Anthro 101

“Why don’t you be an anthropologist about it?”

I got this wise suggestion from Carol, one of a group of high school friends who have been Zooming together since the beginning of the pandemic. We are all proud graduates of Riverside Polytechnic High School (Class of ’77 rules), and I’ve known some of them (hi, Laurie) as long as I’ve known my brothers and sister. Last Saturday night, after two days in Dhaka, I’d been on Zoom expressing my misgivings about being here during Eid al-Adha, the Muslim festival of sacrifice. I was freaking out a bit about witnessing the slaughter of cattle and goats on the streets of this city. In fact, just before the Zoom call I’d read this quote from the Dhaka Tribune:

On the first day of Eid-ul-Adha, the roads in Dhaka look to be painted red because there is so much blood; bones, horns, heads, and the blood-soaked mats are thrown on the roads or in the drains.

So. Much. Blood. I wouldn’t say I was dithering–although of course I was–but I will say I needed some good advice on how to proceed from people who have known me long and well.

“Just be curious,” my friend Sarah added. When I balked, she said, “Or you can also just stay in your room.”

In improv we aspire to practice radical non-judgment, so I’ll try to be an improviser. I’ll simply observe my days here in Dhaka and throw in some pictures to do the heavy lifting. Four days in a row, beginning on Thursday and ending on Sunday’s Eid festival.

I’ll start by immediately violating my declaration of non-judgment by saying I loved every minute of the train trip from Chittagong. True, I had a backward-facing seat that lead to some woozy moments as the scenery rolled past. We crossed rivers and barreled through villages and rattled past stations with clusters of men sound asleep on the platform. My eyes would try to capture an image while my stomach raced along with the locomotion. Several times I had to close my eyes and breathe through my mouth. I was thrilled when my seat mate turned on the overhead fan. Still, I couldn’t get enough of the unspooling view. Here’s one static frame:

I made it to the hotel, settled into my room, and took a walk around the neighborhood.

Twenty-one million people live in Dhaka. The traffic is obscene. The pollution and the heat and the insidious gray mold press against every surface, including human skin. The dust settles like talcum powder. And yet, just off the main streets, tiny parks with even tinier ponds fend off the pandemonium. Dozens of turtles break the surface of the water, nipping at bugs and creating endless overlapping circles. In these moments, Dhaka is beautiful. I strolled, happy to be in Bangladesh. I didn’t even try to keep up with the power-walkers (one very friendly gentleman noted that I was moving slowly but, in his words, was “not fatty”). By the time I got back to my room I was drenched, despite my snail’s pace. It’s a three-shower day here in the capital.

I slept soundly, took another early morning walk, and returned to the hotel to eat my weight at the complimentary breakfast buffet (Congee! Sour Yogurt! Figs and pomegranate seeds! Yellow watermelon, like from the streets of Yangon! Eggs and dal and garlic mushrooms!) Since it was the Eid holiday and museums were closed, I had signed up for a tour of several archeological sites in the area. I splurged. The driver would pick me up at 8:00 in the lobby and we’d be back by 5:00. Lunch would be provided. The Eid festivities were two days away, so there might be traffic.

The tour lasted twelve hours, nine-and-a-half of which were spent sitting in (brutal) traffic. The driver and the guide were perfect companions for this situation. After telling me about Rupban Mura, the eighth century Buddhist monastery we were going to visit, the guide–who has a name, one I said 85 times and can’t remember for the life of me–and I sat in silence while the driver (not nameless, of course) would seize any opportunity to lunge into a momentary break in the gridlock. It was like a really, really, really slow game of checkers. Five hours later we reached our first destination:

We were all numb by the time we wandered around the remains of the stupa. I have to say I’m not a good tourist; my head was pounding from the heat while lethargy had dulled my vision about three hours prior. I had a hard time taking in the fact that these structures were built 1300 years ago. That’s remarkable, but at the moment all I could think about was finding some water and a bathroom (in either order).

This woke me up:

Across the street from the archeological remains was a Thai-funded temple, dedicated to the people of Bangladesh in 1995. I spent a summer in 1977 as a foreign exchange student in Bangkok; seeing the gleaming white temple and the lithe, golden Buddha took me back to my almost-18-year-old self. I thought about explaining my burst of enthusiasm to the guide (“You see, I thought if I went somewhere else I’d become someone else…”) but instead we both nodded and pointed and agreed that Thai temples are “very beautiful.”

I also met this helpful officer who gave me his business card, saying “I have a YouTube channel! Please watch!” I did! Really impressive.

The only thing more tedious than traffic is writing (and reading) about it. I’ll just say this: by the time we got to Panam City, an ancient Hindu-then-Mughal-then-Colonial European city, I had forgotten why we were doing anything. Four hours after the Thai temple we were approaching Panam City, but it would take another half-hour to make the left turn into the parking area. The Eid traffic was pouring into Dhaka, honking flatbeds crammed with furious goats and wild-eyed, loose-boweled cattle. I’ll remember their faces for a long time.

Panam City:

Panam City was stunning. In time I’ll know it was worth the drive.

We made it back to the hotel. I slept face-first on the mattress until 5:30 the next morning. Took another long walk. Ate breakfast.

I know it’s unseemly to complain about these opportunities. It is. I’m lucky to be here. And, since this blog is purportedly about improvisation, I need to remember an aspiration we–as improvisers– strive to implement: Each moment is the best possible moment (it’s also the only possible moment–given how moments tend to be singular by nature–and so we do have some choice in how we respond).

I tested this premise when, in a moment of tourist-panic (WHAT NOW???), I made the questionable choice to go on a complimentary “shopping excursion” offered by the hotel.

I hate shopping.

That’s my declaration. I tend to let every choice become an existential crisis (“Will this shirt widen my carbon footprint?”; “What does this belt say about me? Is it authentic, or am I giving the belt too much power?”; “Why do I have disposable income when so many don’t?”) (a good question, actually) (“Back to the belt. It’s made of leather. And where does that come from, Jim?”) (“Performative guilt, much?”).

Still, I went.

I told myself I was on an excursion, good grief, that I needed to look beyond the fact that I was spending my precious time trudging around an air-conditioned mall in Bangladesh. Perhaps I could practice some ethnography; I could learn as much about present-day Bangladesh by eating at a food court as I would by roaming the streets.

I tried.

After an afternoon of over-thinking at the mall I went back to the hotel. These creatures greeted me:

The soon-to-be reality of animal sacrifice in the streets shook me. And yet, slaughter is the fate of most domesticated animals. For better or for worse, we hide this fact. With Eid, there is no way to deny this reality, no way to make it casual or inconvenient. People witness the ritual and they witness the sacrifice. The meat is given to the family, friends, and the poor, not commodified. Muslims are asked to remember, in a visceral way, the requirements of their beliefs, the celebration of community, the call to generosity.

Dinner (vegetarian, always, for what it’s worth). Sleep.

I got up early (again) and walked back to the park, threading my way through the faithful while the call-to-prayer echoed off the buildings in the neighborhood. The goats and cattle were still on the street. I decided to go into old Dhaka that day rather than hiding out in the air-conditioned room; the cool air and the (wonderful) food were starting to atrophy my resolve to be present. With the help of the entire hotel staff I got a CNG taxi (see above) and we headed down to the river.

On the way we passed along roads “painted red” with blood. We saw bulls sitting placidly next to carcasses being skinned, the severed heads dangling onto the pavement while the offal was being cut and piled on enormous gray platters. Three-foot bundles of new hides were stacked next to hooves and horns and tailbones; shopkeepers hosed down their storefronts where the blood had pooled. I had to turn away when we’d come upon a group of men holding down a bull as the knife was lifted above his neck. The sound that followed was ghastly.

I couldn’t take photos. It all seemed too intimate, my presence too intrusive.

By the time we reached the river lines of people had formed to collect or distribute the meat. Some were dressed for the holiday, the women in pastel shalwar kameezes and the men in charcoal panjabis; others wore tee-shirts and worn out jeans. The atmosphere was somber. The parties that evening, according to the men at the hotel front desk, would be festive, focused on family and gratitude.

“Glad” isn’t the right word, but I am glad I saw this. I think I would have regretted doing otherwise.

Moving on, if possible.

For the rest of the day we drove around Dhaka. Here’s what I saw:

And, this:

The Ibrahim/Ishmael story mirrors Abraham/Isaac. All day these lyrics–co-written by Joan Baez–have been playing in my head:

Hard times, hard times in Canaan land
Trouble in the mind of a man
A voice came whispering softly to him
Go offer, offer up the lamb

Abraham took his only son
High up on a hill
His test of faith had finally come
As the wind, the wind begin to chill

Cold steel, cold steel in the father’s hand
Tears falling from the sky
The angels, the angels did not understand
Why the righteous, the righteous boy should die

Abraham most mysteriously
Laid down that deadly knife
Said, “My darlin’ son, I wish I was the one
Who spared you, spared your precious life”

Oh Isaac, the light of all your days
Will shine upon this mountain high
And never, never fade away
And never fade away

Here’s a link to the song itself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XU5h02mWipk.