It was a strange time in my life

Things I’m going to love not missing

2. Oh s*it, bu*ger, cr*p, f**k, da*n I’m gonna ddddiiiiieeeee
 A quick glance over at my upper arm is enough to remind me I’ve had more than my fair share of near death moments this year. The impressive bruise I’m currently sporting is the result of an incident with a motorbike. I was on the footpath, and soon, it was too. The collision wasn’t major, but it was enough to elevate my heart rate and leave a nasty mark. The really big concern for me is not that I got hit by a motorbike while walking home from work, though. The major concern is that it wasn’t a big deal! I didn’t call anyone after it happened, didn’t ice my arm, and didn’t mention it to many people except when they pointed at the bruise with a degree of alarm I perhaps should have shown when it happened.

This cavalier attitude towards my mortality has got to stop.

Between seven car accidents, speedboat trips over open water without a life jacket, overnight bus and train journeys on hair-raising roads and tracks, a mutiny, flying with airline carriers who think ‘maintenance’ is optional, a cyclone, crossing eight lanes of traffic in a rickshaw with trucks bearing down on me, or being out and about on the streets of Dhaka (x risk by 10 after dark) – I’ve had more near misses than I care to think about. 

That be the view from my bus window

one trip to Dhaka. Comforting.

 What really brought it all home was a recent weekend in Kolkata. I spent three days there and didn’t have a single near death experience. Not one. Within an hour of being back on Bangladeshi soil I had three. THREE! In one hour! And I am not the kind of girl who seeks these things out (er, choosing to visit hair-raising countries aside). I’m not an adrenalin junkie. I don’t want to throw myself out of a plane. I don’t want to tie myself to an oversized rubber band and hurl myself off a cliff. That’s not my idea of fun. I like living. I like the idea of growing old and wrinkly and boring the kiddies with tales of what it was like “in my day.” I choose life! 

Which means I better get out of here quick smart. As my father lovingly pointed out the other day, “you know, statistically speaking, the longer you stay there…”. 

Yep, thanks Dad, I’m on it. Four weeks and counting. 

Things I’m going to miss loving
2. The Call to Prayer 

When I first got here there was a half hour period every morning where I dreamt up extremely uncharitable scenarios which all had a predictable end involving smashed loud speakers and gagging. I know it wasn’t very nice of me, or culturally sensitive, or respectful, or any of the things an Aussie Youth Ambassador should be. But when you’re being woken up for sunrise every single morning by warblings from a religion you’re not part of – it’s pretty hard to be respectful.

I solved the problem by getting my brother to send me industrial-strength earplugs. It has been months now since I’ve had to use them though, as I’m finally able to sleep through the first call to prayer.

For those who don’t know, the call to prayer occurs five times a day, just before sunrise, mid morning, lunch time, mid afternoon, and at sunset.

Now that I can sleep through the first one, I love hearing the call to prayer drifting out from the loudspeakers of mosques across the city. As well as being great markers of time now the sweat-factor means I don’t wear a watch (oh, there’s the call the prayer, must be lunch time/going home time/dinner time), they’re really rather beautiful. I find myself pausing what I’m doing and listening in. It makes me feel connected to the city, a part of something bigger, even though I’m not part of the religion.

Sure, I’ve got problems with it too. I’m not sure how I feel about the call to prayer being so public in a supposedly secular state. I suspect it makes some people from other religions feel marginalised, especially given the tense history between Muslims and Hindus here. And it sits uncomfortably with me that religion is used so often in Bangladesh in ways I thoroughly reject – keeping people uneducated, restricting them from participating fully in the social sphere, cementing unbalanced gender roles among others (not forgetting that this can be said about most religions the world over in some way). 

It has taken me by surprise how much I like hearing the muezzin (man who calls Muslims to prayer) make the daily calls, and I was surprised to realise I’m going to miss it. Not enough to stay, mind you, but I have certainly come a long way from being the Girl Who Dreams of Destruction.