Bangladesh #4

Living in a place where things cost next to nothing, it is ironic that I cling to my money more than I do in the US where everything seems expensive to me. Part of it is that I am finally realizing how powerful money is, how it can change a frown into a smile and desperation into hope. It is so clear here in a way that it's not in the US. There, we always complain about not having enough no matter how much we have. It's part of our national heritage to want more, to always push toward the next economic horizon.

The servant thing. That's new or at least new again or different. For, truth be told, we grew up with people working in our house- great people -but that is another story. Here you have a "cook/bearer and a driver-minimum. In the states a Pakistani said,"Oh you mustn't call them servants". But they call themselves servants. My driver calls me "Boss" which reminds me of Jack Benny's man, Rochester. My housekeeper calls me "Master" which I don't like because it reminds me of Dracula's sidekick, Igor. She used to, I should say, call me "Master" for the 6 weeks it took me to figure out that she was ripping me off on a relatively huge scale. Once I did the math, checked the food prices, and rethought a number of different events in a New York light, I was very angry. Maybe because I did a lot of extra things for her and her children it made me especially nuts and she didn't get another chance. Last words I heard from her were "my wrong" and I growled "yea." One has to wonder about her losing a job that provided so many rare benefits. And she will never work for anyone in our school community again. It was sad and I spent a couple of weeks really not wanting to have anyone in my house again. Thinking back it was as if she knew she would be fired and decided to "fill it up while the supply lasts". But Bhanu's in the kitchen now and it smells very good. It's his first day and I just about told him if he lets me down I will cut his heart out of his chest and show it to him before he dies. I interviewed 4 different people and, let me say, my demeanor was way different than it was six weeks ago. We rich have our problems too. Bhanu is Hindu. To me that's good. He is quiet-a little dour- and dignified and dresses well. He has good references especially with regard to his cooking. He's intelligent. When he came today to begin his trial week I said one last time "biSSas kOr"- trust. He looked at me with an expression of utmost disgust. That I would even hint that he might not be trustworthy twisted his deepest parts. I think he will be good. With my two people it has to be that way. I need their support and they need mine. It has to feel like we are all in it together, if not like the three musketeers, then something like that.

The Village-Chuariakhola

As I write this a bright bird in the near neighborhood is whistling the first four bars of "Dixie." "Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton...' It's a little unusual given the setting. I am glad I can hear it. In fact I am glad I can hear anything and I absolutely treasure everything I do hear. Also true for the eyes. Those senses particularly- and smell- but those of hearing and sight especially, they just seem so precious. And I am so glad that I "get it " at this age and not any later. It's late enough. There goes that bird again....

Zahid and I got started early last Saturday morning and headed out of town beating our way around and through the lorries, rickshaws, bicycles, cattle and every other type of road encumbrance you can't imagine. Somewhere in the middle of all that, we picked up Farid with his little boy in his arms. And we rode together into the jungle with its one-car roads, and well-trod ancient footpaths winding through the plantations of rice and jute and ban anas past the huts and shacks of family groups. Here Farid, who is the "bearer" for my art room, supports his parents, his wife and children and various brothers and sisters who all contribute as they can. But he is the steady one-20 years on the job, commuting an hour each way every day into the city and back to the jungle. And it is a jungle- a beautiful jungle. There's no trash because they pick it up to burn. Fuel for the fire is in high demand. Sometimes they cut the branches of the trees but never to the point where they hurt the tree. In fact young trees are everywhere and everywhere protected by little enclosures from goats and cattle. The ones I noticed are young mahogany trees- a long-term project.
Always when I set my easel up in the landscape its in a place where nature and human works have met in a salubrious way. In some ways nature is never more beautiful than those places where it is in balance with human intention. The fields and farms of New England and the farm communities of France and Italy exemplify places where you can look across a valley and see a community in balance with nature, dependent on nature. It's like this in Chuariakhola and in many of the villages in Bangladesh at least as can be seen from the train window on a recent 10-hour trip. Farid's village is green with rice paddies and jute plantings carved out of the jungle eons ago. The textures of the plants give variety and pleasure to the eye. In places the landscape opens up and stretches out far, almost to the horizon. Banana trees, palm, bamboo, and jute all stand out from each other against the consistent beauty of the growing rice. Rice is planted seedling-by-seedling, plant-by-plant and the human hand gives the plantings character and a sense of order and purpose.
The houses are huts with a place to sit, a bed, and a TV, naturally. Those who can afford it- or think they can- build houses of brick instead of scraps of wood and palm. But these houses are years in the making. In Dhaka too there are many apartment houses and high rises in progress but they seem stuck in time-immobile. It's an eerie sight from my windows-like a deChirico painting-to see these buildings of six to ten stories looking back at me without windows, without eyes, just black sockets.

I visited a school, played and sang Mississippi John Hurt songs for two hundred elementary-school kids, visited every classroom in the high school-about ten with 50 kids in each- spoke Bangla, butchered Bangla, drew pictures on the board, drew the American flag with a guitar in it and promised to come back. Imagine fifty stunningly beautiful young people with dark skin, white teeth and white outfits all smiling at you with intense appreciation and joy.
Afterwards, in the teachers' room, the headmaster served me coke and presented me to the other teachers, who maybe speak a little English. He apologized for his country, about its being so poor and asked me to share my thoughts. I talked about the positive things, about the humility, the sense of gratitude, and the ready smiles I found in this poor place. Really, I was eloquent and just about brought myself to tears, and just about the time I was sure they would jump out of their seats with joy and gratitude for this foreigner could see how wonderful it all was, well, in spite of myself I got a different message. As they sat there emotionless, my sense was that they acknowledged this "tale told by an idiot" but also were saying to themselves, "he doesn't know what it's like to be poor". But friends, I plan to hang on to my gratuitous bullshit as long as possible. Even if it just peps people up or me up, that's enough. And I am sincere in what I say even though I haven't been crushed by the sadness that poverty can bring. We rich have our problems too.

Zahid and Farid collected me and brought me back to Farid's house to rest and eat. They are both so sensitive to my condition whether tired, hungry, happy or sad; it's touching and impressive. Back at the chicken shack-Farid's house- we sat back in the stifling heat under the fan and just rested while one of the brothers made food. Water was served from their 100 foot well. "We drink it," he said.... And so did I, giving myself up to the situation as I remembered the loyalist soldiers defending Madrid against the fascists, "Today is a good day to die." I didn't die but I will never be in need of colonic treatments. Perhaps it could be said their 100 foot well has rare healing properties.
Ricker