Don't cry for me

After more than a week of non-posts, you've certainly stopped reading this blog. But here I go babbling more nonsense about Bangladesh and India.

The last night of my stay at CRP (Savar, Bangladesh) there was a huge party. It was the rag day festival for graduating physiotherapists and occupational therapists of CRP's academic institute, BHPI (Bangladesh Health Professional Institute). Christmas lights were strung everywhere, there was a big dance party and a talent show. Much merriment was made.

I was supposed to me my friend Alagir in the afternoon, but our timing was off. We had attempted to meet before with similar results. Either I was late, or we had the wrong time or wrong location, etc. Those who know me are familiar with this process.

I was actually on time and had waited for Alamgir for close to 50 minutes before I decided to bail and take a rickshaw to Savar Bazar (the writhing commercial hotspot of seemingly sleepy Savar). I could go there and be entertained for hours - people selling strange smelling dried stuff, big buses barreling through the scene with horns blaring and scattering pedestrians and rickshaw pullers, lungie shops, lots of fried foods, and of course internet cafes. I found out later that Alamgir, chased me by rickshaw to the Bazar, but lost me in the chaos.

I met up with him at the talent show. He gave me a big hug, and started in with "Oh, Doshto! Where did you go? I was so worried." Doshto is Bengali for best friend. You can also use "Bendu" for friend, but Doshto - much more intimate.

I give a pound to the rest of the seating clinic posse and procede to watch staff and students strut their stuff onstage (in front of the drum machine wallah and heavy metal guitar guy). Now my friend is grabbing my knee and intensely holding my hand. I'm thinking "Dude, back off! I ain't like that!" But I know better, by now I'm used to the physical intimacy between men.

I hold hands with guys like a pro. Social pressure has also trained me to become physically uncomfortable when I am left alone in a room with a woman, but that's another story. When I traveled with Michele I enjoyed yanking her up and down less visible barriers. She doesn't like to be yanked so much, so we developed a system where a short upward pull would alert her to an impending step. Thus, when I walk with Alamgir, or any other Bangla man, I have to keep myself in check with the yanking. It doesn't always work, so I'm often left with odd looks. If it discourages them, maybe I should do it more.

When I was wandering around the Savar Bazar, I purchased a lungie. It was my first actual lungie shopping experience, as my previous lungie (still my favorite) was a gift from my friend in Rangamati. I sat and looked at different patterns and fabrics next to two muslim women, completely hijabed out. Covered in a cloak of dark fabric - You could only see their eyes. I was impressed by their lungie finding skills and asked for their help. They were very sweet and found a nice blue and white plaid. I was stoked - Blue and White plaid! The storekeeper was there, so it wasn't like we were sitting alone. My thoughts were innocent... I swear that I was actually thinking of M and how much she like lungies because they "Show off my sexy calves."

I was excited to take the lungie back and try it on, but selfless me decides to give it to Alamgir as a token of our friendship. I had gone overboard previously and given him a copy of the latest Whitey on the Moon CD, Discolandia (Yes, it is like giving somebody a picture of yourself), but thought that the lungie would be more... personal?

I met with him later to exchange gifts. He was very excited. He had purchased a ceramic piggy bank shaped and painted like a rooster. He called it a "Cock bank" and gave me elaborate instructions on how to knock a hole in the bottom when the bank was full. It was sweet, he actually didn't give it to me, but said that I should give it to his "Older sister - Michele." He included a small ceramic sculpture of a wedding couple and a picture of himself.

When I first saw the CB I was amazed and confused... and then slightly pissed off. It is beautiful and weird and an example of folksy vernacular shit that always gets me, but it weighs approximately 10 pounds and is not small. But it didn't matter - I was going to carry that thing from Savar to Kolkata and then from Kolkata to Dehli. Yes I was going to carry it. It was a great gift. I will treasure it always. Thanks Alamgir.

At that point I gave him the lungie. In my opinion it was nothing compared to the CB, but it was my gift to him. He looked at the lungie and shrugged. I guess I've never actually seen him wear a lungie before, so maybe it was a little inappropriate. You probably wouldn't give your best friend a pair of pants, but men hold hands in bangladesh, and besides, my other lungie was a gift from a friend - that we knew only for a few hours. My gift was entirely culturally appropriate!

But he didn't want it. Alamgir was adamant about his refusal of my gift. What could I do? I didn't have money. I couldn't offer him a work visa. I couldn't help him find an American wife. Maybe I didn't bitch loud enough - but I took back the lungie. I'm going to give it to my friend Amir, he won't give it back.

So with the wind knocked a little out of my sails, I listen to Alamgir's elaborate instructions on the proper technique for carrying the CB. He had packaged it in several plastic and tied it up in paper bags. He showed me two loops of plastic and demanded that I hold both tight...

Maybe you can see where I'm going with this.

But I swear I was holding the CB in the prescribed manner. The plastic bag ripped and the rest is history dear friends.

Besides my profuse and repetitive apologies, Alamgir and I spoke few words for the remainder of the evening. I gave him a hug, wished him good luck and we walked different directions into the night.

On the way back to my room I was intercepted by Rachel, one of the CRP volunteers, who invited me to go with her to hang out with the other volunteers. To my surprise, to wish me safe traveling and good luck they presented me with a strong liquor drink and not one, but TWO lungies (Thus doubling my current lungie collection).

I stayed up late playing guitar and trying to understand the Australian and British kids talking smack about rugby. Surprisingly, packing the CB (and its shards) along with the rest of my crap wasn't too difficult. After a few hours of sleep, I was on the bus. 12 hours later I was in Kolkata and drinking the best Lassi in the world. 40 hours later I stumbled onto the platform at New Dehli station (I took the superfast Rajdani Express) where I set out to meet M admist in the seedy hotels and alleys of Pahar Ganj.