And what a Bang(ladesh) it was.

 There is a difference between traveling to a place and living in one. Traveling allows you to experience the cursory details, to see the sights and cross monuments and museums off a checklist of must-sees. Traveling is wonderful, and I hope to continue to do it throughout my life. I want to see as much of this great big world as possible. But to live, truly live, in a foreign country is a different beast entirely. To meet friends, have "usuals", wave hello to neighbors- these are the things that truly change a person and how he or she views the world. While I've been immensely fortunate to have opportunities to travel, I have never had the chance to truly live in a country other than the United States. Bangladesh provided me the ability to set up roots- however shallow and temporary- in a home far from my own. It is because of this that I have accomplished my goal. I came here with the intent to truly get to know how this place works, what makes it tick, and how to fix it. Maybe my goals were a bit lofty, but I feel as if I have uncovered a secret- these things aren't knowable. As soon as I thought I had Dhaka all figured out, a completely new layer of confusion, frustration, and admiration would show itself like a never ending I-Spy poster.

So maybe that's it. Living in a place that is foreign in every sense of the word gives you the ability to connect with it- but only so much. There will always be secrets to uncover and lessons to learn; and I don't expect to have it all figured out in fourteen weeks. That being said, this has been the most incredible experience of my life to date. I've broken the stereotypes that I held for myself, I did things I never thought I would do, and I met some of the most caring and committed people I can imagine.

Henry Kissinger once described Bangladesh as an "international basket case". In some ways, he is completely right. There are times when I am so sad for this country and how a very few at the top are largely responsible for the misery of tens of millions at the bottom. Without real change in the government, Bangladesh can never fully crawl out of the hole it has dug over the past forty years. However, there is tremendous good being done as well. Aid money is pouring in and myriad development programs are improving the lives of millions of families across the country. Bangladesh is not without friends, and I am confident that sooner or later, the hard work being done by NGOs, aid organizations, and even some in the government, will pay off.

So I am optimistic as I say goodbye to this thumb-print of a country. It has taught me innumerable lessons on Public Health, development, friendship, loyalty, hard work, honesty, gratitude, and so much more. For all of its faults, it has made me better in the truest sense. I only hope that one day I can return the favor.

Sunderbans- the final frontier

My final trip out of Dhaka before coming home was to the Sunderbans, which in Bengali literally translates to "beautiful forest". It's the largest mangrove swamp in the world- but it looks like a different planet. All the trees have aerial roots that stick up out of the ground like straws. There is no soil- only mud. lots and lots of mud. The kind of mud that makes a sound like the end of the ketchup bottle every time you take a step. Everyone who lives here says it is a must-see, so my trusty band of Canadians and I decided to experience it for ourselves. We set out on a special excursion, one that coincided with the kickoff to the honey collecting season. Honey is a major commodity of the Sunderbans, and the mowalis (honey hunters) leave their families for the month of April and spend 30 days in the jungle searching for monstrous bee hives of death. In the course of the month, an average of twelve mowalis will die via attack by Royal Bengal Tiger. Bees. Tigers. Mud. the three ingredients for a relaxing vacation.

After an uncomfortable 10 hour coach ride next to a guy who climbed over me to go pee so much I actually think he has undiagnosed diabetes, we boarded our river vessel. This mothership was to be our home for the next four days, bravely taking us into the unknown depths of the forest. We spent a whole day cruising and playing cards, reading, and relaxing. The next day was spent doing pretty much the same. Late that afternoon, however, we went on our first honey hunt.

We followed the honey hunters, our guide, and two armed guards with rifles circa WWI deep into the jungle. After wading around in mud for about 15 minutes and fording river channels I've seen only on Oregon Trail, we heard the distinct victory shriek of a mowali. We rushed over to find a bee hive about four feet long and two feet tall hanging from an immense mangrove. The whole thing was swarming with over 1000 2-inch bees. I was about six to ten feet from it. The mowalis started their smoke torches, which disorients the bees and prevents them from stinging. Under the cover of smoke, we watched as the mowalis brushed away hundreds of bees with their bear hands and cut large chunks of the honeycomb into a collecting pot. As the bees were swarming all around us, we covered our faces and prayed they were drunk enough off of the smoke to leave us alone.

After running like banshees away from the hive, we stop at a safe distance to survey the loot. Mowalis can extract up to six kilograms of honey from a single hive. They don't destroy the hive, and in fact this practice promotes forest development by prompting the bees to re-pollinate vegetation in order to rebuild their hive. We visited two more combs in that first trek, and saw some pretty significant tiger prints. It was enough to scare the crap out of me, and I was glad when we made it back to the boat sans beestings and with all of our limbs.

We came back to the main boat covered in mud, sweaty, dirty, and triumphant. I went out three more times the next day. The pictures don't do it justice. This was seriously one of the most incredible, mind-boggling, and adventurous things I've ever done. I'm content to do it once...and leave it at that.

This was the perfect bookend to my Bangladesh experience. After coming back from the Sunderbans, I have only three days to get everything together before I leave. I can't think of a better way to spend my last weekend in Dhaka than almost getting eaten alive.

Settling In and Flying Out

It occurred to me that I haven't posted very recently. Each time I sat down to do so, I couldn't think of anything remarkable enough on which to write. But, maybe there's a story buried in the fact that I've come to find this incredibly eccentric place almost....normal.

Every foreigner I've talked to has the same emotional roller coaster ride. We start out starry-eyed- amazed at how different and exciting Dhaka is. We're ready to take it on; to make a difference in a place where the opportunities to do so abound. Then a few weeks or months later, we dip into a deep resentment for the poverty, stench, class-ism, and noise that makes us want to take the first flight out- no matter where it's going. We hurl insults and curse the day we ever came to this urine-soaked hellhole. Gradually, or maybe suddenly,  we enter the third stage: acceptance. We learn to look for the little things that show that crescent moon-sized bright spot in an otherwise gloomy city-things like quiet Friday mornings, evenings spent with friends, or a new corner of town we didn't know about. We explore the parts of the city we hadn't, we talk with people we previously passed by, and we come to accept Dhaka for what it is- and isn't.

So, yes, it is remarkable to come from the West and, only a few months later, find it un-newsworthy to trip over goats on the way to work, or nearly fall into an open sewer on the way home from the market. We just get used to a certain way of living- and we are luckier than most of the 13 million other residents of this city. We have a roof over our heads, food to eat, and luxuries like A/C and a guy who cleans our house twice a week. Putting that into perspective takes a while, and it is somewhat sad that I've only figured it out near the end of my time here. Home is certainly where the heart is, and I think all of us- no matter what stage we're currently in- will leave a little piece of ourselves in this dirty, dusty, and wonderful place. 

We've Come A Long Way, baby

Today is the birthday of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the father of the current Prime Minister and an instrumental figure in the War of Liberation. If he were alive today, he would be 101.

Donors, the media, and many Bangladeshis tend to focus on their country's shortcomings. Its high poverty rates, political gridlock, sprawling capital, and the like. Not to play the saint, I, too, have joined in on these pick-on-Bangladesh sessions. However, I sometimes forget that Bangladesh as a sovereign nation is only 40 years old.

Sometimes we forget that the U.S. didn't have such a smooth start itself. First off, our first national government failed under the Articles of Confederation. There were spats and fights and political gridlock against the Jay Treaty, leading the formation of opposing political parties. The US wasn't dirt poor, but wasn't exactly powerful in those early years. Slavery was legal, and American Indians were horribly oppressed.

We had a bloody and costly war with our colonizers that turned our capital to rubble and nearly bankrupted the country. All the while, tensions were already rising towards a dispute that would lead to one of the deadliest civil wars of all time.

So, it's not all Yankee Doodle and apple pie for us, either. I don't mean to say that the US and Bangladesh are directly comparable- they're not. Bangladesh is much more crowded, has few natural resources, and is evolving in a more digital age where their shortcomings and mistakes are immediately and glaringly obvious to the rest of the world. But to be fair, the young US of A never knew the kindness of foreign aid or NGOs, and the field of International Development didn't exist at all.

While Bangladesh has (more than) its share of problems, it's been able to reduce population growth to just about replacement level, cut maternal mortality below even the best estimates, improve literacy, and grow a ten billion dollar export industry. They've also beaten all the odds and increased food production in line with population growth, cutting malnutrition considerably. All this happened in in 40 short years, after a bloody and terrible war for independence.

Their accomplishments are due in part because they have the guidance of those nations who were fortunate enough to make their mistakes generations ago, mistakes that most people would only know from their history books. It's been 40 years since East Pakistan became Bangladesh. Let's cut them some slack.

Lost in Translation

Sometimes I think Dhaka is Bangla-lite in a lot of ways. It's largely Westerized and a lot of people speak English. There's a Pizza Hut and a KFC for crying out loud. So, I decided to head to the villages to see the real Sonar Bangla (beautiful Bangladesh).

This week I am in Rajendrapur, a small village about two hours' drive from Dhaka. Life is slower here.  I'm staying at the Fish Hatchery Training Center, which is self-explanatory. The campus of this surprisingly nice ranch is covered with large, muddy ponds where fish eggs are harvested, placed into holding tanks, and then bred into more fish. BRAC sells the fish to rural villagers who then raise them to sell at market. So...basically I smell like fish 24/7. 

The air is clear, the water is less sewage-y, and I can see the sun. I even got to go for a couple of runs on the back country roads. I quickly learned these back country roads are covered with garment factories and the big trucks that move Gap's newest jeans to and from the city. There ended my fun-runs.

The training I'm here to observe focuses on disaster preparedness and BRAC's protocols for response. Since the trainees are field staff, the whole four-day session is in Bengali. Needless to say... I'm lost most of the time. However, it is has been helpful for practicing my language skills. I now know useful words such as "underground shelter", "Richter Scale", and "total destruction". 

I've made a group of Bangladeshi friends. Well...they tell me we're friends. I don't understand much of what they're saying but they follow me around and insist that I go wherever they go at all times. They made me sing the National Anthem like, three times already. I'm the only white person many of them have ever seen, and it's been awesome to learn their culture in its purest form, as well as their perceptions about America(ns). Apparently 1) Michael Jackson is God 2) Barack Obama is Muslim and 3) they learn ALL about Abraham Lincoln. go figure. They are also surprised that my pending wedding is a love marriage (as opposed to arranged) and even more surprised to find out that my parents' was as well. 

Here, the language barrier is much more apparent. Since I arrived, I have unwittingly done the following: 

1) offered to adopt five small children from a woman who has ten

2) agreed to go on a date with a 13 year old girl (her mother set it up)

3) used the ladies' bathroom 

4) told my friends that Catalina is from Brazil (they don't know where Colombia is...i figured that was close enough)

5) told them I was staying here for three years 

So... it's a learning process. There are also are about ten kids under the age of seven running around, and some of the boys were trying to teach me to play cricket. I only knew enough Bangla to understand, "stupid American" and "really bad batting"...and just when I thought I'd found my sport.

Tomorrow, these kind, genuine people and I will part ways- probably never to see each other again. I hope they know that they've made an impact on me that I won't soon forget. Their smiles and their laughs (mostly directed at me) have really immersed me in the Bangladesh of yesteryear.  

International Women's Day

Today was International Women's Day. It is also Mardi Gras. I question the United Nations' wisdom of having such a landmark occasion share a date with one that is most famous for women's self-objectification (read: flashing their boobs). At any rate, Mardi Gras is not celebrated in Bangladesh, so today was all about women's empowerment (and not the kind that comes with beads).

Everyone dressed in their finest. There were saris of a million colors flowing throughout the building all day. At 4pm, the Gender Equality division put on a special show that included cultural presentations and dances. There were children and young people from all over the country singing about marrying later and knowing your rights. The chairman and founder of BRAC, Fazle Hasan Abed, spoke. It was in Bangla, but I am assuming it was both moving and eloquent. The whole day smacked of hope and opportunity. When Bangladesh won its independence in 1972, it was the only country on the planet where men outlived women. Historically, women's lives here were harsh, back-breaking, and short. A World Health Organization report in 2002 listed Bangladesh as the country with one of the highest rates of domestic violence in the world, and ten years ago it had the fourth highest rate of child marriage.

A lot of that has changed. For example, Maternal Mortality, the measure of how many mothers die in childbirth, has more than halved since 2000. Women's empowerment and legal aid seminars are held almost daily, and recognition of the unacceptability of domestic violence is higher than ever. It is truly a testament to BRAC, and to the determination of other NGOs that work to make a difference in a place where the only direction to go was up.

A narrow canal lies directly across the street from the towering skyscraper that is BRAC headquarters. On the other side of that canal is the largest slum in Dhaka. It houses more then one million people on silty, unstable sand. The only way to access it is by small, makeshift boats that dock on a steep riverbank that is made mostly of trash.

At the end of the ceremony, I followed the crowd out of HQ and into the muggy Dhaka rush hour. As I was walking past the boats that lead to the slum, I saw perhaps a hundred beautifully colored saris stepping delicately into those boats; a rainbow of dreams not quite fulfilled.I stopped and realized that while we've come so far- we have so, so far yet to go. 

"Well, you made it" someone says to me as I order another fresh squeezed lemonade (40 cents) and ponder the timing of my next tennis lesson (90 cents). I'm finally a member of the most exclusive Club in town- the American Recreation Association. This relative oasis that seems light years away from the smog, noise, and poverty of Dhaka is complete with three restaurants, a pool, playgrounds, a bar, a gym (to work off the bar) tennis courts, and grass. Yes- in Dhaka, grass makes the list of envious amenities. 

 

But it wasn't easy. The road to the pinnacle of Bangladeshi society isn't an easy one- especially for Americans. You see, due to the fact that Dhaka offered no services to expatriates, individual countries started setting up their own "clubs" so that their citizens could have safe food and a quiet place to relax. After six weeks here, I wanted that- nay- I needed that.

Rewind: February 1st, 2011: 

There are so many of these country club-esque places that sometimes you think you're at Epcot. In addition to the American Club, there's a Canadian Club, a Nordic Club (which caters to Swedes, Danes, Finns, Icelanders, and Norwegians), a German Club, a Dutch Club, two British Clubs (snobby tossers), an Australian Club, a Thai Club, an International Club (for anyone without a club of their own) and the Gulshan Club (for Bangladeshis). At any of these places, a person with a passport of their respective country may sign up and pay a nominal membership fee to enjoy all the comforts of home. 

Not so for the Americans. You see, with great Club comes great pain-in-the-ass. The upside of the American Club is that once a member, you are automatically granted membership to all the other clubs as well. However, in order to become a member, you must have a "diplomatic sponsorship" -a letter from an American diplomat saying you're not an axe murderer or a pedophile or Michelle Bachmann, or anything else that might ruin their little slice of utopia. In short, you must find one of 35-40 diplomats in a city of 12 million, become their friend, and in a completely not-awkward way, ask them to sign some sheet of paper. AKA, you must  s*** a diplomat's **** (figuratively speaking)(sorry mom...and grandma.) Quite understandably, I was angered. Why should the Americans be the only ones who are so difficult? After all, MY tax dollars are paying for this!

Well, I couldn't just know that such luxuries were just over that tall brick wall and behind those armed guards without having them for myself. I demanded entrance. While 'explaining' my predicament to the gatekeeper, a nice American woman invited me in as her guest. We kept in touch for via Facebook since. After several failed attempts at entering the land of milk and honey on my own, I went straight to the manager. He told me that if I could find someone who was already a member, I could become their "houseguest" and get a temporary membership of my own. Who did I run into on the street the very next afternoon? None other than the lady who let me in that first day. 

After some general sweet talking, she and her husband signed the paperwork. I am eternally grateful, for now I can travel the world! Now I can proudly walk past those armed guards, flash my membership card, and be transported back to the good old US of A for a couple of hours. (I can also get some great meatballs down the street in Sweden, or some wine across the way in Australia)

The moral of the story is that it's a waste of your time to tell me "no", because I'll probably just find a much more creative and annoying way to make you say yes :)  

I'll take another lemonade now.