Giving the Gift of Love

To know the love of God is to know the love of a child!

Poor children here in Bangladesh live in some of the harshest conditions I could imagine. Conditions which, if I were to imagine myself in, I wonder if I would have survived. And sadly, many of these children do not live to see life through the eyes of adolescents and adults. I see children in many situations here in Bangladesh, each one unique, each one different. I have just described the story of Mamoon, and now I have three separate stories in which I felt the love of a child.

On Tuesday, October 29, I ate lunch at Taize, as I normally do. And once again, brother Guillaume, the man with a heart of gold, had invited a young child and his mother for lunch. This child was the frailest child I have ever seen, and to describe his state makes me cringe. For this child was starving, his arms and legs were nothing more than bones, barely larger than my finger. Each vertebrae jutting out of his back, forming a ridge. His ribs protruding out of his chest, with the appearance of a washboard. He was bald and had the protruding stomach, a stomach dying for food. It took only a few minutes before his muffled coughs, indicating some respiratory infection, could be heard. This boy and his mother came to eat here, they were given milk for the mornings and told to come to Taize at lunchtime for a meal. But through all of this pain, this suffering that I could see, when his little hand touched mine, or when I looked into his sunken eyes, I could see a little light of joy and happiness, and a little boy so at home with the love he was being shown.

On Wednesday, October 30, I was attending a farewell party for Jerry and Ethel our MCC Bangladesh country representatives who are returning home in a few days. And the new CR's daughter Faye, a gorgeously sweet girl, with quite an affection for me, jumped up on my lap as soon as I came in the room and sat down. She loved to whisper "secrets" in my ear. It is a joy to see her enthusiasm and happiness and her affectionate love. The love of a child.

On Wednesday, October 30, I was riding in a CNG when I was approached by a child on the street. Here in Bangladesh, I have a terrible fear of having children on the streets. After seeing a taxi hit a group of small children begging outside of my CNG I always wish that there was some way that these children could find a safer place to work selling their flowers and popcorn. I hate the very idea of a 6-year old child on the streets of Dhaka selling something, risking his or her life to make a few Taka. But there I was, approached by a small child wanting to sell me flowers. Now I feel so bad for these children, so instead of being entirely rude I try to ask them where they live, how old they are, where there parents are, and any other silly questions that they might understand. After a short time talking to this child he put a necklace of flowers in my lap, and I told him that I could not give him money for it, and he said that I should have it, and walked away. He turned around and I beckoned him to return, I asked him, if he wanted it back because I could not give him anything for it, but instead he just said it was for me. "For me?" I asked incredulously, and he smiled and walked away. And as our CNG came to life as the light changed to green, the boy looked at me once again, smiled and waved. I still have that little flower necklace. And I will keep those wilted little flowers as a reminder of the love that the poorest of the poor can give. The love that a child can give. Nothing that child could have done could have made me happier than to see that smile when I waved and smiled at him. I pray that he feels peace tonight and knows that somewhere out there, a man from far away is praying for him and thanks him for the love he showed me.

When I recall those three separate incidents I have been blessed with over the past few days, I realize that the love of a child is unaffected by who they are. They may be poor or rich, American or Bangladeshi, naked or clothed, sick or healthy, but the love they exude is pure and rich and it flows from them like a river. The love I have experienced from these children reminds me of what my challenge is, to love unexceptionally, to love completely, and to love unconditionally. That love that comes from God, and that love which is exhibited so well by children in all situations.

Let the love of a child impact you today.
Love and Peace.
Steve.

A Prayer for Mamoon

As I begin to write this story, a small tear builds in my eye, for the story of Mamoon is one which my heart and mind have not yet come to peace with. I met Mamoon last night following prayer, and on that peaceful night, he touched my heart. Mamoon was holding brother Guillaume's hand at the time, the time when I made contact with his eyes. And Mamoon was drawn to me.

Barefoot, his feet and ankles swollen like balloons, he hobbled to my side and wrapped his little arms around my waist. With all the delicacy of a beautiful child, he wrapped himself around me and quietly, with a voice raspy from a respiratory disease, he said to me "Boro bhai, boro bhai" (Big brother), and nestled his little head into my body. There I was, absolutely engulfed by this young boy's affection and pain, and I put my arm around him and held him there. And with my other hand I gently held his hand, that hand dry, cracked and blistering, and I let myself be absorbed in the moment.

And as that beautiful moment came to a close, it was time to help Mamoon walk around to the dining area to eat rice and curry. After lifting him and helping him sit down, we passed around the meal, and Mamoon looked at the large plate, full or rice and curry, and seemed dumbfounded. Then he asked, "Morizh?" (Hot pepper) We said that they were coming, and as we lifted our plates to eat, Mamoon sat there, didn't touch his plate. While the peppers were coming around, Mamoon carefully pulled two one-Taka coins from his shirt pocket and started playing with them. We gently asked him if he wanted to eat, and after we were all half finished, Mamoon finally started eating his rice and peppers. But he never touched the curry, and although I have my theories why that may be, that is not something for me to guess. So there Mamoon sat, the rest of us washing our hands, Mamoon's plate still piled high with rice and curry, but he was finished eating. Whether out of fear or uncertainty or some other unknown reason, Mamoon would barely touch his food.

And after dinner we took him and he went with one of the boys by ricksha back to the area near the train station were brother Guillaume had found him in the middle of the street. And as we helped him go to the ricksha, a little sob started to come and he said, that he was in pain, and as we carried him the rest of the way, Mamoon, that little boy of 8 or 9 years, I saw more fear and thankfulness in the same expression, as I have ever before felt.

Now, I have my doubts that I will ever see Mamoon again, he will return to his home, to the middle of the streets, not to see a doctor, and not to be well fed. And as he goes, he has done something that he will likely never know. He touched the heart of one foreign boy, and returned that compassion that I feel sometimes disappears in this place. And as my heart longs to love him, I pray that he feels love right now, and I pray for his safety and peace. For Mamoon deserves peace and happiness, love and joy, as do we all. And he reminds me of the love that I need to share.

Peace.
Steve.

Peace in the Silence, Peace in the Song

As night falls over the river, and young and old trickle away from Circuit House Park, a faint sound can be heard, the sound of a gong. And there, nestled in a grove of houses and trees, the great river quietly flowing nearby, sits a beautiful white chapel, neatly ornamented with green trim, surrounded by gardens and trees; it is an oasis from the hustle and bustle of life in Bangladesh. And as the sound of the gong fades into the crisp night air, young men appear quietly from the surrounding houses and calmly file into the chapel, not a word is spoken, as an air of anticipation and peace falls over the place.

Inside, five men clothed in white gowns sit facing the cross, one of few decorations in this simply furnished space. And all around them sit the boys, silently they sit on the grass mats, with Psalm book in hand, waiting for the sound of the harmonium to break the silence, bringing with it the sweet sound of many voices. And as the lines continue the sound grows, the harmonium is joined by the empowering beat of the toblas and the grounding rhythm of clanging cymbals. And voices raise together in adoration of the Lord. And there I sit, and I let the sounds wash over me, words only slowly beginning to take form in my mind, I realize now why music need no boundaries. Music does not need to be understood it needs to be experienced.

As the opening hymn comes to a close the lights come on and as if drawn with strings, each boy picks up his Psalm book and together the psalm is sung. It is sung as a conversation to God, one side sings a line, followed by the other, and back and forth, throwing their praises across the room. Preparing the place for the reading. With those last few syllables of the scripture, the darkness returns to the room and peace falls, like a gentle blanket, covering me, relaxing every fibre in my body. I slowly look around the room, three flickering candles provide all the light I can see, a beautiful, softly glowing light; and faintly I smell the fragrance of incense rising to greet me. And it is here that I sit. It is here that I am at peace, there is nothing beyond this moment, for it is in this moment that I feel love and joy, happiness and relief. My body relaxes, it melts into the moment and I pray, I let my daily worries, my challenges, and my joys join the multitude of prayers in the space, and I enjoy the silence.

I find in Bangladesh, that peace is so often tied to the silence, that rare and beautiful concept of silence. And for ten minutes of my day, that communal silence surrounds me. Then a voice breaks the silence, and in Bengali, a mantra is said, the time for communal prayer has begun. And in turn prayers are raised in this community, all concluded with "Probhu, amader prarthonna shuno" (Lord, hear our prayer). And as the final Amen resounds, silence returns, save one lone voice singing, "Oh Lord hear my prayer, Oh Lord hear my prayer, when I call answer me; Oh Lord hear my prayer, Oh Lord hear my prayer, Come and listen to me". And voice by voice, the sound multiplies until the room is gently ringing with the sound of voices. The sound of that music soothes and prepares, it comforts and empowers, and with a joyful Amen, the music fades, and those present bow before the Lord, rise, and silently leave the chapel. Where in very hushed tones the chatter begins, for it is time to eat.

Standing in a circle, we wait for the brothers to exit the chapel and give any necessary instructions, introductions or farewells, and then off to dinner. Because Taize is a community, we eat together, joined in a circle, sitting patiently on grass mats on the concrete slab. As slowly the plates of bhat ar torkuri (rice and curry) are passed around the circle until everyone has been served. The call for silence is followed by a prayer and frenzied hands ripping through a full plate of rice. In Canada, I have been told I am a fast eater; here in Bangladesh I am quite pleasantly surprised not to be the last one finished. As the rice very quickly disappears, hands are washed and the water thrown away, it is time for announcements. Anyone with anything to say is invited to speak, time limits are never enforced, as this is sharing time. After a few minutes of informing, joking, and much heartfelt laughter, the meal is officially closed with the call, "Ishorer joyo gan kori" (To God we sing praise), and followed with the response, "Ishorer donnobad hok" (Thank-you God). And each night as I laugh and joke on my return walk home, I am amazed at the peace that I experience; Peace in the silence, and Peace in the song.

Apnader kache shanti. (Peace to you)
Steve.

Successful Picture Upload

This is a short note to say, I have managed to upload a few pictures onto my blog. So look back through the old posts, because some of them now have related pictures attached.

Paz.
Steve.

Partying Village-Style

So there we were, in Joypurhat town, four of us returning to Uchai village for a party. We had just been to see the ancient Buddhist temple ruins, one of the oldest and most excavated historical sites in Bangladesh. It is a fascinating place, and quite beautiful. But that night, October 20, 2007, was a party for Sister Rebekah who was celebrating her Silver Jubilee as a Sister in the Catholic Church. We had a long way to go from Joypurhat, at least 35 kilometers, and being 6 o'clock it was already dark. So we hopped in a couple rickshaws and were off to hire a Tempo.

Now a Tempo is a small, three-wheeled motor vehicle, with a covered cab on the back. The entire structure is Bangladeshi-made and is welded together in a somewhat haphazard fashion. Not to mention the stench inside the vehicle, the gaseous fumes emanating from somewhere under the cab were nauseating. Luckily it was only a 20 minute ride from Joypurhat to Pach Bibi...or at least it should have been. If it were not for the carelessness of our driver and the insanity called driving in Bangladesh, it would have taken 20 minutes. But instead, there we were, standing on the side of the road, thanking God that we were still alive. For our Tempo, while avoiding an oncoming truck, hit a pothole, and in the most Bangladeshi way, the front wheel conveniently fell off the Tempo and we stopped, in the middle of the road with buses approaching behind us. Luckily for us, the buses saw us stopped and managed to apply the oft-failing brakes in time to not hit us. After a few men decided to move the Tempo off to the side of the road we got on a rather full intra-district bus (the kind you picture with people hanging out all the windows, even the ones that aren't supposed to be windows at all). Well, after that little adventure we made it to Pach Bibi and were on our Vangari (rickshaw) to the village near Uchai where Kaka's family lives.

After 40 minutes by van, and 20 minutes hetei hetei (walking) we arrived at his home. By now it was 8 o'clock and dinner was just being prepared. So we went and had some muri (puffed rice) and waited, and waited, and waited. After what seemed like an eternity we ate, a wonderful meal of pork and fish curry and rice. (On a side note, the food in the village is the spiciest food I've had while in Bangladesh, if it didn't make you sweat, turn red and cry, it wasn't hot enough, this was true for every meal, breakfast, lunch and dinner.) Finally, dinner was served at 11 o'clock at night. All the guests ate this wonderful meal, and after cleaning up, it was time to pray. At midnight, it was time to say your "Ave Marias" and so in Bangla they all prayed for half an hour. Following the prayer, it was time to get the party started!

First came the music. Songs, not in Bengali, but in their rural Urau language. They sang with the aid of drums and the occasional flute and tamborines (very biblical). And by half past one in the morning, the drinks started to flow. The local rice whisky, homemade, came out and people started to drink. Then we waited, and waited, and the singing continued, I wondered if they would ever get tired. But quite the opposite occurred, at about 4 o'clock in the morning (no typing error), the dancing began. And what a sight to behold! Maybe 20 men and women all joining hands in a circle, dancing and singing. It was a sight like no other. And I, being the unofficial guest of honour, by way of my nationality, was very quickly invited to dance with them. Now the issue was, that I didn't know the steps, because as I quickly found out, they have very specific footwork to their dances. At first glance, it appears as though they just walk back and forth, but in fact they have very fancy footwork, kicks and steps. Well after a few minutes of stepping on people's feet I managed to get the steps to at least a few of the dances and had quite a blast dancing around and around into the wonderful morning.

Finally by about half past six in the morning the dancing slowed and the music faded and people began to disappear, I was exhausted by this point, but was only to rest for half an hour before it was time to go to celebration Mass for Sister Rebekah. And so off we went, to celebration Mass, all exhausted from a long night of partying, only slightly dozing off during a Mass I only partially understood, followed by a cultural show and some mingling. Finally, after lunch, I had a good long nap. Because after-all, I was tired, I had spent all night "Partying Village-Style".

Peace.
Steve.

Pictures

Greetings,
Well it has been a while since I have posted anything here. And I unfortunately do not have the time at the moment to post anything of any great importance regarding my wonderful trip to Uchai village, that will come in the next few days. But, I do have some unfortunate news. I have been trying ever so hard over the last few days (with terrible internet connections) to put some pictures on my blog upon request. But unfortunately the internet here in Mymensingh is not allowing me this opportunity. So until further notice, there will unfortunately be no pictures of this wonderful country of Bangladesh. Sorry about that.
In Peace.
Steve.

Retreat to Srimongol

Between October 10 and 12 all of the expat MCC staff in Bangladesh and Sri Lanka (Jodi) were in northeastern Bangladesh having our retreat at the tea gardens in Srimongol. It was a relaxing time to enjoy the pool, the cool air of the tea gardens and some wonderful food. We spent two days without any rice and curry! Unfortunately our new Country Representatives Larry and Gayle could not come along because Gayle was very ill with Dengue Fever, a disease which has not been kind to their family over these first two months. But their two daughters Faye and Annika came with us, and what a spark they added to our couple days. Those girls are fish, they would spend hours each day in the pool. And we enjoyed spending time as a group and discussing the topic of "compassion" in our sessions. We could side trips to the National Forest to see monkeys and a very rural village, we went to a tea factory to see how tea is processed and we went walking through the tea gardens. It was a really nice break to spend time with friends and relax away from all the people of this country. Now I'm off to an entirely opposite experience, visiting a friend in his village for his sisters 25th birthday.
Oh my life in Bangladesh!

Shanti.
Steve.

In Love There Is Hope

Written for the MCC Ontario Annual General Meeting 2007

How easy it would be to write cliche after cliche; a story of the happiness I see in the midst of the poverty, or better yet the story of the man whose home was in the middle of the water yet he still talked to us with such joy and radiance. There is no doubt, those are stories of hope and God's love, and often I celebrate those stories of God's love overcoming pain and hurt. In so many ways I wish I could only celebrate those stories of God's love through the pain, but that can be a challenge when normally all I see is poverty, pain and desperation. I wonder how the mother and her infant, begging on the street could possibly feel God's love. But we all experience God's love, and here in Bangladesh is no different.

When I think of God's love, I think of a man I met a few weeks ago. I was at a gathering of physically and mentally handicapped people, each with their own challenges and gifts. At the retreat there was a little man, I will call him Sir, he is about three and a half feet tall, and he loved me. He followed me almost everywhere I went for the entire retreat, and although people following me is a daily occurrence, it is not a part of Bangladesh I particularly enjoy. To add just slightly to my frustration at the situation, Sir's Bengali was so slurred and heavily accented that I could not understand a word he spoke. So there I was one evening, with Sir following me, when he suddenly asked me to take a picture of him. Now I was tired and I remember thinking to myself, "should I bother taking a picture, the lighting will be terrible, and it won't be a very good picture", but I ended up taking the picture anyway. Sir had a fun idea for the picture, he wanted a picture on the Honda! When else would he ever be able to drive a motorcycle? So I took the picture, nothing spectacular, partially washed out by the flash; but the moment Sir saw that picture a huge smile spread across his face. He preceded to show the picture to everyone he could find, with me in tow. I was finally told through my friend Supar what Sir was saying. He was telling everyone everyone, "that day was the happiest day of his life". Through this picture he finally felt a sense of power and control. He felt a sense of worth and he beat all odds, he was pictured riding a motorcycle. On that day, Sir felt God's love.

But what does that simple story say about God's love? To me it shows God's ability to work through the mundane. It was a mediocre picture, never going to win a prize, but that picture brought God's love to a man in the most joyous way possible. God's love can be so simple and so beautiful, and that is why this story is so meaningful to me when I think of God's love. Sometimes it is easier to see God's love in the big disasters or the worst situations, and this is vitally important, but to see God's love in the everyday and in the small things, for me this year, that is my challenge.

Peace.
Steve.

Jesus Compassion

This post was written as a Reflection for our MCC mini-retreat in Srimongol, Bangladesh on October 10-12, 2007.

Jesus' compassion is something I see often lived out in this country and in the people around me. Compassion is intricately tied to what many refer to as the "golden rule", to "love the Lord your God with all your heart and to love your neighbour as yourself". Because to love your neighbour, to truly and fully love your neighbour requires more strength and self-control than we could individually attain. To love your neighbour requires that you care for them like your own family, and this is compassion; caring for the world as your family, as Jesus makes it very clear who our neighbours are, in the parable of the good Samaritan.

Compassion as Jesus demonstrates is not charity and it is not equality. It is important to note that Jesus had abilities we obviously do not possess and so it is unfortunately not possible to go about healing all mental and physical disabilities we encounter. But, that does not stop us from trying. Jesus' compassion is not charity, it is selfless love. Jesus does not give to the beggars, he heals the source of their infirmity. And, in this example shall we not also look to the source of the issue to deal with the painfully visible results. How can children living with curable diseases receive those cures and lead happier, less painful lives? How can people join together as brothers to unleash their bonds of poverty and hunger? How can we support them in these challenges? For that is compassion, and that is love. One unfortunate reality of these challenges which is particularly obvious in Bangladesh is that success is not equal. When to love a neighbour may mean providing a job to the least in society, and thus showing them compassion; then walking down the street seeing more and more people who would be so very deserving of that same compassion. Thus, the challenge is to find a way to show these people compassion, with the obvious limitations in resources we will eventually have if we are continuously financially generous. And even Jesus did not heal all of the lepers or heal all of the blind, how did Jesus choose those lucky few? However, the important aspect is that Jesus did not heal everyone, and neither can we; and as hard as we try, we will never be egalitarian or impartial. As such, we must not use this as an excuse to limit our compassion, because our compassion must belong to everyone. Therefore our compassion must be more than just good deeds, it must include an emotional, and relational component.

The most important aspect to remember about Jesus' compassion is that it was not financial, it was sacrificial. It was sacrificial in all ways imaginable, right down to his life. If Jesus was willing to sacrifice the pleasure, time and his own life out of love and compassion; then should it not be our challenge to love in that capacity? To love our neighbours and make our life about compassion is to love completely, not only the individual, or the community, but also our Creator. For to love the created is to love the Creator. If we all personally strive to love and show compassion to others in our daily lives, that compassion will only multiply time and again when we gather together with the compassion of Christ.

In Peace.
Steve.

Once Again Wading Through Water

Well, ironically my Aunt Bonnie asked me early this morning whether I was still wading through water, and I smartly responded that the water had gone down by 3 meters and the flooding was over... well I was wrong! Last night and today it rained, it rained hard, incessantly, for almost 24 hours. The papers are stating that there was a tropical depression in the bay of Bengal and that depression first caused the intense 40 degree heat I experienced in Sylhet over the weekend, and then this amazing rain. And as I got wet everywhere I went today, the water in the sewers began to rise. It rose so much, that by the point we left the office at 4pm to go to the train station the water on the roads was between 3 and 9 inches deep. And so, we took pictures and rode in rickshas, literally wading in water in the middle of Mymensingh. Oh, the irony.
In peace.
Steve.

Living in Community

Written: October 5, 2007 from Lokiphur Mission, Sylhet

What does itmean to live in community? I don't know if I will ever live in community like rural Bangladeshis, although I am not at all opposed to the idea of communal living. In this country, family is everything, it is what defines who you are and family is interwoven into all aspects of culture from the social ills of child marriage through to the amazing generosity to the poor. I know I could never live the same life my parents live, and always live in the same place; which is clearly witnessed through my choice to leave for a year. But, I am so very blessed to be living in such a great community. Religion is very important to Bangladeshis and the Christian community is relatively small, this combination has allowed me, a foreigner, to truly be part of a community. I eat entirely in community, everywhere I go. Be that passing plates of food around a circle, passing a cup of water, or eating the same puffed rice as everyone else. Everything here is done together and in huge quantities. The puffed rice for 30 comes in a large, garbage-style bin, and even catering pots don't compare to the pot for serving bhat (rice). It is so wonderful to see everything here being done together.

This community makes me think of intentional communities in North America. Why is it that our communities have lost so much of the sharing I see here. Why must a mutually beneficial community need to be somewhere people need to look for? There are many challenges to creating this type of community in somewhere like Waterloo, one of which is people don't need a community. Community living tends to be simple, but the life in a community is so wonderful. And in this place, the community brings me closer to the lives of others around me. This sense of inclusion is entirely beneficial to my emotional well-being and my ability to relate to those around me.

In Peace.
Steve.

"Ji Sir" Teaching in Action

This morning I was invited to go visit a school where a few of my friends are teaching. They are my age and teaching primary school as a side job. Just that fact is so different from Canada, where a teaching job is a challenge to get and requires a university degree, not just studying in the equivalent of high school (college here). I visited this school and found a very nice place. The buildings are constructed with a concrete base (except 2 with mud bases), and they have corrugated iron sheets up about 3 feet on the walls and then jute mats for the rest of the walls. The roof is also corrugated iron, and the interior of these buildings would probably warrant a day off school in Canada. I began to sweat just stepping through the door, and without any airflow this place would be a tough place to learn. I felt useful right away helping some of the Class 1 and 2 students with English and Mathematics, and I visited 3 different classes, introducing myself and observing the teaching styles. Then we had a break where I was offered breadsticks covered in chili powder and muri (puffed rice).

Then, entirely lacking any foreknowledge, I was told I was teaching the entire school a song. Being slightly unprepared I racked my brain and came up with "The Hokey Pokey" which is, as I found out, not an easy song to explain, or to sing along with, when the children are not native English speakers. But the children loved the actions and requested that we sing the song 5 or 6 times. When the song was finished I was told I still had 10 minutes to teach them a new song. I was now stationed in the centre of a large circle of about 100 children and was asked to teach them a new song. Luckily, I remembered the song "Head and Shoulders", a song which teaches the parts of the body, but is very easy to learn and sing along with, it also has good actions. This song also was well appreciated and before lunch the children finished by singing a song in Bengali for me. This experience reminded me that learning has to be fun, and that it is possible to find fun activities to do and songs to sing even without preparation. Thankfully I am not someone for whom lack of preparation, or planning is a huge problem. I loved the ability to visit the school and will be very happy to return often to do peace trainings.

In Peace.
Steve.

Rules of the Road

I will now list for you some of the unwritten rules of the road here in Bangladesh (in my interpretation):

1) The Rule of the Horn - This is either a horn, or a bell (on a Rickshaw). It is almost continuous and it indicates one of a number of things:
a) Move aside or you may be roadkill.
b) You are going too slowly.
c) I am in your lane, don't hit me.
d) You are in my lane, move over.
e) I am passing you on the right.
f) I am passing you on the left.
g) Why aren't you moving?
h) You are pushing me off the road.
i) I am bored.

2) The Rule of the Stoplight - This rule applies anywhere where the stoplight is functioning or when it is not (as in the case of Mymensingh). If the light is green, go. If the light is yellow, go. If the light is red, go. If there is a police officer, stop.

3) The Rule of Where to Drive - This rule applies to all roads without barriers. Driving lane, middle of the road (on the line). Passing side, normally right, often left. Oncoming truck, move off the road.

4) The Rules for pedestrians - this applies to all roads (two-way and one-way):
a) Look both ways before crossing either side of the street.
b) If a vehicle is fast approaching, hurry up.
c) If you are Bangladeshi, walk in the middle of the road.

5) The Rule of the Hand - If the hand (or head) tells you to go right, do it. If the hand (or head) tells you to go left, do it. If the hand goes up, stopping is optional.

I publish this post partially as a joke, but it is actually fairly accurate. Vehicles in Bangladesh are now known for their safety or for being courteous (by anyone's standards). I was speaking briefly to the group in Bangladesh from Bolivia, and one man was joking that you need a "strong heart" to ride a rickshaw in Bangladesh, because you always think you are going to die. But despite the seeming chaos of traffic in this country, on the roads like everywhere else there is a system. Which, I might add, works most of the time. If two vehicles are vying for the same spot, the one that edges out the other one, is given the space to occupy that spot, in a way it resembles a game. And it always seems as though rickshaws are going to collide but through a common system of hand signals they usually manage to avoid bad collisions. Driving and travelling in Bangladesh can be a harrowing experience. And one in which you must be cautious, as the Bangladesh Lonely Planet notes, "if your bus driver is more reckless than the average reckless bus driver, you can always get off and take the next bus". I have found it a great learning experience for this white boy from Canada to start understanding the traffic system in Bangladesh, to realize that it is not just a huge melee of vehicles, but there is a system to this madness. And as well, for me to know this system makes travelling just that much easier.

PS The train service in Bangladesh has made some enormous strides recently and I find taking the train a much less harrowing way of travelling in this country.

Pax.
Steve.