“It’s so
hot, I’m covered in sweat!” Sara said to her mother. They had just landed in Bangladesh and were
waiting in the customs line at the airport. Sara felt tired after their long
flight. She couldn’t wait to unpack some
thinner clothes when they got to their new apartment.
"Who
es your husband?" The customs
officer asked her mother in a strange, lilting accent.
"I am
unmarried." Her mother said.
"I
will need to know the name of your father." He replied.
Sara’s eyes
pricked with tears at the original question as her father had passed away after
a brief and painful battle with cancer just over two years ago. She had come to Bangladesh with her mother to
help them take their minds off the gaping hole his death had caused in their
lives. But now she wasn’t so sure they
had made the right decision.
“I want to
go home.” she said to her mother as they walked away from him.
“We only
just arrived, Sara, give it a chance.” said her mother.
As they
collected their luggage, Sara noticed hundreds of male faces outside the glass
walls of the large airport. They were
very tidily dressed, small in stature, and wide eyed. Some of them were holding hands and leaning
on each other. Some talking animatedly,
but many were just staring.
“Why are
they all here?” Sara asked their driver but his English was so heavily accented
that she couldn’t understand his response.
They were
driving on the road now and the noises and colours were intense. Brightly painted trucks and rickshaws, overly-dented
cars. People everywhere. Bells and horns. In her over-tired state, Sara felt faint and
ill.
Their new
apartment provided some peace from the crazy outside but it felt sterile. It was furnished with wicker furniture, blank
walls, and tiled, empty floors.
Sara’s
sleep was broken by the strangeness of everything that night. The smells were almost a taste in the air
that she couldn’t recognise. There were
so many unusual noises: hundreds of rickshaw bells, the call to prayer, hoiking
on the streets, loud yet unaggressive shouts.
And the heat, it was as though she could never drink enough water to
cool herself. She wondered if this new
life would ever feel ordinary.
“It’s time
to go.” Called her mother.
Sara
grabbed her water bottle as they left the apartment. A teacher from the school had offered to show
them ‘Old Dhaka’ – the bustling ancient part of the city. Stepping outside, Sara felt alive and
excited. She had been promised they
would spend most of the day on various local transport – rickshaws, boats, van
gari; shopping for a saweer kameez – the commonly worn clothing for women; and
eating local food.
As they
stepped up onto the rickshaw – a colourfully decorated chariot pulled by a
bicycle – she felt a smile stretching across her face. They had just sat down and the driver
took off twinkling his bell. As he wove through traffic and took corners at break-neck speed, Sara was exhilarated. She could barely believe this was her new
home.
