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