Apologies. I haven't written in over two months and now I'm actually leaving the 'Desh in only five days! Ah, so so much has happened - actual events, dramas and emotions, it's hard to know where to start or know what to tell. So, here's the Coles notes version...
I moved out of the Mohammadia flat hell hole and in with my friend Misha in a much nicer part of town. Overall, a lot less moaning and valium requirements on my part. Hurrah, I hear you cry! It's been a whole different experience for me living there it's unbelievable; I've been living with AC, a generator, a housekeeper, a foam mattress... even bacon, yes bacon, in the fridge! You could call it a taste of the 'good life' before I leave and what a nice treat it's been.
I also officially completed all of my VSO work and finalised the Strategic Plan for my organisation - 160 pages and three months ahead of schedule! Boom! It feels great to create a business plan that's so comprehensive, and hopefully sustainable. It's also been good practice for me to think so strategically across so many areas; branding, mission, vision, values, HR, you name it. To finalise the placment process, I also have my VSO exit interview tomorrow and have submitted my final report too. All in all, a lot of writing, a lot of meetings, but I feel proud of myself for achieving what I came here to do. Result!
Since the rains came the weather's cooled down a lot but it's still hot and humid so don't worry, I've still been enjoying what I do best - lying by the pool, getting a tan. Hehe. My life's also been a lot more social recently, living in a different area of Dhaka. Lots of hot, late summer nights, enjoying cheap illegal beer, good conversation and live music.
I feel good. I feel happy. I feel that there's been a considerable change in me over these last few months on so many levels; what I've realised about this experience as a whole, what I've realised about myself and what I've realised about life. I can't really articulate yet though, I think I need more time. But what I can say is that this has been, without a doubt, the hardest nine months of my life, and also, the most amazing, incredible, unforgettable, inspiring, life-changing. It almost feels like I have become more alive, like I'm living on a higher plain. I know it's sounds over dramatic but it's actually true. I feel energised about my next step; my trip to Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia, and my eventual move to London. Even though I think it will be bittersweet to leave Bangladesh, this journey has redefined me but now it's time for the next adventure to start...
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
1500 Taka for a kiss?
I went down to Khulna a few weeks ago to visit my friend and fellow VSO volunteer, Lesa. Now, as much as I love Lesa, Khulna is far. Really, really far. It take about 10 hours to get there, crisscrossing rivers and bumping along in a crowded bus for hours on end, but, I hadn’t been down to the south west before and I wanted a break from Dhaka so I asked my boss for a few days off to make the journey worthwhile. ‘You cannot take the bus though, you must take plane,’ he said. ‘Plane? I can’t afford the plane,’ I answered. ‘Ah, do not worry about cost,’ he said, ‘this is Bangladesh'. Within hours I had a return ticked booked and it was free. Borhan has got connections at some Bangladeshi airline so a hectic all-day journey had suddenly turned into a 30 minute flight! Bonus!
The only issue was the departure time. 9am. Being anywhere in Dhaka for 9am is a joke. The traffic is so bad I thought I might have to leave my house at 5am to get there in time but I asked, no begged and pleaded, with VSO to drive me there instead of trying to get a CNG and they agreed, but only if I left at 7am because the car was booked later for something else. 7am for a free ride? No worries, piece of cake. Cut to the next morning: I had slept in, the car had arrived and I was throwing shit into a bag, trying to brush my teeth and get dressed all at the same time. I kept the driver waiting for half an hour. Needless to say he was not impressed. Once in the car, I was cruising through the streets in comfortable AC and amazingly, the traffic wasn’t too bad. Off to a good start, I thought. I got to the airport and went over to Domestic departures. There were only about five people there, there was NO security check and they didn’t even ask for any I.D. to board. I’m serious. Slight concerning but as Borhan would say, ‘This is Bangladesh’- so I had some cha, waited in the lounge, realized I has left my lap top at home (annoying!) and waited for the flight to be called. Problem... The departures board was all in Bengali script and I couldn’t read a thing. What gate was I supposed to be at? No idea. No announcements were made and I almost missed the bloody bus to get to the runway. Thankfully being white, they assume you are stupid and someone came over to help me find where I needed to go. About 20 people boarded the small plane and to my surprise they gave out free drinks and newspapers to everyone. Quite impressive! This flying malarky was traveling in style. Nice one! As we started to prepare for take off, an older man sitting next to me, struck up some conversation - What is my country? What am I doing in Bangladesh? etc. etc. Then he proceeded to tell me every single detail about his life and the lives of his children but, to be fair, he was a nice man and we spoke mostly in English which was enjoyable. He was a retired doctor and he had two daughters, also doctors, working in the States. Before I knew it, we were about to land and had chatted the whole way. Then, the part I dread when meeting anyone new here, the question that’s so hard to dodge; ‘Can I have your phone number? You must come to my house.’ EVERYONE wants your phone number and everyone invites you to their house here. Why? I have no idea. But, the man was kind, interesting, spoke good English and I thought, why not? He seemed harmless enough, We walked off the plane together and he said he would wait for me while my driver arrived to pick me up. Now, luckily for me, Borhan had also organized a driver to get me from Jessore to Khulna (about 2 hours drive). However, after hanging around at the gate for about 20 minutes or so, there was no-one waiting for me. Not a soul. The driver wasn’t coming. The older man, now, I think his name was Mohwad but I’m not sure as he told me quick quickly - bad of me to forget, I know. Anyway, Mohwad said he would wait with me and his two brothers until the driver came but I was already starting to hatch a plan how I would figure out getting a bus instead. All of a sudden, there was a lot of discussion going on between Mohwad and the airport manager. A special wooden table was brought into the waiting area of the arrivals lounge (now, I use the term ‘lounge’ in the loosest possible sense), and ‘special’ chipped china tea cups were brought in for the four of us to have cha. I was getting the sense that mowed was kind of a big deal in Jessore. Anyway, over cha, all three men we asking me the same questions at various times. Where was my driver? Where was I going? Who was meeting me? What is the drivers name? His phone number? What kind of car is it? Aaaaaaah! I didn’t have the driver’s contact information because Borhan said not to worry but Borhan was in the UK and I had no way of getting in touch with my unreliable driver. I think between feeling like an idiot not having this basic information and all the questions , it was stressing me out. It was now 1pm at this point, I’d been up since 6am to get the VSO car, and we’d been waiting for over an hour for the driver, who clearly, was MIA. Shit. How was I going to get to Khulna now? I was feeling tired and spoiled. I wanted the CAR! Ugh. One of Mohwad’s brother asked me what my friend was doing in Khulna and I mentioned her name and that she worked at Rupuntar, an NGO. ’Ah, Rupuntar!’, he exclaimed. ’I know Rupuntar!’ The next thing I know, he passes me his phone and I’m speaking to the HEAD of Rupuntar. I told him I was coming to see Lesa but I think he thought I was saying I WAS Lesa. Who knows. My Bengali was not on form at that moment. The double-name thing was way confusing for everyone to understand. Then, Mohwad grabbed the phone and was asking Rupuntar why they didn’t have a car for me, it was unacceptable etc. etc. Oh God, this was turning into a bit of a nightmare. I decided to phone MY organization but since Borhan was in the UK, no-one in the office knew what I was talking about and then, magically, I ran out of phone credit. Awesome. Then, my office must have called VSO thinking there was an ‘emergency’ so Martin - the chief coordinator - called me, asking me where I was, was I okay and so on. I was trying to explain the situation and general mix up between the two Lisa/Lesa thing and the lack of driver, but Mohwad pulled the phone out of my hand and started yabbering away to Martin in Bengali too fast for me to follow. Then, Mohwad exclaimed that it was clear that the driver would not be coming and I was to go with him and his brothers to have lunch at some relative’s house. Then, Mohwad would arrange a car to take me from Jessore to Khulna. I know this sounds overpopulating the issue. I could have got the bus but I was feeling lazy couldn’t really be arsed. I had a feeling I trusted Mohwad - a doctor, an older man, seemed to be important in Jessore enough for china cups, so I thought, why not? I’ll get some food - I was starving - and then get a car to Khulna. Done, easy. JUST GET ME TO KHULNA.
Before I knew it, the four of us piled into a very small car complete with driver, and we drove off to some village outside of Jessore. We arrived after a short while and as I got out of the car, people from other houses came out to see the ‘bideshi’. They were probably watching, wondering what the hell I was doing there… um, me too! Anyway, I followed the men into the house and up the stairs to the flat. A slew of women were there to greet us and we were seated at a huge table, full of food - ruti (like pita bread) and a massive curry-type stew, abundant with chilli. They just kept piling more and more and MORE on to my plate and even though it was quite good, I was told (while I was already eating it) that it was curried fat. Mmmm, yikes. Curried FAT? I’ll bet that’s not on ‘Weight Watchers’. Haha. Anyway, I preceded to eat a horrific amount of said fat curry and it was really spicy. My eyes were watering but I kept plowing through. All I could think of was getting the car to Khulna and I needed to embrace Mohwad‘s hospitality to get there. After the curry fat situation, dessert was rolled out. Paish. Now, I quite like paish (like a rice pudding thing), but after 2 tons of fat curry? Oh Jesus. There was no way. But, in typical Bangladeshi style, they just piled a huge dollop on my plate and stared at me until I started eating. Oh God. I thought I was going to be sick. To my saving grace however, Mohawd needed to go to the toilet and this required ‘assistance‘. So, everyone practically jumped up from the table and all followed him off to the toilet. Now, to hazard a guess, I’d say Mohawd was about 70 years old. I would hardly call him frail though and he was by no means about to collapse but I wasn’t interested in the toilet helping lark. This was my chance to scoop the majority of my paish BACK into the bowl without anyone watching. Looking over my shoulder, I lumped a whole load of it back into the bowl. Panicking if someone caught me but the thought of eating it would have killed me. In a second, Mohawd and co. all came back after succeeding in the toilet department and the paish was back in the bowl. Result! ‘Shesh?’ Everyone asked. Yes, yes, I was definitely finished and I smiled, nodded and rubbed my belly. It was now 3pm. Where was the bloody car? Swiftly after lunch, we were ushered into the lounge area and everyone sat around me as they offered me a TIME magazine and watched me as I flicked through it. No idea why. Novelty of someone English reading an English magazine? Then, Mohwad decided to strike up a conversation about me feet. Yes, my feet. He commented on my painted toenails so everyone started staring at my feet as I tried desperately not to curl my toes away in embarrassment. Mohwad kept saying I had beautiful feet and that he wanted to buy me a gold anklet when we got back to Dhaka. What in the!? Time to go. No really, time to GO! Did this old guy have a foot fetish? Yikes! Where was the effing car? Then, more men started coming to the flat, obviously relatives all greeting me with the usual ‘Asalam Mayakums’ and sitting around the living room, one by one. Thankfully their arrival distracted everyone from me and my feet but I was starting to get anxious. A 30 minute flight was turning into a never-ending journey. I needed to get to Khulna damn it, but now I was stuck in some random house outside Jessore, waiting for some random car. Ah, this is Bangladesh, as Borhan would say! Eventually, after about an hour or so, I must have looked bored and everyone thought my boredom ‘look’ resembled tiredness so they were about to try and get me to nap in someone’s bed(!) but thankfully that’s when the car arrived. Phew! I was suddenly ushered out of the house, everyone in tow and crowding around to say goodbye.
The driver got out and spoke with Mohwad briefly as Mohwad pulled out his wallet and gave him 1500 Taka. Yikes. 1500 Taka? That’s a lot of money in Bangladesh. I know how much it was because 1000 notes are pink and 500s are purple. A gal never forgets the colour pink. As this exchange took place, I looked over at Mohawk and he caught my eye. I gestured as if to give him some money but he shook his head insistently, no. I knew not to insult him in front of everyone by causing a fuss so I just smiled and mouthed thank you. After my bags were put into the car, I thanked everyone one by one and bid them all a formal farewell saying, ‘Khoda Hafez’ (Peace be with you). I was also careful not to shake anyone’s hands - it’s major a faux pas for women to shake hands with Muslim men, especially in the south west which is more religious. BUT, all of a sudden as I said good bye to Mohwad, he dove in for a massive hug and as I hugged him back awkwardly and pulled back, he pulled me towards him AGAIN and went in for a KISS ON THE LIPS! For REAL, a kiss on the LIPS! I couldn’t bloody believe it! Thankfully, I reacted quickly and turned my cheek so he suckered me there instead but I was mortified! Not only did he do that in front of EVERYONE but this man is Muslim, doing this to a foreign white woman more and he is about 70 YEARS OLD!!! I quickly got into the car, red as a tomato, and told the driver to go go go! I didn’t dare turn around after we drove off but looked towards the passenger seat. Another man I hadn’t met yet was sitting there and told me he would be my escort to Khulna because they didn’t trust a young male driver to take me there safely alone (He said this in English to me so the driver couldn’t understand). Oh God, I thought, an ‘escort’? When will this journey END? My English ’escort’ was a nice enough man though, and bless him, he had traveled all the way from Khulna to Jessore to get me, and then back again - a total of 4 hours. But, the man would not shut up the whole way and he was making me car sick. I don’t know if it was his rambling, the incredible bumpy road (which I’m normally pretty used to by now), or the fat curry and paish rolling around in my stomach but I suddenly got a pang that I was going to be sick. Immediately. ‘Tamen!!!’, I shouted, and the driver slammed on the breaks. I got out of the car, hiccupping fat curry and paish, standing on the side of the dirt road in the middle of complete nowhere. How did I get here? Really. It was just any old Tuesday afternoon and there I was, somewhere on the side of the road in rural Bangladesh, about to puke from eating fat - a girl just trying to get from A to B for God‘s sake. If I has been back in Toronto, I’d probably be stuck in a meeting or sending some monotonous client email. How life had changed. Anyway, after some haaad hiccups, thankfully I wasn’t sick but I had to sit in the front of the car for the rest of the journey, seat right back, eyes closed, praying to get to Khulna ASAP. When we finally arrived, Lesa got me to her flat immediately and we cracked a bottle of wine. Ah, just what the doctor ordered. Thankfully the rest of my week there was nice and chilled out. We cooked together, hung out on the rooftop, went to the market and she showed me around. As the trip was coming to an end, I was dreading the journey back to Dhaka - considering the journey I had on the way there - but sometimes karma kicks in and I got home without a hitch. Even though my ‘sugar daddy’ Mohwad called and texted me a few times since I saw him that fateful day, I haven’t heard from him since. I honestly can’t be in contact with that man. Seriously. Maybe he thought my payment to him for the ride from Jessore to Khulna was getting a bit of ‘action’ but seriously, it’s going to cost more than 1500 Taka! Haha. Ewww. Sorry, that’s gross.
The only issue was the departure time. 9am. Being anywhere in Dhaka for 9am is a joke. The traffic is so bad I thought I might have to leave my house at 5am to get there in time but I asked, no begged and pleaded, with VSO to drive me there instead of trying to get a CNG and they agreed, but only if I left at 7am because the car was booked later for something else. 7am for a free ride? No worries, piece of cake. Cut to the next morning: I had slept in, the car had arrived and I was throwing shit into a bag, trying to brush my teeth and get dressed all at the same time. I kept the driver waiting for half an hour. Needless to say he was not impressed. Once in the car, I was cruising through the streets in comfortable AC and amazingly, the traffic wasn’t too bad. Off to a good start, I thought. I got to the airport and went over to Domestic departures. There were only about five people there, there was NO security check and they didn’t even ask for any I.D. to board. I’m serious. Slight concerning but as Borhan would say, ‘This is Bangladesh’- so I had some cha, waited in the lounge, realized I has left my lap top at home (annoying!) and waited for the flight to be called. Problem... The departures board was all in Bengali script and I couldn’t read a thing. What gate was I supposed to be at? No idea. No announcements were made and I almost missed the bloody bus to get to the runway. Thankfully being white, they assume you are stupid and someone came over to help me find where I needed to go. About 20 people boarded the small plane and to my surprise they gave out free drinks and newspapers to everyone. Quite impressive! This flying malarky was traveling in style. Nice one! As we started to prepare for take off, an older man sitting next to me, struck up some conversation - What is my country? What am I doing in Bangladesh? etc. etc. Then he proceeded to tell me every single detail about his life and the lives of his children but, to be fair, he was a nice man and we spoke mostly in English which was enjoyable. He was a retired doctor and he had two daughters, also doctors, working in the States. Before I knew it, we were about to land and had chatted the whole way. Then, the part I dread when meeting anyone new here, the question that’s so hard to dodge; ‘Can I have your phone number? You must come to my house.’ EVERYONE wants your phone number and everyone invites you to their house here. Why? I have no idea. But, the man was kind, interesting, spoke good English and I thought, why not? He seemed harmless enough, We walked off the plane together and he said he would wait for me while my driver arrived to pick me up. Now, luckily for me, Borhan had also organized a driver to get me from Jessore to Khulna (about 2 hours drive). However, after hanging around at the gate for about 20 minutes or so, there was no-one waiting for me. Not a soul. The driver wasn’t coming. The older man, now, I think his name was Mohwad but I’m not sure as he told me quick quickly - bad of me to forget, I know. Anyway, Mohwad said he would wait with me and his two brothers until the driver came but I was already starting to hatch a plan how I would figure out getting a bus instead. All of a sudden, there was a lot of discussion going on between Mohwad and the airport manager. A special wooden table was brought into the waiting area of the arrivals lounge (now, I use the term ‘lounge’ in the loosest possible sense), and ‘special’ chipped china tea cups were brought in for the four of us to have cha. I was getting the sense that mowed was kind of a big deal in Jessore. Anyway, over cha, all three men we asking me the same questions at various times. Where was my driver? Where was I going? Who was meeting me? What is the drivers name? His phone number? What kind of car is it? Aaaaaaah! I didn’t have the driver’s contact information because Borhan said not to worry but Borhan was in the UK and I had no way of getting in touch with my unreliable driver. I think between feeling like an idiot not having this basic information and all the questions , it was stressing me out. It was now 1pm at this point, I’d been up since 6am to get the VSO car, and we’d been waiting for over an hour for the driver, who clearly, was MIA. Shit. How was I going to get to Khulna now? I was feeling tired and spoiled. I wanted the CAR! Ugh. One of Mohwad’s brother asked me what my friend was doing in Khulna and I mentioned her name and that she worked at Rupuntar, an NGO. ’Ah, Rupuntar!’, he exclaimed. ’I know Rupuntar!’ The next thing I know, he passes me his phone and I’m speaking to the HEAD of Rupuntar. I told him I was coming to see Lesa but I think he thought I was saying I WAS Lesa. Who knows. My Bengali was not on form at that moment. The double-name thing was way confusing for everyone to understand. Then, Mohwad grabbed the phone and was asking Rupuntar why they didn’t have a car for me, it was unacceptable etc. etc. Oh God, this was turning into a bit of a nightmare. I decided to phone MY organization but since Borhan was in the UK, no-one in the office knew what I was talking about and then, magically, I ran out of phone credit. Awesome. Then, my office must have called VSO thinking there was an ‘emergency’ so Martin - the chief coordinator - called me, asking me where I was, was I okay and so on. I was trying to explain the situation and general mix up between the two Lisa/Lesa thing and the lack of driver, but Mohwad pulled the phone out of my hand and started yabbering away to Martin in Bengali too fast for me to follow. Then, Mohwad exclaimed that it was clear that the driver would not be coming and I was to go with him and his brothers to have lunch at some relative’s house. Then, Mohwad would arrange a car to take me from Jessore to Khulna. I know this sounds overpopulating the issue. I could have got the bus but I was feeling lazy couldn’t really be arsed. I had a feeling I trusted Mohwad - a doctor, an older man, seemed to be important in Jessore enough for china cups, so I thought, why not? I’ll get some food - I was starving - and then get a car to Khulna. Done, easy. JUST GET ME TO KHULNA.
Before I knew it, the four of us piled into a very small car complete with driver, and we drove off to some village outside of Jessore. We arrived after a short while and as I got out of the car, people from other houses came out to see the ‘bideshi’. They were probably watching, wondering what the hell I was doing there… um, me too! Anyway, I followed the men into the house and up the stairs to the flat. A slew of women were there to greet us and we were seated at a huge table, full of food - ruti (like pita bread) and a massive curry-type stew, abundant with chilli. They just kept piling more and more and MORE on to my plate and even though it was quite good, I was told (while I was already eating it) that it was curried fat. Mmmm, yikes. Curried FAT? I’ll bet that’s not on ‘Weight Watchers’. Haha. Anyway, I preceded to eat a horrific amount of said fat curry and it was really spicy. My eyes were watering but I kept plowing through. All I could think of was getting the car to Khulna and I needed to embrace Mohwad‘s hospitality to get there. After the curry fat situation, dessert was rolled out. Paish. Now, I quite like paish (like a rice pudding thing), but after 2 tons of fat curry? Oh Jesus. There was no way. But, in typical Bangladeshi style, they just piled a huge dollop on my plate and stared at me until I started eating. Oh God. I thought I was going to be sick. To my saving grace however, Mohawd needed to go to the toilet and this required ‘assistance‘. So, everyone practically jumped up from the table and all followed him off to the toilet. Now, to hazard a guess, I’d say Mohawd was about 70 years old. I would hardly call him frail though and he was by no means about to collapse but I wasn’t interested in the toilet helping lark. This was my chance to scoop the majority of my paish BACK into the bowl without anyone watching. Looking over my shoulder, I lumped a whole load of it back into the bowl. Panicking if someone caught me but the thought of eating it would have killed me. In a second, Mohawd and co. all came back after succeeding in the toilet department and the paish was back in the bowl. Result! ‘Shesh?’ Everyone asked. Yes, yes, I was definitely finished and I smiled, nodded and rubbed my belly. It was now 3pm. Where was the bloody car? Swiftly after lunch, we were ushered into the lounge area and everyone sat around me as they offered me a TIME magazine and watched me as I flicked through it. No idea why. Novelty of someone English reading an English magazine? Then, Mohwad decided to strike up a conversation about me feet. Yes, my feet. He commented on my painted toenails so everyone started staring at my feet as I tried desperately not to curl my toes away in embarrassment. Mohwad kept saying I had beautiful feet and that he wanted to buy me a gold anklet when we got back to Dhaka. What in the!? Time to go. No really, time to GO! Did this old guy have a foot fetish? Yikes! Where was the effing car? Then, more men started coming to the flat, obviously relatives all greeting me with the usual ‘Asalam Mayakums’ and sitting around the living room, one by one. Thankfully their arrival distracted everyone from me and my feet but I was starting to get anxious. A 30 minute flight was turning into a never-ending journey. I needed to get to Khulna damn it, but now I was stuck in some random house outside Jessore, waiting for some random car. Ah, this is Bangladesh, as Borhan would say! Eventually, after about an hour or so, I must have looked bored and everyone thought my boredom ‘look’ resembled tiredness so they were about to try and get me to nap in someone’s bed(!) but thankfully that’s when the car arrived. Phew! I was suddenly ushered out of the house, everyone in tow and crowding around to say goodbye.
The driver got out and spoke with Mohwad briefly as Mohwad pulled out his wallet and gave him 1500 Taka. Yikes. 1500 Taka? That’s a lot of money in Bangladesh. I know how much it was because 1000 notes are pink and 500s are purple. A gal never forgets the colour pink. As this exchange took place, I looked over at Mohawk and he caught my eye. I gestured as if to give him some money but he shook his head insistently, no. I knew not to insult him in front of everyone by causing a fuss so I just smiled and mouthed thank you. After my bags were put into the car, I thanked everyone one by one and bid them all a formal farewell saying, ‘Khoda Hafez’ (Peace be with you). I was also careful not to shake anyone’s hands - it’s major a faux pas for women to shake hands with Muslim men, especially in the south west which is more religious. BUT, all of a sudden as I said good bye to Mohwad, he dove in for a massive hug and as I hugged him back awkwardly and pulled back, he pulled me towards him AGAIN and went in for a KISS ON THE LIPS! For REAL, a kiss on the LIPS! I couldn’t bloody believe it! Thankfully, I reacted quickly and turned my cheek so he suckered me there instead but I was mortified! Not only did he do that in front of EVERYONE but this man is Muslim, doing this to a foreign white woman more and he is about 70 YEARS OLD!!! I quickly got into the car, red as a tomato, and told the driver to go go go! I didn’t dare turn around after we drove off but looked towards the passenger seat. Another man I hadn’t met yet was sitting there and told me he would be my escort to Khulna because they didn’t trust a young male driver to take me there safely alone (He said this in English to me so the driver couldn’t understand). Oh God, I thought, an ‘escort’? When will this journey END? My English ’escort’ was a nice enough man though, and bless him, he had traveled all the way from Khulna to Jessore to get me, and then back again - a total of 4 hours. But, the man would not shut up the whole way and he was making me car sick. I don’t know if it was his rambling, the incredible bumpy road (which I’m normally pretty used to by now), or the fat curry and paish rolling around in my stomach but I suddenly got a pang that I was going to be sick. Immediately. ‘Tamen!!!’, I shouted, and the driver slammed on the breaks. I got out of the car, hiccupping fat curry and paish, standing on the side of the dirt road in the middle of complete nowhere. How did I get here? Really. It was just any old Tuesday afternoon and there I was, somewhere on the side of the road in rural Bangladesh, about to puke from eating fat - a girl just trying to get from A to B for God‘s sake. If I has been back in Toronto, I’d probably be stuck in a meeting or sending some monotonous client email. How life had changed. Anyway, after some haaad hiccups, thankfully I wasn’t sick but I had to sit in the front of the car for the rest of the journey, seat right back, eyes closed, praying to get to Khulna ASAP. When we finally arrived, Lesa got me to her flat immediately and we cracked a bottle of wine. Ah, just what the doctor ordered. Thankfully the rest of my week there was nice and chilled out. We cooked together, hung out on the rooftop, went to the market and she showed me around. As the trip was coming to an end, I was dreading the journey back to Dhaka - considering the journey I had on the way there - but sometimes karma kicks in and I got home without a hitch. Even though my ‘sugar daddy’ Mohwad called and texted me a few times since I saw him that fateful day, I haven’t heard from him since. I honestly can’t be in contact with that man. Seriously. Maybe he thought my payment to him for the ride from Jessore to Khulna was getting a bit of ‘action’ but seriously, it’s going to cost more than 1500 Taka! Haha. Ewww. Sorry, that’s gross.
Chittagong complexities
Before I leave Bangladesh I am determined to visit the Chittagong Hill Tracts. It's an area that absolutely fascinates me even though it is a notorious 'troubled' part of the country but apparently, the 'hills' are so different from the 'plains' it's like being somewhere else, somewhere completely magical.
The Chittagong Hill Tracts lie in south-eastern Bangladesh, and borders India and Myanmar. It was a single district of Bangladesh until1984 but in that year it was divided into three separate districts: Khagrachari, Rangamati and Bandarban. The early history of the Chittagong Hill Tracts is a record of constantly recurring raids on the part of the eastern hill tribes, and of the operations undertaken to repress them. The troubles date back hundreds of years and are even ongoing today despite the current 'peace treaty' initiated by the current Bangladesh government.
Here's the 'Coles' notes version from a recent Amnesty International investigation that was sparked from an outbreak of unrest in February:
For decades, tension has been high in the Chittagong Hill Tracts where the Jumma indigenous communities are at risk of being outnumbered by Bengali settlers who continue to take over their land. More than two decades of insurgency by the indigenous people came to an end when the previous Awami League government signed a peace accord with their representatives in December 1997. Two of the most important provisions of the accord remain unfulfilled. One is the formation of a land commission to identify land taken away from the indigenous people during the insurgency, which should be returned to them. This commission has just been set up after a delay of more than 12 years, but has not begun its work yet. Another provision of the accord relates to the withdrawal of temporary army camps, of which some 400 remain in the area. The government began to withdraw some of the major temporary camps last year, but the process has reportedly been halted again.
Bengali settlers have continued to take over indigenous land and drive indigenous people out of their homes, but the army which is in control of law and order in the area has allegedly not stopped them. Indigenous people say the army has in this way condoned human rights abuses committed by Bengali settlers against them.
On the 20th of February, the Jumma indigenous people were peacefully demonstrating in their villages against the attacks by Bengali settlers and the army reportedly came to stop the demonstration. An army commander ordered the indigenous people to leave the area but they resisted. One of the demonstrators was reportedly attacked and injured the army commander with a knife. Army personnel then fired live ammunition at the demonstrators, which hit at least two people who later died and at least 25 people were injured during the shooting. The Jumma indigenous people began to flee the area but Bengali settlers moved in and torched at least 160 of their homes, allegedly with army personnel taking no action to stop them. They also looted the Jumma people’s belongings and destroyed their religious icons, including statutes of Buddha.
Then, on the 23rd of February, Bengali settlers attacked a procession of indigenous people who were demanding government action against the 19th and 20th of February arson attacks and killings. The procession was taking place in Khagrachari which is in another district in the Chittagong Hill Tracts. Bengali settlers then reportedly set on fire at least 37 houses of the Jumma indigenous people. The attack triggered a clash between the settlers and the Jumma people and the Jumma people were also reported to have set at least 29 houses of Bengali settlers onfire during these clashes on the 23rd of February.
Local authorities imposed severe restrictions on indigenous people’s access to the media and independent observers and journalists are not allowed to enter the area. Army staff apparently told them these measures are for the security of the journalists themselves, but human rights activists have told Amnesty International that the army has in this way prevented an independent assessment of what has happened and who has been responsible for the attacks. Since the 19th of February, at least four journalists covering the attacks have been attacked and injured by the Bengali settlers. Given the allegations that state officials including army personnel may have acted in support of the Bengali settlers, there is a risk that incriminating evidence could be destroyed before independent observers including journalists can visit the sites of the violence.
More than 100 Jumma indigenous people are believed to be in detention, with dozens more missing. Apparently, relatives are afraid to go to the police stations or army posts to inquire about their missing members, so they have little information about their whereabouts. According to reports, some of these detainees are people who went to hospital for treatment after the attack but were taken into custody and police have also reportedly arrested about 30 Bengali settlers.
As of now, more than 1500 Jumma indigenous people have fled their homes and are living under open skies in deep forest, with no shelter and little access to food. The injured are reportedly afraid to go to hospitals as they run the risk of being arrested.
I was reading that Amnesty International have stepped in, calling on the government of Bangladesh to:
- Carry out prompt, impartial, and independent investigation into these attacks and killings to identify individuals who set houses on fire and army personnel who may have used excessive force, and bring those responsible to justice in a fair trial without resort to the death penalty;
- Ensure that the detainees have access to lawyers of their own choice, can challenge the legality of their detention, have access to family visits and medical treatment, and are not at risk of torture;
- Compensate the victims and survivors of the attacks, rehabilitate the people who have lost their homes and belonging and provide them with medical treatment for their injuries;
- Allow independent observers to visit the sites of the violence, and ensure the security of the Jumma indigenous people in the Chittagong Hill Tracts.
So now it's a waiting game to see what happens next...
To end this post, I also wanted to post a link from today's Daily Star (the same English newspaper I posted th other day). A friend I worked within Edinburgh actually wrote this article and I think it truly captures the essence of the troubles in this region...
http://www.thedailystar.net/story.php?nid=132546
The Chittagong Hill Tracts lie in south-eastern Bangladesh, and borders India and Myanmar. It was a single district of Bangladesh until1984 but in that year it was divided into three separate districts: Khagrachari, Rangamati and Bandarban. The early history of the Chittagong Hill Tracts is a record of constantly recurring raids on the part of the eastern hill tribes, and of the operations undertaken to repress them. The troubles date back hundreds of years and are even ongoing today despite the current 'peace treaty' initiated by the current Bangladesh government.
Here's the 'Coles' notes version from a recent Amnesty International investigation that was sparked from an outbreak of unrest in February:
For decades, tension has been high in the Chittagong Hill Tracts where the Jumma indigenous communities are at risk of being outnumbered by Bengali settlers who continue to take over their land. More than two decades of insurgency by the indigenous people came to an end when the previous Awami League government signed a peace accord with their representatives in December 1997. Two of the most important provisions of the accord remain unfulfilled. One is the formation of a land commission to identify land taken away from the indigenous people during the insurgency, which should be returned to them. This commission has just been set up after a delay of more than 12 years, but has not begun its work yet. Another provision of the accord relates to the withdrawal of temporary army camps, of which some 400 remain in the area. The government began to withdraw some of the major temporary camps last year, but the process has reportedly been halted again.
Bengali settlers have continued to take over indigenous land and drive indigenous people out of their homes, but the army which is in control of law and order in the area has allegedly not stopped them. Indigenous people say the army has in this way condoned human rights abuses committed by Bengali settlers against them.
On the 20th of February, the Jumma indigenous people were peacefully demonstrating in their villages against the attacks by Bengali settlers and the army reportedly came to stop the demonstration. An army commander ordered the indigenous people to leave the area but they resisted. One of the demonstrators was reportedly attacked and injured the army commander with a knife. Army personnel then fired live ammunition at the demonstrators, which hit at least two people who later died and at least 25 people were injured during the shooting. The Jumma indigenous people began to flee the area but Bengali settlers moved in and torched at least 160 of their homes, allegedly with army personnel taking no action to stop them. They also looted the Jumma people’s belongings and destroyed their religious icons, including statutes of Buddha.
Then, on the 23rd of February, Bengali settlers attacked a procession of indigenous people who were demanding government action against the 19th and 20th of February arson attacks and killings. The procession was taking place in Khagrachari which is in another district in the Chittagong Hill Tracts. Bengali settlers then reportedly set on fire at least 37 houses of the Jumma indigenous people. The attack triggered a clash between the settlers and the Jumma people and the Jumma people were also reported to have set at least 29 houses of Bengali settlers onfire during these clashes on the 23rd of February.
Local authorities imposed severe restrictions on indigenous people’s access to the media and independent observers and journalists are not allowed to enter the area. Army staff apparently told them these measures are for the security of the journalists themselves, but human rights activists have told Amnesty International that the army has in this way prevented an independent assessment of what has happened and who has been responsible for the attacks. Since the 19th of February, at least four journalists covering the attacks have been attacked and injured by the Bengali settlers. Given the allegations that state officials including army personnel may have acted in support of the Bengali settlers, there is a risk that incriminating evidence could be destroyed before independent observers including journalists can visit the sites of the violence.
More than 100 Jumma indigenous people are believed to be in detention, with dozens more missing. Apparently, relatives are afraid to go to the police stations or army posts to inquire about their missing members, so they have little information about their whereabouts. According to reports, some of these detainees are people who went to hospital for treatment after the attack but were taken into custody and police have also reportedly arrested about 30 Bengali settlers.
As of now, more than 1500 Jumma indigenous people have fled their homes and are living under open skies in deep forest, with no shelter and little access to food. The injured are reportedly afraid to go to hospitals as they run the risk of being arrested.
I was reading that Amnesty International have stepped in, calling on the government of Bangladesh to:
- Carry out prompt, impartial, and independent investigation into these attacks and killings to identify individuals who set houses on fire and army personnel who may have used excessive force, and bring those responsible to justice in a fair trial without resort to the death penalty;
- Ensure that the detainees have access to lawyers of their own choice, can challenge the legality of their detention, have access to family visits and medical treatment, and are not at risk of torture;
- Compensate the victims and survivors of the attacks, rehabilitate the people who have lost their homes and belonging and provide them with medical treatment for their injuries;
- Allow independent observers to visit the sites of the violence, and ensure the security of the Jumma indigenous people in the Chittagong Hill Tracts.
So now it's a waiting game to see what happens next...
To end this post, I also wanted to post a link from today's Daily Star (the same English newspaper I posted th other day). A friend I worked within Edinburgh actually wrote this article and I think it truly captures the essence of the troubles in this region...
http://www.thedailystar.net/story.php?nid=132546
Monday, March 29, 2010
Dhaka disaster?
I discovered this article today about Dhaka in today's English newspaper, The Daily Star. I know I've tried to describe how hard it is living here but take a review this article and read for yourself...
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Hot and bothered
Over the past two weeks I've been unbearably hot. So hot it's been absolute agony. There's absolutely no break from it. Ever. No AC, no cool air, no refuge whatsoever. I constantly feel like someone's been holding a huge hairdryer over me; the muggy air is like waves of heat rolling over my body. From the time I wake up in the morning, having a cold shower in order to breathe, to when I'm stuck in traffic for hours in a sweaty CNG, my back sticking to the shitty plastic seats, it doesn't stop there. At work, the power goes out several times a day and I feel like I'm roasting in an oven, and when I get home, we hardly ever have power in the flat either so when I'm trying to get to sleep, I just lie awake for hours, praying for something to cool me down, my sheets soaked in sweat, my skin, permanently saturated. All it's been horrific, and it's only been two weeks. It's making me angry, frustrated, and short tempered. I can honestly say that I have never been in so much physical discomfort in my life. 'Living like a volunteer' means no luxuries so we all just need to grin and bear it, but seriously, it's breaking me. I can't concentrate at work, I have no energy to cook or clean, even get dressed. Everything's a major effort. I even looked into buying an air conditioner for my room so that I can sleep at night but found out that they are so expensive here - about $350 - which for a few months, I just couldn't justify; $350 is the cost of about two plane tickets or in Bangladeshi terms, more than three months of my salary. It wouldn't be so bad if we at least had the fan working even though it's hot air but the power goes out so frequently, I spend most nights getting home from work, sitting in the dark, getting eaten by mosquitoes, with a melting ice pack on my neck. It's been out for three hours tonight. Three hours and I have only been home for five hours. Yeah, it sounds bad having no power, being hot, whatever, la la la, but really, when you feel like this, it is indescribable. Rubbing the sweat from my top lip is turning into a nervous twitch. I am sick and tired of being so bloody hot! The worst part is, it's only going to get worse. To top it all off, we've been having water outages too. No power, no water. Awesome. So when you're really really hot, you can't do anything; you can't have a cold shower, you can't flush the toilet, you can't even wash the dishes by candlelight (a new skill I've picked up by the way). So yeah, Bangladesh is fantastic right now. Yeah, it's great, I totally love it.
Get me the fuck out of here.
Haha, okay okay, sorry. I am alright, I'm not losing my mind, I'm just in the 'temperature adjustment phase' right now which I'm having 'challenges' with... is that a better way of saying it? The good thing is that I have discovered sleeping pills to help me sleep through the hot nights. Now, before you all worry that I've become addicted to prescription pain killers, fear not. First of all, I am only using them for a few weeks until my body adjusts to the heat and second of all, there's no prescription, you just get them over the counter. :)
I also know I only have a matter of weeks left before I leave, if everything goes to plan, so I just need to stick it out another twelve weeks or so and I'll be fine. Right? Twelve weeks... Mmmm... I'm screwed aren't I? Oh Jesus. Can someone mail me AC and electricity please ASAP? I'll be eternally grateful.
Get me the fuck out of here.
Haha, okay okay, sorry. I am alright, I'm not losing my mind, I'm just in the 'temperature adjustment phase' right now which I'm having 'challenges' with... is that a better way of saying it? The good thing is that I have discovered sleeping pills to help me sleep through the hot nights. Now, before you all worry that I've become addicted to prescription pain killers, fear not. First of all, I am only using them for a few weeks until my body adjusts to the heat and second of all, there's no prescription, you just get them over the counter. :)
I also know I only have a matter of weeks left before I leave, if everything goes to plan, so I just need to stick it out another twelve weeks or so and I'll be fine. Right? Twelve weeks... Mmmm... I'm screwed aren't I? Oh Jesus. Can someone mail me AC and electricity please ASAP? I'll be eternally grateful.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Banglalish
After six months of life in the ‘Desh, I thought I’d have mastered Bengali a lot more than I have but in actual fact, it’s a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. The structure is totally different and also, I can’t read a bloody thing so I rely on mimicking others without really knowing the meaning of what I’m saying, or writing things down phonetically on scraps of paper, hoping they’ll stick in my pea-sized brain. Note: My purse is full of random bits of paper with different words on them – a killer when trying to find money in a hurry.
However, the locals seem to have pretty low expectations of a ‘bideshi’s’ language skills so most people I meet are pretty impressed with my limited vocab. ‘Khub shondur Bangla!’, they always say – telling me I speak beautiful Bengali. Yes, this is a good thing but after about 3 minutes, I have nothing left to say and just stand there smiling or bobbing my head from side to side. I wish that I could have more of a ‘conversation’ but my key skills lie in the following areas only:
1. Bargaining to buy things and when getting transport
2. Telling people to bugger off
When these fail, I resort to speaking a mixture of English and Bengali to communicate what I need to. I like to call this special skill, Banglalish. Banglalish does have its benefits and you’d be amazed by how much you can communicate with a couple of key words and hand gestures, but mixing the two languages together has started to have a detrimental effect on my English skills. I’ve been writing a report for work recently and I feel like I can’t write properly anymore. I can’t articulate myself and forget how things should be structured. I have so much Banglalish floating around my head that I can’t see straight. I lie in bed at night with so many words ringing in my ears… Ami onek tired (I am very tired) or ‘too much busy’ instead of ‘very busy’, or instead of headache, the Banglalish version would be feeling ‘pressure’ or ‘tension’. It’s hard to explain but it is so confusing. When Rosa and I were in Thailand I was determined not to speak any Thai as I couldn’t handle the thought of another language messing up my Bengali. When I first arrived I was debating taking advanced French classes here at the Alliance Francaise but after speaking French to the tailor the other day, I don’t think that would be a good idea either. So, roll on with the Banglalish I say, not much else I can do in the meantime so apologies if I seem more incommunicado over time but I’m sure I’ll grow out of it eventually!
However, the locals seem to have pretty low expectations of a ‘bideshi’s’ language skills so most people I meet are pretty impressed with my limited vocab. ‘Khub shondur Bangla!’, they always say – telling me I speak beautiful Bengali. Yes, this is a good thing but after about 3 minutes, I have nothing left to say and just stand there smiling or bobbing my head from side to side. I wish that I could have more of a ‘conversation’ but my key skills lie in the following areas only:
1. Bargaining to buy things and when getting transport
2. Telling people to bugger off
When these fail, I resort to speaking a mixture of English and Bengali to communicate what I need to. I like to call this special skill, Banglalish. Banglalish does have its benefits and you’d be amazed by how much you can communicate with a couple of key words and hand gestures, but mixing the two languages together has started to have a detrimental effect on my English skills. I’ve been writing a report for work recently and I feel like I can’t write properly anymore. I can’t articulate myself and forget how things should be structured. I have so much Banglalish floating around my head that I can’t see straight. I lie in bed at night with so many words ringing in my ears… Ami onek tired (I am very tired) or ‘too much busy’ instead of ‘very busy’, or instead of headache, the Banglalish version would be feeling ‘pressure’ or ‘tension’. It’s hard to explain but it is so confusing. When Rosa and I were in Thailand I was determined not to speak any Thai as I couldn’t handle the thought of another language messing up my Bengali. When I first arrived I was debating taking advanced French classes here at the Alliance Francaise but after speaking French to the tailor the other day, I don’t think that would be a good idea either. So, roll on with the Banglalish I say, not much else I can do in the meantime so apologies if I seem more incommunicado over time but I’m sure I’ll grow out of it eventually!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Laila
It was humid today. So humid I could hardly breathe. We had three power cuts at work and then when I finally got home after an hour or so in traffic, it started raining and we had yet another power cut in the flat. Soaked and exhausted, I threw myself down on my bed as soon as I got home, and lay in the dark, listening to the rumble of thunder and lightening outside. Lying on my bed in the candlelight, I studied my room through the blur of the mosquito net, trying to distract myself from my flat mate‘s awful Euro pop through the wall… I could see that my shoes had all been lined up in a row, my garbage bin had been emptied and my laundry was ironed and folded. Laila had come today.
Laila is our house maid. A young, pretty girl in her mid-twenties who barely speaks English, but between that and my basic Bengali, we somehow manage to communicate quite well. If I’m at home when she comes to clean the flat, we often have tea together to give her a break from cleaning, but it’s rarely a chance to gossip, more often than not, it’s a silent appreciation for the cha as she sits quietly, obediently, as if I were her mistress. It creates an odd feeling for me, unsettling. There’s so much prestige here with being a foreigner that already makes me feel uncomfortable, that when this feeling is replicated in your own home, it’s an even harder pill to swallow. I do what I can for her, as did Rosa when she was here; offering her any shalwar kameez cast-offs, helping her take out the rubbish, giving her a special tip for religious holidays, but overall, Laila is very insistent that I don‘t help. Although our verbal communication is fairly minimal, it’s truly amazing how much I can sense her; how kind and appreciative she is that I even offer, but I can also see so much pain in her eyes.
Through our conversations I’ve pieced together that Laila is married to a Muslim man who is considerably older than her and from what she’s told me, he has severe health problems. I don’t know how many wives he actually has, but I get the sense that there are more than just her, and Laila also has two young children. Do they all live in the house together? Separately? Was it an arranged marriage? These are questions I cannot ask I’m afraid. I only know a glimpse of her life and although I am incredibly curious, I would never want to cross the line with her and make her feel uncomfortable with me. There are certain things you just don’t ask.
Laila also wears the full burqua. Now, I know this sounds naïve, but it’s quite strange for me to know someone who wears the it. The burqua fascinates me. What it is and what it stands for is physically and metaphorically, a veil shielding a whole different kind of life, beliefs and morals, that I will never really understand. For me adapting to life in Bangladesh, it has been difficult to cover up more - not showing your legs, shoulders, making sure you have an orna over your chest - and it all seems so restricted, but can you imagine wearing all of that AND a burqua? Thinking about how uncomfortable it is now that it’s getting hotter, I can only imagine how much Laila must suffer. She does take the burqua off when she cleans and hangs it on the door though. Sometimes there‘s an odd part of me that wants to put it on, see what it feels like to be shrouded in a sea of black, but at the same time, the burqua absolutely terrifies me. I don‘t agree with the fundamental principle of women being covered up at all. The notion of women not being allowed to expose or celebrate their sexuality, is something I will never understand for the sake of religion or culture.
Laila is our house maid. A young, pretty girl in her mid-twenties who barely speaks English, but between that and my basic Bengali, we somehow manage to communicate quite well. If I’m at home when she comes to clean the flat, we often have tea together to give her a break from cleaning, but it’s rarely a chance to gossip, more often than not, it’s a silent appreciation for the cha as she sits quietly, obediently, as if I were her mistress. It creates an odd feeling for me, unsettling. There’s so much prestige here with being a foreigner that already makes me feel uncomfortable, that when this feeling is replicated in your own home, it’s an even harder pill to swallow. I do what I can for her, as did Rosa when she was here; offering her any shalwar kameez cast-offs, helping her take out the rubbish, giving her a special tip for religious holidays, but overall, Laila is very insistent that I don‘t help. Although our verbal communication is fairly minimal, it’s truly amazing how much I can sense her; how kind and appreciative she is that I even offer, but I can also see so much pain in her eyes.
Through our conversations I’ve pieced together that Laila is married to a Muslim man who is considerably older than her and from what she’s told me, he has severe health problems. I don’t know how many wives he actually has, but I get the sense that there are more than just her, and Laila also has two young children. Do they all live in the house together? Separately? Was it an arranged marriage? These are questions I cannot ask I’m afraid. I only know a glimpse of her life and although I am incredibly curious, I would never want to cross the line with her and make her feel uncomfortable with me. There are certain things you just don’t ask.
Laila also wears the full burqua. Now, I know this sounds naïve, but it’s quite strange for me to know someone who wears the it. The burqua fascinates me. What it is and what it stands for is physically and metaphorically, a veil shielding a whole different kind of life, beliefs and morals, that I will never really understand. For me adapting to life in Bangladesh, it has been difficult to cover up more - not showing your legs, shoulders, making sure you have an orna over your chest - and it all seems so restricted, but can you imagine wearing all of that AND a burqua? Thinking about how uncomfortable it is now that it’s getting hotter, I can only imagine how much Laila must suffer. She does take the burqua off when she cleans and hangs it on the door though. Sometimes there‘s an odd part of me that wants to put it on, see what it feels like to be shrouded in a sea of black, but at the same time, the burqua absolutely terrifies me. I don‘t agree with the fundamental principle of women being covered up at all. The notion of women not being allowed to expose or celebrate their sexuality, is something I will never understand for the sake of religion or culture.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Therapy Post Thailand?
This blog post has been rattling inside my head for over two months now. The way I’ve been feeling recently has been extremely hard to articulate and I probably won’t do a good job of describing it now, but I feel it’s time to try.
When you live somewhere that’s hot all the time, you don’t think about the possibility of having the ‘winter blues’. Being depressed by dark days and cold nights doesn’t even cross your mind but the feeling must be suppressed somewhere in one’s subconscious. Well, my subconscious anyway. Perhaps it was because I ‘missed’ Christmas or maybe it was because of the New Year’s resolution tradition, forcing you to look back on the year that’s passed and into the year ahead. Regardless, I had a bad case of the blues. Realising this fmade me feel like I had been in a dream these past few months - numb - and finally woke up to reality in terms of how I felt.
At the end of December, Rosa and I went to Thailand and arrived on Christmas Eve. Bangkok airport shocked us. No, really. Starbucks, sushi, Boots, lattes, short skirts, white people… we could hardly speak. I know this sounds extremely overdramatic but that is honestly how we felt. We hardly said a word to each other and just stared. It was if we had been transported back to the future by a time machine. After getting a connecting flight from Bangkok down to Surat Thani in the south east, we made our way by boat over to Kho Pan Gnan.
I felt a nervous sort of exhilaration as we made the journey south. Everything seemed so… easy. Even though it was Thailand, so many people spoke English, we could find exactly where we needed to go, we could buy whatever we wanted, we had air conditioning, hot water, garbage bins, beer; convenience was EVERYWHERE. It was like travelling for dummies. Truly surreal.
Sitting on the roof deck of the massive ferry on Christmas Day, I sat with my legs over the side, iPod in hand, watching the water and islands go by. It was calming, peaceful, serene. When we docked at the port on Kho Pan Gnan we fired into a pick up truck to take us over the rolling hills of the island to Haad Rin. Rosa and I just kept looking at each other while we were flying around the corners of paradise island. Were we really here? It didn’t seem real.
But, we arrived at ‘Coral Bungalows’ with a crash. It was like a nightclub for drunken teenagers. The main restaurant was playing some hyped up late 90’s rave and the rooms resembled prison cells with everything bolted down so nothing could get destroyed. This was way too much for us but, love it or hate it, beggars can’t be choosers around peak season so we had to embrace it. We dumped our bags, got changed and headed along Sunset beach to find the real oasis of our holiday, Seaside Bungalows. Seaside was the epitome of hippyville; hammocks, Bob Marley, candles, and mats on the beach to dine by the water. Perfect heaven. The first few nights we stayed on the Sunset side of Haad Rin, sunbathing by day and floating between the Seaside and another favourite, the Tree House bar at night. Even though we’d always get back to Coral quite late, we went to bed with ear-plugs because our room was conveniently situated right next to the DJ booth. Coral only started to get going around 2am and my stamina for all night partying had been lost somewhere between Toronto and Dhaka. Had living in Bangladesh made me ‘old’?
After a few days though, the reverse culture shock started to wear off and we started to get into the swing of things, embracing all that is Thailand; pad thai, beer and Sang Som rum. I’d like to think of Chang and Singha as personal friends of mine now – only 40 Baht for a nice cold one. We frequented nightly beach parties on the other side of Haad Rin, on Sunrise beach. Bar after bar featured constant happy hours of infamous buckets of booze and DJs pumped a variety of music accompanied by fire throwers, entertaining the masses dancing on the sand. We met loads of people from all over the world; Americans teaching in Korea, travelling Vancouverites, a smattering of Europeans and a sea of Brits.
Over the days we spent there, one thing really started to hit home with me; this trip to Thailand was just about having fun. It wasn’t about ‘struggling’, ‘trying to make a difference’, proving that you’re ‘hardcore’ enough; it was simply about people having fun. Realising this re-awakened me. It doesn’t need to be a competition of ‘I’ve done this’ or I’ve done that’ but sometimes being in Bangladesh is like a personal test or challenge, and frankly, it’s exhausting. Since Thailand was so easy it was a welcome relief and shifted the balance of my priorities. Of course I wanted to be in Bangladesh for a variety of reasons, but the possibility of leaving for somewhere else, a different experience, never crossed my mind.
On the otherhand, Rosa was having problems with her placement in Bangladesh from the start. VSO didn’t properly assess her role before she arrived so technically, her job didn’t exist. After months of meetings back and forth with VSO and her organisation, they decided to withdraw her placement. She had talked about starting another placement but being in Thailand also changed her perspective too and raised questions. Maybe it was a sign things weren’t going to work out? If VSO screwed up the first placement, what guarantees were there for another one? And finally, after a lot of talk over Changs and Singhas, Rosa decided she was going to leave Bangladesh.
Realising that she was going to go meant that my life in Dhaka would change too and questions also started to weigh on my mind. What if I left early? What if I travelled for a bit longer? What if I just spent some time enjoying myself? Mmm… The seed of doubt had been planted and there was no going back. I felt like I was in a state of turmoil, my mind swirling with possibilities about the course of my life changing once again. Even though three months had passed in Bangladesh, did I really want to stay until September? What would happen if I left in June? July? The option of leaving early never crossed my mind before but of course, it was a possibility.
Once we got back to Dhaka after Thailand and started to re-adjust to life here, I was still confused. What did I really want to do? I couldn’t sleep at night. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, contemplating my life. On one hand, my job was great and I came here for the work but on the other hand, living here is a constant battle; the lack of freedom, the lack of comfort, the language, the food… I needed to make some decisions.
After talking it through with some family and friends, I realised that for the sake of my sanity, I have decided to leave in June. I will ensure I get all of my work completed by then and financially, I only miss out on one quarterly payment from VSO which is about $300. I haven’t talked to by organisation about this or to VSO but I know that I need to give them as much notice as possible. I don’t know how I’m going to broach the subject with them but I think I am going to wait until the draft of my strategic plan is complete, which is at the end of March.
So, with the advent of this news, what lies in store for me next?
The rough plan right now is to leave at the end of June, travel around South East Asia for a few months and then go to the UK. I have made some valuable contacts at the BBC here so I am going to try and leverage those sooner than later. I'm not sure but I'm excited.
Watch this space…
When you live somewhere that’s hot all the time, you don’t think about the possibility of having the ‘winter blues’. Being depressed by dark days and cold nights doesn’t even cross your mind but the feeling must be suppressed somewhere in one’s subconscious. Well, my subconscious anyway. Perhaps it was because I ‘missed’ Christmas or maybe it was because of the New Year’s resolution tradition, forcing you to look back on the year that’s passed and into the year ahead. Regardless, I had a bad case of the blues. Realising this fmade me feel like I had been in a dream these past few months - numb - and finally woke up to reality in terms of how I felt.
At the end of December, Rosa and I went to Thailand and arrived on Christmas Eve. Bangkok airport shocked us. No, really. Starbucks, sushi, Boots, lattes, short skirts, white people… we could hardly speak. I know this sounds extremely overdramatic but that is honestly how we felt. We hardly said a word to each other and just stared. It was if we had been transported back to the future by a time machine. After getting a connecting flight from Bangkok down to Surat Thani in the south east, we made our way by boat over to Kho Pan Gnan.
I felt a nervous sort of exhilaration as we made the journey south. Everything seemed so… easy. Even though it was Thailand, so many people spoke English, we could find exactly where we needed to go, we could buy whatever we wanted, we had air conditioning, hot water, garbage bins, beer; convenience was EVERYWHERE. It was like travelling for dummies. Truly surreal.
Sitting on the roof deck of the massive ferry on Christmas Day, I sat with my legs over the side, iPod in hand, watching the water and islands go by. It was calming, peaceful, serene. When we docked at the port on Kho Pan Gnan we fired into a pick up truck to take us over the rolling hills of the island to Haad Rin. Rosa and I just kept looking at each other while we were flying around the corners of paradise island. Were we really here? It didn’t seem real.
But, we arrived at ‘Coral Bungalows’ with a crash. It was like a nightclub for drunken teenagers. The main restaurant was playing some hyped up late 90’s rave and the rooms resembled prison cells with everything bolted down so nothing could get destroyed. This was way too much for us but, love it or hate it, beggars can’t be choosers around peak season so we had to embrace it. We dumped our bags, got changed and headed along Sunset beach to find the real oasis of our holiday, Seaside Bungalows. Seaside was the epitome of hippyville; hammocks, Bob Marley, candles, and mats on the beach to dine by the water. Perfect heaven. The first few nights we stayed on the Sunset side of Haad Rin, sunbathing by day and floating between the Seaside and another favourite, the Tree House bar at night. Even though we’d always get back to Coral quite late, we went to bed with ear-plugs because our room was conveniently situated right next to the DJ booth. Coral only started to get going around 2am and my stamina for all night partying had been lost somewhere between Toronto and Dhaka. Had living in Bangladesh made me ‘old’?
After a few days though, the reverse culture shock started to wear off and we started to get into the swing of things, embracing all that is Thailand; pad thai, beer and Sang Som rum. I’d like to think of Chang and Singha as personal friends of mine now – only 40 Baht for a nice cold one. We frequented nightly beach parties on the other side of Haad Rin, on Sunrise beach. Bar after bar featured constant happy hours of infamous buckets of booze and DJs pumped a variety of music accompanied by fire throwers, entertaining the masses dancing on the sand. We met loads of people from all over the world; Americans teaching in Korea, travelling Vancouverites, a smattering of Europeans and a sea of Brits.
Over the days we spent there, one thing really started to hit home with me; this trip to Thailand was just about having fun. It wasn’t about ‘struggling’, ‘trying to make a difference’, proving that you’re ‘hardcore’ enough; it was simply about people having fun. Realising this re-awakened me. It doesn’t need to be a competition of ‘I’ve done this’ or I’ve done that’ but sometimes being in Bangladesh is like a personal test or challenge, and frankly, it’s exhausting. Since Thailand was so easy it was a welcome relief and shifted the balance of my priorities. Of course I wanted to be in Bangladesh for a variety of reasons, but the possibility of leaving for somewhere else, a different experience, never crossed my mind.
On the otherhand, Rosa was having problems with her placement in Bangladesh from the start. VSO didn’t properly assess her role before she arrived so technically, her job didn’t exist. After months of meetings back and forth with VSO and her organisation, they decided to withdraw her placement. She had talked about starting another placement but being in Thailand also changed her perspective too and raised questions. Maybe it was a sign things weren’t going to work out? If VSO screwed up the first placement, what guarantees were there for another one? And finally, after a lot of talk over Changs and Singhas, Rosa decided she was going to leave Bangladesh.
Realising that she was going to go meant that my life in Dhaka would change too and questions also started to weigh on my mind. What if I left early? What if I travelled for a bit longer? What if I just spent some time enjoying myself? Mmm… The seed of doubt had been planted and there was no going back. I felt like I was in a state of turmoil, my mind swirling with possibilities about the course of my life changing once again. Even though three months had passed in Bangladesh, did I really want to stay until September? What would happen if I left in June? July? The option of leaving early never crossed my mind before but of course, it was a possibility.
Once we got back to Dhaka after Thailand and started to re-adjust to life here, I was still confused. What did I really want to do? I couldn’t sleep at night. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, contemplating my life. On one hand, my job was great and I came here for the work but on the other hand, living here is a constant battle; the lack of freedom, the lack of comfort, the language, the food… I needed to make some decisions.
After talking it through with some family and friends, I realised that for the sake of my sanity, I have decided to leave in June. I will ensure I get all of my work completed by then and financially, I only miss out on one quarterly payment from VSO which is about $300. I haven’t talked to by organisation about this or to VSO but I know that I need to give them as much notice as possible. I don’t know how I’m going to broach the subject with them but I think I am going to wait until the draft of my strategic plan is complete, which is at the end of March.
So, with the advent of this news, what lies in store for me next?
The rough plan right now is to leave at the end of June, travel around South East Asia for a few months and then go to the UK. I have made some valuable contacts at the BBC here so I am going to try and leverage those sooner than later. I'm not sure but I'm excited.
Watch this space…
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Saying 'I Do'
It’s been a while since I’ve written because so much has happened over the last month but I’m going to back track slightly and tell you about the Bengali wedding I went to in December. My boss asked if I wanted to attend and I jumped at the chance. I’ve only ever been to a Christian or Catholic wedding before, so I was eager to experience the Muslim version.
First of all, it’s a multiple day shebang. The first ceremony, starting in the evening, is ‘prep’ for the big day. I rushed home from work and got changed into my bright pink sari and jumped in a rickshaw, on my way to my boss’s house to be escorted by his family to the ceremony. After a bumpy rickshaw ride with the hood down so I didn’t attract too much attention to myself, I arrived at my boss’s house and his wife helped me re-adjust my crumpled sari from the journey, threw extra make-up on me - apparently it was no where near enough for a Bengali wedding - and before I knew it, we were off again. All piling into the car, we quickly arrived at the event in Mohammedpur. Multiple community centres in Dhaka seem to act as wedding venues, nothing like a religious setting, more of a function hall, and they are absolutely dripping with fairy lights and flowers for the occasion. We were ushered out of the vehicle and into a room to meet the bride and groom before going into the hall. What a sight. The bride was absolutely covered with flowers, beads and jewels that connected around her head, hair and nose piercing. The traditional colour of the ‘pre’ ceremony is yellow, so she was dressed in a yellow and blue sari, with thousands of accessories. The groom, also very dressed up, wore a traditional Punjab, but she clearly stole the show. After a quick hello, we were led upstairs underneath a red tent fabric, held up by the bridesmaids along the staircase, and flower confetti was thrown on us as we were marked with a copper bindi on our foreheads.
Once we got into the venue, it was a hive of activity. Hundreds of people; talking, mingling, a sea of colour, loud Bengali dance music... At the front of the room there was a flower-adorned stage with two thrones and a table covered in plates of food. In front of the stage were rows of mismatched couches and chairs for people to sit down. Something must in the works for later, I assumed… Then all of a sudden, mayhem! The lights went out, the strobe light went on, the smoke machine went berserk, the baseline was cranked and the dance floor was pumping. Everyone was dancing like crazy, young, old, singing, jumping around. I couldn’t help but be completely bemused. What was going on?! Did I miss something? There was no way this would be happening at this hour at home, so early in the night and without alcohol. Ha. Then, again, all of a sudden, bam! Lights went back on, the smoke machine went off, the music was turned back down, and people were chatting, mingling again. A ten minute moment of disco fever and then back to the wedding ceremony? How odd. But before I could make sense of it, I was being ushered towards the stage. Towards the stage!? Oh God, why? What did I have to do? Something about being the only ‘bideshi’ there was making me nervous. Surely they didn’t expect me to give a speech? But, thankfully no. My boss’s wife said I would take part in the ceremony but reassured me that everyone had to. I asked if I could follow her lead to be sure I didn’t do something sacrilegious, so we both went up together and sat on either side of the bride and groom on additional thrones. Basically, we had to feed them something from the array of food in front of them as an offering, and then dab turmeric on their faces as a symbol to make their skin glow ‘golden’ for the wedding day. I felt a bit strange, rubbing turmeric on the bride’s face when she looked so perfect and made up, added to the fact that she doesn’t know me from Adam, but she smiled and the camera clicked a million times to capture the moment, before we were helped off the stage and the next participants followed to do the same ritual. Done.
Then again, before I’d even said turmeric, the disco fever again! Boom boom pow, shake it all about. The place went crazy again and as hard as I tried to dance to join in, I felt stiff as hell in my sari and… dare I say it, really damn sober. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep up with the movers and shakers so I drifted to the sidelines and took photos instead. I have never seen so much energy before. Everyone, all holding hands, spinning each other round, singing their hearts out to songs I’d never heard of. After my long day at work, it made me feel exhausted, just watching them. I needed a break, needed to talk English for a second even, but that wasn’t going to happen, so I settled for a seat on some random couch, facing the spectacle and kept snapping photos.
After a while, I think my boss’s wife suspected I was tired and suggested we leave, especially since it was 2am. 2 am!? How did that happen so quickly? I felt as though we’d been there for an hour or two but I willingly left. Exhausted, we piled back into the car and I got dropped off, falling up the stairs to my flat. My head hit the pillow and I was asleep in seconds. Roll on day two - the ‘big’ day.
My British flat mate Rosa was going to come with me as my ‘date’ so we got ready in the afternoon in our extra special saris - read: heavily ordained with beads and even harder to wear because they weigh a ton - and repeated the journey to my boss’s house to be escorted to the ceremony with the family. The ceremony this time was held at another venue in the city, but the décor was similar; flowers were everywhere and fairy lights were shining bright, along with the general chaos of people, all waiting at the main doors for the bride and groom to arrive. As we tried to squeeze in to get a look at the couple arriving, a full brass band arrived! Trumpets and drums in full force and oddly enough, hardly anyone else noticed but Rosa and I, so the two of us snapped away and before we knew it, they had circled around us, continuing to bust out the tunes! After several photos and momentous clapping, the attention focused back at the entrance. The groom had arrived. Tall and elegant in his turban, he was surrounded by women buzzing around him, ushering him inside and through the crowd. Then, a few minutes later… the moment we’d all been waiting for, the bride. A small van arrived and she got out quickly, shielded by people so we couldn’t see her, and got into a gold carriage, box type thing. It looked like something out of ancient Rome and was surrounded with curtains with huge gold pillars at each end so she could be carried into the ceremony. We all frantically tried to get photos of her in the carriage but it was complete mayhem; people pushing, shoving, anything to get a photo. Then, all of a sudden, she was lifted right up into the air and through the crowd. We followed the carriage into the ceremony and she was placed, still enclosed, at the stage / altar. There were thrones again and the groom sat, waiting for her. Beside the altar I also noticed several suitcases; the brides belongings. I found out that after the ceremony, she would move into the in-law’s house with her new husband – this was tradition. Shortly after her arrival in the carriage, the curtain opened and we got the chance to take some photos of the bride. She looked incredible; absolutely covered in gold jewellery, wearing a bright red sari. Stupidly, I left the room at this point to try and find my boss to let him know that she was here and missed her getting out of the carriage(!), but when I came back, she was seated on a throne, next to her groom on the altar. Snap, snap, snap, general paparazzi overdrive continued. Slowly, I began to realize that there wasn’t going to be any actual ceremony; it seemed like a photo shoot was the only item on the agenda which seemed a bit odd, and then after an hour or so, dinner was announced. Everyone was rammed into an adjoining dining hall. The whole meal was fast and furious; plates of rice and chicken flying around and the only beverages on offer was either water or a strange, spicy green yoghurt drink. Pass on the yoghurt, thanks. After dinner, people lingered around for a bit but it became obvious that nothing else was going to happen and the night was winding to a close. I asked my boss why the significance of the two day ceremony when everything important seems to happen in the first? Symbolic, he said. Now that the couple are ‘united’, the second ceremony marks the bride moving in with the in-laws, that they truly are married now.
After getting a ride home and taking off the entire sari garb for the second night in a row, Rosa and I reflected on the evening and how it’s such a different series of rituals compared to a Christian or Catholic wedding. Regardless, from the turmeric to the dancing, photos, saris and flowers, I was glad to have participated in it, and made the decision that if I ever get married, I’m getting married in a sari!
First of all, it’s a multiple day shebang. The first ceremony, starting in the evening, is ‘prep’ for the big day. I rushed home from work and got changed into my bright pink sari and jumped in a rickshaw, on my way to my boss’s house to be escorted by his family to the ceremony. After a bumpy rickshaw ride with the hood down so I didn’t attract too much attention to myself, I arrived at my boss’s house and his wife helped me re-adjust my crumpled sari from the journey, threw extra make-up on me - apparently it was no where near enough for a Bengali wedding - and before I knew it, we were off again. All piling into the car, we quickly arrived at the event in Mohammedpur. Multiple community centres in Dhaka seem to act as wedding venues, nothing like a religious setting, more of a function hall, and they are absolutely dripping with fairy lights and flowers for the occasion. We were ushered out of the vehicle and into a room to meet the bride and groom before going into the hall. What a sight. The bride was absolutely covered with flowers, beads and jewels that connected around her head, hair and nose piercing. The traditional colour of the ‘pre’ ceremony is yellow, so she was dressed in a yellow and blue sari, with thousands of accessories. The groom, also very dressed up, wore a traditional Punjab, but she clearly stole the show. After a quick hello, we were led upstairs underneath a red tent fabric, held up by the bridesmaids along the staircase, and flower confetti was thrown on us as we were marked with a copper bindi on our foreheads.
Once we got into the venue, it was a hive of activity. Hundreds of people; talking, mingling, a sea of colour, loud Bengali dance music... At the front of the room there was a flower-adorned stage with two thrones and a table covered in plates of food. In front of the stage were rows of mismatched couches and chairs for people to sit down. Something must in the works for later, I assumed… Then all of a sudden, mayhem! The lights went out, the strobe light went on, the smoke machine went berserk, the baseline was cranked and the dance floor was pumping. Everyone was dancing like crazy, young, old, singing, jumping around. I couldn’t help but be completely bemused. What was going on?! Did I miss something? There was no way this would be happening at this hour at home, so early in the night and without alcohol. Ha. Then, again, all of a sudden, bam! Lights went back on, the smoke machine went off, the music was turned back down, and people were chatting, mingling again. A ten minute moment of disco fever and then back to the wedding ceremony? How odd. But before I could make sense of it, I was being ushered towards the stage. Towards the stage!? Oh God, why? What did I have to do? Something about being the only ‘bideshi’ there was making me nervous. Surely they didn’t expect me to give a speech? But, thankfully no. My boss’s wife said I would take part in the ceremony but reassured me that everyone had to. I asked if I could follow her lead to be sure I didn’t do something sacrilegious, so we both went up together and sat on either side of the bride and groom on additional thrones. Basically, we had to feed them something from the array of food in front of them as an offering, and then dab turmeric on their faces as a symbol to make their skin glow ‘golden’ for the wedding day. I felt a bit strange, rubbing turmeric on the bride’s face when she looked so perfect and made up, added to the fact that she doesn’t know me from Adam, but she smiled and the camera clicked a million times to capture the moment, before we were helped off the stage and the next participants followed to do the same ritual. Done.
Then again, before I’d even said turmeric, the disco fever again! Boom boom pow, shake it all about. The place went crazy again and as hard as I tried to dance to join in, I felt stiff as hell in my sari and… dare I say it, really damn sober. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep up with the movers and shakers so I drifted to the sidelines and took photos instead. I have never seen so much energy before. Everyone, all holding hands, spinning each other round, singing their hearts out to songs I’d never heard of. After my long day at work, it made me feel exhausted, just watching them. I needed a break, needed to talk English for a second even, but that wasn’t going to happen, so I settled for a seat on some random couch, facing the spectacle and kept snapping photos.
After a while, I think my boss’s wife suspected I was tired and suggested we leave, especially since it was 2am. 2 am!? How did that happen so quickly? I felt as though we’d been there for an hour or two but I willingly left. Exhausted, we piled back into the car and I got dropped off, falling up the stairs to my flat. My head hit the pillow and I was asleep in seconds. Roll on day two - the ‘big’ day.
My British flat mate Rosa was going to come with me as my ‘date’ so we got ready in the afternoon in our extra special saris - read: heavily ordained with beads and even harder to wear because they weigh a ton - and repeated the journey to my boss’s house to be escorted to the ceremony with the family. The ceremony this time was held at another venue in the city, but the décor was similar; flowers were everywhere and fairy lights were shining bright, along with the general chaos of people, all waiting at the main doors for the bride and groom to arrive. As we tried to squeeze in to get a look at the couple arriving, a full brass band arrived! Trumpets and drums in full force and oddly enough, hardly anyone else noticed but Rosa and I, so the two of us snapped away and before we knew it, they had circled around us, continuing to bust out the tunes! After several photos and momentous clapping, the attention focused back at the entrance. The groom had arrived. Tall and elegant in his turban, he was surrounded by women buzzing around him, ushering him inside and through the crowd. Then, a few minutes later… the moment we’d all been waiting for, the bride. A small van arrived and she got out quickly, shielded by people so we couldn’t see her, and got into a gold carriage, box type thing. It looked like something out of ancient Rome and was surrounded with curtains with huge gold pillars at each end so she could be carried into the ceremony. We all frantically tried to get photos of her in the carriage but it was complete mayhem; people pushing, shoving, anything to get a photo. Then, all of a sudden, she was lifted right up into the air and through the crowd. We followed the carriage into the ceremony and she was placed, still enclosed, at the stage / altar. There were thrones again and the groom sat, waiting for her. Beside the altar I also noticed several suitcases; the brides belongings. I found out that after the ceremony, she would move into the in-law’s house with her new husband – this was tradition. Shortly after her arrival in the carriage, the curtain opened and we got the chance to take some photos of the bride. She looked incredible; absolutely covered in gold jewellery, wearing a bright red sari. Stupidly, I left the room at this point to try and find my boss to let him know that she was here and missed her getting out of the carriage(!), but when I came back, she was seated on a throne, next to her groom on the altar. Snap, snap, snap, general paparazzi overdrive continued. Slowly, I began to realize that there wasn’t going to be any actual ceremony; it seemed like a photo shoot was the only item on the agenda which seemed a bit odd, and then after an hour or so, dinner was announced. Everyone was rammed into an adjoining dining hall. The whole meal was fast and furious; plates of rice and chicken flying around and the only beverages on offer was either water or a strange, spicy green yoghurt drink. Pass on the yoghurt, thanks. After dinner, people lingered around for a bit but it became obvious that nothing else was going to happen and the night was winding to a close. I asked my boss why the significance of the two day ceremony when everything important seems to happen in the first? Symbolic, he said. Now that the couple are ‘united’, the second ceremony marks the bride moving in with the in-laws, that they truly are married now.
After getting a ride home and taking off the entire sari garb for the second night in a row, Rosa and I reflected on the evening and how it’s such a different series of rituals compared to a Christian or Catholic wedding. Regardless, from the turmeric to the dancing, photos, saris and flowers, I was glad to have participated in it, and made the decision that if I ever get married, I’m getting married in a sari!
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