9/12/08 Eid ul-Azha, or Eating my own body weight in meat

Today was Eid ul-Azha, or Korbani Eid, which roughly translates as slaughtering or sacrificial Eid. It’s linked to that episode where God or Allah (depending on which version of the story you subscribe to) asks Abraham or Ibrahim to sacrifice his most beloved son, Isaac, and right before he goes through with it, an animal is substituted in Isaac’s place.

Anyway, whatever the back story, the central focus of Eid ul-Azha, aside from a whole bunch of praying, is butchery. Sadly (or not, perhaps), I didn’t witness a single slaughter, compared to Ollie’s two. But I did see a whole lot of carcasses, blood and dismembered body parts. And I did eat a hell of a lot of meat.

For the past week, Ollie and I have been fielding invitations left, right and centre, to spend Eid with various different people, and our social calendar was chocka with visits all over Parbatipur. Because of all the butchering, the logical conclusion of this is that there is also a lot of eating. And I mean A LOT. So I’ll break it down meal by meal, to give you an idea of my day.

1. I ate breakfast with Meena, my landlady, while her family was out at namaj, or prayers, (this was a bit of a sore point for me, as I was desperate to watch the prayers, which happen in a huge field, with lots of celebration afterwards, but my genitalia apparently excluded me from attending). Anyway, breakfast was a delicious milky sweet concoction made with noodles, eaten with rice flour ruti, and then some pulao (rice cooked with oil) and beef.

2. Then, I went to GBK’s director’s family home with Ollie, Sarah (our GBK counterpart) and her husband and niece, as they are all Christian so weren’t celebrating at home. We took a 45-minute rickshaw ride through beautiful, quiet countryside that was all mud huts and paddy fields. This idyll was, however, interspersed with groups of villagers surrounding bloody, gradually dismembered cow carcasses. It was a bizarre sight, to see men tearing out internal organs or hacking through spinal columns at five minute intervals (I will upload some photos as soon as I can). There, we ate more misti with rice-flour bread.

3. About an hour later, we were called back from our repose for lunch. This was possibly the freshest beef I have ever eaten – literally two hours before it had been mooing in the yard. And, sorry cow, but it was delicious! Again, it was served with pulao, vegetables and ruti.

4. After some rest, we jumped back on the van and headed back into town. From there, Ollie and I went to another colleague, Alam’s house. I could hardly walk from all the food I’d consumed, so had to refuse the offer of more beef. But Alam-bhai insisted I ate some rice pudding, which was delicious.

5. Next, I headed home to spend some more time with Meena and her family. For the previous few days, I’d been kept awake by the bleating of a goat in the front yard of my building. Now the goat was no longer in the yard, but in a huge cooking pot. And, again, it just tasted so good! I ate a plate of goat meat, with yet more pulao, but at least Meena relented when I told her I really could not eat another thing.

6. I allowed myself a ten-minute lie down before dragging myself round to Ollie’s, where we had long ago promised Helal that we’d eat dinner at his uncle’s house. When they whipped the lids of several huge pots of goat, beef, pulao and vegetables, my stomach actually heaved at the thought of putting more food in it. But I couldn’t refuse to eat without appearing rude, so I ate. Again.

Six meals of pure meat later, my concerns about developing a protein deficiency were firmly laid to rest. I don’t know that I’ll ever be hungry again. The only problem is, I’ve already accepted invitations to lunch and dinner tomorrow…

The nightlife of Parbatipur 08/12/08

The title of this post might be somewhat optimistic in hindsight. Parbatipur isn’t exactly a raving hotspot, and what ‘nightlife’ there is, is firmly over by 9pm. Despite this my diary seems to be fuller here than it ever was at home, and whoever said that they would’ve had a better nightlife in any other VSO country than Bangladesh was clearly doing something wrong.

I’ve already written about the amazing hospitality here, but what it essentially means is that, if I choose to, I might never have a free evening or weekend.

This afternoon, for instance, Ollie and I took a walk through the bazaar because I was having a tea-craving (probably just a sugar crash). After a nice cup of dudh cha (milky tea), we wandered on. But, as we don’t exactly blend into the crowd here, we inevitably bumped into a number of acquaintances. Three cups of tea and several misti later, my hands were starting to shake from all the sugar. We had met with a friend who works at the LAMB (mission) hospital, a guy that we’d once shared a rickshaw ride with, and who introduced us to the head of the local government, and everyone had insisted that we take tea with them. Sadly, I don’t know the Bangla for “I’ve eaten too much”, so I’m sure to end up a diabetic by the time I arrive home.

Last night we had a particularly interesting evening. Ollie’s landlord Helal informed us at 6 o’clock that we were going to meet the Mayor. Although I’d been looking forward to an evening to myself, I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to refuse this invitation. So half an hour later, off we trot with Helal, his wife Moyna and their five-year-old, Raisa.

The Mayor is the eldest of the Haq brothers, who are, by their own account, the local elite. This was not hard to believe: they live in a huge compound on the edge of Parbatipur with their wives and children, and their sisters’ families to boot. Because it is Eid tomorrow, although most of the family live in Dhaka, they were all back for the party. I was introduced to about a million people, and can now recall just one name.

Interestingly, this was the first house I’ve visited in Bangladesh where the women covered their heads on seeing Ollie, and who refused to shake his hand. It was also the first place in which I was ushered inside to hang out with the girls, while Ol was taken off to talk business and politics (presumably) with the men. I quite liked this, because it was nice to get to know the women of the house – when men are present they tend to dominate the conversation, which seems to be because of female deference and lower levels of English being spoken by women. The latter point means it’s also great practice for my Bangla. (An aside on this subject: I find it really odd when people say things like ‘Oh, you’ll get to see a really interesting side of Bangladeshi life that most people don’t get to see’. Surely this reflects a fair amount of bias, as by ‘most people’ they can really only be referring to 50% of the population, and not, in fact, ‘most people’ at all… )

At dinner we were served by the women of the house, despite the fact that they have an army of helpers, and we ate completely separately from everyone who lives there. This is one disconcerting aspect of Bangladeshi hospitality: as a guest, you don’t eat with the rest of the household. They bring you food then sit and watch while you eat it, which means you have to keep an eye on yourself, checking your table manners and facial expressions so that you don’t horribly offend someone).

After another absolutely delicious meal, we were taken upstairs to one of the family’s bedrooms, and here we finally met the Mayor himself. I can’t remember his name for the life of me, but essentially he’s a caricature of everything you would hope for in a small-town mayor. He had a massive black moustache that was slightly longer and pointed downwards at the corners, in a way that reminded me strangely of Manuel from Faulty Towers. His belly was suitably prominent beneath his navy blazer, which had shiny gold buttons on the lapels and the cuffs. And he had a flashy mobile phone with the loudest ringtone I’ve ever heard in all my days, which he answered every five minutes in the style of Dom Joley.

And then we were served yet more food (steamed cakes made from flaked rice powder, with date molasses. Oh heaven!) and tea, before finally being released to stagger home.

Although perhaps not quite a typical evening in Parbatipur (after all, it’s not every day we dine with government officials, but as Ollie pointed out, if you’re anyone in this town, we’ll have met you), most evenings are similarly full of company and food; and while this might not be quite the nightlife I left behind, I’m certainly enjoying it.

29/11/08 Turning 22

I’d just like to take this opportunity to record the fact that I celebrated my 22nd birthday lying beside a swimming pool in the late afternoon sunshine, sipping on a cool 7-Up (I was nursing a pretty serious hangover, otherwise I would surely have been drinking a cocktail).

For someone whose birthday is in (English) November, the idea of a pool party was never really on the cards. So to celebrate in this way was pretty special for me. The night before, I’d gone to a party at the Nordic club, which is a really nice expat club in Gulshan, with Laura, Job and Ollie. There was loud live music (terrible), a Dj (good enough), a canopy of fairy lights (enchanting) and lots of dancing (exactly what I needed). It was perfect, save for the fact that so many people I love were so far away. Everyone else there was also immaculately dressed (how do they all have so many nice clothes with them?!), so I felt rather like a scrubber in my flipflops and one of the two dresses that I have with me in Bangladesh. But I was having too much fun to care.

After our sojourn beside the pool the next day, I went to Job’s flat (he’s another VSO volunteer, from Kenya) and we cooked some great African beef and ugali (a Kenyan staple made from maize flour). So we ate, drank rice wine and Bangladeshi vodka, and danced the night away. Again.

23/11/08 The Grand Pancake Party of Parbatipur

Bearing in mind the overwhelming generosity of everyone here, I decided that I’d have to make some attempt at returning all the countless favors. Given that my neighbors never accept my protestations that I make the tea this evening, I decided that drastic action was necessary. And thus, the grand pancake party was conceived.

Since I’ve been here, cooking has taken on a much greater significance in my life than ever before. At home, food shopping is simple and cooking doesn’t need to require much thought at all. Here, however, when you don’t know the Bangla names of half the vegetables, and the other half is totally unrecognizable to you, things become a lot more complicated. Add to this basic problems such as the fact that my cooking utensils are basic (Tefal? What Tefal?), and I initially had no idea what to do with my rubbish, problems loom (I actually spent a lot of one night awake, wondering what to do with my rubbish. No exaggeration). One thing I remembered from Nepal, however, was that pancakes are really pretty straightforward to make: the ingredients are obvious, and they don’t require much technology to produce, so I have had many a banana pancake for breakfast.

When Momo caught me a-pancake-flipping one day, and I realized she’d never seen a pancake before, I decided to invite her and her family round the next evening, so that they could taste some ingreji pitha (English cake). And so the next night, I whipped up a batch of my best, unburnt pancakes and laid the table. Unfortunately, I lacked enough plates for everyone to have a big one, so Momo diplomatically insisted that we take the big plate of pancakes next door to eat them. But I think everybody enjoyed them. Rafat ate his with about a hundred-weight of sugar on top. Ratna called her friend Lily from over the road, and she came over with her daughter.

And from that day on, whenever I meet someone new when I’m with Ratna, she introduces me as the bideshi who made ingreji pitha for her. It’s also one of the reasons that she insists that I am khub bhalo (very good): I made English cakes, I will eat achar (pickle), and I do not to kiss boys or let them touch me. Note I didn’t say that I actually am good – just that I let them think I am…

21/11/08 My neighbors

There are days here when I don’t spend more than ten minutes inside my flat from the moment I arrive home till the moment I go to sleep. As soon as I get home from the office, my neighbors pounce, and so begins my evening...

When they hear my footsteps on the stairs, Momo, Rafat and Laboni (the kids from next door and their fifteen-year old ‘helper’) come spilling out of their flat to say hello, then follow me into my flat. The first time this happened, I was little bit taken aback – after all, it’s such an un-English thing to do, to wander into someone’s home uninvited, and rifle through their things, asking countless questions about where things are from and how much they cost and whether I could buy an (insert random item of clothing, make-up, jewellery, crockery here) for them the next time I’m in Dhaka. But I’ve grown used to the company of the kids from next door, their mother, Ratna, and pretty much all the women in a 20 meter radius of my flat. They come over to my flat to chat about what everyone has done on that particular day (either housework or studying in their case, going to the office in mine), what everyone has eaten that day (always bhat – or boiled rice – for them, usually bhat for me too), and what everyone will be doing that evening (they will generally be staying at home and cooking, and I will either be cooking at home or at Ollie’s flat).

One of the first things we were told during induction was that the concept of privacy is somewhat different here. This made me a bit nervous, as I’ve always thought of myself as someone who really needs her own space. However, to my great surprise I’ve come to depend on these small exchanges (for instance, now that it is Eid ul-Azha and everyone has gone back to their villages, I feel horribly alone!). I don’t know how to fill my evenings anymore, unless my free time is interspersed with tea and snacks next door, or shouted conversations between balconies, or a 20-minute explanation of who is who in the photos I brought from home, or a visit to one of the houses across the way. Given that my Bangla is still rudimentary, to put it politely, my conversation certainly lacks any je ne sais quois, and the same subjects are always discussed: my country, my marital status, my job, how long I will stay, whether I’m interested in marrying a Bangladeshi man, and whether I or my parents will choose who I marry, in that order.

But none of this seems to matter. My neighbors treat me with such genuine curiosity and kindness that I cannot seem to say no, when they ring my door bell and want me to teach them card games, or let them try on my English clothes, or come over for tea.
- Momo is my lifeline – she’s nine years old, and has enough English that she can serve as a translator when my Bangla comes to a juddering halt.
- Her brother Rafat is five, and completely beautiful. I’ve never seen a kid eat so much sugar in all my days (literally, by the handful, straight from the jar), and remain pleasant.
- Laboni, their helper, speaks very little English and is generally ordered around by everyone. She’s feisty though, and when she wants something (like having a go with my skipping rope), she’ll get it.
- Hanan is Momo and Rafat’s father. I don’t see him too much, as he works late, but he is very mild mannered, and is always scolding his kids for bothering me.
- Ratna is their mother, and I adore her. She also scolds the kids for their incessant curiosity, but she is probably more curious than they are about me. She has admired my rice-cooker endlessly, and told all her friends about it. She admired one of my shalwar kameez for weeks until she asked me to get her one from Dhaka – and then, when I did, was completely over the moon. She is also very interested in Western ways: she’s now asked on multiple occasions whether I kiss boys, either English or Bangladeshi, and whether I or my friends let boys touch us; and whether I, my friends or my family drink alcohol).

Although before I would’ve thought that this constant curiosity would annoy the hell out of me, I actually find it completely endearing. Yes, it’s quite tiring because I’m always on my best behavior, and must always be ready to answer the door (i.e. I must be fully clothed and with my flat in a decent state), but really, I just enjoy the company. Yes, there’s a language barrier which slows everything down, but I do feel like I’m making some genuine friends. And if my neighbors weren’t so great, I’m not sure I could stay here.

This is not to say everything’s been hunky dory; indeed, there have been several highly embarrassing moments. I’ll give you two prime examples:
1. When Ratna and Lily discovered the photobook that a friend from home so loving made for me (oh Kinch, I miss you so much!). It contains several pictures that involve nudity and semi-nudity, and I was terrified that they would be outraged at my lack of morality and storm from the flat. Far from it, in fact: they were both highly amused, and sent their kids away so they could look and point and giggle some more.
2. On rummaging through my drawers in search of crazy English things, Momo and Laboni stumbled upon my supply of tampons, and asked, as they had of everything else in there, what these were. Sadly, my Bangla was not up to such an explanation, and my dignity was not up to even an attempt at an explanation, so I just muttered that I didn’t know how to say it in Bangla, and shut the drawer.

But I figure that, actually, the embarrassment is all mine, and it’s all part of the process anyway. So, for now, I’m happy to have my ‘privacy’ invaded at every opportunity; I’m happy to have company at every possible moment. Sure, I’ll get sick of it at some point, but for now, I’m glad to have left the English definition of ‘privacy’ behind.

19/11/08 Misti and cha, or Eating my own body weight in sugar

19/11/08
Misti and cha, or Eating my own body weight in sugar

Before arriving here, I’d heard that Bangladeshi hospitality was second to none. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I thought, sure that it would be nothing out of the ordinary. But, as so often in this new adventure of mine, I was wrong.

Pretty much everywhere you go here, someone will appear within moments with a tray of food that they will insist you devour, pronto. This can range from crisps, to puffed rice with molasses, to freshly made cakes, to bread and jam, to noodles, to achar (pickle, usually very sour or very spicy) to pieces of curried beef, to fresh fruit, to jalebi (amazing squiggley sweets, that are deep fried and which ooze sugar syrup when you bite into them) and any number of other delectable Bangla misti. You cannot refuse – mainly because the food is so good, but also because you don’t want to seem rude. And no thanks will be accepted – everyone seems to feel like being so amazingly generous is their duty.