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.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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...
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