Celebrity or 5-year-old child?

First off - I am really enjoying being in Bangladesh.  The country is beautiful (once you're out of Dhaka), the people are so friendly and hospitable, the mangoes are cheap and bloody good.  And, while I could happily burn all my ornas, I actually quite like the salwar kameez and find it really comfortable to work in.  The food is often great, although I've cut down my rice-based meals to one per day.  I'm operating outside my comfort zone on a daily basis and love that I now think of zip-lock bags and pesto as "luxuries".

BUT...

I am bloody sick of being treated like a princess.  My colleagues are amazed that I hand wash my own clothes, am able to cook and - most recently - managed to use my brain by putting the fruit I'd cut up in the fridge overnight.  (Mind you, they didn't believe me until I opened the fridge door to show them.  "Oh!  You are a smart girl," they told me.  No, just not as stupid as you seem to think I am.)

It's really a fine line between being treated like the ultimate celebrity guest, where everyone is trying super hard to ensure my comfort and well-being at all times (including security escort EVERYWHERE) and being treated like a 5-year-old child.  Where are you going?  Who are you going with?  What did you buy?  How much did it cost?  Eat more food!  Close your windows!  No, you can't have a key for the front gate!  (Shock horror, that might mean that I'd actually be able to go out without anyone knowing.)  Make sure you get an early bus back from Dhaka, otherwise it will be dark!

The people at my work are the ultimate dibber-dobbers, too.  One night when I did return from Dhaka at 10:30pm, the only person who saw me coming in was the security guy.  But the next morning at 9am, my supervisor was asking why I got home so late.  Another time, I told one colleague that I'd gone to an area of Bangladesh that is technically out of bounds for Australian volunteers... with strict instructions not to tell my supervisor.  She didn't tell my supervisor, but by dinner time I was being hassled by another colleague for not telling them I was going.  Last week when getting the bus to Chittagong after work on a Thursday with another colleague, he asked me if I'd let my supervisor know I was going.  No, I said, but I'd told the security guy and the cook.  I offered to text my supervisor after we arrived in Chittagong, and this guy replied that he'd already rung my supervisor to tell him.  Bloody hell!

I am slowly getting better at telling people to bugger off (really - I told 2 of my male colleagues to "bugger off" after they didn't listen to me asking them to go away when cooking one night) and I think they are slowly getting the idea that I want a bit of privacy.  But it will be an ongoing battle and I wouldn't be surprised if I get calls on my return to Australia checking up on me!

Hard at work

Another day of being forbidden to do home visits due to the rain, even with harder protestations from me.

After lunch, my counterpart brought her daughter to see me. Hridita is 7 years old and absolutely gorgeous. Her mother says she is naughty, but I say funny. Full of beans, keen to practice her English and teach me lots of Bangla words, asking questions about everything. She'd drawn me a picture and written a little letter that my counterpart had given me in the morning, asking when I was going to come and visit. I wrote one back in reply for my counterpart to take home at lunch time, saying that she could come and visit me if she liked. Being 7 years old, I guess she figured there was no time like the present, so came over straight away. We hung out for a while, looking at photos of my family, playing the various musical instruments I have, drinking Horlicks (my hot drink of the moment), playing hide-and-seek in my room & examining all my things. Then Hridita had the bright idea to put some make-up on me. Luckily, we were on my own turf with my own make-up... unlike my 2 previous Bangladeshi make-overs which have not been entirely to my taste. So although her technique needs some work, the colours were ones that I had chosen so it didn't look too bad (see final picture for end result, including hair styling and jewellery selected by Hridita).

Another day of thinking, "If only the tax-payer could see me now."

Working 9 to 5... in a fashion

Today my planned home visits have been cancelled due to the rain.

Bangladeshis reckon they have 6 seasons a year, of which we're currently starting the rainy season.  According to the Lonely Planet (granted - this is hardly the most accurate publication on Bangladesh) there are only 4 discernable seasons.  But whatever.  The rainy season officially started on 15th June and it was like someone turned on a switch, cos I woke up that morning to heavy rain and it hasn't let up since.

So I am going stir-crazy being stuck inside.  I have plenty of work to be going on with, but it's really thrown me cos I was all psyched up to be doing home visits, not paperwork.  I really need to be in the zone to get stuff done.

This morning's discussion went thus:

Colleague: What is your schedule for today?

Me: Visit to X village to see 4 clients.

Colleague: But it is raining!  This is impossible for you.  You are not accustomed to this weather.

Me: Isn't it going to be raining for the next 2 or 3 months?

Colleague: Yes.

Me: So I may as well get accustomed to it now, hey?  Otherwise all these people will not get any therapy for months.

Colleague: But you will fall over and get mud on your dress.

Me: That's okay - if that happens, I'll just come back here and get cleaned up.

Colleague: No, it's really a bad idea.  You go to your room and take rest.

(General nods of agreement from the other staff members.)

Me: Are you sure?

Colleague: This is the only thing for you to do.

Now, who could argue with that logic?!?  Screw work, I'll do as instructed and "take rest".  This is my kind of work ethic.

2-for-1 meal, Bangladeshi-style

On Thursday, I ate my most "interesting" lunch yet.

The "meat" component of the meal (which is usually fish) looked like dried apricot-sized chunks, with little tiny white balls (smaller than 100s and 1000s) covering the chunks and in the sauce.  I asked Moriam, the cook, what it was.  "Mach dim", she said.  Did this mean it was fish AND eggs or it was fish eggs?  I asked for further clarification.  "Dim," she says, pointing at the little white balls.  And what are the chunks?  "Dim," she says again.  So I think what I'm eating is fish eggs with chicken eggs broken up into chunks.

My first bite - about half of one of the chunks - confirms that the chunks are definitely not chicken eggs.  On closer inspection, I notice that there is a membrane-type covering around the chunk with a veiny-looking line in it.  Again I ask Moriam what the chunks are.  "Dim," she repeats, then washes her hands and comes over to pick up the half-eaten chunk.  She mashes it between her fingers so it separates into lots of tiny white balls.  Clearly, it was fish eggs in some kind of sac.

Somewhat perturbed, I ask how much this "delicacy" costs per kg.  Everyone laughs at me.  "No, no... Yesterday's fish!"  Ew.  I am eating the future spawn of yesterday's lunch.  After this horrifying realisation, both the sheer disgustingness of it to my Western middle-class palate and concerns about the potential bugs growing on and in these fish eggs, I was unable to eat any more.  I still feel queasy when I think about it.

It could only be worse if the fish were caught in the pond outside my house, where a couple of weeks ago I counted 10 dead floaters.  I chose not to ask from where the fish had come.  Sometimes, it's better to be in the dark.  I'd already asked too many questions that had answers I didn't want to hear.

Cha before breakfast + bread in freezer = pandemonium

My morning routine is as follows:

Wake with the sun at 5:30ish.  Continue to doze and be generally lazy until 8:20ish, when I get up and have a (cold!) shower.  Wander down to the kitchen at 8:40ish to eat breakfast, which is prepared for me by the lovely cook, Moriam.  Some days she has the ingredients ready to go and all runs smoothly for me to be ready to start work at 9am.  Other days, Kamrul (who is the security-slash-gopher dude around the office) has slept in and is late going to the shops to buy the necessary provisions.  It is - and I have asked several times - out of the question for me to go and buy my own breakfast ingredients because that is Kamrul's job.  And, as I am learning very quickly in Bangladesh, nobody does even the most tiny of tasks if it's not in their job description.  Or, in this case, if it's in someone else's job description.  For breakfast, some mornings I'll eat egg and porota, which is a flat fried bread - not so healthy but, like most bad things in life, very good.  Other mornings I'll have banana on toasted Western-style bread, which they call pairoti.  Very confusing, cos the two bread names sound very similar.  As I'm finishing up my meal, Moriam will bring me a cup of cha.

Confusion reigned today when I asked for my cup of tea before I'd eaten my breakfast.  Moriam looked stunned.  She then got one of the other guys with good English to confirm that I did indeed want my tea before my meal.  Neither of them looked convinced, but I put my foot down and insisted.  "Bengali time" is even worse than "Toohey time" and they are the masters at changing plans at the last minute - but asking for the components of your meal out of order is clearly crazy.

I also got a similar reaction when I tried to put my loaf of bread in the freezer last night.  As I opened the freezer door, Moriam made the same kind of alarmed "watch out!" noise made when someone's about to touch a hot stove or step onto the road in front of an oncoming vehicle.  I turned around, somewhat puzzled, to see a look of horror on the faces of both Moriam and Kamrul.  Moriam said, "Deep freeze!"  To which Kamrul added, "Ice cream!", in some desperate attempt to make sure I understood the full craziness of my intended action.  I tried to argue the point, demonstrating that I'd only eat 2 or 3 pieces a day so it would keep longer in the freezer - but ended up giving in and just putting the loaf in the bloody fridge.  Pick your battles, Monica.  A 15 taka (25 cent) loaf of bread is probably one to let go through to the keeper.

Fashion faux pas

My colleagues continue to amuse (and bemuse) me on a daily basis.  (I'll save discussing their work ethic - or lack thereof - for another day.)  They are almost bipolar in their variations between giving me over-the-top compliments about anything and everything (e.g. my "beautiful" drink bottle), then being scathingly critical about other things (e.g. my "ugly boy cut").  Some days my outfit choice meets with resounding approval, with the amount of bling being directly proportional to the amount of compliments received.  So today I'm feeling pretty spunky in my new fatua (like a kameez but shorter in length) I bought on the weekend at my favourite shop in Chittagong, which I'd paired with a salwar and orna from another 3-piece set.  As I'm walking out the door, two of my colleagues say, "Monica!  This outfit...  No good."  Why, I ask.  "Fatua with pant, kameez with salwar.  Not fatua with salwar."  Evidently, this is a major fashion faux pas in Bangladesh.  Along with not wearing make-up or jewellery - so I'm just a big fat dag really.  (Meanwhile, the crazy lady across the lane has her breasts on show again but nobody seems to give a shit about that.)

Nobody told me I look like such a dick head when I'm working! (And in the offending outfit, too - note how the fatua only just covers my bum. Also my orna, worn apron-style so it doesn't fall off or generally get in the bloody way.) 

I went with another colleague, Aleya, to visit a village called Bansbaria which is about 10km from Sitakunda.  As we walked along the main street towards the highway to get a CNG, we passed a parked car.  As far as I could see, no conversation had taken place between Aleya and the owner of this car.  Nevertheless, she says to me, "Monica - get in!"  I know mum always said never to accept lifts from strangers, but it didn't feel like the right time to kick up a fuss.  As we start driving off, Aleya murmurs to me, with raised eyebrows and a tilt of the head towards the car's owner, "Corruption member."  This threw me somewhat, as corruption is a very hot topic in Bangladesh at the moment.  The previous government was sacked cos everyone was corrupt (both the former President and the leader of the opposition are in prison on corruption charges) and there are big moves at the moment to eradicate corruption from all levels of government.  Good luck.  But anyway...  I'm sitting there having my second misgiving about accepting a lift from this guy.  Not only is he a stranger, but he's a bloody corrupt one at that.  I must have looked sufficiently alarmed, as Aleya then went on to explain that he is a member of the local anti-corruption committee, of which I had the pleasure of attending their inaugural meeting a few weeks ago.  Phew!  No need to report back to Baz Dog (our Bangladeshi in-country manager) or the Australian government that I've been getting mixed up in the wrong crowd.

PS - Saw this in the village I visited today (and on many other days). These are sticks, with cow shit caked on them, drying in the sun to be used as fuel in a fire. Maybe this is how one of my sister's favourite expressions, "Shit sticks!", originated?

All in a day's work

I am one of the few lucky people who really enjoys their job.  Not many of my fellow AYADs would believe this, since all I seem to do here is whinge about my work.  The jobs I've had in Australia, while I've had bad days and even bad weeks, have always given me great satisfaction.  The work I'm doing here is exponentially more challenging in every way - language barrier, attitudes to health and disability, lack of resources, cultural differences, inability to plan patient workload, lack of professional support, frustration at the number of disabilities that could be prevented if there was free and competent medical care available...  I could continue but I think the point has been made.  There are, however, some absolutely awesome things about working here.

This morning I went on a field visit with Sheuly, one of my favourite colleagues.  We caught a CNG to a village about 3km from Sitakunda, where she had a "people's organisation" meeting.  Following this, we walked through a light drizzle of rain past lush green fields (trying to avoid slipping in the mud!) until we got to the railway line that connects Chittagong and Dhaka.  We made detours on either side of the railway line to visit clients for therapy, one of whom bit my finger (the little shit).  This required a stop at a small cha (tea) stall afterwards for some sugar-fuelled recovery.  Bangladeshis make their cha with sweetened condensed milk, and often add sugar as well.  (One day when I made herbal tea for my colleagues, most of them spat it out before declaring that they prefer Bangladeshi tea with milk and sugar.)  The shelves on the wall were depressingly empty, almost as if the elderly man operating the stall was waiting to clear the last of his stock before retiring.  Best bit?  2 cups of tea cost 6 taka, or 10 cents!

I love being able to visit "real" Bangladeshis in the course of my work.  Unlike in Australia, where the vast majority of the population lives in the major cities, most Bangladeshis live in rural areas.  Around Sitakunda, most of the village houses have walls made of either mud or woven grasses; sometimes they are corrugated iron.  The roofs are either thatch or corrugated iron.  Some houses have windows, but many don't.  The walls are covered in caldendars from the last 10 years, and the houses whose occupants are Hindu have pictures of various gods.  (I'm getting better at identifying them and can reliably name Krishna, Radha and Ganesh, who are the most common ones to see.) 

Invariably, we'll come inside and my colleague will ask, "Current nei?", meaning "No electricity?"  This means no ceiling fan and no light, other than the natural light coming in the door.  Which would be no problem, except that my presence usually attracts a crowd of onlookers (nobody here - including the patients themselves - seems concerned by the lack of privacy and confidentiality) who fill the room and doorway, blocking both the light and any breeze.  So I perform a hot and semi-blinded assessment, as much as possible since the kids are generally petrified of the white-skinned stranger poking and prodding them.  Very different to any home visit I've done in Australia!

Totally unrelated but so exciting I wanted to include it - I ate jackfruit for the first time today!  I'd been thinking it was the same as durian, which I've tried and found revolting.  All this time I'd been bagging the Bangladeshis for having a dud of a national fruit (they have a "national" everything here - sport, fish, fruit, tree, bird etc etc).  But jackfruit was actually quite nice.  I would definitely eat it again if offered.

A poet who doesn't know it

At the best of times, I am a compulsive purchaser of books.  My bookcase is full of books I have bought - both new and following hours of browsing in second-hand shops - and never read.  There are the books I feel I "should" read (e.g. The Female Eunuch and The Second Sex), the ones I am genuinely interested in but lost concentration before getting more than 5 pages in (e.g. books on Greek and Roman mythology), and the ones I've started but never finished because they are a bit too long and daunting for my current lifestyle (e.g. Anna Karenina).

Being in Bangladesh has done nothing for my book-buying addiction - especially when an "expensive" book costs 500tk, or around $8.  I have bought one of Muhammad Yunus' books, a collection of essays in criticism of Yunus' work, two collections of short stories by Bangladeshi writers and most recently, 3 books of poetry by Rabindranath Tagore.  Tagore is to Bangladesh what Henry Lawson or Banjo Paterson are to Australia.  He won a Nobel prize for Literature (in 1913) and almost every house, office, school, shop etc has a picture of him on the wall.

I have always thought people who chose to read poetry for their own pleasure - particularly whole books of the stuff - quite wanky.  I can admit to enjoying the odd short poem in the "Good Weekend" section of The Age on Saturdays, but would never go out of my way to actively seek more opportunities to read poetry.  The most extreme example of poetry pretentiousness I can remember is sitting next to some guy before the screening of a film at the French Film Festival in Melbourne, reading a book of Rimbaud's writings - in French.  Prick.

English was one of my strong subjects at school.  I loved reading and then writing about the books my class studied (albeit a regurgitated version of my teacher's interpretation of the texts in question).  But poetry was my Achilles' heel.  The day before my Year 12 English exam, I fronted up to my teacher's office in tears because I was petrified there would be a compulsory question about the poems we had studied.  Slight over-reaction?  Yes - but at 18 years of age when everyone is telling you that your Year 12 results will determine your future happiness, it's easy to lose perspective on things.

So, with this little bit of background information, guess which are the books that I have devoured?  Yes - the bloody poetry.

Listen to this (well, read it anyway):

While following the path all alone,

I see that my lamp has gone out.

The storm has come,

and now I have the storm as my companion.

(...)

Now which way must I go

in this inky darkness?

Perhaps this thunder-clap

will give me news of a fresh path.

I can't get enough!  On my first visit to Cox's Bazar, the beachside holiday and honeymoon capital of Bangladesh, I spent my free morning in bed reading Tagore.  I can't work out why I love it so much...  Maybe cos he mentions flutes a lot?  E.g.:

The pain-flute plays

in the winds.

I suspect Tagore will become my new Mean Girls, with a quote for every occasion.  Maybe not quite as funny, but likely to be equally profound.  Having said that, I'll still get a bit of mileage out of "I want my pink shirt back!" and "Boo, you whore."

And this doesn't mean I'll say "fuck" any less frequently.

A year in the Shit, Bridget Jones-style

Whenever I make a fresh attempt at writing a journal, I like to think of myself as an Australian (and not fictitious!) version of Bridget Jones.  I had toyed with starting each blog entry with a little summary of my day, in a direct rip-off of Bridget Jones' Diary.

Where hers would go something like:

129 lbs, alcohol units 8, cigarettes 19, calories 5424

Mine would be more like:

Fluid intake 4 litres, fluid output as urine 200ml, fluid output as sweat 3.8 litres, units of Tasty Saline 3, meals based on rice 2, solid stools passed 0, alcohol units -324 (compared to same time last year)

Hmmm...  Maybe that would be considered a big-time over-share?

What about:

Times asked "What is your country?" 12, "Are you married?" 11, "Why do you have short hair?" 7, "Can I have your mobile number?" 5, "Can I come to Australia with you?" 9

Or I could make it a little less self-centred.  Something along the lines of:

Times someone expectorated a huge gob of phlegm in my presence 27, witnessed a man pissing in the gutter 11, saw a lunghi-wearing man scratch his genitals 14

Or even:

Times people talked about me in Bangla, in my presence, before bursting into laughter 34

All in the name of "promoting Australia's national interest".

Clutching at crystal balls

My horoscope according to Facebook has been freakishly accurate of late.

I have my doubts about today's outlook, however:

"... You are in the mood to let loose and have some fun.  Head out with your friends this evening and light the town on fire.  Do not let anyone feel left out or isolated."

I don't know what Mystic Meg had been smoking before looking in that crystal ball.  Let's analyse this step-by-step.

"You are in the mood to let loose and have some fun."  Well, I'm usually up for a bit of a laugh, so I guess we're not totally off the mark with this statement.

"Head out with your friends this evening and light the town on fire."  For starters, my best friend here, Momu, is 18 months old and on holidays at the moment.  Secondly, I have a snowball's chance in hell of being allowed out of the building after nightfall.  And from what I've seen of this place, the only way it's going to be lit on fire is taking a match to it after a good dousing with petrol.

"Do not let anyone feel left out or isolated."  Hello?  Mystic Meg?  You might have a crystal ball but you sure as hell don't have a fucking atlas handy, do you?  I'm not in the #1 most isolated place in Bangladesh, but you can't even buy butter or chocolate in this Allah-forsaken joint.

Lucky I think all of this mystic piffle is bullshit anyway.

To blog or not to blog...

I have mixed feelings about blogs.

I enjoy reading other peoples but have often wondered if it's a little self-indulgent to do one myself.  It does rest on the assumption that people actually want to read what I have to say.  Although this is already proving to be the most exciting period of my life, in terms of experiencing new and different things on a daily basis.  And I have just had my birthday, which is almost a New Year's resolution kind of time.  Every year, I vow to maintain a journal and every year I fail dismally.  I love the act of searching out the perfect book in which to write my deepest darkest thoughts.  Should it be one that is made with beautiful paper?  Leather-bound?  A 10 cent exercise book from the supermarket?  Spiral-bound so I can rip out pages?  Or properly bound so I can't hide from my thoughts later?  Do I concentrate on writing short but sweet entries every day?  Or go for a more substantial entry less often?  It doesn't seem to matter what book I decide to keep my journal in or the format in which I choose to write, by about January 18 all has fallen by the wayside.  I suspect this blog will be much the same.  Hmmm...

It is now 11 weeks, 4 days since I arrived in Bangladesh.  8 weeks, 1 day since arriving in Sitakunda (pronounced "Shit-akunda").  Well and truly reaching that time where I am wondering what the fuck I am doing with myself and why I am even here.

I walked out of my office (which is also my house) this morning to go to the corner shop to buy some water.  The crazy lady who lives in the herbal medicine factory across the lane is sitting on the steps.  A sari slung toga-like over her shoulder, no blouse underneath.  She has breasts that every girl has nightmares about having when she grows old.  They aren't terribly big, just incredibly droopy.  Kind of how pockets look on a pair of tracksuit pants you've turned inside out to wash.  I don't even bat an eyelid.  This sort of spectacle is now part of my daily routine.  The irony of the situation strikes me.  People don't even look twice at her exposed breasts, knowing she is crazy.  If, however, I walk down the street forgetting to put on my orna (a scarf-like garment intended to cover the breasts and thus maintain a girl's modesty) the resultant stares could only be worse if I had forgotten to put on any clothes at all.

T1 at work (the one who always calls me "Sir", which is such a sweet and rare display of respect that I don't have the heart to tell him this salutation is reserved for men) tells me I have "excellent polish" on my toes.  I get compliments on the most unexpected of things here.  I think back to one of my first days at work, when someone described my drink bottle as "shundor" - the Bangla word for "beautiful".

No comments about either (a) my hair, (b) my sweat rash or (c) my pimples today - it is a good day.