Bideshi 1 checks in

I figured it was finally time for Bideshi 1 to get going on this blog thing – so here we go.
Bangladesh.
Where to begin?
This is my third trip to Dhaka, and I have spent enough time here by now that what I see is mostly what I expect to see. The haze, the lush green, the bright colors of the rickshaws and their drivers and passengers, the markets full of all sorts of produce and carcasses, the brick-breaking and hauling, the gimcracked shanties and jerry-rigged electrical wiring. It is a noisy chaos: endless blaring of horns, ringing of bells, calls of beggars and children, loud salaams as neighbors greet one another in the streets; as we walk past Bangladeshi men, we inevitably hear small choruses of “helohwaryu.” The shirtless children are a little more hip – they chirp ‘hi’ and beam thousand-watt smiles at us.
We are a spectacle. Ben with his green eyes, me with my short, rather unkempt hair and un-made-up face. The weather is cool enough that I can wear jeans fairly comfortably, but while I prefer them infinitely to the huge baggy cotton pants of salwaar kameez, I feel conspicuous wearing them in public. I’ve seen only a few of the most elite, modern, wealthy Bangladeshi women wearing jeans – so it feels like wearing a signboard that says “HEY! Check this out! I am rich, liberal, and SEXY!” But jeans will only be an option for a few months out of the year – I plan to wear them while I can. I wear the long top without too much complaint, and of course the obligatory orna – the wide scarf-shawl worn to cover a woman’s chest. So all in all, I’m probably marginally respectable (at least as far as a western woman is concerned).
We walk side by side and talk as we go. Sometimes I want to reach for his hand, because he’s my husband and because I’m happy to have him beside me – but I don’t, because men and women do not hold hands here. Not unless they are hiding in the shadowed groves of a public park, in which case the rule seems not to apply – they can hold hands and flirt and sit with their thighs touching and be generally scandalous. So I suppose if Ben and I really wanted to hold hands, we could search out a place to do it – but it just seems easier to resist the urge and go home instead.
Home right now is the same apartment where I’ve spent that last two summers: a vast echoing 3-bedroom cavern in the diplomatic enclave of northern Dhaka. Two other Fulbrighters are occupying the other two bedrooms. Ours is as comfortable as we could make it under the circumstances – over the summer I acquired a floor mat, a rug, a collection of floor pillows, a little glass-topped coffee table (which I actually had made to order – an excellent language-learning exercise, since it involved not only giving specs in Bangla, but calling to change the order once I’d submitted it. It turned out quite nicely, and I am inordinately proud of it.). My set of tabla drums is in one corner, and there’s a nice bright spread on our lumpy bed. Overall, quite homey. Our arrangement here is a temporary boarding-house sort of deal; we have a cook who keeps track of our meals and costs, and we pay him whenever it’s time for more groceries. Our food so far has been edible, but it contains so much oil that I can’t bear to eat it more than once a day – but restaurants are cheap, so as my guts adjust we can find lots of other alternatives. So far we’re making do just fine.
But we are very much looking forward to a time when we’ll have a kitchen of our very own, and a cozy living room where we can stretch out and relax. We’ve found the perfect place – a large apartment in central Dhaka, in a place called Rajabazaar. It’s currently occupied by another married couple – also Fulbrighters – who will be moving out at the beginning of December and who will be able to pass on all their appliances and furniture to boot. The place is fantastic, with a beautiful view of some coconut trees from the living room, windows in every room, balconies off each of the three bedrooms (Ben and I can each have our own Playroom!), in a pretty neighborhood that is 100% authentic Bangladeshi. (As opposed to the diplomatic enclave, that is – which I estimate to be between 0 and 5% authentic Bangladeshi.) The kitchen is small but adequate, and we’ll have a refrigerator and cookstove (no oven). Internet is already sorted out, as are other conveniences such as newspaper and fresh milk delivery. Besides that, it’s in a great situation for my research – just a short walk to several markets of various types and sizes. We’re already counting down the days till we can move in – just three weeks and some change until Dec. 1, when we can start cooking for ourselves!
Which, come to think of it, will be a bit of an adventure – I know next to nothing about the various fruits and vegetables in the bazaar, and there are scads of kinds of rice and lentils to choose from. And the spices! And the dried fish! And the live fish! So perhaps our readership can help us out. I propose that once we’re settled in the new place, B and I should initiate a weekly Market Challenge, in which we provide a photograph and a name of a particular foodstuff, and Our Dear Readers can send us suggestions for what to do with it. Results will be duly reported. (We suggest this in honor of our friends the SpokaFocas, whose Use-It-Or-Lose-It Challenge has produced some very tasty meals.) But speaking of food – I think Sujit, our kindly cook, has an oily and heavily spiced lunch ready for us. I’ll go slurp it down, followed immediately by another dose of Ranitidine - which already looks like it will be an indispensable wonder-drug over the next 3+ weeks!