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.

23/11/08 The Grand Pancake Party of Parbatipur

Bearing in mind the overwhelming generosity of everyone here, I decided that I’d have to make some attempt at returning all the countless favors. Given that my neighbors never accept my protestations that I make the tea this evening, I decided that drastic action was necessary. And thus, the grand pancake party was conceived.

Since I’ve been here, cooking has taken on a much greater significance in my life than ever before. At home, food shopping is simple and cooking doesn’t need to require much thought at all. Here, however, when you don’t know the Bangla names of half the vegetables, and the other half is totally unrecognizable to you, things become a lot more complicated. Add to this basic problems such as the fact that my cooking utensils are basic (Tefal? What Tefal?), and I initially had no idea what to do with my rubbish, problems loom (I actually spent a lot of one night awake, wondering what to do with my rubbish. No exaggeration). One thing I remembered from Nepal, however, was that pancakes are really pretty straightforward to make: the ingredients are obvious, and they don’t require much technology to produce, so I have had many a banana pancake for breakfast.

When Momo caught me a-pancake-flipping one day, and I realized she’d never seen a pancake before, I decided to invite her and her family round the next evening, so that they could taste some ingreji pitha (English cake). And so the next night, I whipped up a batch of my best, unburnt pancakes and laid the table. Unfortunately, I lacked enough plates for everyone to have a big one, so Momo diplomatically insisted that we take the big plate of pancakes next door to eat them. But I think everybody enjoyed them. Rafat ate his with about a hundred-weight of sugar on top. Ratna called her friend Lily from over the road, and she came over with her daughter.

And from that day on, whenever I meet someone new when I’m with Ratna, she introduces me as the bideshi who made ingreji pitha for her. It’s also one of the reasons that she insists that I am khub bhalo (very good): I made English cakes, I will eat achar (pickle), and I do not to kiss boys or let them touch me. Note I didn’t say that I actually am good – just that I let them think I am…

21/11/08 My neighbors

There are days here when I don’t spend more than ten minutes inside my flat from the moment I arrive home till the moment I go to sleep. As soon as I get home from the office, my neighbors pounce, and so begins my evening...

When they hear my footsteps on the stairs, Momo, Rafat and Laboni (the kids from next door and their fifteen-year old ‘helper’) come spilling out of their flat to say hello, then follow me into my flat. The first time this happened, I was little bit taken aback – after all, it’s such an un-English thing to do, to wander into someone’s home uninvited, and rifle through their things, asking countless questions about where things are from and how much they cost and whether I could buy an (insert random item of clothing, make-up, jewellery, crockery here) for them the next time I’m in Dhaka. But I’ve grown used to the company of the kids from next door, their mother, Ratna, and pretty much all the women in a 20 meter radius of my flat. They come over to my flat to chat about what everyone has done on that particular day (either housework or studying in their case, going to the office in mine), what everyone has eaten that day (always bhat – or boiled rice – for them, usually bhat for me too), and what everyone will be doing that evening (they will generally be staying at home and cooking, and I will either be cooking at home or at Ollie’s flat).

One of the first things we were told during induction was that the concept of privacy is somewhat different here. This made me a bit nervous, as I’ve always thought of myself as someone who really needs her own space. However, to my great surprise I’ve come to depend on these small exchanges (for instance, now that it is Eid ul-Azha and everyone has gone back to their villages, I feel horribly alone!). I don’t know how to fill my evenings anymore, unless my free time is interspersed with tea and snacks next door, or shouted conversations between balconies, or a 20-minute explanation of who is who in the photos I brought from home, or a visit to one of the houses across the way. Given that my Bangla is still rudimentary, to put it politely, my conversation certainly lacks any je ne sais quois, and the same subjects are always discussed: my country, my marital status, my job, how long I will stay, whether I’m interested in marrying a Bangladeshi man, and whether I or my parents will choose who I marry, in that order.

But none of this seems to matter. My neighbors treat me with such genuine curiosity and kindness that I cannot seem to say no, when they ring my door bell and want me to teach them card games, or let them try on my English clothes, or come over for tea.
- Momo is my lifeline – she’s nine years old, and has enough English that she can serve as a translator when my Bangla comes to a juddering halt.
- Her brother Rafat is five, and completely beautiful. I’ve never seen a kid eat so much sugar in all my days (literally, by the handful, straight from the jar), and remain pleasant.
- Laboni, their helper, speaks very little English and is generally ordered around by everyone. She’s feisty though, and when she wants something (like having a go with my skipping rope), she’ll get it.
- Hanan is Momo and Rafat’s father. I don’t see him too much, as he works late, but he is very mild mannered, and is always scolding his kids for bothering me.
- Ratna is their mother, and I adore her. She also scolds the kids for their incessant curiosity, but she is probably more curious than they are about me. She has admired my rice-cooker endlessly, and told all her friends about it. She admired one of my shalwar kameez for weeks until she asked me to get her one from Dhaka – and then, when I did, was completely over the moon. She is also very interested in Western ways: she’s now asked on multiple occasions whether I kiss boys, either English or Bangladeshi, and whether I or my friends let boys touch us; and whether I, my friends or my family drink alcohol).

Although before I would’ve thought that this constant curiosity would annoy the hell out of me, I actually find it completely endearing. Yes, it’s quite tiring because I’m always on my best behavior, and must always be ready to answer the door (i.e. I must be fully clothed and with my flat in a decent state), but really, I just enjoy the company. Yes, there’s a language barrier which slows everything down, but I do feel like I’m making some genuine friends. And if my neighbors weren’t so great, I’m not sure I could stay here.

This is not to say everything’s been hunky dory; indeed, there have been several highly embarrassing moments. I’ll give you two prime examples:
1. When Ratna and Lily discovered the photobook that a friend from home so loving made for me (oh Kinch, I miss you so much!). It contains several pictures that involve nudity and semi-nudity, and I was terrified that they would be outraged at my lack of morality and storm from the flat. Far from it, in fact: they were both highly amused, and sent their kids away so they could look and point and giggle some more.
2. On rummaging through my drawers in search of crazy English things, Momo and Laboni stumbled upon my supply of tampons, and asked, as they had of everything else in there, what these were. Sadly, my Bangla was not up to such an explanation, and my dignity was not up to even an attempt at an explanation, so I just muttered that I didn’t know how to say it in Bangla, and shut the drawer.

But I figure that, actually, the embarrassment is all mine, and it’s all part of the process anyway. So, for now, I’m happy to have my ‘privacy’ invaded at every opportunity; I’m happy to have company at every possible moment. Sure, I’ll get sick of it at some point, but for now, I’m glad to have left the English definition of ‘privacy’ behind.

19/11/08 Misti and cha, or Eating my own body weight in sugar

19/11/08
Misti and cha, or Eating my own body weight in sugar

Before arriving here, I’d heard that Bangladeshi hospitality was second to none. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I thought, sure that it would be nothing out of the ordinary. But, as so often in this new adventure of mine, I was wrong.

Pretty much everywhere you go here, someone will appear within moments with a tray of food that they will insist you devour, pronto. This can range from crisps, to puffed rice with molasses, to freshly made cakes, to bread and jam, to noodles, to achar (pickle, usually very sour or very spicy) to pieces of curried beef, to fresh fruit, to jalebi (amazing squiggley sweets, that are deep fried and which ooze sugar syrup when you bite into them) and any number of other delectable Bangla misti. You cannot refuse – mainly because the food is so good, but also because you don’t want to seem rude. And no thanks will be accepted – everyone seems to feel like being so amazingly generous is their duty.

Off to the sticks 14/11/08

If you’ve read this far, congratulations. After a mammoth effort, I think I’m now mainly up to date. My last week in Dhaka was a flurry of Bangla classes, training, shopping, packing and several scintillating social engagements.

Now, I sit here writing all this from the dining room of my swish new pad. Well, ‘swish’ might not be the right word, but it’s pretty great all the same. It’s cool here – not cold, as all the locals insist, wrapping themselves up as if it were Bonfire night – but blissfully not hot.

Ollie and I arrived here in Parbatipur on Friday afternoon, horribly hungover from our leaving party the night before. We were greeted at our new office, the headquarters of Gram Bikash Kendra (meaning Village Development Centre) by Sarah and Mukul. They are program managers in GBK, and are both young, friendly and have good English. We were given flowers, then tea, then snacks, then driven to our new homes.

I have, for the first time in my life, a flat of my own. It has far too much space for only me, and definitely not enough furniture for entertaining, but I like it all the same. There is an open plan dining room, from which all the other rooms open. There is a small but adequate kitchen which I spent yesterday night scrubbing from top to bottom; my bedroom, which has an en suite bathroom; a dressing room, so-called because all there is in it is a chest of drawers and a clothes rail; and a ‘sitting room’, so-called because I don’t know what else to call it – it’s huge and has two balconies, but is empty except for a blue plastic table and bookcase.

My landlord is an amazing lady called Meena. She told me that she will be my Bangladeshi mother, and her sons will be my brothers. On my first night, when I got home from dinner, she ushered me into her lovely flat, which is directly below mine, and plied me with sweets, fruit, crackers and tea until I couldn’t eat anymore. Although my Bangla is terrible, she has quite a bit of English so we had a little chat about our families and our home towns. The people who live in this building are all extremely friendly and curious about me: what I’m doing, how long I’m here, my family, whether I’m married or fancy getting married in Bangladesh, what religion I am (I say Christian to make things easier than explain agnosticism)… I do my best to answer all their questions, but I need to improve my Bangla pronto, or our meetings will soon get boring.

For the last two days, Scannie and I have been getting to know people in the GBK office. Every morning, we are picked up from our flats and driven on the back of motorbikes to the office, which is about 1 mile from my house. We’ve been shown around and introduced to countless people, none of whose names I can remember. Everyone is really friendly, but also really busy. Also, after the top level of staff, the amount of English spoken really declines. I need a Bangla teacher, and I need one fast!

Everything is massively overwhelming still. I can now get from a (my house) to b (the office) via c (the main road), but beyond that I’m still at a loss. We walked back from the office today, and by the end of the trip my face ached from smiling. I still have NO idea what I’ll actually be doing, and I still feel like that I’m horribly under prepared for what is to come, but as everyone keeps saying: you have to do things here aste aste (slowly, slowly), and I’ve got at least a year in which to figure this whole thing out.

Shaking our booties to funky house (or, The Ministry of Sound, Dhaka-stylee) 6/11/08

Yes, as unbelievable as it sounds, I tell no lies: On Thursday night I was persuaded, against my better judgment, to large it up at the Westin at a Ministry of Sound night. After spending the afternoon and evening hanging out in the Bagha club, and imbibing a large quantity of gin (expat guilt be hanged, I was stressed out), Laura used the ‘well, we’re leaving Dhaka in 7 days’ argument to persuade me that what I really wanted to do with my Thursday night was get wasted and dance in one of the most surreal experiences of my whole life.

How to convey how confusing this night really was?! The Ministry of Sound, in all their wisdom, selected the Westin Hotel as the location for this shindig. This was probably for lack of alternatives, but still, it was an odd arrangement. Picture, if you will, a function room in a fancy hotel. More than half the room is filled with tables covered in white table cloths, giving the whole affair the feel of a wedding reception or a slightly stuffy prom. Although the dance floor was tiny, at least there was a dance floor and people were dancing. The music was apparently ‘funky house’ – not to my taste really, but good enough to dance to. And dance we did!

Megan, Laura and I were with some friends of Megan’s and some friends of theirs from the Bagha. All of them were very lovely, but the minute any of them left to get drinks, we girls were surrounded by guys dancing in a variety of entertaining ways. (The clientele was mainly men, some much older than I would expect to see at a funky house night, some pretty young-looking. There were a few women, but in comparison to English clubbing, it was pretty strange to be one of the only girls there). To entertain ourselves when things got dull, we taught some of the extremely enthusiastic young men dancing near us a highly cool funky house version of ‘heads, shoulders, knees and toes’. What can I say, they lapped it up!


LATER – things get more surreal…

The next morning, I’d been invited to a fancy lunch in Gulshan by an expat friend of Rhori and Eli’s (two Filippina volunteers). This was all well and good, except for the fact that, naturally, Laura, Megan and I were all extremely hungover from our escapades the night before. After a completely wonderful meal (I am going on a gastric tour of the Philippines – the food is just aMAzing), the karaoke microphone is brought out, and I freeze like a rabbit in the headlights of some extremely enthusiastic karaoke singers. Actually, Megan freezes too, so there we are, crouched in the headlights of impending doom, waiting for our turn with the microphone (apparently, everyone must sing – it breaks the ice and is good for you. Ha!).

As most of you know, I really definitely cannot sing. Yes, I might like to do it melodramatically from time to time, but I’ve inflicted my terrible singing on enough people to know that it’s something I can’t do well. You’ll all be mortified to learn, then, that I became addicted to karaoke. After my initial solo rendition of Chiquitita, I developed a passion for karaoke power ballads. Four hours later, I’d done them all: Total eclipse of the heart, Can you feel the love tonight?, and My heart will go on (my personal favourite, for which the karaoke machine gave me 96%!)

Although it proved to be a fun afternoon (well, maybe not for everyone: I don’t know if Megan will ever be able to listen to a power ballad again), it only compounded my addled state of mind. What on earth was I doing, hanging out in fancy Gulshan, singing karaoke at the top of my lungs, with a group of grown up women with a predilection for the most corny power ballads ever – having a complete whale of a time!? I suppose it’s just one more part of being flexible and adaptable in this crazy new life of mine…

Go Obama, go! 5/11/08

It has been too long since I last updated my blog, so prepare for something of an epic…

What a day! We woke up here in Dhaka on the 5th as the results were just coming in. Like excited kids, Megan and I went to the office an hour earlier than usual to check the headlines every two minutes. We were in the middle of a session on ‘VSOB Policies and Practices’ when Keith got a message from his friend in the US, saying that it looked like Obama had won.

It was strange to be so excited about something that was happening so far away, which probably won’t have a directly significant effect on my life, but I wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the office seemed jubilant. Several of us were a little tearful.

And the strange thing was, all over the city people knew about Obama’s victory, and were pleased about it! Megan’s CNG driver could even quote the Electoral College figures.

In celebration of this monumental day, I had my first encounter with Bangladesh’s dodgy illicit-alcohol scene. The Galaxy Bar is probably the shadiest establishment I’ve ever set foot in. To gain entry, you have to get past tens of ‘security guards’, who are pretty shifty looking characters. I think only by virtue of being bideshis did we escape a full body search… Inside, the bar is completely dark, save for the flickering light of a couple of TV screens. Men sit drinking in ones and twos on low leather chairs. They watch silently, unmoving, as we stumble past (needless to say, Loz and I were the only ladies present). After ascertaining that imported vodka and whiskey are three times the price of Bangladesh’s own, we opt for the latter, and are presented with two bottles of (apparently) 75% proof vodka, carefully and politely wrapped in brown paper bags.

And so we celebrated this day in style, with vodka and 7up. Chin chin to Barack.

Four bideshis cause a scene in the sticks 3/11/08

This last weekend, we had our exposure visit – a whirlwind trip to visit a volunteer who has been out in placement for a while already. And my, what a whirlwind it was…

Half the group went north, to Sylhet and the tea estates. As for me, I went south to Patuakhali, to visit Rhori who works with four community based organizations (CBOs) in the Good Governance programme area.

Patuakhali is a small town, not far from the Bay of Bengal coastline. It’s not particularly far from Dhaka, but is separated from the capital by a maze of waterways that finally gave meaning to the oft-repeated description of Bangladesh as a ‘riverine’ country. It took us 13 aching, non-AC hours to get there (due to a 4-hour wait for one of three ferries). However, it was the most pleasant journey I’ve made by public bus in South Asia: the weather was perfect, and as the roads are pretty much straight and flat, there was a delightful breeze from the 80mph we were traveling at.

Having spent the last weeks dodging traffic and choking on exhaust fumes in Dhaka, it was unbelievably refreshing to escape to the countryside. The first thing you notice is the sheer green-ness of it all. ‘Green’ isn’t enough of a word to describe the myriad colours of all that vegetation – it’s just everywhere, every open space is occupied by trees and flowers and paddy and creepers and endless other types of natural growth. What with all the ponds, streams, canals, rivers and lakes, you’re just overcome by the verdant glory of this country.

The second most noticeable feature is the sheer abundance of people. There are no unoccupied spaces: it’s just one village after another. And between each settlement, the roads are just full of people and rickshaws. Probably unsurprisingly now, everywhere we went, we drew stares. I suppose we were more noticeable than in Dhaka. I suppose trying the old three people to a rickshaw trick for the first time was bound to draw more attention, especially when it was three bideshis in a small town where there are no other bideshis, and when the bideshi on top has ridiculous ginger hair, and when it’s 10pm and all other women disappeared from the streets hours ago. I suppose we were probably asking for it. Probably.

Wringing my hands
It was a real eye-opener to actually meet ‘the community’, as those people that VSO’s partners work with are respectfully referred to. After a long bus journey and an endless rickshaw ride down narrow muddy lanes between paddy fields, we finally arrived at the Muslim Para village. Greeted by a congregation of women seated in a clearing among corrugated iron sheds, we were confronted with a list of the community’s problems, read out by an appointed spokesman. Covering every conceivable problem that could face a deprived community, we were then asked if we had any advice for them. The awkward and rather stunned silence that followed was not one of my proudest moments: I could only mumble about being sorry, before we were quickly hussled on to see the next part of the organisation’s work.

This whole experience was then repeated later that night, when an entire char-dweller community was roused from its roadside shacks in order to meet us. I’ve never felt more helpless and useless than when I was introduced to some particularly poor members of this community, by way of an illustration of their problems. Char-dwellers are those who live on small spits of land or banks, created by the erosion of rivers and the accumulation of silt. Over time, the chars are washed away by the natural development of the river, taking these people’s homes and possessions with them. Some of the women I met have lost their homes six or seven times since cyclone Sidre in 2007. Many make a living making string out of discarded plastic bags, for which they are paid less than 50p per day.

All in all, it was an overwhelming and moving experience that really upset me. But it also made me realize, for the first time really, that perhaps my being here is genuinely one way of helping, in whatever small way I can.

Confessions of a guilty expat

Two brief experiences in the last week have shown me what expatriate life can be, and taught me that I’m not exactly comfortable living this kind of life.

The first was our visit to the British High Commission. Despite my joy at the gin, and my ogling of the tantalizing swimming pool, I experienced distinctly mixed feelings at being their. While it might be a nice place to retreat if everything gets a bit much, it strikes me as odd that you’d want to spend much more than an occasional afternoon there. The place is so removed from what the rest of Dhaka is like, it felt a little like I’d temporarily left Bangladesh for some sort of heated up version of the UK.

What’s more, the guy who did our security briefing added to my reservations. I don’t which was my favourite comment: that Bangladeshis don’t have anything better to do than stare at foreigners walking down the street (about the staring culture), or that Bangladesh is grateful to Britain for its education system/civil service/law and order situation. With that last comment, I think there’s a pretty good chance that he was just attempting to rile us up, as do-gooding volunteers who leap onto their high horses at any invitation. But as for the first… it does raise some interesting questions.

My second flutter of guilt came when we made our abortive visit to the Bagha Club on Friday. Again, a potentially quite attractive place after months in the villages, but the whole experience left us all feeling a little uncomfortable. Perhaps we simply haven’t been here long enough to appreciate the purpose it serves (in fact, I reckon this is fairly likely); but again, that feeling of incongruity returned. The fact that we spent about 2000 taka each in one night (a monumental sum by local standards) made me feel terribly frivolous and wasteful. And while it was highly interesting, to mingle with the local expat community and meet lots of new and interesting people, part of me felt a little uncomfortable being there.
Probably, these feelings are my fresh-faced idealism showing through. Idealism that can be fresh-faced because it’s only been here 15 days. And probably I will learn to love the expat scene. But at the moment, I think I shall be retaining my 40 quid for when I’m desperate for some home comforts.

Two elections in the 'desh 26/10/08

Politics has been on my mind a lot over the last few weeks. After multiple briefings and some careful perusals of English newspapers, I am slowly building up a general idea of the background to the national elections due to take place here on 18th December after a 18-month long state of emergency. Then, of course, there is the US election in less than a fortnight, and everyone here is really interested in it. Whenever Trish or Keith reveal the fact that they’re American, someone will inevitably make a comment along the lines of ‘George Bush – na, Barack Obama – ji’ (this is a direct quote from a stall holder I haggled over the price of beans with the other day). It still seems strange to me that an election in a country so far away should be followed so closely by everyone here. Obviously, it’s fair to say that the result on the 4th will be pretty significant for the world, but the fact that this stall holder would express an opinion on the election when many Americans (and Westerners in general) don’t know where Bangladesh is reminds me again of Western (and especially my own) self-absorption and ignorance.

I feel lucky to be in Bangaldesh at such an interesting time, so I’ll do my best to explain what’s going down here at the moment…

Following significant political instability in 2006, President Iajuddin Ahmed resigned on 11th January 2007 and declared a state of emergency. This instability seems to have arisen mainly from tensions between the two dominant political parties, the Awami League and the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP), who have alternated in power since independence, and who are responsible for immense corruption in Bangla politics. For four years in a row prior to 2007, Bangladesh ranked number one in Transparency International’s league table of corrupt countries; Sheikh Hasina and Khaleda Zia (leaders of the Awami League and BNP respectively) have only recently been released on bail from prison, where they were held on charges of corruption.

In January 2007, the President handed power over to a Caretaker Government led by Dr Fakhruddin Ahmed, a former governor of Bangladesh Bank and senior staff member of the World Bank. By all accounts, this military-backed government has been largely successful in quelling the political instability that it was formed to tackle. Although it’s difficult to get an objective view, the Caretaker Government reportedly enabled the restoration of economic activity by cracking down on hartals (strikes), which are traditionally used by the opposition party to stymie the government. Hundreds of MPs were arrested on corruption charges in part of a massive anti-corruption campaign. A voter-registration drive and the formation of an Independent Electoral Commission have hopefully laid the foundations of free and fair democratic elections, which are set to take place in under 2 months.

Feelings about the Caretaker Government seem to be generally positive. Most people (well, VSO and the good people of the British High Commission at least) seem to think that it’s done its job as well as can be expected. Unsurprisingly perhaps, it now wants to wash its hand of the whole affair. So far, things are proceeding fairly smoothly towards 18th December: the parties are engaging in talks with the Caretaker Government, and are beginning to register with the new independent electoral commission. What’s more, the Jamat-i Islami (a reportedly Islamic fundamentalist branch of the BNP) has changed its name from Bangladesh Jamat-i Islami to Jamat-i Islami Bangladesh, which apparently indicates a distancing from fundamentalist Jamat-i Islami parties around the world.

However, doubts do remain. Despite the fact that the leaders of the two main parties were imprisoned for most of the Caretaker Government’s term, little has changed within the parties. That Sheikh Hasina and Khaleda Zia will lead their parties into the election is a clear indication that little has changed. It seems that although the political structures of Bangladeshi politics have been reformed, the reforming zeal of the Caretaker Government has been unable to reach the substance of Bangladeshi politics. If this is the case, it seems likely that whoever wins in December may continue much as before. But we shall have to see.

The Lash in Dhaka 25/10/08

Having been told time and time again by returned volunteers that it’s very difficult to get your hands on alcohol here, and hence the lash is a rare occurrence, my experiences of the last week have proved that this is, in fact, a lie. You definitely have to pay for it, but it is there. Let me document my experience of the lash thus far to illustrate this exciting discovery…

Incident Number One: Drinks on the British Tax-Payer
On our visit to the British High Commission earlier this week on a particularly hot and sweaty afternoon, we enjoyed our first alcohol in Bangladesh, courtesy of the glorious British state. After plucking up the courage to ask for it (having been offered only beer initially), I enjoyed an icy gin and tonic, feeling guiltily like an old colonialist. This is the life!

Incident Number Two: Dinner at Bruce’s
Bruce, a volunteer from Uganda, invited Laura, Megan, Ollie, Keith and I over for dinner the other night. We had amazing beef stew (I get excited every time I eat meat, as I don’t yet have the balls to go out and buy it), made even better by the production of cold cans of Kingfisher at the end. Mmm-hmm. Bruce refuses to disclose his supplier’s name to us, but clearly this guy has the goods. We also had our first encounter with rice wine, a specialty of the Hill Tracts region: it’s pretty potent stuff, smelling like paint stripper and tasting a bit like a combination of whiskey (the vapour) and vodka (the taste). Clearly, there is much potential for the lash here…

Incident Number Three: My first party in the ‘desh
It was another volunteer’s birthday last week too, and again Bruce played host to much delicious food, abundant alcohol and much revelry. I also met the mysterious supplier, but failed to get his number (bugger). There was extremely sweaty dancing, lots of covering the birthday girl in various edible substances, and I racily didn’t get to bed til 1am!

Incident Number Four: The Bagha Club
On Friday night (Friday being the new Saturday, dontcha know), we decided it was time to visit the Bagha club. Bagha, meaning ‘tiger’ in Bangla, is an expat club in Gulshan, the expensive embassy area of Dhaka. On arriving, hoping simply for a quiet drink, we discovered our several faux pas. Firstly, you can’t register at 7.30 on a Friday night. Secondly, there was a big party going on for which tickets had to be purchased. Having come only for one drink, I had a measly 500 taka with me, which turned out to be sadly insufficient for the night ahead. Thirdly, there is clearly an active party-scene in Dhaka and everyone there (NGO workers, military contractors, embassy staff, the rich kids of Dhaka) was dressed to the nines for the party. I was wearing mud-spattered trousers and a non-matching shirt and orna. Cue immense embarrassment on my part, and some swift conversion of said trousers into shorts.

Despite this collection of blunders, we were determined to have a good night. Through a cunning mixture of pooled resources and a hasty trip to an ATM (thank you, Ollie!), we amassed quite a few thousand taka and proceeded to blow it all on gin and 2 packets of crisps. All in all, it was a pretty weird experience (see later), but one that was worth it. While this record may make me sound a little like a wino, as after only 2 weeks here I’m not exactly getting withdrawal symptoms yet, it will definitely prove useful after many months in a tiny and probably almost totally dry village.

5 bideshis on the loose in Dhaka 17/10/08

Today was the first day that we have been left to our own devices. Pretty risky, perhaps, because we’ve only been here five days, but I think we coped admirably.

It turns out lie-ins aren’t possible here, because it just gets too hot. So I had a fairly lazy morning, reading in bed and sweating. We decided to go to Rifle Square Market to sort yet more phone stuff out, and generally to see what it’s like. Hence, our first experience with public transport. The selection is diverse, and wholly unsafe, but very much fun. We picked CNG today because they’re slightly more anonymous than rickshaws, where it looks a little like you’re sitting on a throne, high above the masses, yet are also at the bottom of the pile in the transport food chain (except for pedestrians, who are fodder). CNG are like Thai tuk-tuks or Indian auto-rickshaws – motorised go-carts that bez along and zip into any available space in the heaving melee of traffic, honking their horns at random. The ride was great fun – it’s almost as cool as a/c, but you get to see much, much more.

Rifle Square Market, communicated to our driver in broken Bangla and some apparently universal hand gestures, turned out not to be the busy bazaar I’d imagined, but a flashy air conditioned mall. In the Grameen phone shop, we got into a conversation with some customers who first took our photos on their mobiles, then accused us of killing Princess Diana AND ruining all of Bengal through colonialism. I don’t know which was the bigger crime in their eyes. Martin and KR Mullah turned out to be really friendly, if a little crazy. They took us for very sweet coffee and singara (like samosas), and assured us that we would all be real friends forever now. KR Mullah can apparently help us wherever we are in Bangladesh because he is a big man in customs, which includes getting us whiskey and beer. I stored his card away safely for when things get tough.

That’s another funny thing about Dhaka – in that mall, if you’d changed the writing, you could have been almost anywhere in the world. Perhaps it was ignorant of me to think that you wouldn’t be able to find data cables here – but you can, and you can get them to fit almost any make of mobile phone. You can also buy a burger, fries and a coke from the fast food joints, and the complete series of almost any programme on TV. The fact that these can be bought for less than a fiver does suggest you’re not in London, but nevertheless…

One of the highlights of my day was when Laura decided to play bouncey ball with a kid in the mall. You should have seen the crowds it drew. I don’t think anyone knew what to make of a bunch of bideshis laughing as their overexcited friend tried vainly to bat this ball back to the kid, but everyone got involved in helping her out.

Not tempted by the fast food, we got street food for lunch, fresh from the boiling oil. Sitting in a tiny open-fronted room which contained only a fridge, a hob, a table and some chairs, there was no doubt we were in Bangladesh. The smiling young man who served us spoke no English, but we managed to order some more singara and some sugary puff-pastry concoction that, along with condensed milk char (tea), made the perfect lunch.

I’m definitely enjoying this life so far. Bangladesh is a very welcoming place, and it is certainly full of surprises. Considering I’ve only been here five days, I’m sure there’re a lot more in store. It still doesn’t feel real, the fact that this will be my life for the next year and more. I don’t know if I’ll ever get my head round it, until it actually happens. But I’m ok with that. Although it still feels a bit like a strange dream, it’s one I’m liking so far.

You've got to make it Bangla 15/10/08

Bangla the language, that is. ‘Bangla’ is the name of the culture and language of this country, and ‘desh’ means country or land; so we are in the land of Bangla. So far, everyone seems to be enjoying the lessons. Pulak (note, Pu-laak, but Pu-lack: ‘you have to make it BaNGla,’ remember) is a great teacher, who points out on his own tongue which exact part of it should be touching where in.

After 3 hours of ‘repeat after me…’, we left for a tour of Gulshan, the embassy quarter. While it is full of beautiful old buildings in high-walled compounds, and has many lakes and tree-filled parks, it is still undeniably Bangladesh. So much greenery sprouts and rickshaw-wallahs swerve dangerously wherever you look. Despite the yellow number plates on SUVs, the armed guards and the signs which read ‘To Let: Foreigners Only’, Gulshan cannot cut itself off. Brightly-clothed street sellers still squat by the road sides, mould still festers on the walls of the embassies, and the driving is still abominable.

While we waited in the car for Judy, Clarifel and Hanny to visit their various embassies, the English and Americans began a wildly hilarious conversation about different slang words we all use. Explaining what the words ‘cad’ and ‘bounder’ mean proved more difficult than I’d imagined. All part of the bonding process I’m sure, but nonetheless I can’t quite believe that American hardware stores have sections for flange tools. In fact, I’m sure they’re making it up.

My favourite part of the day was our first trip to the local food markets. On our side of the road in Lalmatia, things are pretty calm. We get the odd stare, but it’s nothing too overwhelming: no-one is to surprised to see a bunch of sweating bideshis ambling aimlessly.

On the other side of the road, in Mohammadpur Market, things are wildly different. For the first time, I’ve seen what I imagined Bangladesh to be like: heaving markets, filthy gutters, hundreds of rickshaws, and huge crowds come to stare at the bideshis and their bizarre behaviour. Naked toddlers trail us for hundreds of meters, smiling and laughing at us, seeming to dare one another to go closer. Amid the immaculately stacked vegetables, we draw a crowd as Thaddeus buys squash. I shakily try out my Bangla, and get laughter in response. Three bideshis drinking sugar cane juice on a street corner appeared to be the highlight of many people’s afternoon.

My proudest achievement of the day was not, however, learning Bangla. It was finding our way home from the office for the first time. No driver, no guide. Just us and the Extrem Boys.

Has anyone seen the Extrem Boyz? 14/10/08

After another hectic day of induction and greetings, I slowly feel like things are starting to fall into place.

Today we had our first little stroll around our ‘hood. Until now, I’d been feeling a bit isolated from the world, as we’re ferried around in our air-conditioned VSO minibus. Today, Marufa, who is in charge of induction at VSO-B and absolutely lovely, showed us a tiny bit of Lalmatia. We visited some local landmarks, such as various supermarkets that are surprisingly full of imported goods; the local Nando’s (no lie); and an art gallery that lies nestled behind palm trees in a walled compound off a main road – an icy paradise of art and chilled out café that looks set to become our local.

I’m not sure why, but I was so surprised to find this here. Dhaka is not what I expected of it: it is both more developed and more familiar than I expected it to be. Perhaps this is due to the area we live in? Lalmatia seems fairly affluent after all. But I can’t wait to explore some more of the city!


On our way home from drinks in the café, the Induction Flat crew decided to strike out and find our own way home. 2 problems arose: One, it was dark. Two, our map only shows the route from our flat to VSO’s offices. And we were not there. Cue much striding confidently, proclaiming that, finally, this street is familiar, only to peter out after a few minutes, mumbling something about a wrong turn, or every bloody food stall looking exactly the same. We made it home with the assistance of several extremely helpful locals, and the unforgettable graffiti that is opposite our block: the phrases ‘Extrem Boyz’ and ‘Fuck the Law’ tell us that we are home and dry.

Has anyone seen the Extrem Boyz?

14th October 2008

After another hectic day of induction and greetings, I slowly feel like things are starting to fall into place.

Today we had our first little stroll around our ‘hood. Until now, I’d been feeling a bit isolated from the world, as we’re ferried around in our air-conditioned VSO minibus. Today, Marufa, who is in charge of induction at VSO-B and absolutely lovely, showed us a tiny bit of Lalmatia. We visited some local landmarks, such as various supermarkets that are surprisingly full of imported goods; the local Nando’s (no lie); and an art gallery that lies nestled behind palm trees in a walled compound off a main road – an icy paradise of art and chilled out café that looks set to become our local.

I’m not sure why, but I was so surprised to find this here. Dhaka is not what I expected of it: it is both more developed and more familiar than I expected it to be. Perhaps this is due to the area we live in? Lalmatia seems fairly affluent after all. But I can’t wait to explore some more of the city!

On our way home from drinks in the café, the Induction Flat crew decided to strike out and find our own way home. 2 problems arose: One, it was dark. Two, our map only shows the route from our flat to VSO’s offices. And we were not there. Cue much striding confidently, proclaiming that, finally, this street is familiar, only to peter out after a few minutes, mumbling something about a wrong turn, or every bloody food stall looking exactly the same. We made it home with the assistance of several extremely helpful locals, and the unforgettable graffiti that is opposite our block: the phrases ‘Extrem Boyz’ and ‘Fuck the Law’ tell us that we are home and dry.

So here we are. 13/10/08

So here we are. Finally. After so many, many weeks of waiting, we landed in Zia International Airport at 6am local time. And now, as I sit here in our living room, I feel I need to take some time to process everything that’s happened today.

The flight was fine. In fact, it became positively enjoyable when I realized that BA gives out free alcohol. Every person who asked ‘how long are you going to Bangladesh for?’ gave us a wary look when we chirpily told them, as if we might well be escapees from an insane asylum. Although this didn’t seem to bode particularly well, most people also showered us with praise for what we were doing.

So it was with mixed apprehensions, and sleep-deprived dazedness that we landed in Bangladesh. A word about that – as the plane descended, it appeared we would be landing in an extremely misty pond. There appeared to be no area of dry land large enough to park a car on, let alone a bloody plane. Thankfully, by some twist of fate (or perhaps engineering genius), the airport is built so as not to flood. The minute we touched down, the windows misted over – telling us scarily quickly that, even though it was only dawn, the temperature was already climbing outside.

Laura, Ollie, Megan and I met up with Hanny, a short-term volunteer from the Netherlands, in customs; and after what Ollie described as a ‘pleasingly thorough’ wait at customs (they painstakingly entered data from several different forms, one finger at a time, then ignored most of what we’d put anyway), we made it to arrivals. A little VSO flag, held by Marufa, greeted us. Immediately, we, plus Keith and Trish, two American volunteers, were whisked from the heaving, sweaty forecourt of the airport, into the blissfully icy confines of our VSO minibus.

After a slow, horn-filled journey, dodging pedestrians, beggars and rickshaws going the wrong way up one-way streets, much reminiscent of travels in India and Nepal, we were deposited at our swanky apartment. For the next month, I will reside in the Induction Flat, a couple of minutes walk from the VSO Bangladesh programme offices, along with Megan, Ollie, Trish and two Filipina volunteers, Carifel and Judy. My spacious, airy room has two massive four poster beds with day-glo mossie nets separating them from the rest of the world. The window beside my bed looks down onto a scrubby little courtyard and a huge coconut tree. I still can’t get over the fact that I can see coconuts from my bed! That’s one thing I love already about the ‘desh: it’s so green. Everywhere you look, there’re plants and trees swarming up from the grimmest of holes, in search of the sun.

To cut a long story short – a long story about our first meal of rice and daal, about being greeted so warmly by the programme office staff, about receiving our first month’s pay in a fat envelope – we have made it here, and I love it already. I’ll finish this entry with just a taste of the things I have learned already:

1. Everything takes so much longer here. We made tea last night, which involved boiling water over a small gas ring to put through the filter, then reboiling filtered water for the tea itself. Perhaps a little long-winded, but we WILL be healthy! Luckily, we have Firoja, who cleans the flat and filters water for us. Although this makes me feel like a lazy git, I’m not complaining.
2. No-one goes to bed here. Ever. I woke up a lot last night, but there was never any silence. Even at 2am, kids were screaming, grown-ups shouting, horns a-hooting. Apparently, they do later on, but I’m not so sure.

Nerves and Packing 11/10/08

Finally ready. Well, at least my stuff is. It is zip-locked, silica-gelled and crammed haphazardly into an assortment of bags. After several dodgy moments on the bathroom scales, I'm not truly convinced that it weighs less than 25 kilos. I'm not even sure if 25 kilos is the limit, or if it's in fact 23 kilos, or if I'm actually allowed 2 bags. Oh god. What if they confiscate one of my bags at check-in? What if I arrive in Banglades with a million zip-loc bags and half a kilo or silica gel, but no knickers!? What if they lose my bags on the way? What if I have to wear sandals and linen trousers FOREVER!

As you might be able to tell, while my stuff is ready, my head certainly is not. Having spent the last few days haring across the country and saying various drunk and weepy goodbyes, I don't really believe that tomorrow afternoon I'll actually be leaving the UK for 13 months.

Gulp.