Peaks, troughs and roller-coasters (9/02/09)

Back in the UK, we were warned time and again by VSO, through many a delightful metaphor, about the ups and downs you’re likely to experience as a volunteer. During training, I just smiled and nodded knowingly, before turning my attention back to my hangover. It’s only since arriving here I’ve realised that, boy, did those guys know what they were talking about…

Things have been fairly roller-coaster-like from day one, but I seem to have been having a particularly intense time with the peaks and troughs in the last week. When people ask me how I’m enjoying myself here, it’s difficult to convey just how changeable and unpredictable my emotions are so here is a run down of my highs and lows in the last fortnight, so you can see for yourself what we volunteers go through.

High: a VSOB gathering in honour of the visit of a big boss man (a.k.a. VSO’s new CEO, taking her first country visit).
It was the first time in a while everyone had been together, lots of good free food was available and it was followed by several free drinks (courtesy of the Bagha).

Low: volunteers leaving.
Keith, one of the volunteers in my batch, returned to the States to do a photojournalism course. Of course, this was also an excuse for partying (and much Bangladeshi whisky was consumed in Keith’s honour), but it was also a pretty sad day.
If you’re reading this Leith, I miss you.

High: having a weekend
For the first time in what feels like forever (perhaps even since October) I got to take a proper weekend. This naturally involved a lot of lounging around in pyjamas, a lot of tea-drinking and a lot of crappy-TV-watching. Combined with several extremely leisurely meals, where breakfast, lunch and dinner ran together somewhat when Bruce produced a bottle of whisky and a tub of vanilla ice-cream, you couldn’t ask for more perfect downtime. What’s more (and perhaps this deserves its own individual ‘high’ section?) a delectable recipe for a whisky-vanilla-ice-cream float was discovered by participants in this eating marathon, which will hopefully become a mainstay at all future volunteer parties….

Low: Mad men
Without wishing to implicate anyone in particular, there seems to have been a rash man-related problems in the last week or so. While fairly inconvenient and decidedly sub-optimal, the storm has been weathered, leaving the Deshi Sisters (that’s me, Megbo and Loz, in case you were wondering) stronger than ever before.

High: lunch at the Bagha (again, god bless the Bagha)
Given the previous low, the Deshi Sisters decided that they were in need of a treat. So, in between frantic bouts of shopping, also justified in the same terms, (my salwar kameez count is now firmly in double figures, I’m happy to report), we decided that a ‘western’ lunch at the Bagha was in order. And, oh my, was that ever a good call! I have to be careful now not to drool on my laptop, but here is what I ordered:
- A bacon, lettuce and tomato baguette. Sorry, what I mean to say is, a bacon lettuce and tomato baguette. A BACON lettuce and tomato BAGUETTE. The emphasis is intended to point out that I have eaten neither bacon nor a baguette in MONTHS. What’s more, it came with cheese. Cheese. And, wait for it… mayonnaise. I’d forgotten what bliss such a sandwich can create. Ok, I need to stop.
- A glass of white wine. I’d also forgotten the simple pleasure of a glass of white wine at lunchtime. Even when the wine is something you’d normally grimace at at a party. Incidentally, if anyone reading this can figure out a way to send me wine, I’d be most interested to hear from you…
- Humus and pitta bread. Need I say more? Actually, yes I must: crudités
- Greek salad. Even though I don’t like olives and the feta certainly wasn’t feta, the very fact that there was lettuce and dressing was enough to have me in ecstasies.

Low: having an existential crisis about The Point Of It All
I knew it was coming. I knew it was only a matter of time before my ability to keep myself blithely busy without actually doing anything backfired horribly in my face, in an explosion of self-doubt and panic. And when it hit, it was just as horrible as I’d imagined. One minute I was eating lunch. The next, I was pinioned by the thought that there was actually no point at all to my being here, and that I and everyone else would be better off if I just went home and dropped the act. Luckily, the dark clouds passed, but it took a good few hours of eating peanut butter with a spoon and giving myself as firm a talking to as I could muster through all the peanut butter. Frightening stuff. By the time I’d pulled through, I had to dash to the supermarket to replace the peanut butter I’m demolished.

High: recovering from said existential crisis.
I had a series of meetings in the last week that have FINALLY clarified to an actionable degree what I’m supposed to be doing here. I now have a whole sheaf (yes, a sheaf!) of action plans on various different subjects, and I am currently enjoying a veritable flurry of activity. It’s worth pointing out, though, that this didn’t happen on its own. Far from it, in fact. Without the aforementioned explosion of self-doubt and panic, I would never have forced myself to march down to my organisation’s Dhaka office and demand a meeting with the executive director. And if I hadn’t done that, I’d still be sitting at my desk, wondering how best to get the ball rolling. All it took was a hair raising CNG ride into a part of Dhaka I’d never visited before, with half an address and a driver who refused to ask for directions and simply drove at great speed down any temptingly dark alleyway that presented itself. But nevertheless, my trip got the ball rolling, and I’m thoroughly enjoying kicking some organisational ass (or something far more development-theory informed and participatory…)

Low: my flip-flop breaking
While this might seem like a trivial inconvenience to you, I think this particular trough helps to illustrate the delicacy of my mental state here. Never before (well, ok, rarely, perhaps) would such a simple thing have come quite so close to tipping me over the edge. Coming hard on the heels of a grinding hang-over, however, and shortly after the disturbing incidents above, the breaking of my sandal ten minutes from my flat almost sent me tumbling into the abyss. I just about managed to march home, barefoot but with head held high, cradling my flip flips on top of my laptop and ignoring the giggling of rickshaw-wallahs, before bursting into tears.

High: party on the roof top
Having been in need of a proper party with a bar and a DJ and a dance floor etc for quite some time, I was overjoyed to learn of the party at the Dhaka Regency. In true VSOB style, we tried to wangle as many discounts as we could, but to no avail this time. However, an 800 taka ticket (about £8) got you a ‘light buffet’ and a free ‘cocktail’. Although the ‘cocktail’ is in inverted commas because it appeared to be flat coke and not much else, the ‘light’ buffet comprised piles of kebabs, pitta bread, more humus, salad, spring rolls, and as much of everything as you could eat when you’d only have 3 slices of toast with laughing cow cheese on them for dinner (eating is cheating, according to Ms Hawkesford, unless the food is free). The party was on the roof of the hotel, with a cracking view of Dhaka, a warm breeze cooling the dance floor and the moon shining down on everything. There was a swimming pool, shisha, deckchairs and gin. And then there were the Cameroonians, who are possibly the best dancers I have ever had the pleasure of dancing with. So this tempestuous week ended with me trying and failing to learn from the masters of booty-shaking, on a roof top looking out over Dhaka and its moon.