"The Worry Machine"

Bengalis have worrying down to a sophisticated science.

All through college, my folks worried about what I ate, who I hung around with, how I was getting home, if there was enough air in my tires for the one hour commute from Grand Rapids to Lansing, and if my reocurring heart burn would ultimately kill me of esophogeal cancer.

Here in Bangladesh, everyone insists that you call when you reach home from a dinner, afternoon tea, or random visit. I admit that the roads of Dhaka are no place for a anyone to trek around alone at night, but there's concern and then there's flat out PARANOIA. I took Katie out for day of much-needed R&R at a fancy-pants salon in the richest neighborhood of Dhaka, and I think the whole experience nearly gave her brother-in-law a heart attack. He called pretty much every hour after a certain point and when I dropped her off home, I could see the vow in his eyes never to let Katie go out with me again. It was 9:00pm. While the only thing to worry about at "Nelo's Beauty Parlour" is your hands and feet pruning as you get a luxorious pre-manicure/pedicure soak, poor Katie's bro IL was sweating bullets as if we'd been newly recruited to body gaurd the American Ambassador.

I understand the cultural division, though, and even have to respect it. Women in Bangladesh simply do not have mobility, neither in a physical nor social sense. That facet of life here is enough to drive an American woman thoroughly insane. We are used to going out whenever, wherever, and with whomever we want. We drive our own cars, don't need male escorts to go buy vegetables, and don't have to swaddle ourselves in cloth when in public to uphold our family's honor.

I certainly don't intend to legitimize the status quo for Western women in our own countries. I really believe that our lack of mobility has been internalized, and is equally dangerous in a way. But being in Bangladesh, I realize just how much I take for granted. I have never known what it's like to live in CONSTANT fear. I find myself taking rickshaws short and walkable distances just to avoid the X-Ray vision-esque staring parade by every man in a 2-mile radius.

Some days, I just want to put on a Vegas-style show girl outfit, complete with the sequined bikini and feathered head-tail piece, and salsa down Gulshan Avenue. It would be a sort of "up yours" to the odd mix of lasciviousness and conservatism here that would probably cause some kind of nation-wide panic. Beautiful.