Teaching kindergarten.

It has been so long since I have written! A lot has happened and we have been quite busy.

I have now ended my third week of teaching kindergarten. This has proven to be a very challenging endeavor. The children do not speak or understand English very well and one speaks Bengali and French but really no English. One girl, I am sure, has been brought into my life to challenge my patience. She is quite bright and can read most any word in front of her but does not understand the meaning of the word she reads. No matter what I say, she smiles and says “ok” but then the opposite of what I have asked of her. She talks out of turn, takes off her shoes and plays with them, gets out of her chair to see what others are doing and then tries to tell them they are wrong, randomly starts singing or making other noises, and takes things off my desk and drops them on the floor. Since the beginning of last week, when we got a new girl in the class, she is now hitting and pinching the new girl and tries to take away whatever the new girl is playing with, even if she doesn’t want to use the toy. It is driving me crazy. I only have a class of five students and I cannot decide if that makes my life easier or harder. If there were more, it would be easier to separate two that are causing trouble but if there were more, there would be more trouble! They jury is still out on whether or not I will like this job. I only have four or five more days before a long winter break.

Another interesting part of working or going to school in Bangladesh is the “Hartals.” I do not know much about what they are, but from what I do understand, it is, basically, when a political party calls a strike. I may not have school on Sunday because a party is calling a hartal and it may include a roadblock.  When the hartals happen a lot of offices, shops, and schools are closed. Next year, 2013, is an election year so we are expecting a lot of hartals, if there are too many days of school off we may have to have school on Saturdays to make up for the lost days.

Here is a link, just in case you would like to know more:   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hartal

I have already missed two and a half days of school because I have had some stomach trouble. Lucky for me, nothing serious, just a day of vomiting and diarrhea, I empty out and all is better. Last week was the worst, I felt really bad at school, went home and slept, woke and vomited, a lot, slept and vomited. I took the following day off too and slept until noon. The day after that was a hartal so I ended up only working 2 days last week. I have no idea what I ate or drank that made me so sick and I hope I do not eat it again!

Winter Mosquitoes

A few weeks ago, someone told me that the mosquitoes were worse in the winter. I had a hard time believing them because at the time, I had gone two or three days without a bite and it was great. I guess that was calm before the storm. I do not know if the summer and winter mosquitoes are different breeds or if the mosquitoes bulk up for winter but whatever happens, they are very different. These mosquitoes do not rely on stealth to get you, they come in vast numbers, they are huge and it seems they are immune to bug spray. These mosquitoes are more like the Minnesota mosquitoes that I am used to. I can hunt them and kill them, they are more active around dusk and they are annoying. I am covered in bites. At the latest count, I have 25 bites on my left foot / ankle, and about 15 on the right. I have no idea why the left is more popular. There are about a dozen bites spread between both hands and arms. The rest of my family, who wears less bug spray, has only one or two total. I must taste really good. Perhaps being pregnant makes my blood sweeter. My facebook friends have been very helpful in offering suggestions and I am giving each its fair chance. So far, no luck. 

Thanksgiving and homesickness.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Today, I find myself ruminating on past Thanksgivings and the traditions I have made for myself. Thanksgiving is usually a busy day filled with food and family. I try to make it to both sides of the family’s houses. I have always enjoyed being surrounded by family even though we only see each other a handful of times per year as a group, having everyone together is comforting to me. Thanksgiving “linner” is my probably my favorite meal. My uncle Todd always makes two turkeys, one of them is deep-fried (without injuries).

I talked to my mom  on skype this morning (her last night). Mom was busy in her kitchen preparing the carrot dish she makes each year and up until then I had managed my homesickness surrounding this holiday hidden somewhere deep inside, even through a conversation with dad. I watched her go through the usual routine, while cooking, that I have seen and participated in so many times before. Seemingly, out of nowhere, I had weights across my chest, a lump in my throat and it took most of my effort to hold back the geyser of salt water that threatened to explode out of my eyes and nose.  Mom was preoccupied with reading the recipe, making sure nothing was missed, and I was glad for it because if I had talked about how I was feeling that would have ruined the rest of the great conversation that we had. After finishing the recipe mom moved herself and computer back out to the living room and the homesickness settled back down into its tiny hiding spot. The trouble is that once it sneaks out I have a hard time keeping it at bay for the next day or two and just the thought of traditions and the taste of crisp cool air, warm coats, sweaters, and my favorite foods brings back the weights, the lump and the geyser.  Poor Abu tries so hard to help even though, through the tears and dripping nose, I laugh and try to explain that I am fine and there is nothing to be done about it.

The same thing happened at Halloween, for about 2 days before and after Halloween, I hid myself in my room while I wrote, read, and listened to music trying to allow myself to feel what I needed to about missing home but not let people see the mess of snot my face had become. I hide because I need to allow myself the emotion so it does not build and explode in the wrong way and I do not want it to be misunderstood as unhappiness. I am surrounded by kind people who care about how I am doing, I would hate for them to think they are doing anything wrong, as Abu tends to think each time my eyes start to bulge and turn all red. That and I think I make ridiculous looking faces when crying that are hopelessly unattractive.  

I am thankful that we have not yet been here two months and I am fairly well settled. I made a friend and even have had dinner at her house. I have started my job as a kindergarten teacher, which is proving to be almost as big of a challenge as moving to the other side of the world, but gives my days more purpose and gets me out of the house. These little steps are small moves towards establishing myself, and my family, in this foreign place.

I am thankful for my family, especially my parents, Abu and Sara, for helping me focus on the positive and not getting bogged down in the little (or big) things that I struggle with adjusting to.

I am thankful for kind and generous in-laws who have taken us in, with open hearts and an open home, regardless of any inconvenience or adjustments they have had to endure.  

I am thankful that we are safe and secure, that we are healthy, that I have a very active baby who seems to be growing well, that my wedding ring still fits and will for a while, that Sara likes living here and has friends, that my marriage has been strengthened by our move, that I can see my family on skype, that I can write my experiences and feelings, and for all you good people who keep reading what I write and even ask for more. Thank you.

Doc appt and Lab stuff.

Since even before I arrived in Bangladesh, I have heard, from many people, that it is hard to have a “natural” birth here. Each person I talked to, with few exceptions, said that doctors prefer to schedule c-sections for various reasons but mostly because they make more money that way. Abu and I decided that we needed to be very careful when picking our doctor. We chose our friend’s mom. She is fairly close to our home, can go to the hospital that we choose and didn’t even want to think of a c-section after hearing that I already had a natural birth. She also has a warm and friendly personality, which I think is important. On our initial meeting, she got a general medical history, checked by growing belly, and we chatted about her son. She then referred us to a lab, near our home, where we could get the ultrasound and blood tests done.

Abu called to see about hours and an appointment and found that we must pay in advance. He went in paid the 1500 taka ($18) the day before our scheduled appointment. Next day, at five in the evening we arrived for our appointment. The doctor who was scheduled to do our exam had been called away and was on his way back to the clinic. He arrived back at about 5:15 and we were fourth in line to have our exam.  As we waited, Abu took Sara to the bathroom. While they were gone a cute young girl, maybe about eleven was going to sit in their chair. Naturally, I said, “this seat is taken.” Unfortunately, she did not speak English and tried to sit again. I said, “no” and waved my hand over the chairs, but she still didn’t seem to understand. Finally, I said, “nai!” Bengali for no, and she picked a different seat. I felt quite bad and kept wishing that Abu and Sara would hurry up so she could see that I was not just being mean. After they came back, I made a point to talk to both of them and hug Sara so she understood I was with them.  

After we saw the second person go into the ultrasound room Abu decided we should move closer (we were on the opposite side of the waiting room).  After we moved, a burka-clad woman noticed me and, quite obviously, told her daughter to have a look at the white woman, or so I imagined her saying. After a few minutes of the shameless, eye bulging, staring I took their picture with my cell phone. The woman in the burka seemed to understand what I did and finally turned back to her business. I took a Women’s writers course at Metro State before I left and in that class, we had a long conversation about the “work” of being watched. I have thought about this conversation pretty much every day since I got here. Each day I have left the house here without makeup or having done my hair nicely I wish that I had because I cannot more inconspicuously here and I am always feeling judged.

As we waited, I thought back to my ultrasounds with Sara and remembered that they took a while to explain everything and try to get good pictures. I found, after the second person was out in less than ten minutes, that this was not going to be that type of experience.  When I was called, they made me go in alone because I guess my husband cannot see me get onto a bed and have a blanket put over my legs (which was quite hot and I was sweating by the time we were done). Once I was “comfortable” on the bed, they let Sara and Abu in. They also made all of us take our shoes off, which I thought was pretty gross. I wanted to tiptoe. I know what can be on the floor in those places! The man who did the ultrasound spoke English fairly well and did a good job explaining everything. He was very fast and it was a good thing this was our second time around with this because otherwise it may have been too fast and confusing. We did not find out the gender, even though Sara really wanted us to. The baby seems to be growing well and everything else looked normal. When we were nearly finished, I asked if we get pictures, he said, yes. We had to wait until after seven to get the report and the pictures. I was quite excited for the pictures but unfortunately, the man doing the ultrasounds was not interested in the cute shots of the profile, face, and feet. I have some small grainy pictures of the femur, spine, abdomen, and placenta. I have to admit to a fair amount of disappointment about the pictures but at least we know that the baby is healthy.

It took us a bit longer to get the labs done because I needed to go in fasting, get my labs drawn, go home, eat, and come back two hours later for more blood draws. When we arrived, we had to pay first, 1100 taka ($13.25), and then we met a crabby looking woman who either spoke no English or just did not want to talk to me. She was an expert phlebotomist and had no trouble finding a good vein. At this point I noticed the plastic shield that the blood tubes went into to be punctured and filled were re-used, there were tiny little blood splatters on the inside. I racked my brain trying to remember if she broke a seal on the needle or if it was already opened. At this point, with a needle in my arm, and the blood mostly drawn, it was a bit late to insist that she remove it, plus I was not sure. After removing the needle from my arm, she put it into a small, dirty, grey machine that made a whirring sound. I was staring at it wondering if she could possibly be washing the needle. I was lost in those thoughts when she suddenly thrust two small cups into my hand and Abu interpreted that she wanted me to pee in them. I left her little room in a sort of daze not only about the mystery of the needle but also because of the small cups in my hand. They were identical, transparent, white plastic with an opening no bigger than a nickel. I stood outside of the bathroom for a moment and Abu asked what was wrong. All I could think to say, which I knew he would not have the answer for was, “how the hell am I supposed to pee in these tiny things?” I was actually a bit more successful than I ever dreamed possible. As I was washing my hands (and doing a extra good job), I guess the crabby looking woman thought I was taking too long and came looking for me. I had not even been in there very long. We were excused after turning in the urine sample.   

Two hours after breakfast, we returned for round two. This time, the woman taking my blood was eager and willing to practice her English on me, she also did a great job finding a vein.  I watched carefully and saw that she took what appeared to be a new needle. After, when she put the needle into the grey machine I asked what it was, she then pulled out the needle to show me. It was a needle burner. The needle had been in the machine for about three seconds before she pulled it out to show me and it was already half-gone and glowing red.  I was quite relieved. As I thought about this later, I think that burning the needles makes a lot of sense here. There is not a monitoring system that the states have to ensure whoever collected the needles would dispose of them properly, this way, they cannot be reused. The woman then asked me if I could give another urine sample. I really did not want to and I guess it was optional so I passed.

The lab reports are all in English and I understand that all looks well because they give normal values with my results but many of the labs have a different name than back home so I do not know which labs look fine. I guess it does not matter as long as they are fine.

The next step is to bring the results to my doctor but she flew to MN today to visit her son, so we will have to wait a few weeks and that is just fine with me. I know all is well.

A bit about Language.

In a blog post weeks ago, I ended by saying that I was going to write about language in an upcoming blog. My desire to write about language and knowing what to say were not quite meshing until recently, I think I may have found a way to explain some of my thoughts. I may write more on this topic again later. 

My auditory sensation is working wonderfully, so I cannot be certain, but I think that it is fair to say that moving to a country where you only understand enough of the language to understand the context of a situation (in a normal voice, not yelling or whispering) is like having lost most of your hearing. I feel that I am slowly (very, very, slowly) getting some back as I learn more of the language (hopefully I learn Bengali before I actually start losing my hearing). I have decided that they are similar because I have seen this with my grandma and other people, generally older, who are losing their hearing. Like I did, they start out by saying “what” a lot and it does not take long to tire from asking “what” so they quietly, lean forward trying to grasp at the important parts of the conversation. Eventually, even that gets to be too much so they sit back, relax, and pretend to have the correct emotions, if the need arises, but often end up day-dreaming about how no one knew that Captain Adora  of the Horde and She-Ra the Princess of Power are the same person, she does not even change her clothes for goodness sake! At least He-Man changes from shirt and pants to furry undies and a chest plate. She-Ra’s mask is a worse disguise than Superman’s glasses, or lack thereof. I usually try to avoid the daydreaming state not only because of the odd things that enter my mind but also because it does not help me to learn.

Before Begum left our employment, because she missed her family too much, she and I used to be home alone during the day together. Right before she left she started coming into my room and showing me an item, like an onion, then she would tell me the Bengali name for it. If I did not pronounce it correctly or if I forgot as she was quizzing me, after a few more items, she would come very close to me, her eyes would get super big and she would yell the word. This yelling happened a lot. Sometimes, I had to use all my will power not to roll on the floor laughing. Her intensity in wanting me to say the word correctly, and remember it, was enough to burn those few words into my brain. This reminded me of all the times at work, registering a patient and someone else, usually a doctor or nurse, would come into the room and yell slow English at someone who does not speak English. I would usually get out of the room, with a quick wave to the patient, as quick as possible in complete bewilderment of the situation. Now that I am on the other side of the situation, it is even more baffling. Begum was also funny because she thought if I repeated a word to her it meant that I understood it, when, in fact, I meant that I did not understand (I also used a confused look and a shoulder shrug).  One day a few weeks ago this type of confusion started with me itching a mosquito bite and ended with me getting an hour long leg massage because she thought I had a sore leg and was asking if I liked the massage and I did not understand so the confused repeating  came into play.  When the whole family came home and she was still massaging my leg, I was so embarrassed and hoped they did not think I asked her to do it! Both of our stories as to what lead to the massage were very different and both very funny to my family and me!  I miss Begum and the way she helped me learn a few words of Bengali, even with the wide-eyed yelling.  

The part about not understanding and speaking Bengali that bothers me the most is that I do not want people to assume that I am uneducated or stupid, which I think is a common thought about non-English speakers in the US. I am lucky that a lot of Abu’s extended family, friends, and his parent’s friends speak English quite well. I am sure that little by little I will learn to understand better and be understood when I speak. 

Eid

You know Easter and Christmas and Thanksgiving and Hanukkah, you know Halloween and Memorial Day and Mother's day and New Years, but do you recall the second most celebrated holiday of all?  

If you were born and raised in the United States then I would bet that you are not familiar with the Muslim holidays so I will give a little background (the best I can) before I explain what happens when Eid al-adha is celebrated in Dhaka.

There are two Eid holidays each year. One, Eid al-Fitr is celebrated the day Ramadan ends and it is a celebration of completing the month of fasting. Eid al-adha, which we just celebrated, is a celebration of sacrifice. There are not set days for these holidays, they follow the moon’s cycle so each year they occur about 16 days before the year prior.

Whether you are Christian, Jewish, or Muslim (or none of the above but have read the Old Testament), you should be familiar with this story, but for those of you who are not, I will offer a quick re-telling. (There are many versions so please forgive any errors as long as the point gets across.)

Abraham was a prophet of God. One day God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. Abraham did not want to sacrifice his son or go against God’s wishes. Abraham went to his son, Isaac, and told him what God had asked of him. Isaac who also believed strongly in God consented to God’s demand and offered himself as a sacrifice. Just as Abraham was about to sacrifice his son, God either: A) stopped Abraham and gave a lamb to replace instead, or, B) Abraham closed his eyes, sacrificed his son and when he opened his eyes, a ram had replaced Isaac (depending on which version you have read, the idea is the same). Eid al-adha is a celebration of Abrahams (or as Muslims know him, Ibrahim, PBUH) willingness to follow God’s demand and a celebration of God’s mercy.

The effects of the Eid holiday can be seen across the city as the day comes nearer. Like Christmas, lights are hung and people want to spend time with family. The newspapers had articles about the inflated transportation costs and showed people jumping over barbed wire fences onto the top of trains because they were already too full with people hanging off the sides. Everywhere you look there were goats and cows either tied to anything solid or roaming the streets. I was assured the roaming animal’s owners were close by, watching. The cattle market came to town with flocks of people going to buy their sacrificial animal. Schools and offices closed, the markets close on Eid and remain closed for the week meaning we had uninterrupted power for over a week due to less demand on the network. On Eid day, and for the week after, the city is relatively empty. The normally congested roads are mostly clear and even the beggars seem to be on holiday. 

A few days before Eid, Abu and his dad went to the cattle market to pick out our cow and goat. Each animal is sacrificed in someone’s name. A cow is good for seven people and a goat for one. We got the cow to cover our family and the goat for Sara. People from the cattle market helped get the animals to our home and for the next couple of days we had two cows in the back yard and about seven goats up on the roof of our building (the other cow and goat were another extended family member’s). We went up to the roof a few times and fed the goats leafs. I was a little afraid of Sara getting too attached to them, as it was, I wanted to sneak up in the night and free them myself. Not that it would do them any good.

Eid day starts with the men going to Morning Prayer followed by breakfast. After breakfast the sacrifice happens. My father in law sacrificed the cow and Abu did the goat. I could not bring myself to watch. Not knowing how best to handle the situation, I explained very little to Sara about what was happening. Once the butchering was well under way, I went down to the very crowded driveway to be a part of the day. The butchers were very efficient. Sara came down later and watched for a while too. I was very surprised by her. I thought, for sure, that she would end up a vegetarian after witnessing a driveway full of dead goat and cow parts. Sara seemed to fully understand that meat comes from animals and they have lives before they die and was ok with that. Only the smell seemed to bother her. Later in the day, she did ask me if the animals were hurt when they died. I did not want to lie so I said that they probably were hurt but they were killed as quickly as possible so the pain does not last a long time. After the hides were removed I could look at them like meat and from a biological stand point it is very interesting to see the ligaments, muscles, and everything else. I am sure that for hunters this is a very normal thing but I am not a hunter and this was very new to me.

The hides are given to people who sell to the tanners. Who knows, your next leather coat from Wilson’s could be made from our cow. The meat is split into thirds. The family keeps one third, the second is given to family and friends, and the third is given to the poor. None of the animal is wasted. The house staff is the first to get part of the meat that is donated to the poor then if there is any left it is given to the beggars who go door to door on Eid. The idea is that no one should be left out of the holiday, no matter how much money they have.

Just before lunch, Abu, Sara, and I went out for a drive to see the “empty” city and visit another relative. Large groups of people were standing outside the house gates where the sacrificing was happening, waiting for the donated share. Animal hides were being gathered and stacked on curbsides. There was a distinct, new smell to the city. Blood stained men dressed in all white were walking around with huge knives. The birds had flocked to the city waiting for their share too. Dhaka had become a different place over night. The difference between everyday and Eid day was quite striking.

We ate goat meat biryani and beef (and veggies and rice) for lunch and dinner. It was so delicious. I never remember eating such fresh meat before and the difference was clear. The house staff, maids, caretakers, and drivers all stayed through Eid day in order to collect their share of the meat and then left for their villages. I imagine Eid is celebrated a day late in their homes. Our regular maid had not been here since I arrived due to some family issues. She rode a train all night with her adult son, brother, and a woman to be our new maid to insure she was here by Eid and send meat home for her family. She and the new maid, Selma, have stayed here over the holiday. Begum decided that she missed her family too much and decided to quit. Our driver has not yet come back. For the last eleven days, we have been together as a family, visiting other family members, enjoying the time off, and eating red meat. All in all, it was a good holiday.

Don't forget to hydrate as you swim. Being in the water is not good enough.

I have wanted to start swimming regularly again for many months now, even before leaving for Bangladesh. My family here has gone out of their way to help me get to the pool and the other day I went for the first time. They are members at the Gulshan Club, which is a very nice club not too far from where we live. I had no idea what to expect from the pool, locker rooms, or even the other women (it’s ladies swim time in the afternoon). At a quick glance, as I removed my sandals and passed through to the locker room, I saw that the pool area is very nice and well maintained. I was surprised to find there were no floating lane dividers and the usual black lines painted on the bottom were absent. As I was walking around the locker room barefoot, I had the feeling that I was doing something terribly wrong. I am engrained to wear shower sandals in any public shower. As I pushed the idea of athlete’s foot out of my mind, the pool attendant arrived with a key for the locker and offered (for the third time) a rainbow tie-dyed rubber swim cap. I had been warned about the need for a swim cap and had brought my own which seemed confusing to the pool attendant who spoke limited English. I was instructed, by signs and the attendant, that I need to shower prior to swimming, no problem. I donned my modest, a bit too big for me, brown and tan flower pattern, conservative (by US standards) maternity swim suit, added a bright red cloth swim cap, showered and was off to the pool.

I have not swum laps in quite a long time so I took it very easy. I would swim to one side, rest and float for a bit, just enjoying the water, swim to the other side, tread water for a bit, rest and repeat. There were four other women in the pool, who were clearly new to swimming, and after a few laps I noticed that each of them is wearing a short sleeve t-shirt. Besides feeling quite exposed in my tank style suit I suddenly remembered that I also have a few tattoos that were exposed and imagined that I may have been causing quite a scandal. At that point another woman arrived who was clearly meeting her friends. After changing, she jumped into the pool wearing not only the same type of fitted t-shirt as her friends but also bright pink with white polka dots stretch pants. It turns out that all the other women were wearing tight cotton stretch pants. After that, I was busy contemplating not only my “modest” suit, how my pregnant belly seems to float, but also how in the world they managed to swim in all those clothes! No wonder it seemed like they were working too hard to stay floating and moving forward at the same time. I also decided that scandal or no, I am not wearing full cotton clothes while swimming. Not long after making the discovery of the pants, another woman arrived and was wearing a black one-piece Speedo, which furthered my resolve that my swimsuit was fine.

I finished my time in the pool and went to rinse off. The locker room felt like an icebox after the pool so I stayed under the warm water for a bit laughing to myself about the “Sham Poo” bottle on the wall. The power went out while I was enjoying the warmth, which means the A/C went out too. Thinking nothing of this at the time, I finished rinsing myself and my suit, dressed and went to go meet my mother-in-law and Sara who were picking me up. As we paid for my swim time, 70 taka ($0.84), I started to get quite warm. I forgot to bring a water bottle. We waited for our driver outside for just a few minutes in about 98 degree heat I was quite uncomfortable and wished I would have showered in cold water. We then made a stop at a market to drop off more fabric to the tailor for my shalwar-kameez. As I stood waiting for my mother-in-law while she bargained about the price, (this woman is the best at bargaining!) I thought I was going to pass out. I moved under a fan to try to get more air. A kind man at the shop must have been able to tell that I was not feeling too well and gave me a stool to sit on. As Sara was begging to sit on my lap or just be picked up I was really hoping that when I faint I do not land on her and that the floor was not an appealing place to land either. The fan must have helped enough that I was able to make it back to the car. We had half a bottle of warm water in the car, which I chugged.

After a lot of water and lunch, I felt better until after dinner. We tried the Pizza Hut here and it was very good. The chicken sausage and beef pepperoni tasted just like the pork they were replacing. It seemed like a “slice” of home. As tasty as the pizza was I believe that it was also very salty and sucked the little water I had replaced right out of my system again. Once again, I was ready to faint. I took a cold shower, which I felt could have been colder, drank ice water and turned on the A/C. I finally started to feel better after all that. I think yesterday was the closest to heat exhaustion I have ever been. I guess exercise, dehydration, and 98 degree temperatures will do that to a girl.