Thank God for the village

 

Yesterday we were so lucky to visit a village. It is so unlike Dhaka, where raw sewage runs next to the sidewalk and naked child beggars dig through mounds of trash left on every sidewalk looking for food. If you want to know what Dhaka is like, turn your heat up to 100 degrees, close your eyes, imagine a dumpster in 100 degree weather  and ask someone to blow their car horn continuously.

We went to a richer village yesterday. The air was so clean, the breeze was so cool. And the subject we studied was completely inspirational. Imagine a culture where women sometimes didn’t even know their own name but suddently they are showing us buildings, businesses and houses they have built.

One woman just pointed proudly at a brick building she had built. They were so welcoming, too.

Some of the photos are from the Grameen Bank village meeting. Another is a woman who started a cow business. She purchases a cow for 17,000 taka, feeds it for 10,000 taka for six months then sells it for a religious ceremony for 50,000 taka. Smart lady. Her husband works with her.

Another woman owns a pottery business. Her husband is seen making the pottery. She handles selling the pottery. This seems to be a theme. The men in this village were very supportive and understood how important their wives’ abilities to borrow are to the families’ livelihoods. In most cases, the men seemed to do the work and the women handled the business-side of things.

They women shared stories of extreme poverty and how they now owned homes, had children in college and were business owners.

It was amazing.

I also have a few photos of the boat ride to the village. Riding on these rickety little boats was really exciting. The villagers jumped on them and road standing up. I am sure they were laughing at the giant Americans crawling onto the boats.

Also want to mention, that I think there should be video game about driving in Bangladesh. For those of you from Ohio, there is no need for me to ever go to Kings Island again. That is fake fear. Ride on the streets of Bangladesh for real excitement. There is nothing like weaving through traffic (both with and oncoming) at 70 miles an hour.  A giant bus is coming right for you, but your driver charges ahead, playing chicken. At the last second he changes his mind, blows the horn loudly and then weaves left, missing the bus by inches.

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