Part 20: A Visit From Family!

January 25, 2022

Choyghoria, Batiaghata

District Khulna, Bangladesh

Ok. I guess it’s time to stop procrastinating and start writing down the stories from my family’s visit. I fear they will slip away from my memory if I don’t do it soon.

January 7th, 2022 Saturday I awoke at 4:30 and put on my newest saree, wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, and scarfed down a bowl of peanut butter granola. This was the day. The long-awaited day that I would finally see my family after a year and four months. Everyone who was close to me knew that today was a special day, because I had made sure everyone heard. I had so much fun telling everyone that my family was coming to visit.

We had decided to go into Dhaka to get them and come back on the same day. One of the reasons was because they were only staying for nine days, and I wanted to maximize our time in the village as much as possible. Another reason was that, if we went and came back on the same day, fewer people from my Khulna family would go along. There is limited space in our beautiful, brown minivan, and I didn’t know how we could possibly fit seven Unruhs and six Wedels in one vehicle.

And so, Trevor, Whit, and I headed out at 5:00 in the morning for Dhaka. It was dark and very foggy. All the bridges we crossed were ornately decorated with lights and banners for the coming of Sheik Hasina. (Sheik Hasina, the Prime Minister of Bangladesh, had come to Khulna the day before. Remember this, because this detail will appear later in the story.) Whitney and I spread out in the second and third rows of the van and were soon deep in slumber. At one point, my sleep was broken rather violently when we hit a speed bump at record-breaking speed. When I landed back on my seat, I heard Trevor chuckling to himself.

We arrived in Dhaka around eight o’clock in the morning. My family’s flight had been delayed, so we went to complete Lisa's shopping list at Unimart, the Bangladeshi version of Walmart. I had to walk around the store in my saree, feeling rather conspicuous underneath everyone’s stares and answering more questions than normal.

Finally, we drove to the airport. They landed just as we were driving into the parking garage. Oh boy, the parking garage. Even for Bangladesh, I was floored. There were hundreds of cars, with no rhyme or reason to any of the mess. I really wish I could paint a word picture to make you understand, but my words fail me this time. There were no parking spots left, so the garage attendants were parking cars in the driveway. The drivers had to stay in the car so they could move in case the cars in the parking spots needed out. This created a jam like none other. We finally got “parked” in the driveway, and Whitney and I got out. Trevor had to stay in case other vehicles needed to move.

Whit and I walked to the front of the airport just beyond the gates where we usually stand to receive company. There was a crowd like none other. I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many people ever gathered at once in one place. Trevor called me a little later to tell me he’d parked, and I found out the reason for all the trouble. The eight o’clock flight had been delayed, yet all the people had come to pick up their passengers. There were drivers in the garage that had been sitting there all morning; and people waiting outside of the airport that had been there for three hours.

We waited too, for hours it felt like. Inside, they were waiting as well. We waited on them as they waited on their luggage. My Unruh-sized supply of patience finally ran out, and I left a very loving message to my dear mother whom I hadn’t seen in over a year: “Mom, I’m serious. If you don’t come out within twenty minutes, we are leaving you here and you are taking the bus home.” She replied, asking what in the world they were supposed to do, leave their luggage here and come out? It was then that I remembered my three packages of bacon and all the Reese’s that were in said luggage and I gained a little bit more patience.

Finally, I got the message that they had all their luggage and were coming out. I craned my neck over the sea of people and tried to see some tall heads above everyone. I craned my neck and craned my neck and craned my neck some more. I took the Bengali way and pushed my way to the front of the crowd, even though it was useless. I was so confused. They should have been out by now. I was sure we were at the correct terminal, on the correct level, and at the correct side. I called my dad and told him to turn left when they came out the sliding glass doors. Still, no sign of them. How can you get lost in such a small airport?

Then, I learned what the deal was. They were coming out of a side exit that connects directly to the parking garage! This being our first time parking in the garage, we didn’t know about this exit. Whitney and I torked out of there, squeezed through the masses of people, jumped off the curb, swished down the ramp, rushed past the police officers, and fast-walked into the garage. I looked and looked for them as we walked toward where Trevor said he had parked. At last, I saw them. Ah, they were so beautiful! And so tall! I had forgotten how tall everyone was. I am so accustomed to being around people my own height.

Ok, I’ll admit, I cried a little. Everyone got a hug (yes, from this touch-me-not), and I got to see my sister-in-law for the first time in a musty old parking garage. Well, not really: we were friends before she married my brother, but, because I missed their wedding, I had never seen her as my sister-in-law. She’s a pretty good one, I might add. ;)

I should probably tell you who all came. Dad and mom; Tressa and her husband, Justin; and

Grant and his wife, Greta. My oldest sister, Erica, decided to stay at home with her kids. I missed her very much, and periodically looked for her when it was time to sit down for lunch. Sometimes, I wanted to tell her something funny and would start to say, “Hey, Erica!” Oh well. It won't be long.

We stuffed all their bacon and Reese's-laden suitcases into the back of our vehicle and piled in. They claimed they weren’t very tired. Within a minute of pulling out onto the road, Greta was clutching the window and screaming at a bus that was within inches of hitting us. That’s not the first bus that has been within inches of hitting us. Some buses have actually been less of an inch. Some buses have even gone so far as to just go ahead and hit us. We stopped at North End, our American coffee shop. Our sanctuary. It was lunch time, so we all ordered sandwiches and coffee drinks. Justin gave the drinks his stamp of approval, and Dad gave the roast beef sandwiches his. Then, it was time to hit the road and head home for Khulna.

But first, we had to stop at Lyon’s plaza and change their USD into BDT, Bangladeshi Taka. They met Daniel Kauffman, the CSI man in Dhaka, and had their first experiences with beggars.

“What do I do?” Tressa asked, seeming a little uncomfortable.

“You can’t see her.” I instructed. “She’ll move on if you ignore her.”

This tactic may seem a little heartless, but when you deal with beggars daily, I guess you do become a little hardened. We’ve been told by multiple people that we don’t need to give. The Muslims are actually instructed by the Quran to give to the poor, so they take care of their own in this country. The system is so corrupt and you never know where that money could end up. Sometimes, we will buy a beggar some food or a drink, but rarely will we give out money.

After their USD was changed over, everyone clambered back into the van and we tried to drive out of Dhaka. Tried being the key word. We sat in traffic in Tejgaon; then, we sat in traffic in Dhanmondi. Finally, when it seemed we had a clear shot of rolling out of there, we were told by a gruff-looking police officer that the big road was closed, and we had to go by a little market road. The good part was, we weren’t the only ones who had to use this little road: everyone had to! Yay, party time! Let’s see if we can get scores of buses, dozens of trucks, hundreds of motorcycles, rickshaws, and CNGs, and tens of vehicles, to nicely go from a four-lane down to a one-lane road! Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work the best.

I felt really bad because we were wasting our entire first day sitting in traffic. My dreams of driving my family out through the country in the daylight were quickly sinking beneath the horizon. I kept apologizing, but the family assured me that they were very much enjoying sitting in traffic and looking at everything. And then I remembered: this isn’t normal life to them like it is to me.

The memories of my firsts started coming back. I wished I could see everything through new eyes again. It was so fascinating to watch their faces when something shocking and Bengali happened. Sometimes, I knew how they would react, because I remembered the first time I saw these things. Being with them again made me realize just how far I am from home; not only in distance, but in time and culture also.

We discussed different reasons for the big road being closed. Suddenly, we remembered that Sheik Hasina had gone to Khulna the day before. Maybe this was the day she was coming back to Dhaka? Google told us she was planning to return to Dhaka on Saturday evening, the 7th. Today. This information, paired with the fact that we saw a black motorcade on the overpass above our quaint little market road, made us understand why we had been sitting in a traffic jam for over an hour. Long live the queen.

After two hours of sitting in that one place, inching forward every ten minutes, the dam broke and we were freed. Now, it was home free. We drove the remaining three hours in the darkness, and I tried my best to point out my favorite things to those who remained awake. We arrived home around 9:15. The family got to meet Sunil Kaka, our night guard, as well as some others who had heard there were new people over and had come to stare. Lisa had made us tacos, and we eagerly scarfed them down.

We hung out for a little while longer before everyone went to bed. I was so worried that they needed softer pillows, thicker towels, warmer blankets, ect. How do people have night company and not lie awake in worry? I went to my makeshift bed in the classroom, and, with my mind reeling, finally fell asleep.

January 8th Sunday I was awakened by a beautiful sound: my very own brother and very own dad playing basketball at 8:30 in the morning. In front of my Bangladesh house. I opened the balcony door and said, “What’s your problem? Why are you playing so early in the morning?”

“Oh sorry, I guess we should probably be quiet,” Grant said, uncharacteristically concerned about my sleep.

“No, no, I want to play, too!” I said, as I hurriedly turned to get ready. Dad, Grant, and I were the only ones up at this point, so we milled about. One by one, more of the family started to show their faces. We sat on the bench outside the gate and they got to meet some of my favorite people, who were getting started on their days.

We had breakfast a little later, and then we took a walk around the village. Of course, it was all very normal to me, so I can’t provide you with any glittery impressions. We took lots of walks during their time here. I thoroughly enjoyed showing my family around; showing them the green, sprawling rice fields, tall palms, and smiling people.

We had a classic Bengali lunch of rice, dal, chicken, and vegetables. We showed my family how to eat rice properly with their hands. After lunch, we were milling about outside when a rickshaw van went by.

“I want to ride one of those!” Tressa said.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yeah, let’s go!” And so, we went. Mom, Tressa, Greta, and I headed out with no idea of where we were going. I had told our driver that we just wanted to ride. We ended up at a point that overlooks the river. Here you can watch cargo ships lug past, and even catch a glimpse of jumping river dolphins.

Another thing at this point was the sight where the Hindus burn their dead. Hindus have a lot of different rituals, and there are lots of interesting rituals surrounding death. They burn their dead within twelve hours of their passing. They build a big stack of wood, like a bonfire, and then lay the body on top of that stack. They place more wood on top and light it up. All the waste then drains into the river. If you still have some bad to work through, you may come back as a chicken, a dog, or a cat. The better your works, the better your next life. The highest thing to come back as is a human. If you have lived a good life, you are allowed to go on to Nirvana, a form of Heaven, where all is bliss. Congratulations, you have escaped the cycle and can finally be at peace. There are so many beliefs and customs surrounding death; I can’t possibly write them all. I explained this to them as we stood there looking at the burning sight. Little did we know, we would become a little more familiar with this ritual than we ever planned.

Once we returned, the tree-climbing guy was over talking to Tulshi. I had told my family about the neighbor named Fahim who could climb palm trees to get coconuts. They seemed excited about seeing it, so I was going to ask him if he could do it for them sometime. I could tell that he was done with his work for the day, because he was all dressed up in his town jeans instead of his coal-blackened work clothes. I saw him gazing up into the palms, talking to Tulshi about the coconuts that needed getting.

“Hey,” I said. “Not right now, because you’re in your nice, clean clothes, but some day, do you think you could–”

“I must climb a tree?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, please? My family wants to see, but I don’t want to give you too much trouble.” He furiously shook his head. No trouble, he assured me.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” he promised.

Once darkness had fallen, we all jumped on three rickshaw vans and headed to the fuchka dokan for supper. What is fuchka? I don’t know myself. It's kind of like a ball-shaped chip that they fill with dal, boiled eggs, onions, hot chilis, cilantro, and probably some other stuff that I can’t remember. We eat it all the time. It’s Lisa’s favorite, but I usually pass on it. I like to go to the fuchka dokan and get coffee and ice cream. :)

January 9 Monday The plans for the day were as follows: go to Khulna in the morning, and eat at Shanto’s in the evening. Trevor drove my family into Khulna and we went shopping. Again, it was really neat seeing my town through new eyes. All the things that had become so normal to me were so new and exciting for them.

First, we went to our big market, Boro Bazaar. (Boro Bazaar literally means “big market” in Bangla.) We walked all the way to the back, where they were selling all kinds of wood products, knives, cooking wear, you name it. That section of the market is right along the river.

We walked down to the river to see some boats getting loaded. We milled about on the uneven ground, trying not to step in any suspicious-looking puddles.

Next, I took the girls fabric shopping and Trevor took the guys to who knows where. The girls all picked out a nice Salwar Kameez set, and we took them to my tailor so he could make them as fast as they could. The girls stood as he measured them. Mom was afraid he would announce her measurements to all the passersby. After he was done, he looked at us over his glasses and announced that their new clothes would be done in three days.

We went to our food market next. Trevor and I walked them through Bangladesh’s finest: a smelly, wet fish market. We then walked through a butcher alley. I could tell my mom’s eyes needed to see something beautiful after that experience, so I drug her to the vegetable section. Here, neatly stacked piles of every kind of vegetable imaginable were waiting to be bought. Eager and smiling men beckon to you their stacks, motioning you to come and buy from them. “It’s the best!”

We opted for Chinese for lunch. After we had eaten a full meal of Chinese noodles and rice and had returned home, I looked for the tree-climbing man to climb the tree like he’d promised. But, we were too late. He had already changed into his town-going clothes. We’d have to wait for another day.

Shanto’s had us over that evening for supper. They made tilapia fry, catfish curry, vegetables, and dal. Mom could hardly deal from walking through that fish market. She said she couldn’t stop thinking about the smell of fish from the market, and now one was looking at her! I made rounds deboning my family’s whole fish and stuffing the unwanted pieces in the bone plate. They did really well! I may just make Bengalis out of them, yet, I thought.

January 10 Tuesday On Tuesday, we had been invited to Kelly and Lanae’s in Gopalgonj for lunch. Shima, their maid, made Bangla chicken, dal, and vegetables. We girls took a walk down their beautiful pathway and went to see a seventeen-day old baby. We headed home around 4:00. It was nearly dark when we returned home. We tried to decide what to do next. The guys wanted to get haircuts, because haircuts in Bangladesh are supposed to be lit. I wouldn’t know. Trevor had some errands to run in Khulna, so we decided I would just take my family to get haircuts.

We hopped on some rickshaw vans and headed for Liton’s barber shop. Liton is a twenty-eight, single, and a member. He sat them down, and he and his assistant worked their magic. Everything was done with scissors and a straight razor. They can surely work those scissors at amazing speeds, and I was a bit nervous about their guys’ ears!

As well as a fresh trim, the boys got facials, full-body massages via a nifty little gadget, and even got their neck and ears popped. It truly is a royal treatment. They emerged looking and feeling like new men.

Although he gave them the most expensive treatment, Liton wouldn’t accept any payment. He said that their coming to his country and his shop had been payment enough. Oh, one more important detail. Halfway through Justin’s haircut, Liton decided we all needed to stop and drink coffee. He took his scissors and headed down the row to a coffee stall and ordered for all of us. They then proceeded to stop all operations and drink coffee for ten minutes!

We were only a ten minute walk from the chicken and naan place, so we walked there for supper afterwards. It was a very busy road, there wasn’t much of a sidewalk, and it was dark. Dad was convinced we were lost. He kept mumbling about being in the middle of nowhere and how nobody had any clue where we were. If we went missing, it was all over for us. This made me chuckle a little bit. I knew that road like the back of my hand!

We sat on the outside tables and ordered. The fresh, hot naan bread came out first, and it was a balm for the weary. Ah, the magic of fresh naan. I think chicken and naan must be my favorite food this country has to offer. We pretty much cleaned it out, and I even got to take some bones home for my dog.

January 11 Wednesday The CSI clinic is open on Tuesday and Wednesday from 9:00 am to 1:00 pm. Today was Wednesday, and Trevor was going to be open so my family could see the normal workings of the clinic.

CSI mostly deals with eye patients. I’m not sure how the whole system works, but I know that we hand out eye drops, eye glasses, and CSI will pay for cataract operations. We have a professional who sits at the clinic and diagnoses problems, an assistant who gives prescription glasses, and a Trevor who signs all the slips saying that CSI will pay for it.

My family and I went to the clinic that morning. We stood in the crowded room and watched as person after person came forth with their problems. Suddenly, Trevor got a phone call and excused himself from the room.

He came back and said that Tulshi had called him with the news that our night guard’s big brother had died during the night. Tulshi would take us to the funeral if we wanted to go. I very much wanted to go. I had heard a lot about Hindu funerals (see above), but I had never actually seen one. When Tulshi’s Grandma died in July, Trevor’s family went to her funeral, but I was staying in Rajshahi during this time. I was a little surprised when my family said that they wanted to go too.

And so we rushed home. The only thing we could find to take us home was an EZ bike, so all seven of us piled in. Note: EZ bikes are not made for seven Americans. Usually, they are made for four. We almost tipped, barely got going, and way overpaid the driver when we got to our destination.

When we got to our gate, I saw that the tree-climbing man was going somewhere.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To the Sunderbans!” he replied.

“What for?”

“Oh, just for the fun of it! I’ll be back tonight, very late.” And so there went my plans for the coconut-fetching today. No matter, there was always tomorrow, and we had a funeral to get to.

Eventually, Tulshi said it was an OK time to go. We plodded along to the river. We weren’t going to the same burning sight that we had visited the other day. Every village has their own, and our village’s sight is about a twenty-five minute walk from our house. We arrived in plenty of time.

When my dad talked about this experience in church, he shared very little detail. For those who want to know more, here is my version of the story. If you don’t feel like reading it, feel free to skip.

A Funeral in Hindu Bangladesh The tide was out and the river was only a trickle of water running through a wide bank of thick, shiny mud. The air was still and silent. A brightly tiled table stood beneath a bending Banyan tree. There is table was to wash the body before they burn it, I was told. Beyond the table, on the banks of the river, was a concrete pad. Metal rods sticking straight out of the concrete encased a huge stack of cut wood. More wood was piled beside.

People milled about, waiting for the family to bring the deceased. There was a little shelter- a roof with some benches underneath- where we sat. It was a safe distance away from all the gory stuff. I kept telling my family that they could leave if they felt uncomfortable; it wouldn’t be considered disrespectful.

Finally, we saw the family approaching. They carried their father/uncle on a crude metal cot. The eldest son walked over to a little patch of upset dirt and squatted down. He held his head in his hands and wept. Tulshi revealed to me that this was the grave of his five-year-old son who had died one month and ten days before. If a Hindu dies before the age of twelve, they bury them instead of burning them.

This man’s death had come as a surprise. Our night guard, Sunil, had been drinking cha with him just hours before. A few hours later, he suffered a massive heart attack. The family took him to the hospital in Khulna, but there was nothing that could be done. It was too late. It was 2:00 am when one of Sunil’s nephews came to tell him the news. Sunil knocked on Trevor's window and said he had to leave.

We stood quietly to one side. Tulshi stood beside me, ready to answer any questions I had about their rituals. As they hoisted the body up onto the ornately decorated table to wash it, I looked for Sunil Kaka. I asked Tulshi if he could see him anywhere.

“I don’t think he’ll come,” was his quiet reply. “Losing a big brother is like losing a dad, and he will be too sad to come.”

We watched as the nephews and sons bathed their father one last time, rubbed oils on him, and dressed him in a new, white lungi. “It’s their final duty; their last right” Tulshi told me. The body was already stiff, and it looked like they were having a difficult time. Tulshi said that if a man dies, the boys wash the body. If a lady dies, the girls wash the body.

I don’t know when Sunil Kaka showed up, but eventually I caught a glimpse of him. He looked the same as always, except there were tears in his eyes. “Miss Kalli, I don’t know how it happened! I drank cha with him just last night...”

A wail broke out from the crowd. A woman dressed in a purple saree had just arrived and was stricken with grief. She ran to the body and clutched his head in her hands. Someone told me he was her dad, but later someone else told me he was her uncle. Finally, one of the man’s sons pulled her off and held her in his arms. They both stood there, weeping together.

This had affected some of my family. Some of them had gone for a walk and mom was sitting like a statue on a bench. I assured them that, at times like these, people will “put on” or fake cry. It’s considered an act of love. If you don’t cry, then you didn’t love them. I do believe the woman truly was sad, but it’s possible she was putting on just a bit.

After the body was washed, they carried him over to the stack of wood. Tulshi told me that they have a rule in Hinduism: if they stay and watch the burning, they have to bathe afterwards. If they leave before the fire is lit, they don’t have to. He would be leaving before the fire so he wouldn’t have to bathe afterwards. We asked him if it would be ok if we stayed, and he said that would be just fine. He excused himself and walked home.

They laid the body face-down on the stack of wood. They tried to fold his knees in to make him fit, but his body was so stiff they wouldn’t bend. Three men had to push with all their might before the knee gave. *POP* Now, time for the other one. There was nothing peaceful or delicate about anything. Crudely, they stacked more wood on top. Once it was all said and done, we could only see the man’s white-haired head poking out about one-third of the way down.

The man’s two sons and one grandson then took a long torch and lit the end. They all held on, the little grandson in front, and walked around the stack of wood seven times. At each round, they lit something on the stack. By the seventh round, the fire was growing considerably larger. Everyone stood around and looked into the inferno. Soon, the entire stack of wood was engulfed in flames and a thick column of black smoke was rising from the fire.

I had to realize how normal this is for these people. We love our solemn and reverent funerals. The soft singing and gentle hands are a comfort to us. But this is a comfort to them. In their minds, they are preparing their father for where he needs to go. It’s their last rights as his sons and nephews. It’s their final act of love.

We didn’t stay until the end. Some of my family had already gone, and those who had remained decided to leave now, too. On our way out, we passed a special temple dedicated to the Hindu goddess Kali. As we walked away, we heard the bells and the eerie wailing signifying the start of their puja to the goddess of death.

These things are stories that happen in far-away countries that you only read about, not things that actually do happen. I am really glad to have the opportunity to see it, although I don’t know if I need to see another one.

Dipti made us coconut shrimp curry for lunch. There is nothing wrong with Dipti’s coconut shrimp curry. In fact, sometimes I like it better than chicken and naan. After lunch, we took more walks around the village. One of our walks took us to Tulshi’s house. He hadn’t come with us, but his brother (our old guard, Bishnu), sister-in-law, and parents were home. Ety, the beautiful and bubbly sister-in-law, gave us a tour of her tiny mud kitchen. She showed us the corner where she does puja, or worship to their idols, every morning and evening.

Bishnu and Ety are very content with their little house. They seem to have a really good marriage, even though it's arranged, and are good parents to their ten-year-old daughter. She was too shy to show her face at first, but eventually came out from her hiding place to hide behind her dad.

Ety sat us down and gave us biscuits. Bishnu and Tulshi’s mother sad in the yard, looking at nothing and babbling to no one. She is getting older and is suffering some kind of dementia. When I asked Bishnu how his mother was, he told me that her brain was completely finished.

“Does she know what she’s saying? When she looks around, does she see things in the air that aren’t really there?” I asked.

“We don’t know,” he replied. “We can’t ask her and she can’t tell us.”

I tried to make sense of her babbling. “Can you understand what she’s saying?” I asked. “Yeah, I can. See, there? She’s calling for Tulshi.”

I listened intently for a bit and heard all sorts of things. Tulshi, bring her some fish so I can cut it. Why was there such a loud noise? Go get the dogs, they're calling. You! Stop being so loud!

After all the biscuits were eaten, we made our way home. My Dad and Mom would later say that this visit was one of their favorite things during their visit in Bangladesh: seeing how the

real people lived, sitting in their house, and seeing how content their family was. It’s one of my favorite parts of living here, too.

January 12 Thursday Thursday revealed another favorite, a boat ride in the Sunderbans. I’ve written about the Sundarbans before. The port where we get on the boat is in Mongla, only an hour away. Trevor calls up there in the morning and reserves a boat. Then, we piled seven Unruhs and six Wedels into our van and drove to Mongla port. Tulshi told me to bring a beautiful tiger cub home so we could keep it in the yard and raise it. I liked the idea, but I didn’t think I wanted to try and steal a baby from a tiger mama!

Before we left, I saw that the tree-climbing man was standing outside the gate, waiting on Tulshi to finish up whatever he was doing so they could go drink cha together.

“Hey!” I ran out to the gate. “Are you going to be home this afternoon?” “Yes! You want me to climb a tree today?”

“Pleeeeaaase? I don’t want to give you any trouble...”

“No trouble,” he laughed. “I’ll be here.”

The boat ride to the Sundarbans was just like it was the time before, and the time before that, and the time before that. Beautiful, as always. We cruised along the bank of the river. There were monkeys milling about in the trees and huge lizards ambling about. Once in a while, we caught fleeting glimpses of the spotted deer. We had the same boat driver as the last time we went, and when we got down from the boat to walk around, we got a guide we had had before! (Fun fact: We just went on the boat again with Trevor’s folks, and we got the same driver for the third time!)

Our guide took us beside the crocodile breeding enclosure, the deer refuge, and then up the boardwalk. I was thankful it wasn’t as hot as when Jara and Dean were here! When we got to the watchtower halfway down the trail, we found that it was crawling with people like ants on a piece of forgotten cake. This was bad news for us, as we became the newest and latest tourist attraction. Everyone wanted selfies. One selfie doesn’t seem so harmless, but if you let one person take a selfie with you, soon you will have a hundred people begging for them.

After climbing up the watchtower, I quickly saw that it was not for me. I could hardly walk for all the people! I went back down, parting the sea of people as I went. I could hear Justin descending behind me, using a useful Bangla phrase he had learned: “Hobe na, hobe na...” (Not gonna happen.)

At last we made it out of the forest. During prior visits to the Sundarbans, we had worried about getting attacked by monkeys, not tourists! At the exit of the boardwalk, a team of three men with a professional-looking camera and boom mic were standing, waiting to intercept us. Suddenly, I forgot all my Bangla. “I’m getting out of here,” I said to our guide. “I don’t want to talk to them.” I went waaaaay around, trying my best to avoid the trap. I looked back to see that the spiders had trapped Trevor and Lisa in their web.

I scurried to the relative safety of the giant 3D map of the Sundarbans. There were monkeys playing all around, and a few people milling about. I asked our guide about the map: where we were, where Khulna was, ect. All too soon, the media guys were at my side. They announced that they were from “Facebook TV!” and wanted to have a word with me. I told them sorry, I really didn’t want to talk. Our guide told them the same. He tried to get them to leave, but soon, I was talking to a smartly-dressed man about where we lived, how long we’ve been here, our CSI project, ect. My “five minutes of fame” were not glorious or fun.

After it was all over, I went to hide behind our guide. After all, he had rescued me from suffocating tourists and charging monkeys in the past. “Where were you? You are supposed to save me!” I said. Where was his stick when I needed it?

My family thought I was busy inviting all of Bangladesh to church via the “Facebook TV.” I guess I'll have to do that next time.

When we got home, the tree-climbing man climbed a palm tree like he had promised, fulfilling my greatest desire that my family could see. He shot right up there, sent some coconuts down, and slid back down like he was sliding down a firepole. After some applause and a chorus of “Thank yous,” he strode on. Tulshi cut open the coconuts and we glugged them down.

That evening, I took my family into Khulna on EZ bikes. The girls’ kameezes were done at the tailor. We first went to the tailor, which is in the middle of a huge bazaar. By this time, it was evening, and the entire bazaar was completely packed with people. A police officer saw us coming and stopped traffic so we could cross the road (perks of being a foreigner), and we joined the swaying mass of people. I’ve never understood how crowd surges happen, but after seeing the crowd that night, I understand.

When we made it to the tailor, I felt like I could breathe again. He served us cha like usual, we picked up the new Bengali outfits, and headed on. We had plans to go back to the riverside and so Justin could buy a knife, but after seeing the crowd, he decided he could get one later. We hopped back on an EZ bike and headed for the coffee shop.

On the way, we spotted an old man selling just what Justin wanted on the side of the road. After our coffee drinks were emptied and our bellies were full, we walked back to the old man. He smiled from ear to ear as we stood there pawing through his stuff. Everyone ended up buying something from him.

When we got home, Trevor had chicken and naan waiting for us. It was the perfect way to end a great day.

January 13 Friday Friday, the thirteenth. Brandi’s birthday! Our big day, full of Sunday School and church. I dragged my family with me to the first Sunday School here in our village. The superintendent of the school just up the road has graciously allowed us to use one of the school rooms.

On our way home from Sunday School, Imon invited us into his dokan for cha. His family runs the cha dokan nearest to our house. He’s eleven years old and literally the cutest thing I ever did see. I’m going to be bringing him home, so some of you will be meeting him soon. I can’t say no to his big brown eyes, mischievous smile, and oversized ears, so we all stopped and had cha with Imon. Then, it was on to the next Sunday School.

My dad and both brothers got a chance to talk in church. How fun! :) Our brother Kobir did a good job, as always, interpreting for them. We had been invited to eat Biryani with Shanto’s after church. After a walk to the river, we sat on the floor and stuffed our faces again. Shanto’s decided to give my family gifts. Mom, Tressa, and Greta all got beautiful georgette sarees, and Dad, Justin, and Grant all got panjabis and lungis. Of course they had to put them on for everyone to see. I’m not sure how Shanto and Hridoy got the color choices just right, but it was perfect! Everyone got their favorite color, and they looked like Bengali royalty.

January 14 Saturday On the 14th, we headed back to Dhaka. Lisa, Whitney, Brandi, and Brock bravely took a double decker bus so there would be room in the vehicle for seven Unruhs, two Wedels, and more than a trunk full of luggage.

We went to North End Coffee for lunch. It was well into the afternoon when we finished up, so we decided we would just head straight to the hotel. Lisa had already reserved rooms for us, as she had arrived in Dhaka several hours before. We usually stay in the spare apartment that CSI rents in Dhaka, but it was full. Jarad and Brianna, the new Dhaka couple, were still living there taking language class at the time.

The hotel is in an area called “Farmgate.” It’s about a ten minute walk from the mission house, and about twenty minutes from church. The hotel is a ten-story beauty right in the middle of a busy Bengali market.

The rooms are usually pretty nice, but this time, Grant and Greta had to switch rooms. Theirs reeked of cigarette smoke. Apparently Greta made such a face when they entered with the bellboy that he asked what was the matter. “We can’t stay here,” Grant said. “We are going to need a new room.”

“Ok sir, let me call in to the front desk,” the bellboy replied, eager to help. After the call he turned to Grant and said, “Sorry sir, there are no more rooms available.”

“Ok then,” Grant replied. “I’ll talk to Brother.”

“Brother” is Trevor Wedel. He is called “Brother” everywhere he goes. Apparently the name holds much weight, because suddenly the bellboy was calling to the front desk again. When he got off the phone, there was magically a room available. Looks like Grant learned the Bengali way!

When Grant and Greta arrived at their new room on the ninth floor, it was full of air freshener. Even the elevator and the hallway had been sprayed. The hotel was going to be sure everything was just fine. Justin and Tressa’s room had a faint smoke smell, but they decided it was manageable.

After everyone was settled in their more or less smoke-free rooms, we went down to the street and went shopping in the market. Rows and rows and rows of clothing shops give in to more rows and rows of clothing shops. On the side of the street are carts laden with shirts, jewelry, food, plastics, ect... We shopped for an hour or two and then headed up to the hotel’s roof for supper.

The hotel offers an array of foods. We like the chicken chow mein, Chinese fried rice, wontons, vegetable spring rolls, firecracker shrimp, and diet coke. They also have cha, coffee, and ice cream if anyone is hungry for that. We sat up there, ten stories above the city, eating like rich people surveying their kingdom. We took our time and ate all evening. Then, Grant went down and got Cover Your Assets. We spent the rest of the evening playing and drinking coffee.

January 15 Sunday We had breakfast on the hotel roof. Leftover noodles and Chinese rice from last night, as well as toast, fried eggs, dal, tortilla, and soup welcomed us. After breakfast, we all packed into the vehicle and headed for New Market.

How does one begin to describe New Market? It’s just like every other Bengali market, but bigger? Better? I don’t know. My favorite part is that I can buy paintings there. They aren’t cheap like the African ones though. My other favorite part is that there’s a big, beautiful mosque right in the center. If one is at New Market at prayer time, he will be lucky enough to hear a beautiful prayer call. (Some don’t like the prayer call, but it’s one of my favorite parts of Bangladesh.)

We got there right after opening time and some of the shops were still closed. Maybe the shopkeepers got stuck in traffic. We slowly walked around, and my family bought things to their heart’s content. At one point, someone said this was probably their favorite part of the whole trip.

We were there for around three hours. After we had had a fully Bengali morning, everyone was ready for a little piece of America. Pizza Hut for lunch it is. After Pizza Hut, we followed the traffic jam to a store called Aarong. Aarong is a really neat store. Everything in there is handmade in Bangladesh. You can find really neat souvenirs, dishes, toys, table

runners, ect. We had already been to our Aarong here in Khulna, but the one in Dhaka is so much bigger. I bought a few things to send home to my sister and some friends.

After that, we went and found some coffee again and drove around the rich part of Dhaka, just so I could prove to everyone that not all of Bangladesh is dysfunctional. (Side note: this is the only place we have found in the country where there is a stoplight that people actually obey.) Then, we headed back to our hotel for some relaxing, some shopping, and some eating on the rooftop.

January 16 Monday This was the dreaded departure date. Their flight was scheduled for 7:30 pm, so we still had almost a full day together. Daniel and Amber invited us in the morning for coffee and muffins, since this was the only time they would be able to see my family. This was also Daniel and Amber’s last day in Bangladesh. Their term was over, and Jarad and Brianna would be taking their place.

After the delicious breakfast in Daniel’s second-story apartment, we walked to the Jute Store. Jute is a massive crop here in Bangladesh. At this store, you can find all sorts of things: bags, placemats, rugs, shoes, you name it. We spent a good deal of time and money there before heading back to the hotel to check out.

Checkout time was at noon, so we still had an afternoon to kill before dropping my family off at the airport. We decided to go back to North End Coffee for lunch and to hang out. We again stuffed all the luggage into the back of the van and headed downtown. Lisa and the kids took a CNG, as there was no way of getting everyone in the van anymore.

Again, we sat there, eating our sandwiches and drinking our coffee. I suppose I should get all poetic about having one last time with my family. I suppose I should write something that would pull a tear to your eye and make you realize how much you love those around you. But, the truth is, I wasn’t feeling any poetic sort of way. They were leaving, sure, and of course that left a sad feeling in the pit of my stomach. But it won’t be long until I see them again. I’ve lived away from home before, and I’ve gone longer without seeing them than I will this go around, Lord willing. So yes, I was sad, but not an emotional wreck.

I did cry a bit at the airport. Tressa asked me if I was sad and I couldn’t really answer her. Yes, I was (see above), but I was also really happy. These people had actually, truly, and really flown to the other side of the world to see me. Me. And no one else. Maybe I was crying because I felt so loved. (Aw, there’s the poetic squishy part.)

Jay hok, as it goes in Bangla. We didn’t say “Goodbye,” because I don’t like that word. We said “See you later,” and I waved at them until we were out of sight. Trevor, Brock, Kylie, and I drove back to the hotel in a terribly empty van.

When we got to the hotel, I walked down the street to buy pringles. Trevor and the kids took a rickshaw to meet Lisa and the other kids at a big mall down the road. I stayed in my room

and drank hot tea and ate pringles and a Snickers because I was sad. So yes, I guess I really was sad, but also very happy that they had come, and filled to the brim with good memories.

January 17 Tuesday (bonus story) But everyone knows the best thing for a sad Kalli is animals. We went to the Dhaka Zoo the day after my parents left, and it exceeded all expectations. It’s HUGE! Really puts Lee Richordson to shame.

Let’s see if I can remember all the animals we saw: monkeys, flamingos, peacocks, other birds, pythons (Lisa and I stuck our fingers in the cage and touched one), tigers, lions, bears, emus, ostriches, other monkeys who yelled, crocodiles, elephants, hippos, giraffes, bears, deer, impala, and probably some other animals that I feel really bad about forgetting.

Perhaps the most interesting animal was the American Foreigner. The American Foreigner is native to most parts of Europe, but has migrated to and now dominates most of the North American continent. They are taller and girthier than the Bengladeshi. They have light skin, and typically have hair that ranges in color from very light to moderately dark. Their eyes also range in color and size. The most prominent eye color is brown, though blue is not uncommon. They work too much and rarely make time to relax. They like to eat foods that are high in sugar, such as bread and chocolate. They eat with a fork and spoon instead of their hands and prefer coffee over hot tea. They are a very social breed. Their greeting is “Hi, how are you?” or simply “Hello.” Upon approaching the American Foreigner, never assume that he can speak or understand any Bangla. Assess to see if he is friendly or not. If he is comfortable and shows no signs of aggression or fear, you may ask, “Can I please take selfie with you?”

It was us. We were the American Foreigners.

Until next time, -Kalli