I think I know why it's hard to find peace in the modern world. Reliable electricity. I find that I do my best thinking when our power cuts and the tv, or radio, whatever device I've been using to drown out my inner voice, goes black, and I find myself in a pitch black room, with nothing to do but listen to the noisy generator across the street and just wait. It might be a minute, or ten, or more. I find that it's meditative, forced reflection, which is healthy once in a while.
Life in Dhaka is comfortable, maybe even too comfortable, these days. I've got an air conditioner in my room now. Of course we've had a lovely cool, rainy spell since it's been installed, so I haven't had to turn it on yet. Shazzad has a car now, so getting around is now a minor issue. Finding a place to park, on the other hand, that's a bigger problem.
My social life is relatively quiet, despite the fact that the first real, non-sketchy, affordable bar just opened nearby. I also have a roommate for the summer--an intern at BRAC from India is staying in "Toby's" room. I had cable put in a few weeks ago, and Gray's Anatomy comes on every night at 7:30PM. People are great, but it's hard to top serial romance and drama interspersed with cool medical cases. Not to mention, but in a nomadic life where little stays constant, Gray's has been there for me. It was there for me my senior year of college, when I was trying to figure life out. It was there for me in New York, when I was trying to....figure life out. Now it's here for me in Dhaka when I'm.......well, still trying to figure it all out. It may or may not also make me a little teary-eyed here and there.
It's also mango season. A few days ago someone delivered a few dozen (!!) to my house; direct delivery from Rajshahi, the region of Bangladesh most famous for mangoes. It's hard not to have a good day when it starts off with a big bowl of deliciousness. There's still this myth that mangoes make you sleepy, but luckily I seem to have some immunity to that. Or my frequent cups of coffee do the trick. Since I read that one of the "things that Americans do that just seem bizarre to the outside world" was take coffee everywhere, I've made it a point to get mine "to go." Patriotism has never been easier. And heck yeah, I feel like a rebel when I'm cruising around on a rickshaw, managing not to spill hot beverage all over myself during the sudden stops, turns, and bumps that the ride entails.
I know I'm settled in because I'm restless. It used to be that just getting through the day took all my energy. The chaos of Dhaka makes it seem like autopilot is out of reach. Just trying to send a text message while you're walking down the street seems crazy. There's always a motorcycle barreling towards you, or a rickshaw looking to cut you off (ironically as a tactic to get you to take the rickshaw!).
And yet, the chaos has turned into a fairly harmless hum. It's a bit scary how I've adapted, absorbed the daily battles as part of the grind. The streets here are mean.* Men greatly outnumber women, and verbal harassment is commonplace. Almost no one walks unless they have to. I walk because the streets are mean. I feel that I need to assert my right to them. Otherwise the bad guys win; they will own the streets and be even worse to walk on them.
No one tells you that when you move abroad, you'll need to develop your capacity to be a jerk. I thought Boston had made me hard, but it was a rare day that I found myself giving someone the finger there, or engaged in a screaming match. Here on the other hand, while I manage to ignore a lot of the things I hear, eventually I have to fight back. "Ki shomosha?" (What's the problem) is an effective, not-too-rude choice phrase that's my go-to. I've also learned how to say a few choice phrases in Bangla that I could throw in, but so far just the fact that I know them and could say them is enough for me. When it's a choice, then you can call it a victory for self control. When it's inability, it's so enraging. Life now is mainly choices, which means I'm back in the driver's seat. And restless to get to the open highway so that I can press down on the gas.
This morning I woke up early to get a few rounds in on the punching bag before heading to the office. I estimated that I threw over 500 punches. I love the satisfaction that comes with a good body punch; nothing is as satisfying as a clean combination that ends with a final upper cut. I miss sparring, because if you throw that punch on a person, you get a good grunt out of them. My bag never grunts. It's hard sand that keeps compacting, so it seems to get harder every day. Which is just as well; I've got something building up inside of me. My fighter mentality is growing stronger; my patience that has developed so beautiful in the past few years is wilting. I'm tortured by strange things. Wasting time waiting for the elevator is one of them. I work on the 20th floor. It's a climb, but I've learned now that when our office lobby is chalk full of people waiting to go upstairs, it's faster to take the stairs.I'm calmer when I walk into my office.
And when I walk out. If I come out when the sun is still out (which is rare these days), I always feel like walking. It's another form of fighting. 500 hits on the bag in the morning is nothing compared to the warfare of the streets. Warfare can be nonviolent; the struggle over space and legitimacy is nothing short of a full-on battle. I actually kind of like it. I don't enjoy the looks and the comments, but for some insane reason I feel confident that I'm going to win this. I watched Gandhi in 7th grade, and to be honest slept through most of it (at the time South Asia seemed unlikely ever be important in my life). The only scene I really remember is the one where the Indian demonstrators step forward and are knocked down by the British and their sticks. They fall, and another line steps forward. This was emulated years later during the Civil Rights movement, during the lunch sit-ins led by Reverend James Lawson and others. One group of students was beaten and arrested, and the next group moved into their place. Like Emerson says, "The greatest glory of living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." Somehow these are the things that come to my mind sometimes when I'm out and about in Dhaka by myself. Like I said, this is nothing short of a war.
Boxers know that even winners have to take a lot of hits. They are inevitable. The choice is whether you cave, or you fight back. Sometimes the best way to fight back is not with violence, but with happiness. That I can love Dhaka, be in love in Dhaka, and love myself and my life in Dhaka, seems like the ultimate form of victory against the mean streets, and everything else they represent. When the power cuts and I'm alone with myself, I feel restless, but in the sense that I'm too eager to see what the future holds.
I'm up late and babbling, and at this rate, I'll miss my morning boxing session. So I'm going to hit the hay. Goodnight to all!
*For those of you who are not sociology geeks, I feel compelled to point out to you that my references to mean streets was an allusion to Piri Thomas' memoir, Down these mean streets. Just saying.
Life in Dhaka is comfortable, maybe even too comfortable, these days. I've got an air conditioner in my room now. Of course we've had a lovely cool, rainy spell since it's been installed, so I haven't had to turn it on yet. Shazzad has a car now, so getting around is now a minor issue. Finding a place to park, on the other hand, that's a bigger problem.
My social life is relatively quiet, despite the fact that the first real, non-sketchy, affordable bar just opened nearby. I also have a roommate for the summer--an intern at BRAC from India is staying in "Toby's" room. I had cable put in a few weeks ago, and Gray's Anatomy comes on every night at 7:30PM. People are great, but it's hard to top serial romance and drama interspersed with cool medical cases. Not to mention, but in a nomadic life where little stays constant, Gray's has been there for me. It was there for me my senior year of college, when I was trying to figure life out. It was there for me in New York, when I was trying to....figure life out. Now it's here for me in Dhaka when I'm.......well, still trying to figure it all out. It may or may not also make me a little teary-eyed here and there.
It's also mango season. A few days ago someone delivered a few dozen (!!) to my house; direct delivery from Rajshahi, the region of Bangladesh most famous for mangoes. It's hard not to have a good day when it starts off with a big bowl of deliciousness. There's still this myth that mangoes make you sleepy, but luckily I seem to have some immunity to that. Or my frequent cups of coffee do the trick. Since I read that one of the "things that Americans do that just seem bizarre to the outside world" was take coffee everywhere, I've made it a point to get mine "to go." Patriotism has never been easier. And heck yeah, I feel like a rebel when I'm cruising around on a rickshaw, managing not to spill hot beverage all over myself during the sudden stops, turns, and bumps that the ride entails.
I know I'm settled in because I'm restless. It used to be that just getting through the day took all my energy. The chaos of Dhaka makes it seem like autopilot is out of reach. Just trying to send a text message while you're walking down the street seems crazy. There's always a motorcycle barreling towards you, or a rickshaw looking to cut you off (ironically as a tactic to get you to take the rickshaw!).
And yet, the chaos has turned into a fairly harmless hum. It's a bit scary how I've adapted, absorbed the daily battles as part of the grind. The streets here are mean.* Men greatly outnumber women, and verbal harassment is commonplace. Almost no one walks unless they have to. I walk because the streets are mean. I feel that I need to assert my right to them. Otherwise the bad guys win; they will own the streets and be even worse to walk on them.
No one tells you that when you move abroad, you'll need to develop your capacity to be a jerk. I thought Boston had made me hard, but it was a rare day that I found myself giving someone the finger there, or engaged in a screaming match. Here on the other hand, while I manage to ignore a lot of the things I hear, eventually I have to fight back. "Ki shomosha?" (What's the problem) is an effective, not-too-rude choice phrase that's my go-to. I've also learned how to say a few choice phrases in Bangla that I could throw in, but so far just the fact that I know them and could say them is enough for me. When it's a choice, then you can call it a victory for self control. When it's inability, it's so enraging. Life now is mainly choices, which means I'm back in the driver's seat. And restless to get to the open highway so that I can press down on the gas.
This morning I woke up early to get a few rounds in on the punching bag before heading to the office. I estimated that I threw over 500 punches. I love the satisfaction that comes with a good body punch; nothing is as satisfying as a clean combination that ends with a final upper cut. I miss sparring, because if you throw that punch on a person, you get a good grunt out of them. My bag never grunts. It's hard sand that keeps compacting, so it seems to get harder every day. Which is just as well; I've got something building up inside of me. My fighter mentality is growing stronger; my patience that has developed so beautiful in the past few years is wilting. I'm tortured by strange things. Wasting time waiting for the elevator is one of them. I work on the 20th floor. It's a climb, but I've learned now that when our office lobby is chalk full of people waiting to go upstairs, it's faster to take the stairs.I'm calmer when I walk into my office.
And when I walk out. If I come out when the sun is still out (which is rare these days), I always feel like walking. It's another form of fighting. 500 hits on the bag in the morning is nothing compared to the warfare of the streets. Warfare can be nonviolent; the struggle over space and legitimacy is nothing short of a full-on battle. I actually kind of like it. I don't enjoy the looks and the comments, but for some insane reason I feel confident that I'm going to win this. I watched Gandhi in 7th grade, and to be honest slept through most of it (at the time South Asia seemed unlikely ever be important in my life). The only scene I really remember is the one where the Indian demonstrators step forward and are knocked down by the British and their sticks. They fall, and another line steps forward. This was emulated years later during the Civil Rights movement, during the lunch sit-ins led by Reverend James Lawson and others. One group of students was beaten and arrested, and the next group moved into their place. Like Emerson says, "The greatest glory of living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." Somehow these are the things that come to my mind sometimes when I'm out and about in Dhaka by myself. Like I said, this is nothing short of a war.
Boxers know that even winners have to take a lot of hits. They are inevitable. The choice is whether you cave, or you fight back. Sometimes the best way to fight back is not with violence, but with happiness. That I can love Dhaka, be in love in Dhaka, and love myself and my life in Dhaka, seems like the ultimate form of victory against the mean streets, and everything else they represent. When the power cuts and I'm alone with myself, I feel restless, but in the sense that I'm too eager to see what the future holds.
I'm up late and babbling, and at this rate, I'll miss my morning boxing session. So I'm going to hit the hay. Goodnight to all!
*For those of you who are not sociology geeks, I feel compelled to point out to you that my references to mean streets was an allusion to Piri Thomas' memoir, Down these mean streets. Just saying.
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