While the nation voted, I went to the beauty parlour... (29/12/08)

The 29th December 2008 was a big day for Bangladesh. The first national elections in six years were held after a state of emergency that has lasted for almost two years was lifted on 17th December. After many delays, and much last-minute wrangling, the election was held peacefully on the 29th. While outside, voters and campaigners mingled on the streets, making the most of the national holiday declared for the election, I and my oh-so-politically-aware friends made a trip to the beauty parlor…

To give you a little background to the election: a caretaker government has been in control of Bangladesh since early 2007, when the serving prime minister (of the Bangladesh National Party) resigned at the increasingly acrimonious and volatile turn in relations between the government and its opposition, which threatened to destabilize the entire country and derail its economic development. The caretaker government has, since 2007, worked to eliminate corruption in Bangladeshi politics and reform the electoral system.

Needless to say, hopes for 2008 were high. Judgments of the caretaker government have been mixed to say the least, with some applauding the significant voter registration drive it conducted, purging millions of false or duplicate names from the electoral roll, and others pointing out that, despite its best efforts, the same people remain very much in control of politics in this country.

Khaleda Zia and Sheikh Hasina, leaders of the Bangladesh National Party and the Awami League respectively, have alternated in power since Bangladesh’s liberation in 1971. Both are related to former powerful Bengali/Bangladeshi politicians – Khaleda’s husband was General Zia********, while Hasina’s father was Bangabondhu, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, ‘the father of Bangladesh’. Despite the caretaker government’s best attempts to remove these two great women of Bangladeshi politics from the scene by imprisoning them both on corruption charges, it was unable to prevent them from leading their parties into the election.

Unsurprisingly (to anyone following the situation) the Awami League won. Hasina’s victory had been widely predicted in the days running up to the election, and greater support for the AL was certainly reflected in the allegiance of the majority of the rallies, marches and demonstrations I encountered in Dhaka and elsewhere. What was perhaps more surprising, however, was the scale of the party’s victory. The AL won by a triumphant two thirds landslide, leaving the BNP with seats in double figures. Although the majority of my friends and acquaintances here favoured the AL over the BNP because of its more liberal stance on most issues, the fact that the election was, essentially, a two-way contest between Khaleda Zia and Sheikh Hasina does beg the question: has anything changed? And perhaps more importantly, will anything change?

Alas, only time will tell, but as I sit here writing this in mid-January, it appears that any change that may occur is not going to be rapid.

****

Ever since our arrival in Bangladesh, we have been bombarded with security briefings and updates from VSOB, advising us of the changing dates of the upcoming national elections, and warning us to avoid large gatherings, rallies and marches, and to refrain from expressing support of a particular party in public. As the election drew nearer, the emails from VSOB grew in frequency and insistence: for the three day electoral period, we were to work from home and avoid busy public places; on election day itself, we were not to set foot outside, having previously stocked up on supplies.

Although it was quite possible that things would turn nasty after the election, and that VSOB needed to cover its back by advising all necessary precautions for volunteers, I decided to take all this advice with a pinch of salt. Partly this was because, in reality, avoiding rallies after the state of emergency was lifted on 17th December to allow campaigning to begin was simply not feasible. Although some campaigning was done via painfully loud megaphones hitched to rickshaws, which you could hear coming from miles away, rallies were wont to descend without warning, surround you within minutes, and disappear equally quickly. Bands of marching, chanting men (note that it was always men and boys I saw, never women) would appear around the corner and halt all other activity as they streamed past in a flurry of clapping, shouting and waving banners, then they would be gone again. Taking avoidance measures in such situations would have been completely impractical, unless of course I wanted to behave like a paranoid tourist and, shrieking, force my way out of the crowd and demand sanctuary somewhere nearby.

My glib attitude to security around the election also stemmed from slightly less logical sources. In the first place, in all the rallies I’d ever witnessed or been dragged into, no violence ensued. What’s more, the thing that I will now always associate with Bangladeshi politics is not rampaging mobs, but the white campaigning posters that were strung up like bunting in every street. I think this demonstrates quite well the peaceful nature of the pre-election period.

I know, of course, that the lack of violence I witnessed doesn’t mean that no violence would ever ensure, but in such an eventuality, I planned to rely on my trump card: my bideshi status. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not arrogant enough to think that being British and charming would win me immediate protection. But the fact is, foreigners in Bangladesh are afforded a number of special allowances and protections here, owing to the Bangladeshi sense of duty to one’s guests. I decided to trust that this would be enough get me out of any sticky situations.

And thus equipped with my blind faith in the Bangladeshi people’s hospitality, I boldly made my across Lalmatia on election day, to a beauty parlour in Dhanmondi. Part of me wishes this tale was more noble – that I flouted VSOB’s security guidelines for some worthy cause, like saving a child from a burning building. Part of me wishes it was more dramatic – I had to dodge raging mobs and gunfire to get to my destination.

Unfortunately (well, fortunately, really), no such situations presented themselves. Polling happened peacefully on the whole, and the streets were full of people milling about, enjoying the national holiday declared for the election and the surprisingly warm weather. I and my friends strolled to the beauty parlour, unmolested by angry crowds, and enjoyed our facials. While neither noble nor dramatic, this will be my abiding memory of these elections. For someone who prides herself on being interested in current affairs, it’s a little embarrassing to admit this. But as with so many things here, my expectations of both myself and the things around me are proving to be way off the mark.

We wish you a deshi Christmas (25/12/08)

Being swept up in the newness of everything, I hardly noticed that Christmas was just around the corner until I was on the night bus (huge error, by the way) heading for Dhaka in order to collect my arriving family from the airport.

Of course, there is no Christmas tat to contend with here, no rubbish Christmas music, no stress and no consumerist convulsions. For these things I am generally hugely grateful. But, much as I’m loathe to admit it, these things do hammer home a sense of Christmassy-ness that I really do love, even if they sometimes hammer it a little too hard (almost every year, hearing The Pogues one too many times makes me want to commit a violent crime). Needless to say, Christmas in Dhaka was going to take some work if it was to feel even vaguely like Christmas…

The Whitaker-Wylies arrived in Dhaka on 22nd December: cue an extremely happy reunion amidst a sea of returning hajjis. It was a little odd to have the fam in Bangladesh, in the way you often feel disorientated when two previously separated worlds collide, but it was also absolutely fantastic to see my parents and sister after such a long time (almost three months – probably the longest I’ve so far gone without seeing my parental units).

Interestingly, I think my dad had come to Bangladesh partly in order to escape Christmas (remember, this is the man who is primarily responsible for the fact that for the last few years, the Whitaker-Wylie Christmas dinner has been something like kebabs cooked on the barbecue outside). As a result, he was not particularly interested in the plans being cooked up in the VSO volunteer community to bring Christmas to Lalmatia.

Luckily this did nothing to limit our enthusiasm. Megan was a veritable powerhouse when it came to planning Christmas (I was busy running tours of Dhaka’s historical sights for the traveling bideshi show, aka, my family), and for this I will be eternally grateful.

Preparations for the Christmas period progressed swimmingly (again, I can’t claim any credit here. Thanks are due to Megan, Ollie, Laura and others). Ollie had gone all out on the alcohol-buying front, and we had a true cavern of delights, consisting of Heineken, Bangladeshi vodka, several litres of Bangla pani (literally meaning ‘Bangla water’, but actually referring to the potent rice wine brewed by indigenous peoples, especially in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, and semi-legally transported by VSO volunteers stationed in the CHT in 7-Up bottles), and – fanfare please – WHITE WINE. Yes, Scal had managed to procure a few sweet bottles of vin blanc, of vino bianco.

Seriously, it’s things like this that tempt me to believe that there is, in fact, a god.

Anyway. For Christmas Eve, we had a Christmas Decorations Party. Keith brought a miniature tree his aunt had sent him from the States. Megan had bought felt tips, blue tack and paper, and everyone got massively excited about making snow flakes and paper chains, which were then elaborately hung around the flat. Someone even bought snow in can, which brought a magical few seconds as we sprayed it around the tree, only to discover that the ‘snow’ was lilac, had the consistency of shaving foam, and evaporated in a matter of minutes. Megan – goddess of organization and brilliant Christmas ideas – had decided to make something that she named ‘Potent Pagla Pani Punch’ (forgive me if I haven’t got the name exactly right, Megbo!). This consisted of Bangla pani (natch), mango juice, 7-Up, apples, oranges and star fruit. It obviously went down a storm…

I thought things couldn’t get any better after that party. But how wrong I was!

On Christmas Day, the festivities kicked off with a Christmas brunch. No expense was spared. Scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, toast, honey, peanut butter, jam, pancakes, cheese (yes, for the love of God, CHEESE!) were devoured alongside obligatory cans of Heineken and glasses of white wine. None of this might sound particularly exciting to anyone in the UK, but when you have been denied such delights for a few months, suddenly, even bland cheese and vinegary white wine become like ambrosia.

In the evening, the VSO induction flat hosted its second party in two days (god bless VSOB for finding a flat in a building where no-one complains about the noise). Apparently, in the last few years, Christmas amongst volunteers has been fairly fragmented, with the Kenyans, Ugandans, British, Filipinas etc celebrating separately. But not this year, oh no! Everyone came over bearing a dish, and we got down to some serious eating, drinking and dancing. To cap it all off, Scal made his debut as Santa, in a costume constructed from red cotton and cotton wool, dishing out Christmas beers to all and sundry. Oh the japes!

That I spent Christmas 2008 in Dhaka, where it was 20 degrees outside, with so many wonderful new friends and my family around me, eating food from eight different countries and dancing the night away to lilting, eternally cheerful Kenyan and Ugandan pop music, have really made me reconsider my take on Christmas. I don't even like turkey.

Grinding my teeth, Part Two: Adjusting to Bangla Time (16/12/08)

16/12/08
Grinding my teeth
Part 2: Adjusting to Bangla time

When I first arrived here, I was surprised how quickly my jet lag wore off. However, two months in and the painful transition to Bangla time – or the wholly different work ethic here – is still ongoing.

I think, in order for you to really feel my hair-tearing, teeth-grinding, head-banging-against-brick-wall frustration, I’ll give you a couple of reflections to mull over…

- How does anyone plan anything when no-one has a diary? (Believe me, it’s not because they don’t have diaries, NGOs spend lots of money on company diaries, but NO-ONE USES THEM). A certain person (who shall not be named) has likened a certain organization close to us (that shall also not be named) as behaving like Wiley Coyote – i.e. not all that wiley, really, when you consider how Wiley Coyote appears to rush from one slightly dodgy idea to another, without engaging in sufficient monitoring and evaluation of his previous mess-up.
- If the tailor says your shalwar kameez will be ready in a week, allow ten days. They’ll always have an excuse.
- How can anyone get anything done when, in order to make any decisions of significance, the director (who spends at least 80% of his/her time elsewhere) must be present? (Answer: no-one can get anything done)
- If someone says that they’ll meet with you after lunch, what they really mean is: they might meet with you at some point in the near future (for near, read: within the next fortnight, or perhaps week if you really pester hard), if your paths happen to cross.
- Perhaps the reason everyone works ridiculous hours here – not because of the pace and intensity of the work load – but because of the lack of familiarity with the concept of time management that is generally displayed. A sixty minute introductory session is no barrier to someone who wants to give a forty minute oration touching on everything from our common humanity to the American presidential elections, despite the fact they know that they’ve made a power point presentation that will take at least 45 minutes to go through painstakingly, word for word, and that lunch stops at half past one (can you feel the tension?).
- If I have to watch one more person answer their mobile phone loudly in an inappropriate work context, I think I will do something that probably constitutes a crime (seriously: formal introduction to serious meeting, given by director in rare appearance, mid-speech…)
- Even when you’re clearly in a hurry (the bus you’re supposed to be on is pulling away behind you), shopkeepers will insist on wrapping your purchase in newspaper incredibly tidily, and incredibly neatly tying it with brown string to create a handle for you to transport your goods with greater ease (which is handy, as now you have to sprint an extremely undignified thirty yards to catch up with your departing bus).

I could go on indefinitely. I could, but I won’t. I don’t want to bore you.

Those of you who know me will know that I’m quite fond of organization (to put it mildly), so my frustration at this disorganization may not surprise you too much. But I really am trying my hardest to be chilled out, and to roll with the different cultural norms here in the ‘desh. I really am, honestly. Just don’t use this entry as evidence against me if I am tipped over the edge…

Grinding my teeth, Part One: What am I doing here? 15/12/08

(A disclaimer: I’m feeling somewhat bitter and frustrated right now, so apologies if this post turns into a rant.)

Realizing that I haven’t yet written anything about the work I’m ostensibly here to do, I suppose I ought to say something. Although I’ve only been in placement just over a month, I’m quickly becoming acquainted with the joys and frustrations of working in development, and in particular, working in development in Bangladesh.

So: a brief outline of what I’m here to do is probably in order for those of you who don’t already know/didn’t pay attention to my lengthy explanations. I’m here working through VSO, an international development organization that works in 34 countries around the world through skilled volunteers. Although it’s a British charity, VSO also has recruitment offices in Kenya, the Netherlands, India, the Philippines and Canada, hence the mix of volunteers I’m working alongside. In each of its target countries, VSO works through partnership: in Bangladesh, this means there is a central program office in Dhaka, but volunteers are placed with a range of smaller, national and local NGOs all around the country. VSO Bangladesh focuses on three of VSO’s strategic areas: good governance; HIV and AIDS; and indigenous community rights.

My placement is with an indigenous rights organization based in north west Bangladesh called Gram Bikash Kendra (literally, Village Development Centre), which has been working with adivasi (indigenous) communities since 1992. It also has programs in various other areas, such as working with harijan communities (otherwise derogatorily known as sweeper or dalit communities). GBK is fairly large and quite well-established by local standards, and has had at least two previous VSO volunteers before Ollie and I arrived.

Now, what exactly are you here to do? I hear you cry. Well, prepare for a tirade, dear reader... I have no idea. One month in, and I have not a clue. I’m a pretty flexible and adaptable person (one of VSO’s recruitment requirements that they hammer home to you until your sick of hearing it), but even my flexibility is eroded by the intensity of my frustration. When I accepted my placement, it was on the basis of a pretty vague outline of what I’d be doing: capacity building for an indigenous rights organization, including documentation, communication, fundraising, networking and advocacy. Given the massively nebulous nature of most of the words in the above description, I accepted the placement on the assumption that all placement outlines are equally vague. Little did I know, mine would be more vague than I’d thought possible…

During induction, I met several times with my VSO manager and GBK’s executive director, to discuss the details of my placement in more depth. It was only two days before I actually left for the north that VSO decided to inform me that I’d be doing something quite different from what I’d first envisaged. They’d told me initially that I’d be working to build the capacity of GBK’s partner organizations (GBK works through 5 partners of its own – very small-scale community based organizations that work in different geographical areas with adivasi communities), in order that they would be able to work more effectively with local government. GBK would be ‘hosting’ my placement, but I wouldn’t actually be working directly for them. Quite a complicated aim, for sure, but something I could certainly have a stab at.

Then, VSO tell me that, in addition to working with these partners, they also want me to work with about ten of their own partners, based in several different parts of the country and which work in the area of good governance. Now, given that most volunteers work with four NGOs tops, I reckon working with sixteen is quite a tall order, especially when you consider that:
1. Many of these NGOs have no English speakers working for them
2. They are hundreds of miles apart
3. It takes time to build up a rapport with one NGO, let alone sixteen
4. I have no clear idea who I’d accountable to and where professional support comes from (VSO or GBK?)
5. VSO seem unwilling to give me a firm idea of what they want me to do, and GBK don’t seem to care

And so here I am. One month in, and generally not a clue as to what I’m supposed to be doing. Of course, I understand that adapting to a different culture takes time, and that things are done at a different pace here (see next entry), and that it’s important to do things in as participatory a manner as possible (i.e. I’m not going to decide my objectives unilaterally, but try to work them out on the basis of the needs of VSO, GBK and all the partner organizations), but unless I get a little more direction soon, I am going to wind up insane.

9/12/08 Eid ul-Azha, or Eating my own body weight in meat

Today was Eid ul-Azha, or Korbani Eid, which roughly translates as slaughtering or sacrificial Eid. It’s linked to that episode where God or Allah (depending on which version of the story you subscribe to) asks Abraham or Ibrahim to sacrifice his most beloved son, Isaac, and right before he goes through with it, an animal is substituted in Isaac’s place.

Anyway, whatever the back story, the central focus of Eid ul-Azha, aside from a whole bunch of praying, is butchery. Sadly (or not, perhaps), I didn’t witness a single slaughter, compared to Ollie’s two. But I did see a whole lot of carcasses, blood and dismembered body parts. And I did eat a hell of a lot of meat.

For the past week, Ollie and I have been fielding invitations left, right and centre, to spend Eid with various different people, and our social calendar was chocka with visits all over Parbatipur. Because of all the butchering, the logical conclusion of this is that there is also a lot of eating. And I mean A LOT. So I’ll break it down meal by meal, to give you an idea of my day.

1. I ate breakfast with Meena, my landlady, while her family was out at namaj, or prayers, (this was a bit of a sore point for me, as I was desperate to watch the prayers, which happen in a huge field, with lots of celebration afterwards, but my genitalia apparently excluded me from attending). Anyway, breakfast was a delicious milky sweet concoction made with noodles, eaten with rice flour ruti, and then some pulao (rice cooked with oil) and beef.

2. Then, I went to GBK’s director’s family home with Ollie, Sarah (our GBK counterpart) and her husband and niece, as they are all Christian so weren’t celebrating at home. We took a 45-minute rickshaw ride through beautiful, quiet countryside that was all mud huts and paddy fields. This idyll was, however, interspersed with groups of villagers surrounding bloody, gradually dismembered cow carcasses. It was a bizarre sight, to see men tearing out internal organs or hacking through spinal columns at five minute intervals (I will upload some photos as soon as I can). There, we ate more misti with rice-flour bread.

3. About an hour later, we were called back from our repose for lunch. This was possibly the freshest beef I have ever eaten – literally two hours before it had been mooing in the yard. And, sorry cow, but it was delicious! Again, it was served with pulao, vegetables and ruti.

4. After some rest, we jumped back on the van and headed back into town. From there, Ollie and I went to another colleague, Alam’s house. I could hardly walk from all the food I’d consumed, so had to refuse the offer of more beef. But Alam-bhai insisted I ate some rice pudding, which was delicious.

5. Next, I headed home to spend some more time with Meena and her family. For the previous few days, I’d been kept awake by the bleating of a goat in the front yard of my building. Now the goat was no longer in the yard, but in a huge cooking pot. And, again, it just tasted so good! I ate a plate of goat meat, with yet more pulao, but at least Meena relented when I told her I really could not eat another thing.

6. I allowed myself a ten-minute lie down before dragging myself round to Ollie’s, where we had long ago promised Helal that we’d eat dinner at his uncle’s house. When they whipped the lids of several huge pots of goat, beef, pulao and vegetables, my stomach actually heaved at the thought of putting more food in it. But I couldn’t refuse to eat without appearing rude, so I ate. Again.

Six meals of pure meat later, my concerns about developing a protein deficiency were firmly laid to rest. I don’t know that I’ll ever be hungry again. The only problem is, I’ve already accepted invitations to lunch and dinner tomorrow…

The nightlife of Parbatipur 08/12/08

The title of this post might be somewhat optimistic in hindsight. Parbatipur isn’t exactly a raving hotspot, and what ‘nightlife’ there is, is firmly over by 9pm. Despite this my diary seems to be fuller here than it ever was at home, and whoever said that they would’ve had a better nightlife in any other VSO country than Bangladesh was clearly doing something wrong.

I’ve already written about the amazing hospitality here, but what it essentially means is that, if I choose to, I might never have a free evening or weekend.

This afternoon, for instance, Ollie and I took a walk through the bazaar because I was having a tea-craving (probably just a sugar crash). After a nice cup of dudh cha (milky tea), we wandered on. But, as we don’t exactly blend into the crowd here, we inevitably bumped into a number of acquaintances. Three cups of tea and several misti later, my hands were starting to shake from all the sugar. We had met with a friend who works at the LAMB (mission) hospital, a guy that we’d once shared a rickshaw ride with, and who introduced us to the head of the local government, and everyone had insisted that we take tea with them. Sadly, I don’t know the Bangla for “I’ve eaten too much”, so I’m sure to end up a diabetic by the time I arrive home.

Last night we had a particularly interesting evening. Ollie’s landlord Helal informed us at 6 o’clock that we were going to meet the Mayor. Although I’d been looking forward to an evening to myself, I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to refuse this invitation. So half an hour later, off we trot with Helal, his wife Moyna and their five-year-old, Raisa.

The Mayor is the eldest of the Haq brothers, who are, by their own account, the local elite. This was not hard to believe: they live in a huge compound on the edge of Parbatipur with their wives and children, and their sisters’ families to boot. Because it is Eid tomorrow, although most of the family live in Dhaka, they were all back for the party. I was introduced to about a million people, and can now recall just one name.

Interestingly, this was the first house I’ve visited in Bangladesh where the women covered their heads on seeing Ollie, and who refused to shake his hand. It was also the first place in which I was ushered inside to hang out with the girls, while Ol was taken off to talk business and politics (presumably) with the men. I quite liked this, because it was nice to get to know the women of the house – when men are present they tend to dominate the conversation, which seems to be because of female deference and lower levels of English being spoken by women. The latter point means it’s also great practice for my Bangla. (An aside on this subject: I find it really odd when people say things like ‘Oh, you’ll get to see a really interesting side of Bangladeshi life that most people don’t get to see’. Surely this reflects a fair amount of bias, as by ‘most people’ they can really only be referring to 50% of the population, and not, in fact, ‘most people’ at all… )

At dinner we were served by the women of the house, despite the fact that they have an army of helpers, and we ate completely separately from everyone who lives there. This is one disconcerting aspect of Bangladeshi hospitality: as a guest, you don’t eat with the rest of the household. They bring you food then sit and watch while you eat it, which means you have to keep an eye on yourself, checking your table manners and facial expressions so that you don’t horribly offend someone).

After another absolutely delicious meal, we were taken upstairs to one of the family’s bedrooms, and here we finally met the Mayor himself. I can’t remember his name for the life of me, but essentially he’s a caricature of everything you would hope for in a small-town mayor. He had a massive black moustache that was slightly longer and pointed downwards at the corners, in a way that reminded me strangely of Manuel from Faulty Towers. His belly was suitably prominent beneath his navy blazer, which had shiny gold buttons on the lapels and the cuffs. And he had a flashy mobile phone with the loudest ringtone I’ve ever heard in all my days, which he answered every five minutes in the style of Dom Joley.

And then we were served yet more food (steamed cakes made from flaked rice powder, with date molasses. Oh heaven!) and tea, before finally being released to stagger home.

Although perhaps not quite a typical evening in Parbatipur (after all, it’s not every day we dine with government officials, but as Ollie pointed out, if you’re anyone in this town, we’ll have met you), most evenings are similarly full of company and food; and while this might not be quite the nightlife I left behind, I’m certainly enjoying it.

29/11/08 Turning 22

I’d just like to take this opportunity to record the fact that I celebrated my 22nd birthday lying beside a swimming pool in the late afternoon sunshine, sipping on a cool 7-Up (I was nursing a pretty serious hangover, otherwise I would surely have been drinking a cocktail).

For someone whose birthday is in (English) November, the idea of a pool party was never really on the cards. So to celebrate in this way was pretty special for me. The night before, I’d gone to a party at the Nordic club, which is a really nice expat club in Gulshan, with Laura, Job and Ollie. There was loud live music (terrible), a Dj (good enough), a canopy of fairy lights (enchanting) and lots of dancing (exactly what I needed). It was perfect, save for the fact that so many people I love were so far away. Everyone else there was also immaculately dressed (how do they all have so many nice clothes with them?!), so I felt rather like a scrubber in my flipflops and one of the two dresses that I have with me in Bangladesh. But I was having too much fun to care.

After our sojourn beside the pool the next day, I went to Job’s flat (he’s another VSO volunteer, from Kenya) and we cooked some great African beef and ugali (a Kenyan staple made from maize flour). So we ate, drank rice wine and Bangladeshi vodka, and danced the night away. Again.