Bangladeshi Baburchi

At the risk of sounding like a complete wuss, until today, I had yet to cook any meat in Bangladesh. Instead, I’ve happily existed on a diet of vegetables, pulses, rice, noodles and the occasional deep fried bread (okay, it’s not occasional, it’s more like a habit). Don’t get me wrong, I’m no vegetarian – I’ll eat meat that others have cooked for me with relish – but the idea of going to the slaughter house and actually purchasing the meat has always seemed like one challenge too many.

Picture it: a tin roofed shed, seemingly designed to ensure that the interior temperature is significantly higher than that outside. Enormous hunks of cow, strung up from the rafters, always a strange purple colour and invariably dotted with fat flies. It’s such a far cry from Sainsbury’s convenient polystyrene packed ‘steak’, or Marks and Spencer’s’ individually wrapped chicken breasts, that I – with my sheltered English life – don’t have the first clue where to begin. I don’t even know the names for the different parts of a cow, for instance. Pathetically inexcusable, yes, although I hope for others who have always bought their meat clinically separated from the animal of origin, understandable. It’s not that I’m particularly squeamish about the thought of my dinner coming from a once living and breathing animal. The only reason for vegetarianism that I’ve ever found seriously convincing is the environmental impact argument. It’s just that the whole business of buying, cooking and keeping meat has always felt a bit too much here. You might call it sheer laziness, in fact.

I have, however, managed to overcome this hurdle today. Not by seizing the bull by the horns (literally), and marching down to the slaughter house to buy me some beef. Oh no. Rather, I’ve totally dodged my underlying issues and taken my landlady up on her kind offer to buy my meat for me.

So today I had my first experience of cooking beef in the Bangladeshi style. And it’s amazingly simple! The beef comes ready chopped, so all you do is give it a good wash, bung it in a pan with a load of herbs and spices, a sickening amount of oil and salt, add some water and boil it for about half an hour. Then, hey presto, you’re done. Easy.

The only slight drawback is that I think my landlady was rather optimistic about how much meat I can consume, and – rather worryingly – I now have a kilogram of beef curry to consume before it goes off.

So please excuse me while I go back to gorging myself on red meat. There’s no time to lose.

A room of one's own

Having lived here for a year now, I can safely say that one of the best things about living in Parbatipur is having my own flat.. I mean, sure, I’ve had my own room before, but this doesn’t have quite the same potential for dancing around in one’s underwear, say, or being a ginormous slob and not cleaning up after myself for days at a time (you can make a mess in one room, then close the door and pretend it doesn’t exist! Magic. Until the ants force you back in to straighten things out, that is). So it has been with great pleasure that I have discovered, like so many before me, the joys of living solo.

However, as in so many things, the Bangladeshi context is filled with idiosyncrasies and surprises. I’ve written a lot already about how the concepts of privacy and personal space are understood rather differently here. Privacy, for instance, does not cover things like bowel movements or intimate medical conditions, although it does apply to ankles and décolletage (if you’re a woman, of course). Personal space does not apply to one’s home in any sense, and really only begins a few inches from your body if people are feeling really interested in you.

I’ve become accustomed, consequently, to being barged aside the moment I open the front door, and standing idly by as whoever has come a-calling gives their brother’s wife’s sister’s son’s daughter a grand tour of my home – which naturally will include a running commentary on me and my life and all the hilarious things I’ve ever done (forgetting my purse when going to the bazaar, getting to the bottom of my stairs before realizing I’m not wearing an orna, leaving a bag of spinach outside my door all night because that’s where I put it down when opening the door, etc, etc).

Despite what I think is my enormous flexibility and adaptability in the face of what some might term an assault (not me though), things have stepped up a level of late: last week, my good friend Lily actually broke her way into my flat in her eagerness to see me.

I hadn’t been feeling well for a few days, so had decided to ignore the knocking. I knew it’d be one of my neighbours, and I couldn’t be bothered to make small talk about our respective lunches, so decided this was as good a time as any to reassert some boundaries (something I’ve been meaning to do for a while. Seriously, jumping up from whatever I’m doing every five minutes to talk about the weather or dinner, or to be force fed misti has been getting to me a bit recently). However, this grand plan was to be in vain.

I sat on my bed, valiantly trying to read my book as the knocking persisted for ten solid minutes. And it wasn’t a continuous, regular sound that might easily fade into the background. Oh no! There was some straight forward knocking, a lot of serious-sounding thumping, and even a bit of rattling thrown in for variety. My patience began to wear thin. I was just fixing to march over, throw open the door and demand to know what imminent disaster necessitated this barrage in perfectly fluent Bangla (yeah, ok, maybe not the last part), when I heard the familiar clatter of the bolt dropping on my door.

Peering rather apprehensively around my bedroom door, I saw Lily framed in the doorway, glaring at me. What was I doing, she demanded to know, that meant I couldn’t answer the door? Furiously, I mumbled something about taking a bath. Sadly, this brilliant piece of subterfuge didn’t seem to take her in, perhaps because I was standing there fully dressed, book in hand. Anyway. It transpired that the house was not in fact burning down, and no-one was in dire need of any assistance that an unskilled bideshi might be able to offer. No. The big emergency was cake. Lily and Tarra were making cake, and I simply had to go and partake. Sighing in defeat, I threw on an orna and sloped after Lily.

As perturbed as I was by this incident, I have decided to press ahead with this reassertion of boundaries thing, and now only answer the door if I’m not in the middle of doing something else fairly urgent. Slowly, I think the message is getting through, and the knocking is getting less persistent. However, I don’t think anyone quite understands why I’m not answering: I’ve caught wind of several speculative conversations that there’s a problem with my hearing, and perhaps I should get my door bell fixed (hell, no!).

On a related point, now that I have my own place to take pride in, I’m becoming somewhat house proud. One of the things I’m enjoying about this is inviting people to tea, and trying to return (on a small scale) the staggering hospitality that I’ve been shown here. Adjusting to being a host in Bangladesh is proving to be a little challenging, unfortunately. For instance, I’ve never been able to get used to the practice that the host does not eat with the guests – rather as a guest, you are waited upon and watched as you eat. When it’s my turn to be host, I’m not particularly good at doing that: when other people are eating cake, I want to eat cake too!

But this is not the biggest challenge, however. The biggest challenge has been getting used to my guests throwing their food waste onto various inappropriate surfaces (the floor, the table, the work surfaces in the kitchen, all spring to mind). I know that it’s a different culture, I know that nothing is meant by it, but it doesn’t stop me wanting to shriek, in a manner rather reminiscent of a harpy, “what the hell are you doing?” or: “there’s a bin right there!”

The plague

My chilled-out Friday evening was shattered this week by the plague that seems to have descended on Parbatipur of late. Not locusts (not quite) but swarms of tiny bright green biting flies that cover the light bulbs and the walls until the blue paint becomes bright green and the light is muted to an unearthly glow.

I was sitting at my computer on Friday evening, minding my own business, when I became gradually aware that I’d been flicking a growing number of insects off my screen, and picking a growing number of insects from between the keys.

Then I looked up and almost had a heart attack. It was like something out of the Bible. They were everywhere, covering the wall around my light, zooming across the room from one bulb to the next. In the thick of things sat Gertrude, my resident gecko pal. She’s a bit of a fatty, so I can always recognise her, and she was having an absolute feast on the insects. We have an arrangement, me and her: she can stay so long as she eats all the bugs. But even she was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of insects.

At this point, I did the only thing possible: I ran around my flat shrieking for a bit, then, remembering the neighbours and the inevitable amused curiosity that would follow, switched to cursing quietly. I tried switching off the lights, but the feeling of insects in my hair as they left their positions beside the bulbs was too much to bear.

Then I got out my bug killer spray. I was a little reluctant to do this, given Gertrude’s presence up there, but she wouldn’t heed the tea towel that I waved vaguely at her in warning (I’m afraid to touch her, lest her tail should fall off. I’d hate to be responsible for her losing her tail.) Anyway, I should have got out my umbrella as well the spray, because as soon as I started spraying it, the little shites started dropping like a soft green rain.

At this, I offed the lights and fled from my flat. My neighbours looked very intrigued to see me bolting onto the landing and stand panting beside the safely closed door as if I’d just shut a peckish wild cat in there.

Luckily, Meena had invited me to have dinner at her house so down I went. To discover that there was not one green insect in her house. I tried to convey my incredulity and ask how she had evaded the plague, but my Bangla really isn’t up to that, so I just got some raised eyebrows and concerned looks.

When I got back to my flat after dinner, I was faced with a scene worthy of the Somme (had small bright green biting insects been involved). So I spent the rest of the evening sweeping up their carcasses as best I could, removing the detritus of my cull and feeling a little sickened by how their bodies kept writhing in the dustpan.

VSO envy

As a VSO volunteer, it’s nice to have a network of other VSO volunteers who are serving in different countries. It’s nice to hear how they’re getting on, compare notes on the frustrations of daily life as a volunteer, and bitch about programme offices (only occasionally, of course…).

It’s nice, that is, until you see their photos of nights out in clubs in Phnom Penh, or hear tales of weekends spent on golden beaches in Mombasa, or read tweets about lunchtime swims in Vanuatu. Then, a small, mean part of you thinks: you’ve drawn a dud hand.

It’s not that I don’t like Bangladesh. I do like it in many ways, and there’s a lot of good things about working here. But there’s a definite shortage of night clubs, golden beaches and ocean swimming. Not that these things are essential, of course, but they would be nice every now and again.

I mean, yes, we have our occasional big nights out, our occasional house parties. We even do tequila slammers if we’re feeling particularly racy.

But, sometimes, I just can’t shift the niggling feeling that I’m missing out on something. Even the ‘most hardcore’ prize that we’ve modestly awarded ourselves here feels like a hollow accolade at times. (Apparently, someone once said that if you can live in Bangladesh and survive it, you can live anywhere in the world. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard this amongst the expat community, but it doesn’t really feel like compensation anymore).

Ah well, enough moping around. I’d better get back to my wild night of chopping vegetables and cooking rice in the dark. Rave on, rave on.

Being brought back down to earth

This confession does not make me feel proud, but yesterday I may have had a bit of a tantrum. Actually, I had a lot of a tantrum. It began with exasperated sighing. It progressed to stalking. And then there was the throwing of personal items onto the ground… Like I said, I’m not proud.

It all started because of the rain, really. It had been disgustingly, drippingly hot for weeks in Parbatipur, then all of a sudden, at about 2 o’clock yesterday afternoon, the heavens opened and it didn’t cease to pour until the next morning.

Unfortunately for me, this reduced my options for getting home. Walking was ruled because I’d chosen yesterday to wear white (a rather lame reason, I know). Taking a rickshaw, my usual choice, was also ruled out because apparently going out in the first rains after a long dry spell is dangerous for one’s health. (Incidentally, I think it was this little pearl of wisdom that started to get my back up… I mean seriously!?)

Anyway. Not to fear, Mahabub told me. He’d give me a lift. I just had to wait ten minutes.

Now, I know in the grown up part of my mind that I really should’ve been grateful for his kind offer. But I was functioning in the teenage part, clearly. I rolled my eyes. I felt a suffocating frustration settling onto me, somewhat like a wet duvet being dumped on my body.

You see, I’ve heard this “just ten minutes” before. It usually comes just before a mind-numbing 45 minutes (at the very least) of me being told to sit, sit, on the pretence of gossiping, while whoever it is I’m waiting for fannies about inanely with some vital piece of work that could quite frankly be done in five minutes tomorrow morning.

However, I tried to be optimistic. I waited fifteen minutes, then got my stuff together and went to find Mahabub. He was sitting at the computer in his office. He looked up at me apprehensively (you see, we’ve been here many times before). Apparently, the Project Coordinator has asked him to stay a little longer to help him with some vital piece of work which apparently could not be done tomorrow.

This triggered the exasperated sighing.

Mahabub, being sadly used to this behaviour on my part, said he’d go and talk to the PC.

I said “Fine” (in that way that 14 year olds have, which is meant to demonstrate that it is most certainly not fine), and stalked back to my office. Mahabub and the PC were having an agitated conversation in Bangla, glancing nervously at me from time to time, in the way that you might glance at a rabid dog that is still at a safe distance but might hurl itself at your jugular at any moment.

In a brief moment of rationality, I decided to accept my fate and do something useful with my time. However, my laptop currently takes about 30 minutes to boot up, and connecting to the internet takes at least another fifteen. Glowering all the while, I switched the computer on and sat down to wait for it. I could feel my blood pressure rising. The wet duvet was getting heavier. That’s when I threw the laptop bag onto the floor.

Unfortunately, Mahabub is wise to my moods. He turned from his conversation with the PC, and gave me a quite withering stare.

“It fell,” I mumbled, or something to that effect, my cheeks reddening. (Again: not proud).

Eventually, he managed to extricate himself from whatever vital task he had been given, and we set off in the rain, which had – rather fittingly I thought – began to pour.

The rage began to lift as soon as Mahabub insisted that I use my umbrella. This doesn’t sound too amusing until you realise I was sitting on the back of a motorbike. He had me holding it above our heads, angled against the rain, rather like a Roman shield braced against a shower of arrows. God knows how he could see the oncoming traffic.

By the time we’d made it through the mud and out of Haldibari, I couldn’t remember why I’d become so worked up. There was a fresh wind blowing – admittedly lashing rain into our eyes – but it was a welcome respite. The paddy fields flashing past looked clean and bright.

As we cruised into town, Mahabub began a serious conversation. I knew it was serious because he always begins such conversations with my name.

“Joshphin,” he said over his shoulder.

“Yes?” I responded gaily, tantrum forgotten.

“What was your problem just now in office? I think you are angry, maybe?”

“No, no…” I muttered, searching for a plausible excuse. “I’m just a bit… tired,” I finished, pathetically.

Mahabub eyed me disparagingly in the wing mirror.

“But you threw your bag onto the floor.”

(Oh the shame! The shame!)

“No, it, erm, fell…” I protested.

Again, the searching eye in the wind mirror.

“Okay, okay!” I gave in, “I threw it. I’m sorry. I don’t know why, I was just… feeling… impatient.” I felt ridiculous. Guilty and ridiculous.

At this, Mahabub snorted. Bangladeshi people, not just him, don’t seem to get impatient.

“You know, Joshphin. Sometimes I think to beat you,” he said, and laughed like a drain at his own hilarity.

I think my indignant laughter might have been taken too seriously, because he quickly added: “But softly, of course!”

And I was laughing all the way home.

Lesson for the day: Take a deep breath and count to ten? Grow up? Ideas on a postcard please!

Narrative Structure...

… is massively lacking in this blog of late. Extreme business and a dash of utter indolence have combined to make me a terrible blogger. Perhaps a blog doesn’t need narrative structure, but the gaping holes in this one have been preying on my mind of late. So, I’m going to attempt to give you a potted history of my last few months to put my mind at ease, if nothing else.

So what have I actually been doing with myself for the last six months? I hear you cry. My hearing is fairly optimistic – that anyone might actually care what I’ve been doing…

Anyway, my main occupation since about April has been being in charge of a research project about indigenous rights and local governance issues, which I’ve been conducting for VSO Bangladesh. (Reading that back, it sounds quite flashy, really. If only the reality were as glamorous…).

I’ll gloss over all the issues there have been with this project – partly because I don’t want to get done for libel, partly because I don’t want to bore you all to tears, and partly because it just thinking about it makes my blood boil still… no, instead I’ll focus on the positives: I got all-expenses paid travel to the best parts of Bangladesh (the Chittagong Hill Tracts); I’ve learned incredible amounts; and I got to be in charge of a fairly massive project (a chilling thought, I know).

It wasn’t exactly a 4 month party, but I’ll share with you some of the highlights, some of the larks from the field work (because frankly, what came after the field work – data entry, data analysis, report writing etc – was duller than dull).

- The one where it took me and Tonni (an VSOB intern who worked with me on this and was just generally wonderful throughout) ten hours and five different forms of transport to do a journey that should have taken four hours and one simple bus. Note that we also had a ludicrous surfeit of bags, boxes and paperwork with us, which only added to our woes).
- The one where VSOB decided to double the geographical scope of the project, but not to extend the deadline (and I still had to fight to get support from other volunteers on the project).
- The one where the train was late.
- The one where the train was late.
- The one where the train was late.
- The one where the train was late (etc, etc, ad nauseum)
- The one where the rainy season started and everything I owned started to rot.
- The one where my favoutire sandals went so mouldy that they had to be thrown away.
- The one where our room in Rangamati became a totally and utterly disgusting pigsty. Three girls, ten bags, a lot of laziness. Add to this the start of the rains, and you can see why things went mouldy.
- The one where a lizard the size of my arm took up residence next to our bed. It was blue and red and just wholly unnatural. And the cheeky sod kept coming back night after night. This might have had something to do with the state of the aforementioned room, however…
- The one where we stood in a waterfall fully clothed, then nearly froze to death when we got caught by a storm in the middle of the Kaptai lake.
- The one where I nearly curled into a little ball and howled at the thought of having to sit through another focus group discussion of which I could understand only enough to become convinced that everyone was making a dreadful hash of it and talking about completely the wrong things in completely the wrong way.
- The on where we caught between buses in a rain storm in Chittagong. The ten bags and three umbrellas didn’t really help us out much.
- The one where we went on the highest road in Bangladesh! Admittedly it’s not that high, but still – I’d lived the last ten months without seeing so much as a hillock, so I found it quite thrilling.
- The one where Megan got appendicitis.


All in all, it was a bit of an adventure. Although I learned a lot and had a lot of laughs, it’ll be a while before I’ve got the strength to do something like this again…