We arrived late last night to a nearly deserted airport. The heat and humidity didn’t seem as bad to me as everyone had predicted. However, I did live in Manaus (in the Amazon) for five years, so perhaps I’m just better prepared than many others are for this kind of weather. I won’t deny that it’s hot or humid, just not unbearably so, for Taara or for me.

Getting through immigration was a breeze. The guy didn’t say a single word. He just took our passports, frowned at them a few times, looked at our visas, frowned at them as well for good measure (I think maybe they get paid on a per-frown basis?), stamped them both and nodded us past.

Retrieving our bags was a little more harrowing, especially since we were unsure if all of them would actually arrive. At one point, we spotted one of my suitcases and followed it as it started to go around a pillar…and disappeared. Immediately I started running down the length of the belt like a madman, intent on tackling the hapless Bengali who had “mistaken” my suitcase for his and calling him a thief. As I ran I assured myself that they probably has a strict ticket-based control for walking out of here with luggage (I was to find out later that no such system is in place at all!). After frantically searching for someone dragging my suitcase through customs, I finally found it standing beside an innocent-looking Bengali man. I promptly retrieved it, giving him a carefully-studied dirty look that will be sure to haunt him for the rest of his days and prevent him from ever taking someone else’s bag from the belt again.

Armed with our suitcases, we followed the simple directions we were given by Debra Harvey, the Assistant Principal at Grace International School: walk straight through, do not go in the x-ray machine line, and ignore anyone who talks to you, as if you didn’t understand what they were saying. (That last part was no challenge at all for me.) The customs official took one look at Taara’s shalwar kemeez (no idea if that’s spelled right) and at our purposeful stride, and nodded us through with no questions asked. Good thing, too – we had packed our three LCD computer displays in our suitcases, along with cameras, iPods, Treo, speakers, hard drives, and a ton of other supposedly “dutiable” items.

As we walked through the terminal on our way out, I noticed many travelers of varying nationalities sleeping throughout the airport, waiting for their respective flights. We met Debra Harvey outside the terminal (apparently people aren’t allowed into the terminal to meet incoming passengers) with one of the school’s vans, surrounded by young Bengali men who eagerly tried to take our bags and carry them to the van (which was two feet away). Debra finally dissuaded them by yelling “AMI TAKA NAI!” (I don’t have any taka!) at the top of her lungs, and we were able to load everything into the vehicles.

Even though DOHS Baridhara (where we are staying) is quite close to Zia International Airport (where we had landed), it took us nearly an hour to arrive at our flats, since there was a midnight traffic jam on the main road from the airport to the city. It was our first glimpse of traffic in Dhaka, though it was a tame one since we were on a major thoroughfare which is divided by a large median.

Within minutes of arriving at our flat, I killed my first (and only so far, after about a week) cockroach. We looked around at our new digs and only had time to turn on the air conditioner before collapsing into our huge, bigger-than-king-size bed.

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We woke up about 5 hours later (thanks to the jet lag) and when we stepped outside the bedroom we immediately thanked God for our AC. It was hot in our apartment (hotter than it was outside). We opened the windows and started our fans, in the hope of airing the place out.

Our aya (bangla for maid or helper) arrived at 10 AM sharp, very impressive given what we’d heard about local timekeeping skills. Her name is Purnima, and she is just the cutest little person we’ve ever met (emphasis must be placed on the “little”, as I would say she’s just over four and a half feet tall).

We were expecting Dave Snowdon (the GIS Principal) to arrive at 11:30 AM, so that’s who I expected to see when the doorbell rung around that time. Instead, a small Bengali man marched in with an entourage of three adjutants, all of them even smaller than him (a near-impossibility, but true). “I am Napoleon, from Grace School,” he announced. “We are here to measure the closet.” I gave him a puzzled look and soon found myself trying to keep up with them as they headed towards the bedroom, all the time hoping Taara hadn’t suddenly decided she needed to change outfits. Thankfully, she was fully decent (which means she was decked out in a Bengali shalwar kemeez outfit) and stood there with an amused look on her face as the four Bengalis argued over the dimensions of our wicker closet. After some time we managed to understand that they were measuring the furniture so that they could make more of them for other arriving teachers. They measure the length, width, and height of the entire closet and all its compartments and shelves…all with a 15-inch child’s ruler (most likely borrowed from the school’s supply room).

After the Napoleonic army had left, Dave arrived to take us on a tour of the two campuses which make up Grace International School. We first headed to the Upper School, which is farther away. After looking around the facilities, we met with Dave in his office and discussed potential teaching schedules, including the possibility of me teaching some history and biblical studies classes for years 7 and 9. (About 5 hours a week, split between two days). I had come with the understanding that I wouldn’t be needed for teaching, so this came as quite a surprise. But given that it’s only a few hours, and that the school doesn’t have anyone else to fill the position right now, I told Dave I’d give it a go and see how things work.

During our meeting Dave offered us some coffee and I noticed something interesting…the Nescafé container he had in his office was from Brazil! “Nescafé Matinal,” with the label entirely in Portuguese! I made myself the obligatory syrup-thick cup of coffee and savored the taste of home. I thought this surely must be an anomaly, but later on as I perused the local “Pick n’ Pay” supermarket, I realized that there were actually all kinds of Nescafé jars from all over the place, written in Arabic, Hindi, etc. So now you know what happens to all the Nescafé that can’t be sold in their own countries…

After our meeting we went off to the shops around the Gulshan 2 circle, where we looked at Automated Voltage Regulators and UPSes, both essential parts of any office that wants to sustain itself for more than a couple of days, given Bangladesh’s frequent power outages and spotty electrical infrastructure. We had been informed that in order to obtain a SIM card for my Treo, I would need to submit a few passport-sized photos with my application, so we headed down to the nearest photo shop.

As I sat there waiting for my photos, I looked out the window and it suddenly dawned on me how surreal this reality was, compared to the Canadian society we had been living in just a few days ago. Outside the shop sat a small young girl who appeared to be about 16 years old. She was under a small plant in the parking lot, tending to a child of about two and another small child who couldn’t yet stand on its two feet without assistance. As the shop’s speakers wafted the whining, sighing voice of a Bengali singer over the air-conditioned environment, this girl sat outside in the beating hot sun with just a few leaves for shade and the oppressive sounds of traffic all around her. She begged passersby’s for money, but at no moment in the ten minutes I sat there did I see anyone even acknowledge her presence, let alone try to help. My vision of the girl was interrupted by a shop attendant who was cleaning the glass doors in his transparent bright yellow flip-flops (while simultaneously clad in a collared shirt and pants). His garb’s addition to the picture only added to its surreal feel.

My photos finally arrived and we were presented with the price: 200 taka. I quickly calculated that this was less than $3 (US$1 is about 70 taka at the moment), and given that passport photos in Canada cost easily five times that much, was happy to pay it. Taara, however, said “200 taka? No, 20 taka!” The Bengali man behind the counter laughed and said “No, the price is on the sign!” Confronted with a sign in Bangla which neither of us could read (but which, upon later reflection and application of recently-gained rudimentary Bangla numeracy, actually said 200 taka), we paid the man and left. I asked Taara why she was so adamant, and she replied that 200 taka just seems like such a large amount! After thinking about it, however, she agreed that the price was not really that high. We also spoke to other teachers later and found out that this is a common price for the initial “setup,” and that if we return to the shop we should be able to get new photos for around 15 taka a piece. So Taara’s gut feeling was right, but she failed to account for the setup costs which are charged in every shop (and may in fact have remembered previous trips to the photo shop in which she only paid a few taka per photo, when she lived here with her parents).

We walked out of the photo shop and into one of what I have termed the “Gulshan dungeons.” These are series of shops that are on the lower floors of buildings (or otherwise covered) but whose lighting is very minimal, giving the feeling that one might be jumped at any moment by a pack of thieves, rats, or small children with sharp teeth. At one of these obscure shops we purchased two more shalwar kemeezes for Taara.

Satisfied with ourselves and feeling like we had made some progress, we decided to head home. Taara flagged down a ricksha wallah and expertly argued him down from 20 taka to 15 taka to take us back to DOHS Baridhara. At first I was in shock at the concept of arguing over what really amounts to be less than 10 cents, but I’ve been slowly buying into the idea, especially when I realize how much we will actually be depending on rickshas and CNGs for transport and how quickly those small charges really add up.

In between having my life flash before my eyes multiple times on the way home, I noticed a huge amount of signs all over the place which said “To-let”. To a British mind that may have made sense, but to my North-American-conditioned perspective it meant one or both of the following:

1. The signmaker obviously doesn’t know how to spell, or is very modest.
2. These people are fairly concerned about being able to find a bathroom at a moment’s notice.

I pointed these out to Taara and she was able to explain their true meaning to me (it’s a “for rent” sign, for you Canadians/Americans). The best one I’ve seen so far is for a real estate agent: “Looking for To-let? No more need to run around! We’ll do the running for you!” When I saw that one I laughed for about five minutes. Yes, I’m a 4th grader at heart.

Our ricksha dropped us off at Pick n’ Pay, a local supermarket, where we picked up instant noodles and other assorted foods and then walked about 10 blocks home (which really isn’t bad because there’s about two buildings per block here, so they’re not that large). Debra brought over pizza from the American club and we had a late night snack as we unpacked, before collapsing once again into a blissful jet-lagged sleep.