Getting Angry In Bangla / The Taxi Driver Who Gave Me Popcorn
on From Banglatown to Bangladesh (Bangladesh), 25/Apr/2009 15:40, 34 days ago
For many years, I believed that one's ability to 'negotiate' with taxi drivers in a foreign language was a sign of emerging linguistic fluency. It was four years ago in Nicaragua, while trying to cross the concrete jungle of horrors that is its capital Managua, that I first realised my attempts at learning 'El Español' had paid off. Despite losing the argument spectacularly (our taxi driver stopped the car in a quiet, backstreet of a city known at the time for the armed hijacking of gringo-carrying vehicles, and demanded payment ten times the agreed price to ensure our safety), I was pleased to put up a fight that included not just raised voices, but also coherent(ish) Spanish sentences. And very pleased to make it out of Managua with wallets and bags – although dented – still present and intact.In Bangladesh however– as I am discovering over and over again – old rules just don't apply. Here, despite being well used to negotiating with CNG drivers and rickshaw-wallahs, I am far away from developing any sort of Bangla coherency. Although I know the main Bengali numbers well enough for bargaining, the quick-fire responses of my Spanish days are a distant memory. In my defence, Bengali numbers are very difficult: there are actually different words for each, not just the compounds of 'twenty-one', 'twenty-two' and so on that we are used to. And actually, more important than words or numbers here arethe subtle body movements that indicate agreement or disagreement: the raised upside-down head nod asking if a driver will go; the slight head-tilt to the right indicating 'yes', 'I agree' and 'I will go'; the slow, deliberate – but only half-genuine – walk away from the vehicle of a stubborn driver, waiting for him to change his mind and shout agreement to a lower price.It is not all waving, walking and head-tilting however. While this choreographed dance of negotiations has its effectiveness, it does not exactly indicate upcoming mastery of the Bangla 'basa' (language). My previous belief in the link between negotiating power and linguistic fluency took a further beating two months ago, during my parents' visit to Bangladesh. Before explaining further, some background information is required: Bangladesh has one of the highest fatality rates for road accidents in the world, and according to official statistics, more than 10,000 people are killed in various accidents every year. When booking bus tickets, we choose our seats not on the basis of comfort or views, but on safety (the safest are those on the opposite side to the driver, about halfway down the bus, just in case you ever need to know). I am well used to the sheer craziness of driving here: the speed, the driving directly into oncoming traffic, the regular accidents. My parents however were not, and with their comfort in mind we had decided to hire a car and driver to make to the eight hour-plus journey from the hills to Dhaka.Unfortunately, our forward thinking and careful planning backfired. When I say that the drivers taking myself and my parents back to Dhaka were the worst I have seen, I am not exaggerating. My poor mother kept her eyes shut in fear for most of the journey, as the drivers consistently ignored my increasingly angry admonishments of 'aste aste jan' (go slowly). It was after their attempts to bribe their way through an Army cantonment area that voices first began to be raised. It was while getting lost in Chittagong, Bangladesh's second largest city, that tempers frayed further. And it was eight or so hours later, on the outskirts of Dhaka, when the drivers demanded an additional 2000 Taka to travel from where I was staying to my parents' hotel (about ten times the amount I have previously paid), that– much to the later amusement of my parents – I really lost my temper. Using such simple phrases as 'bhalo lage na' (I don't like), 'ami khushi na' (I am not happy), and 'debo na' (I will not pay), I conveyed said anger neither sophisticatedly nor coherently. Eventually however, the combination of my basic Bangla, furious face, angry hand gestures, and the added negotiating power of a phone call to the drivers' boss, was effective: destinations were reached, appropriate sums were paid, and we ended up with the standard Bangladeshi conversation about marriage (them: 'do you have a husband?', me: 'no', 'them: when are you going to get married?', me: 'later', etc).So my negotiations with taxi drivers may still be a long way from those confident, verbal expressions that would indicate emerging linguistic fluency, but all's well that ends well. And lest you think I have turned into a crazy woman who takes pleasure in shouting at drivers, I would also like to end with a more positive story here: that of The Taxi Driver Who Gave Me Popcorn. This also occurred after an eight hour journey, but is significantly more representative of my time in the Desh than the story above. Arriving in Dhaka, I took a taxi to the VSO office. The journey began well (the cab not only actually had a meter, but the driver also actually offered to use it), and became even better as a conversation ensued. The topics were nothing unusual (where am I from, what am I doing here, do I have any brothers or sisters , and– of course – am I married) but I was pleased to be able to both understand and respond to the driver's questions, and smiled when he told me it made him happy to hear Bangla from abideshi. Then - to indicate his happiness, and much to my amusement– he called over one of the young sales boys that are ubiquitous amongst Dhaka traffic, and bought me a bag of popcorn. And, despite my protests that I had already eaten, he insisted that I eat. Which, of course, I did.This is Bangladesh: land of terrible driving, corruption, curiosity, and unwaveringly generous hospitality. You don't need more than basic Bangla to discover that.