Silver linings

I arrived home from work the other day, pretty tired, and ran into Meena, my landlady. Because I’ve been working such long hours lately, I hadn’t seen her in a few days. She insisted that I come in and sit down. In between making me tea and piling at least a dozen biscuits onto my plate, she began to tell me how much she was going to miss me when I’m gone. She kept insisting that things would be altogether much better if I stay for at least one more year, that I live in her flat and (when I pointed out that I would have no job beyond 17th May, and therefore would not be able to pay the rent), that I get married in Bangladesh. Sumaia’s mother, who was passing by at the time, popped in to gossip. She said the same thing. Then Auntie from upstairs came downstairs and joined in.

Really, it was all very touching, and began to make me feel rather tearful.
But then, as Meena was bringing me my dinner (I only put up a feeble resistance to her offer of goat curry, I’ll admit it), the mood changed. She pulled her chair closer to mine, and glanced around nervously. Jumping up again, she pushed the front door closed. I began to worry she was about to offer me her son’s hand in marriage. As she leaned in towards me, I began to panic, racking my brains for polite ways to say no.

Alas, my consternation proved to be needless. Her proposition was of quite a different nature. She asked me very softly, as if afraid the neighbours would overhear, whether I planned on taking my rice cooker back to England with me.
I gazed at her in wonder for a moment, before carefully explaining that no, it was unlikely the rice cooker would fit into my backpack. She beamed enormously. Then she asked if I’d be taking the china teapot my parents bought while they were here. And so began an inventory of all the household goods that I’ve accumulated, and which she’s obviously had her eye on for the last year and more.

I suppose the lesson here is that every cloud has a silver lining. And the cloud of me leaving Bangladesh is, for Meena at least, lined with electrical appliances and crockery.

Job hunting

The bright sparks amongst you have probably guessed from the title of this post that, finally, after many months of denial and procrastination, the time has come for me to decide What I Want To Do Next.

Oh, those six dreaded words. This question, while I was at home and being clouted over the head by it at every turn, made my heart constrict and my natural ebullience wilt, before the questioner had even reached the inflection at the end of the sentence.

Now, however, as I sit here in Parbs, I see the long, dark years stretch out before me, rather like the road does in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (think nuclear winter, with a bit of cannibalism thrown in for variety), and I know that attempting to answer this tortuous question is infinitely preferable to living in Leicester for the rest of my life.

I suppose I hadn’t realised, until the possibility of extending my placement here was torn to shreds, set alights and the embers danced upon by a thoroughly ridiculous decision (I’m not naming any names, before you ask), how much that possibility had been cocooning me from facing this depressing prospect. It was only when that particular rug was whipped out from under my feet that the need to Find A Job hit me square in the jaw.

Unfortunately, I’m no closer now to knowing what I want to do with my life than I was when I arrived here. Convinced I was going to have an epiphany in a Bangladeshi village, I quietly pitied my university friends, all madly applying for jobs the summer we graduated. And now, here I am, not so much closer to The Answer than I was when we took off from Heathrow back in 2008.

Back in the desh

Bangladesh got really annoying while I was gone. Perhaps it’s just going through a particularly irritating phase. Perhaps. More likely, Bangladesh has always been this annoying, only I’d been here for so long I’d stopped noticing. Either way, I am struggling to readjust, especially after the blissful two days I spent on St Martin’s island last week – probably the best part of Bangladesh I’ve been to yet, precisely because it’s nothing like Bangladesh.

(I should probably give a slight disclaimer here – I’ve had a crap day and am feeling premenstrual . But I’m not going to make excuses anymore. Oh no. I’m telling it like it is.)

It began yesterday when I got back to the office for the first time in six weeks. I went in to say hello to my director, and after the initial pleasantries, he kept me waiting for ten minutes in silence while he rifled aimlessly through papers on his desk. When I asked if I should come back later, after he’d taken the second phone call, he said “No, no, just wait, one minute”.

Then the demands for “some demandable gift from London” began. Not just from the friends whom I’m promised to bring a little something for. Oh no. Nearly every single person in the office has stopped me over the last two days to ask where their present is. Even the people I don’t like, the high up management people who generally think it is beneath their dignity to talk to me unless they want something, such as helping them to get British visa, or bringing them a cheap English laptop from home. They have no shame, I tell you, none. It all came to a head today when one particular member of staff came into my office. I thought he’d just come for a chat as we hadn’t really seen each other since I’d come back, but I was sadly mistaken. After merely 30 seconds of small talk, he asked if I had something for him. I scowled, then explained that I had brought some traditional English biscuits and chocolates (which took up a sizeable amount of space in my backpack, I’ll have you know), which I was planning to share on Saturday when many people who are away on training will return to the office. It was his turn to scowl.

“Just food presents?” he demanded, clearly not impressed with this. I nodded.

“No useable item?” My scowl deepened. I explained (with some dignity, I think) that I am not a millionaire and therefore couldn’t bring a proper present for all 30 people in the office. He didn’t understand the word millionaire, however, so my dignity was somewhat lost. When I said that I am not a rich man, something that definitely translates, he laughed. Mirthlessly. No-one here believes that it’s possible for me not to be rich. I know that by Bangladeshi standards I am, but when we’re talking about buying 30 Christmas presents in England, I’m definitely not.

Anyway, this exchange continued for some ten minutes, with my face getting stonier by the second. When I asked, in exasperation, what he wanted me to do, he replied that I should have brought some small useable item for him. When I asked whether he rather not have any of my sodding biscuits as they clearly weren’t good enough for him, he asked whether I was feeling angry. In the end, I had to stare at my computer screen and count to ten whilst breathing deeply until he got the message and left.
After that, I had a good cry – more rage-induced than anything else – and decided that if no-one was going to appreciate me in this bloody office, if everyone was going to take me for granted as a limitless money-lender and bringer of “demandable” gifts, then I may as well just bugger off home.

Only Bangladesh was also waiting outside. My back was already up about this gift thing, but then, as I marched up the road to the rickshaw stand, the legions of “Hi madam, how are you’s?” began to grate against my soul, rather like a cheese grater would on bare flesh. I had on my best don’t-bloody-talk-to-me face, but some in this country are impervious to all subtle hints except shouting at very close quarters. Unfortunately for them, I swore loudly at many of the banana sellers in Haldibari today.

I finally made it back to my house, where I came upon Lily. I knew immediately that she was sulking with me for not keeping in touch, or not going to see her yesterday, or some other cultural faux pas that I was unaware of. She refused to even make eye contact with me.This is another really annoying Bangladeshi habit – expecting that the only thing you think about when you’re not with someone is them, and not really understanding that when I’m in Dhaka, or at home, I actually have other things to do (don’t get me wrong, I did keep in touch with my close friends, but if I’d kept in touch with everyone while I was at home I’d have done nothing by skype Bangladesh, and frankly, I’d had enough of it). At this stage, I couldn’t even be bothered to explain why I hadn’t been in touch (a broken mobile and a sim card left on my desk in Leicester). I just shrugged and sloped off.

By this point, I was about ready to break. So I decided that there was only one thing for it: Davina. Exercise has long been my saviour here, giving me a shot of endorphins when I’m at my lowest, ready to go out on a killing spree. My new Davina dvd thankfully did not let me down. There was enough punching and kicking in it to reduce my colleagues to blubbering wrecks who would not even be able to form the words “demandable” and “gift”, let alone tell me that my gifts aren’t good enough.

The last straw came during the abs section. I was feeling pretty good, had worked up a nice sweat, and was almost through. That’s when the knocking on my door started. It went on for the rest of the abs section and the entire cool down section (about 20 minutes). To be fair, it was only Shahanaz wanting her wages, and I can’t really blame her for that. But I was so close to the end and wearing only tiny little shorts and a sports bra (i.e. not in any fit state to answer the door), that I decided to ignore it. I assumed she’d just go away and come back later.

I was ready to scream by the end. My exercise-induced zen was utterly destroyed. But when I answered the door, a look like thunder on my face, they all just came trundling in as usual to poke around my things and ask inane questions. When Shahanaz asked if the winter weight babygro with attached mittens and booties, which my mother had sent for my colleague Sarah’s new baby, was for her five year old son, I really did think it was the end. She said that she’d seen it earlier, and that Meena-auntie had said I must have brought it for him. I forced to explain, with the poor boy standing there gazing at the babygro in wonder, that there was no way in hell it was going to fit him, and no, actually, I hadn’t brought it for him. His crushed and accusing eyes as the whole dog and pony show trooped out of my flat really were the straws that broke the camel’s back in this case.
I have to admit it. I cracked. Those chocolate supplies that were supposed to last me a good few weeks have been reduced to wrappers. However, having splurged my pent up rage onto this blog, you’ll all be pleased to know that I’m feeling remarkably better.

Welcome home, Dhaka style

I was slightly disappointed not to be met by cheering fans as I emerged from customs, especially after an annoying delay in Calcutta airport (where there is not a bloody thing to do – it’s like they have a special second-rate terminal for flights to Bangladesh).

It was rather rewarding, however, to march out of the terminal into the staring, shouting, hustling crowd that always swarms around the airport in Dhaka, and inform everyone who made a grab for my bag or attempted to usher me into an outrageously overpriced yellow taxi (who needs airconditioning in January?), that I would not be requiring their services – all in fluent Bangla, of course. Hopping into a CNG for the first time in a month was like a warm embrace from Bangladesh, and I was surprised to find myself glad to receive it.

In the evening, I enjoyed a typical Dhaka Thursday night in – cheap nasty whiskey and a dirty kebab. Unsurprisingly, delicious as it was at the time, this delightful concoction gave all participants stomach upsets throughout the night.

God, it’s good to be back!

Homecoming, or, Searching for a Love Actually moment

As many of you (but not my parents) already knew, back in July I booked flights to come home for Christmas. Since then, I have been looking forward to it like a small child looks forward to Christmas: the thought of Christmas in Blighty has got me through many a tough spot since July.

However, when the time finally came, it was slightly more bogged down in anxiety and self-doubt than I had anticipated. The bureaucratic challenges were many – I spent a sleepless week plotting my options if the Indian embassy refused to give me a visa – but I think the main cause of my disquiet was the idea that I might go home and find things irreversibly changed. As luck would have it, I came home to find that absolutely nothing has changed. Not one thing. Friends, relationships, habits, old haunts – all are pretty much the same as I left them. In some ways, I could find this depressing, but it is actually deeply comforting.

Landing at Heathrow at 7am was something of a shock. When the pilot announced during our descent that the temperature outside was minus three, I think I actually laughed. Having only my flip flops and a cardigan for warmth, I think I was attempting to block out the fact that such a temperature was going to be physically painful. Needless to say, the moment I stepped off the plane, before the air-conditioned blandness of the airport enclosed me, was a tough one.

Of course I was extremely excited to be in London after so many months of fantasizing about it, but I was nevertheless a little disappointed not to find everything a bit more momentous. The man on immigration didn’t say welcome home, for example, and there were no cheering crowds awaiting me in the arrivals hall. There was, devastatingly, no Love Actually moment. Instead, there was me with my stupidly heavy backpack (eighteen kilos, for god’s sake!), my stupid flip flops and my stupid little cardigan.

My first encounter with the rush hour underground brought me many a strange look, which I’m hoping were due to my bare feet and copious scarves than the fact that I hadn’t showered in 12 hours. However, I did note the lack of staring – or eye contact at all - between my fellow passengers – with some sadness.

Arriving at Victoria to meet Emily, I did get to have a bit of a Love Actually moment. She’d got up at 4.30am to get the train from Leeds, she’d brought me socks and a coat, and just as we headed outside to catch the train home, it began to snow. Cue much gleeful shrieking on my part, which did manage to earn one or two stares from passers by.

Later, I had the pleasure of a series of faintly Love Actually moments as I was reunited with friends and family at various stages. The highlight, however, has to be leaping out of a box to greet my unsuspecting parents as they arrived home from work. Bizarrely, I was unaccountably nervous about seeing them – as if they might not be pleased to see me (ridiculous, I know). Although I was momentarily concerned that my mother was going to pass out, it was a priceless moment. Both my mum and dad had fully swallowed the counter story Emily and I had been feeding them since July, that I was going to Vietnam for Christmas. Initially constructed to explain the airline’s debit from my bank account (which my parents consider is there duty to monitor), this bluff had evolved into a fully formed narrative involving the names of travelling companions, hotels and even itineraries, helpfully supplemented by several long conversations with my dad about which were the best places to visit in Vietnam.

Kolkata

Back in July, when I was booking my flights home, a minor stroke of genius led me to book flights from Kolkata to Heathrow, rather than Dhaka to Heathrow. This was mainly because I was feeling cheap (flights from Kolkata are more than £150 cheaper), but also because I’m actually genuinely interested in seeing this famous city, the one-time capital of the British empire.

It was with some trepidation and much battling with bureaucracy that I ventured across the border, due on the one hand to a previous trip to India in which I found the hustle altogether too much to bear, and, on the other, to the glories of sub-continental bureaucratic systems. This time, however, things were different. I don’t know if it was being able to speak Bangla, or just knowing that home was only a few hours away, but I had a wonderful few hours there. Actually, scrap all that – it was most likely because I spent the majority of my time in this majestic city taking hot showers (three in less than 24 hours – my personal best) and watching Star Movies in a gloriously comfortable bed in the Fairlawn Hotel. This is a very nice hotel (although I speak as someone who has spent her life either camping or staying in the very cheapest hostels, so I don’t think my standards are very high…), and I would highly recommend a stay there to anyone visiting Kolkata. It’s not exactly fitted to a back-packer’s budget at $50 for a single room, but it has amazing character – think last bastion of empire, with wonderfully incongruous paintings, ornaments and newspaper cuttings – and the tariff includes a lovely, scrupulously clean room, a more than ample breakfast (watermelon, cornflakes, and a fry up, anyone?), and afternoon tea at 4pm (glorious, simply glorious!).

I can’t really write much about Kolkata yet, as aside from a very interesting Discovery channel programme about the formation of the Sahara desert, I only saw two sights of much interest: the Victoria Memorial, and the Indian Museum. Although I was stalked by a slightly strange guy around the natural history section of the Indian Museum – I even (vainly) resorted to hiding in the invertebrates room (yawn) in the hope that he’d get bored and go away – I would thoroughly recommend both places for a visit. The Victoria Memorial is a wonderfully overblown testament to the folly of empire (Kolkata ceased to be the capital of the empire ten years before this monument to the Empress of India was finished), and well worth a visit (especially at only 150 rupees for entrance). It’s architecturally extremely impressive, and the museum contains a really interesting exhibition about the development of Kolkata and the various different socio-political movements that originated there. The Indian Museum is not quite so impressive, and although it is reportedly India’s best museum I didn’t find it as riveting (although admittedly, this may have been because my attention was somewhat diverted). However, it does have some natural history and art exhibitions that are worth a look. There’s also a central courtyard with a fountain and some handily placed benches – good for plotting stalker-avoidance strategies, but probably also for respite from the summer heat.

Despite my failure to really ‘do’ Kolkata – which some might hope would bring this post to an abrupt end – my twelve hour bus journey from Dhaka gave me ample time to reflect on the differences between West Bengal and Bangladesh. Once we passed the border, reportedly a nightmare of hassle and extortion but really quite straightforward, the bus bounced and rattled its way through mile after mile of villages that could almost have been in Bangladesh, before we reached gridlock in the Kolkatan suburbs. One of the most immediately striking differences between West Bengal and Bangladesh is that nature in West Bengal seems to be altogether more verdant. The trees that line the sides of the roads, just as they do in Bangladesh, are much bigger and older than those on the other side of the border. In Bangladesh, nature feels very much like it’s been shoved aside to make room for all the people. While there are trees and plants everywhere you look, they seem to be much newer, or more temporary. It does make you wonder what has happened to Bangladesh’s trees – perhaps they too were casualties of the liberation war? Or perhaps it’s simply the result of unsustainable population growth and too many poorly thought through development interventions?

Another obvious difference, from my elevated vantage point on the bus, was the omnipresence of flashes of vermilion in partings. Perhaps it’s unsurprising, given that India is a majority-Hindu state, but Hinduism is definitely much more visible in West Bengal.

My favourite sight was the number of sari’ed women riding bicycles. In Bangladesh, I’ve never seen such a sight in all my days. I find myself staring with much curiosity whenever I see a woman on a bike in Bangladesh, and they are almost always wearing headscarves, but in India I’d got bored of the spectacle by the time darkness fell.

A slightly more disheartening difference (purely from the standpoint of my personal vanity) was that the moment I stepped across the border, I immediately became less of a celebrity. At immigration, I got stared at a little – but I suspect this was mainly because I was pig-headedly refusing to allow anyone to carry my 18 kilogram backpack, and explaining my reasons for this in broken bangla. On arriving in Kolkata, I was terribly overwhelmed by the number of foreigners: I was no longer unique, I was no longer special simply because I was the only foreigner in view, and I have to say, I found the experience extremely upsetting. Needless to say, I lost no time in explaining to anyone who would listen that no, I was not travelling or on holiday, but that I actually worked in Bangladesh, and actually I’d been there for over a year and yes, I could speak bangla. I even proudly explained all this in bangla to a guy I got chatting to at an egg-roll stall, only to discover that he was in Kolkata on holiday from Bangalore and did not, in fact, speak any bangla.

Although I did very little of note whilst in Kolkata, I’m very glad I went. I had an instinct that I was going to like the city, and I do, very much. But it also served, with its bright lights and slightly saner traffic and buildings that have been around for longer than thirty years, as a kind of decompression chamber. I think flying from Dhaka to London would have been too much of a culture shock, whereas spending even a few hours in Kolkata reminded me that there was a world outside Bangladesh, before I was catapulted too harshly into it.

How to drive in Bangladesh

Travelling in Bangladesh is rarely easy. Despite being a country so tiny its name usually has to be written outside it on maps, travel over even short distances can (and almost without fail does) take hours, even days. For example, even though it’s barely 300 kilometres between my base in Parbatipur, in the northwest of the country, and Dhaka, the capital, the journey takes at least eight hours, and it recently took a friend over twenty hours to make the trip in traffic that was bumper to bumper the entire way.

The fact is that the existing means of transport, whether train, bus or boat, public or private, are wholly insufficient to meet the needs of Bangladesh’s burgeoning population. The roads and rivers are simply not big enough, and there simply aren’t enough buses and trains. Add to this the fact that every road is also clogged with rickshaws, bicycles, motorcycles and pedestrians as far as the eye can see, and you start to understand why travelling in this country is such a nightmare.

During a recent visit to a friend’s village, I rode for three very cold hours on the back of his motorbike. Alternately elated and terrified by National Geographic views and thundering Tata trucks, the journey gave me the (un)enviable opportunity to observe Bangladeshi road travel at worryingly close quarters. To my surprise, it quickly became evident that there is, in fact, logic to the way that people drive in Bangladesh. While it may bear no resemblance to any highway code we in the UK are familiar with, it is nevertheless a system, with identifiable norms, rules and typical behaviours.

The following tips were compiled to give the unwitting traveller in Bangladesh a fighting chance of getting from A to B without fatal mishap. I have learned from somewhat painful experience that you cannot beat the traffic in Bangladesh, leaving you with only one choice: to join the heaving, honking, lawless melee with your wits about you and your elbows out.

Basic principles
It is best to begin by trying to understand the basic principles that guide road users in Bangladesh. It is only with a clear understanding of such principles that you can hope to compete with other drivers.

The fundamental principle of Bangladeshi driving is very simple: never slow down. Slowing down is a sign of weakness that will be leapt upon – or, more accurately, mown down – by other road users. Do not slow down at any cost. Not when overtaking on a blind corner, not when passing through a crowded town and the road is littered with pedestrians, livestock and rickshaws. Not even when the vehicle you’re attempting to overtake is speeding up to prevent you from doing so and a much larger vehicle is rapidly advancing towards you in the oncoming lane. Your aim at all times should be to get to your destination in as little time as possible, whilst showing as little regard for other road users as is feasible without damaging your vehicle/killing someone.

This leads us to the second most important principle of driving in this country: show no consideration for others. Considerate driving will be seen as a sign of weakness, and others will rush to take advantage of it. So if a vehicle is, for instance, turning off the road, do not slow down or – god forbid – stop until the vehicle has cleared your path. Hell no. Just maintain your speed, swerve into the opposite lane and use your horn to communicate your extreme displeasure at such an inconvenience. Likewise, if there is a blockage of some kind in your lane, don’t hesitate to swing out into the other lane in order to overtake, even if this means driving on the wrong side of the road for several kilometres and forcing tens of other vehicles into the verge: in such a situation, you’ll have the element of surprise, especially if you use your horn to announce your presence, so other drivers will clear the way for you.

Now that you have these two principles firmly in mind, we can turn to advice for specific road situations.

Overtaking
Overtaking is a necessity on roads in Bangladesh. Whether it’s due to overladen lorries, broken down buses or out of control cows, you will need to overtake if you are to get further than 200 metres. When overtaking, do not let oncoming traffic intimidate you. One of you will, in all likelihood, be able to swerve out of the way at the last minute, and the faster you go and the more you use your horn, the less likely it is that it will be you who is reduced to this humiliation.

Traffic jams
Being able to deal with traffic jams is an essential skill, given the omnipresence and intractability of jams on Bangladesh’s choked roads. Road users must be prepared to deal with them head on, rather than mincing along patiently as one might feel obliged to do in the UK. No – a rather different approach is required if you are not to spend the majority of your day sitting in a traffic jam, drowning in your own sweat whilst acrid CNG smoke fills your lungs. Probably the commonest response to this is the frequent and demonstrative use of your horn. It may not make the traffic move any faster, but it will leave fellow drivers in no doubt as to your status on the roads. Another commonly observed response to traffic jams is ‘pavement driving’, which can be broadened to include squeezing your vehicle into any possible space in the vicinity of the road itself. Whether this is a filling station forecourt, a sewage ditch or a roundabout, this manoeuvre should be used whenever possible. Even if it ultimately slows down the flow of traffic, at least no-one will take you for a sucker.

Speed bumps
For vehicles with suspension: Speed bumps may damage your suspension, so you shouldn’t take them at full speed unless it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, speed up as you approach them, slam on the brakes at the last minute, and floor the accelerator as soon as your rear wheels are clear. This is a tried and tested method for losing as little time as possible in the name of protecting your vehicle, while ensuring maximum discomfort for any passengers.


For vehicles without suspension: proceed as normal.

Ambulances
Do not slow down or move aside to allow an ambulance to pass. After all, you don’t know if it’s a real ambulance with a patient in a life and death situation inside, or a truck full of officials on ‘emergency export duty’. Proceed as normal.

Speed limits
What speed limits?

Traffic police
For drivers of large vehicles (private car, bus, lorry etc): proceed as normal

For drivers of rickshaws and CNGs (in which you, as the driver, are physically exposed): do as they direct you, however counterintuitive it may appear. In situations involving traffic police, do not try to go against the grain: you may receive a good beating with a wooden stick in return for your obstinacy.

Pedestrians
If you are reading this as a future pedestrian on a Bangladeshi road, please bear in mind that you are without a doubt the lowest form of life on the road, and will be treated in accordance with your status in the food chain.

When crossing roads: use a slightly elevated hand to signal to the oncoming wall of traffic that you wish them to slow down. This is a surprisingly effective gesture in most cases. Don’t feel reassured? Take comfort in the fact that while the road traffic accident fatality rate is sixty per 10 000, one of the world’s highest, only 75% of these fatalities are pedestrians (according to this report, road traffic accidents are on the rise, while fatalities bloomed by 400% between the early 1980s and 2005).


Disclaimer
The author neither encourages road travel by any means in Bangladesh, nor accepts liability for any mishaps encountered whilst in transit.