Dislocation

I should have known that using Winding Down as the title of my last post would come back to kick me in the arse…

In the hours and days that followed that post, I was summoned to the recording studio to attempt to sing another song for the folks of Channel I for their Language Day program; I witnessed (well, sort of, since I was in a sound proof room when it happened) a tropical storm that sunk a local ferry and drowned 150 people in the process; I caught some sort of bug that left me with a splitting headache and fever for the last two days of my long weekend; I said goodbye to too many friends on two separate occasions; and I accompanied Marc to the airport for his flight out of Dhaka and onwards to South Africa and the rest of his life.

The recording session went relatively well, though the song, a slow ballad commemorating the language martyrs of the early 70s, was much more difficult than the last even though I only had to sing four lines. The idea behind this particular video was to have four or five foreigners from different countries each singing the traditional folk song in Bangla while also reciting a few other lines in their native tongues, and then tape them singing together in front of the national memorial. I was accompanied by an Indian man who sang in Panjabi as well as by his wife who sang in Hindi, and both are long-term Indian expats in Bangladesh working for a textiles company here in Dhaka.

This time the recording studio was far less high-tech than the last, for the first one was actually the private studio of one of the top recording artists in the country. This one was, let’s say, much more Bangladeshi: a single soundboard and computer, a lonely microphone with headphones that didn’t let you hear your own voice, and a sound-proof and windowless box that we didn’t even use to record our parts.

The shooting of the video was to take place at the National Language Memorial (Shahid Minar) here in Dhaka on Tuesday morning, but despite having told them I was only available until 1pm that day, they went ahead and scheduled it for 630pm that evening. Before they let me in on this schedule change, however, I laid down the all important ultimatum that would eventually put a copy of my first video into my own hands: if they didn’t get it to me by 9pm Monday evening, I wouldn’t be participating the next day. At 845pm it arrived, and I was surprised to find that it even worked without a hitch on my own computer. It’s 37 megs, however, so anyone who wants to see it or desires a copy will most likely have to wait until we meet in person. The recording went on without me, I presume, and so ended my brief Bangla film career with Channel I.

When I finally felt decent enough to get back to work after two days in bed, (with the help of more than a handful of Advil, thanks to my roommate), I set about finishing up my final reports and packing up my room in preparation for my departure on Friday. Two of our evenings since my last post were also filled with sad, nostalgic and of course enjoyable going-away dinners for various members of our group, (though the mutton at the first one is probably what made me ill). We all knew this time would come eventually, but all resolved to stay in touch and meet up in Canada in the coming years when we all happen to be in the same general area – likely Toronto or Montreal. After spending six months together in a country as backwards and beautiful as this, there’s no question that the sentiments expressed that evening were both mutual and genuine, and I look forward to many more good times with those folks in the future.

I just returned from dropping off Marc at the considerably improved Zia International Airport, and was struck by two unexpected sights on the way there. The first was the landscaping along Airport Road and around the airport itself, replacing what were only piles of dirt and garbage when I arrived nearly six months ago. The work was all undertaken in record time on the occasion of the SAARC summit that was to take place in January, then February, and now sometime in the future, here in Dhaka. Not only is the situation politically embarrassing for Bangladesh and South Asia, but it also makes me feel sorry for the people of this country who were expecting with considerable excitement and pride to play host to such a prestigious event, but who have been left out in the cold time and time again.

Nevertheless, the present isn’t all bad: Dhaka now has a beautifully re-done airport and dozens of downtown traffic circles filled with impressive landscaping, water fountains and public art. The motivation for all the work might well be seen as self-serving or an exercise in short-termism, but whatever the reason, one can’t help but appreciate the change in scenery.

The second piece of scenery that caught my eye this evening was the slogan written on the front gate of Dhaka’s military cantonment - “Heroes Live Forever” - combined with an unexpected comment from my colleague Firoz’s that, “in my next life, I will not drink alcohol.” We had been remembering some of good times we had had together these past six months, and he confessed to me that he drank alcohol for the first time at our Christmas party in the guesthouse on December 24th. This didn’t necessarily surprise me since he’s a devout Muslim, though I know of many others his age in this city who don’t mind indulging in a few drops of the hard stuff (that time it was whiskey) now and then, despite what the Prophet says.

What made me think twice, however, was the casual tone in which he predicted “in his next life…” It’s a statement you would almost never hear in secular Canada, but one that you might bear witness to every day in Bangladesh. The circumstances in which many people find themselves here leave ‘the next life’ as one of the few sources of hope and palpable distractions from the everyday grind of hard labor, pollution and malnourishment, and if I could only take one thing with me from this country, it would be that faith in life after death. But for now all I can do is live life to its fullest and hope for the best.