Wash Day

Friday is my new Sunday. It is quite hard to adjust to this new time schedule now living in an Islamic country where Friday is the day of mosque and rest. I don’t complain on Thursday when my work week ends early, but come Sunday which is now the new Tuesday with me heading off to the weeks second work day , I am definitely jealous thinking of my US/UK counterparts recovering from their Saturday night haunts with a full day of rest ahead. Nevertheless I try to make the most out of my new Weekend and this past Friday, Greg and I went for a long walk along the river.

As we walked along the busy roads we followed the smelly, murky, trash lined tributaries wondering if they were actually run offs of the river or just open sewers, maybe both. At times there are sidewalks and I am instantly thankful for the safe demarcation from the rickshaw-motorcycle-car-truck-cow-goat-traffic but ever so often there is a gap in the sidewalk and that illusion of a safety sidewalk is actually hovering over a 10ft drop straight above the sewer tributary. I tense up and detour away from the edge every time I walk past a gap with the fear that I may slip of my bedazzled new culturally appropriate wedge flip flops and fall straight into the sludge. But then again can the water be that bad when you see boys wading through, treasure hunting for items that they can redeem for money to eat? It is bad and smelly and I would never want that job even if it meant I didn't have to work on Fridays or Sundays.

We reached the river and besides the interruption in the city skyline of blue sky, green banks and stretch of tan-green water, the sight of men washing themselves and women washing their clothes bring a patchwork of colour to an otherwise muted landscape. A red saree lays out in a perfect rectangle along the concrete bank which slopes from the path down to the bank. Orange baggy trousers and purple/turquoise plaid lunghis lie nearby. The dryer (Sun 365) is at work, beaming down rays and slowly wrinkling the cotton as the river water evaporates from the cloth. A group of men are washing their bodies, with wet heavy lunghis clings to their bums as they voices reach pre-pubertal pitches as they submerged themselves in the cold waters of the river. One man from the opposite bank wades into the water calmly stirring up the mud and leaving a swirling trail behind him. It is Friday--while the devout are praying and while the rich are attending weddings, for others it is washday.

Worms

One of the driving hypothesis of my research here is that girls experience of puberty will be different based on their exposure to pathogens, specifically helminths and in layman's term WORMS. And yesterday confirmed that yes in fact there are worms here in Bangladesh. Greg and I were speaking with one of the postgrad students here and told us a most horrifyingly squeamish story. He remembers sharing a bed with his cousin and waking up to feel a wet squishy thing near his ear. He looked over and a worm had crawled out of his sleeping cousin's mouth, across the cousin's cheek leaving a slimy trail and then migrated over to my friend's own body making its way into his ear! I was horrified, how gross I exclaimed. My friend calmly concluded, "Yes , here we are friends with the helminths." It wont be long until I meet these friend's; hopefully in the stool samples I collect rather than my own loo!

My bangs are on the fringe here

I arrived in Dhaka about a week and a half ago and tomorrow it has been a week since I came to Sylhet. Already, I wish my bangs were longer, parted in the middle like the women I see here. The trendy haristyles of east London look absurd here, especially with my dupata wrapped around my shoulders keeping me warm but most of all acting as a cultural marker letting me blend in. When I first visited Bangladesh almost 4 years ago I was shocked at how quickly I adpated to wanting to wear the scarf around my chest, shoulders and at especially at night covering my head. I remember riding a rickshaw through the busy city centre as night fell and being so thankful that I could hide myself beneath my magenta and lime scarf (they way of contrasting colours here in one's wardrobe is amazing although to some it may be more of a clash than a contrast). In anticipation of this upcoming trip I relayed this story to a British friend and she used the word shield-- how empowering I thought, yes I chose to shield myself not hide. And yet I am quite the awkward white fool fumbling with my dupata (scarf) here. Try as I might to fit in with my culturally appropriate wardrobe (My dear friend Stacy has warned me to remember that it is not culturally appropriate everywhere) I still have not mastered the elegant ease one can drape their dupata around their shoulders or shift from covering their shoulders to head when displaying respect and reverance to people you meet. You can take a girl out of the west, but can she dress in the East?