The Field

Once I had settled in and dealt with the issues surrounding my non-functioning computer and missing luggage, it was time to go into the field. "Into the field" means into the rural areas surrounding the towns, where there is often no electricity or running water. (It does not mean literally into a field, although sometimes that's basically the gist of it.)

The Field is hot, and definitely humid during the rainy season. It is well-mapped by JiVitA staff using GPS, but sometimes even the inimitable drivers (Rahman Bhai, Haroun Bhai, Bishu Bhai and Mithu Bhai) get lost or stuck. The drivers, by the way, are some of the most awesome people I have ever met. They are fantastic. Rahman Bhai was the one that I was closest to by the time I left, because he would pick me up every morning and take me to the office, then take me home every evening. After we said good morning, I would try to practice my Bangla: "Aapni kaemon achhen?" "Bhalo achi madam." ("How are you doing?" "I'm doing well, madam"). That was about as far as I got. Sometimes I would venture a "gorom" ("hot") or "brishthi" ("rain"). Once or twice a driver would ask about how skinny I was getting. "Madam oshushto achhen?" ("Are you sick?")
I also had several conversations with Mithu Bhai about the inherent class system that exists to a much larger extent in Bangladesh than it does in the US. Mithu would tell me, impassioned: "I man, you man. I blood, you blood. I brother, you sister. I Allah, you God. We are both people." Of all the people I met in Bangladesh, Mithu Bhai was the most outspoken about the unfairness of the class system.
Bishu Bhai was the only one of the drivers that was not Muslim (I think), so he would always greet me with "namoshkar" instead of a salaam. We had a conversation about how this was the way my father would greet people (becuase he's Indian, therefore Hindu), so it's the correct way to greet me. I didn't want to explain the intricacies of growing up a multiracial kid, stuck between cultures, countries and religions, so I just nodded and agreed, I am Indian.
And Haroun Bhai, although I didn't talk to him very much, randomly has an extremely extensive knowledge about agriculture. I was riding with the post-doc from Dhaka one day and she was telling me how Haroun had told her that banana trees only bloom once, then they die. You have to plant them again. She learned this from Haroun (who was currently driving us). She said, "Dai na, Haroun Bhai?" ("Isn't that right?") And Haroun Bhai--sheepishly at first, but then more confidently--told me everything I've ever wanted to know about bananas, pineapples, beets, okra, and the different types of rice.

But anyway, back to The Field. The Field is less rural than you'd think--at least in Bangladesh. Bangladesh is one of the most population-dense countries in the world, with 170 million people crammed into a country about the size of Iowa. As a result, I never went to an area so rural that there were no people or houses around. I am not entirely sure a place like that exists in Bangladesh, although I didn't do much traveling around the country and I can't say for sure.
Where I was, The Field mostly consisted of a lot of rice paddies, lined to show ownership with small ridges that rose out of the water, and in which were planted trees for shade. Usually, the trees were these gorgeous, ultra-slender poplar-like trees. I have some photos, but they are on a camera that I left in the US, so I will have to wait until later to post them. Sometimes there would be an outcropping of houses, a neighborhood in the middle of a paddy or next to one. From what I could tell, the houses would face each other, creating a kind of courtyard in the middle of the neighborhood. I have to say here, I can't tell you how things really work in The Field when we aren't there. I don't know really how things are set up or how people interact. All I can tell you is what happened when I went into The Field.

As a foreigner, I attracted a lot of attention. I'm not even white, so I am certain it must be much worse for others (women especially, blondes ESPECIALLY especially). But we'd roll up in the white JiVitA Land Rover or Astrovan, and I would slide open the door and hop out onto the ground. Usually, the neighborhood was all aflutter because there was a gigantic car running down the streets making lots of noise and endangering chickens and goats. So there was usually a little cluster of like 5-10 of the more brave children, peering out to see what the fuss was about. Once they saw the Foreigner, it was game over. They would take off running, and in 10 minutes the entire village would be there to look at me. The more brave women would ask me questions. The questions usually go in this order:

1. What is your country? (A lot of the time I would say India, because it's less confusing for the next question.)
2. What is your father's country?
3. What is your name/father's name?
3. (Once I said "India" to questions 1 and 2) So you speak Hindi?
4. Why don't you speak Hindi?
5. Are you married?
6. It is very sad that you are not married yet. When will you be married? (Two years would be the max. Anything after that and you are "rotten", i.e., past your expiration date as a woman.)
7. How old are you?
8. How much money do you make?
9. (Once I answered "I'm a student" to number 8) You study in school and they don't teach you Hindi? Why is that?
10. How much do you weigh?
11. Why are you a foreigner, but you are still so skinny? Don't you like Bangladeshi food?
11.5 What do people eat where you live? Is there rice?
12. Are you Hindu or Muslim? (The answer "Christian" would often elicit a look of caution on people's faces. Christianity is very uncommon in our study area. There are more women who reported practicing tribal religions than women who reported practicing Christianity.)
13. Your father is Hindu because he is Indian. Why aren't you?
14. So your parents are of TWO DIFFERENT RELIGIONS? (I learned quickly that this was not a good thing to reveal to people in The Field. After that, I would just say I was Hindu.)

I would usually win brownie points with women in The Field if I brought my iPod along to show them photographs of my family. This was a surprisingly good technique to get people to feel more comfortable with me. People were also always impressed to see my mom: "Her skin is so fair. So beautiful." Same thing with Pam and Annie: you have beautiful, beautiful white skin. When showing pictures of my brother and sister: "They are India. Very India." I'd ask, "What about me? Am I India?" "No, you are America, like your mother." I tried to get them to explain this. I never got a real answer. But my coworkers all agreed. I was not India.

If I had to go to a meeting in a field office, we'd be ushered into the building out in the field where a field coordinator would be talking about what had happened in the field the week previous. Meanwhile, there would be little kids crowding around outside the windows, which had no shutters or anything. The shorter kids would jump up and down to try to see in the window so they could have a good look at me. Sometimes it got so bad that someone from the office would have to shoo them away, but they would remain in close quarters, out of completely morbid curiosity. What would she do next? Maybe she would step in the cow pie. Maybe she would speak some English. Maybe she would be really tall when she stood up. (I was.)

There was one time in the field, when I'd started my market research, that my translator and I visited a homeopathic medicine shop. This was in an area that was fairly rural and in a matter of minutes, pretty much the entire village was there, crowding around this poor homeopath's shop. There were at least a hundred people, asking me questions while I was trying to ask the homeopath questions. One particularly brave young man wanted to know, if I was really Indian, could I sing some Hindi songs from popular Bollywood movies. Everyone was very disappointed when I told them that I can't speak Hindi. (I'd always explain this by saying I only spoke Tamil and English. Once I made the mistake of adding Japanese to the mix and the village was VERY interested in that, asking me to translate all sorts of things into Japanese. Collin would have made out well.)

Another time, I ended my interview with a village treatment provider and asked if he had any questions for me. He asked me some very pointed questions about my religion and about Islam, and I answered as best I could: although I was Christian, I respect Islam very much and am trying to learn lots about it. He then called for some tea, and when it came, I took a glass and handed it over to my translator. The village treatment provider, however, shook his head: "That tea is for you, it is special tea just for you." I was a bit nervous, seeing a spot of oil on the top and wondering if it were somehow poisoned. There was obviously no way I could refuse the glass of tea, but I was wondering how soon Rahman Bhai could get me to a hospital in case it was actually poisoned.

It turned out that the tea was just fine, and I had been nervous for no reason. I decided later that they had used extra-fat milk or added ghee in the tea to make it more fatty for me. People were always commenting on how skinny I was and trying to get me to eat particularly fatty, deep-fried things. This worked out well for me.

But this brings me to the difference in religions, and I should probably make a quick comment on it here. About 80% of Bangladesh's population practices Islam, and most of the remaining 20% are Hindu. Just as, in the US, some people are uneasy about people who practice non-Christian religions, some people in Bangladesh are uneasy about non-Muslims. Most people, especially more educated people, were very understanding of my own traditions and very, very respectful of them. I was very grateful for this. My coworkers, knowing that I was not Muslim, still invited me to their houses during Eid to celebrate and eat with them. They explained what Eid-ul-Fitr and Eid-ul-Azha are and why they are celebrated and how. I learned that there is a specific passage in the Koran that instructs Muslims to be kind and welcoming to Jews and Christians, because they are "children of the book." This is a reference to the fact that Judaism, Christianity and Islam are all Abrahamic religions, something I did not know until fairly late in my stay.
Eid-ul-Azha is a celebration of the story about Abraham and Isaac (although in Islam I believe his name is Ismail or Ishmael), where Abraham was instructed by God to sacrifice his son. Abraham takes Ismail/Isaac to the foot of a mountain to perform this task, and blindfolds both himself and his son because he is horrified at what he is about to do. Abraham performs the sacrifice and when he removes the blindfold, sees that God has allowed him to slaughter a mountain goat rather than his son. There are some small differences but the basic story is similar. On Eid-ul-Azha, in celebration of the fact that Ismail was spared, people in Bangladesh slaughter cows or goats and eat them with their families. It's a pretty serious thing in Bangladesh. Every family has to have a cow or goat to share. And if you leave the house early in the morning on Eid-ul-Azha, you will see people doing this on their front lawns. Quite the sight.