When I first thought of living in Bangladesh, I had an image of myself; flowing silk saris, beautiful scarves, beads, really long hair, loads of gold jewellery, hundreds of bracelets… basically becoming the epitome of ‘boho chic‘, and putting Kate Moss to shame. But alas, the dream hasn’t come true. Far from it. I've come to realise that there are so many steps to get from buying material, to actually wearing clothes, it’s exhausting. The term ‘pret a porter’ has never seemed so attractive to me than ever.
Now, don’t get me wrong, going to the market to buy material is entertaining. The fabric stalls are all run by men, constantly shouting, ‘Sister!' or 'Apa!’, trying to get your attention as you walk through the market. Once you approach the stall, they're excited, and they start pulling out piles of material before you've even asked for anything, plus, they're also obsessed with you sitting down for the fabric ‘performance‘. ‘Please come! Sit down sister, please. PLEASE sit down, sit down!‘ They have little stools for customers to sit on as they dramatically select, pull and then roll out fabric and saris from their walls of material, as they stand on a raised platform. Note: it’s practically sacrilegious to walk on this platform with shoes on - big no no. From the piles and piles of stacked cloth, you can get every colour and fabric type under the sun; cotton, silk, synthetic, patterns, prints, sequence, beaded, tie-dye, you name it. It’s overwhelming. My eyes dart around so much at everything flying at me, it‘s so hard to choose. Especially for me; I love anything shiny or bright, so my head feels like it’s spinning, trying to look at EVERYTHING all at once.
After the initial frenzy and excitement of choosing the right fabric, bargaining for it - which involves a hell of a lot of discussion - there’s a nice sense of satisfaction once the purchase has been made, and then it’s time to go home with it all, ready for the next step in the clothes-making process. However, to be honest, once you actually get home, take the material out of the bag and place it on the table, it sort of becomes a bit disappointing. You can’t WEAR any of it. It's material, sitting there, on the table. Mmm... Sometimes when you look at what you actually bought, there’s also a sense of mild panic. What looked so good at the market, now looks a bit silly once you realize you have to wear all of this canary yellow paisley print, not paint a picture with it. Sometimes shiny gold trousers in reality, don’t really feel like practical attire to go the corner store to buy milk in. I went so over the top when I first got here that most of my clothes look like I should be an extra in a Bollywood film. Gold, beaded, patterns, trim, gold, gold and yes, more gold. All the other volunteers seemed to have opted for plain cotton mixes whereas I’m sitting at work today wearing a pink, yellow and gold sequenced number. Bling meets Bang is my style here it seems.
Anyway, let’s move on to the tailor. Ah, the tailor. The man I love to hate. Everyone has their ’tailor’ here and loyalty runs deep. Even though my tailor hardly speaks English, cuts the fabric incorrectly on most occasions and is often downright rude, I feel like I’m stuck with him now because of this whole ‘loyalty’ crap, and live in the hope that the more I go to him, the clothes might, just might, get better. Ah, optimism. Explaining what I actually want to this man has not always worked out as planned. It’s usually been a case of me going into his abode, dumping the fabric out onto the table, getting measured, and then the worst part, asking for the style I want. All in all, despite the Bengali I’ve learned; ‘chapano banan‘ (which means make it tight) and ‘dhola na‘ (which means not wide), all my clothes keep coming back absolutely, bloody ENORMOUS. I feel like I should be in a Subway sandwich commerical half the time. Seriously. We’re talking, HUGE. The tops - kameez - are generally fine, but the trousers - shalwar - are gigantic. I don’t know why he bothers measuring me!? Argh! All of my shalwar are so big in fact, that even my boss commented on the ridiculousness of them when we were in our company van, and the fabric of my shalwar covered the entire seat.
Through all of this fabric drama with the tailor, it’s made me start to loathe the shalwar in general and I’ve started wearing the kameez tops with leggings. Now, since I only own two pairs of leggings, I knew that this was only a short term fashion solution. I talked to my lovely work colleague and she offered to come with me to the tailors for moral support - one last ditch attempt to sort these Goddamned shalwar out. I was tired of the miscommunication breakdown with the tailor, mostly resulting in a lot of bad pen illustrations and pointing from my end, so I jumped at the chance for her to help me. Last week she came with me to see him and explained to the tailor everything that I needed, and that the material needed to be CUT OUT of the shalwar, drawing it with chalk. He nodded to my colleague, and I felt embarrassed, like a bit of a 'boka' (fool), but thankfully, the whole experience was over quickly and it was relatively painless. All I need to do now is go back this week to collect the ‘revised’ attire. Cross your fingers for me it works out so i don't go on drowing in a sea of fabric! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!
In the meantime, while I’ve been trying to sort out all of these bloody shalwar, I’ve branched out and embraced the world of the sari. Elegant and beautiful, it seemed like the way forward. Who needs the shalwar kameez anyway? Not me! After wearing a sari to the office last week, which caused a furor of excitement amongst my co-workers, I also wore one to the market and got the best deals ever. I suppose you look a bit more ‘with it’ versus ‘just got off the boat’ when you‘re rockin‘ the full-on traditional dress. But, pretty much everyone just kept asking the same question, ‘How did you put it on?’ This, my friends, was a challenge. No word of a lie. The first time I wore the sari, I wrapped it round and round and just tucke dit, hoping for the best, and it kept unraveling at my boss’ house(!) which resulted in hundreds of awkward trips to the washroom to 're-wrap', and a comment from my boss‘ son that I looked like a mummy. Hot. The second time, I wore it without the petticoat underneath in an attempt to wrap it tighter, and even though it was an improvement on the last attempt, the material at the bottom was so tight, it chaffed my ankles and made me walk like a geisha. This, coupled with the fact that upon telling my female co-worker about the non-petticoat situation, she was horrified for my decency incase I unravelled in the street, and insisted on shutting my office door to show me how to put on the sari properly. Thankfully, the lesson made me I understand why you need the petticoat - to tuck the sari into something of course, or else it unravels. Seems like common sense, right? Ha. Anyway, I’ve mastered it now. Well, mastered it as in, I can wear a sari for a whole day and it doesn’t come off. Phew. Who knew clothes could be such hard work?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Into the wild
I woke up on Tuesday morning at 6am. Dhaka was dark and the prayer hadn’t even begun. I was going to Kuakata.
Kuakata is in Patuakhali, one of the most remote places in Bangladesh (don’t worry, I can’t pronounce it either). I had been warned by my boss that the journey was going to be brutal. The roads to get there are largely bumpy, dirt roads and you have to get six ferries to cross the many waterways that connect the region, all the way down to the Bay of Bengal. Kuakata is somewhere most volunteers don’t usually travel to because there’s no tourism there and because the infrastructure is so bad. Was a hidden gem awaiting me? The sea, rural villages, fresh air and my first film shoot for our documentary project on climate change. I couldn’t wait. Finally it was time for me to see some more of Bangladesh, the real Bangladesh.
I got picked up in the company van with the rest of the film crew - my boss, the director, producer, two junior assistant crew members and the driver - and the seven of us headed off on our journey. No matter what time it is in Dhaka, there’s always traffic, so we eventually got out of the city after a few hours and to my delight, I saw green. GREEN. I felt like I hadn’t seen green fields for so long and it was actually pleasant to drive with the windows down, something the complete opposite in Dhaka.
We rolled up to the first town, a shabby place, full of sheet metal huts selling snacks and housing trading for local food and fish, and wandered into a ‘hotel’. ‘Hotel’ in Bangladesh doesn’t mean an actual hotel, it means a diner. Dhaka is littered with these kinds of eateries everywhere but I’ve always been a bit intimidated to go into them before because you rarely see women in them and because I have no idea what they serve and how much things cost. They’re not really ‘menu’ sort of places if you catch my drift. But, because I was with the crew, there was no hesitation and no other choice for that matter, so we sat down and my boss ordered for everyone, the waiter, shouting out orders to the cooks at the front of the ‘hotel’ on what to make. The cooks use huge round fryers that look like massive flat woks and throw all of the bread mix on it to make raita (kind of like of like Irish potato scones - delish!), which you eat with daal (daal is basically THE staple here), and they make omelets with chilies and onion. We polished off the food in no time and washed it down with cha. Cha aka tea, is like water here. A necessity for everyone at all times. I was proud that I weaned myself off coffee here but considering the amount of tea I drink on a daily basis, it probably evens it out. Bangaldeshis love cha. Tea stalls are everywhere, not only on every corner, even in the most remote places, but tons of them line the streets and they’re always full of people, mostly men, drinking tea, chatting, reading the paper, smoking. I love it. However, going to a tea stall is also something I was nervous about in Dhaka because of the lack of women that frequent them, and I was also not sure of what to order. Well, as I quickly found out in this ferry port town, you just ask for cha. Easy, plain and simple. And they make it their way, no Starbucks half fat triple shot venti jargon here; all cha is served in a glass, half full, very milky and with a shitload of sugar. It’s lush.
After our breakfast pit stop we boarded the ferry and quickly got out of the van to go up to the top deck. It was so refreshing to be on the water, feeling the wind on my face, looking out on the river, seeing fishing boats in the distance, and watching all of hustle and bustle at the port. Now, the actual ferry is another story. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the QE2. The ferrymen are old weathered souls, gruff and abrupt, it was rammed full of people and beggars and the washroom, Ah, my ‘ole favourite, the squat toilet. In all honestly, I have come to hate, no REALLY hate, the squat toilet at the best of times, but this one? Oh Christ, it was bad. Trying to maneuver myself to do my business in the smallest, dirtiest toilet hellhole ever, WHILE trying not to let ANY part of my body or clothes touch ANYTHING in there, well, it was a ‘challenge’ to say the least. I think I was actually sweating by the end of it. Anyway, let’s move on.
Once we got back into the van, we docked at the next port and now it was time for the real driving to begin. Because people never really go to Kuakata much, the roads to get there are dire. No, awful, terrible, horrific… you know where I’m going. Imagine off-roading in a bloody mini van. Yep, that was our journey for about um, twelve hours. Yes, I’m serious. I felt like my bum was getting bruises because of all the humps and bumps along the way so we couldn’t even sleep because it was like being on a bad fairground ride. Thankfully, five more ferries broke up the drive a bit which gave us the chance to stretch our legs and get some air. The rest of the rivers were much narrower though, so the intervals only lasted for about fifteen minutes each, but it was amazing to see all the different port towns along the way, each getting smaller and smaller and more and more remote. Who the hell else was traveling here I thought? Even in the most ’isolated’ parts of the country, there were still always so many people. Truly amazing to me.
As the sun was setting, we were still on the road but finally, after an eternity, we arrived in Kuakata at about 9pm, fourteen hours after leaving Dhaka - almost the amount of time it took for me to fly from Toronto to Hong Kong when I first arrived. Surreal. The guest house we were staying at was set back from the town’s main road and was surrounded my incredible plants, flowers and palm trees. Even though it was incredibly basic, my room actually had a SOFT mattress, TV and a sit down toilet. Hallelujah. The next morning, after watching some cheesy Bengali soap opera, we wandered down the road to have breakfast at a local ‘hotel’, some cha and then piled in the van to go to our first stop, a nearby village where the women there started their own irrigation project to manage the effects their community was having due to climate change.
As we got out of the van, the villagers started to gather, falling over each other to get a glimpse of who was coming to film their home with camera equipment and… a foreigner. Once they saw me, mouths dropped open. But it wasn’t frenzied enthusiasm, I honestly think it was shock. They were almost silent, looking at me intently, my shoes, my painted toenails, my jewellery, my hair… We set up the equipment and shot the women’s group meeting, me outside with my boss, watching through the monitor, and half the village surrounded us, dying for a look at the small TV. At the end of the discussion group, someone said ‘shesh’ which means finished but I turned around and said ‘shesh na’ which means not finished. Me speaking Bengali caused an instant uproar from the villagers; they were all laughing, shouting ‘shesh na!’, obviously very excited that I spoke in their language, which broke the ice and they started to warm to me. Some of the kids gathered around, saw that I had a camera under my arm and they kept looking at it, so I pulled it out and gave it to one of the girls, showing her how to press the button and take a photo. They were all SO excited once the photos started happening; they were running around, pushing each other, laughing, trying to get their photo taken and take photos of each other. So, I just let them run riot and it was absolutely hilarious. Hearing all the chaos of the children, the women of the village also came over to see what was going on, and upon seeing the camera, they wanted to get their photos taken too, plus get photos taken with me. The older women in the village brought me biscuits and rice and eventually sat me down on a chair underneath a tree. Then everyone gathered around me in a circle, touching my hair, paying me compliments and asking me questions. I’ve never seen such pure fascination on people’s faces before and I don’t think they had ever laid eyes a foreigner before based on their reaction. After a lot of cooing, it was time to go on to the next village, an aboriginal village, so I had to say my goodbyes and they all asked me to visit them again. I waved goodbye for as long as I could see them in the distance and felt very humbled by the experience. It was so genuine and kind. I had been thinking about what it would be like to go to one of the villages for so long, even before I arrived in Bangladesh and it was exactly what I had hoped for. It was only for a short time but it was almost magical. I looked back at the photos on my camera as we drove away and my eyes almost started watering. I felt really lucky to have been there for that moment and to have given them some joy.
When we arrived at the next village, I found out that the women there also had designed a similar irrigation project with help from the other village women. We started setting up the equipment again when all of a sudden we started hearing children shouting ‘Lisa Apa!’. the kids from the last village had followed us and ran the whole way. An older girl also joined them, and she spoke some English. She explained to me that the children wanted to see what was going on and wanted to see me again. She then gave me a tour of the aboriginal village along with all of the other children in tow and I went to the local school. Even though classes were finishing for the day, some the children still remained and they were singing their hearts out so we stood outside, listening for a while. Soon thereafter, the older girl ushered me into the village leaders house along with ALL of the children, and I sat down on a wooden bench inside the barn like building, surrounded by them all. After the hi, hello, how are you chat with the village leader, they all just looked at me. And kept looking. In silence. I didn’t quite know what to do next. I sort of felt obliged that I should entertain them or something but I had run out of my ‘Bengali’ and didn’t know what to do. Then, the older girl said, ‘I think you should sing for us.’ ‘Sing for you?!’, I asked. ‘Yes, yes, SING!’, she said and clapped her hands, then said to the rest of the children and to the village leader that she had asked me to sing. They all started clapping and then I thought, oh God, I’m going to have to sing, aren’t I? Sing what? Suddenly my mind went blank. What could I sing that didn’t have swear words or anything about love, that’s basically every song ever written, right? Shit. Um… They all kept looking at me, waiting. Then I knew. ABBA. I’ll sing ABBA. So I broke into a mediocre rendition of ‘Thank you for the music’ and they were loving it, clapping, smiling, but I don’t really know all of the words so the song repeated itself a bit and then stopped. ‘Another one!’, the older girl shouted and again, I couldn’t think of a song for the life of me. I tried to think of a song they might know, um, no, that won’t work. Um… so I sang Michael Jackson. Yeah, I know, Michael Jackson. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere, in Bangladesh, surrounded by random villagers and children singing ABBA and Michael Jackson on a Wednesday afternoon. Oh, how bizarre life had become. Anyway, after the whole singing debacle, we headed off further into the village, and all the kids continued to follow and we walked through the paddy field to a Buddhist temple that was frequented by the aboriginal inhabitants of the village. It was an amazing site. Bright bright blue, high on stilts, made of wood, right in the middle of a field. There was even a monk there, looking like he’s walked straight out of ‘Seven Years in Tibet’, and before I knew it, my shoes were off and I was at the temple’s altar. Snap, snap, snap, took some photos and we were off again, walking back through the paddy field. Suddenly I was worried about the time. I had completely wandered off from the shoot, without telling ANYONE where I was going and I didn’t have my phone, my bag, anything with me expect my camera. I told the older girl that I should be heading back so she started to lead be across the walkway and I started to run, getting the children to chase me. They were hysterical, laughing, running, and I think altogether shocked, probably wondering, what the hell is this foreign girl doing!? Before I knew it we had found our way back but the van was gone, nowhere to be seen. Oh shit. Lisa decides to go walkabout in a rural village with no phone and don’t tell anyone where she’s going... And now. Mmm. The situation is not good. We waited around for a bit, and then decided to walk up to the main road. Thankfully I saw the van in the distance so we all trundled along after it, my feel feeling heavy in the hot afternoon sun. Turns out my ‘crew’ were getting some final scenic footage before we had to leave again for the fisherman’s port. We said our goodbyes to the kids again and were off on the bumpy road to find sea.
The next town we were to visit was another victim of climate change. The fishermen there were battling with rising water levels that had damaged river supplies which meant fishing in the sea instead of the river, a completely different territory, requiring bigger boats (which equals more money to finance them), and less fish because the water had turned to salt water. Upon arrival we took a series of interviews and then my boss turned to me, ‘Lisa, we are going on a fishing boat.’ I looked out into the river and saw a small, wooden boat pull up to the bottom of the cliff so we scuttled down the hill and slide over the mud into the boat. Before I could blink we were out on the open seas, camera in tow, getting footage of the waterways from the ‘inside’ perspective. We went right out into the open water and it seemed to go on forever and ever. One of the fishermen said I was brave for not wearing a life jacket. I laughed and said I trusted him. And then looked down. Water was coming INTO the boat. INTO THE BOAT! And, no one seemed to care! Two of the other fishermen had little plastic tubs, scooping it out and throwing it overboard. Don’t panic, I thought. Do. Not. Panic. I could see the shore of where we were getting dropped off and honestly, tried not to think about it, I just looked towards the dock. What else could I do? I know I can swim but Jesus, I was not expecting to swim in the Bay of Bengal out of a bloody sinking fishing boat! Miraculously, we made it to the dock and I jumped out of that boat faster than Jack Flash. We climbed up the muddy hill to find more fish than I have ever seen in my life. Endless rows of wooden poles acted as drying racks for fish caught from the sea. There were thousands of fish hanging out to dry, from skate to squid and everything in between. The hot afternoon air smelt of sea salt and fish, a whole lotta fish. After walking through the fish maze, we found ourselves back at the van, ready to head to our last stop of the day, the beach.
Kuakata is an interesting beach because it is where the sun rises and sets in the same place. Once we bumped along the long, winding road, we got to the beach about 6pm, ready to watch the sunset. I took off my sandals and walked down to the water. It was so nice to feel sand between my toes and once I got to the sea, the water was warm. WARM! Ah, bliss. I just stood, by myself, looking out into the sun. After a few minutes though, I realized I wasn’t alone. Because we had the TV camera with us, and the rest of the crew, I think other people on the beach thought I was famous or something, and started to line up to get photos taken with me! Husbands, wives, children. Couldn’t I get two minutes alone in this country? I know they were excited to see a foreigner but all I wanted to do was have a few minutes alone. Anyway, after some photo opps and some weird men lurking around taking way too many photos of me on their camera phones for my liking, it was time to head back to the hotel for dinner and bed. Even though we all needed an early night, some beers were in order at the guest house before getting back on the road again the next day to do the journey all over again.
Fourteen hours and six ferries to get there and back, and two hundred photos later, I eventually got home on Thursday night. Glad to be back my own bed, I dreamt about the little place by the sea that captured my heart.
Kuakata is in Patuakhali, one of the most remote places in Bangladesh (don’t worry, I can’t pronounce it either). I had been warned by my boss that the journey was going to be brutal. The roads to get there are largely bumpy, dirt roads and you have to get six ferries to cross the many waterways that connect the region, all the way down to the Bay of Bengal. Kuakata is somewhere most volunteers don’t usually travel to because there’s no tourism there and because the infrastructure is so bad. Was a hidden gem awaiting me? The sea, rural villages, fresh air and my first film shoot for our documentary project on climate change. I couldn’t wait. Finally it was time for me to see some more of Bangladesh, the real Bangladesh.
I got picked up in the company van with the rest of the film crew - my boss, the director, producer, two junior assistant crew members and the driver - and the seven of us headed off on our journey. No matter what time it is in Dhaka, there’s always traffic, so we eventually got out of the city after a few hours and to my delight, I saw green. GREEN. I felt like I hadn’t seen green fields for so long and it was actually pleasant to drive with the windows down, something the complete opposite in Dhaka.
We rolled up to the first town, a shabby place, full of sheet metal huts selling snacks and housing trading for local food and fish, and wandered into a ‘hotel’. ‘Hotel’ in Bangladesh doesn’t mean an actual hotel, it means a diner. Dhaka is littered with these kinds of eateries everywhere but I’ve always been a bit intimidated to go into them before because you rarely see women in them and because I have no idea what they serve and how much things cost. They’re not really ‘menu’ sort of places if you catch my drift. But, because I was with the crew, there was no hesitation and no other choice for that matter, so we sat down and my boss ordered for everyone, the waiter, shouting out orders to the cooks at the front of the ‘hotel’ on what to make. The cooks use huge round fryers that look like massive flat woks and throw all of the bread mix on it to make raita (kind of like of like Irish potato scones - delish!), which you eat with daal (daal is basically THE staple here), and they make omelets with chilies and onion. We polished off the food in no time and washed it down with cha. Cha aka tea, is like water here. A necessity for everyone at all times. I was proud that I weaned myself off coffee here but considering the amount of tea I drink on a daily basis, it probably evens it out. Bangaldeshis love cha. Tea stalls are everywhere, not only on every corner, even in the most remote places, but tons of them line the streets and they’re always full of people, mostly men, drinking tea, chatting, reading the paper, smoking. I love it. However, going to a tea stall is also something I was nervous about in Dhaka because of the lack of women that frequent them, and I was also not sure of what to order. Well, as I quickly found out in this ferry port town, you just ask for cha. Easy, plain and simple. And they make it their way, no Starbucks half fat triple shot venti jargon here; all cha is served in a glass, half full, very milky and with a shitload of sugar. It’s lush.
After our breakfast pit stop we boarded the ferry and quickly got out of the van to go up to the top deck. It was so refreshing to be on the water, feeling the wind on my face, looking out on the river, seeing fishing boats in the distance, and watching all of hustle and bustle at the port. Now, the actual ferry is another story. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the QE2. The ferrymen are old weathered souls, gruff and abrupt, it was rammed full of people and beggars and the washroom, Ah, my ‘ole favourite, the squat toilet. In all honestly, I have come to hate, no REALLY hate, the squat toilet at the best of times, but this one? Oh Christ, it was bad. Trying to maneuver myself to do my business in the smallest, dirtiest toilet hellhole ever, WHILE trying not to let ANY part of my body or clothes touch ANYTHING in there, well, it was a ‘challenge’ to say the least. I think I was actually sweating by the end of it. Anyway, let’s move on.
Once we got back into the van, we docked at the next port and now it was time for the real driving to begin. Because people never really go to Kuakata much, the roads to get there are dire. No, awful, terrible, horrific… you know where I’m going. Imagine off-roading in a bloody mini van. Yep, that was our journey for about um, twelve hours. Yes, I’m serious. I felt like my bum was getting bruises because of all the humps and bumps along the way so we couldn’t even sleep because it was like being on a bad fairground ride. Thankfully, five more ferries broke up the drive a bit which gave us the chance to stretch our legs and get some air. The rest of the rivers were much narrower though, so the intervals only lasted for about fifteen minutes each, but it was amazing to see all the different port towns along the way, each getting smaller and smaller and more and more remote. Who the hell else was traveling here I thought? Even in the most ’isolated’ parts of the country, there were still always so many people. Truly amazing to me.
As the sun was setting, we were still on the road but finally, after an eternity, we arrived in Kuakata at about 9pm, fourteen hours after leaving Dhaka - almost the amount of time it took for me to fly from Toronto to Hong Kong when I first arrived. Surreal. The guest house we were staying at was set back from the town’s main road and was surrounded my incredible plants, flowers and palm trees. Even though it was incredibly basic, my room actually had a SOFT mattress, TV and a sit down toilet. Hallelujah. The next morning, after watching some cheesy Bengali soap opera, we wandered down the road to have breakfast at a local ‘hotel’, some cha and then piled in the van to go to our first stop, a nearby village where the women there started their own irrigation project to manage the effects their community was having due to climate change.
As we got out of the van, the villagers started to gather, falling over each other to get a glimpse of who was coming to film their home with camera equipment and… a foreigner. Once they saw me, mouths dropped open. But it wasn’t frenzied enthusiasm, I honestly think it was shock. They were almost silent, looking at me intently, my shoes, my painted toenails, my jewellery, my hair… We set up the equipment and shot the women’s group meeting, me outside with my boss, watching through the monitor, and half the village surrounded us, dying for a look at the small TV. At the end of the discussion group, someone said ‘shesh’ which means finished but I turned around and said ‘shesh na’ which means not finished. Me speaking Bengali caused an instant uproar from the villagers; they were all laughing, shouting ‘shesh na!’, obviously very excited that I spoke in their language, which broke the ice and they started to warm to me. Some of the kids gathered around, saw that I had a camera under my arm and they kept looking at it, so I pulled it out and gave it to one of the girls, showing her how to press the button and take a photo. They were all SO excited once the photos started happening; they were running around, pushing each other, laughing, trying to get their photo taken and take photos of each other. So, I just let them run riot and it was absolutely hilarious. Hearing all the chaos of the children, the women of the village also came over to see what was going on, and upon seeing the camera, they wanted to get their photos taken too, plus get photos taken with me. The older women in the village brought me biscuits and rice and eventually sat me down on a chair underneath a tree. Then everyone gathered around me in a circle, touching my hair, paying me compliments and asking me questions. I’ve never seen such pure fascination on people’s faces before and I don’t think they had ever laid eyes a foreigner before based on their reaction. After a lot of cooing, it was time to go on to the next village, an aboriginal village, so I had to say my goodbyes and they all asked me to visit them again. I waved goodbye for as long as I could see them in the distance and felt very humbled by the experience. It was so genuine and kind. I had been thinking about what it would be like to go to one of the villages for so long, even before I arrived in Bangladesh and it was exactly what I had hoped for. It was only for a short time but it was almost magical. I looked back at the photos on my camera as we drove away and my eyes almost started watering. I felt really lucky to have been there for that moment and to have given them some joy.
When we arrived at the next village, I found out that the women there also had designed a similar irrigation project with help from the other village women. We started setting up the equipment again when all of a sudden we started hearing children shouting ‘Lisa Apa!’. the kids from the last village had followed us and ran the whole way. An older girl also joined them, and she spoke some English. She explained to me that the children wanted to see what was going on and wanted to see me again. She then gave me a tour of the aboriginal village along with all of the other children in tow and I went to the local school. Even though classes were finishing for the day, some the children still remained and they were singing their hearts out so we stood outside, listening for a while. Soon thereafter, the older girl ushered me into the village leaders house along with ALL of the children, and I sat down on a wooden bench inside the barn like building, surrounded by them all. After the hi, hello, how are you chat with the village leader, they all just looked at me. And kept looking. In silence. I didn’t quite know what to do next. I sort of felt obliged that I should entertain them or something but I had run out of my ‘Bengali’ and didn’t know what to do. Then, the older girl said, ‘I think you should sing for us.’ ‘Sing for you?!’, I asked. ‘Yes, yes, SING!’, she said and clapped her hands, then said to the rest of the children and to the village leader that she had asked me to sing. They all started clapping and then I thought, oh God, I’m going to have to sing, aren’t I? Sing what? Suddenly my mind went blank. What could I sing that didn’t have swear words or anything about love, that’s basically every song ever written, right? Shit. Um… They all kept looking at me, waiting. Then I knew. ABBA. I’ll sing ABBA. So I broke into a mediocre rendition of ‘Thank you for the music’ and they were loving it, clapping, smiling, but I don’t really know all of the words so the song repeated itself a bit and then stopped. ‘Another one!’, the older girl shouted and again, I couldn’t think of a song for the life of me. I tried to think of a song they might know, um, no, that won’t work. Um… so I sang Michael Jackson. Yeah, I know, Michael Jackson. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere, in Bangladesh, surrounded by random villagers and children singing ABBA and Michael Jackson on a Wednesday afternoon. Oh, how bizarre life had become. Anyway, after the whole singing debacle, we headed off further into the village, and all the kids continued to follow and we walked through the paddy field to a Buddhist temple that was frequented by the aboriginal inhabitants of the village. It was an amazing site. Bright bright blue, high on stilts, made of wood, right in the middle of a field. There was even a monk there, looking like he’s walked straight out of ‘Seven Years in Tibet’, and before I knew it, my shoes were off and I was at the temple’s altar. Snap, snap, snap, took some photos and we were off again, walking back through the paddy field. Suddenly I was worried about the time. I had completely wandered off from the shoot, without telling ANYONE where I was going and I didn’t have my phone, my bag, anything with me expect my camera. I told the older girl that I should be heading back so she started to lead be across the walkway and I started to run, getting the children to chase me. They were hysterical, laughing, running, and I think altogether shocked, probably wondering, what the hell is this foreign girl doing!? Before I knew it we had found our way back but the van was gone, nowhere to be seen. Oh shit. Lisa decides to go walkabout in a rural village with no phone and don’t tell anyone where she’s going... And now. Mmm. The situation is not good. We waited around for a bit, and then decided to walk up to the main road. Thankfully I saw the van in the distance so we all trundled along after it, my feel feeling heavy in the hot afternoon sun. Turns out my ‘crew’ were getting some final scenic footage before we had to leave again for the fisherman’s port. We said our goodbyes to the kids again and were off on the bumpy road to find sea.
The next town we were to visit was another victim of climate change. The fishermen there were battling with rising water levels that had damaged river supplies which meant fishing in the sea instead of the river, a completely different territory, requiring bigger boats (which equals more money to finance them), and less fish because the water had turned to salt water. Upon arrival we took a series of interviews and then my boss turned to me, ‘Lisa, we are going on a fishing boat.’ I looked out into the river and saw a small, wooden boat pull up to the bottom of the cliff so we scuttled down the hill and slide over the mud into the boat. Before I could blink we were out on the open seas, camera in tow, getting footage of the waterways from the ‘inside’ perspective. We went right out into the open water and it seemed to go on forever and ever. One of the fishermen said I was brave for not wearing a life jacket. I laughed and said I trusted him. And then looked down. Water was coming INTO the boat. INTO THE BOAT! And, no one seemed to care! Two of the other fishermen had little plastic tubs, scooping it out and throwing it overboard. Don’t panic, I thought. Do. Not. Panic. I could see the shore of where we were getting dropped off and honestly, tried not to think about it, I just looked towards the dock. What else could I do? I know I can swim but Jesus, I was not expecting to swim in the Bay of Bengal out of a bloody sinking fishing boat! Miraculously, we made it to the dock and I jumped out of that boat faster than Jack Flash. We climbed up the muddy hill to find more fish than I have ever seen in my life. Endless rows of wooden poles acted as drying racks for fish caught from the sea. There were thousands of fish hanging out to dry, from skate to squid and everything in between. The hot afternoon air smelt of sea salt and fish, a whole lotta fish. After walking through the fish maze, we found ourselves back at the van, ready to head to our last stop of the day, the beach.
Kuakata is an interesting beach because it is where the sun rises and sets in the same place. Once we bumped along the long, winding road, we got to the beach about 6pm, ready to watch the sunset. I took off my sandals and walked down to the water. It was so nice to feel sand between my toes and once I got to the sea, the water was warm. WARM! Ah, bliss. I just stood, by myself, looking out into the sun. After a few minutes though, I realized I wasn’t alone. Because we had the TV camera with us, and the rest of the crew, I think other people on the beach thought I was famous or something, and started to line up to get photos taken with me! Husbands, wives, children. Couldn’t I get two minutes alone in this country? I know they were excited to see a foreigner but all I wanted to do was have a few minutes alone. Anyway, after some photo opps and some weird men lurking around taking way too many photos of me on their camera phones for my liking, it was time to head back to the hotel for dinner and bed. Even though we all needed an early night, some beers were in order at the guest house before getting back on the road again the next day to do the journey all over again.
Fourteen hours and six ferries to get there and back, and two hundred photos later, I eventually got home on Thursday night. Glad to be back my own bed, I dreamt about the little place by the sea that captured my heart.
Nine and a half weeks
I knew that headline would grab your attention but sadly, no tales in that respect. Ha. Nine and a half weeks really means, that’s exactly how long I’ve been in Bangladesh today. It’s so weird thinking about it. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been here five minutes; when I don’t know what the hell someone’s saying, or directions somewhere, or when I'm seeing things so completely foreign and different from home, sometimes I stop and think, where the hell am I and what am I doing here? And then other times, I feel like I’m getting it; when I’m eating rice and daal with my hand and drinking tea from a tea stall, when I’m bumping along in a CNG or rickshaw through the chaos of Dhaka and actually know where I‘m going, when I’m buying things from the market for a good price… my old life seems so far away. It’s truly a strange thing. In another three weeks I’ll have been here for three months, that means a quarter of my placement will be over already, and time seems to be running through my fingers like sand.
I’ve also been looking at my blog that I’m using to document this journey and its thirteen posts. Thirteen posts. Thirteen posts of what? Are these really my thoughts? Is this really capturing everything I’ve seen, tasted, touched, and what I think or have experienced? Or is it just a load of crap that I’m writing? I read a few previous blogs on my site and some of them are okay but some of them are just plain shit. I’ve never had a blog before, only a diary when I was about twelve years old and that was BEYOND shit. Am I managing to evoke my personality through my writing in this so-called blog? Sometimes it feels a bit like a series of mediocre high school essays, not a story, my story. Sometimes I don’t know. I clicked on a few other ‘Bangla’ blogs this morning and feel a bit of blog envy. God, I hate admitting that. Blog envy. Ewww. I know it’s not a popularity contest but the other blogs seem funnier, more interesting. My flat mate’s had over a thousand hits on her blog. A thousand hits!? I have no idea how many people have read this but I think I need to shape up a bit more in my writing, try and make it a bit more witty, risque, grittier… SOMETHING! I’m making no promises but as of today, I will try and make bangininthedesh more ‘Lisa’ as of now. Right now. Yep, I’ll write something today, something great. Mmmm, um, ok… I guess I’d better go write something…
I’ve also been looking at my blog that I’m using to document this journey and its thirteen posts. Thirteen posts. Thirteen posts of what? Are these really my thoughts? Is this really capturing everything I’ve seen, tasted, touched, and what I think or have experienced? Or is it just a load of crap that I’m writing? I read a few previous blogs on my site and some of them are okay but some of them are just plain shit. I’ve never had a blog before, only a diary when I was about twelve years old and that was BEYOND shit. Am I managing to evoke my personality through my writing in this so-called blog? Sometimes it feels a bit like a series of mediocre high school essays, not a story, my story. Sometimes I don’t know. I clicked on a few other ‘Bangla’ blogs this morning and feel a bit of blog envy. God, I hate admitting that. Blog envy. Ewww. I know it’s not a popularity contest but the other blogs seem funnier, more interesting. My flat mate’s had over a thousand hits on her blog. A thousand hits!? I have no idea how many people have read this but I think I need to shape up a bit more in my writing, try and make it a bit more witty, risque, grittier… SOMETHING! I’m making no promises but as of today, I will try and make bangininthedesh more ‘Lisa’ as of now. Right now. Yep, I’ll write something today, something great. Mmmm, um, ok… I guess I’d better go write something…
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Eid Mubarak
I woke up on Saturday morning to a strange sound. A moaning, animal sound...
Eid-al-Adha sacrifices had begun.
Over the last few days, the streets of Dhaka have been filled with animals. Huge bulls and cows have littered my neighbourhood streets, inter-dispersed by goats, and at first it seemed entertaining that there were so many animals everywhere in the middle of the city, but then the realization started to hit that all of them would be killed in the street by Sunday for Eid.
Eid-al-Adha is a ‘festival of sacfrice’ that is celebrated by Muslims to commemorate the willingness of Prophet Ibrahim to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience to God.
Four thousand years ago, the valley of Mecca was a dry and uninhabited place. According to Islamic history, the Prophet Ibrahim was instructed to bring Hajar and their child Ismael to Arabia from the land of Canaan by God's command.
As Ibrahim made ready to return to the land of Canaan, Hajar asked him, "Who ordered you to leave us here"? When Ibrahim replied: "Allah", Hajar said, "then Allah will not forget us; you can go". Although Ibrahim had left a large quantity of food and water with Hajar and Ismael, the supplies quickly ran out and within a few days the two were suffering from hunger and dehydration.
According to the story, a desperate Hajar ran up and down between two hills called Safa and Marwa seven times, trying to find water. Finally, she collapsed beside her baby Ismael and prayed to Allah for deliverance. Ismael struck his foot on the ground, causing a spring of water to gush forth from the earth. Other accounts have the angel Jibral (Gabriel) striking the earth and causing the spring to flow. With this secure water supply, they were not only able to provide for their own needs, but were also able to trade water with passing nomads for food and supplies. When the Prophet Ibrahim returned from Canaan to check on his family, he was amazed to see them running a profitable well.
The Prophet Ibrahim was told by God to build a shrine dedicated to him adjacent to Hajar's well (the Zamzam Well). Ibrahim and Ismael constructed a small stone structure–-the Kaaba--which was to be the gathering place for all who wished to strengthen their faith in Allah. As the years passed, Ismael was blessed with Prophethood and gave the nomads of the desert his message of surrender to Allah. After many centuries, Mecca became a thriving city and a major center for trade, thanks to its reliable water source, the well of Zamzam.
One of the main trials of Prophet Ibrahim's life was to face the command of Allah to devote his dearest possession, his only son. Upon hearing this command, he prepared to submit to Allah's's will. During this preparation, when Satan tempted Prophet Ibrahim and his family, Hajar and Ismael drove Satan away by throwing pebbles at him. To remember this rejection of Satan, stones are thrown during Hajj.
At the time of sacrifice, Ibrahim discovered a sheep died instead of Ismail, whom he hacked through neck. When Ibrahim was fully prepared to complete the sacrifice, Allah revealed to him that his "sacrifice" had already been fulfilled. Ibrahim had shown that his love for his Lord superseded all others: that he would lay down his own life or the lives of those dear to him in order to submit to God. Muslims commemorate this superior act of sacrifice during Eid-al-Adha.
Men, women, and children are expected to dress in their finest clothing to perform Eid prayer in a large congregation in an open area or mosque. Muslims who can afford to do so sacrifice their best domestic animals (usually sheep, but also camels, cows and goats) as a symbol of Ibrahim's sacrifice. The sacrificed animals, have to meet certain age and quality standards or else the animal is considered an unacceptable sacrifice. Generally, sacrificial animals must be at least one year of age.
The regular charitable practices of the Muslim community are demonstrated during Eid -al-Adha by the concerted effort to see that no impoverished person is left without sacrificial food during these days. Poor people were walking up and down my street all day yesterday shouting, 'Allah, Allah', and calling out for meat.
During Eid-al-Adha, distributing meat amongst the people, chanting Takbir out loud before the Eid prayer on the first day, and after prayers throughout the four days of Eid are considered essential parts of the festival.
When I looked out over the balcony yesterday morning, the street was covered with blood and animal carcasses. It was such a surreal thing to watch, as groups of men sliced open and dissected the cows and goats, young boys helping out by running back and forth into the houses, bringing in the severed meat so that the women could start cooking.
People warned me not to go out into the street, nor to watch the sacrifices, but I felt as though I needed to witness this ritual because I’ll probably never be so close to it again. It seemed to go on for hours as I periodically peered over the balcony wall, watching to see if it was still going on.
By the early evening, we had to venture out because I had been invited to my boss’ house for the Eid feast and I invited the British girl I live with to come along. The two of us wrapped ourselves up in our new Eid saris and shuffled out into the street (they are very hard to walk in!) We felt like Japanese geishas in our constricting saris and it took a few attempts to ‘hop’ up onto the rickshaw but before we knew it, we were off, and the streets of Dhaka were covered in people, all carrying Eid meat in bags on their way to give it to friends and family, in keeping with the tradition.
As we arrived at my boss’ house, we gathered in the front room and met some of this close friends and family, but the patriarchal roles ensued. Even though my boss is an incredibly liberal man, it seemed as though all of the women were in the kitchen and the men stayed in the front room, smoking and drinking whisky. Not the collective party atmosphere I was expecting but before we knew it the food was ready and we sat down to endless plates of food and desserts. Now I knew that this festival was about - food.
In a full bellied haze, we rolled home and slept until the next day, waking up to a quieter street with blood nowhere to be seen.
Eid-al-Adha sacrifices had begun.
Over the last few days, the streets of Dhaka have been filled with animals. Huge bulls and cows have littered my neighbourhood streets, inter-dispersed by goats, and at first it seemed entertaining that there were so many animals everywhere in the middle of the city, but then the realization started to hit that all of them would be killed in the street by Sunday for Eid.
Eid-al-Adha is a ‘festival of sacfrice’ that is celebrated by Muslims to commemorate the willingness of Prophet Ibrahim to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience to God.
Four thousand years ago, the valley of Mecca was a dry and uninhabited place. According to Islamic history, the Prophet Ibrahim was instructed to bring Hajar and their child Ismael to Arabia from the land of Canaan by God's command.
As Ibrahim made ready to return to the land of Canaan, Hajar asked him, "Who ordered you to leave us here"? When Ibrahim replied: "Allah", Hajar said, "then Allah will not forget us; you can go". Although Ibrahim had left a large quantity of food and water with Hajar and Ismael, the supplies quickly ran out and within a few days the two were suffering from hunger and dehydration.
According to the story, a desperate Hajar ran up and down between two hills called Safa and Marwa seven times, trying to find water. Finally, she collapsed beside her baby Ismael and prayed to Allah for deliverance. Ismael struck his foot on the ground, causing a spring of water to gush forth from the earth. Other accounts have the angel Jibral (Gabriel) striking the earth and causing the spring to flow. With this secure water supply, they were not only able to provide for their own needs, but were also able to trade water with passing nomads for food and supplies. When the Prophet Ibrahim returned from Canaan to check on his family, he was amazed to see them running a profitable well.
The Prophet Ibrahim was told by God to build a shrine dedicated to him adjacent to Hajar's well (the Zamzam Well). Ibrahim and Ismael constructed a small stone structure–-the Kaaba--which was to be the gathering place for all who wished to strengthen their faith in Allah. As the years passed, Ismael was blessed with Prophethood and gave the nomads of the desert his message of surrender to Allah. After many centuries, Mecca became a thriving city and a major center for trade, thanks to its reliable water source, the well of Zamzam.
One of the main trials of Prophet Ibrahim's life was to face the command of Allah to devote his dearest possession, his only son. Upon hearing this command, he prepared to submit to Allah's's will. During this preparation, when Satan tempted Prophet Ibrahim and his family, Hajar and Ismael drove Satan away by throwing pebbles at him. To remember this rejection of Satan, stones are thrown during Hajj.
At the time of sacrifice, Ibrahim discovered a sheep died instead of Ismail, whom he hacked through neck. When Ibrahim was fully prepared to complete the sacrifice, Allah revealed to him that his "sacrifice" had already been fulfilled. Ibrahim had shown that his love for his Lord superseded all others: that he would lay down his own life or the lives of those dear to him in order to submit to God. Muslims commemorate this superior act of sacrifice during Eid-al-Adha.
Men, women, and children are expected to dress in their finest clothing to perform Eid prayer in a large congregation in an open area or mosque. Muslims who can afford to do so sacrifice their best domestic animals (usually sheep, but also camels, cows and goats) as a symbol of Ibrahim's sacrifice. The sacrificed animals, have to meet certain age and quality standards or else the animal is considered an unacceptable sacrifice. Generally, sacrificial animals must be at least one year of age.
The regular charitable practices of the Muslim community are demonstrated during Eid -al-Adha by the concerted effort to see that no impoverished person is left without sacrificial food during these days. Poor people were walking up and down my street all day yesterday shouting, 'Allah, Allah', and calling out for meat.
During Eid-al-Adha, distributing meat amongst the people, chanting Takbir out loud before the Eid prayer on the first day, and after prayers throughout the four days of Eid are considered essential parts of the festival.
When I looked out over the balcony yesterday morning, the street was covered with blood and animal carcasses. It was such a surreal thing to watch, as groups of men sliced open and dissected the cows and goats, young boys helping out by running back and forth into the houses, bringing in the severed meat so that the women could start cooking.
People warned me not to go out into the street, nor to watch the sacrifices, but I felt as though I needed to witness this ritual because I’ll probably never be so close to it again. It seemed to go on for hours as I periodically peered over the balcony wall, watching to see if it was still going on.
By the early evening, we had to venture out because I had been invited to my boss’ house for the Eid feast and I invited the British girl I live with to come along. The two of us wrapped ourselves up in our new Eid saris and shuffled out into the street (they are very hard to walk in!) We felt like Japanese geishas in our constricting saris and it took a few attempts to ‘hop’ up onto the rickshaw but before we knew it, we were off, and the streets of Dhaka were covered in people, all carrying Eid meat in bags on their way to give it to friends and family, in keeping with the tradition.
As we arrived at my boss’ house, we gathered in the front room and met some of this close friends and family, but the patriarchal roles ensued. Even though my boss is an incredibly liberal man, it seemed as though all of the women were in the kitchen and the men stayed in the front room, smoking and drinking whisky. Not the collective party atmosphere I was expecting but before we knew it the food was ready and we sat down to endless plates of food and desserts. Now I knew that this festival was about - food.
In a full bellied haze, we rolled home and slept until the next day, waking up to a quieter street with blood nowhere to be seen.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thursday's the new Friday
In a land of no pubs, bars, or liquor stores, there IS alcohol to be found in Bangladesh if you look hard enough. It’s mostly found in hotels and expat clubs really, and I've discovered the delights of the Regency of course. Recently, I’ve also heard rumblings about ‘locally’ produced wine, but I’ll bet that makes you go blind or something, so I’ll focus on legit poison for now!
Anyway, last Thursday we headed out to the British club aka The Bagha. Some of the other volunteers outside of Dhaka were in the city so there was a guaranteed crowd, which motivated us to head all the way across town in the onek jam. After a ‘minor’ freak attack on my part - we couldn’t get a CNG for almost an hour from our flat and I was panicking at the thought of missing out on the delicious Bagha restaurant food before 9pm so I started shouting and swearing in the middle of the road… not one of my finest moments - let’s just say, I needed to relax and unwind. Sometimes Dhaka makes you go crazy. I can't explain it.
Now, the thing about the Bagha, and these other kind of venues, is that they’re like a bubble. A strange, surreal bubble, that houses such a contrast from typical Bangladeshi life, that it fights with one’s conscience. When half of the population here live on less than 40cents a day, it’s hard to be surrounded by so much wealth at the expat clubs or hotels, but then on the other hand, it‘s also kinda nice to have some Western-type surroundings. Really nice. I hate admitting that but it's true. I got so excited about apple crumble and custard being on the Bagha menu the other day, that I almost fainted. No exaggeration.
We arrived at the Bagha in time for food - hurrah - and the wine was flowing. Since I’ve started drinking less here, I am now an official lightweight. After a few glasses of 200taka vino ($2!), I was starting to feel giddy and my stresses seemed to fade away. I had also picked up my illustrious Bagha membership card upon arrival so now I have… wait for it folks, a tab! Trouble was on the horizon and the night was getting into full swing. The place was packed, loud, full of people talking, laughing, music playing, clouds of smoke everywhere (everyone smokes here except me it seems), and all of the volunteers were gathered on the terrace, enjoying the hot winter night’s atmosphere.
The thing about the volunteer circle is that, even though we’re all so different, coming from a range of cultural backgrounds, experiences, countries, there’s one thing, one really strong thing that unites all in a very special way; we’re here. And that’s what bonds us together. Now, I know I have the blog to tell other people about what it’s like in Bangladesh, and there’s email, Facebook, Skype, you name it, but nothing can really describe what it’s like to really be here. The sights, the sounds, the language; being a foreigner in a foreign land.
Anyway, as the random bunch of us continued to enjoy the flowing alcohol of the Bagha and swap stories of our time here, eventually we started to branch out away from our ‘table’ and befriended a group of production people from the BBC London. It turns out that they’re here creating a drama series for BBC World. I hazily remember asking them for a job when I’m finished VSO which was awkward and unsubtle but hopefully it got lost in the other bouts of conversation, smoke and wine! We also met some other NGO workers from Oxfam and the UN, plus embassy workers and corporate types - basically people earning a lot more money than us so we got a few drinks off their tabs. Hehe.
Before I knew it, it was 2am. An old man fell off his stool at the bar and the place was clearing out. Time to go. There were four of us left and we all rolled out of the Bagha, in search of a CNG home. Could we find a CNG? Could we hell. Rickshaws a plenty swarmed around us but we live way too far to get one of those home. Walking, walking, walking up the longest road ever, hiccups in tow, we eventually found a yellow cab. Yes, seriously, a yellow cab, and home was one step closer. After navigating the driver to our flat in Bengal-ish, going around in circles a few time, we arrived at our front gate to see our landlord, standing, waiting for us. Seriously. He locks the gate after 11pm and only he has the key. He refuses to give anyone a copy. We have to tell him when we are going to be late and then he waits up for us. No joke. It’s like being sixteen again. He asked us where we’d been and we just said ‘Gulshan‘. He nodded, peered into the cab looking suspiciously at our chaperone volunteer guy friends, and ushered us through the gate.
After getting into the flat and several glasses of water later, I fell into a coma until I started stirring with the sound ‘Murgi! Murgi!’. Oh God, I thought, where am I? I’m in Bangladesh. With a hangover. Lord help me. I eventually woke up late Friday afternoon to find my flat mate in the same state. Having a hangover in Bangladesh is like electrocuting yourself on purpose. Terrible, horrible, pain. Pain, pain, pain. I don’t know why it’s so bad here but it was a firm wake up call that the Bagha CANNOT be abused on a weekly basis. I can’t handle a whole day lying in bed hearing ’Murgi!’ from the chicken salesman in the street with a throbbing wine headache. An addition to this is that I have yet to get a ’bill’ for my ’tab’ at the Bagha too. Something else I’m also worried about, earning $150 a month.
This Thursday night, I'm watching a DVD.
Anyway, last Thursday we headed out to the British club aka The Bagha. Some of the other volunteers outside of Dhaka were in the city so there was a guaranteed crowd, which motivated us to head all the way across town in the onek jam. After a ‘minor’ freak attack on my part - we couldn’t get a CNG for almost an hour from our flat and I was panicking at the thought of missing out on the delicious Bagha restaurant food before 9pm so I started shouting and swearing in the middle of the road… not one of my finest moments - let’s just say, I needed to relax and unwind. Sometimes Dhaka makes you go crazy. I can't explain it.
Now, the thing about the Bagha, and these other kind of venues, is that they’re like a bubble. A strange, surreal bubble, that houses such a contrast from typical Bangladeshi life, that it fights with one’s conscience. When half of the population here live on less than 40cents a day, it’s hard to be surrounded by so much wealth at the expat clubs or hotels, but then on the other hand, it‘s also kinda nice to have some Western-type surroundings. Really nice. I hate admitting that but it's true. I got so excited about apple crumble and custard being on the Bagha menu the other day, that I almost fainted. No exaggeration.
We arrived at the Bagha in time for food - hurrah - and the wine was flowing. Since I’ve started drinking less here, I am now an official lightweight. After a few glasses of 200taka vino ($2!), I was starting to feel giddy and my stresses seemed to fade away. I had also picked up my illustrious Bagha membership card upon arrival so now I have… wait for it folks, a tab! Trouble was on the horizon and the night was getting into full swing. The place was packed, loud, full of people talking, laughing, music playing, clouds of smoke everywhere (everyone smokes here except me it seems), and all of the volunteers were gathered on the terrace, enjoying the hot winter night’s atmosphere.
The thing about the volunteer circle is that, even though we’re all so different, coming from a range of cultural backgrounds, experiences, countries, there’s one thing, one really strong thing that unites all in a very special way; we’re here. And that’s what bonds us together. Now, I know I have the blog to tell other people about what it’s like in Bangladesh, and there’s email, Facebook, Skype, you name it, but nothing can really describe what it’s like to really be here. The sights, the sounds, the language; being a foreigner in a foreign land.
Anyway, as the random bunch of us continued to enjoy the flowing alcohol of the Bagha and swap stories of our time here, eventually we started to branch out away from our ‘table’ and befriended a group of production people from the BBC London. It turns out that they’re here creating a drama series for BBC World. I hazily remember asking them for a job when I’m finished VSO which was awkward and unsubtle but hopefully it got lost in the other bouts of conversation, smoke and wine! We also met some other NGO workers from Oxfam and the UN, plus embassy workers and corporate types - basically people earning a lot more money than us so we got a few drinks off their tabs. Hehe.
Before I knew it, it was 2am. An old man fell off his stool at the bar and the place was clearing out. Time to go. There were four of us left and we all rolled out of the Bagha, in search of a CNG home. Could we find a CNG? Could we hell. Rickshaws a plenty swarmed around us but we live way too far to get one of those home. Walking, walking, walking up the longest road ever, hiccups in tow, we eventually found a yellow cab. Yes, seriously, a yellow cab, and home was one step closer. After navigating the driver to our flat in Bengal-ish, going around in circles a few time, we arrived at our front gate to see our landlord, standing, waiting for us. Seriously. He locks the gate after 11pm and only he has the key. He refuses to give anyone a copy. We have to tell him when we are going to be late and then he waits up for us. No joke. It’s like being sixteen again. He asked us where we’d been and we just said ‘Gulshan‘. He nodded, peered into the cab looking suspiciously at our chaperone volunteer guy friends, and ushered us through the gate.
After getting into the flat and several glasses of water later, I fell into a coma until I started stirring with the sound ‘Murgi! Murgi!’. Oh God, I thought, where am I? I’m in Bangladesh. With a hangover. Lord help me. I eventually woke up late Friday afternoon to find my flat mate in the same state. Having a hangover in Bangladesh is like electrocuting yourself on purpose. Terrible, horrible, pain. Pain, pain, pain. I don’t know why it’s so bad here but it was a firm wake up call that the Bagha CANNOT be abused on a weekly basis. I can’t handle a whole day lying in bed hearing ’Murgi!’ from the chicken salesman in the street with a throbbing wine headache. An addition to this is that I have yet to get a ’bill’ for my ’tab’ at the Bagha too. Something else I’m also worried about, earning $150 a month.
This Thursday night, I'm watching a DVD.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I have a plan
I got my work plan approved which means I now ‘technically’ have some structure around what I‘m doing here, something documented and official that I’m working towards so I can start to ’make a difference’. Sigh. It’s going to be a challenge and over the last few days, I’m really starting to realize that. Even though I have projects to work on like the pneumonia campaign, my ‘big‘ project for the year is that, I need to give my whole organization a complete overhaul from a strategic and vision standpoint, that will transcend into branding and advertising, followed by an internal review of all the project management practices etc. etc. etc. etc… oh God. I’m feeling slightly under qualified for all of this(?!) but I’m trying to think positively. I have a year, right?
To start off this process I have been interviewing all of the partner organizations to get a sense of the strengths and weaknesses of my organization, from their perspective, helping me navigate my route on how I'm going to tackle this ‘plan’. In particular, I met with a fantastic organization called Action Aid last week and felt really inspired and motivated. Good start.
Action aid operates through a rights-based approach to mobilize and support the efforts of the poor and marginalized people with the ultimate aim of eradicating poverty and the injustices that cause poverty. Since its inception in 1983, AA has been working in some of the most remote areas in Bangladesh with some of the countries most vulnerable people. A particular focus for AAB is women vulnerability in Bangladesh and the organization has aimed to initiate programs to contribute to improvements in their position and condition in society. AA’s work on women’s rights is particularly interesting to me, and has been concentrating on promoting effective participation in the social, political and economical sphere, enable equal gender relations and active citizenship of adolescents, and also zero tolerance against violence such as domestic violence, rape and sexual harassment. Acid attacks are also another act of violence against women that has prevailed in the last decade. It’s such a horrific crime that’s on the rise here and I had no idea how severe the attacks were until I met some of the actual victims at the Action Aid office. Truly devastating. To ensure this issue gets recognition it deserves, in order to be stopped, I found out last week that my organization helped publicize it and actually taught acid burn victims how to use audio visual equipment themselves, so they could create their own documentary about what had happened to them. Then, they used the documentary as a tool to influence policy makers to see acid violence as a real issue. Change IS starting to happen.
As for the other partner organizations, there are so many NGOs in Bangladesh, fighting for something. Health rights, education, HIV & AIDS, you name it. The benefit of my organization is that I’ll get exposure to all areas so I’m really looking forward to finding out more about stories like what happened to the acid burn victims, and seeing if I can play a role in actually doing something. When you see so much poverty around you on a day to day basis, it’s hard not to be doubtful that you can change any of it. I know I need to be realistic in my goals here but God, if I can do one thing, just ONE thing, at least that’s something, right?
Let the 'plan' begin…
To start off this process I have been interviewing all of the partner organizations to get a sense of the strengths and weaknesses of my organization, from their perspective, helping me navigate my route on how I'm going to tackle this ‘plan’. In particular, I met with a fantastic organization called Action Aid last week and felt really inspired and motivated. Good start.
Action aid operates through a rights-based approach to mobilize and support the efforts of the poor and marginalized people with the ultimate aim of eradicating poverty and the injustices that cause poverty. Since its inception in 1983, AA has been working in some of the most remote areas in Bangladesh with some of the countries most vulnerable people. A particular focus for AAB is women vulnerability in Bangladesh and the organization has aimed to initiate programs to contribute to improvements in their position and condition in society. AA’s work on women’s rights is particularly interesting to me, and has been concentrating on promoting effective participation in the social, political and economical sphere, enable equal gender relations and active citizenship of adolescents, and also zero tolerance against violence such as domestic violence, rape and sexual harassment. Acid attacks are also another act of violence against women that has prevailed in the last decade. It’s such a horrific crime that’s on the rise here and I had no idea how severe the attacks were until I met some of the actual victims at the Action Aid office. Truly devastating. To ensure this issue gets recognition it deserves, in order to be stopped, I found out last week that my organization helped publicize it and actually taught acid burn victims how to use audio visual equipment themselves, so they could create their own documentary about what had happened to them. Then, they used the documentary as a tool to influence policy makers to see acid violence as a real issue. Change IS starting to happen.
As for the other partner organizations, there are so many NGOs in Bangladesh, fighting for something. Health rights, education, HIV & AIDS, you name it. The benefit of my organization is that I’ll get exposure to all areas so I’m really looking forward to finding out more about stories like what happened to the acid burn victims, and seeing if I can play a role in actually doing something. When you see so much poverty around you on a day to day basis, it’s hard not to be doubtful that you can change any of it. I know I need to be realistic in my goals here but God, if I can do one thing, just ONE thing, at least that’s something, right?
Let the 'plan' begin…
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The sounds of Dhaka
They say New York is the city that never sleeps but really, it’s Dhaka. Every moment of every day is filled with noise. It pours out of every corner of the city, at every hour, and never stops.
The fan in the my bedroom acts as a constant hum of white noise. Even though it’s cooling down weather-wise now, it helps to muffle the sporadic noise from the street below. The morning prayer echoes in the distance around 5am and I stir a bit, rolling onto my side, pushing my ear plugs into my ears a bit further. My alarm usually goes off a few hours later but by that time, it’s more of a reminder to wake up that anything else.
After the morning prayer, the city becomes even more alive. Men with wooden carts start the day by cycling up and down the streets, selling the most amazing array of fresh vegetables, shouting up to the windows above. More street sellers start to gather, my favourite being the chicken salesmen, shouting ‘murgi!’ (chicken!) at the top of their lungs, over and over again. They have huge baskets of live chickens balancing on their heads, with their feet tied together so they can’t escape as they cluck away. The bells of the rickshaws on the street start to get progressively louder as the morning commute begins too, as do honking horns from CNGs and cars. The beggars also want to get in on the flurry of action of course, and walk up and down the street shouting ‘Allah, Allah’ to the windows above, hoping some change will tumble down to them from a balcony above.
In the flat, our water drips constantly and the cold shower makes for a swift 'in and out' followed by a much needed hot cup of tea in the morning, and as I stand over the hob of hissing gas, waiting for the kettle to whistle, I can hear the neighbours chatting and cooking through the window next door. Once ready to brave the outdoors, I run down the flight of stairs to the main gate and the Dhaka noise really begins.
People are constantly shouting to me, ‘Apa!’ (Madam!), ‘Sister!’, anything to get my attention. And as I walk up our lane to the main road, does it strike me that everything’s alive and on the move. Street sellers making food, selling clothes, fabric, books, gadgets. People walking everywhere, cars, buses filled with people (sometimes even on the roof), hundreds of rickshaws, CNGs weaving through traffic with no defined lanes. Men drinking tea, smoking and reading the newspaper at tea stalls. Children on their way to school, shouting and waving to the ‘bideshi’ through their little school carts (like a rickshaw but with a little cart at the back that has bar windows). Traffic wardens shouting, waving their wooden batons as they scold beggars for running through the fluid lanes of chaos. The journey to work has truly begun.
Arriving at the office is becoming a routine affair and once I settle in, becomes a sea of language, floating in and out of English and broken Bengali with colleagues and the tea boys. From my desk all I can hear is traffic down below; the horns and voices continue, with no end in sight. Lunch is a communal affair with all of us sitting around a table, the language mix and passing of clanging dishes, mmm’s and ah’s enjoying the food - all in all, a general hive of activity. Before I blink it’s the end of the day and off back into the busy streets I go, trying to negotiate on getting a CNG home through the ‘onek’ jam, bargaining on price at length, trying not to get ripped off.
No matter where you go in Dhaka, there is traffic; any time, on any route. I have no idea where people are going at all hours but traffic seems to act as the heartbeat of the city, keeping it alive, but hanging buy a thread.
Sunset through the streets and smog signal dinner time for me as I roll up to the grocery store to pick up something to eat. The shop workers know me by now and ‘hello madams’ echo throughout the store, people offering to give me advice on everything I put in my basket. Nothing is anonymous here. Outside, the neighbourhood streets are waiting and the local street children follow me home, chatting away in Bengali as I try to communicate with them the best I can.
Arriving at the flat doesn’t symbolize the end of the day. The noises from the street below continue to bubble and the frequent power cuts usually means cooking in the dark so there’s lots of fumbling, dropping things and the buzzing of mosquitoes in the candlelight as i prepare my meal. Dining with my flat mates accounts for an often hilarious discussion of the weird and wonderful things we’ve all encountered throughout our day. A time to share the experience.
Then, all of a sudden, it’s time for bed already and for the next day to begin.
Let the noise continue…
The fan in the my bedroom acts as a constant hum of white noise. Even though it’s cooling down weather-wise now, it helps to muffle the sporadic noise from the street below. The morning prayer echoes in the distance around 5am and I stir a bit, rolling onto my side, pushing my ear plugs into my ears a bit further. My alarm usually goes off a few hours later but by that time, it’s more of a reminder to wake up that anything else.
After the morning prayer, the city becomes even more alive. Men with wooden carts start the day by cycling up and down the streets, selling the most amazing array of fresh vegetables, shouting up to the windows above. More street sellers start to gather, my favourite being the chicken salesmen, shouting ‘murgi!’ (chicken!) at the top of their lungs, over and over again. They have huge baskets of live chickens balancing on their heads, with their feet tied together so they can’t escape as they cluck away. The bells of the rickshaws on the street start to get progressively louder as the morning commute begins too, as do honking horns from CNGs and cars. The beggars also want to get in on the flurry of action of course, and walk up and down the street shouting ‘Allah, Allah’ to the windows above, hoping some change will tumble down to them from a balcony above.
In the flat, our water drips constantly and the cold shower makes for a swift 'in and out' followed by a much needed hot cup of tea in the morning, and as I stand over the hob of hissing gas, waiting for the kettle to whistle, I can hear the neighbours chatting and cooking through the window next door. Once ready to brave the outdoors, I run down the flight of stairs to the main gate and the Dhaka noise really begins.
People are constantly shouting to me, ‘Apa!’ (Madam!), ‘Sister!’, anything to get my attention. And as I walk up our lane to the main road, does it strike me that everything’s alive and on the move. Street sellers making food, selling clothes, fabric, books, gadgets. People walking everywhere, cars, buses filled with people (sometimes even on the roof), hundreds of rickshaws, CNGs weaving through traffic with no defined lanes. Men drinking tea, smoking and reading the newspaper at tea stalls. Children on their way to school, shouting and waving to the ‘bideshi’ through their little school carts (like a rickshaw but with a little cart at the back that has bar windows). Traffic wardens shouting, waving their wooden batons as they scold beggars for running through the fluid lanes of chaos. The journey to work has truly begun.
Arriving at the office is becoming a routine affair and once I settle in, becomes a sea of language, floating in and out of English and broken Bengali with colleagues and the tea boys. From my desk all I can hear is traffic down below; the horns and voices continue, with no end in sight. Lunch is a communal affair with all of us sitting around a table, the language mix and passing of clanging dishes, mmm’s and ah’s enjoying the food - all in all, a general hive of activity. Before I blink it’s the end of the day and off back into the busy streets I go, trying to negotiate on getting a CNG home through the ‘onek’ jam, bargaining on price at length, trying not to get ripped off.
No matter where you go in Dhaka, there is traffic; any time, on any route. I have no idea where people are going at all hours but traffic seems to act as the heartbeat of the city, keeping it alive, but hanging buy a thread.
Sunset through the streets and smog signal dinner time for me as I roll up to the grocery store to pick up something to eat. The shop workers know me by now and ‘hello madams’ echo throughout the store, people offering to give me advice on everything I put in my basket. Nothing is anonymous here. Outside, the neighbourhood streets are waiting and the local street children follow me home, chatting away in Bengali as I try to communicate with them the best I can.
Arriving at the flat doesn’t symbolize the end of the day. The noises from the street below continue to bubble and the frequent power cuts usually means cooking in the dark so there’s lots of fumbling, dropping things and the buzzing of mosquitoes in the candlelight as i prepare my meal. Dining with my flat mates accounts for an often hilarious discussion of the weird and wonderful things we’ve all encountered throughout our day. A time to share the experience.
Then, all of a sudden, it’s time for bed already and for the next day to begin.
Let the noise continue…
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Getting to know the 'hood
Last week, the British girl I live with and I, got followed home by two street children. We had been shopping in Meena Bazar aka the grocery store, and two young children were peering at us through the shop window, excited to see two ‘bideshis’ (foreigners). They waited for us outside and started chatting away to us in Bengali all the way down the lane. Even though we didn’t know half of what they were saying, it was love at first sight. The eldest must have been about eight years old and the younger one was only about four. Shoeless and happy, full of life. I adored them. My heart ached. As we approached our gate, they were still lingering around so we gave them a chocolate bar we’d bought. You have never seen so much delight on a child’s face. They were so chuffed and munched the whole thing in seconds. We waved them goodbye and walked up our stairs, looking behind us to see their chocolate covered faces peering through the gate, smiling...
Over the last few days, I’ve been looking for them on our walks through the neighbourhood. Each time we pass the grocery store, I'm waiting to see their little faces. I feel disappointed when I don’t see them. I can’t help it.
Then, on Friday evening on the way home from work, we bought some children's books off of the best salesman ever; a boy about seven years old, with full-on attitude. He was even wearing a gold chain. Classic. How could we say no? Haha. We were'nt sure what we were going to do with the books but itwas only a few taka so we'd hadn't spent too much money on them. Later that night, as we were walking past the grocery store back in Mohammedpur, all of a sudden I felt a little hand grab my top. It was one of my boys.
We asked him how we was and he started chatting away, then the other little one ran over, followed by two more friends. The British girl suggested we give them the books we'd bought and as we pulled them out of the bag to give them to the boys, I have never seen four children so excited, happy and grateful in all my life. Smiling, and jumping around, they beaconed for us to come over to the street vendor on the corner, an older woman, making chapattis. We walked over and she was also overjoyed that we had given the children books. Now, I’m not sure of the relationship between the woman and the children, perhaps she keeps an eye on them, gives them food? Regardless, we were now in the middle of a furor of excitement and the woman insisted we have some food with them so we hung around the corner, eating chapattis, mixing with the locals, with the kids running around us in circles with their new books. After a few minutes we realized that a crowd of about fifty people had gathered around us. Seriously. I think we must have attracted attention because it was a combination of two foreigners, eating food on a street corner with street children, and also the fact that we were interacting with the people of the neighbourhood, something which foreigners don't seem to do here that often.
After our food, we continued to mingle for a short while and then said our goodbyes, walking down the lane to our flat.
I felt happy. It was only a moment. But moments like were the reason I was here. Pure and simple.
Over the last few days, I’ve been looking for them on our walks through the neighbourhood. Each time we pass the grocery store, I'm waiting to see their little faces. I feel disappointed when I don’t see them. I can’t help it.
Then, on Friday evening on the way home from work, we bought some children's books off of the best salesman ever; a boy about seven years old, with full-on attitude. He was even wearing a gold chain. Classic. How could we say no? Haha. We were'nt sure what we were going to do with the books but itwas only a few taka so we'd hadn't spent too much money on them. Later that night, as we were walking past the grocery store back in Mohammedpur, all of a sudden I felt a little hand grab my top. It was one of my boys.
We asked him how we was and he started chatting away, then the other little one ran over, followed by two more friends. The British girl suggested we give them the books we'd bought and as we pulled them out of the bag to give them to the boys, I have never seen four children so excited, happy and grateful in all my life. Smiling, and jumping around, they beaconed for us to come over to the street vendor on the corner, an older woman, making chapattis. We walked over and she was also overjoyed that we had given the children books. Now, I’m not sure of the relationship between the woman and the children, perhaps she keeps an eye on them, gives them food? Regardless, we were now in the middle of a furor of excitement and the woman insisted we have some food with them so we hung around the corner, eating chapattis, mixing with the locals, with the kids running around us in circles with their new books. After a few minutes we realized that a crowd of about fifty people had gathered around us. Seriously. I think we must have attracted attention because it was a combination of two foreigners, eating food on a street corner with street children, and also the fact that we were interacting with the people of the neighbourhood, something which foreigners don't seem to do here that often.
After our food, we continued to mingle for a short while and then said our goodbyes, walking down the lane to our flat.
I felt happy. It was only a moment. But moments like were the reason I was here. Pure and simple.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Working girl
My first day at work was only a few hours; a tour of the small office which is in a busy area of town called Ramna (where all of the TV and media companies are), and I met my colleagues, twelve in total, who presented me with a bunch of orchids. The following week was when the real work would begin.
On Sunday morning aka the new Monday, I arrived at the Pan Pacific Sonargon hotel, a five star haven of luxury, for the World Pneumonia Day press conference and roundtable discussion. My new boss introduced me to so many people from various media organizations, TV stations, and other NGOs like Save the Children, and within minutes the press conference began. I was asked to take ‘notes’ in English but there was such a fuss that I was in the crowd along with the press, that I had about four cameras on me, filming me constantly! Later on, TV stations across the country used footage of me, referencing me as a foreign journalist. Classic! Haha.
After the press conference, everyone had lunch and before the roundtable, my boss pulled me aside to tell me that I would be hosting a half hour talk show and interviewing British MP Dr. Desmond Turner, and a renowned professor. ‘Tik ache?’, he asked, which means, ok? Um, ok?! Uuuuuh, oh God... Me on TV? Hosting? Interviewing? Interviewing MPs and professors about pneumonia? Pneumonia!? Oh. God. I was about to be a complete idiot on camera, in front of the whole nation. Uuuuh… ‘Tik ache‘, I responded. What else was I going to do? Say no? Shit. I was actually going to doing this and had absolutely no idea what I needed to ask or what the hell I was doing. Baptism by fire I suppose.
I frantically wrote down some questions alongside the MP and professor so they knew what I was going to ask them, and then it was lights, camera, action. No prep time, no time to read what I was saying, no time for hair and make up. Awesome. I sat down in the studio they had set up in the hotel and looked up to about fifty faces, gazing at me, waiting for me to start the show. My boss piped up, ‘Lisa, just say a few words, open the show, ask the questions, and then conclude. Tik ache?’ Tik-a-bloody-che alright. It was time to suck it up, so I smiled, and began. God knows what I said, it was a blur. I asked the questions, I nodded, smiled, probed, asked even more questions than I was supposed to and then concluded. Done. Phew. Then the lights went off, the audience cleared and I just sat there. How bizarre I thought, I just presented a prime time talk show in Bangladesh, and it wasn‘t as nerve-wracking as I thought it would be. Who would have thought? I doubt this will be a regular occurrence, even though my boss thinks it should be(!), but Barbara Walters, watch out. Haha.
World Pneumonia Day, November 2nd 2009, was a turning point in Bangladesh. Over 50,000 children a year die from the disease here and after twenty years of having a vaccine available in the developed world, they still don’t have it in Bangladesh. Shocking, isn’t it? Anyway, the second day of the conference was a larger event promoting the issue here, with presentations from medical experts all over the world, plus influential parliamentary representatives from the Bangladesh government. Part of my role within my organization here is to work with PACE (Pneumococcal Awareness Council of Experts), headquartered in Washing DC, to highlight and generate awareness around pneumonia and pneumoccocal disease here. They need a full plan for the year up until the next World Pneumonia Day, 2010. It’s an enormous task but something I’m eager to sink my teeth into. I’m working on developing a communication plan to present to them on Thursday. My first client meeting in Bangladesh. Surreal!
On Sunday morning aka the new Monday, I arrived at the Pan Pacific Sonargon hotel, a five star haven of luxury, for the World Pneumonia Day press conference and roundtable discussion. My new boss introduced me to so many people from various media organizations, TV stations, and other NGOs like Save the Children, and within minutes the press conference began. I was asked to take ‘notes’ in English but there was such a fuss that I was in the crowd along with the press, that I had about four cameras on me, filming me constantly! Later on, TV stations across the country used footage of me, referencing me as a foreign journalist. Classic! Haha.
After the press conference, everyone had lunch and before the roundtable, my boss pulled me aside to tell me that I would be hosting a half hour talk show and interviewing British MP Dr. Desmond Turner, and a renowned professor. ‘Tik ache?’, he asked, which means, ok? Um, ok?! Uuuuuh, oh God... Me on TV? Hosting? Interviewing? Interviewing MPs and professors about pneumonia? Pneumonia!? Oh. God. I was about to be a complete idiot on camera, in front of the whole nation. Uuuuh… ‘Tik ache‘, I responded. What else was I going to do? Say no? Shit. I was actually going to doing this and had absolutely no idea what I needed to ask or what the hell I was doing. Baptism by fire I suppose.
I frantically wrote down some questions alongside the MP and professor so they knew what I was going to ask them, and then it was lights, camera, action. No prep time, no time to read what I was saying, no time for hair and make up. Awesome. I sat down in the studio they had set up in the hotel and looked up to about fifty faces, gazing at me, waiting for me to start the show. My boss piped up, ‘Lisa, just say a few words, open the show, ask the questions, and then conclude. Tik ache?’ Tik-a-bloody-che alright. It was time to suck it up, so I smiled, and began. God knows what I said, it was a blur. I asked the questions, I nodded, smiled, probed, asked even more questions than I was supposed to and then concluded. Done. Phew. Then the lights went off, the audience cleared and I just sat there. How bizarre I thought, I just presented a prime time talk show in Bangladesh, and it wasn‘t as nerve-wracking as I thought it would be. Who would have thought? I doubt this will be a regular occurrence, even though my boss thinks it should be(!), but Barbara Walters, watch out. Haha.
World Pneumonia Day, November 2nd 2009, was a turning point in Bangladesh. Over 50,000 children a year die from the disease here and after twenty years of having a vaccine available in the developed world, they still don’t have it in Bangladesh. Shocking, isn’t it? Anyway, the second day of the conference was a larger event promoting the issue here, with presentations from medical experts all over the world, plus influential parliamentary representatives from the Bangladesh government. Part of my role within my organization here is to work with PACE (Pneumococcal Awareness Council of Experts), headquartered in Washing DC, to highlight and generate awareness around pneumonia and pneumoccocal disease here. They need a full plan for the year up until the next World Pneumonia Day, 2010. It’s an enormous task but something I’m eager to sink my teeth into. I’m working on developing a communication plan to present to them on Thursday. My first client meeting in Bangladesh. Surreal!
Home sweet home?
I was going to write about this a few weeks ago, but to be honest, it’s been hard for me to put into words. My perspective on the whole things keeps altering every time I sit down to write…
Part of the induction process accounts for a week’s home stay with a local Bangladeshi family. I’m not going to lie, I was a little apprehensive about the whole thing but I wanted to give it a try at least. Knowing that if the worst came to the worst, I could always leave if I didn’t feel comfortable or safe.
On the Saturday of the departure, all of the volunteers met at the VSO office, packed and ready for a week’s stay with a local family but as we approached the destinations, the first drop-off point made me concerned to say the least. One of the British girl’s got dropped off in a really shady area right next to the slums. I know we were all prepared to enter ‘reality’, but this seemed a bit too extreme. Security and safety as a woman here is vital. I know this now even more after what happened the other week. Anyway, after she left, we all got dropped off one by one at more moderate locations and anxiety started to rise in the pit of my stomach. Even though the other drop-offs seemed of a higher standard, we hadn’t reached my destination yet, and then lastly, we got to my home stay.
First of all, the VSO van couldn’t even make it’s way down my street. The narrow, cobbled and dirt road was too small for the van so I got out with the driver and made my way along the passage with my bags. The lane was littered with so much rubble and garbage, it was hard to walk, and beggars in wooden carts filled in the gaps, making me realize all too clearly that I was definitely in an even poorer area of town than I was used to. Regardless, we made our way to the block of stone flats where my family lived, and up the dark winding stairway. Upon arrival, there were a lot of people to greet me which was nice but then I realized that all of these people actually lived there (in two rooms) and that I’d be sharing a bedroom with three of them, with two beds pushed together. The humble family obviously needed the money from VSO for the home stay visit but without sounding like a princess, I was worried about lasting a week there, especially with all of the other VSO work scheduled. After some simple pleasantries, I discovered that the family didn’t really speak Bengali because they were aboriginal and spoke a dialect at home, so my new limited language skills were practically redundant. The family also had a handicapped child, a boy about fifteen years old. The mother explained that he has suffered from meningitis as a child but sadly, he stayed at home most of the time, and because I was there, they kept him hidden in the bedroom. All I could hear through the wall was constant groaning... Shortly after, dinner time rolled around and out of politeness, the family insisted I sit alone for dinner, dining first, but this felt awkward and counteracted against the ‘family experience’ I’d been hoping for. To top it all off, the power went out after dinner for almost two hours, leaving us alone in the dark, struggling for conversation. I decided to eventually go to bed, rolling out my sleeping bag alongside the others, squinting to try and get to sleep, trying not to concentrate on the bugs crawling around. No mosquito nets here kids, not even glass in the windows. By morning I was exhausted and rolled out of bed, hoping a shower would wake me up… but the family had no shower, only a bucket. Mmmm. One thing after another was making the whole experience feel like it was becoming too much.
After getting dressed and waling down the lane with the mother of the family, I eventually got a CNG to the VSO office and in speaking with the other volunteers, realized I was roughing it a lot more than most of them. I started to question the value in the whole experience and realized that there was no logic to where we were placed, it was more of a panic to just put us somewhere so that the box could be ticked; ‘the volunteer completed the home stay’. By the afternoon, I approached the issue of my accommodation with one of the VSO organizers, and after a lot of back and forth, it was decided that I would leave the home stay and go back to the induction flat.
Everything felt like it was just becoming too stressful and I felt sick of being pushed around here, there and everywhere. I requested to be moved into my new flat. That’s it, one more move. Done. Enough. Luckily VSO agreed and I moved into Mohammedia housing society, where I am today.
There’s so many mixed emotions I have about those twenty-four hours. Should I have given the experience more time? I didn’t want to insult the family but the whole induction was draining. Looking back on it now, maybe I should have. I don’t know. I made the decision that felt right at the time and there’s no going back. I’m disappointed it didn’t work out but there’s nothing I can do about it now...
Part of the induction process accounts for a week’s home stay with a local Bangladeshi family. I’m not going to lie, I was a little apprehensive about the whole thing but I wanted to give it a try at least. Knowing that if the worst came to the worst, I could always leave if I didn’t feel comfortable or safe.
On the Saturday of the departure, all of the volunteers met at the VSO office, packed and ready for a week’s stay with a local family but as we approached the destinations, the first drop-off point made me concerned to say the least. One of the British girl’s got dropped off in a really shady area right next to the slums. I know we were all prepared to enter ‘reality’, but this seemed a bit too extreme. Security and safety as a woman here is vital. I know this now even more after what happened the other week. Anyway, after she left, we all got dropped off one by one at more moderate locations and anxiety started to rise in the pit of my stomach. Even though the other drop-offs seemed of a higher standard, we hadn’t reached my destination yet, and then lastly, we got to my home stay.
First of all, the VSO van couldn’t even make it’s way down my street. The narrow, cobbled and dirt road was too small for the van so I got out with the driver and made my way along the passage with my bags. The lane was littered with so much rubble and garbage, it was hard to walk, and beggars in wooden carts filled in the gaps, making me realize all too clearly that I was definitely in an even poorer area of town than I was used to. Regardless, we made our way to the block of stone flats where my family lived, and up the dark winding stairway. Upon arrival, there were a lot of people to greet me which was nice but then I realized that all of these people actually lived there (in two rooms) and that I’d be sharing a bedroom with three of them, with two beds pushed together. The humble family obviously needed the money from VSO for the home stay visit but without sounding like a princess, I was worried about lasting a week there, especially with all of the other VSO work scheduled. After some simple pleasantries, I discovered that the family didn’t really speak Bengali because they were aboriginal and spoke a dialect at home, so my new limited language skills were practically redundant. The family also had a handicapped child, a boy about fifteen years old. The mother explained that he has suffered from meningitis as a child but sadly, he stayed at home most of the time, and because I was there, they kept him hidden in the bedroom. All I could hear through the wall was constant groaning... Shortly after, dinner time rolled around and out of politeness, the family insisted I sit alone for dinner, dining first, but this felt awkward and counteracted against the ‘family experience’ I’d been hoping for. To top it all off, the power went out after dinner for almost two hours, leaving us alone in the dark, struggling for conversation. I decided to eventually go to bed, rolling out my sleeping bag alongside the others, squinting to try and get to sleep, trying not to concentrate on the bugs crawling around. No mosquito nets here kids, not even glass in the windows. By morning I was exhausted and rolled out of bed, hoping a shower would wake me up… but the family had no shower, only a bucket. Mmmm. One thing after another was making the whole experience feel like it was becoming too much.
After getting dressed and waling down the lane with the mother of the family, I eventually got a CNG to the VSO office and in speaking with the other volunteers, realized I was roughing it a lot more than most of them. I started to question the value in the whole experience and realized that there was no logic to where we were placed, it was more of a panic to just put us somewhere so that the box could be ticked; ‘the volunteer completed the home stay’. By the afternoon, I approached the issue of my accommodation with one of the VSO organizers, and after a lot of back and forth, it was decided that I would leave the home stay and go back to the induction flat.
Everything felt like it was just becoming too stressful and I felt sick of being pushed around here, there and everywhere. I requested to be moved into my new flat. That’s it, one more move. Done. Enough. Luckily VSO agreed and I moved into Mohammedia housing society, where I am today.
There’s so many mixed emotions I have about those twenty-four hours. Should I have given the experience more time? I didn’t want to insult the family but the whole induction was draining. Looking back on it now, maybe I should have. I don’t know. I made the decision that felt right at the time and there’s no going back. I’m disappointed it didn’t work out but there’s nothing I can do about it now...
Thursday, November 5, 2009
List of things I won’t take for granted ever again
- Running, drinkable, and hot water
- Constant electricity
- A soft pillow
- A comfy couch
- Fast Internet
- Air Conditioning
- A washing machine
- No mosquitos
- Quiet
*Note: This list is likely to get longer over time...
- Constant electricity
- A soft pillow
- A comfy couch
- Fast Internet
- Air Conditioning
- A washing machine
- No mosquitos
- Quiet
*Note: This list is likely to get longer over time...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Big Brother is watching you
With a month long induction it’s a struggle to stay motivated to say the least. It seems as though the whole scenario has turned into a never-ending school trip; as we get carted around in the VSO van from daily lectures to external visits (hospitals, embassies), to language classes, shopping trips to practice Bengali (generally it’s a hilarious mess of confusion), and the list goes on. The timetable I was originally so impressed with now feels like handcuffs on my time and personal space, and I’ve hardly had any time to do such basic things like email, walk around by myself or even have a catnap. I think everyone’s feeling like this right now though, and the dynamics within our small volunteer circle are feeling strained. It’s like we’re in the Big Brother house and we can’t escape! I know it sounds a bit ridiculous because it’s only for a month, but time here feels like an eternity. Nothing is a normal day and everything is exhausting, especially in the heat, so we‘re all looking forward to starting work and being in charge of our own schedules again. Speaking of Big Brother, my Bengali actor/model friend has been asked to go on Celebrity Big Brother in Bangladesh, aka Uttoradhikar, and he goes into the house tomorrow actually! Can you believe I'm mixing with the celeb crowd and it hasn't even been a month?! Haha. He's also put me forward for an acting role here that needs a western woman. I'm sending my CV to the agent tonight so who knows what will happen...!
Following my last blog, after the harassment incident, I spoke with VSO and got moved out of the induction flat and into the illustrious Mohammadia ‘housing society’ flat in a newer area of town. It all happened quicker than I thought it would after a bad home stay experience (more on that later) but the good news it, I love the new neighbourhood; its got tons of little shops, busy streets and a wicked market nearby (Mohammedpur Bazar). The flat itself is pretty nice for Dhaka standards; there are four bedrooms, each with a big balcony, three bathrooms, small kitchen and a living/dining area. I’m sharing with a girl from London, a guy from India and another guy from Uganda. Flat UN stylz! Everyone seems to be on the same wavelength though and we’ve been cooking lots of meals together, playing cards in the power cuts (it’s almost a nightly occurrence at 9pm!), and we also have a housemaid to help us clean and do laundry (no washing machines here kids, it’s all by hand in a bucket). Unfortunately the water cuts out sometimes which is a pain especially when you have a shampoo covered head… and I’ve also discovered four lizards and three cockroaches in the flat so far, plus I have a whopping sixty-three mosquito bites on my legs and feet… good times. Anyway, back to the brighter side, we’ve been busy decorating the flat with our minimal volunteer budget and creativity has been bubbling overboard. A few of us discovered a secondhand sari stall at the big market - New Market - and got tons of saris in every colour under the sun to decorate the walls, make curtains, and even get clothes made. I’m like a walking rainbow here. I’m even in the midst of getting shiny gold trousers made! Bollywood here I come! Haha.
As for the social aspect, we ventured out from the Bagha club (British expat club) and tried out the Nordic club and Canadian club in the last few weeks. The overall verdict is that although the Dutch and Canadians have a nicer pool, the Brits here drink the most so that’s probably the one I’ll join! Plus, the Bagha beers are only 150 taka each ($1.50). Result! Haha. Truthfully though, alcohol here is few and far between and the expat clubs are in the swanky area of town. Mohhamadia house society ain’t. Apart from expat clubs, we’ve also been out for lots of dinners. Eating out is relatively cheap so we’ve been sampling the local versions of Thai, Chinese, Indian, and all the local cuisine too of course. Every corner has street food, from pakora type food to samosas, fresh bread, you name it. The British girl I live with mentioned she was interested in taking a cooking course here so maybe it’s high time I learned to cook too! Watch this space…
PS - I’m writing this in the dark. The power went off at 7pm instead of 9pm so excuse the spelling mistakes. It's hard to type by candlelight! :)
Following my last blog, after the harassment incident, I spoke with VSO and got moved out of the induction flat and into the illustrious Mohammadia ‘housing society’ flat in a newer area of town. It all happened quicker than I thought it would after a bad home stay experience (more on that later) but the good news it, I love the new neighbourhood; its got tons of little shops, busy streets and a wicked market nearby (Mohammedpur Bazar). The flat itself is pretty nice for Dhaka standards; there are four bedrooms, each with a big balcony, three bathrooms, small kitchen and a living/dining area. I’m sharing with a girl from London, a guy from India and another guy from Uganda. Flat UN stylz! Everyone seems to be on the same wavelength though and we’ve been cooking lots of meals together, playing cards in the power cuts (it’s almost a nightly occurrence at 9pm!), and we also have a housemaid to help us clean and do laundry (no washing machines here kids, it’s all by hand in a bucket). Unfortunately the water cuts out sometimes which is a pain especially when you have a shampoo covered head… and I’ve also discovered four lizards and three cockroaches in the flat so far, plus I have a whopping sixty-three mosquito bites on my legs and feet… good times. Anyway, back to the brighter side, we’ve been busy decorating the flat with our minimal volunteer budget and creativity has been bubbling overboard. A few of us discovered a secondhand sari stall at the big market - New Market - and got tons of saris in every colour under the sun to decorate the walls, make curtains, and even get clothes made. I’m like a walking rainbow here. I’m even in the midst of getting shiny gold trousers made! Bollywood here I come! Haha.
As for the social aspect, we ventured out from the Bagha club (British expat club) and tried out the Nordic club and Canadian club in the last few weeks. The overall verdict is that although the Dutch and Canadians have a nicer pool, the Brits here drink the most so that’s probably the one I’ll join! Plus, the Bagha beers are only 150 taka each ($1.50). Result! Haha. Truthfully though, alcohol here is few and far between and the expat clubs are in the swanky area of town. Mohhamadia house society ain’t. Apart from expat clubs, we’ve also been out for lots of dinners. Eating out is relatively cheap so we’ve been sampling the local versions of Thai, Chinese, Indian, and all the local cuisine too of course. Every corner has street food, from pakora type food to samosas, fresh bread, you name it. The British girl I live with mentioned she was interested in taking a cooking course here so maybe it’s high time I learned to cook too! Watch this space…
PS - I’m writing this in the dark. The power went off at 7pm instead of 9pm so excuse the spelling mistakes. It's hard to type by candlelight! :)
Monday, October 12, 2009
Rude awakenings
One of the British girls and I went to the big market on Saturday to buy material to get clothes made. Since our home stay is coming up soon and work is also fast approaching, we’ll need more traditional clothes to wear. As we tested out our new Bengali phrases, we managed to communicate we needed a rickshaw and also negotiated on the price! The next thing we knew, we were off on our own to the market – a nice break from the regimented schedule we have in place for the next month. As we spun through the streets we both realized even more today, that the intense staring still continues. Even though it’s curiosity that we’re foreigners for the most part, it’s definitely a hard thing for all of us to get used to. Something else even harder is the amount of begging on the streets. Children as young as three or four run through the traffic, selling popcorn, beads, flowers, anything to make a few Taka. Today was the worst though… We passed a physically deformed man begging by the roadside, sitting in dirt, and he must have only weighed about 60lbs. I have never in my life seen someone so emaciated, it was truly horrific. The sadder thing was that people didn’t even notice him, pay him a second glance. My heart ached. Yes another indication of the haves and have-nots here. But this was the tip of the iceberg today regarding rude awakenings…
I checked my emails at the end of our shopping day at the VSO office, just a few blocks away from the induction flat, and someone must have followed me as I was walking home. Shopping bags in hand, I walked through our main gate and up the stairs to the flat, when all of a sudden, I felt hands grab my hips from behind. At first I didn’t realize what was going on but as I turned around I saw that it was a young Bangladeshi guy, maybe about twenty years old. I shouted out for him to let go of me and we fought for a bit as he groped me but I kept shouting, and managed to break free and then I ran up the stairs as he panicked and ran back down the stairs. I was shaking trying to get my key into the door of the flat and I could barely hold them in my hand. Eventually I got in, out of breath, and in complete shock. Thankfully some of my flatmates were home and I told them what happened. In terms of VSO process I filed a report with them, the police have also been informed and I’m being chaperoned every where I go right now. It’s unsettling to say the least. Yesterday was a bad day. I couldn't even email anyone to tell them what had happened. I was just starting to feel a bit settled and now this…
Harassment here is something that all women here have to deal with but being a western woman makes it even harder… you never think it’s going to happen to you. When I walked to the VSO office on Thursday night to meet the others to get up to Bagha club, I got a lot of harassment as I walked through the streets, far more than I would during the day. It was really uncomfortable. It’s suddenly becoming painfully clear that being out alone, even at dusk, is not an option here. The other flat that I’m trying to move into with the British girl and two guys (one from India, one from Uganda) is something I’m going to push for even harder. Fingers crossed that gets sorted out this week.
I think my independence is going to take a beating here and that’s probably one of the hardest things I’m going to have to come to terms with.
I checked my emails at the end of our shopping day at the VSO office, just a few blocks away from the induction flat, and someone must have followed me as I was walking home. Shopping bags in hand, I walked through our main gate and up the stairs to the flat, when all of a sudden, I felt hands grab my hips from behind. At first I didn’t realize what was going on but as I turned around I saw that it was a young Bangladeshi guy, maybe about twenty years old. I shouted out for him to let go of me and we fought for a bit as he groped me but I kept shouting, and managed to break free and then I ran up the stairs as he panicked and ran back down the stairs. I was shaking trying to get my key into the door of the flat and I could barely hold them in my hand. Eventually I got in, out of breath, and in complete shock. Thankfully some of my flatmates were home and I told them what happened. In terms of VSO process I filed a report with them, the police have also been informed and I’m being chaperoned every where I go right now. It’s unsettling to say the least. Yesterday was a bad day. I couldn't even email anyone to tell them what had happened. I was just starting to feel a bit settled and now this…
Harassment here is something that all women here have to deal with but being a western woman makes it even harder… you never think it’s going to happen to you. When I walked to the VSO office on Thursday night to meet the others to get up to Bagha club, I got a lot of harassment as I walked through the streets, far more than I would during the day. It was really uncomfortable. It’s suddenly becoming painfully clear that being out alone, even at dusk, is not an option here. The other flat that I’m trying to move into with the British girl and two guys (one from India, one from Uganda) is something I’m going to push for even harder. Fingers crossed that gets sorted out this week.
I think my independence is going to take a beating here and that’s probably one of the hardest things I’m going to have to come to terms with.
The hangover
After a couple of days of the ‘ole VSO orientation routine, Thursday, aka the new Friday, rolled around. The Bagha club was on the agenda yet again so we all headed up to Gulshan for a few drinks and the place was mobbed. It’s a surreal environment, it’s like we’re not even in Bangladesh anymore. It’s almost like a British pub in Spain. Needless to say, the beers were flowing, as was the banter, but I needed to make an appearance at the Regency hotel for an exclusive party called Virgo. My Bengali actor/model friend met me at the Bagha and we scooted over to the Regency, arriving to absolute mayhem. The usual conservative Bangladeshi crowd were scantily clad to say the least. I was totally surprised. It was mini skirt city and I suddenly felt very under dressed in my long skirt skimming the floor. Anyway, we piled into the elevator, up to the rooftop. The music was pumpin’, the dance floor was rammed and guess what… a-l-c-o-h-o-l! Believe it or not, there was a free bar and it was cocktail-o-rama! Apparently these ‘underground’ parties happen all the time and day by day, I was beginning to realize that Bangladesh and it’s ‘Muslim’ culture might not be at all what I’d presumed. After some free cocktails and bad dancing, I met some other expats floating around- all of us shared our stories on why we’re here and what we think of the ‘Desh. Our ‘driver’ ended up dropping me home at the end of the night and I stumbled back to the induction flat at about 5am.
The next things I knew, my alarm was going off. 9am. Shit. Sightseeing tour. All bloody day. Double shit. I rolled out of bed, twisted out of my mosquito net, threw on some clothes and the next things I knew, the seven of us were bumping our way through the Dhaka traffic. Onek jam is Bengali for traffic jam. Needless to say, this is a saying that happens often here. After about an hour we arrived at the Red Fort. I definitely was not on my A-Game. My head was throbbing, it was so damn hot and my hair stank of smoke from the night before. But, once we entered the gate, it was like a mini Taj Mahal experience. Quiet, serene, lush gardens seemed to go one forever and there were about three beautiful, rustic temple-type buildings within the grounds where we could wander and explore. Our tour guide was our language class principal so the whole day seemed to be blurred with practicing our Bengali too. She gave us tidbits of historical information as we walked through the fort and it was actually nice to do something touristy in a land of no tourists. My headache seemed to fade…
The next stop was the Liberation War Museum. Definitely heavy stuff to register even though the headache was easing up. Walking from room to room, it was apparent that the troubling history of this country is still very fresh in the minds of the current population; not even forty years ago, Bangladesh was witness to gruesome genocide and political protests. Photos and documentation adorned the walls of the small museum as a testament to these times.
After the museum as we headed back to the van, our guide suggested that we take a boat trip in Old Dhaka. As we weaved through the tiny streets to get there, everything in this part of town seemed even more cluttered (if that was even possible!) and before we knew it, we arrived at the Pink Palace (a historical British hotel), right by the river. All of us mounted the wobbly wooden boat as we paddled out with our fisherman, into the open waterways. Passing boat after boat, it was fantastic to actually see and be on the water here. Bangladesh has so many rivers and I was happy to be seeing it by water versus land for a change. After we circled around a bit, the boat dropped us back at the Pink Palace where were hopped on the van again, and ended up at the main shopping mall here. All of a sudden, the fading headache returned. Shop after shop after shop quickly became overwhelming and I think we were all running out of steam to be honest. We drifted outside and took a break on the front steps, not realizing the time: 12:45pm. Every Friday from 12:45 – 1:45pm is the main prayer. From the steps of the mall, we could see that the whole street had been shut down and hundreds of men were kneeling, praying in unison, right there and then. I couldn’t believe my eyes and photos wouldn’t do it justice. It was a very surreal thing to witness. I almost felt like I was intruding but it was completely fascinating to watch.
That night after a quick rest back at the flat, we were all due to go to our VSO director’s house for a special Bangladeshi feast. A British MP has been visiting VSO Bangladesh this week and to mark her departure, there was a traditional celebration in her honour. There were about thirty people in attendance and to my surprise, my new boss was also present so it was great to meet him and find out a bit more about the organization I’ll be working for. Initially, I thought that my job was focused solely in the HIV/AIDS sector but discovered that it also bridges into the areas of governance and livelihoods. Additionally, the organization is working on a documentary in the south west area of Bangladesh right now, highlighting the problem there with flooding and general climate change. Overall, it seems that a lot of filming will happen within my placement and with that comes travel so I’m really excited to start working. Living in Dhaka has its benefits but I think the best way to see this country will be to see the whole country. The real stories happen in the villages I’m sure.
The next things I knew, my alarm was going off. 9am. Shit. Sightseeing tour. All bloody day. Double shit. I rolled out of bed, twisted out of my mosquito net, threw on some clothes and the next things I knew, the seven of us were bumping our way through the Dhaka traffic. Onek jam is Bengali for traffic jam. Needless to say, this is a saying that happens often here. After about an hour we arrived at the Red Fort. I definitely was not on my A-Game. My head was throbbing, it was so damn hot and my hair stank of smoke from the night before. But, once we entered the gate, it was like a mini Taj Mahal experience. Quiet, serene, lush gardens seemed to go one forever and there were about three beautiful, rustic temple-type buildings within the grounds where we could wander and explore. Our tour guide was our language class principal so the whole day seemed to be blurred with practicing our Bengali too. She gave us tidbits of historical information as we walked through the fort and it was actually nice to do something touristy in a land of no tourists. My headache seemed to fade…
The next stop was the Liberation War Museum. Definitely heavy stuff to register even though the headache was easing up. Walking from room to room, it was apparent that the troubling history of this country is still very fresh in the minds of the current population; not even forty years ago, Bangladesh was witness to gruesome genocide and political protests. Photos and documentation adorned the walls of the small museum as a testament to these times.
After the museum as we headed back to the van, our guide suggested that we take a boat trip in Old Dhaka. As we weaved through the tiny streets to get there, everything in this part of town seemed even more cluttered (if that was even possible!) and before we knew it, we arrived at the Pink Palace (a historical British hotel), right by the river. All of us mounted the wobbly wooden boat as we paddled out with our fisherman, into the open waterways. Passing boat after boat, it was fantastic to actually see and be on the water here. Bangladesh has so many rivers and I was happy to be seeing it by water versus land for a change. After we circled around a bit, the boat dropped us back at the Pink Palace where were hopped on the van again, and ended up at the main shopping mall here. All of a sudden, the fading headache returned. Shop after shop after shop quickly became overwhelming and I think we were all running out of steam to be honest. We drifted outside and took a break on the front steps, not realizing the time: 12:45pm. Every Friday from 12:45 – 1:45pm is the main prayer. From the steps of the mall, we could see that the whole street had been shut down and hundreds of men were kneeling, praying in unison, right there and then. I couldn’t believe my eyes and photos wouldn’t do it justice. It was a very surreal thing to witness. I almost felt like I was intruding but it was completely fascinating to watch.
That night after a quick rest back at the flat, we were all due to go to our VSO director’s house for a special Bangladeshi feast. A British MP has been visiting VSO Bangladesh this week and to mark her departure, there was a traditional celebration in her honour. There were about thirty people in attendance and to my surprise, my new boss was also present so it was great to meet him and find out a bit more about the organization I’ll be working for. Initially, I thought that my job was focused solely in the HIV/AIDS sector but discovered that it also bridges into the areas of governance and livelihoods. Additionally, the organization is working on a documentary in the south west area of Bangladesh right now, highlighting the problem there with flooding and general climate change. Overall, it seems that a lot of filming will happen within my placement and with that comes travel so I’m really excited to start working. Living in Dhaka has its benefits but I think the best way to see this country will be to see the whole country. The real stories happen in the villages I’m sure.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Realizations and perceptions
Even through it’s only a few days in, I feel like I’m starting to get a handle on the routine here. I usually stir awake around 5am when the morning prayer happens, and then doze for a bit before jumping into a cold shower, then enjoy some coffee, bread and jam, and head off to the VSO office. Amazingly, the VSO team here have timetabled every day for us for the next month(!) and our day usually starts at the office, then a trip somewhere or information session, followed by our Bengali language classes in the Banani district (north east of Lalmatia). Note: Bengali is hard! More on this later. I also found out this week that there is a home stay as part of the one month induction period so I’ll be staying with a Bangladeshi family for ten days as of October 17. I’ve never done anything like that before but even though it’s a bit daunting, I need to embrace it. It’s not every day you get a chance to do something like that so we’ll see what happens… Watch this space!
The other good thing about finding my groove is that I feel more connected to the outside world. The first few days felt like I was in a time vacuum; I had no concept of time or day, never mind what’s going on in the world. Getting my email access back (even though the Internet is painfully slow), Facebook and getting a Bangladeshi mobile phone, means I can keep in touch with my beloved friends and family. The time difference is a bit annoying but I love waking up to messages from everyone.
So far this week, we’ve had a lot of hospital tours across the city which means endless hours in traffic which has been exhausting. The reality of these visits has compounded the extremes of wealth here. On Monday we went to the Apollo Hospital which had huge suites, AC, modern equipment, basically everything you’d expect to see in a North American hospital – obviously geared towards the diplomat set. But today, we went to the Cholera and Diarrhea hospital (I kid you not). Patients were scattered everywhere, and the place seemed like it was stuck in a time warp, thirty years behind. However, the doctor we met gave us a fantastic and informative session, plus allowed us to get any outstanding vaccines so I am now proudly immune to Rabies!
Something not on the agenda today was the arrival of two British girls. We thought one was coming this week along with a girl from Uganda, but to my delight, we got yet another girl and she even went to Edinburgh University. Yeah! One of them is staying in Dhaka and one isn’t, but it seems they haven’t put the two of us staying here together, even though out of ten volunteers here, there are only two girls staying in city. Powers of persuasion might need to come into play here… us Edinburghers need to stick together!
Anyway, last night was a pivotal point for me this week. I met up with my new Bengali actor/model friend and he picked me up outside the Lalmatia Women’s in a CNG to go for a bite to eat. We sped through the streets of Lalmatia along to Dhanmondi (a busier area nearby with lots of shops and restaurants) to a cool little place with views over the river. After something to eat, we met up with two of his friends in a bar, a quick walk away. Bar meaning = bar with no alcohol. Very strange. Nevertheless, his friends were both from London and their band just got signed to a Bengali record label! We chatted about all things British and I showed off my many accent skills to them – needless to say, I was a hit. Ha-ha. After hanging out at the second bar, we got a rickshaw over to another café and my actor/model friend was educating me on Islam as we whirled past the mosque area through the buzzing night streets. The guys guided me across the ten lane(!) junction; cars, rickshaws, CNGs and buses all flying around us, and we quickly arrived at the café. I had some masala tea for the first time (amazing) and we had great conversation about cultural differences, and the ways of Bengali and Muslim life. Totally interesting. I loved being the only foreigner; listening, sharing ideas, thoughts, beliefs, and truly being a part of the inner Bangladeshi social circle, not a watered down expat version.
I couldn’t sleep when I got home. Everything here is so alive. It makes me feel alive. It scares the hell out of me but that’s exactly why I’m here. I don’t know if my senses have ever been so stimulated. I wonder where I’ll go after living here…
The other good thing about finding my groove is that I feel more connected to the outside world. The first few days felt like I was in a time vacuum; I had no concept of time or day, never mind what’s going on in the world. Getting my email access back (even though the Internet is painfully slow), Facebook and getting a Bangladeshi mobile phone, means I can keep in touch with my beloved friends and family. The time difference is a bit annoying but I love waking up to messages from everyone.
So far this week, we’ve had a lot of hospital tours across the city which means endless hours in traffic which has been exhausting. The reality of these visits has compounded the extremes of wealth here. On Monday we went to the Apollo Hospital which had huge suites, AC, modern equipment, basically everything you’d expect to see in a North American hospital – obviously geared towards the diplomat set. But today, we went to the Cholera and Diarrhea hospital (I kid you not). Patients were scattered everywhere, and the place seemed like it was stuck in a time warp, thirty years behind. However, the doctor we met gave us a fantastic and informative session, plus allowed us to get any outstanding vaccines so I am now proudly immune to Rabies!
Something not on the agenda today was the arrival of two British girls. We thought one was coming this week along with a girl from Uganda, but to my delight, we got yet another girl and she even went to Edinburgh University. Yeah! One of them is staying in Dhaka and one isn’t, but it seems they haven’t put the two of us staying here together, even though out of ten volunteers here, there are only two girls staying in city. Powers of persuasion might need to come into play here… us Edinburghers need to stick together!
Anyway, last night was a pivotal point for me this week. I met up with my new Bengali actor/model friend and he picked me up outside the Lalmatia Women’s in a CNG to go for a bite to eat. We sped through the streets of Lalmatia along to Dhanmondi (a busier area nearby with lots of shops and restaurants) to a cool little place with views over the river. After something to eat, we met up with two of his friends in a bar, a quick walk away. Bar meaning = bar with no alcohol. Very strange. Nevertheless, his friends were both from London and their band just got signed to a Bengali record label! We chatted about all things British and I showed off my many accent skills to them – needless to say, I was a hit. Ha-ha. After hanging out at the second bar, we got a rickshaw over to another café and my actor/model friend was educating me on Islam as we whirled past the mosque area through the buzzing night streets. The guys guided me across the ten lane(!) junction; cars, rickshaws, CNGs and buses all flying around us, and we quickly arrived at the café. I had some masala tea for the first time (amazing) and we had great conversation about cultural differences, and the ways of Bengali and Muslim life. Totally interesting. I loved being the only foreigner; listening, sharing ideas, thoughts, beliefs, and truly being a part of the inner Bangladeshi social circle, not a watered down expat version.
I couldn’t sleep when I got home. Everything here is so alive. It makes me feel alive. It scares the hell out of me but that’s exactly why I’m here. I don’t know if my senses have ever been so stimulated. I wonder where I’ll go after living here…
Departures and first impressions
As I waited at the departure gate, about to board the dreaded 15 hour flight from Toronto to Hong Kong, I looked around at everyone else, thinking, ‘am I actually doing this?’, ‘am I actually leaving for good?’ At that moment, I felt as though, all I’ve been focusing on recently has been the ‘preparation to go’ versus actually getting there, and being in Dhaka. From the two intensive VSO training courses in Ottawa, to quitting my job, to moving out of Phoebe Palace, my home of almost four years, and garage sales, selling stuff on Craigslist… I glazed over the fact that I was walking into the unknown. I don’t know if anything could have really prepared me to realize the fact that I’m leaving a whole life behind. I’m not on vacation, this is real life and it starts now.
After the longest plane journey of my life and a pit stop in Hong Kong for a well earned beer, I was the last in line at Dhaka airport to get through customs. To my relief however, I got through without a hitch, collected my luggage right away, and there was someone there to meet me at the airport. I greeted him and he took my bags as I followed him outside. The heat hit me like a ton of bricks and people swarmed the airport gates, mostly children, as we pushed through to get to the VSO truck. There was an instant flurry of traffic and honking horns, symbolizing that this city never sleeps. Everything seemed like a surreal dream sequence as everything I’d imagined Bangladesh to look like, was coming true. Overcrowded buses whizzed past multicoloured rickshaws as they weaved in and out of traffic, competing with CNGs (tiny 3-wheeled, motorized vehicles) and other cars; all on a wild race to get somewhere. My driver tried to point out sights for me to see but everything was a blur, especially in the dark. After passing through hundreds of winding roads, we pulled up to the induction flat , where I’ll spend the next month. Seven flights of stairs later, we had arrived at our destination but to our dismay, no one answered the door. Following several rings, my future roommate answered the door but we’d disrupted her slumber. To my disappointment, she went straight back to bed and the other flatmate was out. The place suddenly felt dark and lifeless. And thanks to no air conditioning comforts, really Goddamn hot. I also realized that in not having my own room, I don’t really have anywhere to put my belongings, so I’m basically living out of my backpack until November.
The flat itself is basic but adequate enough, and the shared areas are spacious. We have three balconies which are amazing, and they help bring in a breeze, but the lack of air conditioning and frequent power cuts, means that the place is boiling hot 99% of the time and it’s really hard to sleep. I got three huge mosquito bites last night when I tried to fix the fan in the midst of a power cut, but, no luck. Not to mention, the Muslim prayer chants are blasted from megaphone towers at 5am every day. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, but who needs an alarm clock when God can wake you up instead!? It’s funny that only after a few days, I’m also realizing how much I miss having a stereo, WIFI and TV. I think part of it is just not being able to have something makes you want it more.
After spending the first day napping and snacking, the weekend arrived and on Friday night, the seasoned volunteers here invited us out to the Bagha expat club for drinks. Now we’re talking! We split into groups to jump across town in CNGs and even though ours broke down in the middle of the street, we all arrived at the club and I was pleasantly surprised. It’s like a country club, complete with swimming pool, different bars, AC (yeah!) and this night, it was also all decorated with UV lights. Hello, love it! After enjoying too many Carlsberg’s in the upstairs bar, an older British man bought us all tickets to the dance party and amazingly, the DJ was great and the crowd seriously appreciated the music. I have no idea how I kept dancing in such heat but all of a sudden, I felt like I blinked and it was suddenly 4am. A Bangladeshi model/actor I met, walked us out and bargained on a CNG for us to get from Gulshan (the rich, diplomat area) back to Lalmatia (my ‘middle-class’ neighbourhood).
A few hours later and a 5am wake up, rolled us into the next morning and we had to meet more volunteers to take us to New Market, Dhaka’s shopping Mecca. Imagine the vibrancy of Slumdog Millionaire and then imagine yourself, right in the middle of that chaos. That’s New Market. Now, we all know I can shop with the best of them but this was something else. The level of haggling involved to buy even the smallest thing is exhausting and most importantly, requires good Bengali language skills. Added to the fact that New Market is one of the busiest markets in a city of over 15million people, it is truly is a sensory overload. Saris, silks, shoes, jewellery, watches, gadgets, you name it. You can get anything under the sun at New Market. One of the other volunteers who has lived in Dhaka for over a year, became my new best friend because he’ll die for a bargain and he’s a good Bengali speaker. I ended up getting two traditional outfits called salwar kameez with his help, both for under $10. Result! Afterwards, we went for lunch at an art gallery – Bengal Café – for some traditional Bangladeshi cuisine and to look at some local art, followed by another shopping trip to the grocery store. Needless to say, I was wiped by the end of the day and my addiction to naps in this country is a concern. It must be the heat but I feel like I’m borderline narcoleptic right now!
Anyway, today we had proper training with VSO on the history of Bangladesh which was really helpful, and we also had a chance for some Q&A. The VSO Bangladesh staff are fantastic; so welcoming and approachable. Tomorrow we go to the hospital for a tour as well as start our first Bengali language classes. Wish me luck!
After the longest plane journey of my life and a pit stop in Hong Kong for a well earned beer, I was the last in line at Dhaka airport to get through customs. To my relief however, I got through without a hitch, collected my luggage right away, and there was someone there to meet me at the airport. I greeted him and he took my bags as I followed him outside. The heat hit me like a ton of bricks and people swarmed the airport gates, mostly children, as we pushed through to get to the VSO truck. There was an instant flurry of traffic and honking horns, symbolizing that this city never sleeps. Everything seemed like a surreal dream sequence as everything I’d imagined Bangladesh to look like, was coming true. Overcrowded buses whizzed past multicoloured rickshaws as they weaved in and out of traffic, competing with CNGs (tiny 3-wheeled, motorized vehicles) and other cars; all on a wild race to get somewhere. My driver tried to point out sights for me to see but everything was a blur, especially in the dark. After passing through hundreds of winding roads, we pulled up to the induction flat , where I’ll spend the next month. Seven flights of stairs later, we had arrived at our destination but to our dismay, no one answered the door. Following several rings, my future roommate answered the door but we’d disrupted her slumber. To my disappointment, she went straight back to bed and the other flatmate was out. The place suddenly felt dark and lifeless. And thanks to no air conditioning comforts, really Goddamn hot. I also realized that in not having my own room, I don’t really have anywhere to put my belongings, so I’m basically living out of my backpack until November.
The flat itself is basic but adequate enough, and the shared areas are spacious. We have three balconies which are amazing, and they help bring in a breeze, but the lack of air conditioning and frequent power cuts, means that the place is boiling hot 99% of the time and it’s really hard to sleep. I got three huge mosquito bites last night when I tried to fix the fan in the midst of a power cut, but, no luck. Not to mention, the Muslim prayer chants are blasted from megaphone towers at 5am every day. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, but who needs an alarm clock when God can wake you up instead!? It’s funny that only after a few days, I’m also realizing how much I miss having a stereo, WIFI and TV. I think part of it is just not being able to have something makes you want it more.
After spending the first day napping and snacking, the weekend arrived and on Friday night, the seasoned volunteers here invited us out to the Bagha expat club for drinks. Now we’re talking! We split into groups to jump across town in CNGs and even though ours broke down in the middle of the street, we all arrived at the club and I was pleasantly surprised. It’s like a country club, complete with swimming pool, different bars, AC (yeah!) and this night, it was also all decorated with UV lights. Hello, love it! After enjoying too many Carlsberg’s in the upstairs bar, an older British man bought us all tickets to the dance party and amazingly, the DJ was great and the crowd seriously appreciated the music. I have no idea how I kept dancing in such heat but all of a sudden, I felt like I blinked and it was suddenly 4am. A Bangladeshi model/actor I met, walked us out and bargained on a CNG for us to get from Gulshan (the rich, diplomat area) back to Lalmatia (my ‘middle-class’ neighbourhood).
A few hours later and a 5am wake up, rolled us into the next morning and we had to meet more volunteers to take us to New Market, Dhaka’s shopping Mecca. Imagine the vibrancy of Slumdog Millionaire and then imagine yourself, right in the middle of that chaos. That’s New Market. Now, we all know I can shop with the best of them but this was something else. The level of haggling involved to buy even the smallest thing is exhausting and most importantly, requires good Bengali language skills. Added to the fact that New Market is one of the busiest markets in a city of over 15million people, it is truly is a sensory overload. Saris, silks, shoes, jewellery, watches, gadgets, you name it. You can get anything under the sun at New Market. One of the other volunteers who has lived in Dhaka for over a year, became my new best friend because he’ll die for a bargain and he’s a good Bengali speaker. I ended up getting two traditional outfits called salwar kameez with his help, both for under $10. Result! Afterwards, we went for lunch at an art gallery – Bengal Café – for some traditional Bangladeshi cuisine and to look at some local art, followed by another shopping trip to the grocery store. Needless to say, I was wiped by the end of the day and my addiction to naps in this country is a concern. It must be the heat but I feel like I’m borderline narcoleptic right now!
Anyway, today we had proper training with VSO on the history of Bangladesh which was really helpful, and we also had a chance for some Q&A. The VSO Bangladesh staff are fantastic; so welcoming and approachable. Tomorrow we go to the hospital for a tour as well as start our first Bengali language classes. Wish me luck!
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