Dhaka

So we've arrived in Dhaka, here for a week before heading out into the field to do interviews of BRAC clients. It is hard to know where to begin when explaining what it's like here. 12.5 million people in a fairly small space. The weather weighs heavy, and if you're not in an air conditioned room, then you are sweating. Outside, busses, cars, auto-rickshaws (CNGs), bicycle rickshaws, and pedestrians all compete for street space that has no official lanes or even traffic lights, ususally. Riding in a CNG is like riding in a golf cart on a lawless freeway. Everything is movement and color and smells. The smell of garbage, of heat, of cooking food and shoe polish and stagnant water. The rain hasn't come yet, and the sky shines optimistic blue over the city.

It's true, what I heard in my training before coming here: being white is like being a celebrity. People stare, and I can hardly blame them; our first day here, we walked around for eight hours without seeing a single other white person. I would stare, too. Mostly I don't mind, though, as I have yet to feel threatened in any way, and sometimes we can make little kids laugh just by smiling back at them. I never know what to do about beggars, though. The man who runs our hotel keeps small change in his car to hand out to beggars who knock on windows during traffic jams--I've read that the Muslim value system expects wealthier citizens to help out the poorer ones. I certainly have enough to spare, but at the same time there are so many mouths to feed. 40% of Bangladesh's population lives in poverty, consuming less than 1,800 calories per day. Our rickshaw bikers are so skinny that we usually pay them double or triple what a local would. But when kids crowd round saying "Madame, madame," I tend to just tell them no because I really don't know what else to do.

The people here strike me as incredibly nice. When we (I should clarify: "we" refers to our group of 5 interns here in Bangladesh--Katherine, Steven, Sahil, and Ellen) stop on the street to look at a map, we cause a traffic jam of Bengalis eager to help us find our way. The hotel owner took us out sightseeing today so that we would understand the significance of certain monuments without having to look them up in a book. Yesterday, our rickshaw biker turned around every time we came to a pothole, pointing it out so we'd get a good grip before the jolt. People here may want money, but so far I don't feel like they want to rip me off--something I have felt in other countries. Maybe I'm just naive. Beyond generosity, though, Bengalis are beautiful. That may be a superficial observation, but even a professional gardner's flower bed has nothing on the bright yellows, reds, blues, greens of women's salwar kamizs and saris.