Dirty Dhaka stricken by diarrhoea epidemic

As some of you may have picked up from my pathetic-sounding tweets over the last few days, I was recently struck down by a rather nasty bout of ‘the episodes’. I have never been this sick with diarrhoea before, and have never realised how truly unpleasant – and frankly dangerous – diarrhoea can be. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had travellers diarrhoea, and even giardia, many times before (I didn’t get the nickname Windy-bum Whitaker for nothing). I’m also well versed in the usual coping mechanisms (lots of oral rehydration salts and lots of water, combined with a tantalising selection of any of the following: flat 7-Up, bananas, toast, boiled rice, boiled eggs etc. My approach is always eat if you feel hungry, don’t eat if you don’t, and go to the doctor if things aren’t improving after 48 hours).

However, I’ve truly never been this sick in all my days in Bangladesh. I was only the other day thinking how lucky I’ve been, not to have been hospitalised, operated upon or airlifted out of the country, like many of my fellow volunteers. I was even applauding the steeliness of my immune system a little bit. I should have known that such thoughts only tempt fate.

Not to dwell on the gritty details, but things were BAD for quite a few days. To cut a long story short, I was practically bed ridden for three days, was given horrendously strong antibiotics, and lost about 4 kilograms in less than a week. Luckily, the antibiotics seem to have done their work, and I’ve managed to progress to non-toast-based meals over the last two days.

Usually, I can identify a likely culprit when I’m struck down with the episodes. This time around, however, I couldn’t think of anything suspect I’d eaten in the past few days. My only conclusion is therefore that the general grubbiness (read, pure filth) that characterises Dhaka simply makes one more susceptible to sickness of any kind.

During my hour of need, I was (slightly) comforted to learn that I and my liquid bowels weren’t suffering alone. ICDDR,B, the diarrhoea hospital in Dhaka – and obviously the place you want to be when you’ve got diarrhoea – has recently seen a major influx of patients as the temperature here climbs day by day. Apparently, it’s a common occurrence during this season – and one instance in which the ‘change of seasons’ can genuinely be seen to be affecting health. When I went to the travellers’ clinc that is also at ICDDR,B on Thursday, feeling extremely sorry for myself, it was sobering to see where the Bangladeshi diarrhoea patients wait out their episodes: on rubber-covered gurneys with holes in the middle and buckets beneath, in what is essentially an open air ward.

A bit of an epiphany

I’ve had a bit of an epiphany lately, dear readers: I am ready to leave the ‘desh.

Although the thought of leaving regularly makes me want to weep, a very wise friend pointed out to me a few weeks ago that, when working in development, just as it is important to see out your contract, it’s equally important to known when to leave. And I’ve come to see, over the last few weeks, that my desire to stay here at GBK is more about my fear of the next step, than about what I can really contribute to GBK in addition to what I’m already doing. The skills that I have, and the support that GBK now needs, no longer match. It’s time for us both to move on.

I think my work here is (almost) done.

Now all I have to do is break this to my colleagues. Like my neighbours, they are forever trying to convince me to stay on in Bangladesh. For a while, I was genuinely searching for ways to stay. But now that I know this is not what I want, I just don’t know if I have the heart to tell my friends that, actually, for the time being at least, I’m done with Bangladesh.

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.