News from Grameen
As the bank has been closed for the Eid festivities, the last week and a half has been relatively slow. Many days have been spent in front of the computer watching the deterioration of the American and worldwide economy while preparing applications to graduate schools. Having seen how much time I have spent in the Grand Prince Hotel, one of the employees, Kamal, invited me to go to the botanical gardens and then to his house for lunch.
Well-dressed and professional with good English-speaking skills, Kamal has an MBA in marketing, yet works the night shift at the front desk of the Grand Prince. We meet at the hotel at 11 AM to travel by rickshaw to the botanical gardens. He insists on paying for the ride and my admission to the botanical gardens. The gardens were beautiful, but the flower gardens were surrounded with barbed wire fences and the gates were locked. Apparently theft of plants by nurseries is a problem in Bangladesh. Kamal buys water and snacks for us at the outdoor café area in the gardens before we go back to his apartment for a proper lunch.
His apartment is in a very poor neighborhood on the outskirts of Dhaka. It amazes me how quickly the city of Dhaka deteriorates into what looks more like the poor villages that I have visited with Grameen. The apartment is one of four two-room apartments in a small building. Kamal tells me that he owns the apartment "complex" and earns 6,000 taka per month from the three other tenants. The four apartments share a common bathroom and kitchen area that adjoins the building at the end of the alley.
The toilet is the same style as that of the Grameen Bank branch office in Shirajdikhan, with no flushing mechanism. The communal shower is also in this bathroom area. There is no bathtub to separate the showering area from the "other business" area. As such, I can't imagine feeling cleaner after showering in this bathroom. Immediately outside of the bathroom area is the kitchen area, where Kamal's mom is preparing lunch for us.
I meet Kamal's father, who pronounces his name "Jakoff," offering that the Russian version is Yakov. I think I prefer using Yakov. While Kamal goes to grab soda for us, Yakov talks about how much potential his son had demonstrated as a child and how much money he could have earned. "But," Yakov says, "He is too honest. He won't take advantage. You can't be honest and make money in Bangladesh." I find this disconcerting and perhaps a bit oversimplified, but there certainly seem to be a lot more poor downtrodden people than wealthy people. I tell Yakov that it is better to be poor and able to sleep at night than rich and guilty of harming others. Yakov agrees.
Yakov exits the room when Kamal enters with soda. Kamal and I begin to talk. Kamal apologizes for the lack of air conditioning as he positions the fan so that its breeze blows in my direction. He informs me that his family is part of Bangladesh's middle class. Having witnessed the conditions in his apartment: no air conditioning, two small bedrooms and a dining area, a communal bathroom and kitchen, I am grateful that Kamal is not a member of the lower class. This confirms Dr. Kawahito's statement that "America's poor would be middle class in Bangladesh."
Kamal offers with great sadness in his voice, "When I was a kid, my expectations were so high. I didn't think that I was meant for a place like this. I saw so much better for me." He goes on to tell me that he studied written and spoken English for two years leading up to 1998, when he applied for a Canadian visa. He was denied.
Kamal desperately wants to get out of this neighborhood and his country. He says, "Every day, I pray for Allah to provide a way out of here." He tells me that he would very much like to go to America, but the only way that he can get there is with a marriage visa. Kamal says that he has saved enough money for a plane ticket and to provide incentive for someone to enter into a contract marriage with him. In seeing his desperation, I wish that there were something I could do for him. I offer that I would marry him if it were legal, just so that he could get out of Bangladesh. He laughs.
The laughter helps to lift the melancholy air that had settled into the room as we talked about Kamal's desperate desire for better things for himself. His mother's entry and announcement that lunch is ready further improves the mood in the room.
Sitting down to lunch in the dining area, there is a feast laid out before us: two types of fish, a bowl of sautéed cucumbers, a gigantic plate of rice, hard-boiled eggs, and egg omelets (no cheese, regretfully). As Kamal digs in with his hands, I notice that there is no silverware. I had read that silverware was a sign of wealth in Bangladesh, but certainly the middle class can afford the luxury. Apparently not. Kamal notices my hesitation and offers me a gigantic cooking spoon to use. I tell him that I will be just fine with my hands. It was actually rather fun.
I thought it peculiar that Kamal was eating lunch during Ramadan, the month of fasting. Upon my inquiry, Kamal explains that he cannot fast because it causes him stomach problems. I learn that Islamic law provides exceptions to the required fasting for those for whom it causes health problems.
As I bite into one of the smaller fishes, I hear a big crunch. Kamal tells me to chew it well before I swallow. With the lack of cheese in the omelets, I assume that I could probably use the extra calcium and go with it, careful to chew thoroughly. The extra crunch provides an interesting texture. Beyond this minor surprise, the food is delightful.
The water that Kamal has poured for me comes from a very dirty-looking plastic Coca-Cola bottle. Noticing that I am not drinking, Kamal assures me that the water has been boiled and filtered. I offer that I don't generally drink while I eat. As I finish, Kamal tells me that I must wash my hands at the table. Thankfully, there is finally a use for the water in my water glass, so it doesn't go to waste.
After lunch, Kamal and I talk briefly. He asks if I know anyone who might be willing to engage in a contract marriage with him for long enough that he can obtain permanent resident status in the United States. I tell him that I've got some very caring friends, and that I will do whatever I can to try to help him out of Bangladesh and into America. I try to joke that now might not be the best time to move to America, given the current financial crisis—Kamal doesn't laugh. "Anywhere has to be better than here."
I say my goodbyes to Yakov. Kamal introduces me to his mother for the first time. "Thank you for lunch," I tell her. With no hyperbole intended I continue, "It was the best meal I've had since I've been in Bangladesh." Kamal translates for me. His mother smiles and offers me the last two bananas of their bunch. I politely decline.
Back on the streets of Kamal's neighborhood, the children are playing joyfully, completely unaware that they are living in such poverty. Kamal hails a rickshaw and rides with me for the first several blocks. He tells me that he can't keep living like this. I tell him that at least the kids seem to having fun. He says, "They will grow up, and they will realize that they are losers. There is no way out of this for them." Kamal gets off at the corner and tries to pay the rickshaw driver. He finally accepts my offer to pay. We say goodbye, and I tell him that I will see him at the hotel later. I buy a fresh pineapple on the street corner for the equivalent of 35 cents. In a place where pineapples are so plentiful, the laws of supply and demand are fantastic.
