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. 

The King's Speech

Let me start by saying that I am writing this in a fever-induced delirium from my second bout with food poisoning. I am currently losing. Proceed with caution.

Last night was unforgettable. Bangladesh came from behind to beat the heavily-favored Irish National Team (sorry, Michelle) in the Cricket World Cup, which is being help jointly by Bangladesh, India, and Sri Lanka. Below is the match highlight report:

• Bangladesh, bowled out for 205 after taking first strike in the day-night match, hit back to dismiss the leading non-Test nation for 178 in 45 overs at the packed Sher-e-Bangla stadium.
• Former captain Mohammad Ashraful, who scored just one run, turned an unlikely hero with the ball by claiming two top-order wickets with his part-time off-spin.
• Skipper Shakib Al Hasan also picked up two wickets with left-arm spin before seamer Shafiul Islam polished off the tail in quick time with 4-21 from eight overs.

If you're like me, none of the above makes any sense at all. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're making the whole thing up as they go along. At any rate, the city exploded with marches, riots, and celebrations after the win. Once my friends and I heard the noises of pots and pans banging together on the streets below, we decided to investigate. There were about ten people screaming and cheering, walking through the streets of our neighborhood. We decided to join to small-ish gathering, just to see what was going on. Ten turned to twenty, which turned to forty, which turned to eighty. Like bacteria dividing again and again, the group swelled to probably 200 celebrants- all screaming BANGLADESH! (well, there was some other part of the cheer, but... i don't know what they were saying as they were screaming in Bangla). 

So here we are, seven white North Americans in a sea of Bangladeshis, watching in awe as they pulled people out of cars, told rickshaws to ring their bells, surfed on top of moving cars, and raised hell in ways I've only seen in Morgantown after we beat Pitt. Well, the difference was these people were sober. This cannot be said for Morgantown well, ever. 

Anyway, the leaders of the posse eventually stopped to address their followers. Being white (and therefore a celebrity) they wanted to hear from one of us. The next thing I know, I am being propelled to the front of the crowd and pushed on top of a rickety shed to address "the fans". I gave a short (and eloquent, if I do say so myself) speech and then everyone cheered and clapped because, my God, and AMERICAN is in our midst! 

After another twenty minutes of rabble rousing, we broke off and headed for home- wondering if all that had, in fact, really happened. Though next time I join a frenzied mob, I'll be sure to jot down some notes first. 

An LA Times Story on the chaos that unfortunately took a violent turn. Mom, it's fine. We were far from this part of town. :) 

One Killed, Ten Injured in Cricket Celebrations

The Paths are Many...

or, Nepal III. 

There are times in life, so I hear, when understandings, questions, and answers pop into your head in a way that makes it seem as if it might explode. The two days spent in Nepal's ancient capital provided me with so many of these moments that I began to wonder if I knew anything at all. 

I read an academic volume on Hinduism while on the planes and buses than took us around Nepal, and it occurred to me that it is much different than I thought. They do, incidentally, worship any number of the gods and goddesses that pervade their intricate mythology. However, these wild, pagan, multi-armed entities are merely incarnations of a singular, supreme being- Brahaman. Since Brahaman is unknowable and unfathomable to the human mind, worshiping his incarnations is simply easier on the human psyche. For this reason, Mohammad, Jesus, and other founders of major religions are worshiped alongside Shiva, Ganesh, and Krishna. Hindu rituals and stories in some respects parallel so closely those of Judaism and Christianity that you wonder if it's really any coincidence at all. And while I prefer my own two-armed incarnation of God, it is astounding that two religions that, on their face, are so wildly different can be so strikingly similar. 

The two Buddhist stupas we visited are both are UNESCO World Heritage Sites whose history dates back to the 700s AD. Throughout the entire temple area, Tibetan monks are reciting the mantra "Om Mane Padme Hum". There is no direct translation of this phrase; it is the summation of all of the Buddha's teachings, as well as the sacred mantra of samsara, the circle of life and reincarnation. The stupa is the most peaceful place I have ever been. Everywhere there are people meditating, monks chanting, incense burning, and a quiet realization that peace comes from within. 

So being exposed to two completely new religions on their turf made me realize how wrong it is to assert one religion as superior to another. We're all interconnected- back to the very beginning. In the words of our own god of Public Health, Paul Farmer: "equity, then, is the only acceptable goal".  

Nepal I-

Bangladesh is a lovely place, really it is (who am I trying to convince- you or myself?). That being said, I took the first opportunity I had to get the $#&% out of here. There was a string of national holidays that gave me a nice six day vacation, so my Canadian friends and I decided to head to Nepal.

We booked the flight and a three day safari two days before departure and set out to see "The World's Only Hindu Kingdom" for ourselves.

After soaring over the Himalayas and touching down at the airport, it became immediately clear that we were entering a country even less developed than the one we left. However, since it is a more tourist-oriented place, the infrastructure of hotels, restaurants, and activities is nearly that of the US or anywhere else. After a rainy night in Kathmandu, we woke up early for the six hour bus ride to Chitwan National Park.

I'm not sure, but could have had a postcard slapped against my face for the entirety of the drive. All I saw were beautiful mountain views and cute children and old ladies selling tomatoes. I'm sure you've seen the pictures- it's just so hard to capture how....unspoiled it is.

Our safari days were incredible. On our jeep safari, we came upon a sleeping sloth bear and evidently scared the crap out of her because she charged the jeep, decided that was a dumb idea, got mad, and charged it again before slinking into the jungle. I swear I could hear her muttering under her breath. We saw a wild rhino grazing. And some elephants, wild boars, deer, crocodiles....basically it was the Jungle Book and I was playing the part of Mowgli.

It was so nice to breathe fresh air, feel the sun, and walk outdoors without millions of horns honking. Check out the pictures on facebook if you haven't had the chance. It's not hard to make this place look beautiful.

Day Thirty-Seven

So tomorrow marks exactly two months until I go home. That means that I've been here for exactly thirty-seven days. After more than a month, I can go along for several hours like I know Dhaka intimately. Then, something completely new slaps me across the face and I'm as disoriented as ever. However, I do feel like I've noticed some trends in the midst of the chaos. So in honor of my first month, I've made a list of what I've learned (or what I think I've learned) in my short time here.

Things I've Learned:

• You can't stop a car just by walking in front of it 
• The middle finger means the same thing in just about every language
• Children are always adorable
• Never take ________ for granted 
• Malaria pills give you really funny/painful sunburns 
• KFC is universally delicious 
• 90's pop is still 'in' in some parts of the world
• Skirts and dresses are manly if the guys wearing them are carrying 50 lbs on their heads
• Being poor doesn't mean you're miserable 
• Being miserable doesn't mean you're poor 
• Open sewer drains can also conveniently be roadside toilets 
• Tolerance is akin to peace
• If it smells bad, it's usually gross.
• People are poor because they are powerless. 

Politics 101

Let me start by saying this: I roll my eyes and mutter obscenities under my breath at most things the Republican party says and does. In fact, given the choice between Sarah Palin and a band of Sandpeople from Star Wars for President- I'd go with the Sandpeople. However, I can appreciate the Republicans in Congress for several things.
1) They show up for work
2) They are doing what they think is right for the US
3) They are not overly slanderous
4) They're (on the whole) no more corrupt than any other group of politicians
5) They are not actually Sandpeople

Like the United States, Bangladesh has two major parties. These two parties, the BNP and the Arwami League, have switched power at every election since independence in 1971. The leaders of the current parties are both women (yay) who HATE each other (ehhh, ok) and will do everything in their power to stop development/advancement/progress if it's the other party who's implementing the change (boo). These two women loathe each other so much that it's infected the rest of their respective parties, the Members of Parliament, and by association the entire country. There is no such thing as an "independent" here. In order to vote you must belong to a party. If you are a member of one party, you are automatically an enemy of the other. News is badly slanted depending on which paper you read or channel you watch (with very few noble exceptions).  To show that they will not work with the sitting government, the MPs who are members of the opposition party do not actually show up for Parliamentary debate. Instead, they organize "hartel" (strikes) throughout the country to "take politics to the people" and show the opposition party how unpopular and corrupt it is. The sad thing is, they have a point. The sadder thing is, they're the pot calling the kettle black. Not surprisingly, not much gets done. ever.

Sound familiar? In short, it's where I think America will end up if we don't get our act together.

We had our first taste of hartel today. For us, it tastes great. Most of the shops and offices are closed, so I didn't have to go into work, and there is no traffic since everyone is busy either protesting or protesting the protesters. But it's depressing to see such a viciously independent country be brought to this. Bangladesh deserves a government that gives a damn; one that looks out for the people- not just a handful of party cronies. This dispute between these two women has halted so much progress that it's disgusting. Of course, there are many more factors contributing to the gross ineptness of the government- corruption being #1. However, I can't help but think that the country will be a lot better off when both the party leaders decide to kick the bucket.

So even though I think John Boehner looks like a withered carrot with a golf bag surgically attached, he's still the Speaker of the House. He still comes to work every day and does what he thinks is right for our country. That's more than can be said for this place. However, Bangladesh is a textbook example of what can happen when politicians-and by extension the people- refuse to cooperate with each other.

So I'll be the first to stop rolling my eyes.

Ami Oshusto

Well, it's happened. That veritable necessity of traveling in the developing world, the damn-it-all-to-hell-why-did-I-eat-that : food poisoning. This particular bacteria and I have never met, and I don't think I'd like to see him again.  I spent all of last night and most of today in the fetal position before I started to feel human again. Luckily, I had visited the pirated DVD store the day before yesterday and so I was fully stocked. Also, I am extremely grateful for the troupe of Canadians who live on my hall. They've been really nice, as Canadians always are- it's in their genes you know.

Anyway, given that I was, ahem, in a good thinking spot all day, I started to realize that even though I feel like crap- I'm having an incredible adventure. I'm in a place that most people have never even heard of, let alone go to visit. Not a day goes by that I don't experience something completely new and out of my comfort zone. And honestly, I'm having a great time (present condition excluded.). So, what's 24 hours of unpleasantness in the grand scheme of things? As I see it, I'm pretty lucky- puke bucket and all.

The Original Wal-Mart

So I'm learning more and more that individual stores are somewhat of a new thing here. They seem to be afterthoughts thrown up in the wake of globalization to appease westerners who have no idea what to do without a Piggly Wiggly. Sure, there are supermarkets and department stores, but real Bangladeshis don't bother with such drivel. They go straight to the bazaar.

The bazaar is the original Super Wal-Mart. Entering one of these behemoths invites so many colors, smells, and sounds that all mix together and make you feel like you took one too many painkillers. Yet, you are drawn in by the sheer size and variety of things people are selling. Things you didn't even know you needed are there- ripe for the picking. There are people selling fruit next to guys chopping chickens next to some handmade shawls next to someone selling $9 jars of Nutella. (Which, by the way, is worth every penny.) I'm also pretty sure you could get your oil changed and tires rotated out back.

Name anything on your list- anything at all- and it's here. Live goat? check. Every soccer jersey ever made? done. Bootlegged copy of Who's the Boss with commemorative tin lunchbox? no brainer. Needless to say, our stores pale in comparison. The problem is, you have to bargain for almost everything. I guess the upside is that there's no need for cutting coupons. Just bring your A game and be ready to walk away when the deal goes cold... That's what really hooks them- the pretend-to-walk-away-but-really-hope-they-call-you-back move.  However, most of the time I just pay them whatever they want. Is it really worth it to spend five minutes of my life saving 14 cents on a tube of toothpaste?


I remember thinking of every little toiletry I might need and buying enough of it to last a decade- just in case. I'm fairly certain that was one of the most naive things I've done to date. These people have everything you could think of buying in the US, Europe, and Asia.  Fifteen million people live in this city- and contrary to everything my nose tells me- they all have to shower at some point. (right?)

So basically, I've found the progenitor to Wal-Mart, Target, and the rest. Maybe they should take a page out of Dhaka's book and institute a bargaining system. Can you imagine haggling over a pair of Uggs or a bottle of shampoo?

 Though it might be best to leave out the live goats, they'll just eat all the lunchboxes.

Azaan or not to 'zaan: it's up to you

God is most great. God is most great.

God is most great. God is most great.

I testify that there is no God except God.

I testify that there is no God except God.

I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.

I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.

Come to prayer! Come to prayer!

Come to salvation! Come to salvation!

God is most great. God is most great.

There is none worthy of worship except God

I love Dhaka at night. People tell you it's more dangerous then- they may be right.  It's also quieter, the air is clear, and there's always a breeze. For the first time all day, I can hear myself think. On the rickshaw home this evening, I heard the azaan, the call to prayer, more clearly than ever before. It got me thinking...

Since I've been in Bangladesh, I've noticed that people here treat Islam much like people in the States treat Christianity. There are those that are devout, those that go on the equivalents Christmas and Easter, and those who don't go at all. This continuum, the Islam-o-meter if you will, is not something I expected. I don't know really what I thought I'd see, but this isn't it. 

Everyone  I've met here is extremely tolerant and open-minded to the idea of religion. Bangladesh is a very individualistic society, and whatever may be true for one person doesn't have to be true for another. Hindus, Christians, Muslims, and even a small Jewish community coexist peacefully with the torrent of Dhaka swirling around them. In some ways, it is poverty binds them; it is that which is nearly universal. 

Still, the azaan is broadcast five times a day from thousands of minarets throughout the city. Sometimes the noise, trash, and shit that permeates this place makes me wonder if it is indeed God-forsaken. But then I hear the azaan and things slow down. Even if you're not Muslim, or not practicing, people lower their voices and turn down their radios out of respect. In the gym I go to, the music stops. No one looks at you funny if you do or don't pray- it is purely an individual decision. Yet,162 million people pause five times a day to reflect. There's something to be said for that. 

For now, extremism is largely nonexistent in Bangladesh. It is here that you can experience Islam for what it is meant to be- a peaceful and welcoming religion that preaches many of the same tenets that Christianity and Judaism do. That's not to say that I agree with all things Islam- I don't. However, I can see now why so many people find comfort in it. Christians share a God, a history, and many prophets with Muslims. It's a shame we don't know more about each other. 

I really admire Bangladesh for cultivating a tolerant and open Muslim society. In that regard, we in the US could learn a thing or two by stopping a couple of times each day- just to reflect. 

Country Roads

So the other day, some other BRAC interns and I traveled a couple of hours outside the city to a village. First of all, these people are hilarious. I've never been in a group where I'm the sole American, but it's kind of refreshing. Our rag-tag bunch of ex-British colonists included two Canadians (oh stop- it's a real country), two Bangladeshis (including my friend from GW, Shabab), and three Australians. All are here for the next weeks or months to do something similar to what I'll be doing (which, at press time, is still unknown).

So we get to this village, and I can guarantee that it is exactly what you're picturing. There are kids running around chasing chickens, cows hanging out next to houses, no running water, and hardly any electricity. I went to the "toilet" and peed into a hole in the ground.  And this is less than two hours from a city of 15 million people.

Our first stop is a microfinance meeting. BRAC only gives micro loans to women. This is because, statistically, men are crap at actually doing anything productive with the money they're given. Women tend to teach their children what the money is for, they tend to get more return for the money, and they tend not to drink it away somewhere. These women can build up credit over time to receive loans of Tk.50,000 ($695) or more per year. They use the loan to buy land, livestock, start a small business, buy seeds, open a salon, start a Starbuck's, and anything else that can generate income. They pay back a portion of the loan each week, and use a system of peer pressure to make sure each person's part is paid. If someone's crops fail or is business is bad one week, others chip in to make sure she doesn't default.
After the finance meeting, we walked all the way across the village (approximately 4 steps) to a health meeting. There, a BRAC saleswoman was showing a gathering of women what types of medicines they could buy and what each would treat. Because many of these women are illiterate, there is simply a pictogram of what each disease is, and what the dosage of the medicine should be. I have to say, I could have gone a long time without seeing a cartoon twelve year old with explosive diarrhea.

Next we went to a BRAC school. When I say "school", think America circa 1840: one room, one teacher, a lot of reciting information. These children are all extremely poor, but they have such big dreams. Some want to be doctors, others teachers, biologists, police officers, and prime ministers. While these students learn in a decidedly modest environment, 99.54% of BRAC students pass the fifth grade nation-wide exam- a better average than the public schools. The second grade students all performed (ok yelled) the only English-language song they knew, "We Shall Overcome". It was enough to make anyone choke up.

Finally, we drove to a textile factory where both women and men work to produce clothing for BRAC's retail store- Aarong. The profits from this reasonably large chain in Dhaka are reinvested into BRAC programs, so we try to buy there when possible. The employees dye, cut, sew, embroider, screen print, paint, and stictch everything by hand. It's an incredible process to watch, and the end result is amazing.

BRAC school

microfinance meeting

health meeting

embroidering

screen printing

Outlets- Dhaka Style

As you may know, many American and European labels use Bangladesh as a veritable sweatshop for their wares. Brands like Armani, H&M, Gap, Banana Republic, Old Navy, Zara, and some weird ones you only find at Wal-Mart all display that veritable stamp of outsourcing- "Made in Bangladesh". 

Naturally, some of these clothes do not pass quality control for one reason or another. If one piece of clothing is defective, the company rejects the entire batch, even though the others may be fine. Clothes that don't sell well in the West are also often kept in Bangladesh to save on shipping costs. SO. It follows, then, that there would be a Mecca, a shining beacon of cheap western clothes ripe for the picking- and that place is called Banga Bazaar. 

A couple of days ago, some friends and I decided to make our pilgrimage to this magical place. Some Canadians who live in our building had shown us their wares and said it was a fairly easy place to get to. So off we go, ready to bargain our way into some things we couldn't afford to buy at home. 

First of all, I continue to underestimate the extent of the traffic here. I suppose that's what happens when there is absolutely no regard for the laws of the road. On this trip alone, our taxi driver drive the wrong way on a divided highway three times. THREE. 

So after we are dropped off, we realize that it's the wrong bazaar. The drivers have dropped us at BangLa Bazaar, not Banga bazaar. We later find out that there exists a: 

Banga Bazaar

Bangla Bazaar

Babu Bazaar 

Babar Bazaar

Bangu Bazaar

That might explain why we were dropped at the wrong place. We look around for a while and decide we should not give up. So off we go, pilgrims of consumerism, in search of the correct bazaar. Some frantic hand gestures from locals tell us that it is across the river. We see several steamer ferries docked at the port, so we figure we'll take one across. Wrong. We enter the terminal to find that the steamers are basically for show and, judging by the condition, haven't been moved or cleaned since approximately 1960. In order to cross the river, we must get in a rickety rowboat, entrusting our cameras, money, and lives to a Bengali man who strongly resembles Methuselah. Crossing this river poses several threats: 1) we could fall in and drown 2) we could fall in and survive, but catch so many diseases from the water that we're really better off dead 3) this boatman could keel over at any second, leaving us stranded in the middle of the putrid river. So off we go, dodging cargo ships and tug boat barges, trash and other rowboats, until we reach the other side. 

Once over, we soon realize that we again have reached the wrong bazaar. Our bazaar is back across the river. Not wanting to endanger our lives again, we choose to cross the river via the bridge about half a mile away. We continue across the river and keep asking for directions. On our journey we realize that Dhaka must be segmented into districts, with each district having only one kind of store. We pass through the sink district, the toilet district, the paper district, the faucet district, the steel district, the funny-looking-iron-rod district, and the furniture district. At each point, there are no less than twenty or thirty stores- all with the exact same wares. After 40 days and 40 nights (or three and a half hours of searching), we see it. At first it seems like a mirage, but then it becomes clear- jeans! 

We run into this Promised Land and rifle through clothes like it's water in the desert. There are, of course, no changing rooms. After deciding it was worth it, I simply dropped trou and tried on several pairs of jeans right there in the bazaar. The problem is, you lose your ability to walk away from a haggle if you're standing there in your underoos. Consequently, I probably could have gotten a better deal if I had thought this out before taking off my pants. Still, I came out with a pair two pairs of jeans and a polo- all for less than $20. Not too shabby, and somehow completely worth the effort. 

I think I'll go back; but next time I'll bring Moses along so I don't have to get in that boat again. 

First Pictures!

View from my office building! The central mosque is in the foreground

 The conversation hour/dance-off group

Kind of like the Reflecting Pool?

This Soot is Black Not

So today we had our first real chance to explore the city outside of the little corner we call home. There are thirteen of us here in all, and seven of us went uptown to the "ritzy" part of the city to do some shopping and walk around. I say walk, but it's more like dodge, or maybe zigzag around. You see, sidewalks are optional. Even when they do exist, there are several ways that you could die (or at least be seriously grossed out) at any moment. 1) You could step in a pile of trash/human feces 2) you could run into a man bending down to pee 3) you could fall into a pit about 8-10 feet deep (most likely with sewage at the bottom) 4) you could be run over by a motorcycle, many of which decide to avoid traffic by driving precisely where people are supposed to walk. And this is all assuming you don't have to cross any streets. All the while you're breathing in soot and smog. So much so that every time you blow your nose, it comes out black as night.

Now, I love my bride to be more than anything in the world, but most of you know her inability to cross a street unless it is absolutely clear for approximately 3 miles in either direction. I am convinced that if brought here, she would stand in one spot for the entirety of her stay. There are no crosswalks, so little flashing white men to guide you across, and it's every man for himself. Our Bangla teacher said that a good rule of thumb is to assume that everyone behind the wheel of a car is both deaf and blind. On a serious note, road traffic accidents are one of the major problems here, and approximately 30 people de per day in this city due to collisions with pedestrians or other cars.

So on we continued past the Westin, The Sheraton, and the Radisson to the malls and towers that populate this part of town. One thing that struck me was that the shops in these towers wouldn't be out of place in much more developed cities. The prices, service, facilities, and technology could be substituted for anywhere in Latin America or even parts of Europe. Yet, outside there is poop running freely in the streets. Lots of poop.

It just highlights the incredible wealth disparity that befalls much of the developing world. The middle class is growing, yes, but it's mostly the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer. Instead of building more luxury apartment buildings and malls (which there are literally hundreds of construction sites for in our small area alone), tens of thousands of affordable housing units could be built for those that live in squalor.

Still, this city has a charm all its own. Taking the rickshaw back on this unusually cool night (about 55 degrees), the sounds stopped. I was the only one on the street. For those 15 seconds, all I could hear were crickets; and I think I started to fall in love with this place.   

A Good Old Fashioned Dance-Off

My first few days in Dhaka have been interesting to say the least. My primary job is to facilitate Orientation for the GW students who are here for classes (read: be a WM OA but without the cool yellow shirt...). When I'm not shuffling them about, I'm taking Bangla lessons with them. It's the official language here and in some parts of India (Bangladesh means "the country of the people who speak Bangla, fyi). We're in an intense course of about 4-5 hours a day all week. It's a crazy language, but not too difficult once you get past the whole their-letters-look-like-ink-blot-tests thing. At least they write right to left.  It's really helped so far. Since the main mode of transportation here is a rickshaw (read: death trap with ink blot test writing all over it), telling the rickshallah where to go in Bangla reduces your chances of 1) getting ripped off and 2) getting dropped in the ghetto. 

So after our Bangla class today, we had a conversation hour with about 50 woman teachers at a school that is sponsored by the NGO I work for. Well, the conversation hour turned into a singing hour, and then into a dancing hour. First, they sang their national anthem (beautiful...) and then they did some traditional dances. You can tell that these steps are embedded in their DNA- they've known these since they could walk.   

They then asked us to do some "traditional American dances". uhhhh....what? We don't have elaborate dance steps set to ancient hymns passed down orally for hundreds of years. (Unless maybe you count "Crank Dat" by Soulja Boy....) All we have is the electric slide. So that's exactly what we taught them. Then when they wanted more, we panicked and did the macarena. Yeah. A song  that's not even in English that's more than 15 years old. eh, they loved it. 

Hope all of you are doing well- 

Salaam o pore dakhaa hobe (Peace and goodbye for now) 

--Nick 

First Impressions

Dhaka, Bangladesh. 

Hey Everyone! 

So I made it in alright and things have been going pretty well so far. Before getting in to Dhaka, a few anecdotes about the flights: 

• I met a British couple who, in their retirement, spend three months a year doing teacher trainings in Bangladesh. I think more people should give back like that 
• I had the strangest cultural meld ever. In the Bahrain airport, I ate breakfast next to two Texans (who were none too pleased that bahrain doesn't sell alcohol at all...never mind that if it was 745am there) in a Chile's (in the middle east??) while watching two women go by in full burqa (the head-to-toe-even-the-face covering for some Muslim women) who were walking past an advertisement for 1) the iPhone and 2) A Quizno's (the country's fourth). Consider my mind blown.
• The bus with wings from bahrain to bangladesh consisted of about 200 men and about 5 women. Since Bangladesh doesn't really sell alcohol either, most of these 200 men ordered the complimentary beer or liquor that comes with international flights. Again, sine these men don't normally drink much, the bus with wings soon turned into the Party bus with wings. 

So on to Dhaka: 

My first impression upon stepping into the airport was, "oh- well this isn't so bad" The airport is clean, not very busy, and my bags all made it. That was before I went outside. 

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Or maybe it was the noise. Either way, both accosted me in a way I can't compare to anything I've ever experienced. Yelling, honking, moving, lights, exhaust fumes, soot, smog- it all immediately slapped me across the face. Once I found my driver and we loaded up, I noticed that we weren't going to be going anywhere very fast. Traffic is so notorious that the only words my driver knew in english were "traffic" and "jam" No word yet on whether he knew that "jam" was also a delicious fruit spread. In our starting and stopping, I came to familiarize myself with what was passing outside my backseat window. Several beggars came up to the car, some with children or a leg missing. People were camped out on the side of the road, lighting piles of leaves and trash for cooking or warmth. No matter where I looked, I saw people. people. people everywhere. Dhaka is the most overcrowded, overcapacity place I have ever seen. I can't describe the throngs of people that radiate from every point of view. 

Once we finally got to my building, I found my room to be quite clean and comfortable. No big rats/bugs to be found. It even has wireless and an A/C unit! God bless me for the latter. It's currently about degrees during the day, and the humidity is almost always at 100%. And this is winter.  

The students that I'll be supervising for the next week during their Orientation seem really great. They're nice and are all a little older and more well-traveled that I am (in the developing world anyway). I'm anxious to get to know them better. 

Sorry for the long first post! I hope to make them shorter and more frequent in the future :) 

 

So I made a blog...

Enniskerry, County Wicklow, Ireland.

Hey everyone!

So I am spending my last semester of graduate school on a Fellowship in Dhaka, Bangladesh. I hope to use this as a space to keep you all updated on whatever life brings from January 7th to April 14th. I can promise that it will be full of interesting tidbits and stories from my time there. Feel free to leave comments and keep me up to date on what your Spring brings! Can't wait to see you all when I return. Check back on the 8th or 9th for the first post from Dhaka!

-Nick