with the guy who runs the American Club, and he was saying that there are eight places in Bangladesh where you can trust the ice.  I was skeptical; I've had a lot of frappacinno-like drinks from other places, and while my GI system is pretty hardy, it's no match for the water here.  Which means that the ice that they are using must be legit.  My friend suggested I investigate it, but my point was--what could I possibly learn that would make me feel better? Dhaka being a place where often the best route is to not ask where your food came from, how it was prepared, when it was prepared, etc.  Placebo effect is a powerful thing, and as a natural optimist, I think it's my best defense against bacteria.
But enough on that, let's get back to birdie sipping and my recent accomplishments:
On Friday, I was wearing a black salwar kameez and birdie sipping away at a bottle of lavad (yogurt drink) while up to my (right) elbow in mutton biryani. No spills.
Last night after football, I was walking home in the rain, in the street, hopping puddles, not even pausing when I decided to take a sip of sprite.  Walking while birdie sipping--at this point, easier than patting my head and rubbing my stomach.  Given that I was covered in mud and soaking wet already, no one would have known if I spilled sprite on myself, but I didn't!
Now I'm sitting in the midst of boxes, wires, soon to be demolished and replaced cubicle structures, and general craziness on the 16th floor at the BRAC office (this is what happens when you decide to take advantage of a boss being out of town and make the floor expand from a capacity of 50 to 100 in 5 days flat--I think we're going to get it done too), leisurely sipping on water out of a smirnoff bottle.  Ironic way to start my Sunday.  At least in one sense I'm staying dry :)

Youtube video coming soon--prepare to be amazed by my skillz......

What I wannabe when I grow up

Farhan says we should judge the song based on the magnitude of the passion with which is was performed. 

Susmita finally released some of the footage from our karaoke night a few weeks ago.  While Farhan's rendition of "Killing me softly" might take the (scallion pan)cake for "song performed in a manner that best epitomizes its title," I think that this one comes pretty close not with the performance that's being performed, but the peanut gallery of comments and accompaniment that comes from those holding the camera.  Pretty amazing stuff.

There's always that guy in the background being sketchy.
It just so happens that in this case, he's one of my good friends.
Miji (whose birthday we were celebrating) didn't seem to
notice.

No party in Bangladesh would be complete without
a little pointing.

Dishing it out OR a sinking feeling

To celebrate the fact that I have an oven and finally have time to kick back and enjoy life a little bit, I decided to throw a dinner party last night.  I invited the professor that I'm housesitting with (Richard), a friend from soccer (Tawsif), a BRAC intern (Susmita), my music buddy (Showvik), my first friend in Bangladesh (Farhan), my fellow Harvard alum (Hezzy), and a guy who works on North End (Monir).  Hezzy and Monir respectfully declined.  I was having trouble extricating myself from the office (my boss insisted that I join him and Richard for free lunch when I was planning to go to the produce market), so I invited him and his son, who live around the corner, to come as well.

As many of you know I've had a fair number of dinner parties in my time.  Eight people is a perfectly reasonable number.  I had a menu planned:

Chips and mango salsa

Gazpacho

Mac n cheese (Grandmama May's recipe)

Sweet potato casserole (minus marshmallows and pecans)

Okra

BBQ chicken

Biscuits

Pineapple upside down cake (no cherries)

Most of these things I got at the upscale grocery store (cheddar cheese was definitely the most expensive item), though Tawsif offered to take me to the produce market which was a lot of fun!  I wasn't allowed to talk because that would make the prices higher, so instead I just walked around touching and smelling all the cool fruits and vegetables I'd never seen before (i bought something that smells like a peach even if it's the wrong size and color, just to see).  The entire trip was maybe USD 12, so I think I did a good job of keeping my mouth shut.

I came home and whipped up the gazpacho since it had to chill.  Then I took a break to go look at Farhan's apartment (his roommate is moving out and I'm thinking about moving in), lead a conference call with Boston, and then around 6:30 got back to cooking (folks are due to arrive at 8).  I start peeling the mishti aloo (literally, sweet potatoes) and am in for a surprise when they are white inside.  But smell the same.....and have about the same consistency once they are boiled.

8:30PM rolls around and no one is yet there to witness my mess making, which is good because I'm way behind.  Converting everything into grams and Celsius is a pain, and for someone who is not particularly inclined towards measuring, it takes a lot of effort.  I'm also not inclined to do dishes, so love the fact that I have two kitchens--I can hide dirty dishes in the secret one behind the main one, creating infinitely more counter space.

Around 9 everyone trickles in.  As I go to set the table, I realize that the power is not working that room--the circuit breaker must have flipped.  I wander around looking for it for a while, and then set the coffee table in the living room.  We put the senior guys on the couch and the rest of us sit on the floor--ironically traditional.  Farhan got stuck in traffic at the mall and can't find transport, so we are seven.  Which is good because I definitely underestimated how much gazpacho I needed (made up for it on my estimates for the mac n cheese).  We talk about a lot of interesting things--whether East and West Bengal will unite, how Pakistan felt about Bangladesh's Independence.....it's an eclectic group of people with a range of first hand, familial, and academic knowledge about the region and I learn a lot.  Even though I'm consumed with running back and forth to the kitchen to check on biscuits and pineapple upside down cake.  The mac n cheese is just right--the Australian cheddar cheese is worth every penny.  Everything else is solid; the biscuits could have been better if I'd measured things a bit better or paid attention to the temperature of the oven (I decided that biscuits were more durable than cake).  My friends were surprised that I was cooking the food myself (don't I have a cook who would do the work?  So not the point!), and even more surprised that it didn't make them gag.  It's nice to demonstrate that I do have a few areas of competence even if they are largely not useful most of the time here.  Bengalis eat late and talk a lot, so it was midnight before everyone was leaving, including my boss!  Different concept of work night, I guess!

I also never thought I'd get excited about having two sinks, but there was something very satisfying about doing dishes last night.  Rarely do I do a mindless, repetitive task in quiet privacy.  I forgot how easy it was to think in that environment.  Though I have to admit, I did one full load in each sink, and then left the rest soaking hoping that the staff would appear the next morning (they did!) and the rest of the dishes would magically disappear. Best of both worlds.

Richard wandered back downstairs around 12:30 as I was just drying my hands, and we ended up talking about global health, literature, and all sorts of other things for a while longer.  I catch myself thinking that when I eventually write a book about the interesting characters that I've gotten to know over the years, he certainly merits a chapter, and I should be taking some notes about the various stories(rafting in Zimbabwe, treating abused women at Bellevue in NYC) and global health ideas and theories so that I can capture them accurately.

Just got to North End (transport becomes more interesting when I'm traveling with Richard; today we took multiple rickshaws to get over here--lots of opportunities for bargaining in Bangla!) with a tupperware of mac n cheese in hand for my buddies here.  This is a thinly veiled attempt to get them to invite me over to their place for kitchuri sometime :)  There's no such thing as a free lunch (or katal).

the only thing constant is cha-nge

I've blogged a few times about my walk to work and my "friend" at the tea stand.  We have a morning routine--I avoid eye contact until he says, several decibels too loud, "Hi friend!" or "Apni bhalo?" at which point I smile and say hello back, or affirm that I'm good and ask about him.  After doing this for a week or so, he invites me to sit and have tea.  I've been talking about having tea at this particular place for many months; I think it's one of the best located tea stands in the area.  A great waterfront view, off the street so it's "quiet" (in the sense that there's no honking or rickshaws to content with).  The first morning he asked was a day when I was struggling health wise, so I thanked him and said I'd come another time.  A few days later, I saw him again, and when he offered, I explained that I was on my way to the office so was unable to stop.  He told me that he didn't have a job (kaj kori nai).  I pointed at the tea pot that was covered in soap suds in his hand and asked, "Don't you work here?"  He shook his head no and then mumbled something that was beyond my Bangla comprehension.  Seemed like a natural ending point so I continued on to work.
The following day, we say hello (today I get a "Hello friend! Hello friend!  Good morning! How are you!  Fine!!"), and I ask his name.  He scrunches up his face in concentration and then says in English, "I am Mr. Tauhid."  I've not inquired about his age, but I'd guess he's about 20 years old, so the fact that he included a "Mr." just gets me giggling.  I introduce myself as Ms. Maria, which just feels silly.  I decline the offer of tea yet again and head onwards to the office.  I say "Tauhid" a few times to myself so that I can remember it--names here are still unfamiliar enough that they don't stick in my head well, so I have to repeat them and sometimes write them down before they are firmly lodged in my memory.
Some of my guy friends warned me that a guy can say "how are you friend?" and still not be a good person (I love that they think that this might not be obvious to me).  They are often suspicious (in a protective way) of my interactions with strangers, particularly as in Bangladesh people are fairly aware of class, and so my socializing with the guy at the tea stall is more alarming than someone from "a good background."  I point out that the interaction is fairly limited and in a public place, and frankly, given all the other strange interactions that I have had on the streets here, I feel a lot  more comfortable when there are friendly faces scattered on my normal routes who I could avail for assistance should I need it.  And in truth, I liked the morning hello's with Mr. Tauhid; I looked forward to it and purposefully went that way to see him.  It wasn't a deep relationship but one that was consistently pleasant.
On Sunday, I cut down the path as usual, but realized that something was different.  The entire tea stand, which had fit 4-5 tables, had been dismantled.  You wouldn't have known that it had ever been anything other than a stack of random pieces of wood and other junk lying around.  Over the course of 3 days, it had completely disappeared.  No signs or violence or foul play; it was really as though it had simply been erased.  Mr. Tauhid was nowhere to be seen either.  Not on Sunday.  Or Monday.  Or Tuesday.  I kept walking that way, hoping that he would around and pop out like he used to to say "good morning friend!," but there are some new people that sit there now who just sort of stare at me as I stare at what used to be a tea stand.
This happens all the time; in other spots I've seen things change overnight; buildings spring up, people pack up and move, and things shift, but it had never really been personal to me.  There is less security here, less planning, and while some social relationships are extremely strong (particularly family), everyone has also found ways to deal with constant change and unexpected losses.  Even in their friendships with me; people assume so hard that I'll be leaving, either now or in a few months or maybe even a year, that they keep a bit of distance in a way that I'm not really used to.  But in the context of all these things happening, social chaos if you will, one has to develop coping mechanisms to deal with tragedy and maybe more precisely, things that don't make sense.  Unsolved mysteries. What's hardest for me is that you move on without an explanation.  Likely I will never learn the story of why that tea stand came down over night.  Or what Mr. Tauhid is doing now that the tea stand where he didn't work is closed.  Learning the "why" is a luxury sometimes; it assumes planning, it assumes rhyme and reason.

I read the following passage in Hessler's book about China, Country Driving, and thought it applied to Bangladesh as well:
Everything shifted: the rules, the business practices, the challenges of daily life.  There was always some new situation to figure out, and it was hard for people to get their bearings.  Often the ones who reacted quickly without thinking were the most successful.  Sustainability was a luxury that few could afford to worry about, especially in places here young people were likely to leave anyway.  Long-term planning made no sense: the goal was gain some profit today before you found yourself overwhelmed by the next wave of change.

My assumption that my interactions with Mr. Tauhid would continue indefinitely was based on an assumption of permanence.  I could say I'd get tea later (pore) because we had all the time in the world.  "Pore" decision making on my part!

Time to pic things up!

On Thursday, I submitted the manuscript of "Making tuberculosis history: community-based solutions for millions" to our publisher.  We've reserved a room at the International Union Against TB and Lung Disease conference in Lille, France in October to formally launch the book--we'll have hard copies in hand by then (insh.....my latest abbrev for "inshallah").

Banani bridge--I hop over the median
every day on my way to work...

While by no means does this mean that I can sit around and twiddle my thumbs, it was a big day for me.  It also gave me a chance to unplug for almost a full, two-day weekend, which was, well, awesome!  I see why the unions wanted them in the first place....I'd kind of forgotten what it was like to have free time.

Some of the the highlights included:
1.  Riding around in a rickshaw in Bashundara.....on the pouring rain (I think it was the South Asian version of country music....mama tried to raise me better....).  One cool thing about Dhaka is that it ends abruptly; you go from rows of high-rise apartments to farmland in the span of a block.
2.  Learning bengali proverbs--evidently they all involve ketal (jackfruit).  Such as, "don't oil your mustache while the ketal is still ripening in the tree." (translation: don't count your chickens before they hatch).  I've decided to Banglicize American proverbs.  Such as:
You can't have your ketal and eat it too.
Don't look a gift ketal in the mouth.
No such thing as a free ketal

Domestic adventures

Got home from work a little after 8 tonight.  The cook, Bernard bhai, offered me some fried okra.  Don't mind if I do!  I pulled out the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies (minus the pecans, unfortunately) and started whipping up a batch.  This recipe is compliments of Amy via her buddy Carlo--in pulling it up in my gmail, I can remember all the times I've made it before--the chain continues to my old roommate and her boyfriend, my mom, and other cool people.
Here, of course the process is a little different.  Bernard bhai insists on helping me--I'm unclear on whether he is learning from me, concerned about me being all up in his space, or he's assessing whether I'll be able to care for myself while he's on vacation these next two weeks--but my lack of apron definitely makes me a little off my game (I did remove my dupata for this one, despite being told I am quite "elegant" in how I handle it).  I will say, it's nice to have someone around to add ingredients when you're wrist deep mixing the dough (no mixer).  Although when he asks how much salt and vanilla to add, I have to explain the May Family philosophy on measuring: system nai.  He scowls a little but does fairly good guestimates by my account.  The chocolate chips here are hard to come by unless you know to go to the one store in Gulshan 2 where if you go past all the sports equipment, there's a "natural foods" section, which sometimes has organic peanut butter from thailand and usually has chocolate chips.  They are mini, but quite tasty nonetheless (I've been eating them straight since I moved into this place, just to make sure that they were ok).
Dough is in the fridge!  Got a cup of Blue bottle decaf noir in my hand (thanks Travis!) and I'm off to watch house, md or equivalent.  Sounds like home, right?  Cross your fingers that a.) I can figure out the oven (science geeks quick: , and b.) that these things turn out tasty!   If not, I blame the quantities of salt and vanilla....

North end is un aam-bigiously the best

We are in the midst of a 6 hour hartal!  Just long enough to throw off the whole work day.  I won't complain too much because next Sunday/Monday we have a 30-hour hartal.  I'm starting to think that people just don't want to work.  BRAC staff unfortunately have to make it up on Saturdays......luckily at the moment I"m working seven days a week so it doesn't much matter when they are in the office.
Except that I use the hartal as an excuse to work from North End, where I've officially built a second office and home.  And a family!  I have a sister, Smriti, and an adorable younger brother, Farhan, who is hilarious, now that I'm starting to recognize his jokes.  He told his mom about this bideshi who is very nice and comes to North End often, but doesn't each lunch.  "Doesn't she get hungry?" his mom asked him. "I don't know." He told her.  This is before we became buds and he told me that his mom would ask him if the non-lunch-eating bideshi came in today.  When I bring lunch, he inspects it now to see if it's up to the mark.  His mom has invited me to come try her food, but it's a bit difficult since I have a thing against eating lunch.  I told Farhan I could skip breakfast that day and try to eat lunch.  He claims his mom makes fantastic kitchuri, which I am craving.
I stopped by last night to grab a few cinnamon rolls and brownies.  I learned that Richard Cash has a sweet tooth also as dangerous as mine, so I wanted to pack some sweets to send with him when he goes out to Savar, a smaller town outside the city where the BRAC School of Public Health is located.  Farhan made me a coffee and then we talked for a bit.  When I left, I assured him I'd be in bright and early today.  He threatened to bring lunch for me if I didn't--that doesn't sound like much of a threat given how much he raves about his ama's cooking!
I beat him here, in fact.  The owner, Rick, is just back from the United States and came over to show me the counter culture coffee he'd picked up while there (yeah NC).  I'm drinking an iced coffee with freshly ground beans roasted in NC--pretty amazing.  I didn't think things could get better until Farhan came in--he had a little metal dish of freshly cut "original" mango (aam!) that his mom had sent to me (I think it comes from his dad's bari, hometown, in Jessore, further south), along with two piara (guavas) from the tree next to their house.  And it's not even 9AM!!  It's going to be a good day!
Back to work on making TB history.


In the spirit of corrections, this one in the NYT this morning really got me laughing (even a quick visit to wikipedia could have prevented this public health switcharoo):
The article on Page 22 this weekend about marital infidelity misidentifies a disease contracted from prostitutes that men in the 18th century could write or talk freely about. It is syphilis, not smallpox. 
"Similiarly," I've been informed verbally and via my readers that necessary in Bangla is "Dorkar," not "Dorka."  I appreciate the corrections, although unfortunately, it no longer has the same coolness factor and has ceased to be my favorite word.  There is a tie now between "cata" (umbrella) and "gari" (transport)--we always want what we don't have.