Existentialist on Chatteswari Road at 5:30am.
Alas. I took all of the precautions listed on the tee-shirt above and still spent the Eid holiday alone in a Dhaka hotel room, sick as a dog.
The revealing part? It wasn’t that bad.
Hotel instructional card by the telephone. The punctuation and the aphorism made more sense when I was delirious with food poisoning.
I spent three days in a dark, air conditioned room eating yogurt, honey, and hardboiled eggs (sequentially, for the most part). The staff circled around me like a hawk or my mom, chastising me when I ordered too many dairy products or when I stepped outside (which I did, three times) without an umbrella. I rallied enough to get back on the bus for Chittagong; on the way home we stopped at the same roadside restaurant where I’m sure I’d had the offending meal. The waiter remembered me, reciting my exact order as I hovered by the entrance. I commended him on his memory and ordered a milk tea and nothing else.
A painting in the AUW canteen, warning of fast food and its dangers. Apart from a canister of (stale) Pringles and some processed cheese slices, I’ve been very good.
I do like the public safety warnings here in Bangladesh; the watchful hotel staff come by it honestly. Maybe it’s the language translation, but I’ve received more good-natured scoldings in the past two months than I’ve had at home over the Christmas holidays. For instance, “Avoid the Attitude of Competition” has been painted for the drivers to see on every pedestrian overpass between here and Dhaka. Not sure if that would have saved me and my “loose motion,” but I think it’s a worthwhile instruction. As with many public health campaigns, this one falls on deaf ears. People don’t drive here. They hurtle.
This isn’t Bangladesh, obviously. Still, this community could use some words of wisdom on its bridges and underpasses.
The bus, like the hotel, provided another cool respite from the chaos of the cities and my uncooperative body. I loved sitting in my reclining seat on the upper deck, watching the (beautiful, green, shimmering) scenery go past. I always emphasize in my improv workshops that THIS moment is the moment of inspiration because it’s the ONLY moment we can work with. I really did try to keep this in mind; doing so lessened the disappointment of forfeiting all my Eid plans.
This all-embracing philosophy was put to the test by my three-year-old traveling companion, just two seats away. He had a device of some sort–one that played videos–and he delighted in the Old MacDonald song for a good portion of the five-hour trip.
Maintenance rehearsal–where we just repeat words over and over again–is less effective than elaborative rehearsal. With elaborative rehearsal, we take new information and make a meaningful attachment to pre-existing information. For instance, why did Old MacDonald name his dog Bingo, or does the possessive pronoun “his” refer to Old MacDonald himself? Why would MacDonald’s parents name him “Bingo MacDonald”? Did he have a cat, too?
(And for all my smarty-pantsness, my lifelong friend Anne pointed out that Old MacDonald’s creed was “ee-i-ee-i-o,” not “B-I-N-G-O.” I blame no one but myself.)
Cox’s Bazar at night, looking back from the shore toward the shops and hotels and open-air fish markets.
A week’s worth of rice, curd, and turmeric dal settled my stomach and so I accompanied M.K. Jatra to Cox’s Bazar International University to conduct an improv workshop for his Expressive Psychotherapy students. No one complained when I asked them to run around in the swampy conference room; in fact, the students’ enthusiasm more than made up for the listless ceiling fans and the damp, disintegrating carpet. By the time Jatra and I rolled up our pants and walked out into the tidal pools (see above) I was hot, sweaty, dazed, and very, very grateful for these remarkable students. Their sincerity and commitment broke my heart in the best possible way.
The Bay of Bengal from Marine Drive, south of Cox’s Bazar, heading for the Myanmar border. The concrete structures (that look kind of like seals) line the entire coastline in an attempt to prevent the over-heated salt water from crossing the road and leaching the rice paddies. Climate change is here.
The following morning we hired a car and drove along the ocean road to the Teknaf Zero Point and the Naf River jetty where goods (and people) from Myanmar’s Rakhine State cross the international border. In 2012 I taught for a semester in Myanmar. The first democratic elections in years were held while I was living in Yangon, giving rise to cautious optimism for a healthier, less oppressive society. All that hope has been dashed by the recent military coup. Seeing Myanmar, even from a distance, brought back memories of my friends and students whose lives have been truncated once again by an authoritarian government.
Gazing toward Bangladesh from the jetty on the Naf River.
Myanmar on the far side of the trees. Close to a million Rohingya people from Rahkine State live in Bangladesh’s refugee camps, forced out by the Burmese government for being Muslim. They can’t return to Myanmar and they can’t really assimilate in Bangladesh, although AUW has a significant number of Rohingya students.
So much bloodshed. At the same time, it’s impossible to overstate the beauty of this part of the world. We left Cox’s Bazar early in the morning when the light had a first-day-of-school brilliance. I’ll lapse into cliché, but the light really is golden. Over the ocean sat enormous, billowing thunderheads with sheets of rain falling beneath. The green and silver rice fields, bisected by red dirt lanes that lead to ancient copses (hi, Shanan), seemed to vibrate with life. Goats and cows lolled about in defiance of the (sparse) traffic, causing our driver to swerve but not swear. (An awful, awful moment: he hit one of the goats with a sickening thud. All morning that sound reverberated in my ears. Can’t stop imagining the terror that poor creature must have felt at the last moment. We careened on, guilty of many things).
Heading north to Cox’s Bazar. In the lower right corner of this photo is an iconic Bangladeshi sampan, still used for fishing. These crescent-shaped “Moon Boats” maneuver the shallow coastline on their nightly expeditions.
From another world (and courtesy of National Geographic).
Now I’m back in Chittagong, staring at my luggage and wondering how I’ll compress two months into an overhead compartment. I’m ready to come home and yet my heart clutches when I think of this school and my students and everything that will go on without me. Rather than indulge my maudlin tendencies, I’ll post some pictures of places and people:
If you say so.
Help! (Roadside mural on Cemetery Road, Chittagong.)
Friends.
Survived the wrecking ball, for now. Chittagong.
Early morning Chatteswari Road. Chittagong.
Each unit comes with a thesaurus. (The other day in class we discussed Carl Rogers’ “self concept.” I asked the students to complete this sentence: “I am__________.” One woman said, with complete confidence, “I am cute.” Another said, “I am taciturn.” I love it here.)
Leading this workshop today at the American Corner. Results below.
A great group at the American Corner! Improvisers, all.
Selfie with students at the opening night of AUW’s musical adaptation of Little Women. Jabin–next to me–played Meg March with good humor and genuine feeling. She and her cast mates earned thunderous applause and standing ovations. A perfect production for an audience of brave, resilient women.
People I encountered on my early morning walks:
I showed him the results of my photography. This captures his response.
Outside the hospital on the other side of Cemetery Road.
Encouraging gentleman at bus station ticket counter. I made exact change.
Our driver from Cox’s Bazar. He let me take his picture, but would not face the camera.
Lone soldier with Myanmar across the river.
Jolly man.
Vendor at the Zero Point.
Pensive man.
Invaluable maintenance man (with goats) at Thames Tower. And by “invaluable” I mean VERY valuable.
So goodbye, Bangladesh. Geopolitics and religious strife tear at both our countries, convincing us that we need to be suspicious of one another. I feel it, and in my more exhausted moments I had a hard time finding compassion and commonality. More often than not, though, this place taught me (once again) the value of having an open heart, or at least the aspiration to have one.
The Facebook algorithm knows me better than I know myself, which is how this Pledge of Allegiance found its way into my feed. Thanks for listening to me–
Yep.