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.