Surviving
Northern Bangladesh
So hot. The kind of hot that kills old ladies in Texas summer heat waves, or at least the kind of hot that makes them want to die in the first place. The kind that barely cools down after dark because hot is just sitting in the air after baking the dampness all day. The weather drips so humid that my skin doesn’t dry even when I towel off because the minute I step out of the shower, I start sweating. The devil himself must have invented this kind of hot in anticipation of the hubris of air conditioning, a special punishment for people who know the cool of a fan, and then I suspect he pissed malaria all over this hot as a side joke. I’ve heard that dying is like falling asleep, but this slow death refuses to let me sleep even as it tortures me. I laugh to think of proper British guys in khakis wading through this land. I’m just not cut out for this weather. Give me 30 below on a mountain top any day. I have to respect the people here for their ability to smile at each other through an oven.
I’ll survive it, like I survived the 8 hour van ride from Dhaka. I lost track of near collisions. It’s like being in an impromptu rollercoaster ride that turns into a nation-wide game of road chicken. People pass each other on roads that only stretch 1 ½ lanes wide, even when busses are coming, veering out onto gravel to avoid trucks. This even happens on tiny, half-paved raised roads We frequently come close to killing pedestrians who encroach on car-space, and when they have spread corn or grains out over the road top (I have no idea whey they do this, other than that asphalt is the only smooth, non-dirt surface), we speed over their food without even braking. Katherine pointed out that people use their horns as vehicle communication; drivers don’t beep out of anger, they beep to say “hey, we want to pass you” or “hey, we’re in your blind spot” or “hey, we’re coming up behind you quite fast” or “hey, rickshaw driver, you might want to swerve off the road or risk losing your fare to our grill.” But it’s much friendlier than back home. If people in America did literally any of the driving maneuvers that I regularly experience here, they’d encounter yelling, shot guns, disbelief, and a likely license suspension. (Except in Boston, of course.) But here, it’s just normal, and despite the insanity I’ve yet to witness any road rage.
So hot. The kind of hot that kills old ladies in Texas summer heat waves, or at least the kind of hot that makes them want to die in the first place. The kind that barely cools down after dark because hot is just sitting in the air after baking the dampness all day. The weather drips so humid that my skin doesn’t dry even when I towel off because the minute I step out of the shower, I start sweating. The devil himself must have invented this kind of hot in anticipation of the hubris of air conditioning, a special punishment for people who know the cool of a fan, and then I suspect he pissed malaria all over this hot as a side joke. I’ve heard that dying is like falling asleep, but this slow death refuses to let me sleep even as it tortures me. I laugh to think of proper British guys in khakis wading through this land. I’m just not cut out for this weather. Give me 30 below on a mountain top any day. I have to respect the people here for their ability to smile at each other through an oven.
I’ll survive it, like I survived the 8 hour van ride from Dhaka. I lost track of near collisions. It’s like being in an impromptu rollercoaster ride that turns into a nation-wide game of road chicken. People pass each other on roads that only stretch 1 ½ lanes wide, even when busses are coming, veering out onto gravel to avoid trucks. This even happens on tiny, half-paved raised roads We frequently come close to killing pedestrians who encroach on car-space, and when they have spread corn or grains out over the road top (I have no idea whey they do this, other than that asphalt is the only smooth, non-dirt surface), we speed over their food without even braking. Katherine pointed out that people use their horns as vehicle communication; drivers don’t beep out of anger, they beep to say “hey, we want to pass you” or “hey, we’re in your blind spot” or “hey, we’re coming up behind you quite fast” or “hey, rickshaw driver, you might want to swerve off the road or risk losing your fare to our grill.” But it’s much friendlier than back home. If people in America did literally any of the driving maneuvers that I regularly experience here, they’d encounter yelling, shot guns, disbelief, and a likely license suspension. (Except in Boston, of course.) But here, it’s just normal, and despite the insanity I’ve yet to witness any road rage.
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