No Please, No Thank You

It was Gulshan, for dinner.  ‘Do you enjoy living in the East?’ the Australian woman said, her first words to me on that evening, with enough vitriol in her tone to strip rust from a pole.  Why the bitterness?  I was confused.  I rarely think of East and West: and if I did, East might mean Russia or China, not Bangladesh.  Bangladesh is a South Asian nation but mostly I think of it as: Bangladesh.  It requires no reference point.

My Bangladeshi friend Situ was there, thankfully, and in the short conversation that followed she made mention of how she cannot tell the difference between Bangladeshis, Indians and Pakistanis, which might be alright if she didn’t work with these communities in Sydney.  She challenged my saying that Bangladesh was not India and required Situ to attest the fact the two countries actually differ.  And when I suggested Bangladeshis might be flashier in style than at least their Paschimbangan counterparts, she indicated Situ and said ‘I don’t see any gold anywhere!’  She’d been in Bangladesh for less than twenty-four hours.  It was her first visit.

She spoke of her trip, maybe a week, to a village in Western Ukraine.  The scene was of poverty, despair and people who didn’t know how to fix the village water pump.  They had kitchens smaller than her Australian bathroom.  ‘The country’s been ruined!’ she declared, ‘It will never recover.’ Then she almost spat out the word ‘Russians!’  I might not mention such unfortunate inanities except that she was certain her pending visit to a village in Jessore would be identical.  ‘I already know what it’s going to be like.’ 

For an Australian, a visit to a Bangladeshi village is a significant opportunity to learn, not only of Bangladesh but of oneself.  It seemed a shame that such a great opportunity might be lost before it began.

Fortunately we didn’t have to stay.  As we left she was busily telling a young Bangladeshi girl, maybe six years old, ‘In English we say please and thank you!’  She wanted to force the girl to say ‘please’ before handing her a candy.  There was some irony in her instructing on manners and it made me wonder if I had ever been so culturally judgemental. 

The young girl didn’t know what to do.  I wanted to say, ‘Look, it’s there, her ‘please’ is in her expression.  It’s in her shyness which means respect.’  I wanted to say, ‘Leave her alone!’ or ‘How about you learn some Bangla?’  But there was no point.

Reality: if an English-speaker sits at a Norwegian dinner table they’re likely to be shocked.  ‘Pass the salt!’ they’ll say, a little too directly.  On the Norwegian street, passers by stare, while in Sydney it’s usual if you catch a stranger’s eye to look away or smile.  The difference was significant enough that when I first went to Oslo at age eighteen the street staring used to have me scanning my clothes to see if there was something odd.  T-shirt is back to front?

Yet within days I’d learnt that Norwegian phrase takk for maten, ‘thanks for the food,’ to be said after every meal.  I learnt takk for sist, which means ‘thanks for the last time we met,’ and can be said on re-meeting someone.  In Australia there are not similar customs or not in the same way.

Reality: if an English-speaker goes to Iran it’s the locals who might be shocked.  You can’t just say salaam to greet someone; it needs to be a slightly sung, full-hearted salaaaam! to matter.  There might need to be a kiss on each cheek.  Farsi has several phrases for ‘how are you?’  It might be insufficient to use only one; and there are three versions of ‘thank you’, often strung together and with a ‘very much’ thrown in. 

There were other unique systems: Iranians will seat the most important guest furthest from the door and all things should be offered three times and twice refused before being accepted on the third offer, which is the genuine one.  More informally I remember scenes of Iranians passing handfuls of sunflower seeds down the intercity bus, row by row, passenger by passenger, until it reached the foreign guests!  When it comes to the verbal ‘thank you’ alone, Iranians leave English-speakers for dust.

Reality: in Thailand there’s the system of wai-s.  A wai involves palms together and shows differing levels of respect, dependent upon where the fingertips are placed.  A wai above the head is for Buddha or the royal family.  Fingertips that are positioned under the nose are appropriate for elders, under the chin for friends and below the chin for children.  Mere words are not required.

Reality: Bangladeshis are mostly polite, especially in the village; and it might sound strange but I used to wonder how they managed it since there is a deficit of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to an English-speaker’s ears.  It’s because in terms of sophistication, Bengalis leave English-speakers for dust.

Think about all the gestures the foreigner must learn.  There’s the ‘sorry’ pat on the shoulder if you accidentally bump someone in a crowd.  There’s the ‘even sorrier’ arm stroking, often favoured with friends or creditors.  There’s the perhaps old-fashioned ‘very sorry,’ displayed by sticking the tongue out, tugging on ear lobes and doing squats; and I once saw the ‘extremely sorry’ of hitting one’s cheeks with one’s own shoes! 

There’s the sharing a cup of tea to end a dispute and the process of village mediations that must go back for thousands of years.  We can show respect by offering or taking things with both hands.  Splitting bills, as is common in the west, is out of the question and within many a Bangladeshi family the concept of sharing property like clothes or jewellery is taken for granted. 

Think about the degrees of ‘you’ that no longer exist in English.  In place of every aapni, imagine if you put a ‘please’: how much more prolific they would be than in an ordinary English sentence, because aapni is there in every verb.  Tumi and tui may also have politeness when they indicate closeness or caring.

Think about the greetings.  It took me time to properly understand how all the villagers saying assalamu alaikum or namaskar were not simply saying ‘hello’ or ‘good morning.’  Walaikum salam, I could happily respond, without having a clue as to the respect present within the exchange. 

Years ago, it was common after a handshake to put your hand to the heart; and there’s the hand-to-mouth-then-heart gesture if your foot accidentally touches someone, the gesture that makes the villagers laugh when I do it because I’ve added a little signature flick to the end of mine.  Beyond that, there are indescribable smaller gestures, a look in the eyes or a smile of delight: nobody seems to do these things the way Bengalis do.  And let’s not even get started on the jamai, the son-in-law!  These ways of expressing politeness, caring and consideration are harder to fake than the verbal version.

Unfortunately, telling that girl to say ‘please’ is not a neutral act.  It is a cultural imposition that sets the English-speaker’s way as the standard to live up to and be judged by.  Let’s not do that anymore.  This is the twenty-first century and we tried that last century. 

The girl can be polite in the very many local ways available and if she wants to attend English class or go to Australia later, let her learn the petty forms of politeness then: it’s easy to adjust to the Toyota model if you’ve been taught to drive the Mercedes.

It’s understandable the Australian woman didn’t know these things.  What’s sad and embarrassing for another Australian is that she couldn’t imagine she didn’t know.  Then again, she didn’t know the Cold War ended either.

In these heady days of a nationwide reaffirmation of what it means to be Bangladeshi, there’s this minor matter I’d like to throw into the pan: Bangladeshi manners.  I’m busy trying to reduce my use of dhonnobhad, the verbal thank you.  I want to drive the Mercedes!

It's not only about manners of course, but different ways of thinking, perhaps what a culture sounds like, or even perceptions of paradise. 



This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: No Please No Thank You














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Pura Vida; or, a Coati's Tale

 “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” 

– Henry David Thoreau in his book Walden; or, Life in the Woods, 1854

(Guest writer: a Costa Rican Coati)

For a good life, take it from me, nothing will surpass a patch of pristine rainforest and a decent sized public rubbish bin.  Sure, a shiny car, ultra-modern, sleek and featuring the latest ergonomics might be enough to make all the other vehicles in the traffic blush.  Sure, a long, tree-lined driveway of pebbles capped by gates in swirling wrought iron might be the envy of friends.  But it’s not pura vida, that quintessentially Costa Rican Spanish phrase that means ‘real living’ or ‘plenty of life’, and is also used for ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’.

Big experiences aren’t necessary either.  While it might be enjoyable to jet off to Cannes for the film festival now and then, to walk the red carpet; or to lounge in the Anguillan sun waiting for chilled refreshments to be brought right to your deck chair, such moments are only fleeting.  Take it from a Costa Rican: keep it simple.

But what would I know?  I’m only a coati and for those who are not quite the mammal experts they might wish to be, think of me as a cousin of the raccoon.

I’m based up in Monteverde, which is sort of in the middle north of Costa Rica about five hours from the capital, San Jose.  It’s not a bad spot: the morning air is crisp and foggy as the clouds roll in over the hills and in the nights there’s a wondrous chorus of insect and frog to promote blissful slumber.  Tree and branch, Monteverde is rich in green, within the 26,000 acres of the Cloud Forest Reserve.  You could say there’s a bit of a backyard at my place. 

 

In pursuit of packaged pura vida the tourists arrive from early morning to take a stroll in our patch of forest.  They’ve made trails for themselves with boardwalks and wooden stairs.  The tourists can be noisy and nosy when they come, but we don’t mind posing for their cameras, knowing that by habit in their backpacks is likely some portion of our lunch.  It’s a straightforward matter to take a break atop the visitor’s centre roof or in a tree, to wait for the tourists to shuffle off into the greenery.

I don’t wish to indulge in needless nationalism but I like being Costa Rican.  Well, I write ‘Costa Rican’ but casually we’re known as Ticos, particularly the humans.  We coatis are Ticos too and it’s not a bad thing to be.  I don’t mean to bore you with facts but our Costa Rica has around 25% of its land area protected in national parks and reserves, more than any other country.  Costa Rica’s been recognised as the planet’s greenest nation and since 2007 we’ve had this little goal of becoming the first carbon neutral country by 2021.  I don’t mean to sound proud, just because our Tico facts are impressive enough to be printed on t-shirts to sell to the tourists.

Anyway, for me and my coati friends it’s rather more the 2012 ban on recreational hunting that’s the favourite, because we do sport rather pretty jackets and it’s not everyone who can let that be.  So we retire to the tranquillity of our cloud forest, and the general dampness and breeziness, let me assure you, is not much of a bother when one has the warmth of fur to rely on.  It’s about dressing appropriately, nothing more. 

If I mention the sifting through trailhead garbage for food, my pura vida might not sound like your cup of tea.  But the tourists are generous in their bread crumbs, shards of vegetables and leftover fruit.  It’s incredible the amount of perfectly good food scraps they discard.  Better still, the rubbish bin is an ecosystem that attracts insects.  It’s a one-stop shop for all the nutritional requirements and the smell isn’t too atrocious on account of the rainforest air.  I’ll tell you something else: it’s tiring to wander the pristine wilds on a daily basis; much better to hang around the rubbish bins.  You can think of it as recycling, as any good Tico would.  Our omnivorous diet is our national contribution.

Down the road a bit the tourists like to watch the hummingbirds that come, attracted by the nectar trays hung out.  They’re small birds, hummingbirds, of several species in Monteverde, all with delicate curved bills suited to nectar-feeding.  But it’s neither their size nor their shiny feathers that impress the tourists, I suppose, as much as how rapidly they can flap their little wings to hover, mid-air, while they eat, if they wish.  At the other end of the scale in terms of speed are the two and three-toed sloths that tourists like to spy on night hikes.  They’re so slow that moss can grow on them.

In every respect Costa Rica is a wildlife haven.  Being in Central America, species that developed in both the North and the South, separately, learnt to intermingle here when the land bridge formed and the landmasses joined.  As I said, our cousins the raccoons prefer up north while in South America are other coati species.  As a result, while our Costa Rica might account for only 0.25% of the planet’s land surface it has 5% of the world’s biodiversity, right here!  Ah, but I sound like I’m boasting.  I would only mention how I like living in a cosmopolitan, multi-species cloud forest society.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect to our lifestyle is how attracted the foreigners have become to our Tico ways.  It’s not a decent habit to eavesdrop but I once heard these American girls, mid-twenties at a guess, talking about a retreat down on our Pacific coast where foreigners try to live in harmony with nature.  There’s no TV there and I believe as much as possible they grow their own food.  I guess even in America the heritage is not only the bright lights of Hollywood, the oil tycoon tiffs of Dallas and the roulette wheels of Vegas.  There’s also Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, where Mr. Henry David Thoreau in the nineteenth century once tried to live a pura vida of his own.  That’s American heritage too.  A secret: Walden’s back in vogue.

There’ll always be critics, those who find my words too 1970s and hippy.  I’d remind that if we think of the 1970s it was flower power that ended the Vietnam War.  It’s not an achievement to be scoffed at.  Not that we could ever have a problem like the Vietnam War here in Costa Rica, because our renowned President José Figueres Ferrer constitutionally abolished our standing army in 1948, leaving more to spend on health, education and culture; making us the most peaceful and politically stable country in Central America.  Neighbouring Panama followed our example in 1990 so it’s catching on.  There must be another tourist t-shirt in all that somewhere.

I’ll have to leave you there: think I smell some tourist tamale, made of corn, delicious, and there has to be some left on the plantain leaf it’s wrapped in when they toss it out!  Do stop by though, if you’re ever lucky enough to visit Costa Rica.  No appointment needed: we coatis will be right here, hanging out around the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve rubbish bins. Pura vida!

Statistics in this piece researched on Wikipedia here and here.

Algo mas?             

Bolivia en Español?   

Bangladesh en Español? 

Something else?  

Bolivia in English?     

Argentina, Chile or Uruguay? 

This article also published in Star Magazine, 
here:Pura Vida

Let the Boat Sail

(Photos courtesy Ms. Viquarunnisa Mahjabin)

To the Padma, the Jamuna and the Meghna, to all the snaking river trails that trace the journey of this land Bangladesh, to their water currents and the tides of the Bay that lead to new horizons we will go.  Beyond the sand bars, the winter fog and the waves of the monsoon deluge: whatever challenge may arise we will face.  Too, we will follow the currents of time and our distances we will celebrate.  Because, as the Bangla folk song Nao Chariya De says, ‘Let the Boat Sail!’

And where shall it take us?  Sometimes, with just the right mixture of wishes for good fortune, happiness, prosperity and longevity, with just the right, adventurous boatman, the boat might even sail as far as China and beyond, into a new year.

An event on the evening of 7 February 2013 at the Bangladesh Shilpakala Academy was such a voyage.  Hosted by the Chinese Embassy and the Institute of Modern Languages at the University of Dhaka, to officially welcome the Chinese New Year to the Bangladeshi capital, the evening’s entertainment did more: it brought together guest, performer and audience; and in a modest way brought closer two Asian nations.

In China, the fifteen-day Spring Festival that signifies the Chinese New Year is a time for family reunions, reconciliation and peace.  It’s a time for that ‘spring clean’ of the house, to sweep away bad luck from each residence and with decoration, to ready the household for the incoming good luck of a new beginning.  On the first day of the year children give blessings to their elders in return for red envelopes of money and, as at Eid, new clothes are not out of place.  Gifts are exchanged, banquets savoured and fireworks set off.  And around each front door, on red paper, are banners of Chinese calligraphy to admire, expressing hopes for the future using the thoughtful, auspicious words of tradition.

This month of February is likewise auspicious in Bangladesh.  As the Director of the Production Department at Shilpakala, Mr. Shawkat Ali, pointed out in his welcome, International Mother Language Day is near at hand and shall be celebrated before the Spring Festival concludes.  Neither could there be a more auspicious venue for what was a linguistic celebration: the students of Dhaka University had the opportunity to demonstrate their impressive Chinese language skills: in poetry, word play and song, as well as in the introductions to each; and members of Dhaka’s Chinese community were likewise able to show their enthusiasm for Bangla.

The evening’s guests included the Presidents of the Bangladesh China People’s Friendship Association and the Bangladesh China Chamber of Commerce and Industry, the Directors of Shishu Academy and the Confucius Institute, the Chinese Ambassador, His Excellency Li Jun and his wife Mrs. Ren Jingzhu.  The Ambassador, after expressing his greetings for the New Year and his hopes that fruitful relations and understanding between the two countries will continue to flourish, received warm applause in appreciation, in particular for his final three words.  ‘Ami Bangladesh bhalobashi,’ he said, ‘I love Bangladesh.’

The performances showcased traditional and modern Chinese music and dance, including the well-known song and dance, Come to Taipei to Watch the Rain in Winter; the song befitting Spring Festival, Wish You Prosperity; and the duet, Remember My Wishes.  The pop song Talking About Peking Opera meanwhile, is about the feelings of Chinese young people towards one of the traditional Operatic forms in China.  As well as song and dance, there was a demonstration of Taiji Fan, which is a meeting of boxing, martial arts and dance, combining the three into a performance that is artistic and entertaining, masculine yet graceful. 

Pepper Powder is a now-classic mime routine in China, associated with the Spring Festival and famously performed by Chinese comedians Chen Peisi and Zhu Shimao on television in 1989.  It’s a humorous account of an accidental meeting of one gentleman and one not-so-gentleman in a restaurant, where the former has brought his own pepper shaker with which to season his soup, while the latter thinks it belongs to the restaurant.  When the former leaves with his shaker, the latter decides he might as well take home the restaurant’s bowl!

Also enjoyable was the performance of Sān Jù Bàn, literally ‘Three and a Half Phrases’ which involves four performers, the first with a drum, the next with a cymbal, the third with a small gong and the last with a larger gong.  Each of the first three recites a punchy, rhyming sentence, traditionally of seven Chinese characters in length, and strikes their instrument, while the last gives the punch line, traditionally two Chinese characters long, to the sound of his gong.  The students devised their own script for the evening, concerning the difficulties of learning Chinese; including how, if the tones in wŏ wèn nĭ, ‘I ask you’, are pronounced incorrectly, it can embarrassingly become wŏ wěn nĭ which means ‘I kiss you’. 

In addition there was fire dancing acrobatics to enliven the evening and the Bangladeshi contribution of a cultural fashion parade that rather nicely placed Lalon, Tagore and Nazrul Islam next to the ordinary farmers and fishermen of Bangladesh, as contributors to this country.  The heart filled rendition of Invisible Wings by Ms. Mumtaheena Anwar Isma was to my mind a favourite because I felt she was able to adapt well to the delicate and deliberate mode of singing and performing that is customary in China, while being very different to the fuller, more fluid-in-movement style characteristic of Bengali performance traditions.  Capturing such cross-cultural subtleties is certainly not an easy thing to do.

According to the Chinese calendar, this coming year is the year of water, and of the snake.  To an amateur like me, it sounds as if it might be an auspicious year for the Padma, the Jamuna and the Meghna, for the country whose journey is shaped by its snaking river trails.  Let’s hope so. 

And as the evening at Shilpakala demonstrated, as sometimes the boat doesn’t really need to reach its destination because it can be that the destination rather reaches its boat, in this auspicious February month it might be worthwhile to, at the very least, learn one Chinese phrase: Chūnjíe Kuàilè!  Happy Spring Festival!

With the students having performed all evening it was finally time for their Chinese teachers to take to the stage, in orange saris and with courage, to give a delicate and deliberate interpretation of a usually fuller, more fluid-in-movement style of dance, to the folk song Nao Chariya De.  It was great!  And if their efforts are in any way indicative of the future for Chinese – Bangladeshi relations, of the energy and enthusiasm to be brought to them, then the future looks bright.  Let the boat sail!

 現在，在中國讀的東西嗎？

Continue on from here to China? 

Not sure about watching the rain in Taipei? Then try Kaoshiung in the summer sunshine instead.

Or get all browsy with Bangladesh!

This article also published in Star Magazine, here: Let the Boat Sail

Planes tras la Puerta

¿Por qué vivo en Dhaka? ¿Será que prefiero el ácido sabor del entremés en Noakhali o los dulces de Bogra? ¿O será la dicha de tener tantos snack bar y cafeterías disponibles en las calles de Dhaka? ¡Más bien es la sensación de vivir en comunidad y poderlo contar; de disfrutar la inagotable alegría de la gente, dejando atrás el individualismo y centrándome en establecer una mejor conexión con lo humano!

Es el ir y venir de las cosas aquí, la amplia sabiduría de su gente y el hecho de que todo lo que hay que hacer es disfrutar de la vida hasta cansarse; aunque siento que es mucho más simple culpar a Rosmary y de hecho lo hago.

No obstante, escucho la voz de mi conciencia, susurrando consejos tras la puerta.

Es 2005 y estoy por terminar la clase de inglés para doctores, justo a las 9:00 de la noche. Las multitudes se han retirado a esta hora de la avenida Arce; las Aymaran, con sus amplias faldas y sombreros típicos ya están en casa, mientras los hombres regresan del trabajo y hasta los pequeños limpiabotas –que enmascaran su identidad con balaclavas- pues ser limpiabotas en La Paz, Bolivia, no es cosa para enorgullecerse, han llegado ya a su lugar de reposo del cansancio del día.

Mi clase es la última del día y, como siempre, el director del instituto me espera en el pasillo. Al salir me pide que lo espere, mientras se esfuerza en cerrar con cadena y candado la vieja casona, pintada de un blanco y marrón desteñidos, con apenas tres árboles custodiando el sendero del patio. Al mismo tiempo que conecta la alarma, me cuenta alguna anécdota con un ingenioso juego de palabras de doble sentido. Mis estudiantes, profesionales durante el día, deambulan entreteniéndose por el camino hacia la calle.

Carlos es el único médico en el grupo de los doctores, es un gran humorista que durante las clases, cambia sus oraciones de: “I went to the city yesterday” (Fui a la ciudad ayer) a “I went to the city last week” (Fui a la ciudad la semana pasada) por no estar seguro de cómo pronunciar “yesterday”. Por otro lado, Remy está pensativa, es la dentista de las colinas del este de la ciudad, que me trae manzanas o galletas, no como soborno, pues siempre obtiene la máxima puntuación. Y Marina, mi hostelera, presente siempre que no está tejiendo para alguna lejana cooperativa.

Y también Silvia, que vive en el sur y habla un inglés fluido y suave como la seda, usando su Salmar Kameez, porque le gusta –aunque no es tradicional- y no se deja incomodar por las reglas lingüísticas ni gramáticas. Eso me gusta de ella, su audacia y bravuconería para comunicarse, a pesar de todo. Y como su profesor, supongo que no debería estar de acuerdo, sin embargo me gusta. ¡Soy la señora Mumbai! me dice, adoptando el seudónimo con un aire excitante y libre, desde su primer viaje a Mumbai, ¡y ciertamente ella es la señora Mumbai para mí!, no hay otra como ella.

Carlos se monta en su motocicleta, listo para irse, pero esperando por su esposa Rosmary, ella completa el grupo de estudiantes.

Es 2005 y por culpa del candado están todos entretenidos. Robert hace una mueca, enredado con la cadena y el candado, tratando de cerrarlo a toda costa; me pide que lo intente y lo hago mientras todos hablan. Cualquiera pensaría que estarían cansados -después de una hora y media recibiendo inglés- pero al final de la clase, el español emerge liberado de su prisión y con más energía, como un toro bravo que sale al ruedo.

Marina se ríe de algo que dijo Silvia, Rosmary explica como su suegra no quiere saber nada de motocicletas, así que ella la vigila para que al menor descuido, Carlos la guarde dentro del apartamento. No debería estar escribiendo esto, pero me tomo la libertad porque la madre de Carlos no entiende el inglés y este artículo se publicará –además- al otro lado del mundo. Remy comenta sobre la remodelación de su cuarto de baño, los colores de los azulejos o de sus prácticas de baile. Les puedo comentar de esto, solo por algunas frases que me traducen o las pocas que entiendo del español.

Es 2005 y junto a la puerta, todos susurran sus planes e ideas. Nunca sé a ciencia cierta cuál es la última, pero he aprendido a dejarlos planear, como si la vida fuera una sorpresa tras la otra. Algunas veces proponen el restaurante para la cena, otras retoman la fiesta de “Bienvenido a Bolivia” de un amigo de Sydney que nos debe la visita. Él está retrasado, pero la fiesta sigue adelante sin su homenajeado, con Silvia cocinando un pastel de quinoa, grano cultivado en los Andes que tiene supuestas propiedades medicinales. Carlos y Rosmary traen los suministros y el Sushi vegetariano, que solo ellos saben dónde encontrar. No se vende en ninguna tienda, así que hay que saber que puerta tocar para obtenerlo. Marina trae manzanas y Remy un postre rosa estilo Mousee.

Marina le pregunta a la señora Mumbai dónde está esa tienda a la que ha corrido, en la que ha comprado el saris y donde se vende el bindi indio que usa y cómo puede obtenerlo. Cuando todo está listo, Marina me pregunta si Silvia habla correctamente el inglés, porque la escucha hablarlo fluido y osado y ella misma no está segura. Le digo que “el inglés de la señora Mumbai es perfecto” y ambos reímos pues, de alguna manera es verdad. Finalmente, reto a Carlos a que beba agua de su vaso con palillos chinos y con eso se gana la máxima calificación en el próximo examen.

Estos planes susurrados nos hacen volar hasta un lejano fin de semana, en casa de Silvia, ubicada entre el valle de la Luna y el del Sol. Comemos y bailamos, mientras Carlos usa su pañuelo al mismo modo que los kurdos. Y de las conversaciones surgen preguntas, tales como: ¿Bolivia es un buen lugar para vivir? Ellos saben que he viajado por todo el mundo, así que esperan todos expectantes mi respuesta: ¡Claro que sí!

Es 2005 y Rosmary pregunta de nuevo ¿Pero dónde te gustaría vivir definitivamente? Le digo que no lo sé, pero insiste: ¿Dónde sientes que está tu corazón? ¿Cuál es ese lugar donde residirías tú feliz?

Es sorprendente como las grandes preguntas de la vida, tienen respuestas rápidas y sencillas. Pregúntame si quiero azúcar en mi té y me demoraré unos segundos en decidir; más, para esta pregunta de Rosmary solo hay una respuesta obvia e incuestionable ¡Más que en cualquier otro lugar del mundo, viviré en Bangladesh!

¡Entonces te establecerás allí! Afirmó categóricamente.

Moraleja: esta situación es llamativa, como un rojo iris sobrevolando el bosque de Trinidadean o tan errada como ser confundido por un esquimal en el ártico noruego. Las cosas son como son, tan sencillas como para interpretarlas en una conversación común; una frase que se entiende al vuelo, sin rebuscamientos, como la música. Es tan simple como una gran montaña, enmascarado semejando algo diferente, pero es así. Contemplando mi vida en Dhaka, no es del todo incorrecto concluir que es similar a los bolivianos, como estar encerrado tras la puerta de una gran ciudad. Y no es del todo incorrecto culpa a Rosmary, cualquiera puede hacerlo también.

Una vez más, supongo que nada malo podrá venir jamás de improvisar, de planificar siguiendo los consejos de un susurro tras la puerta.

Traducción por: Alin Hidalgo Fonseca

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Tal vez un tren, salas de reuniones y un nuevo país?

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Whispers at the Gate

Is it more the Bangladeshi sour Noakhali curd or the sweet Bogra variety?  Is it the availability of snacks along the street or that small thrill of having crossed a Dhaka roadway and lived to tell about it?  Is it the storytelling or the sense of community; the trying to take up some of that unstoppable cheerfulness street side or leave behind a little individualism in favour of a focus on human connection?  Why do I live in Dhaka?

The up-down, here and back again, deshi memories cover a lot of ground and to think of all there is to think about is time-consuming and wearisome.  It’s really much simpler to blame my living in Dhaka on Rosmary.  And I do.

But I suppose nothing bad could ever come from the whispers at the gate, the whispers that were.

It’s 2005 and the doctors’ class finishes at 9 p.m.  The day crowds are gone from Avenida Arce: the Aymaran ladies bustling by in the morning in their broad skirts and bowler hats are at home; the short, suited gentlemen who maybe work in a bank are done with their evening commute; even the shoe-shiner kids who in La Paz, Bolivia, wear balaclavas to protect their identities because shoe shining is not an esteemed profession, and who sometimes sniff glue, have found a better place to be.

The Language Institute Director, Robert, waits as always for my class to finish, the last of the day.  In turn he asks that I wait while he locks up.  The Institute is in an old house, white and brown, with a long driveway and a few trees in the front yard; and it’s not entirely comfortable to be there alone at a latish hour.  As he sets the alarm he’s narrating some anecdote, preferably with a pun in it to give an alternate, wittier meaning.  The students, professionals by day, wander up the driveway towards the street and on the footpath they linger.

Carlos is the only physician in the doctors’ class.  He’s very humorous: in class he corrects his sentences from ‘I went to the city yesterday’ to ‘I went to the city last week’ because he’s not sure how to spell ‘yesterday.’  Remy is thoughtful.  A dentist from high up on the city’s eastern hills she brings me apples or biscuits, not as a bribe… she gets the top mark anyway.  Marina my landlady is there if she can make it, if she’s not off on a knitting expedition for the knitting cooperative to some far-flung village. 

And Sylvia from the south of the valley has English that flows like her silk scarves and saris, or salwar kameez, what she likes to wear despite it not being her tradition by culture.  She’s not to be bothered by linguistic forms or grammar and I love it: the audacity and the bravado in her need to communicate regardless.  And as her teacher I suppose I shouldn’t love it, but I do.  ‘I am Señora Mumbai!’ she declares, adopting the pseudonym Marina gave her after one long-winded, exciting and almost grammar-free tale of her first trip to Mumbai.  And indeed she is Señora Mumbai.  There’s none like her. 

Carlos sits upon his motorbike, ready to leave, waiting for his wife Rosmary to climb aboard.  She completes the class.

It’s 2005 and it might be because of the padlock they are given to footpath lingering.  Robert grimaces as he fiddles with the chain and attempts to click the lock shut.  He asks me to try.  Meanwhile they’re talking.  You’d think they’d be tired after one and a half hours of English but at the end of the lesson Spanish re-emerges, released from banishment, and the language in its newfound liberty bursts out into energetic conversation like a bull released into a bull ring.  

Marina is laughing at something Sylvia said; Rosmary is explaining how her mother-in-law mustn’t know about the motorbike, how she has to get off it early, up the street, and check the coast is clear before Carlos can ride it into the apartment garage… I shouldn’t be writing that but Carlos’s mother doesn’t read in English and this article will publish on the other side of the world.  Remy discusses her bathroom renovations and the colour of tiles or her dancing practice.  But I tell all this only from the translated portions and the Spanish snippets I understand. 

It’s 2005 and mostly at the gate they whisper plans.  I never know what the latest plan is and I’ve learnt to let those whispers be.  It’s just as well if life has a few surprises in it.  Most often they whisper restaurant dinners and then they whisper together a ‘Welcome to Bolivia’ party for one of my Sydney friends who’s due to visit.  He’s late but the party goes ahead without its guest of honour and Sylvia cooks a quinoa pie, quinoa being a native grain of the Andes that is supposed to be healthy.  Carlos and Rosmary provide the premises and the main course of vegetarian sushi, featuring a Japanese salt available only at a single shop in the south of La Paz, a shop which isn’t actually a shop and involves banging on a private gate only known to those who know!  Marina brings apple pies and Remy offers a pink, mousse-style dessert.

Marina asks Señora Mumbai where the little shop she runs is exactly, the one selling saris and from that starts a long-winded story of the Indian bindi she is wearing and how she came upon it.  When she’s done Marina quietly asks me if Sylvia’s English is correct when she speaks, because it’s bold and flowing and Marina’s not sure.  I tell her Señora Mumbai’s English is more than perfect which makes us both laugh because in a way it’s true.  And I challenge Carlos that if he can drink water from his glass using chopsticks I’ll give him a hundred percent in his next English test. 

Whispers take us further one weekend, to Sylvia’s house that lies between the Valley of the Moon and the Valley of the Sun.  We eat and dance, with her and Carlos waving handkerchiefs about like Kurds do.  And from the whispers, in the parties that arise are the interesting questions like, ‘Bolivia is an okay country isn’t it, for living?’  They know I’ve travelled and it’s all ears for my response. ‘Yes, of course!’

It’s 2005 and Rosmary asks, ‘But where will you live eventually, to settle?’  I casually say I don’t know and she says, ‘But where is your heart?  Where is it that your heart lives?’

It’s striking how sometimes it’s the big life questions that have the easiest answers.  Ask me if I want sugar with my tea and I’ll take a moment to decide; but to Rosmary’s question the answer was obvious and undeniable.  ‘More than anywhere else, it lives in Bangladesh.’

‘Then you should settle there,’ she said.

Wisdom: it’s as conspicuous as a scarlet ibis flying through a Trinidadean mangrove forest, which was to come; and as unusual as being mistaken for a local in the Norwegian Arctic, which had been.  It comes in small packages, short sentences that stand out amongst the routine chattering that has no more sense to it than clattering of cutlery has music.  It stands out amid the mountains of poor quality advice masquerading as something more.  Wisdom: in contemplating my living in Dhaka it’s not entirely incorrect to conclude it’s a Bolivian thing, a matter of a tricky padlock at a city gate.  It’s not entirely incorrect to blame Rosmary.  You can too. 

Then again, I suppose nothing bad could ever come from the whispers at the gate, the whispers that were.

The class and friends

Grammar-free English can enhance one's reputation, in Bangladesh; while in Romania whispers can sustain an old lady in her later years. Or read some more, linger in the Bolivian Andes a while.


This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: Whispers at the Gate





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