During my tenure with the Peace Corps in Bangladesh, I kept a personal travel blog. Here are a few entries exemplary of my off-the-cuff, casual writing style. Click the date to visit the blog itself.
Pneumonia, in the Study, with the Candlestick
This is the post I hope my parents don’t read.
I just can’t seem to catch any really cool diseases. The bronchitis hasn’t really gone away, and now it looks like I might have pneumonia. But they’re not sure. And, um, yeah, there’s a “spot” on the X-ray. Now this probably isn’t a big bad “spot,” in fact, it’s probably just an irregularity on the film. But nonetheless I get to cough my phlegm into a special cup that resembles something from an alchemist’s lab. I’ve been getting fevers (not too bad, usually 102 or so) and don’t have an appetite. And tomorrow–you guessed it–they’re going to collect some of the discharge from the other end. Oh, and I’ve lost weight. I now weigh less than I have since high school. But that’s deceiving since I’ve only really lost 14 pounds. Unfortunately, 14 pounds off a skinny guy is like 58 pounds off of some portlier gentleman.
All that said, I could be a lot worse. And they had Top Gun on cable last night at the fancy hotel, so I’d say as a tradeoff for the current ailment it was worth it.
And on the bright side, I saw a large box of laundry detergent in a store last night whose name, printed in bright red letters (ala Surf or Tide) was “Barf.” So I could feasibly be washing my clothes in barf tonight.
But on the non-bright side, that moment at which she said “spot on the X-ray” was a little surreal–that is, before she explained that it’s probably nothing and at worst it’s a little tuberculosis. You know, that moment at which you feel like you’re in a movie. Sweat instantly forms on the forehead and you feel very small and insignificant. You instantly try to think of all of the unhealthy things you’ve done over the last year and go “D’oh!” when you realize there have been many. The word “Cancer” echoes in your mind from a thousand doctors behind a thousand desks behind a thousand closed doors.
But that’s a bit extreme. Let’s not write my obituary just yet.
Hey no wait, let’s do that.
“Died valiantly saving Chuck Norris and Nelson Mandela from a burning snake pit while solving world hunger. Plans to regenerate and revive him as a Batman-like superhero are currently underway. He is survived by a loving family and thousands of beautiful and talented women who had hoped to be the love of his life.”
But anyway.
NO
It’s over.
PC Bangladesh has been suspended (read: shut down). I am typing this from a room in Washington, DC, where we have all been consolidated and await our Close of Service seminar. Why? Because someone in one of the towns in B’desh got threatened by a member of an Islamic extremist group.
My grief, and the grief of other volunteers, has at times been overwhelming. We had just gotten through some of the toughest times; we were excited about actually starting to do some things that we could be proud of for the rest of our lives. This was our home.
Why did I ever waste a single day feeling sorry for myself? More often than not I was annoyed by the legion of little kids outside my door constantly trying to get whatever piece of me they could. On my way to the bus station they chased my rickshaw repeating the same “Halllo, Uncle!” just like any other day. Some days I would smile and reply back in Bangla, but most days I’d just ignore it if I was in a bad mood. On this day I just stared. It was a lot easier not to get down about the state the world’s in when I could tell myself I was at least doing my part to stem the tide.
No one understands why we have left. I will be forever replaying the mental tapes of the faces of my colleagues and friends falling one after another when they learned the news. There was a pattern: First, the eyes would fall as the information was processed. Immediately following, the eyes would flit about the floor in order to assess the believability that such an unsuitable thing was really happening. Next, the eyes would return to my face and the mouth would protest: “But Bangla Bhai and Sheikh Abdur Rahman were captured!” After my flimsy explanation, the eyes would lag off to the side and the mouth would stall, wishing it could speak better English or that mine could speak better Bangla so we could sit down together and work out that Peace Corps was WRONG, I COULD stay and this was all a big mistake. The eyes would come back and ask, “You’re really leaving? For good?” Yes. And then the face would change to match mine. “Oh, this is very sad news for us.”
And I had nothing to say.
When I first touched down in Bangladesh, I’d never have admitted it but I was filled up mostly with what should be called dread. Leaving on the plane yesterday, the only thing I could think was
NO
No. This is not right. It feels like someone has died. While this is not as dire a loss as the loss of a friend, spouse, or fiancee, I am reminded of Laura G.’s loss of her love a few years ago. They had only been “together” for less than a year. But in that time they had found a love that made them happy to think about the future. YES! I’VE FINALLY GOT SOMETHING RIGHT! THIS IS WHAT MY LIFE FROM NOW ON WAS SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE. Then not.
And that’s only for me. It’s less than a picnic for the hundreds of friends and colleagues around the country whose hopes for their respective towns–well founded or not–were resting on the work of some kids from America. So many want to leave the country as it is. Every day someone would ask me to take them–sometimes as a joke, sometimes not. Most who are fortunate enough to leave the country to get a good education don’t come back. How can things ever get better?
And yet this is a nation that has come back from floods, war, oppression, and extreme overpopulation and continues to thrive. Maybe they’re better off without us coming and raising false hopes among the educated few with whom we fraternize.
war of attrition
Today 2 students whose English level is better than the rest of their classmates found out that they were not selected to be in my upcoming English class because, as I attempted to explain, they would not learn very much since they already know what most of the other students are about to learn. These two accosted me and we had . . a . . discussion. Lower lips quivered, and there was crying. Without the certificate they would earn from my class–and apparently the mental benefit of taking a class with the first foreigner they’ve ever met–they believe that their job prospects would be significantly poorer. I’m sure they prepared for days, if not weeks, for the screening interview that ironically eliminated them.
My tentative “solution” was to invite them to my once-a-week open practice session on Wednesdays, which is currently populated only by other teachers from the DYD, since that is the only demographic group that I am currently instructing. It’s an informal session and not part of a class.
So. The teachers who are in my class hear of this offer. Immediately they come to me and protest, saying that it is not proper for students and teachers to mix in such a fasion. They will not allow students to attend the practice session.
“But, just for practice?”
“It is our culture.”Faaaantastic. Now, here’s the thing: these teachers are not selfish or bad people. They are actually quite nice and easy to get along with. In other words, they’re right–it really is their culture that students and teachers can’t even practice English together even though English practice is what people beg me for EVERY DAY.
Situations like this are quite common for PCVs in Bangladesh. But as I ran down the 4 flights of stairs to my counterpart’s office, thinking about my missing cell phone (Peace Corps-issued), angry landlord, ear infection, bronchitis, crying students, and best friend’s wedding (the one I’ll be missing in a few days), I felt really good. Maybe it’s just that being the center of attention is nice, even when it’s not all positive attention. Maybe it’s just the delicious irony. But at the time, I’m thinking the most likely reason is that it really is pure bliss to feel relevant. And I do. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have a lot of love (or at least liking) for myself. But today, I felt relevant. If I have a bad day because I’m feeling sorry for myself because I’m sick, then my cause here suffers. Maybe those students would cry for any foreigner, but there aren’t any other foreigners here, now, teaching an English course. I guess it only feels like I’m doing something good if something’s going wrong at the same time.
Matt and Brielle: Someday soon I will tell you about the my failed plot to get an early leave to come home for your wedding. I did try, and I even told a few fibs to my superiors in doing so. But it didn’t work. I love you both more than I have shown. And I am not a little saddened that I will be here and you will be there. It’s the only thing that I have regretted about coming here.
Hey, I think this might be the first post where I haven’t tried to make any jokes or write anything funny. Maybe the Blue Fairy will make me into a real boy now.
I would be interested in hearing more about your Peace Corp experience in Bangladesh. I may be interested in having you write something about this as well.