Notes from the tea estates

In Sylhet, We learn the word for moon: Chad. Moonlight is Chad ni, and
this is what they call a beautiful woman: Chad ni.

We visit the hilly regions - just over the mountain range is India.
Our host pilots his small sporty car down a two- lane road and from
the backseat I smell fresh asphalt, dust, livestock, and traces of old
spice aftershave. On either side of the road are wide fallow fields
separated into squares and tended by men in loungis casually watching
a few head of lazy cattle.  People do their washing in tributaries
that traverse the dusty fields or the green rice paddies. Thin cows
wander.

We experience, and enjoy, the cultural quirks:
Leaving our house at the appointed time, for our grand dinner
reception, only to be whisked back into the house for tea. Being told
to sit, waiting for said tea, and just when tucking into tea (khub
moja) being told everyone is waiting for us - it's high time to go! We
enjoy a sight-seeing tour that includes Adventure Land, a dilapidated
amusement park that the government took over from the bankrupt
proprieters. It's filled with rusty rides, odd statues of an ostrich
and a sort-of T-Rex. The only thing still working was the stereo and
the fountain - which was semi-synched to kickin hindi music.

On the road, We narrowly miss hitting a goat. I stare out the window
at the fields and think about home, about being back in regular life.
What i come up with is that I'm going to miss all of this. The loud
Bangla, the crazy driving. The men with bricks on their heads, the
rickshaws carrying long loads of bamboo, the rickety pickups defying
physics with leaning towers of eggs (dim) that somehow stay upright.
And what of me, and my uprightness in this sideways country? The sun
sets on raw fields framed by billboards for shampoo or cell phones.
Bangladesh is the land of contrast. It is the sound of honking and
singing. It's the smell of burning trash and clean-shaven rotarians
bowing down for 5:30 prayer before the evening meeting. It's fast and
weaving car rides, when we're lucky, and it's also sitting in
standstill traffic in the crush of Dhaka.

It's shouting and inadequate sanitation. It's also laughter. It's
simplicity like we saw from the viewpoint of our narrow boat bound for
a remote river village that borders India. The boat came equipped with
a boy to bail out the water. It's people who courier stones across
that river all day in boats just like that, barely staying afloat.

For a while, in the beginning, I also felt I was barely staying afloat
in the unhinged chaos of this place. Something has shifted. Bangladesh
is unhindered and I am caving to the beauty swirling at the core of
all the chaos. As we head back to Dhaka for our final week, a
contemplation takes root inside me. What will my old world feel like,
framed by all this newness?

--
andrea