Internal Struggles vs. Cultural Experience

I’ve been in this country for about 25 days and I think I’m cracking. I am slightly losing it. It’s not the food or the traffic. I haven’t been gone long enough to become homesick (sorry friends). I’ve enjoyed every bit about this trip except for one thing—the freaking gender divide.

I have never been immersed in a culture where my second-class citizenship was so blatant. I bitch about it all the time in the states, which now seems glorious by comparison although it’s not nearly as bad here as some countries have it, I know. But I’m a point right now where the sole thing I miss is my freaking autonomy.

We’re traveling in a group of six women and two men. If we go anywhere, we have to be accompanied by men because it’s the safe and chivalrous thing to do. When we pay for things, we hand the money to a man who then pays even if the dude receiving the cash is standing right in front of us. When we meet people for the first time, no one shakes our hands; they skip right over us and shake the men’s hands. When we order at restaurants, no matter what Bengali woman is ordering, the server always defaults to the men in our group for the final answer.

I know the men in my group feel this unspoken role of “protect and serve” the sacred females and while both of them are delightful, I sometimes want to scream, “Let me do it myself!!” I’m also sick and tired of hearing it’s too dangerous for you; the “you” being women. And heaven forbid someone actually say “You can’t do that”…I’m at a point where those words might make me explode. Thanks, mom.

While I’ve followed suit and culture pretty well, I have been pretty vocal (anyone shocked?) about the inequities when I witness them, which humors the men in my group. I interpret this as nervous laughter because deep down I’d like to believe they think I have a point.

My final tipping point (because for a little bit I was honestly enjoying having everything done for me without asking, tricksy men) was the other night when we went to see a popular theater show in a rural village in Rangpur. Popular Theater is BRAC’s way of disseminating information to the masses about important social issues like the environment, healthy parenting, hygienic practices, and my favorite gender-based violence. It’s composed of about nine women and men who perform skits to get their point across. Last night’s production was on what Bangladesh calls “Eve- teasing”. Eve-teasing is a euphemistic way of saying sexual harassment. It’s boys giving unwanted attention to girls.

Before I offer up my critique (because I always have one), I do want to say that it is absolutely wonderful that they are covering all these topics with rural villagers who often don’t have the access to this information. They tackled the topic beautifully; covering what Eve-teasing looks like and what you can do about it as the victim, bystander and parents. They also covered the repercussions should you get caught and in the ending scene of the skit, I think they organized a rally or a community group to raise awareness on Eve-teasing. SO cool. I had no idea stuff like this existed and it seemed to be pretty effective for planting awareness seeds in the village people’s (YMCA!) minds. There were over a hundred women, men and children attending the show. Talk about cost effective too.

I understand that when you operate in a culture such as this one where the gender roles are pretty defined that you have to pick and choose your battles. Being the feminist that I am, I appreciate that they were tackling sexual harassment. However, two things bothered me (enter my western feminist perspective): 1. Calling it a name like teasing takes away from the severity of sexual harassment and totally downplays the issue. 2. Incorporating “Eve” as in Adam and Eve into the title makes us assume that teasing only happens to girls. I tried to find further insight to this reasoning behind the name and the only answer I got was “Oh well teasing among boys isn’t that big of a problem in South Asian countries.” When I probed further, no one really understood my questions about boys picking on other boys. You cannot tell me that it doesn't happen. I don’t care what part of the world you’re in, some smaller, weaker, different boy is getting picked on and no one is doing anything about it. Maybe it’s because this act is supposed to turn him into a man, a socially acceptable cultural norm in many countries…Ok I get that. I don’t like it, but I can work with this. I’m well aware that some of my thoughts tend to be progressive even for my own country.

I get the argument that it’s difficult to take your western perspective of women’s empowerment and apply it to another culture without first understanding their own cultural beliefs on the position of women. This does not mean however, that I can’t vent about my complete discomfort being a woman here, especially since I have to play ball with those same gender role restrictions. Granted, my foreigner status offers me a little more flexibility but I am becoming increasingly frustrated every time someone defers to the male next to me when I am giving him the answer to the question. It’s not something I can easily ignore.

Despite my internal philosophical battles, I am learning a great deal on how different women’s empowerment appears in other countries which is great because that’s kind of why I came. Moral of the story—I’m frustrated because my gender role expectations are a little too progressive for this country, but naturally I’ll live. It’s all the about the cultural experience and hey, I can say that I’ve definitely developed a newfound appreciation for the liberties I have as a woman in my own country. Aw, Cori, you’re growing…

I’ve also already devised a plan of action for when I come home. The first thing I’m gonna do is take Travis out to dinner. I’m driving to the establishment, I’m ordering for us, I’m paying (even though this trip broke me) and I’ll probably dominate the conversation because I tend to do that anyway. Silly, I know, but I am dying to feel autonomous again.

The Man Skirt

To an unsuspecting foreigner, it would appear that Bengali men have taken a liking to wrapped skirts. Since this is my first time visiting Bangladesh, the first question I was begging to ask is “What’s with the man skirts?” After traveling around the country for several weeks, I have had enough time to realize that lungi, as they are appropriately called, are not only a practical, but also a fashionable and affordable Bangla-style.

I have no idea where the lungi originated but after doing some basic research, it appears that they are popular in some Middle Eastern and South Asian countries. are long sheets of fabric, comfortably wrapped around the waist in a special way that makes them look like they’re about to fall off but they never do. They appear to be the Bengali equivalent of the Scottish kilt complete with all the same stereotypes. Thankfully, you only have to worry about seeing something inappropriate in public when a first time lungi wearer bends down or uses the bottom part of the lungi to wipe their hands. Veteran lungi wearers know how to keep things concealed.
I’ve determined that the prevalence of the lungi is due to practicality. It is hotter than Hades in this country, and the lungi provides a cool, drafty airflow to dance around your legs. No trousers offer that same luxury in Bangladesh.

A lungi is also very versatile. I’ve seen men where them as shorts and three-quarter length pants. They can be used to wipe your hands, head or any other part of your body all while maintaining ample coverage if you know what you’re doing. Wearing a lungi is the rickshaw driver style—I’ve never ridden with one who wasn’t sporting the look—so it’s clearly a quality article of clothing considering the kilometers that these guys accumulate over the course of a day. Since it’s wrapped around a man’s body, he can basically do anything in it while staying cool, including discreetly using the bathroom anywhere. I’ve never encountered such a magical article of clothing.

Lungis can also be paired with anything, which offers a man the ability to demonstrate his own unique sense of fashion and style. They can be worn with any type of shirt, sandals or shoes, black or brown, earth tones or neon—the choices are endless for just one article of clothing! They are quite affordable from what I’ve heard so it’s no wonder the male masses adorn themselves in these wonder wraps.

I think one of the coolest things I’ve noticed about the lungi is the ability to create an instant pouch used to store personal belongings. It’s like an incognito wallet that no one can steal because it blends in so beautifully with the rest of the garment—genius.
I must say that I am truly impressed with ability of Bengali people to create a simple, practical and affordable article of clothing for its countrymen. Granted it is simply a large piece of cloth and its creation may have happened on accident but I kind of want to bring it back to Texas and see if this brilliant idea will catch on in my own culture.

Tea, Cell Phones and Time

I have been traveling throughout Bangladesh for close to a month and the cultural experiences never cease to exist. For starters, the sun seems cooler than the temperature of this country and I have no idea why I thought it would be a fabulous destination to travel to during its monsoon season. Despite the frequent downpours and my great misfortune of being caught in several, there a few customs I've noticed that Bengali people hold dear— these are the daily doses of tea, usage of cell phones, and a very liberal management of time. Let me explain.

As I am writing this, I am partaking in an afternoon Bengali ritual—sipping a delectable cup of tea. People in this country drink more tea on a daily basis than was tossed overboard during the entire Boston Tea Party. Thanks to the British, people really seem to embrace this little bit of colonialism left over in the area. Tea is offered so often throughout the day, it appears to be the life source that sustains the nation. You are offered tea for every major meal and then additionally in between meals just in case you missed your cup the last time it was offered.

It's difficult to turn down a cup of tea because it is quite delicious and very sweet. If you have no control over who’s preparing your tea, you will typically end up drinking what resembles warm creamy syrup. Before milk is added, the tea is already sweetened with several generous spoonfuls of sugar. After the milk is added, I’m pretty sure more generous spoonfuls of sugar are added until one sip of the tea warrants instant cavities. No need to sell energy drinks in Bangladesh—the people here drink enough sugar to put Red Bull out of business. Given that amount of sugar in any one cup, I'm pretty sure that tea is the number one cause of diabetes in this country. I often feel like checking my blood sugar level afterwards.

Tea time in Bangladesh is typically a time to relax, chat with friends, and take a break from the days work. However, I’ve often seen tea time interrupted by another cultural norm in Bangladesh-- cell phones. Now, just about anyone who’s anyone has a cell phone in this country but it’s how people interact with their cell phones that I find most entertaining. No one ever misses a call. It's as if the silence button does not exist or maybe just that the person on the other line is always more important than the person with whom they're currently conversing. I have often witnessed individuals talking to a group of people and in mid-sentence, drop everything to answer their cell phones. It's not like answering a call is done discreetly either or that they are simply answering to say, “I'll call you back”. Full fledge conversations take place and everyone can partake in the phone conversation because it's likely that the person is yelling into the cell phone. It makes me wonder if the volume keys on cell phones in this country adequately work.

When walking down the street, amid the incessant honking are people having yelling competitions into their phones. This doesn’t change once they enter a store or restaurant or any other establishment where they no longer have to battle the intense noise that is Dhaka city. Bengali people speak with passion as a rule in their culture but this is detrimental to eardrums when they speak on the phone. Calling a Bengali person is like having instant speaker phone, which makes me wonder if that key even needs to exist on phones here. I thought Americans were permanently attached to their mobile devices but Bengali people have ousted us I believe.

Finally we have the concept of time, which exists in warped dimensions in Bangladesh. As a rule, I have learned to add, at minimum, one hour to any estimated time period given while traveling. This is a concept that is instilled into Bengali people from birth onward because everyone always seems to know how long things are going to take but me. Things just happen more slowly here and people always seem to know how to take into account the traffic, the weather, or their fellow country people getting in their way. When someone says that they’ll come by your apartment in a few, it could be literally hours before you see that person again. If a party starts at 21:00, you can be sure that people won’t actually show up till 23:00 at the absolute earliest. For those of us who are used to strict start times, this delay tends to make us anxious and feel silly for being the first person to everything. To be fair, I have enjoyed plenty of other fun cultural experiences while waiting for other cultural experiences to start.

Between my daily sugar intake, yelling into my cell phone and consistently showing up “late” to places, I think I’m really starting to adapt to this colorful culture. Bangladesh clearly knows how to show a girl a good time.

And her name was Lalbanu.

I initially wrote this post on June 13th. It was simply me digesting my day in good ol’ Cori fashion. I had experienced a lot and my grandmother warned me about old age taking away my precious memories. She insists I write things down, so in 21st century translation: blog. I already struggle to remember things that happened in 2006 (Travis can absolutely attest to that), so hopefully this will help me remember my BRAC experience, as the good people at BRAC call it.

We started the day by visiting one of many village organizations just inside of the Mymensingh area of Bangladesh. Mymensingh isn’t that far north from Dhaka, it just takes three to four hours because traffic here is so horrid. Anyways, this VO, as BRAC in good nonprofit fashion calls them, is part of their Dabi microfinancing program. This program differs from their other microfinancing programs in that it offers small loans to impoverished women. (their other program, Progothi, offers loans to both men and women, these words have meaningss, but my Bangla is pretty bad) Women have to be part of the VO in order to participate in the loan taking program. The VO is actually quite a genius invention in my opinion. It’s not simply just for the microfinancing engine of the BRAC beast; it’s a way to disseminate other important information and forge the link between the population and BRACs other services. It’s like a net to catch the people who usually fall through the cracks because of their lack of access to services. It’s super grassroots, gnarly.

As our day progresses, we were able to figure out just how BRAC’s web (kinda like Charlotte’s) works through hearing the story of a village woman named Lalbanu. This woman was married off to a much older man at the age of thirteen, struggled to feel comfortable living with her in-laws and eventually learned that she was the second wife to this man, who kind of seemed like bum. She was unable to have children and speaks of the village making fun of her and calling her names. She took a small loan from BRAC about twenty years ago when BRAC first approached her village. During her time in the microfinance program, she has not only continuously taken out and repaid loans, but also become a village health volunteer who has delivered half of the village’s children. Now the village reveres and respects her. She’s totally changed around her life situation through this involvement with BRAC. Pretty rad.

From speaking with Lalbanu and hearing her story, I get the impression that her motivation for taking out loans has changed over time. I think at first it might have been to improve her impoverished position which she’s still in to a certain extent. She’s bought chickens, a cow and through selling the milk and eggs, she has been able to provide for both herself and her bum husband. When we spoke with Lalbanu, she was still pretty dirt poor by the village standards and even told us that since her cow was pregnant and not producing milk (a fun fact I learned that day), she was unable to eat “well” for a few months until the cow gives birth.

Regardless of how poor she is, if you could have seen how she lights up when she talks about all the wonderful things she’s done for the village as a health volunteer, you would care less that she won’t be having a meal tomorrow. It’s clear that the small loans were simply a source of confidence building and empowerment for this woman. Granted, I think some of her confidence comes from age but she is now so respected by the village. She is the first person they call when something is wrong and people have seen the fabulous things she has for the village through BRAC services and trainings.

BRAC approached her about seven or eight years after she took her first loan to be a health volunteer or “shasta shebeika” if my Bangla is on point. Six out of seven days a week, she makes her rounds to different village houses checking for and treating curable diseases. On her only day off, she travels to get more medicine from BRAC. Let’s be clear here that she is not paid for this service; she is a volunteer. And it’s curious because you would want to assume that people’s motivations lie in making their livelihood better through income generating activities. However, I think to Lalbanu, and improved livelihood means self respect, worth and esteem. Not to mention the adoration of a village that used to berate you. In. their. faces.

It was a cool experience so I consider my first day in the field a success. I’m a big fan of hearing stories and typically with microfinance they’re all the same. Woman takes out loan and has better life. I appreciated how we got a twist to this one demonstrating quite nicely that empowerment doesn’t always need to have a monetary value.

The Bengali Princess

I witnessed something pretty terrible the other day. Shockingly, it wasn’t the traffic or the poverty or a grave injustice. It was simply a privileged Bengali girl getting her privilege on. My jaw literally dropped when I listened to her speak words she clearly did not process before articulating. True, there are worse things in the world, but when you’re interning at the world’s largest development organization, I expect at least a small amount of self-awareness. I’m thinking this might be a lot to ask.

So here’s how it all went down. We are walking through a paper recycling center where the organization’s main office sends its discarded paper to be recycled into new paper products that can then be used or sold by one of it’s social enterprises, aka businesses for good. The profits made by these socially conscience businesses are then injected back into the organization’s development programs. Hello sustainability. As we are admiring the work of some of the young women in the factory, my Bengali princess casually asks our coordinator if we get any free samples of paper or little boxers to take with us? Time out. Stop the clock, do not pass go, do not collect $200. (deep breath) Did she really just ask if she, a girl who’s family has their own drivers and servants, could get something for free from an organization that significantly relies on the profits of such products to generate funds to sustain its programs that benefit the very workers in that factory?! (exhale) Seriously though, did she really just ask for a handout from people who work for less than $2 a day?! COME ON!!

A plethora of emotions rushed through me but I thought I kept my cool, erring on the side of humor to call her out. Unfortunately, I don’t think she understood me. Even more unfortunately, I don’t think that she understood just how privileged her expectations were. We are in rural Bangladesh, the armpit of the armpit of the world an you want free shit?! Who are you?

Enough with the excessive punctuation…I’ll tell you who this princess is because she’s not alone. She falls into a minority of Bengali twenty somethings who are oblivious to how their family’s wealth has given them the upper hand their entire lives. From some of my experiences recently, it’s hard not to notice the gross distribution of wealth in this country. Bangladesh is not unlike any other nation with this issue, however, being that it is a developing country, the disparity seems that much more ridiculous. But I don’t think it’s only because the poverty is so extreme here; the wealth is also very extreme. There is a small percentage of Bengali families that possess the “My family lives better than most people do in industrialized countries” kind of wealth so I’m sure she’s not the only one who’s word vomiting all over Bangladesh.

Collectively this group of Bengali elite has a common history: Their parents or grandparents worked their way up the socio-economic ladder to improve the quality of life for their posterity. The unfortunate byproduct of this success story has been the creation of 2nd and 3rd generation Bangladeshis who show no appreciation or gratitude for the wonderful things they now have in their lives. This group of twenty somethings has set their expectation for quality of life so high, that they rarely come down from their pedestal and kick it with the rest of us lay folk. Most tragically, they are so completely unaware of their own privilege, you sometimes want to shake them.

I know the common phrase about only making an ass out of yourself when you make assumptions. However, I would like to assume that these elite Benglis would have some awareness of their fortune considering the streets of Dhaka they frequent are lined with pockets of destitution. Sadly, they tend to cast off this blatant inequity among the population as part of their “culture” and something that they can dismiss because they have the means to do so. And I’m the ass?

I’m not advocating handouts to every beggar here, merely simple awareness.

To be fair, I have encountered plenty of young, self-aware Bangladeshi men and women who are utilizing their first class education from abroad to really change the situation in their motherland. Bengali princess types exist, I think, because they haven’t had that one severely humbling experience that smacks you in the face and really puts you back in your place (rhyme intended). You know like the lightbulb moment…Or they are just choosing blind ignorance because it’s easier. I’m going to give my Bengali princess the benefit of the doubt and assume (here I go again…) that the former applies to her. Whatever the case may be, if people living in poverty received a nickel for every time this girl said something blatantly privileged, she would be responsible for single-handedly alleviating poverty in her country. Best innovative development program ever. I am totally cut out for this work.

"Preach it, white girl" Part 1

Privilege. Let's examine privilege. Woa, such a loaded term (emphasis my own).  It's been in my mind since I've been in Bangladesh and interacting within different circles of people. How do you know that you are in a position of privilege? I think in most feminist circles we all lean towards one of more of the following categories:  white, wealthy, heterosexual, able-bodied, educated,  middle aged, male, and I'm probably forgetting some.  Just possessing one of these characteristics puts you in a position of power because it is your ticket to accessibility. And who doesn't love having access to things they want or need?  The more of these categories you fall into, the more power you possess and the more things you have access to. For example most of the former Presidents of the United States of America had all of these characteristics...Can you feel the power yet?

I think most people aren't aware of their own karma given privilege. It's not something that's often discussed over coffee (unless you're part of a marginalized group book club) and truthfully I probably wouldn't be aware of my own beautiful privilege had I not taken a Sociology of Womyn course (yes, womyn. Take the class you'll understand why) during my junior year of college. It absolutely pains me that it took me so long to get "it", but once I did, the whole view of my world changed. This is where my father would interject with some comment about me and my feminist mumbo jumbo but please see our categories above and note that my dad fits into all of them. My hero...

So the reason I'm tackling this loaded topic at all is because whiteness and wealth consistently pop up in Bangladesh. For example, I've been told that, like many other cultures, lighter skin is a desirable trait in the Bengali culture, I guess it is a sign of wealth. They even sell whitening creams (much like our tanning creams) so that they can get their skin whiter. It's just comical to me that so many white people are trying to be tan while so many tan people are trying to be white. No one is ever happy...but the commercials are pretty good.

Continuing with whiteness... you'll never be more aware of your own whiteness than when you are in a country where white is the minority color. People stare at our cohort of predominately white interns like we are the Royal Family of England. On occasion, people take pictures of us simply because we are a pack of white people and they don't get to see white people that often. I think it's important to note that simply because we are a minority in this country, we have not lost any of our privilege that comes with being white. Immediately upon arrival, regardless of what your actual income looks like, you get put into the "Foreigner" category which actually just means rich.  I mean it makes since when you watch TV here. They love to throw around images of the wealth, prosperity, and happiness experienced by lighter skinned and white people. I think there's also a lot of misinformation being spread about foreign people because hey not everyone gets an education in this country and the people who get the best education have to pay a pretty penny for it. Given, a person's perception of wealth is all relative but I haven't become angry with anyone for making judgments based on my skin color.

So in this country, I have access to all the upscale coffee shops and restaurants (it helps that the exchange rate is super good) and people role out the red carpet for my arrival. Granted, Bangladeshi people are hospitable by nature but still, I'm not used to this. This meaning being so aware of my own white privilege. I could go down the white guilt road, but there's nothing worse than a white person feeling bad about having it so good.  When you are in the armpit of the world, it is shocking to realize how good you have it back in the States. I know that, although I am currently uncomfortable, sweaty, and sick of being stared at (after only a week, mind you), I will be getting on a plane in a few weeks and I have no obligation to return sans moral imperative. I like the idea of acknowledging your own privilege especially when it's so blatantly obvious. It doesn't excuse that your better off because of it but it makes you that much more aware of what you say and how you act. It also makes you super cool in my book, just saying.  I guess thus far, it's been quite a humbling experience and I probably acquired some new knowledge and perspective whether I was trying to or not. Can I count this towards my master's degree? I just made myself laugh out loud or LOL, if you will.  

Rickshawty what's your price?

It's obvious the transportation methods are blowing my mind in this country. The way things work around here are entertaining and provide a pretty well rounded cultural experience. One phenomenon that I have recently become acquainted with are rickshaw rides. Rickshaws is basically a third world country pedi-cabs only on single speed bikes from the early 80s and a carriage that's actually attached to the bike which holds its passengers. They're pretty ornate and their bells harmonize with then incessant honking. I'm sure you'll know what I'm talking about if you've ever watched the travel channel or Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom (that rickshaw might have been pulled by a dude, but the concept and sweet Dr. Jones reference are still there). Taking a rickshaw is an easy and cheap way to travel short distances around the city. A five to ten minute rickshaw ride costs less than $1. It's absurd considering I know some pedi-cabbers in Austin that had some $50 rides during South By.

The rickshaw drivers (peddlers?) are some of the skinniest men I've ever seen in my life. They're not emaciated, just muscular from working out all day. I don't think female rickshaw drivers exist. They might, I've never seen one and I think it's highly unlikely. The presence of men in Dhaka is just greater than women in general... but I digress. We can cover that topic later on.

Internship day one, myself and two other interns decide that we are going to take a rickshaw to BRAC. No one speaks Bangla, the language of the land, but somehow we manage to get across our need to get to BRAC. Being that no one in our threesome had ever been on a rickshaw, we didn't fully understand exactly how we were going to fit three people on one. The carriages can comfortably fit two if you're cool with eliminating your own personal space bubble. So we did what any family does with an extra person; you put that person on someone else's lap. And guess who got to be the Nancy sitting pretty on top...yours truly.

Ultimately that would have been fine if Dhaka's roads were in better condition and the rickshaw driver didn't have to weave through traffic. I was precariously placed on the lap of one of the interns, nearly falling off at every bump or sharp turn. Needless to say, I became instantly close with the two other interns I had just met within the previous 24 hours. Eventually we made it to BRAC University which is a block or two from BRAC Center(where we needed to be) so we counted it as a mild success, got off and paid more than we should have. I felt okay paying a little more just because it had been three of us and I really wanted to focus on the small victory of just getting there without falling off.

The next day, we took another rickshaw. When I handed the guy his money, he demanded more. We danced back and forth between his price and my price. During this short duet, other rickshaws were gathering around interested in the debate. I don't know if the rickshaw dude finally gave in or if I gave in because I was not having the band of rickshaw brothers coming after me, so we met in the middle. I still paid more than I should have according to my Bengali homies.

Naturally there's no fixed fee for these rides. You're supposed to negotiate beforehand so that you and the driver agree on a price for the service. What I've experienced is that there's a tax for being a foreigner and they love taking advantage of little ol' me. I typically ask the Bengali interns how much a ride should cost between the two locations I'm going before I begin traveling. Most of the rides, they say, should be around 30 Taka which is like forty cents. The several times I've attempted to negotiate the price, I've been relatively "successful". Meaning I managed to negotiate a lower price but they're still getting a good deal out of me. Some rickshaws want to take you places because they know you can pay them more more than they'd make otherwise. I think rickshaws benefit from the sympathy card once people really understand how little they're working for. This results in an excessive payment for a short ride and the foreigner walking away feeling better about her/himself for having improved someone's life by a dollar. In reality, all we've taught the rickshaw guy to do is overcharge the shit out of foreigners. What's cool is that some rickshaws refuse to take foreigners altogether because they don't want to deal with you. So they get to decide who, when and how they do their thing. Oh the autonomy and struggles that come with owning a small business. Can I even call it that?

The Bengali people I've met always tell me I've paid too much when I'm just trying to count the small victory of surviving the ride over. They say it's part of the culture and that I just need to do it. I get it, culture, I'm happy to follow suit. However, sometimes it just feels wrong to argue over a ten cent difference with a man who works ten hours days for change. I'd rather just pay the extra ten cents to not get into it with the dude. But then I'm just perpetuating the "foreigner tax" model. This clearly is not the worst catch 22 anyone's ever been in.

Cultural Experience No. 1

I have been in Dhaka for four days now and there are few other things that shock and awe me more about this culture than the traffic. I have never seen anything like it and it is quite possibly the first thing you get thrown into when you get here. Why you ask?...Because you have to leave the airport at sometime and thus perpetual adventure begins.

So the traffic here is like a demolition derby. You can easily tell which cars have been the "winners" and which the "losers" by the number of marks, bumps, scratches or shotty paint jobs to cover it all up. Many cars are equipped with a gnarly chrome ramming bumper for just that extra bit of reinforcement. It's protection for the inevitable collision, a wise choice. I'm assuming there are rules to the road, or at least that's what I've been told but the only universal rule that seems to apply is that if there is space, fill it. I have never seen a better demonstration of controlled chaos. I haven't witnessed any accidents yet; this system seems to get people to where they're going, inefficiently, but they at least eventually get there.

I have to credit the Bangladeshi culture for adequately using their horns, not just to show their discontent for each other like us lovely Americans do on the roads, but to simply let every other person around them know that their car is present and has joined the party.  Common motivations for horn honking appear to be "move out of the way", "I'm about to enter this intersection without stopping" or the  frequently used "I'm driving my car into the space your car is currently occupying so you should move it immediately". They're not shy about it either. The incessant honking is like a painfully orchestrated symphony that sets the tone for the entire city.

I can't really determine if there is one side of the road that you're supposed to drive on. I've been driven successfully on both sides and have watched most cars weave back and forth. Driving against traffic happens often and is quite exciting.  Like I said if there's space, they find a way to manuever their cars, large or small into it. Driving in Dhaka is pure talent and from my first impressions, also insanity. This is clearly not a place for timid drivers.  

To add to the chaos, there are an abundance of rickshaws, CNGs (they look like little three-wheeled mobile cages) and pedestrians all of which contribute to the high volume on the roads. Each of these elements somehow navigates the traffic well enough to get to where they are going and not incur fatal bodily damage. Walking around has been quite the thrill seeking adventure given that if there are sidewalks there's usually some sort of barrier that makes utilizing them inefficient, impossible or more of a danger than walking on the road itself. If you're unaccustomed to walking around in large cities, I suggest practicing in one before coming to Dhaka. Walking down the middle of the street in Time Square would be good practice for Dhaka. In preparation, I think it would also be good to simply have one of your friends drive a car at least 25 mph in your direction and practice getting out of the way quickly. 

If you are unwilling to risk being hit by a car, rickshaw or other person, you're better off staying inside or having someone else drive you around. You have to operate like the cars; if there's space, fill it and do so with your easily breakable body with no chrome bumper attached to it. When attempting to cross the street, you get a one to two second time frame to react when you see a window of space between vehicles. If you act too early or too late, at best you'll receive the angriest honk of your life, at worst you'll get hit. You really have to commit to crossing the street. I've never walked with such conviction.  I sometimes feel like a super heroine with super refined cat-like senses because my eyes are watching the car driving at me while my ears are listening for the horns or bells while my legs are walking and my neck is swiveling and eyes are darting all around in super awareness mode. At the same time, your body is flexed and ready to absorb the impact of any unforseen components of traffic. Given that description I must look absolutely ridiculous trying to cross the street but hey I haven't gotten hit yet.

I've really enjoyed attempting to navigate the streets of Dhaka and I feel that this post is a testament to my evolving ability to navigate them successfully. It has definitely been a thrilling cultural experience. While walking in Dhaka does seem dangerous, I would argue that this city has some of the best drivers I have ever seen. And, most importantly, they're not texting while driving, so you have to feel a little bit safer about that.