You can't be saving the world ALL the time

I just got back from Dhaka after my volunteer group's quarterly meeting... on the bus.

Why did I get the bus, when I'd already booked a plane ticket for 7:50am in the morning (so I could get back to work, being the diligent person that I am)?

Because I'd gotten so shit-faced the night before that I bloody slept through my tax-payer-funded flight.

Please accept my humble apology, Australian tax-payers far and wide who are reading this.

It was a very good lesson to learn... why I should not book flights in advance, because I am totally useless at catching them (remember the 3 flights missed in one day the weekend I came to Adelaide for mum's 60th and was also moving house in Melbourne?).

I love Bangladesh!

There are three types of day that I seem to experience over here.

The first is an "I love Bangladesh!" day, which is the category that today fits into. More on that later...

The second is a "f#$king Bangladesh" day, where everyone is annoying, everything goes wrong and I generally wonder what the hell I'm doing here. Acknowledgements to Amy for coining this highly imaginative phrase (I wanted to get it piped onto the top of a cake once, but thought the cake shop boys might actually know what it meant and didn't want to offend).

The third is an "I love... f#$ki-... I lo-... f#-... I love Banglade-... f#$king Bang-..." day, i.e. the type of day where something great happens, followed by something really shit - in cycles of about 2 seconds. This is the most unsettling kind of day, because I don't know what kind of mood to get myself into.

Anyway, today was an "I love Bangladesh!" day.

I had an interesting morning going on a village visit, with a frustrating start to the day getting there but I was feeling so chilled and excited about going to Dhaka that it didn't worry me as it normally would have. I lugged my suitcase around this village (normally I have a backpack but am planning a grog run to a duty-free warehouse, so a suitcase was necessary to discreetly bring a slab of beer back to the Shit) which was pretty amusing in itself.

I then got on a bus to Chittagong and because of the global economic crisis, falling Aussie dollar and my inherent tight-arsed-ness, I decided to try getting the public bus to the airport (at a cost of approximately $0.70, instead of a CNG at a cost of $4). After the first change of bus, I had a lovely chat with some men on the next bus, who were very helpful and gave me instructions on getting to the airport. I had to change bus at the same point where they were getting off, so they offered to help me find the next bus. Unfortunately, they were a bit wrong and I was going to have to take another bus to a different point, then change again for the airport bus. Making a total of 4 buses to get to the airport. At this point, I told myself not to be such a tight-arse and after beating a CNG driver down to a reasonable price and checking that he had change for a 500tk note, off I set.

When I got to the airport, the bastard driver told me he didn't in fact have change for 500tk. In a display of perfectly controlled emotions, I slammed my hand on the grille between him and me (perhaps why it is there, to stop angry passengers from being able to punch the poor guys) and demanded he find some change.
While he's off asking at the ticket counters and then asking members of the public for change (he came back to the CNG several times to tell me it was a useless mission but I wasn't budging), a police officer-cum-traffic controller started banging on the CNG with his bamboo stick. Someone told me that the quality of a police officer's stick is a good indication of his or her rank. So this guy must have been middle of the road, but regardless, he was not happy about this CNG loitering in the airport arrivals area.

After much arguing with my driver, and much stick-banging from the police officer, I finally got out of the CNG with my correct change (honestly - he picked the wrong bideshi to try to screw over) and walked into the airport terminal at 3:32pm. Not being sure beforehand what time I would make it to the airport, and since there are flights every hour between Chittagong and Dhaka, I hadn't booked a flight in advance. I asked someone which was the next flight to Dhaka... "GMG [the airline's name] - 3:35pm!" But it's already 3:32pm?! "No problem, just some small delay - just 1o minutes." And so I bought a ticket and boarded a plane (leaving behind another far more organised volunteer who'd arrived at the airport for his flight in an hour) to Dhaka.

One of those days where everything kind of "worked" in its own crazy Bangladeshi way. This country really agrees with me!

Rickshawala Idol

One of the most common modes of short distance transport in Bangladesh is the rickshaw. This is like a 3-wheeled bike, with the rider at the front and a bench seat with a retractable hood (like on a baby's pram) at the back. Rickshaws are not only for transporting people (and I've seen as many as 5 adults on the one rickshaw) but also animals, bicycles (as I myself have done), larger quantities of food, household items etc.

It is beyond the scope of this little blog to make any comment on the ethics of rickshaws - the drivers are hideously underpaid (average wage would be about 2000tk or AUD$40 per month) and it can be pretty demeaning work. On the other hand, the traffic pollution and congestion in Dhaka would be so much worse if there weren't the estimated 1 million rickshaws on its roads. And it terms of trying to ban rickshaws (as is often debated), there needs to be a pretty comprehensive plan in place for what these 1 million men are going to do for work instead.

Personally, I quite like riding in rickshaws especially on quiet country roads when there's hardly any sound and you're slowly passing endless green fields of rice. I do, however, refuse to let a rickshawala get off to walk me up a hill (cos the bikes don't have gears, they can't go up anything steeper than a short gentle slope).

Bangladesh is famous for its rickshaw art - painted panels, patterned vinyl covering the seat & hood and as many extra adornments as the owner or driver (cos most guys don't own their rickshaw but rent it for the day) can afford. When I first arrived, I wasn't that rapt in the rickshaw art, but as time goes by I am coming to love it more and more. It was something I hadn't fully appreciated until I went to Nepal and India, where they also have rickshaws. If people think the cycle rickshaws are inhumane, they should check out the hand-held ones powered by barefoot men running through the streets of Kolkata... that was a sight that made my tummy turn a bit. Anyway - these rickshaws look so boring compared to the ones in Bangladesh where rickshawalas often take an enormous amount of pride in the presentation of their chariot. I'm sure Dhaka would be far less tolerable if it wasn't packed to the gills with brightly decorated rickshaws colouring the streets and adding some visual interest among the grey concrete buildings.

A rickshawala is a guy who rides (or drives, as some say) a rickshaw. They are among the poorest of the poor people in Bangladesh and work long hours at one of the most physically demanding jobs for very little pay. To see these guys struggling through the streets during Ramadan, when most of them are fasting from sunrise to sunset, would arouse sympathy in even the most hard-hearted Hannah. The rickshawalas typically wear a lunghi (which is a tube of fabric worn like a sarong) and a shirt, many of which are so hideously ugly that they're fantastic. Some of the other volunteers have wanted to offer money on the spot to buy the shirt off the rickshawala's back.

It is an extra treat when you score a rickshawala who sings. This was recently turned into a "Rickshawala Idol" (not it's real name, but I reckon that's a better name than the one they came up with) contest - a singing contest for rickshawalas.

And here is the winner - in one of the rare times that Bangladesh makes it into international media for something other than a natural disaster or the latest political fiasco:

Wheel of fortune turns for singing rickshaw rider

Just call me Kylie

Kwong, that is - not Minogue.

Since getting back from India, I've had a huge burst of energy and enthusiasm for life in general really.  I've been getting up in the morning to go either walking or cycling.  I've been far more motivated about cooking in general, including making a couple of batches of brownies.

But last night was by far my most gourmette venture yet... oven-dried tomatoes.  Clearly not very difficult, all it involved was cutting tomatoes into quarters, drizzling (yes, I drizzle now because pouring is for amateurs) over some oil (it's supposed to be olive oil but that's difficult to find and hideously expensive here), cutting up some garlic into small strips and poking those into the tomatoes then leaving on a low temperature overnight in the oven.

So yeah - easy but check out how professional they look!

Can't wait to bake some in a loaf of bread with some herbs... if I stop eating them and there are any left, that is.

Mood swings

Another example of the inability to get settled into one mood here:

This afternoon, my supervisor told me that there was a letter for me on his desk. I went in to get it and noticed that the envelope wasn't (and hadn't ever been) sealed. Slightly miffed, I picked it up and then noticed that my name and address weren't in the see-through plastic window on the envelope. In other words, someone had clearly taken the letter out of the envelope, looked at it and put it back in again (the wrong way around). This really gave me the shits - it's one thing for people to pull my groceries out of my shopping bag and look at the price labels (seriously, this is what happens) but opening my mail takes privacy invasion to the next level.

I stormed out and found my supervisor, demanding to know who had opened my mail and why. Infuriatingly, he didn't understand why I had a problem. He just patiently pointed out that the fault lay with the phone company for not sealing their envelopes properly. I agreed that, yes, this was an issue but I still wanted to know why this was perceived to be an open invitation to read my mail. This time, he said the finger of blame should be pointed to the postal workers since they must have removed it. I tried to explain that this couldn't be the case, because the way the letter had been put back in the envelope meant that the name and address couldn't be seen - so this must have happened after delivery, otherwise they wouldn't have known where or who to deliver it to.

I have no doubt that it was someone at my work who opened the letter, and I'm pretty sure which person it would have been. It really really really gets on my nerves how little respect for privacy there seems to be here - which I don't know is widespread or if people feel somehow entitled to go through my things because they are "looking after" me.

So feeling like my head was going to explode with fury, I headed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The cook, Moriam, had rearranged lots of the furniture in one corner and gone through all the cupboards to clean and tidy everything. I asked her why she'd done this, wondering if there was a specific reason or just a spring clean.

Her response? She wanted to rearrange everything so there was more room for me to prepare my meals at the table because she knows I struggle a bit with doing it on the floor. (She'd laughed at me taking "knee stretch" breaks the night before when using a floor grinding stone to make some home-made peanut butter.) Also, a vegetable peeler that I'd bought (for about 40 cents) had gone missing which was giving her considerable stress since she's the one who washes the dishes and felt personally responsible. Which I guess she may have been, but it really didn't worry me and I'd already gone and bought a new one.

See what I mean? With one person being fucking annoying one minute and then someone else being so delightful and thoughtful the next, it's impossible to stay in a bad mood for too long. (Conversely, it also means that good moods are often nipped in the bud!)

Now THAT's a beach

A couple of friends in Australia just got married and went to Fiji for their honeymoon.  They were very amused when they visited the self-proclaimed "world's 7th best beach".

Bangladesh's honeymoon capital (complete with advertising billboards for a particular brand of oral contraceptive pill using the slogan "Welcome to happy couple city, Cox's Bazar") is a beachside town on the Bay of Bengal which claims to have the longest unbroken sea beach in the world.  Now according to a reliable source, the longest (by another 100km or so) is actually in Brazil.  But, according to everybody here, Cox's Bazar is the most beautiful sea beach in the world.  No question about it.

My opinion - okay, but nothing special.  On another trip to Cox's Bazar recently with a fairly large group of other expat volunteers, one of the girls who'd organised our "programme" for the weekend had included a visit to a special, secret destination to chill out one afternoon between swimming at the beach and going out for dinner.  When we were trying to weasel out of her what and where this place was, all she would give away was that it was "really good... for Bangladesh."  This is a bit of a common theme - any other visitor here would possibly be a bit disappointed by many of the things that we get so excited about after 8 months of being here (and used to lowering our expectations).

It is nice to have a sea change, especially for people for whom it is so culturally entrenched to live close to the beach.  But - after taking Bren & Karen there when they visited - I don't think I'd take any other visitors there especially, cos it is pretty disappointing.  There are many wonderful things in Bangladesh, but if you want great beaches, go to Thailand, Malaysia or Indonesia (or stay at home in Oz).

There's been a campaign recently to come up with a list of the New 7 Wonders of the World, including a category for New 7 Wonders of Nature.  Being so proud of their beach - and generally not terribly widely travelled to have seen other beaches to compare it to - the enthusiastic Bangladeshis nominated Cox's Bazar beach for one of the natural wonders.

Now, I know I wasn't there at the best time of year (it was pissing down with rain the whole time) but this is my picture of this "wonder":

Compared to the world's 7th best beach in Fiji:

Not much comparison, eh?

The funniest part of the story though?  There had been some dodgy websites set up or something, that were somehow rigging the voting system and so Bangladesh's entries got disqualified from the competition!  I think this is bloody hilarious, given the political history and current situation in Bangladesh (a national election due to be held on 18 December) where true democracy is looking like a bit of wishful thinking.  Happily for the Bangladeshis, they've been reinstated in the competition (I bet they tried to bribe someone to do it though!) and Cox's Bazar is currently #3 on the list... that's what happens when you've got a country with 150 million people voting.

So thanks to Dan for permission to use these photos here (well, I'm sure he'd give me permission if I ever get around to asking him).

Puzzling

It was with mixed feelings of horror and amazement that I watched one of my 11-year-old patients do a jigsaw puzzle today, helped by the therapy assistant I work with.  It was a very simple puzzle of Winnie the Pooh and friends containing about 20 pieces, each one about 5cm square.  A 5- or 6-year-old could easily have done it.  But it was fascinating watching this kid and my colleague attempting to put two "outie" bits together (as opposed to an "innie" and an "outie").  Or a middle piece into the border.  Or two pieces that clearly had different pictures and did not belong together.

I know the kid may not have had too many opportunities to do jigsaw puzzles in his life, but it was unbelievable seeing how he was totally incapable of applying any kind of logic to it.  (You know - does the picture line up?  Do the shapes match?  Etc.)  Even more scary was that my colleague had no idea either.

This incident might help to explain how some of my frustrations come about.  Trying to teach in an interactive way is nigh on impossible - people aren't able to come up with their own answers.  They don't know how.  They expect to be told everything.  Their whole life, they've rote learnt information and regurgitated this in exams that don't require any application of the knowledge.  They ask "what?" but never "why?" and don't wonder "how?".  Things are black and white - there's no grey.  They have all these separate bits of knowledge but are not able to work out how to make all the bits fit together into the big picture.  Or how to make the bits fit into different situations.

I was just watching this kid thinking, "No wonder they struggle to find solutions to the many problems in this country when people can't even solve a jigsaw puzzle!"  You know - not taking into account all the complicating factors of poverty, corruption, gender inequality, environmental problems...

Yet another time when, after thinking about it all for ages, I just shook my head and said, "It's all fucked."

No tension, no mention

On a sunset walk around the lake (where Gandhi's ashes were sprinkled) in the Hindu pilgrimage town of Pushkar, we met a Hindu holy man who was preparing himself for some kind of performance or something.

He stopped us and we got the usual questions (what is your name / country / marital status?) before this guy told us that he had, "No wife, no children, no money, no job - no tension, no mention!"

And thus "no tension, no mention" became something of a motto for the three of us, especially as we could relate to the bits about no wife/husband, no children, no money and no job!

No tension, no mention.  It even rhymes.  I love it.

Unexplained absence

I've been in India for 3 weeks.  Sorry to everyone who thought I was dead (Berna).

A little snap to keep you happy til I get around to writing something about it all...