Batteries

All the curtains have been taken down, the walls emptied of their decorations. My packed suitcases are waiting for a few more items- clothes, pillows and small last-minute purchases- until they’ll be zipped and locked, ready for the never-ending Friday. Traveling across the globe with the sun will allow me to arrive in San Antonio in time for dinner on the same day I leave Dhaka- but only some 35 or so hours later. My eyes are so tired that I’m seeing double and want to flop down on the couch that has been my bed since my shipment was packed out last week. The fans whirr… I’ve always been amazed how quiet my apartment can be- such that the major noise I hear is the ceiling fans. My apartment has been an abundantly large refuge from the clanking of rickshaw bells, honking car horns, calls of street vendors and streaming masses of people that characterize so much of Dhaka. Its still purple walls make me smile in comfort through my weariness.

Dhaka. You’ll miss it Priya tells me. I know. I will- and I won’t. I won’t miss the poverty that is so fiercely juxtaposed with my opulent lifestyle of hired help and world traveling financial freedom. Images crowbar themselves into my brain. A woman walking down the street on all fours: She looked like an overgrown teddy bear pushed over from its forever seated position and wrapped in a salwar kameez, her stiff limbs sticking out at seemingly useless angles. A child’s toy pushed hobbling into life.

My life as morphed into a series of to-do lists; growing as I check off, scratch out, crumble up and toss out. Tomorrow- my last day in Dhaka- I’ll check out of my classroom and officially finish my two year teaching contract at a most wonderful oasis tucked into the bustling capital of a challenged nation. Figure out how to remove the mezuzot from my many, many door frames. Say good-bye to Morshida, the wonderful and cheerful woman who has blessed me with her kind dedication- to break these last two stable years for her. And finally, decide what to do with my ziplock of partially used batteries.

I’ve been bemoaning this choice for weeks. In the States, I would have dealt with them in small quantities, placing the then useless batteries on my counter top for a few weeks or a month or so. I would look at them, knowing I should figure out where to drop them for recycling. Then I’d weary of batteries rolling around on my cooking space and I would, with a slight twinge of guilt, lazily toss them into the rubbish bin. (Which I used to call a trashcan but I’ve been converted… I’m actually waiting for the day I can used the phrase “rubbish lorry” in conversation.) I would ignore catchy phrases such as, “Live simply so that others can simply live.” I would think green, close my eyes tight, and plop the batteries in the bin, to leak slowly into the earth, buried in some dump.

But a presentation at school last month by a gifted Bangladeshi photographer Shehzad Noorani forced me to stop. I wouldn’t be throwing my batteries and all their polluting chemical components into the earth- I would be throwing them into people.

Two and a half years ago I sat at my neighbors’ kitchen table to use their landline for my job interview. One of the last questions I asked my now boss was about recycling. (I like to think I’m green, even if it’s not so.) His response was honest- recycling happens- just not the way I think of it. Every morsel of garbage in Bangladesh is rustled through by the poorest of the poor in order to find anything of value. Everything is reused. It’s recycling by the most crass definition possible. Now when I toss out food I think it too old to eat, I wonder about the starving child who will pass through that segment of rubbish and find it.

And now, I’m wondering about batteries. Shehzad's photography is moving, powerful and gut wrenching. For years he has gone to the community of the poorest of the poor in Bangladesh. The water of the river is slimy and black. The community’s industry? – battery recycling. Without a shred of protective gear, the children and women break open the batteries and separate them into their components. Shehzad calls them the children of the black dust. I feel my words can do no justice to the images. Please take the time to look at them, study them, go to his flickr site to read the stories with each photo.



So. I have a bag of partially used batteries. My first impulse was to lug them out of the country and find a proper battery-recycling center in the States. When told my plan to Ashley, a NGO worker here, she said that by taking the batteries away, I was actually robbing these women and children of their livelihood. Without the batteries, they have no jobs. Shehzad himself suggested throwing the batteries away in a plastic bag so they would be easier for the children scavengers to find them among all the other discarded waste. So, I could throw them into my rubbish bin, knowing full well I was contributing both to the black dust that covers their skin and enters into their lungs- and also to the 20 taka (30 US cents) a day that these workers earn to survive (if one could call it that).

So, I have my bag of partially used batteries. I need to make my choice tomorrow. I wonder how much that choice will depend on convenience- the same factor that won over my good battery -recycling impulse in the States. This time it won’t be the whereabouts of a recycling center but rather the space left in my luggage.

No, I won’t miss abrupt confrontation with poverty every time I step outside into the muggy air. But I am grateful for the way I have been forced to reevaluate my choices.

Clearing out

Approximately four weeks (26 days/ 3 shabbats) to go. Logistics are taking over. My to-do list grows faster than I can scratch out (yes, I'm past nice calm tick marks that check off items- scratching them out to oblivion feels so much better) completed tasks. I've sold off many of my belongings, donated others to charity and still have some for sale. I've taken pictures of items that didn't make the Israel cut to post on the teacher's lounge at work (it's paper saving, tree hugging friendly electronic 'teacher's lounge').

For all my desire to be in Israel and start a new chapter in my life- a drastically different chapter- I'm amazed at my ability to still stay mentally present in Bangladesh. I think the overwhelming weight of things left to do keeps me anchored.

I've preemptively started missing my students. I have the urge to hug them at the beginning and end of each class- but that would put me in the same category as the creepy aunt that brings weird gifts and pinches your cheeks too hard- so I restrain myself.

Stickies cover my home and work computer with items that overflow from my to-do lists.

Every day after school seems to be stuff with multiple social, moving commitments and errands galore.

I've started packing. I'm waiting for the shipping company to drop off boxes so I can keep going. For a year, I've looked at every object in my home and mentally weighed its value to me. I've finally gotten to the point of acting on long formed thoughts. As my apartment empties it's like a giant purge. It's cleansing and therapeutic. I love the letting go. I love being able to let go. As much as I enjoy the comfort of physical things, I enjoy more the purge that reminds me that they are just that... things. It's a personal rejection of consumerism that has become pop culture- a consumerism to the point of consuming one's soul- the need to acquire that drives ambition and sometimes bends morality. It's a beautiful balance between appreciation of certain objects, comforts, with the recognition that life is so much more than creature comforts and status symbols. The purging takes on a spiritual tone.

Reminders of the fragility of life still surround. Out of our small staff, two members are currently in the hospital- one with appendicitis, another recovering from a stroke. A third member has finally made it back after a month dealing with heart issues. One day last month 20% of the teachers were out sick. And if illness is hitting us, the privileged and protected with balanced diets and clean water, imagine the 150 million Bangladeshis, most of whom are not so privileged. The hospitals were overflowing, in the most literal sense possible. With all the reminders sprouts a determination to really live, really experience, truly enjoy each moment, each interaction, each person. In a world full of unknowns, I find comfort in creating quality of life since I can find no guarantees for quantity.



At some point I imagined that I would post a weekly picture for life in Dhaka. It never really manifested itself that way. But I did take these pictures last month. To me they are so totally Dhaka- the masses and masses of bundled wires, the bamboo ladder reaching upward, leaning against the same wires the worker is fixing- so precariously positioned. The clear blue sky despite that pollution and amazing masses of green that push through an otherwise cement city. And just life as usually continuing on below.

BHUTAN!

Okay- the long promised photos- with captions! Just so you know, I whittled the 900+ photos down to 130 or so... which is still gobs... but hopefully a reasonable amount. ENJOY!

Driving in the 'hood. :)

Here's a video that give you a great idea of what my neighborhood is like- it's a friend's drive to work. Keep an eye out for the rickshaws, the CNG's (motorized rickshaws), people walking to work, and my favorite- the kid cages- a bangladeshi rickshaw version of a 'school bus'.

Back in Dhaka

Yesterday I got back from the most wonderous vacation in Bhutan. (Yes, everyone make a guess of where it is before you get out your maps.) Bhutan blogging will come once I start getting photos uploaded- I have a little over 1000 to choose from so some level of editing is required.

One of the fabulous parts about vacationing in Bhutan is the direct flight is a little under an hour so virtually no time is lost due to travel and I never even left the time zone. (Compared with my original flight from the US to Bangladesh which was 27 or so hours, starting from LA and has about 13 or 14 hours time difference, depending on daylight savings time- yes, my definition of travel time has be dramatically altered.)

We arrived back around 10:30am still leaving plenty of time for a full Dhaka day. I came home, unloading the dirty clothes from my pack, gave Morshida money for groceries and had her start making cranberry and orange zest macaroons that I had been dreaming about all week. (Really, what is Passover without macaroons?) Then I popped downstairs where my driver had the car waiting (hey, I only have two more months of the princess lifestyle and I plan on living it up to the last second!). I made a quick run to the US commissary (Seriously, I think I have a love affair with that place. Every time a friend asks me where I found a certain food item, I say, “US Comm.”) I dropped off the dry cleaning, a picture frame that needs to be fixed and then told my driver to head to the salon! (Yes, totally princess points here.)

I’ve gotten into the habit of reading in the back of the car. First off, this is one of the joys of not having to drive oneself, and secondly, it deters many of the beggars and street merchants. Currently I’m reading Tales of a Female Nomad and I’m thoroughly enjoying it. It also helps distract me from the horrors that are traffic in Dhaka. (I am so happy to have a safe driver!)

I usually pop around Dhaka in my personal car with A/C and good book bubbled bliss with only the occasional determined rapping of fingers and rasping of “madam” at my window. I look up occasionally to see where we are and then dive back into my book. We got to a right turn (for those of you who don’t drive on the left side of the road, read obnoxious left turn on a busy street with no light and cars inching by bumper to bumper to prevent anyone from trying to turn and blocking up the two adjoining streets) and sat there and waited. Page after page I sat and read, looking up at finding myself in the only barely inches forward. This is so silly! I thought so I went to jump out my door- oh wait! A small green motorized rickshaw (CNG) had pulled up an inch from my door- so I jumped out the other side, jumped over the hood of a car and right into the middle of the bumper-to-bumper traffic. (Hence the need for jumping cars to get anywhere in the gridlock.) And then I started directing traffic, standing with my legs touching the front bumpers of various cars with aggressive drivers. Once my car was through, I waved my driver forward and kept waving one arm towards the turning cars, CNGs and rickshaws while holding an authoritative “stop” hand to the obstinate drivers who started this mess. I stayed until all the waiting vehicles had turned right and vehicles on the other side of the road could once again advance. As I jumped back into my car, which was waiting a few meters ahead, a rickshaw wallah called out enthusiastically to me in English, “Thank you Madam!” I gave him a smile and was quickly off to the salon.

I got a nice head/ shoulder massage with a hot oil hair treatment and a manicure/ pedicure where my nails got buffed to a shine that would make even a new Mercedes Benz blush. Then I walked back home. I took advantage of having electricity at the moment (it goes off about 5-10 times a day) and snuggled into my massage chair.

It is a crazy life I lead: In one day I’m eating breakfast on a beautiful terrace in a magical Himalayan Kingdom and directing traffic in a crowded and dirty developing city! Oh yeah, and don’t forget- it all has to be done with nicely cleaned, shaped and buffed finger and toenails. J

Bitter Herb on Passover

Spring

I finally did it- I admit it! I never thought I would. I've resisted and resisted. But I've succumbed. There's no use denying it, I'm guilty as charged. After a year and a half of mocking the idea, belittling it- such ridicule I've spouted when people suggested or implied it- my face distorting with half mocking lines of surprise and disgust. But today I finally relented. I couldn't hold back any longer. I must just say it, this thing I've done. I called my driver to have him pick me up from work to avoid walking half a block. There, I said it.

But wait! Don’t judge me so quickly, so swiftly- don’t view me unkindly. I promise you I had reason and I blame the season- it’s true. Don’t mock me with that look, those eyes. I’m not wasteful- that I despise. Don’t call me spoiled and pampered and all things unjust. I usually walk that half-block, at daybreak and dusk. Let me tell you my reasons- really it’s a must!

I’ve been watching and waiting, biding my time, for I knew it was coming but not understanding how strong.

For these past few weeks I’ve wondered. On my walk I’ve watched barren trees sprout small leaves. I wanted to watch so carefully this year- the magical development of spring. But I blink and looked up and all the brown dusty branches were bathed in the soft yellow green of new growth. I tried to imagine each cell splitting – mitosis after mitosis- daughter cells growing, chromosomes replicating and being drug to each end, their legs and arms failing unwilling behind. Cell walls being constructed faster than I can imagine… maybe for some, the science kills the mystery and the beauty but for me- it just increases my amazement at the leaves that seem to appear fully formed, straight from the air. I walked with my eyes lifted high, appreciating how the distance is somehow so much greater has newly crowned trees blocked the buildings and sky behind… what a contrast those fresh new leaves form next to the deep ages green covered with a dry winter’s worth of dust and pollution.

And I’ve been thinking… it must be time for the rains to come. Those rains need to come to wash the trees and rinse the streets. Those rains that give life and steal land it in its river-swelling floods, shrinking Bangladesh and squeezing its people.

And today… as I start my last term teaching in Dhaka… as I begin to clean and prune my existence here, to sell, box, ship and store… As I carefully prepare for my own new post-Dhaka beginning… the rains have come… with golf-ball size hail, rancorous thunder and lighting that explodes like an instantaneous moment of midday thrust into night…

So, rather that subject my work laptop to the hail and shoalsh my way home, I relented and called my driver- thankful that he was still at the covered parking in my apartment building, waiting for me.

And as I enter my apartment without a drop on me, I see Morshida’s shoes waiting outside. She welcomes me into my home, filled with fresh white ginger flowers. I notice that my balcony furniture sits completely dry, inside. And as I sit to write, and admire the storm that echoes into my living room, Morshida comes to sit on the floor by my chair. And, with tears in her eyes, she tells me that her husband disappeared in February. After a month she called and he informed her that he has taken another wife and will not be coming back. He wants her to leave her job, take their children out of school and come live with his new wife in a place she has no hope of finding a job even near as good as she has in Dhaka. And still, her mother-in-law lives with her, telling Morshida how wonderful her son is and what horrible wife Morshida is.

It pains me to let her walk out into the hail that pounds down. She insists, what is she to do? She must go home to her children. She cannot wait out the storm. I lend her an umbrella and she walks into the angry weather with the benefit of its flimsy protection. I cannot help but notice the metaphor – as she walks from the temporary sanctuary of my home back into her world where women of her status have no rights and may be pounded with fists like the angry stinging ice that falls from the sky. I have to wonder if she takes more than thin borrowed umbrella from my home… does she gather some self-esteem? Self-worth? Can this job in my home give her anything, no matter how weak or temporary, to shield herself from the harsh realities of her life?

And a few moments after see leaves, the angry grumbles of thunder quiet in the distance as the storm calms… and I pray for the little woman whose life is controlled by the storms of her nation.