He ran his fingers through his hair, shiny with grease, and brandished his practiced smile. Let me be your tour guide. Your bodyguard. Your little brother. Just follow me, I'll take you to the best shawerma places.
The teenager bounced along, constantly hovering next to Mike, protectively guarding us away from other begging children and shooing them along to find their own foreigners. He could hardly contain himself, his bits of English phrases spilling out of his lop-sided mouth and his hands always patting, edging, pulling, beckoning us constantly into dark alleys and overpriced cafes.
I hung back with our German friend, Nina, and watched. Even though I had flown into Bangladesh with wads of US dollar bills prepared to hand out to begging children on the streets, I was vastly unprepared for the overwhelming want. At every stoplight, hordes of the previously invisible swarmed the vehicles, peddling books/posters/maps/tupperware/giant baskets and cupping their fingers together at the mouth to indicate that they were hungry. I tired of putting my wallet back into my purse because I would be pulling it out again five seconds later. And beggars could be choosers. Often, the hand that took would shoot out again and ask for some more. A lot more.
So at the end of a sticky, dusty day, I ran out. Out of small bills. Out of patience. Out of get-out-of-skeptism-free card. And I watched carefully and felt anxious the more Mike clapped his hands on the little bodyguard's shoulders and asked about his family and laughed at his jokes. I mentally starting calculating how much each extra minute would cost me.
Am I a good bodyguard, no? You be my bigger sister, yes?
And at the end, I steered Mike and Nina towards our actual destination, paid the little bodyguard, told him no, we wouldn't pay you three times more and relaxed.
As I kneeled at the edge of my hotel bed that night, smelling the cheap laundry soap from the white-grey sheets, I realized I was in the box about the whole situation (re: "Leadership and Self-deception"). Even armed with good intentions and a seemingly bottomless wallet of small change, I did not pause to engage with them as people. I saw them as objects that constantly needed something from me and that by giving, giving, giving, I was merely fulfilling a social obligation and justifying a personal moral high ground.
When I paused to give freshly-picked strawberries and a little pocket change to the old man on the street in front of my China office, I felt genuinely happy and fulfilled. I talked to him about how nice the weather had been. I smiled and felt what it meant. But somehow, when I was in Bangladesh, perhaps because of unfamiliarity or a sense of being overwhelmed, I was acting charitable but not feeling charitable.
So that night, I prayed for true charity. I begged for an open heart. I pleaded to see the goodness of the people around me and let it change me.
The next morning, Mike and I cruised around on our rickshaws down the forgotten alleyways and looked out for good places to buy some local garb. Then, in the midst of a sweaty crowd of onlookers, in one of the densest countries in the world, our little bodyguard waved to us enthusiastically. Hey! Big sister, remember me?
Something whispered in my heart - This was the second chance you asked for.
I got off the rickshaw looked at him in the eyes, and smiled.
How's your family, little bodyguard?
Ah man. You're my family now. Come, come. I'll take you to buy a beautiful dress.
The teenager bounced along, constantly hovering next to Mike, protectively guarding us away from other begging children and shooing them along to find their own foreigners. He could hardly contain himself, his bits of English phrases spilling out of his lop-sided mouth and his hands always patting, edging, pulling, beckoning us constantly into dark alleys and overpriced cafes.
I hung back with our German friend, Nina, and watched. Even though I had flown into Bangladesh with wads of US dollar bills prepared to hand out to begging children on the streets, I was vastly unprepared for the overwhelming want. At every stoplight, hordes of the previously invisible swarmed the vehicles, peddling books/posters/maps/tupperware/giant baskets and cupping their fingers together at the mouth to indicate that they were hungry. I tired of putting my wallet back into my purse because I would be pulling it out again five seconds later. And beggars could be choosers. Often, the hand that took would shoot out again and ask for some more. A lot more.
So at the end of a sticky, dusty day, I ran out. Out of small bills. Out of patience. Out of get-out-of-skeptism-free card. And I watched carefully and felt anxious the more Mike clapped his hands on the little bodyguard's shoulders and asked about his family and laughed at his jokes. I mentally starting calculating how much each extra minute would cost me.
Am I a good bodyguard, no? You be my bigger sister, yes?
And at the end, I steered Mike and Nina towards our actual destination, paid the little bodyguard, told him no, we wouldn't pay you three times more and relaxed.
Little bodyguard telling Mike about his music.
As I kneeled at the edge of my hotel bed that night, smelling the cheap laundry soap from the white-grey sheets, I realized I was in the box about the whole situation (re: "Leadership and Self-deception"). Even armed with good intentions and a seemingly bottomless wallet of small change, I did not pause to engage with them as people. I saw them as objects that constantly needed something from me and that by giving, giving, giving, I was merely fulfilling a social obligation and justifying a personal moral high ground.
When I paused to give freshly-picked strawberries and a little pocket change to the old man on the street in front of my China office, I felt genuinely happy and fulfilled. I talked to him about how nice the weather had been. I smiled and felt what it meant. But somehow, when I was in Bangladesh, perhaps because of unfamiliarity or a sense of being overwhelmed, I was acting charitable but not feeling charitable.
So that night, I prayed for true charity. I begged for an open heart. I pleaded to see the goodness of the people around me and let it change me.
The next morning, Mike and I cruised around on our rickshaws down the forgotten alleyways and looked out for good places to buy some local garb. Then, in the midst of a sweaty crowd of onlookers, in one of the densest countries in the world, our little bodyguard waved to us enthusiastically. Hey! Big sister, remember me?
Something whispered in my heart - This was the second chance you asked for.
I got off the rickshaw looked at him in the eyes, and smiled.
How's your family, little bodyguard?
Ah man. You're my family now. Come, come. I'll take you to buy a beautiful dress.
They were forcing a little fluffy yellow chick to open its beak.
And they were dripping clear liquid through a plastic syringe into its mouth.
It was a street exhibition but I couldn't figure out what
they were doing with the poor thing.
Can't wait for spring so I have an excuse to put flowers in my hair again.
"Are you formed yet?"
Bangladeshi tailors often marveled at my lack of curves.
1 comment:
Driving cross country bored out of my mind. Checked to see if by chance you might had written anything :) surprised to find this beautiful post. Thanks for sharing Si's.
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