Eco-friendly Cooking Fuel

As I said in my last post,   NOTHING gets wasted here.  It's all reused, recycled or repaired.  

Cows roam the streets.  Naturally they leave something behind wherever go.  No problem---someone else comes along and collects it to make into cooking fuel.  It can be shaped into 'patties' like the ones above, then stuck onto a wall or hard surface to dry.

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 Or,  it can be shaped around a stick and left to dry.  These dried cow dung sticks are used like wood in a cooking fire.

Below, the dung sticks are drying against a village home.  The flowering plant on the roof is a type of squash. Banana tree leaves can be seen in the back.   I liked the colors, textures and 'rhythm' of this scene.

Misty Morning Walks

I love my early morning walks.  There is quite a 'walking community' here where we live.  Many adults have diabetes and are being told they must  get exercise and stop eating sweets.  Women often stop me in my tracks and remark,  "Oh, you have diabetes too!"


 I am thankful to live in an area where I can walk without the congestion of people or traffic. It's a residential area on the edge of the city. A neighbor lady named Beauty (pictured below) often joins me.  She was a student in my first Dialogue English Class.  She loves the way she has felt so much more energy since starting to walk.

  Last week I decided to leave the paved roads and explore the dirt path that I had seen many mornings at the far corner of our Padma housing area.

 Now that the season has changed and the mornings are cool, a thick mist rises each morning form the warm ground.  It's such a beautiful, peaceful time!

     I thought most of the world was still asleep until I came to a little settlement buzzing with activity:

Parents and children have been working together--- busily filling 'bostas'--big bags---with recyclables that they have  collected from homes or garbage piles.   I am constantly in awe of the way NOTHING gets wasted here...it's all reused, recycled.
Even the cow manure, but I'll save that for another post.

Korbani Eid in our Neighborhood

It's the morning of Korbani Eid. These cows and goats have been purchased to become the sacrificed animals. I wondered if they know what fate awaits them. Last night the neighborhood was filled with the sounds of bleating goats and lowing cattle.

Several men tie the cow's legs, pull him to the ground, and cut his throat.  He will be skinned and cut up right there on the spot. 

This is one day that the poor get plenty of meat.    It is required in Islam to give 1/3 of the meat to the poor,  1/3 to neighbors and friends, and keep just 1/3 for yourself.    Dozens of poor people lined up in front of our building to receive some of the Korbani meat.

We were graciously invited into several homes...more than we could possibly go to. We experienced two extremes-visiting the  home of one of my English students--an anesthesiologist, whose wife is also a doctor, and also the little dirt-floor plastic-covered shack of Ajina who helps in our home.   The common element---lost of food and jubilation.  It seemed, though, that there was extra excitement in Ajina's home because it's such a special thing for the poor to get new clothes and good food.

Fresh Meat (caution: not for the weak of stomach)

 On Fridays there is plenty of fresh meat available right near our apartment.  They slaughter the cow right there and sell the meet nearby.  No refrigeration, of course, so it must be sold quickly in the morning.















It's always a battle to get the good part of the meat.  They usually try to throw in lots of bone and fat.
Goat meat is also  plentiful and makes a very nice curry.  Somehow, though, after walking past the meat market,  I sort of lose my appetite and feel like going vegetarian.  (Would you?)

Blogging Woes

As you may have noticed, we haven't posted for quite some time.  It's not that I haven't tried.  How many precious minutes (or hours?) have I worked on a post, only to lose it by suddenly losing my internet connection.  Lately, however, the problem has been in uploading photos.  Suddenly it's no longer working.  

And what's a blog without pictures?   Unless you're a good writer, which I am admittedly not.  

Maybe one of these days we'll get the photo-uploading problem figured out.  Until then,  check out my facebook page.  

Monsoon Season

 It's fun to watch the monsoon clouds roll in from our rooftop.

But going anywhere can be a very soggy experience.

We try not to think about the sewer water that has mixed with the rain water on the roads.

Tourists for a Day

Out on the boat

 Our city is located along the Padma River,  so while Christa was visiting last week we decided to get out on the water a bit.  We hired a boatman to take us out for an hour or so.  It's one of the few ways we can be out in the open without being surrounded by curious on-lookers.

        

    A couple of special friends and some English students joined us for the journey.

  It wasn't the peaceful time that I had envisioned since the paddle-run boats were all out and we had to take a very noisy motor boat making conversation nearly impossible,  but the beautiful scenery and enjoyment of being with Christa and our friends made it a special time.

                                        

A special meal

     In the cities, most homes have indoor kitchens with a 2-burner gas stove, but the village way of cooking over a clay stove (mathi chulah) fed by wood or cow-dung is still favored by many women.  It comes in very handy for cooking for a crowd.    We recently attended our friend's daughter's birthday party and enjoyed a wonderful biryani meal cooked outside of their apartment in a little cooking shed. It looks like a perfect place to cook one of our favorite dishes -a Spanish paella- but sadly our modern 7-story apartment building has no cooking shed attached to it.

Changing Seasons

When we arrived in Rajshahi in March, we took walks along the sandy bed of the Padma River that runs along the southern side of the city. The size of the river had shrunk to where we couldn't even see it from the banks. We just knew it was 'somewhere out there beyond the sand.

Now,  one month into the monsoon season,  the water is back---and so are the boats.  I love the ever-changing landscape.

   

The Bird Feather

 This picture captures the personality of the little girl in the poem below.
'The Bird Feather' was one of the first poems I read of Tagore's 30 years ago when I was studying Bengali. I loved the story but only got around to translating the poem a couple months ago.

 Here is my rendition.
 (Parents: You won't want to read this to your children and not because it is 'inappropriate.' Unfortunately, it hits the mark.)

The Bird Feather    পাখির পালক 

Time to play at last arrived

   and midst the children, one broke free,

A little girl cried, “Mother, look!

   See what I’ve found! Now look and see!

Her eyes were lit in joyful glee;

   her lips in dancing laughter,

Hair was strewn and flowing free

  a mane which followed after.

Wrists in colored bangles danced

Trembling bracelets jingling

Like little cymbals sang the news

  Of what cupped hands were bringing.

Her arms wrapped ‘round her mother’s neck;

 She sat upon her knee

The little girl cried, “Mother, look!

  See what I have, O see!

A feather, washed in sunlit gold

 and flowed with golden glory,

From forest canopy did fall

  To tell the sunbeam’s story.

As eyes in gentle softness close

  and sleep’s tale touch dream’s mystery,

So soft the clouds contained the touch,

  Blue spoke of blue sky’s history.

A crowded nest of chirping young

  Tweet in their feathered might

And chirp about the future morn

  The hope of their first flight.

This feather brushed the maiden’s cheek

  First one side then the other,

Wide-eyed and gaily spoke, “Look! See!

  The maid said to her mother.

The mother looked indeed and saw,

 Said, “Such a thing you found!”

Laughed and threw the feather outside

  And left it on the ground.

The speechless child, dumbfounded, she

 Wandered, sat upon a stump,

Bereft of treasured priceless feather,

  Empty handed, shoulders slumped.

Playtime over, laughter ceased

  No more tresses flying

Listless hands and downcast eyes

  Teardrops told her crying.

Arose and searched, the feather found,

 Hid it from her mother.

Alone, she’d keep it to herself

 And never show another.

Have you ever seen...

a pineapple blossom?  I love the symmetry and colors!  What a Designer!

                                         Notice the amazing colors as it grows!  Even purple!

                                                  And this one is about ready to be picked.

If it looks too good to wait until you get home, no problem.   You can get it cut up right there on the side of the road,  which is what we did!   Yummmmm!  The sweetest pineapple I've ever had!

PS   These photos were taken during our visit to Srimongol in northeastern Bangladesh in March.  Unfortunately not many of these pineapples make it over here to Rajshahi where we live:(     But -Rajshahi is know for it's wonderful mangoes, which are getting close to being ripe!  We'll save that for a another post.

Bazaar Experience

The shopping list included

2 chickens

rui mach (fish)

gom (whole wheat)

eggplant

kormi shak (leafy vegetable that can be used as a salad base)

cucumbers, tomatoes (if available)

pumpkin

butter

 A Shaw’s or Hanaford (our grocery supermarkets in Maine) would be a welcome relief from the 90 degree heated bazaar here in our fair city, but they don't provide half the eduction.

 I went for the difficult ones first: the fish and chicken. Both were alive and well when I picked them out. The price includes free proccessing  which I felt I needed to witness. Rumor runs that there is a lot chick swapping in the bazaar and the one kilogram chicken you pick out could be exchanged for a ¾ kilogram chicken if you don’t keep your eye on her. I did. I picked out two and followed the gentleman to the special site where they are properly, though quickly, blessed, throats slit, thown in a barrel until things quiet down and then retrieved in red blood and in less than 40 seconds prepared to the finish.  I was impressed.

 My fish was also in swimming good health happily in fellowship with his brothers in a crowded tub. He, too, was prepared, not filleted as we would, but cut horizontally in pieces and the head is most certainly included as that portion goes to the honored guest at table.  (Come visit us!)

 There’s no point in me trying to describe the landscape of the bazaar. You’ll just have to come.  Wear old clothes. 

Move Over Michael Jackson

I was invited to sing some songs of Rabindranath Tagore as a part of a celebration of the 150th anniversary of his birth. Tagore, a Bengali,  won the Nobel Prize for literature almost a hundred years ago. His 2500 songs make up just a portion of his literary output which also includes poetry, plays, novels, short stories, philosophical essays and art work.

 Jan and I got gussied up in our nicest Bengali clothes for the occasion.

Then we made our way to the open air stage which had been set up in the middle of town right where seven of the busiest roads met (rightly called the 'Seven-Road Spot.') I feared the traffic and bustle of this congested spot would drown out any performance but I underestimated the capacity of their sound system which drowned out the city noise instead.

Jan and I settled into our seats and awaited the beginning of the program. I wasn't quite sure where I fell in the line up.
 Four mercifully short speeches started things rolling about an hour after we had been told the program would start. (Silly us: When will be ever learn to add an hour to the declared time so that we show up at the proper time. )

 A large group, mostly children, sang a whole repertoire of Tagore songs. They sang with uniform poise and melody steadily for forty minutes in the 88 degree heat. It was evening but the air was still, the lights were bright and they seemed so unaffected. I was wildly waving Jan's fan in my face the whole time to try to muster some relieving breeze. My fan flapped away right through to the end of their performance when all of a sudden, just as the children were finished and leaving the stage, the fan was swept out of my still oscillating hand by a lady in a beautiful sari. I watched her in great disappointment, wondering why she had purloined my only connection to comfort when I saw that she was rushing over to a one of the young singers who was close to fainting from the heat. My cut and run thief was really a mother in good control of the situation and she returned the fan after the girl was revived.

 Music was not the only source of entertainment. Every town has a population of a few crazy people (pagol is the word in Bengali) on the streets. They are harmless but have no hesitation to try to steal the show in such a big public gathering. The first sign that this man wasn't all there was that in the 88 degree heat, he wore layers of quilted clothes. Aside from that, he was using some part of his apparel as a cell phone. When he presented himself in front of the stage during the performance, people would gently encourage him over to the side.

  After the group singing, practically every person in the group sang a solo. The transitions from one performer to the next were seamless as two sets of harmoniums and tabla players had been set up, one on each side of the stage. As one performer sang, the next took their place and waited.

 Without any real warning, the director quietly came over to my seat to tell me I was next. I vaguely remember taking my place, waiting my turn, singing a song and then, (perhaps slightly scripted) being hand-clapped into singing my second song.
  After another six or seven performers after me and three hours after we had arrived, the singing portion ended and the stage would be cleared and set for a Tagore play. We would have loved to see the play in any other circumstances, but it was going on 10:00 p.m. and we had an early rise ahead of us so that we could get home to Rajshahi and leave the next day for the capital city of Dhaka. It was time to call an end to our hot night in the city.
 

Down the street in a rickshaw

Most every day we ride travel in a rickshaw.  Since there are so few foreigners in the city, we get noticed, and often stared at,  pointed at, smiled or laughed at,

                       and-now that many people carry cellphones with cameras,  we get photographed.  

 So while I am pointing my camera at them,  they too are taking a picture of me.   My guess is that we are on many cell phones around the city.  I guess that's only fair since many of this city are on my computer and even on our blog.

A New Year Celebration

 April 14th brought in the Bengali New Year of 1418.  The city was bustling with joyful activity.  Thousands joined in the festivities at the river's edge or at Rajshahi University.  I was invited by a student to the university.  I arrived around noon and she had just finished cooking me a chicken curry  in her little dorm room over an electric hotplate.  After eating a delicious rice meal she put a 'teep' (red dot) on her forehead and mine,  changed into a lovely shalwire-kamiz,  did up her face with some eyeliner, face-whitening cream and lipstick,  and off we went to join the crowds.

  There were numerous concerts, plays, game booths,  and stalls that were selling a variety of foods and trinkets-and, of course,  the typical fair-type stuffed animals.   There were thousands of people there, all dressed in brightly colored (mostly red) festive clothes.  As a white foreigner ('bideshi')  in a city that has very few, we attract a lot of attention.

At one point we stopped to watch a game being played which was similar to the 'hit the pinata' except you were to hit a clay water pot on the ground.  There were only a couple people watching at first.  I was coaxed into participating so having blindfolded me they started me off about 15feet from the kulshi.  I began to walk,  estimating that it would take me ten steps.  It turns out that i walked right past it and with all my might I slammed the stick onto the empty ground. Oh well,  no prize for me but  I gave everyone, including myself,  a good laugh.  When I took off my blindfold I saw that the crowd of spectators had quickly grown to over 50.    The one tradition that I missed out on for the New Year was eating 'patha bhat'-  a fermented rice dish.  Oh well, there's always next year...

Deconstruction

Our route to the market takes us past an area of the road that looks like a bomb was dropped on the buildings.  Actually the front part of the structures are being torn down.  I'm told that they were illegally built too close to the road.  How strange it must be for the owners/tenants to see half their home disappear!

Drinking High and Drinking Low

  What does one drink in Bangladesh? Keeping hydrated in a tropical country is crucial. Part of the wealth of Bangladesh is its accessibility to clean drinking water from ‘tube wells’ which can be sunk 30 – 60 feet anywhere in the country and which provide relatively safe drinking water.

  Bangladesh’s natural version of bottled water is dab -green coconut water. Train station platforms often have a dabwaller who will cut open a fresh green coconut with an opening for drinking. It is healthy and tasty.

 If you prefer to go for modern ‘bottled water’ and want to pay the exorbitant price of 15 taka (25 cents) per litre,  you can buy a bottle of “Fresh” (brand name) drinking water. A description of the purification process is included on the bottle:

 Superfresh drinking water is treated by reverse osmosis, ultrviolated and ozonated.

 We may wonder about the moral ramifications of drinking violated water but have given in and often bought it for trips.

Now tea- this is a Bengali drink. A cup of chai (small and strong with milk and sugar) is more than a cup of tea. You open friendships, seal agreements, entertain any guest, and mark the end of a visit with a cup of chai. A product of the country’s northeast districts which are swathed in tea gardens, the leaves make their way to every nook and cranny of Bangladesh where local vendors fix you a cup in minutes for 8 cents. On trains they charge the outrageous price of 10 cents.
 

We were really outrageous and payed a dollar per cup (70 taka) for ‘7 layer tea’ -a concoction of seven layers of variously flavored tea all served in the same glass. We drank this during our tour of the Sri Mongol tea estates. The novelty of being able to experience this carefully guarded secret process was worth the outrageous price.