A Very Special Bangla Birthday
on From Banglatown to Bangladesh (Bangladesh), 10/Feb/2009 17:33, 34 days ago
It’s a family tradition on birthdays to remember those of the past: where we were, what we did, what we ate, and occasionally - with reference to my 11th birthday in particular - what mishaps occurred. So in December, as I marked the occasion of my 23rd birthday here in Bangladesh, I thought aboutcelebrations of recent years: the dinners and drinks with friends and family, the fancy dress themes, the parties that lasted until sunrise and beyond. Since it’s a whole year away until I can reminisce about this year’s celebrations, I thought I’d put together a little description for you all here.My birthday definitely had a Bangla twist. My penchant for costume parties over the last few years was translated to dressing up in a brand new - and bright red, yellow and orange - salwar kameez, and even– somewhat of a rarity here – wearing make-up. Rather than setting up a Facebook event (witty name and embarrassing photo inclusive), invitations to my birthday party were done in what seems to be typically Bangladeshi-style: loudly, over a mobile phone, and only a matter of hours before the party was due to start. But despite only knowing me for a matter of weeks, it is a testament to the incredibly welcoming nature of my new friends and colleagues that about 20 of them joined me in celebrations, and many more sent messages and phone calls.The venue this year was the roof of my office, with views of treetops, hills fading into the distance, and– less attractively – the building holding my flat, which is only five minutes walk away and protrudes a prominent but ugly red and white mobile phone tower from its top. While the standard mix of eating, drinking and conversation at parties seems to extend across cultures, one of the peculiarities to festivities in Bangladesh that I have noticed is the emphasis on the Party Programme. Despite being a country in which events always start late, and seem to only happen following a haphazard and last-minute rush, parties in the CHT – when they eventually start – generally follow the same strict schedule. We began with birthday cake, a sugary and vaguely chocolately concoction covered in green and pick icing flowers, large pieces of which were forced into my mouth by several colleagues (representative of the importance placed by them on making sure I am always fed).Moving on to the next stage of the evening, and the drinks were poured. Unlike in the majority of Bangladesh in which the purchase of alcohol requires either dodgy dealings or the possession of a foreign passport, in the Chittagong Hill Tracts‘rice wine’, served surreptitiously from plastic drinks bottles, is the tipple of choice. A traditional part of indigenous cultures, and also known as ‘pagla pani’ (crazy water) or ‘gorom pani’ (hot water), it’s lethal stuff. Watered down with water or Sprite (a visible example of the blending of cultures here in the CHT), and accompanied by communal bowls of curries and sliced cucumber, it is a central component of all kinds of celebrations.The drinking of rice wine generally brings on the next activities of parties: increasingly louder conversation, and raised voices as people begin to talk over one another. Following a series of speeches in which all my colleagues were requested to speak by the self-appointed director of the evening (and in which I was renamed‘Hill Moon’), the real entertainment began: the singing of Chakma and Bangla songs, and ‘gorom’ (hot) dances along to the ‘gorom’ music. Although my fear of singing has not subsided here in the Desh (something I am still trying to explain to my colleagues, who just can’t quite understand that someone could be afraid of singing), I did try my best to participate in the ‘gorom’ dancing, which induced a lot of laughter (something I try not to take personally). Finally, despite eating the equivalent of at least one meal already with the rice wine, the real food, ‘bhat’ (rice, accompanied by more meat curries, vegetables, and a special dish – always egg – for me), was served.After the ritual of washing the right hand-eating with the right hand-washing the right hand again was completed and the food was finished, the party began to end. While there were a couple of stragglers still sipping at the rice wine (another trans-cultural element of parties it seems), most left– the men on motorbikes, and the women riding pillion on the back. I left clutching the bunch of beautiful flowers and stunning Chakma dress that I had been presented with, and was back at home by 9.30, about the time I would normally be beginning my birthday celebrations. There I got to read messages from home, which, given the distance they had to travel, were all the more special this year.Maybe it’s because I’m going soft in my old age (!), maybe it’s the influence of Zen Dog (see post below) and my increasingly non-cynical approach to life, or maybe it’s because I spent my birthday drinking rice wine in the moonlight while being serenaded with Chakma love songs, but I spent my birthday feeling very positive about my year of being 23. At the very least, I know that in the reminiscing of celebrations in years to come my Bangla birthday will definitely be one of the ones that is remembered.