Delirious in Dhaka
There is not one empty street, corner, nook or crany in this country. The streets are crowded constantly and the days heat drones on. The culture is beautiful and vibrant. The women's saris and salwarkameezs' (forgive my spelling) are as colorful as color can get, and set against the beautiful brown skin of a Bangladeshi woman it becomes quite the complement. However, the white women that roam these districts and find themselves tempted by these luscious colors should think twice. Ladies, we just don't look the same in them. But, yes, we can still dabble.
The spicy food which at first stings the nostrils soon becomes a welcoming drain to the days heavy dosage of pollution that congests the airways. The fog produced from the disel feul fills the halls and doorways of any shop running on a generator that in a city which loses power 5 times daily becomes an odorous and frequent thing.
But the friendly hellos "assalomyalakum!" are frequent and seem sincere. Our guards are always smiling day and night when we enter. The begger children, persistent and talented, are adorable and light hearted. I entertain them with songs when I can't give them small Taka or candy. Is this cruel? I don't know, but why not give something?
Work continues. The crowded drive in a CNG to the office during daily rasta jams (traffic jams) that occur every second, of every day, of every month, of every year, has become routine. And the cubical is now shared by four not two and keeps multiplying by three. We are all getting to know one another. The interns bond and form a unique connection from the understanding of the others days of love and despair.
It is a cyclical motion that moves neither forwards or backwards, up or down, left or right. It represents time; time that does not care to stop for the saddend silence that sits and lingers in dark places, time that does not wait to be made or had, but instead makes itself with the space allocated to her. She beats like the rapid pulse of a runner who bids her time till the winds give her flight.
The spicy food which at first stings the nostrils soon becomes a welcoming drain to the days heavy dosage of pollution that congests the airways. The fog produced from the disel feul fills the halls and doorways of any shop running on a generator that in a city which loses power 5 times daily becomes an odorous and frequent thing.
But the friendly hellos "assalomyalakum!" are frequent and seem sincere. Our guards are always smiling day and night when we enter. The begger children, persistent and talented, are adorable and light hearted. I entertain them with songs when I can't give them small Taka or candy. Is this cruel? I don't know, but why not give something?
Work continues. The crowded drive in a CNG to the office during daily rasta jams (traffic jams) that occur every second, of every day, of every month, of every year, has become routine. And the cubical is now shared by four not two and keeps multiplying by three. We are all getting to know one another. The interns bond and form a unique connection from the understanding of the others days of love and despair.
It is a cyclical motion that moves neither forwards or backwards, up or down, left or right. It represents time; time that does not care to stop for the saddend silence that sits and lingers in dark places, time that does not wait to be made or had, but instead makes itself with the space allocated to her. She beats like the rapid pulse of a runner who bids her time till the winds give her flight.
posted by rach at 1:24 AM
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