Quick trip to Sylhet

After a week of work that was frustrating for various reasons, I made a last-minute decision to visit Harriet, one of the other AYADs who is living in Sylhet.  I rang Haz Bag on Thursday morning after an encounter with one of my colleagues that left me with steam pouring out my ears.  The idea of visiting her occurred to me once her phone was ringing.  I knew May was also going to visit her on the weekend, so hanging out with the two of them would be just what the doctor ordered.  The 3 or so rings it took Harriet to answer was all the thinking time I needed.  "I've had a shit week, I'm coming to visit."

Now, if anybody reading this isn't already familiar with the geography of Bangladesh, Sylhet is not the most logical choice for a day trip.  If you look at a map with markers on all the places where there are AYADs, Sylhet is pretty much the furthest away I could go.  But, in a way that can only be described as crazy Bangladeshi logic, it works out really well to go for the day as long as one doesn't mind some overnight travel.  The bus trip up was not so great but luckily Harriet was good at keeping me on the go the whole day, so I didn't have time

 to stop and feel tired.

The only photo I took of my time in Sylhet was when I first arrived, at 7am on the Friday morning.  This little fella was asleep on the ground in what looked like a most uncomfortable position.

About 30 seconds after this photo was taken, some smart-arse man walked past and poked the kid with his umbrella.  Which was highly uncalled-for, in my humble opinion.

I did actually get up to far more interesting things in Sylhet than not-so-sneakily taking photos of street kids... numerous cups of cha, eating out, walking along the river, trespassing in a tea garden, purchasing a train ticket back to Chittagong (which was far more complicated than it needed to be).

So after spending a nice relaxing day with Haz Bag and Maysie Moo, I got on the overnight train back to the Shit - sharing a cabin with a lovely lady and her teenage son, who thankfully let me get straight to sleep instead of quizzing me about my name, country and marital status.  The trip was fan-bloody-tastic.  Lying down, I fell asleep about half an hour after we pulled out of Sylhet station, and woke up about 10km from Chittagong feeling refreshed and ready to go straight back to work.  I've decided I never want to catch the long-distance buses in Bangladesh ever again!

Local elections, Bangladeshi-style

There are local elections for the Sitakund Upazilla coming up in October. The propaganda campaigns have begun... The town is covered with the typical posters like you'd see in Australia before an election (except in black and white, on paper rather than corrugated plastic card but still featuring photos taken a minimum of 5 years ago).

There are also lots of papier mache fish and other shapes decorating the streets.

Today, I also saw a papier mache elephant with some kind of effigy in a saluting pose being processed down the main street with lots of people following it. I'm not sure which candidate's minions created this masterpiece, but if I was allowed to vote - I'd vote for this guy.

Go to sleep... Over-tired ramblings

Instead of getting to bed at a reasonable hour, I am up late writing and listening to Christmas carols.  Yes... in July.  I should probably warn all my fellow volunteers here to get the hell out of Bangladesh at Christmas time or risk being forced to sing all 5 verses of Good King Wenceslas (come on, it's a story song - it just doesn't make sense without all 5 verses!) and being given home-made carol books complete with spelling mistakes from Henley Catholic parish ("oofspring of the Virgin's womb", "Oh conme all ye faithful" etc) for my own amusement.

Carly came to visit on Friday.  After giving her instructions on how to take a local bus from Chittagong to Sitakunda, she managed to make it here in one piece.  For some inexplicable reason, the bus didn't drop her off at the usual spot.  Hence I was riding around in a CNG for about 20 minutes trying to find her.  At one point while passing the village where Moriam (the cook at work) lives, people started waving me over telling me my friend was there.  I asked, "Bideshi friend?"  Yes, yes!  Turns out this "bideshi" was in fact Moriam's 11-year-old daughter Sheuli, who is remarkably Bangladeshi-looking for a bideshi.  So Sheuli agreed to jump in the CNG with me, even though I was unable to tell her where we were going or what we were doing.  Surprisingly, this time was not because of the language barrier but because I really did have no bloody idea where Carly could be.

After I managed to locate her, we had a lovely day.  Carly has already written a good account so I can't be arsed doing it again but will instead attempt to put in a link to her blog here.  (If it's underlined and a different colour, it means I succeeded.  If not, go to http://oneyearinbangers.blogspot.com and try your luck at finding it.)  I feel her account of our train adventure home was somewhat lacking in detail, however, but again I can't be arsed right now.  Save that for another rainy day.

This morning I woke early and hopped into a CNG with my new bike!  (The exclamation mark was hardly warranted there, but whenever I talk about my new bike I just get so excited and a full stop didn't seem to convey this excitement effectively enough.)  I ended up making the whole journey in the CNG, which cost 10 times as much as the bus fare but in keeping with the general theme of this post, I couldn't be arsed getting out of the CNG, arguing with the bus people over (a) the fare and (b) the logistics of getting my bike on and off the roof of the bus.

The bike has seriously improved my street cred rating with the 10- to 15-year-old boys in Sitakunda.  Well (that's a bit of a sweeping generalisation), with Rohman (Moriam's 13-year-old son) and the little boy who lives across the lane (as opposed to the beneficiary of Baa Baa Black Sheep's 3rd bag full of wool, the little boy who lives DOWN the lane) whose name I can never remember.

Rohman always says hello and is very polite to me, but has thus far not displayed the same amount of interest or affection as his sisters or mother.  But today, he was all smiles and proudly told me he was able to ride a bike (a surprisingly rare skill here).  He took me to the rickshaw repair shop to get the tyres pumped up, ran after me when I took it for a test ride and nearly fell over with excitement when I asked him if he wanted to have a go.  This reaction confirmed that Rohman will be the person who inherits my bike after I leave.  I'm so tempted to buy a bike for him now though, (a) cos I know he'll love it and (b) cos it means I'll have someone with a bit of local knowledge who doesn't give me the creeps or the shits to go cycling with.

The little boy who lives across the lane normally runs away from me when I say hello, so for him to approach me and ask about the bike was really brave.  He also nearly fell over when I said he could have a go on the bike.  He again narrowly escaped falling over, this time when he was riding the bike which is really far too big for him.  Unable to reach the ground, he had to mount and dismount next to some steps which probably looked more hairy than it actually was.  I didn't want to be responsible for any injuries in the bike's first 24 hours in Sitakunda!

I've been quite jealous since seeing a Bangladeshi woman on a motorbike in town the other day, so I think the bike might just restore me to "coolest woman in Sitakunda" status.

Shake or borrow a child?

As I often do, this morning I took Momu with me when I went to the corner shop to buy some water.  My usual shop (the only one I've found in town that sells 3 litre bottles of water - why I'm still buying small and expensive bottles of water after repeatedly being told that some 20 litre bottles are being delivered "next week" is another story) doesn't open til 10am, so I went to my back-up shop to buy 2 litres.

The man who owns this shop is always very excited to see me and usually calls out "Hello Monica!" whenever I walk past.  He was intrigued to see me with a Bangladeshi child, and asked if it was mine.  "No," I said in Bangla, "my small friend."

"Borrow a child?" he asked.

"Yes, she's not mine.  I am unmarried [which I was sure he'd previously asked me - as has every other Bangladeshi person I've met].  My friend," I repeated.

"No - shake or borrow a child?" he asked.

Becoming increasingly confused and wondering what the hell Bangladeshis do with their kids (hasn't anyone told them not to shake a baby?!), I again said, "My friend."  Then I added, "My small friend," just for further clarification.

"No!  Teacher - borrow a!  Shake or borrow a!" he said, clearly getting frustrated with my inability to answer his question properly.

Oh...  Not shake or borrow a child.  He was asking if Momu was Shekor Barua's child.  Shekor (pronounced "shake-or") Barua ("borrow-a") is the guy who lives next door.  Momu's father.

"Yes!  Shekor Barua's child," I confirmed.

Believe it or not, taking less than a minute to work out what the hell the shop-keeper was asking actually makes this one of my more straightforward interactions.

Funny/sad

I'm learning not to get too settled in one mood here, because things can change in an instant.

On my first bus trip to Dhaka, for example, I started to have a bit of a giggle when I saw a huge crowd of people gathering on the busiest highway in the country.  It was really slowing down the flow of traffic!  I whipped out my camera and started snapping away, when I realised

 why everyone was there.  A bus and a truck had collided, with the front of the bus ripped open and the cab of the truck totally smashed.  There was blood all over the road and no possible way the occupants in the front of either vehicle had survived.  I felt like such a sicko for taking pictures (which I immediately deleted), and my desire to laugh was quickly replaced with a desire to vomit.

Today's visit to Bansbaria, a village about 10km away, elicited the same freefall of feelings from amusement & hope to sadness & frustration.

As we walked into a compound of houses, I was greeted by several children.  One of them was holding and chewing on something made of a red latex-type material.  Closer inspection confirmed that it was indeed latex - the kid was playing with a condom!  Another child had one blown up as a balloon, which soon drew tears when his mate tried to snatch it from him and it popped.  Upon entering the house we were heading for, two more children inside were happily chewing on red condoms.  Aside from getting a good laugh, it did make me wonder if this was confirmation that the safe sex message is getting through... or if it's evidence to the contrary!  Were the kids playing with the condoms cos the adults didn't know what to do with them?  Or didn't want to use them as a form of contraception?  Or was the idea to promote acceptance of condoms by introducing them as a toy in childhood and thus making them less foreign when these children are sexually active adults?  (I suspect the reason lies somewhere between these two possibilities.)

Still pondering this, I was led out the back of the house to a shaded area where a woman was lying on the ground being fanned and sponged down by lots of other women.  My colleague filled me in on the details - two days ago, she and her husband were in a car accident in which he was killed, leaving her widowed with two small sons.  The woman needed two helpers to get into a sitting position.  She was struggling to keep her head upright and eyes open.  She answered basic questions in slurred speech, but any kind of assessment of her orientation to time, person or place was impossible because the gathered crowd kept on answering the questions for her despite my repeated attempts to ask them not to.  She had clearly sustained quite a significant head injury and needed to be treated in hospital.  I asked whether she had received any medical attention and was told that a doctor is coming tomorrow.  I quietly insisted to my colleague that this woman was very sick and really needed to go to a hospital in the nearest city.  Her response?  "She is not so sick.  She is just very sad because her husband died."  I explained my understanding of her mourning, but that I also thought her physical condition was not just sadness and she really should be seen by a specialist doctor ASAP.  "Financial situation not good...  Poorest of the poor," she told me.  "Anyway, does she need physiotherapy now?  No?  Then let's go."

Oh the frustrations of the entire system in Bangladesh!  Which is so complex and beyond the scope of this little blog to even attempt to discuss.  It's easy but also incredibly difficult to not take all these things on board.  If everyone is apathetic then nothing will ever change.  But it's not healthy for the mind to feel responsible for every individual out there in the same situation.  What's needed are systemic changes, not quick fixes.  But the quick fix provides so much more satisfaction in the here and now.  How easy it would have been to give the 1000tk or so (about $18) for transport and medical costs for this woman.  But hardly a sustainable solution...  Either in the short term (cos if I did that for every person who needed medical treatment, I'd soon run out of money!) or in the long term (it doesn't change the reason why nobody can afford to access health care and what happens after I'm gone?).

Feeling sad and frustrated, I left her house...  And walked past the kids playing with the condoms again.  Somewhat less amusing than it had been 15 minutes previously.

Pact with the devil

There are some companies, advertisements etc that I am sure are a piss-take, but one can never be quite sure here.

The other day, I saw a sign outside a factory called Yasser something-or-other, owned by Hughes Ltd (or some other equally Anglo-sounding name).  That one has surely got to be a piss-take.  (Geddit?  Yes, sir.)

Others are questionable in their intent.  For example, an empty billboard I saw in Chittagong yesterday:

Soul Ads

Phone 0123 456 789

Is this because advertising is like selling your soul to the devil?  Whatever the intent of the ad, I did get a giggle.

(Mind you, I was already feeling a bit giggly having ridden my new bike through a busy part of Chittagong, which caused quite a stir.  Heard lots of talk [and yells] about "bideshi" and "cycle".  And when I saw the ad I was riding on a rickshaw, clutching said bike and trying to stay out of the rain.  The whole experience was quite amusing.)

Back in the Shit

Yesterday I bought a new bike.  There will be pictures to come soon, because I really think it's quite cool.  Nanna-style, red, basket on the front.  It took me so damn long to negotiate a price and then for the guys in the shop to make all the necessary adjustments to the bike, that I ran out of time to go to some of the rickshaw shops for some extra decorations.  But handlebar streamers and fancy seat cover definitely needed.

This morning I woke up at 6am because I was staying at Carly and Tania's house in Chittagong, and wanted to get my bike back to Sitakunda.  The plan was to ride it the 5km or so to the bus station in the early hours before the traffic (and consequent staring) got too bad.  From there, I'd get the bus guys to stick it on the roof of the bus and arrive in Sitakunda with my new set of wheels.

Clearly, I'm not learning any lessons about life in Bangladesh - i.e. that there is no point making plans because they'll probably fall through for one reason or another.  This morning's problem was the rain - it was pissing down at 6am.  Admittedly, I didn't need much convincing to reset the alarm for 7:30 and get a bit of extra shut-eye.

Thus I arrived in Sitakunda bike-less for another week.

My small friend next door, Momu, came upstairs with me when I dumped my bags and was so excited to see me that she pissed on the floor in my room.  It's still kind of cute when a 20-month-old girl does it, even if it is whilst wearing my thongs (which can be washed) and standing on top of some patient details.  Oops.  That'll teach me for leaving them lying around.  There is no medical records department full of snooty people here, but that's no excuse for my lack of order.  Although some documentation (even if it will smell of urine) is better than none.  But I digress...

Momu and I made our way downstairs for some breakfast, when one of my colleagues who'd arrived early for work asked me why I hadn't called to let everybody know that I was okay on my holiday.  Ummm... because I was ON HOLIDAYS!  That implies a BREAK... from YOU.  But of course I didn't say any of this, just gritted my teeth and smiled sweetly.

After breakfast, I re-entered the office and some more colleagues had arrived.  "Hello Monica, you have so much sweat on your face!" says one.  "And spots!" points out another.  "Dirty!" notes someone else, pointing to the small area of mud on my kameez from when I was carrying a dirty shoe-wearing Momu.  Welcome back - you sweat like a pig, you've got pimples and you look like a hobo.  But we're glad to see you.

I've just come back from buying my vegetables for dinner at the market here.  I'd forgotten what a full-on experience it is... a total assault on the senses.  The overwhelming fish smell, the stalls and stalls full of vegetables I don't know, hearing roosters and people calling out, feeling the wetness on my feet as I walk through the fish section, almost tasting the spices as they're measured out for customers.  Not to mention the constant staring, pointing, questioning etc.

Welcome back to rural Bangladesh.  Crash-landing back down to earth after the holidays!

Post-visitor blues

I'm always being asked by Bangladeshis what my feelings are about things.  What are your feelings about Bangladesh?  What are your feelings about X place (2 seconds after you've arrived and not had enough time to have any bloody feelings about it yet)?

So what are my feelings after having a visit from my eldest brother Brendan, his wife Karen and kids Declan (7) and Niamh (5)?

Generally sad and lonely, with a good dose of back-to-work blues thrown in.  It's been so lovely to have some people I really love seeing me in this different environment, experiencing the things that I do and meeting the people who are around me here.

Proving that I am indeed my mother's daughter, I've made a few lists about their visit.

Declan's best things in Bangladesh:

• The hotel in Chittagong
• Buying some Bangladesh clothes
• Seeing Aunty Mon (added after my brother whispered it in his ear)

Declan's worst things in Bangladesh:

• His Nintendo DS breaking (I think this was the only time he cried all week, although he's been remarkably good-spirited about it since and hasn't sooked at all)
• All the cars, buses and trucks honking

Niamh's best things in Bangladesh:

• Meeting the other kids (some street kids who hang around the shopping area near Carly and Tania's place in Chittagong who I often talk to and sometimes buy some food for)
• Buying some Bangladesh clothes
• Seeing Aunty Mon (this was following Declan's example)

Niamh's worst thing in Bangladesh:

• Sleeping (cos it meant she wasn't doing more interesting things)

My favourite things during their visit to Bangladesh:

• Getting re-acquainted with Green Eggs and Ham (a literary masterpiece)
• Lots and lots of cuddles, tickles, kisses and general physical affection I've been missing
• Seeing them all in their Bangladesh clothes (especially Bren's tie-dyed punjabi)
• Niamh falling asleep while I sang 5 Little Ducks one night
  

My worst things about their visit to Bangladesh:

• Dropping them off at the airport

Things the Bangladeshis stared at the most:

• Me wearing a sari when I picked them up from the airport (admittedly, I did look pretty damn gorgeous)
• Me crying at the airport when they left

Miscellaneous funny things that happened:

• Declan and Niamh emailing their teachers to ask if it was okay to talk about Sitakunda ("Shit-akunda") when they have their news time at school
• Declan asking if Bangladeshis would understand his meaning when he flips them the bird, with particular reference to the beggars ("I don't know why they're asking me, I haven't got any money!")
• Two boys singing me Panjabiwala (a popular Bangla song) on the beach in Cox's Bazar
• All of us going nuts in the shops selling stuff from the ship-breaking yards, like kids in a toy shop
• Making an emergency road-side stop for Niamh to take a wizz in the rain with a busload of Bangladeshis (and a passing cow) looking on
• Dinner at Pizza Hut, with the staff performing an enthusiastic birthday chant while the birthday boy (a random Bangladeshi guy) stood on his chair lapping up the attention

"Brings pleasure to the home"

Thus says the slogan on the box of Tania's blender.

One of the rare times that an advertising slogan here is:

(a) correct in spelling and grammar

(b) sensical (is sensical a word?  I mean the opposite of completely non-sensical)

(c) true

If I bothered to look much closer, I'd probably see that it was made in India or China, which would account for the first two items above.  (There is a hierarchy to things here - if a shop-keeper tells you something is "China-quality" that's the ultimate top-quality product, "India-quality" is next, and they don't bother to mention if it's "Bangladesh-quality".)

We dined like kings tonight - home-made ruti (which was my best yet, according to Tania), eggplant dip and thick dahl; pesto and sundried tomatoes fresh in jars from Singapore (thanks Bren and Karen!); Mainland cheese from Khulshi Mart (the expensive expat-frequented supermarket in Chittagong); grated carrot from the fridge (which I suspect had earlier come from the market down the road).  Not good in terms of "food miles" and all those trendy hippy things that your food is supposed to be these days, but delicious nonetheless.

Even better - pleasant conversation with my assistant / ruti apprentice Carly without an assembled crowd to watch and question my every move whilst cooking.

And I didn't have to wear my bloody orna.

Yep - blender brings pleasure to the home.