From Banglatown to Bangladesh

New Zealand?

2010-11-13T10:12:00.007+06:00

Sheep, Anchor butter, Lord of the Rings, stunning landscapes, low population density, high quality-of-life. These are things I associate with New Zealand, although not necessarily in that order. My limited knowledge is clearly not something to be proud of, but it’s a place that I’ve never been, and somewhere that feels very far away from where I am now.

The 'New Zealand' in the Hills

There is, however, another ‘New Zealand’. One I can clearly picture, one that I have beautiful memories of, and one that is very close to where I currently sit.

This New Zealand is Khagrachari’s own: an area of rice paddies, ringed by hills. An area so green in the midst of rainy season that the colours look like they must be chemically-enhanced. Home to a path cutting through its middle - popular for evening walks , motorbike drives and teenage lounging - and more recently to the 'New Zealand Cafe', an almost beach bar-esque oasis in its middle (minus the beach and bar of course). This New Zealand is a real Khagrachari hotspot.

I have recently moved to a house close to this New Zealand, and I now get glimpses of it as I walk to and from work. It is spaces like this that have made me come to love the rural life, something I took some adjusting to at the beginning. But with its masses of fireflies flashing above the paddy in the evenings, its technicolour green in the monsoon, shifting now to a shiny gold as winter sets in, this New Zealand is hard to resist.

And the Return to London?

I recently have been told by a few friends, after they saw photos of these hills I live in, that I shouldn't return to London as it's just 'too beautiful' here. As I prepare to leave Bangladesh, with a return to London planned in a few months time, I am more and more excited about the opportunities and amenities it offers. I'm looking forward to its restaurants, parks, museums, libraries, cinemas, music, art, pubs, clubs, functioning transportation system, markets with fresh bread and olives. I can't wait to see all the friends and family it houses.

London doesn't have a New Zealand though. And although I may not agree with my friends completely (it is most definitely 'too beautiful' here, but my English home is calling nonetheless), their sentiments do make me wonder. I once loved London's concrete and buildings and urban skyline. After two years of rural living, will I really become a devotee to big city life once again?

Glimpses of 'New Zealand' on my walk to work: now, as winter approaches, and the post-rainy season green of a few weeks ago.

On Leaving

2010-10-24T20:56:00.003+06:00

I stopped at the tea-stall today, on my way home from work. I don’t do this often; visits to tea stalls are communal things in my mind, to be done with friends and colleagues when mid-morning tiredness or sugar cravings kick in. Today however, ready to leave the office, but not quite ready to return home, I stopped, sat, and drank a cup of tea.

Said tea-stall is around the corner from the new building I have recently moved into. It’s on a quiet road, opposite an expanse of rice paddies, which in daytime still sport the luminous green tones of the rainy season. It was getting dark when I was there, the kind of pinky-orangey-greyish twilight I will always associate with these hills.

With my quiet sipping, the soothing effects of the hot, sugary liquid, and my view of green paddy and fading light in front, the setting was perfect for some end-of-the-day musings. And currently, my post-work musings focus on one topic, and its many permutations: my soon-to-come departure from Bangladesh.

The Musings

I am going to miss this place.

I know that. I’ve had times of wanting to be somewhere different, yes. There’s been days I’ve craved the friends, family and familiarity of England, and homesickness has hit me low down in my stomach. There’s been occasions I’ve longed to be somewhere entirely new, to move on and have those thrills of first discoveries and completely different sights, sounds, smells and tastes again. There’s been moments I’ve wanted to escape the challenges, to be somewhere easier, less complicated and more understandable. There are some things I am going to be happy to leave behind.

But, despite those times and despite those things, I am really going to miss this place. That thought is a constant right now, floating in my head in and amongst masses of mental to-do lists and dreams of post-departure plans. And like homesickness, it too is not only in my head. It is lying there, somewhere deep inside me, and makes me clench my stomach, breathe deeply, and swallow hard.

My Bangladeshi Anniversary

I recently celebrated my second Bangladeshi ‘anniversary’. It’s now been more than two years since I first arrived in this country, which has welcomed me, amazed me, angered me, and so much more. The place which has enveloped me for all those moments since I stepped off that plane, and will continue to shape the steps to come.

Despite the arbitrary nature of the date, I did celebrate my Bangladeshi anniversary. Amongst all the continuing self-questioning that goes along with my time here, and my negotiations of the puzzles and pathways of cultures, places and work, there is a sense of achievement. I’ve made it.

I’ve been in Bangladesh now double the amount of time originally planned. If I did it again, of course there are things I would do differently. The ups have been incredible and the downs have been hard, but I’ve got here, I’ve done what I can, and I’m taking away so much more than I came with. It’s too soon for me to even be able to begin to identify all the things I’ve learned, to understand the impacts of the experiences I’ve had, or to really fathom life away from the people and places now so important to me. While some of it will be left behind by choice or necessity, and some will fade with time, some will always remain. My Bangladeshi baggage is not something I’m going to give up easily.

The Places and Sights

In my first few months I wrote about the range of images flickering in my head, all so new. And now with only six weeks until I’m leaving, the same is happening again. As I think about the last two years, the faces and views and familiar sights I know I’m going to miss drift in and out. All the memories I don’t want to let go of.

My walk to work, and the bamboo fences that line the winding streets. The glimpses of tube-wells and wooden fires and washing and cooking and weaving and life behind the woven bark. The giant green banana leaves overhanging small streams, signs that the jungle is never far away, even in the town. The chickens clucking at the edges of the paths, the tiny chicks stepping out in front of me. The motorbikes and battery-powered auto-rickshaws speeding through, disrupting the peace. Being amazed by the balance of goods and people on trucks and cycle-rickshaws. The chatter of different languages and the diversity of appearances, side-by-side. Hearing, and understanding, Bangla and Chakma phrases, and sharing my own.

I’m going to miss the women I see, and miss being able to recognise their community from what they wear. I’m going to miss the children, the ones who I know and who know me, not because we’ve ever been introduced, but because we cross each other on the path and exchange the same conversation over and over again: the lilting, laughter-ridden ‘how are you?’ ‘I am fine’ that goes back and forth everyday. The little girl who salutes me when she says hello, the toddler in the house in front of my office who calls ‘beshi-di’ as I walk past, too young to have quite figured out the syllables of ‘bideshi’.

I’m going to miss watching the many seasons change. And, as I have been able to this year, recognising the changing cycle: the shifting shades of the rice paddies, the evolving patterns of the day, the foods that are in the market.

The market. I’m going to miss it here too. Buying food grown a mere few kilometres from where it's grown. Its shopkeepers, like the Marma girl who sells me mobile phone credit, who know me and greet me and ask me how I am. My didis selling their fruit and vegetables, encouraging me to buy pithas and papayas and bananas. Searching through the vegetables, discussing them with the vendors, and then, at home, figuring out how to cook the unfamiliar: the bamboo shoots, the range of courgette-like things common during the monsoon, and the varied collections of green and red leaves that I still struggle to remember all the different names for. Knowing which aubergines are likely to be ‘local’, and which ones have been trucked in, and so are more likely to have bits of black amongst their pale green flesh.

I’m going to miss the bananas. They’re so good in the hills, and one of my staples. Sweet, small, and with so many different kinds: pale yellow and cloudy yellow and green-but-still-sweet and the special red ones which just have to be bought, needed or not. And all the other fruit, so exotic in England, and so common here. Bought fresh and in season, eaten at home or in groups at the office, sitting together as juice drips down our chins and over our fingers.

The chanting from the local temples in the evenings, and the amusement I still get at seeing monks on motorbikes, their robes drawn up around their legs. Like seeing a monk answer his mobile phone while delivering public Buddhist teachings during a religious ceremony yesterday, there’s something about this juxtaposition between the apparent ‘old’ and ‘new’ that never fails to fascinate me.

Weddings, festivals and celebrations. Still being able to be surprised by sights and by interactions. Tea stalls. Being able to wear bright colours and clashing patterns and take fabrics and designs to the lovely Marma tailors. The dance of fireflies, filling green spaces, and the occasional one that flies through the window into my home. Spices. The sucking noise people make when eating chilli-filled dishes, a sign that that the food must be good. On occasion, it may even be possible that I miss the pungent smell of dried fish.

The People I Know

And that’s only the beginning. As much as the sights and sounds and random encounters, it’s the people that I’m really going to miss. Friends, colleagues, neighbours: their names and faces are in my head too, far too many to describe here. It is these thoughts that are already beginning to pull at me.

The people who I’ve met and got to know. Who I’ve laughed with, talked to, learned from. Who have been kind to me: invited me to their homes, looked after me when I’ve been sick, helped me to discover this place that was once so new and unfamiliar. The random conversations we’ve had. The ways in which we’ve figured each other out: how to communicate, combining our languages and gestures and manners of speech, working through our differences to find the commonalities.

The Hills

While every place has its wonders, I can’t help but feel that these hills are extra-special. So little known outside of, and even within, the country, and with their complicated mixtures of peoples and landscapes and problems, they’ve been an incredible place to have been thrown into. There have been hard times, absolutely, and even challenges that continue. I’ve got so much I’m looking forward to in my time beyond Bangladesh. It's right to be moving on. But still I know.

Oh yes, I'm definitely going to miss it here.

Day Thirty: Fresh Guavas in the Morning (12 July)

2010-09-18T14:54:00.002+06:00

Picked from the tree in front of my house, where the branches have been heavy with fruit for days. Enough to occupy a shelf of my fridge, and to give away two full bags to friends. They’re sweet, perfectly ripe, and full of vitamins. A perfect accompaniment to my breakfast, and to build up my immune system, worn down by Bangladeshi bacteria. An excellent start to the day.

Today is also the end of my month of positivity. There have been other positives too: overdue Skypes and phone calls and emails with much loved friends and family, several trips to the tailors to get those holiday dresses back, jokes in the office and lunches with Khagrachari friends. And the processes of identifying and of writing about them has helped to remind me of so many of the good things of my time in the Desh, at a time when – for a variety of reasons – such reminders really were necessary.

As I post this, two months after the date itself, I am looking back over the – now quite extended - month. The intended daily updates weren’t there, but as I have said previously, it would not have been representative of my time in Bangladesh if my carefully-chosen plans and timelines were actually followed. But all the positives were thought about and decided upon on their respective dates, and while they may seem silly or strange or overly-sentimental, they do indeed make up much of my Bangladeshi days.

Day Twenty-Nine: Banana Cake (11 July)

2010-09-18T14:30:00.001+06:00

My ‘famous’ banana cake, or so it was called by a colleague this afternoon, after I distributed it in the office. Easy to make, perfect for using up over-ripe bananas (when bananas cost between ten and twenty pence for a dozen, buying anything less than twelve just seems cheap), and with the added benefit of impressing colleagues, friends and neighbours, who are not so used to baked goods.

I can’t remember where the original recipe came from, but I’ve made it enough times (and even given lessons on its preparation) that I’m going to call it my own.

Bangladeshi Banana Cake

Heat oven to 175 C. Grease 9 x 5 loaf pan.

Mix 1/3 cup oil (or 1 cup butter if you have that luxury) with ¾ cup sugar. Add ½ tsp salt, 2 eggs, 1 tsp vanilla, 1 ½ cups flour, 1 tsp baking soda, 1 tsp baking powder, 1 tsp cinnamon and mix well. Mash three to four large bananas (or six to eight bananas Bangladeshi size), and add to mixture. Mix well. Mix in raisins, cashews, peanuts, homemade crystallised ginger (I had a moment of inventiveness once) or whatever else you have.

Pour into greased pan and cook for 40 to 50 mins or until a knife comes out clean. Hope the electricity lasts long enough for the cake to cook. Cover as soon as removing, to keep out of reach of ants. Serve with pride.

Day Twenty-Eight: The Weekend (10 July)

2010-09-18T14:26:00.000+06:00

After a very busy week, working late and much of the weekend, the simple fact of having a day off is today’s positive. My weekends are quiet here, mostly spent at home, with trips to the market and occasional visits to friends’ houses. I don’t do much; I read, I watch films, I cook, I clean, I sleep. I indulge myself by lying in bed in the mornings, my laptop and The Guardian website replacing Sunday newspapers.

I do, on occasion, think I need to do more with my weekends, be more sociable, make more productive use of my time. But, I know too that I need this time off, this space away from the world outside, this chance to uphold my newfound house-pride. It’s a world away from my London days, but there’s something to be said for the quiet life.

Day Twenty-Seven: 'Shesh' (9 July)

2010-09-18T14:25:00.001+06:00

'Shesh' (finished). With the project proposal, following the standard last-minute rushes, and mental pleads with the Power Board to keep the electricity on long enough for printing the pages and pages of the proposal.

It’s a bit of a strange feeling, working to looming deadlines again. These days, I’m more accustomed to Bangladeshi-style timing: flexible, vague, and prone to expansion. Most of the deadlines I work to are self-imposed, forcing me find my own motivation to get things done. These kinds of demands from others are a definite rarity, more reminiscent of essay deadlines at university than my Bangladeshi days.

I can’t say I miss the rush to meet deadlines. But the sense of ‘shesh’ on completion is still indeed a good one.

Day Twenty-Six: That Thursday Feeling (8 July)

2010-09-18T14:23:00.002+06:00

Thursdays are the new Fridays. Or they have been for the last 21-ish months anyway, and will continue to be so for the next five or so months, or as long as I stay in Bangladesh.

In the UK, there was a definite sense of excitement to Fridays: the prospect of a weekend, a lie-in, and a sense of potential, of days off and weeks to come. There were few excuses for staying-in on a Friday; Friday nights meant a break, from work or essay-writing or dissertations, they meant socialising, celebrating successes and another week completed, or sharing complaints, and leaving the negatives behind as the possibilities of a weekend loomed.

In Bangladesh, where weekends consist of Fridays and Saturdays, that Friday feeling now comes on Thursdays. Thursdays in the office are about finishing tasks from the week and making plans for the next, trying to leave with a sense of calm and completion, amongst what is often confusion. By Thursday afternoon, things slow down, the clock starts ticking, and the office empties by five o’clock.

I leave too. And despite the knowledge that a quiet weekend is ahead, and despite the lack of glasses of wine or other post-work drinks, I still leave with that little bit of weekend excitement. I’ve got my own treats planned, Thursday-night indulgences in sugar (a bottle of 7Up or Marma pitha) or fried goods (a singara or two), and maybe some rom-com DVD cheese. Another week has been completed. I still have a lie-in tomorrow, and some time for rest and reading the paper and treating myself to my little Bangladeshi luxuries.

The context may be different, the day may have changed, but that Thursday feeling is still a good one.

Day Twenty-Five: The Market (7 July)

2010-09-18T13:51:00.000+06:00

My favourite market in Khagrachari is the one right by my house. I wade through the fallen leaves and emerging weeds that make up my garden path, through the tin gate that marks the entrance to the overgrown jungle surrounding my home, and down towards the road. I turn right at the corner, and take a few steps, and there it begins: ‘Modhupur Bajaar’. ‘Honey village market’ by name, and in practice, my shopping destination of choice.

The market consists of a short road, with a small fork in the middle. From lunchtime onwards, men and women gradually come in from nearby villages, carrying their goods, and displaying them in woven baskets and mats on the ground. No moral dilemmas about buying summertime fruits out-of-season, no weighing up of ‘food miles’ here; you don’t get much more local than this.

I make this walk four times a day: to and from work in the mornings and evenings, and at lunchtime. It is only returning home, at the end of the day, that this market is busy. Coming from the office, the market begins with a line of Bengali-owned wooden shops and tea stalls, all selling the same snacks and grocery items. Then there a few mobile food stalls: selling roasted nuts, small bowls of curries for pre-dinner hunger pangs. The umbrella repairmen are there, and a couple of men with mats, displaying Western-style clothes, mainly for children, and plastic hairclips.

The road widens slightly then, and the shops continue on either side: groceries, tailors, barbers, tea-stalls, a fabrics shop, with indigenous dress hanging from its ceiling. There’s a butchers too, with its own ceiling display: meat, red and raw, hanging from hooks. At the other end, by my house, a new addition has come: a mobile phone shop, selling the latest handsets, and with a computer and printer for hire inside.

And in the front of these shops, are the baskets of fruits and vegetables, open for one’s perusal. Buying food is a picky business here; much attention is paid to the quality of each piece, and I – on several occasions – have been refused permission to buy something by my colleagues, despite seemingly adequate appearances, as the item in question has been deemed ‘not good’.

Their sellers sit behind, often in groups or two or three. There are Chakma women together, Marma women, a smattering of men and children, indigenous and Bengali, throughout. And I, as a by-now familiar bideshi, wander through, chatting here, being chatted about there. My interactions with the market-sellers are some of my favourites: the discussions about the best ways to cook unknown items, which fruits are ‘sweet’ today, the conversations about my dress, my country, and – when I’ve been absent from the market for a week or two - where I have been. The mixing of different languages, and the cups of tea with my Marma ‘didi’, who forcibly drags me into a nearby tea-stall, and gives me treats from her vegetable selection, refusing my offers of payment.

I also love the times, like today, when the interactions are minimal. Not because I don’t like being social, although, to be honest, there are times when I appreciate the quiet. But because, I like the familiarity of it all, and – even more - I like my own familiarity to those around me. Walking back after work, and being just another customer: weaving my way amongst the crowds and the puddles and the motorbikes and the electric tuk-tuks, choosing vegetables, greeting the people I know, smiling at familiar faces, and making my way home to cook my dinner, just like everyone else.

Some stares will always there, of course. And being conspicuous may even have its benefits at times. But sometimes, the best feeling is a sense of blending in, and of just being another face in the market crowds.

Day Twenty-Four: Davina (6 July)

2010-08-19T16:39:00.000+06:00

As in McCall. Seriously. Her exercise DVDs, with their jumps and kicks and punches, are an ideal way of relieving Bangladesh-induced frustrations, getting rid of excess energy, and ensuring a minimum amount of exercise in a country in which rickshaw-rides, in towns and cities at least, are the norm even for short distances.

Logistics are involved. Heat and humidity means this kind of jumping and skipping and squatting are only possible in early mornings or evenings. Even then, enough electricity is required to keep the ceiling fans turning fast throughout. And even then, a ‘cool-down’ period is needed. Not just the gentle stretching and slow-breathing of the end of gym classes, but also, literally, an opportunity to cool. Time for a cold shower to rinse away the ridiculous amounts of sweat (significant even when the fan is running, even more when the power goes halfway through), time for the beetroot-red of my face to fade.

Despite the logistics, fitting in an exercise session is a way of ensuring some sense of productivity for the day, no matter what else happens. And feeling productive is always positive.

Day Twenty-Three: The Project Proposal (5 July)

2010-08-19T16:10:00.001+06:00

Really, it feels strange to identify writing a project proposal as a positive. Too often, these seem like unavoidable nose-dives into the devils of development. The meaningless, over-used jargon, the donor-driven demands, the simplistic steps between inputs and outcomes, far away from the complex realities ‘on the ground’. All of these can feel like mere marketing exercises, NGO-style, rather than meaningful steps towards change.

But there’s also, importantly, a sense of potential. Of what could be, for my organisation, and for the communities we work for. For my organisation, every new project is significant, and a successful project proposal is always something to be celebrated. Writing about potential impacts amongst communities of Khagrachari feels positive too. My work is generally very limited to the office and its systems and management. It’s exciting to get opportunities to contribute outside these walls, and to think about possibilities for our most important work, that which we do in the ‘field’, and the changes we can contribute to in villages and communities throughout these green hills.

In reality, Bangladesh has taught me well that the planned connections between development activities and their impacts amongst communities are not so simple. These are not straight lines, these links between ‘inputs’( whether they are workshops, meetings, trainings, infrastructure, or others) and resulting changes. They can be wandering and at times broken, changing direction and weight and tied up in so many issues, including power and resources and understanding and culture and personal relations.

Yes, Bangladesh has showed me that change is not a simple thing, or something that can be easily planned and predicted. (I wish someone would tell that to David Cameron. All of his talk of ‘quick impacts’ and ‘value for money’ are millions of miles away from my Bangladeshi realities, and leave me fuming. With those attitudes, I doubt he’d last a week as a VSO volunteer.) But still, despite knowing it won’t be quite this simple, the potential a project proposal holds does indeed feel positive. Discovery of the realities ahead will have to wait.

Day Twenty-Two: The Umbrella Repairman (4 July)

2010-08-19T16:07:00.001+06:00

The repairman sits on a raised wooden platform, covered by a tin and bamboo roof, and surrounded by torches, threads, and other tools and products of his trade. He, along with the two or three fellow repairmen sitting beside him (Bangladesh is one of those countries where services seem to come in a row), earn their incomes through the provision of quick, affordable fixes: of umbrellas, of lamps, of a variety of other small but very useful goods in this country of monsoons and power shortages.

Today’s positive isn’t really about the umbrella repairman himself, although he could indeed be a very pleasant man. More it’s the fact that you can get umbrellas repaired at all in this country. I mentioned this to someone from the UK a few months ago. He was amazed at the possibility. In the UK, I assume, a broken umbrella is something to be discarded, to end up in a landfill at worst, or, at best, its parts sent thousands of miles away to a recycling plant in China.

Here, however, an umbrella is definitely something to be repaired. Mine’s been done twice now; a tweak here, a few additional threads there, and it’s keeping me dry again. And this is the positive: Bangladesh excels at the ‘re-use’ component of that ‘reduce, re-use, recycle’ mantra I remember from school days.

Because while piles of thrown-on-the-ground rubbish do line far too many of the streets in Bangladesh, you can be sure, if something can be re-used, it will be. Paper and plastic bottles are collected by those unable to access other income sources, and sold on, for small amounts. Pages from school exercise books are made into small bags, used for the selling of street-side snacks and small purchases from grocery shops. A recent trip through a garment factory-area showed mountains of discarded pieces of cloth; they may be in piles for now, but rest assured, they will be picked up, and re-used by someone who needs them.

The poverty that lies behind this emphasis on re-using is, of course, not a positive. Re-using is not a choice of ethics here, but an essential. We may have clean streets, organised rubbish and recycling collections, and an aversion to throwing trash out bus windows, but still, I await the day umbrella repairmen come to the UK. That really will be a positive.

Days Twenty and Twenty-One: The Visitor (2 and 3 July)

2010-08-19T16:05:00.000+06:00

Good company, good food, good times. Enough said.

Day Nineteen: Another Meeting (1 July)

2010-08-17T17:16:00.001+06:00

One with an agenda, identified and discussed at the meeting’s start. One with minutes being taken. One with debates and discussions, involving men and women, and staff from each level of the organisation. One that reviewed decisions from this meeting, and identified a date for the next.

This may not seem significant for some. I, however, have spent months encouraging discussions of how to improve communication within the office, and how we can make staff meetings useful for all those involved. I have given repeated reminders of agreed meeting dates, and even given trainings on that fascinating topic of how to write meeting minutes. All the while wondering if anything would actually change.

For me then, today’s meeting is indeed significant. It’s also more than just another positive. It’s a sign of positive progress. And that’s even better.

Day Eighteen: The Training (30 June)

2010-08-12T15:20:00.000+06:00

The training, and the accompanying full-on indulgence in VSO-related geekery: thinking about learning and sharing and facilitation and suitably amusing ‘energisers’. I am not (too) ashamed to admit that this is something I really enjoy.

And on a good day, like today, when the training goes well, and the participants show up, the translation is thorough, timings are met, and people are engaged, ask questions, and indulge my liking for ice-breakers, I do have a sense of achievement at the end. Whether this ‘sharing of skills’ actually results in a change in people’s work is, of course, another question. But that’s one to be saved for another day.

Day Seventeen: Busyness (29 June)

2010-08-12T15:17:00.000+06:00

Time seems to go from one extreme to the other here. Days of waiting, for meetings, for discussions, for work, for electricity, for lunchtime. And then there are times where everything comes at once: days where my diary becomes full of immediate to-do lists, it’s a struggle to balance activities and deadlines, and to find ways to catch and channel the increase in momentum to ensure that long-awaited tasks are completed.

The busy times are the preferred ones. They can be overwhelming on occasion, particularly – as now – when they coincide with significant changes happening within the organisation I work for. But, it is much to be better to be doing and thinking and working than whiling the day away. There’s only so much planning one can do, after all, before the ideas must be put into action. And, also importantly, there’s only so much Googling one can handle, before running out of search terms of interest. Busyness is definitely a positive.

Day Sixteen: A Visit to My Neighbour's (28 June)

2010-08-12T14:40:00.001+06:00

One of the many strange things about being a foreigner here is my visibility as a bideshi. Like it or not, I stand out. People may know me, even if I don’t them. I’ve had people, appearing to be complete strangers, come up and greet me by name. I’ve heard the name of the organisation I work for whispered as I walk past. And on being introduced to new people, I’ve been told that I am already known, that they have seen me, in the market, on the road, going to and from my office.

It’s a good time, then, when some of this reverse anonymity is resolved. Today, after moving into my a new house about a month ago, I got to meet my neighbours. They already knew me, of course. Indeed, I was told that I, innocently sitting in my living room, had been watched from the roof of a nearby building. But while I had heard them - sounds of tube-wells and cooking and dish-washing and chatting easily travel – I had yet to actually meet the people over the wall.

And now, after sharing bananas and jackfruit and mango, being gifted with a coconut, I can put faces to the sounds. Names may still elude me, but given our discussions of family, professions, health, salaries, and plans for marriage, I can actually say I know them a little bit too.

A Return to the Positives

2010-08-12T14:37:00.000+06:00

I realise that the gaps and delays in my posts mean I am not exactly following blogging etiquette. Yet again. But to be honest, if the carefully-made plans of regular updates were actually followed, this blog would be even less representative of my time in Bangladesh than it is at present.

But, way back in June and July, and despite not posting them, I did actually continue to carefully choose my daily positives. Things got busy though. Proper busy: a rarity in my time in this rural land. And then I went on holiday, and indulged myself by ignoring the Internet. And then I came back to a house full of spiders and frogs to expel, and extended power cuts to wait out. It can be easy to find excuses for not blogging in Bangladesh.

Anyway, a selection of those positives, chosen all those weeks ago, are on their way.

Day Fifteen: World Cup Fever Part Two (27 June)

2010-07-14T09:36:00.001+06:00

England versus Germany. The big match, dominating the British newspapers I read online, and Facebook status updates from friends at home. In Bangladesh however, the absence of Brazil and Argentina, the most popular teams, means that this game received only brief mentions in the World Cup-related discussions dwarfing conversations in my office right now.

This is perhaps the first year I have actively supported the English football team. Normally, my hopes go on the USA: my first country, where I played ‘soccer’ for years, and still most definitely an underdog in international terms. With the States out the night before however, it was England I was following. Absence most definitely makes the heart grow fonder.

And fortunately, a friend agreed to share my support for England. What started with two spectators, ended with many. Five friends from the office, two of their wives, and two of their children, all piled up on the bed and bedside table, discussing the players, the tactics, the refereeing, and, of course, the off-side rule. An agreement was made between myself and one colleague, a Germany supporter, that the winning side would organise a party to celebrate their victory.

We all know how the game ended. My victorious friend promised me ‘misti’ (sweets), and others teased me about my second country’s defeat. My two countries had both started in the World Cup, and both had now finished.

As before however, it’s the crowd that made this a positive. And the fact that I was able to watch it all.

Because, it seems that Power Board controlling Khagrachari’s electricity supply also seem to be football fans. The comings and goings of power here are generally not predictable in the slightest. ‘Current’ can go at anytime, for minutes, hours and sometimes days: disrupting work, cooking, water supplies, exercise (the latter is just not possibly without the whirring of ceiling fans), and prompting scramblings for candles, matches, torches in the darkness. Waiting for current to return is a common pastime.

The last few days have seen the emergence of a strangely standard schedule however. While the sporadic nature of electricity continues by day, a common pattern has emerged in the evenings. A long power cut, right up to the beginning of match. A ten-minute blackout during half-time. And another, indefinite power cut at the end of the game. Consistency amongst the inconsistency, and one which allowed me to view England lose in full, with only the briefest of blackouts disrupting the game itself.

Thank you, Power Board, for getting your priorities right.

Day Fourteen: Holiday Dresses (26 June)

2010-07-14T09:34:00.001+06:00

I have a holiday coming, only weeks away. Which means I am now officially allowed to get excited. And, as I will be going to a country slightly more liberal in its dress sense than my current one, I have an excuse to visit the tailors.

These tailors are different from the Marma tailors. Up narrow steps, off one of the town’s main market streets, its Bengali men and women sit behind several neatly spaced sewing machines, stitching shirts and salwar kameez, with finished products hanging proudly on display. The boss is clearly identifiable: dealing with customers, measuring tape around his neck, and observing the movements of his staff.

A week ago I walked up the stairs, clutching my rough, out-of-proportion drawings of what I wanted, scribbled on pieces of paper torn from school-style exercise books. I carried old salwar kameez too (whose colours and patterns I still love, even if the cut was never quite right), with the hope of their transformation from baggy shapes into something holiday-worthy.

The first visit was in the afternoon: the boss was away, and my convoluted communication of what I wanted was all a little too confusing for the staff there. The second visit was that evening, and the boss man was present. On this visit, I spent time discussing with one of the tailors, identified as the one right for dealing with strange bideshi requests. In broken Bangla I explained my drawings, showed the salwar, and offered a sample dress for size and cut. Eventually we reached a conclusion, and I left, wondering how exactly the dress would turn out.

So, today I went again, on my fourth visit. I was told on my third visit that they had ‘forgotten’ about the dress, and I should return in a few days. And today, I collected the completed dress, which looked impressively like the vague image I had stored in my head. After paying a bargain price of one hundred Taka (one pound) for the privilege, I took the dress home, tried it on, and discovered that, amazingly considering the nature of my drawings and communication, it both fit and was what I wanted.

But despite my happiness at my newly-made holiday dress, that’s not actually the point of today’s positive. Instead, it’s being here, in an environment which allows anyone to discover their inner fashion designer. And it’s the fact that the environment extends to someone as creatively-challenged as me that is the real positive.

Day Thirteen: World Cup Fever (25 June)

2010-07-14T09:29:00.000+06:00

The flags started appearing weeks before the tournament. A Brazil here, an Argentina there, flying high above houses, dominating Khagrachari’s skyline and displaying the owner’s team of choice. It’s been quite unexpected, this sudden surge of interest in football. While the Premiership’s international popularity extends to the Desh, like it does everywhere, football is not exactly Bangladesh’s national sport. The final of the ‘South Asian Football Federation’ tournament I went to in Dhaka a few months ago was half-empty. Big European matches are watched by some, but the numbers who play seem to be few. And, sadly, judging by Bangladesh’s performance in the South Asian tournament it hosted, it will be a while until it has the chance to participate in the World Cup itself.

It’s entertaining to see, this surprising fascination with the World Cup of my friends and colleagues, and it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement. Office talk is dominated by the teams we support, and the players we like. The Latin giants are easily the favourites, and it’s the big names of the present and the past that are reeled off in conversations: Kaka, Ronaldo, Maradona. And morning post-match analysis is a daily occurrence: opinionated, animated, and full of debate. Not having a TV, I’ve had less chances to watch the matches, basing my contributions to the discussions on The Guardian’s match reports, rather than firsthand viewing.

But, tonight, I received a call from a friend to watch Brazil draw with Portugal. The match itself was dull, but it was accompanied by fresh mangos, vodka smuggled from India, and whoops and cheers from my fellow spectators. And, when the crowd is good, it doesn’t always matter what happens on the pitch.

Day Twelve: A Marma 'Mae' (24 June)

2010-07-14T09:23:00.002+06:00

The Chittagong Hill Tracts, with its diversity of peoples, languages and religions, is the type of place that anthropologists and ‘cultural’ tourists dream of. With somewhere between eleven and thirteen different ethnic groups (depending on your definition), each with their own language and cultures, you could spend years trying to understand the mesh of peoples and practices here.

For me, this diversity of peoples is fascinating, and has been, at times, overwhelming, especially in early days. While Chakma, the language of the largest indigenous group, dominates my office, words and phrases may come in as many as five different languages, including English. It took me a while to learn some of the symbols of the groups, to recognise differences in dress and food, and to hear some of the stories about their origins and ways of being.

Indeed, even the idea of ‘group’ characteristics felt strange to me. As a social science student, I spent hours discussing the social construction of cultural signs and practices, and questioning many portrayals of indigenous peoples, which so often describe groups as simple folk, with lives unchanging for centuries.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the discussions of indigenousness I have here are very different from those I encountered in the academic world. Here, talk focuses less on the construction, and more on the definition. Not only is one’s ethnic group talked about as a vital part of one’s identity, but the label ‘indigenous’ itself is loaded with political debates and consequences.

This diversity also allows me brief encounters with the variety of peoples. Depending on what I am wearing or the language I attempt to speak, I have days where I am called ‘Megan Tripura’, and others where I am ‘Megan Marma’. More often than not, I am ‘Megan Chakma’, as this is the only indigenous language I have any knowledge of.

Today, I wore my new Marma dress. I have, on a previous occasion, been told ‘thank you’ by a Marma family behind a bamboo fence, as I sat in a tea-stall in my Marma dress. There were no thank yous today, but I was told that I was a ‘Marma mae’, or Marma girl, when I arrived in the office. When I walked home, through the small, busy market by my house, I was greeted by smiles and laughs by the women sitting cross-legged selling their vegetables, themselves wearing similarly-patterned skirts and blouses.

Despite being limited to the outer layers, and only the briefest of understandings of what it means to be ‘indigenous‘ or a member of a such a defined cultural group, it is a privilege to live somewhere which allows me this range of encounters, far away from the dry, theoretical debates of ‘culture’ I had in university. On a lighter note, my attempts at learning languages and the right ways to wear the different kinds of dress never cease to amuse my friends, colleagues and neighbours.

I prefer to take their laughter as a compliment.

Day Eleven: The Tea-Stall (23 June)

2010-07-05T21:10:00.006+06:00

I have written many times about the consistent inconsistencies of the Desh. There is, however, at least one constant amongst this continuous wave of never-quite-being-sure-about-what-is-coming-next. And that is my proximity to a tea-stall.

In the little market just by my house there are at least four spots for a cup of tea and a sit-down. The road leading up to it, with its towering banyan tree, and corner school swarming with students, has at least another four. Walking through these streets, four times a day (to and from the office in the morning, lunchtime, and the evening), I estimate I pass about ten or eleven tea-stalls, depending on the season. Which gives me approximately forty-four opportunities for a cup of tea. In a combined total of forty minutes.

You get the idea. And tea-stalls aren’t just a small-town thing. In Dhaka too, the streets are lined with opportunities for sugary goodness. Ranging from long rooms with concrete walls, with lunghi-clad men turning snacks over hot oil out front; to bamboo huts with wooden benches crammed together; to one-table standing affairs, with the maker’s materials behind; tea-stalls are everywhere in Bangladesh.

The goods on offer vary too; some serve only the glop of tea leaves and condensed milk in tiny cups ubiquitous to the country. Some have cakes and biscuits in plastic bags and jars. And some have a full-on selection of fried savouries and sweets.

Yet, despite my proximity to tea-stalls, I don’t visit them all that often. It’s the wrong time of year, you see. In my office at least, tea-stall visits are definitely a winter activity. We may make occasional trips in other seasons, but it is in winter that the words ‘ca hebe?’ (Chakma for ‘will you take tea?’) ring out regularly, just in time for elevenses.

I am not entirely sure of the reason for this choice of seasons. The tiny cups are too small really to be warming. I suspect it has something to do with the availability of Marma pitha, winter-only cakes made of coconut and rice flour. Whatever the reason, the choice certainly doesn’t extend to all: the tea-stalls I pass everyday are never devoid of people.

It had, however, been a while since I’d sat in a tea-stall, watched the people and chickens wander past, and battled with the ever-present condensed milk skin. (What exactly are you supposed to do with it? Do you chew it? Try to swallow whole? Attempt to leave neatly hanging on the side of the cup? These challenges, while lessened, have never completely disappeared in my time here.)

Today, however, I had my chance. Going down the stairs to leave the office, I realised it was raining. Proper raining, the kind that makes your clothes cling as you get drenched in seconds, and makes you question what protection umbrellas actually provide. I loitered on our porch for a while, waiting for a gap in the downpour. Eventually, getting impatient, I thought I spotted a slight let-up in the fall, enough to keep me dry-ish, combined with my umbrella and raincoat (both ever-present in my bag these days). And I stepped out into the storm.

I was wrong, however. There was no let-up. Quite the opposite in fact. Two minutes from the office, my clothes were already dripping. I had overlooked too that I was wearing white salwar, which promptly had gone see-through in the wet. And my umbrella, twice-broken and twice-repaired, was turning inside-out in the wind.

So, too late to return to the office, to the tea-stall I went. This is an office favourite, Marma-run, and always filled with men and women commenting on the people walking past. What exactly they thought of me, soaking wet and with transparent trousers, I don’t know. But I was ushered under the low roof, and room was made for me on the small wooden benches. Tea was served, and conversation ensued: ranging from where I was from, to where I worked, to all our recent illnesses, to the role of the British in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (this is the only place I have ever been where colonial powers are spoken of positively).

And eventually, the rain really did let-up. My trousers were slightly less see-through, the tea and conversation had finished, and all of us were on our way. A random encounter, a chance for me to practice my Bangla, and an overdue opportunity for me to sit and enjoy the interactions, the people-watching, and the thick, sweet liquids of a Bangladeshi tea-stall.

'Made in Bangladesh'

2010-07-01T17:20:00.002+06:00

A break from the positives today.

The Strikes

After weeks of violence, The Guardian has picked up on strikes by garment workers in Dhaka. The men and women cutting, stitching and sewing so many of the clothes on the UK high street are, according to the article, the most poorly paid textile workers in the world. Receiving less than £18 a month (and almost seven times less than my ‘volunteer’ salary), workers are currently demanding wages they can actually live on.

The Violence

The police reactions described in the article are similar to those I witnessed a few weeks ago. I was travelling back to the hills from Dhaka, snoozing, as we sat stuck in what I thought was a traffic jam. Eventually, I woke up sufficiently to realise this was not just another glut of cars and buses. From my window, I could see an injured woman being carried out of sight. The other side of the road was empty of people and vehicles. Policemen were there, carrying sticks. And the shutters of the tea-stalls lining the road were pulled tight.

As I tried to work out what was happening, a group of women, young and in a rainbow of salwar kameez shades, walked quickly past my bus. A few minutes later I saw them running, back the direction they had come, closely followed by the policemen, sticks held high. A few of the slower ones, or those who turned to look back, were beaten. One or two collapsed amongst the grass. And my fellow, mostly male, bus passengers laughed, clapped and cheered the policemen on.

Eventually traffic started on the other side of the road again. First it was people, carrying bags and baskets. Empty buses with broken windows came, the smashed glass covering the dusty seats inside. Eventually too, our bus turned on its engine, and we were on our way, passing two smoking buses, their interiors burned, alongside police and Army trucks.

An article in The Daily Star, a national English-language newspaper, informed me that this was violence instigated by garment workers. I still don’t really know what had happened. But as my bus journey that morning, and the Guardian’s article highlights, there are so many unseen struggles behind our favourite high street bargains.

The Ethical Dilemmas

Of course, I knew this before. These are not new, these stories of the pay and working conditions of the people constructing the clothes we wear. In London, I regularly faced the ethical dilemmas of someone both campaigning on issues of trade and human rights, and someone living on a student’s budget, brought up in a generation of disposable fashion. I struggled to find a way to balance the two, and – too often – succumbed to the second.

Living in Bangladesh, with its plethora of factories churning out cheap textiles, makes these dilemmas all the more personal. In a Brighton shopping centre at Christmas, I examined a pair of £4 leggings, and saw the standard ‘Made in Bangladesh’ label. This time, I could picture the factories, or their outsides at least. Driving past them, along with cement factories, steel works, and vast, broad rivers, is a essential part of any journey in or out of Dhaka.

Living in Bangladesh has, however, not given me an answer to the dilemmas. Newly-returned to the UK at Christmas time – overwhelmed by the contrast of the mall's bright lights and festive panic-buying to the country I had just left – I put down the leggings, and left the store.

The Campaigns

Realistically however, I can’t say I will never buy high street again. The rise in so-called ‘ethical fashion’, which has taken off even more in the 20 or so months I have been away, offers a much-welcomed greater selection of guilt-free alternatives. But this itself won’t change the wages and lives of those women I saw, or of the workers in these photographs. For that to happen, pressure must be given to the governments, the factory-owners, the companies that are turning a blind eye. And to me, that starts with shoppers, myself included, taking a moment to consider those struggles behind the price tags, and to remember that ‘Made in Bangladesh’ is much more than just a label.

People and Planet and War on Want are just two of the organisations leading campaigns against worker exploitation in the fashion industry. Lots more information, including on how to join the campaigns, is on their websites.

Day Ten: A Recipe That Works (22 June)

2010-06-22T20:44:00.007+06:00

It’s no secret that I’m into my food. I’ve written previous posts, almost exactly a year ago, about the central role it plays in my day-to-day here, and the time given to shopping, cooking, and talking with colleagues about if, and what, we've all eaten.

Scanning The Guardian’s Food section is one of my favourite distractions. I’m not sure why; I can’t visit the restaurants they review, I can’t search for the wines they recommend, I can’t buy most of the ingredients in their recipes. But there’s something about looking at the possibilities, of thinking about what could be, that is definitely appealing.

And there are times when the recipes are possible, with a little adaptation. I’ve done more baking here than in the years before combined: cakes and breads and, for the first time, tortillas from scratch. I’ve figured out hummus (minus the tahini) and lasagne (minus the cheese) and risotto (minus the wine... sadly, not quite the same). Sometimes they work well, sometimes they’re average, but I always appreciate the prospect of variations from what are, at times, monotonous day-to-day flavours and textures.

Today’s recipe was easier than others. Imagine my delight to find a recipe based around chickpeas (check) and mangoes (check) and standard curry spices (check). From none other than Yotam Ottolenghi, normally the king of obscure ingredients. To be fair, some of the ingredients are non-existent. Cauliflower won’t come in until winter, and while we have various kinds of ‘greens’, I’ve never seen spinach exactly. I have no idea if my mangoes are of the coveted ‘alphonso’ version; they’re just the ones that my ‘didi’ (older sister) in the market was selling from her basket.

But it worked, and along with chapatti (or my not-quite-round, often a little lumpy version), made my lunch today.

You can find the (quite superior, I’m sure) original here. This is my, rather approximate, take on it.

Chickpea and Mango Curry

Heat a good dollop of oil in pan. Add a teaspoon of mustard seeds and a half-teaspoon of cumin seeds and let them sizzle. Add a half-teaspoon of turmeric, and three-quarters of teaspoon chilli powder, and combine. Add one onion, chopped. And a teaspoon or so of salt, and a teaspoonish of sugar. Cook until onion starts to soften.

Then the vegetables. I just used what was in my fridge. Add some chopped aubergine and combine. If you want it to cook quicker, add a bit of water. Cook until aubergine starts to soften. Add some chopped green beans and combine. Cook until beans start to soften.

Then add the chickpeas, already soaked and cooked, or from a can if you’re lucky enough to get those. Cook for a while, so the flavours blend, and the vegetables are all cooked through. Add more salt, sugar, and spices according to taste. When you’re ready, remove from heat and transfer to bowl.

Finally, the mango. I added mine right before I ate, but if you don’t have worries of storing food with irregular electricity supply, you could mix it in advance. I ate mine cold.

Enjoy.

Day Nine: Sunshine (21 June)

2010-06-21T19:19:00.002+06:00

Not the metaphorical kind. Real, bright, warm sunshine, the kind that heats the water tank on my roof, and makes me squint as I walk the muddy streets between my house and office.

Monsoon season is, if you’ll excuse the pun, in full flow in Khagrachari right now. My clothes are moulding, laundry stays damp for days, my strolls to work involve, on ‘dry days’, careful navigation of the puddles taking over the narrow streets, and rolling up my trousers on the wetter ones. My umbrella, which I – now habituated to Bangladeshi ways – use in both sun and storms, is breaking for the second time, struggling to stay upright under the heavy winds and rain.

It’s that time of year after all, Bangladesh’s second rainy season. The difference between too much rain, and not enough, is a precarious one here. Last year, in this part of the country, it was unusually dry. This year, early into the monsoon, the rain has already brought landslides in the hills, killing around 50 people. Elsewhere in the country, there have been flash floods, destroying crops, and people’s means of survival.

This teetering between too-much and not-enough is clearly not positive at all. In a country so prone to natural disasters, in which people are so dependent on land, and therefore the weather, these occurrences happen over and over, and of course, are only going to increase in years to come. Taking away lives, and livelihoods, time after time.

I’m yet to understand what it means to live with that ever-present possibility of disaster, or to find out what the perfect balance would entail.

But I do know, that today, after weeks of emptying the buckets filled up by my leaking roof, it was sunny. There were blue skies this morning, and they continued up to lunch. By the time I wandered back to the office after lunch, clouds had come in. Wind had picked up, meaning I had to carefully hold my orna in place, to avoid an unwanted display of immodesty. Rain was coming again. By the end of the day however, the rain had stopped, the clouds had cleared, and the blue had returned.

I can only hope that today, with its mixture of wet and dry and light and dark, is something close to the balance people wish for. For me, the chance to take a walk in the sunshine again was much welcomed. And I even left my umbrella in my bag, unopened.

Day Eight: The Booking (20 June)

2010-06-21T19:07:00.002+06:00

I’m sure I’ve seen, somewhere, a quote about the beauty of anticipation. Something about the excitement of an upcoming event or activity, the thrill of counting down, day by day. The dreaming of what is to come.

Whatever it was, that’s what I’ve got. Because in less than four weeks I have a holiday, one that has been looked forward to for, what seems like, a very long time. I’ve got thoughts of trips and travel and adventures in new lands in my head. Of time to relax, to unwind, and to have a break from all-encompassing Deshi life.

And treats. While material goods are, of course, not everything, you wouldn’t believe the excitement the prospect of treats, big and small, can bring. Thoughts of lazy days in hammocks, happy hour cocktails, chocolate cake, muesli and yoghurt for breakfast. Things that my little town in the hills just doesn’t offer.

Today, that excitement is just a little bit more. A ‘proper treat’ has been booked: a hotel for the final nights of the holiday. The most expensive hotel I have ever paid for, and, at half of my monthly salary, some could call it a little excessive given my current financial circumstances.

But, I’ve seen photos of comfortable beds, white sheets, numerous pillows. Hot showers, freshly washed towels, complimentary toiletries. Bathtubs, both indoor and out. A swimming pool with the possibility of poolside massages. Balconies, where they’ll deliver evening drinks to your seats. Luxurious, definitely, in my pre-Desh life. And now, positively palatial. To the extent that, try as I might, I can’t really imagine myself there.

The beauty of anticipation.

Day Seven: The (Non) Photo (19 June)

2010-06-19T19:43:00.002+06:00

Today’s positive is a bit of a bittersweet one.

As some of you know, I get stared at here, a lot. And even though it’s less in Khagrachari than other parts of the country, and even after twenty or so months, it’s not something I’ve ever got completely used to. Often it’s a case of curiosity and fascination with the foreign, but too often, from men, it’s got that ‘how you doin’ slant to it as well. And even without that, there’s something about getting that level of attention, all the time, that keeps me a little on edge.

It bothers me less than it used to though, and I do have coping strategies: I know that if you smile at women and children, they will giggle nervously, or smile back. I know not to meet men’s glances. And I am quite accustomed to keeping my eyes modestly downcast when walking through the streets, just to avoid seeing where others’ eyes are looking.

Much more difficult however, is the photo-taking. Not the obligatory wedding photographs with the bride and groom: those I am happy to smile sweetly for, though it does feel strange when the wedding is a friend-of-a-friend’s-brother, and I have never spoken to either of the happy couple before. For the photos of me eating at wedding feasts, I just try to show off how comfortable I am eating with my hand (while really trying to ensure I’m not spilling rice into my lap). I have even smiled (through gritted teeth) during an eight-hour bus journey, so my fellow passengers have ‘something to remember me by’.

The photos that bother me are those taken on the streets, by random strangers. Generally male, and generally wielding camera phones. Some are discreet, some are blatant, and it’s not something that happens daily. But it happens enough, and has me shuddering (as I think about what exactly they are going to do with those photos) every time.

So, today, as I walked back from the market, and I saw the familiar raise of the arm, phone in hand, I turned my head. But then I saw a light. The flash had gone off. And I was happy. Given that I was on the other side of the street, I knew that there was no way the light would have reached me. Instead of the photo of the bideshi woman that he wanted, it is likely the man ended up with a blur, or possibly the corner of a nearby rickshaw.

Giving me a moment of pure satisfaction. I am not normally one to revel in another’s failure, but this time, the situation deserved it. The moment was broken soon after by some unwanted attention from teenage boys, in a frenzy over hormones and the sight of a foreign female, but – fleetingly – the moment was there. Pure satisfaction.

Day Six: The Marma Tailors (18 June)

2010-06-19T18:20:00.001+06:00

There is a long street in Khagrachari, one of those between my house and the market, which is lined – like so many of the other streets here – with bamboo buildings, open at the front. This street is a special one though, as inside a stretch of these buildings, are Marma tailors.

Marma are the second-largest group of indigenous peoples in these hills. And, like each of the indigenous groups, they have their own distinctive dress. With influences from Myanmar and elsewhere in south-east Asia, the dress consists of long, wraparound skirts known as ‘thami’, and short, tightly-fitting blouses, normally in a matching pattern. Simple, easy to put on and to wear, a change from salwar kameez, and coming in a range of colours and hectic prints, Marma dresses are some of my favourites.

There is shop after shop of Marma tailors on this street. Groups of women in bright colours and hectic patterns, cutting, ironing, and clacking on foot-powered sewing machines, often with light-golden circles smeared on their cheeks and forehead, another distinctive sign of being Marma.

Just like I have one shop for buying onions and other basics, one shop for buying oats and other imported luxuries, I also have my preferred Marma tailors. Three women, surrounded by piles of finished, half-finished, and not-yet-started pieces of Marma dress, and often with other women there too, for cloth, for dress, or just for gossip.

And because I’m a regular, they know me too. I’m welcomed and chatted to, and have had clothes altered for a matter of pennies (some of have even been offered for free). They are patient with me as I scan the posters of blouse-styles on the walls (zips? buttons? puffed sleeves?), trying to choose one amongst the many. And they even put additional ties on the skirts, to help me and my bideshi dress-wearing ignorance.

Today, I went to get a blouse, made several weeks ago, refitted. As always, after the smiles and polite conversation, I was ushered inside, to sit amongst the fabrics. After explaining in broken Bangla the adjustments needed, the blouse was taken, the stitches undone and then redone in a matter of minutes, while I waited, surrounded by the indecipherable sounds of the Marma language. (Of Khagrachari’s four languages, I find Marma by the far the most difficult. All I’ve got, after twenty months, is ‘how are you?’, ‘I am fine’, and – occasionally, when I can remember – ‘give water’).

After less than fifteen minutes, a little confusion about trying the blouse on (was I supposed to take my kameez off? I wasn’t), and promises that I will come again, I was on a rickshaw. Blouse now perfectly fitted, ready for wear with the new thami already hanging in my bedroom.

Day Five: The Conversation (17 June)

2010-06-19T17:23:00.001+06:00

With a colleague, at the end of the day. One of those conversations which are so common here. Where you start one place, end up somewhere else, and cover a multitude of topics in between. Today’s included holidays, cooking, local and national politics, illness, and – a staple of a majority of my conversations here – marriage. All in less than a hour.

I really like how open my colleagues can be with me, and how a quick chat can so easily turn into an analysis of family, the office, Khagrachari and the world. I have heard stories of hopes, dreams, challenges, and a variety of less savoury topics, which I would really rather not know about. (I’m not sure they are suitable for as public a media as this one, but to give you an idea, it turns out mother-in-law jokes, or a rather twisted form, may be universal.)

Anyway, back to the conversations. Like everything else in the Desh, I am just never entirely sure what’s going to happen, or what’s going to be said, next.

Day Four: TV Trash (16 June)

2010-06-19T17:09:00.001+06:00

I have been told, on occasion, that it is an admirable thing, what I am doing here. And while I appreciate the sentiment, this statement bothers me in many different ways. Apart from the question of whether work I actually do is anywhere close to the ‘changing lives’ aims of VSO jargon, I also get concerned because the statement suggests that my time is spent in worthwhile ways, doing good things, like, you know, helping people.

And this, my dear readers, overlooks a significant part of my days, weeks, and months here. Apart from my time in the office, and trips to the market, and the cooking and cleaning and visiting, all of which form part of my normal routine, there’s also my regular indulgence in, what could be called, TV trash.

To be more accurate, it’s an indulgence in DVD-watching on my laptop. Dhaka shopping centres are full of pirate DVD shops, offering latest releases, old classics, and stacks upon stacks of TV series box-sets. All of which are in varying qualities and languages, with cases including film synopses downloaded from critic websites (often half-complete, very critical indeed, or for a different film entirely).

For most volunteers, DVD-watching is a favoured way to while away quiet evenings or weekends. And for those of you who know me, you will not be surprised to hear that my DVD choices are of the ‘fluffy’ variety, to put it politely. While I appreciate film can most definitely be a powerful art form and conveyer of complex messages, when I watch movies or TV episodes at the end of a long day, I’m looking for the type of feel-good feeling that only trash can provide.

So, after several episodes of ‘How I Met Your Mother’ (which is, relatively, not that trashy at all) this is today’s positive. It may sound shallow, and I don’t think they’ll be putting any stories of it on VSO’s website any time soon, but everyone needs a bit of escapism once in a while. And TV trash is one of mine.

Day Three: 'Bang' (15 June)

2010-06-15T22:05:00.003+06:00

It’s finally stopped raining here. After about 36 hours of non-stop downpour, flooding the streets and the buckets strategically placed under my leaky roof, today was dry. The skies are still grey, the air is still damp, but it is dry. Or drier, anyway.

There is one thing about the rain here that never fails to amuse me. Amongst the thunder, the winds rustling the trees and shaking their branches, and the combination of falling fruit and raindrops clattering down on my tin roof so hard that I have to almost shout to be heard, there is one noise that stands out.

And that’s the frogs, or ‘bang’ as they are called here. Appearing after each big rain, and carrying on for what seems like hours at a time, their strange foghorn-like trumpeting is like no ‘ribbit’ I’ve encountered before. And while not as loud as raindrops on metal, they definitely make themselves heard.

They make themselves seen too. Frogs have recently been added to the list of ‘wildlife’ found in my house, and – judging by the numbers on sale in the market today – they are not very good at camouflaging themselves from would-be hunters.

They are hunted because, so I’m told, they are ‘very tasty’. The groups of frogs awaiting their fate in my local market today are likely to be deep-fried or boiled with chilli, and enjoyed as one of the special summertime dishes of these green hills.

Before you start questioning my commitment to vegetarianism, I should point out that I’m not choosing frog-eating as my positive of today. But there is something about their distinctive noises, their forays into my house, and even their appearance bunched together in baskets in the market, that makes these now-quite-familiar environments feel ‘exotic’ once again.

It may have been raining, but I am worlds away from English drizzle and Sainsbury’s pre-packaged chicken breasts. And sometimes it’s good to have that reminder. Even from as odd a source as ‘bang’.

Day Two: The Mattresses (14 June)

2010-06-15T21:56:00.001+06:00

Thick, soft, and – crucially – bed-bug free. These are my positive of today. And, possibly, of the week. New mattresses, freshly made, and finally delivered, after incessant monsoon storms delayed their transport-by-rickshaw through the town.

I won’t go into the details of the bed-bugs, or the challenges of trying to get rid of them in a place where all the ‘suggested methods’ are unavailable (placing bedding in a tumble dryer, calling a local exterminator... to name just two of those out of my reach). To give you some idea, it’s included days of boiling seemingly endless saucepans to get enough hot water to wash each and every item of clothing I own, and of using sticks to beat cushions and pillows in the sunshine, in efforts to make sure the bed-bugs are well and truly gone. All the while tossing and turning on a mattress so thin that I could feel each wooden slat underneath my back, waking up with aches and pains that are – I think – really not suitable for my age. Ah, it’s a tough life...

Really, the fact that I’m even complaining shows the life of luxury I have had. I know that my moans are not justified, and how lucky I am to have all that I do, bed-bugs or not. And I have been telling myself so for the last week. But there are times, when you’re tired and sick and it’s raining outside, that you really just want a comfortable bed to curl up in.

And tonight, as I lay on the not one, but two new mattresses covering my bed, the bites and welts of the bed-bugs faded and the aches and pains gone, I really do feel lucky once again. Very lucky indeed.

Day One: The Meeting

2010-06-14T12:09:00.002+06:00

My month of positivity actually starts yesterday. On 13 June, there was a meeting. I had spent weeks trying to speak to said colleague, and received seemingly endless promises of ‘tomorrow, we will talk’. And yesterday, we did. We didn’t speak for that long, an hour or so at the most. But we didn’t need to do more.

Apparently, the guidelines I had developed, identifying processes and good practices from a previous piece of work, are actually useful. Since I spend more time than I would like to questioning the impacts of the work I do, this is very reassuring. It was great to hear how my colleague has started thinking about ways of applying some of the principles and approaches we have been discussing to other aspects of his work too.

We also started talking about our next task, which again has been subject to delay after delay. But now I have enough information to get started, and we plan to talk in more detail next week. When that next meeting actually happens however, is beside the point right now. The point is, one piece of work has been completed, and the next is beginning. This meeting eventually happened, and the next one will too.

This is progress, and progress is definitely something to be happy about.

A Month of Positivity

2010-06-14T12:05:00.004+06:00

Regular readers will know the importance I place on positive thinking in this Desh. For me, it is more than an attitude or an approach, but an absolute necessity. It’s important not only for my own happiness, but also for my abilities to build connections and relationships with the people around me, to maintain beliefs in the work that I do, and in the possibilities of change in this complicated and troubled land.

The 'Challenges'

To be honest however, there are times that positive thinking is hard. Sometimes the reasons are serious. And sometimes, the sources of attacks are laughably small (laughable once the positive thinking has returned at least). Grey days of monsoon rain, mouldy jeans and milk that sours in a day, the increasing and seemingly unstoppable encroachment of ‘wildlife’ into my home (ants, mosquitoes, flying cockroaches, and most recently, bed bugs). Minor illness, sleep deprivation, cancelled meetings in the office, or one too many stares in the market: each of these things has, on occasion, sparked the onset of dark clouds over the sunshine.

The Positives

In these times, a little more effort and concentration is required to remind myself of all the good around me. One of my favourite things about being in Bangladesh however, is how excited I can get about minor occurrences or previously taken-for-granted treats. Just as tiny events can bring on tough times, the smallest thing can spur smiles again.

The Plan

So, my plan for the next month, is to record these things that make me happy. Each day I will write a new blog post, choosing one highlight of the day, big or small. Sound cheesy? Absolutely, and it will likely have me cringing in months and years to come. But we all have our ways of retaining energy and enthusiasm in emotionally volatile environments. And, as it turns out, stripping off layers of cynicism seems to be mine.

A Picture Speaks...

2010-05-19T21:25:00.013+06:00

It's no secret that I'm terrible with cameras. In my head, it is words that are the building blocks. They are the things that can be arranged, placed side-by-side or stacked one-on-top-of-another, to create impressions, convey meanings, capture emotions. While I have plenty of admiration for the polished (or deliberately gritty) photographs and paintings of others, the required eye and imagination behind these are not things I have.

Adding Distance?

And it's not just a question of artistic talent. There's something about carrying a camera that makes me feel self-conscious; it’s as if by adding this small piece of technological equipment to interactions, I am somehow creating distance between myself and my surroundings. For many people I know the opposite seems to exist: taking photos has been a way of them creating connections to the people and places around them. But for me - and especially in the Desh, in which the production of a camera can bring even more attention than usual - my self-imposed awkwardness with photography has only increased.

The Irony, The Deshi Special, and The Training

So it's somewhat ironic that I found myself organising a training for my colleagues on taking photos. But after months of trying to find 'good' photos for our website and publications, I was tired of searching through files of what is too often 'The Deshi Special': straight lines, rigid backs, stern faces. While there have been some definite diamonds amongst the rough, too few of our photos captured our essence: the communities we work with, the challenges they face, and the changes we contribute to.

After spending a morning talking about the messages photos give and the stories they can tell, with a few basic photo-taking techniques thrown in, groups were sent out into the sunshine. Their task was to capture a ‘day in the life’ of some of Khagrachari’s people, and here, for your viewing pleasure, are their self-chosen 'best' photographs.

And the Pictures Speak...

Especially given my own creative lackings, I’m proud of my colleagues and the photos they have taken. So, for today, enough of the words. I’ll let the pictures speak instead.

On That Age-Old Question

2010-05-06T11:06:00.008+06:00

A few years ago, on that digital conveyance of personality that is Facebook's 'About Me' section, I described myself as a 'cynical optimist'. I meant at the time I think, that despite my by then well-developed British sense of sarcasm and healthy dose of scepticism (that I thought allowed me to see past the rhetoric of politicians and advertisers), really I wanted to believe the best in people and the possibilities of the future.

At university, fuelled by the critical stance of academia, and the drinks-fuelled political debates of social science students, my cynical side reigned. On my arrival in Bangladesh however, ‘thinking positive’ became not just a more attractive option, but a requirement in itself. And tipping the balance between my cynicism and optimism to the latter has become an ongoing effort in my life here.

'Development' and the Desh

Because, for me to be happy working in ‘development’, I must be sure that things can indeed be different. But, like with everything in the Desh, considerations of the future bring just too many contradictions and confusing pathways. On the one hand, I have had my beliefs in people and the possibilities of positive change shaken over and over again. On the other hand, I have seen people’s incredible perseverance, determination, and creativity in the face of so many challenges. And I have both witnessed – and been subject to – amazing acts of generosity and thoughtfulness that restore my faith in the inherent goodness of beings.

The Ongoing Struggle

So, as I think about days ahead in the Desh, that struggle between optimism and pessimism reigns. I want to believe that the realisation of promised dreams and desires will happen, that the people most in need will be reached, that it is the voices of the deserving that determine the directions of development projects and processes. I want to believe that change can happen.

But in the distance, in this industry that I am part of, the dark shadow of log frames, project proposals and development targets cooked up in air-conditioned offices looms. And in this country, I know that social, political, ethnic and religious conflicts stretch far and wide, that corruption and nepotism pervades its every layer, and that the sheer numbers of people and problems mean at times that ‘change’ feels like an overwhelming possibility.

Half-Full or Half-Empty?

And so I return to that age-old question. Is the glass half-full, or is it half-empty? Is it better that the governments, the international agencies, the endless NGOs, are here, working towards some idea of 'development', no matter how flawed the process or activities? Is there positive change that can happen, even in a limited political environment such as this one?

I do have bad days, in which my cynical eyes look beyond the veneer of rhetoric ('empowerment', 'grassroots', 'rights-based approach'), and I am sceptical of any chances of change. But if there is one thing that the Desh has taught me, it’s that thinking positive is important. So I remind myself of the ongoing transitions already happening in this still-young country, of which there are so many. I concentrate on the small steps I see around me, of the amazing people I know, and how lucky I am, both to be here and be exposed to these cultures and complexities, and - due to unfair circumstances of birth and opportunity - to have the freedom to avoid and escape the problems I witness.

Tomorrow?

My struggles are not new, nor are they surprising. But these days, they are a constant part of life. And while I quite regularly resort to clichés and cheesy films with happy endings to keep it up, I am determined to keep myself in the ‘glass is half-full’ camp. After all, as became a daily mantra in one of the more challenging times, tomorrow will be a better day.

Emerging from the Hole

2010-05-06T10:31:00.002+06:00

Whether a regular reader or not, anyone even glancing at this blog would very quickly notice the rather expansive time period since my last posting. Despite being behind on the technological updates of the last 19 or so months (over Christmas I marvelled at an iphone and had to ask for an explanation of Twitter; to date I am yet to learn what an ipad is), I am still savvy enough to know that gaps of two months are not exactly good practice in the blogging world.

But here I am, on the blog again, having emerged from what I have started calling my ‘communications black hole’. It wasn’t that I didn’t talk to anyone of course, I did – but I also limited my speech, my emails, my writing, in too many ways. After a couple of months of enveloping myself in comforting quiet, that dark space of silence no longer seems so attractive.

This is not the forum to share the reasons for my hiding hole, indeed I am not sure I could quite explain it (the words may be coming again, but that does not mean I have all the ones I require). The point is, I’ve stepped back out into the sunshine, re-remembered the beauty of conversation, and am back on the communications. It’s good to be here.

The Seasons Are Changing (The First Rain)

2010-02-17T18:34:00.002+06:00

Sitting in my favourite lunch-spot today, once oh-so-familiar sounds suddenly began: first, the heavy, metallic bangs of raindrops on the building's tin roof, and then, the growl of thunder in the distance. Today, a mere four or so months since the end of last year's monsoon season, we had our first rain.

Today's rain was light and short. But still it brought with it the sights and smells of the rainy season: umbrellas, dampness in the air, moisture mixing with the layers of dust on the roads and leaves.

It's early for the rains to begin. Winter is only now on its way out: I still sleep with a blanket or two, and the fans in each room of my house have yet to be turned on. The temperatures still have to rise, the humidity in the air still has to increase, before the rains really break through, and I can welcome them properly.

Because as much as I came to resent the continuous dampness and ever-increasing mould brought by the rains, last year I did indeed welcome their beginning. I remember our first proper day of rain very clearly. After not seeing rain for almost six months, and having watched the once luminous green fields around me turn brown, dry and lifeless, that rain was definitely an event.

I was in the market in Khagrachari, laden with heavy bags. And as clichéd as it is, after days of sweat and weeks of dust, all I wanted to do was take a moment and savour the sensory experience of raindrops on my skin. For possibly the first time in my life, I was actively enjoying being caught in the rain.

So it may be early, and there may be many more days before I am tempted to dance in the sodden streets again. And this year, after the rain, snow, ice and general plethora of precipitation I experienced during my month in England, the advent of rainy season here may not be so significant as in the past.

But still, today was a sign. Summer is on its way, the rains are coming, and yet again in the Desh, the seasons are changing.

Happy Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T21:31:00.004+06:00

One of the many strange and wonderful things about Bangladesh is its celebration of Valentine's Day. In the UK, Valentine's Day is filled with apparent symbols and sounds of love and romance: red roses, heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, Barry White... Supposedly loved by mutually besotted couples, and hated by those stuck in their singledom, it is – for better or for worse – a day decidedly on the nation's calendar, even if it is stubbornly ignored by many individuals.

Valentine's Indifference

My own views on Valentine's Day have generally been rather indifferent. Not out of bitterness: I've had my own candlelit dinner or two, just like I've had the single's equivalent of a night out with 'the girls'. Memories of exchanging handwritten cards in primary school are not traumatic, but instead quite sweet: I remember carefully writing out the names of each classmate, and giggling if – on receipt of a card from a boy – there was the word 'love' inside (probably written by their mother). But not generally being one for enforced emotion, I've never really understood the need to assign a day specifically for romantic declarations, or required depression, depending on one's relationship status.

'Valentine's Special'

But like so many things, Valentine's Day in Bangladesh is quite a different experience. Last year I was in Dhaka, and can remember being surprised at crowded restaurants, with 'Valentine's Special' banners hanging outside their windows, and the groups of young people taking romantic strolls around Dhanmondi lake.

Because, while the Bangladeshi calendar is full of 'days of observation' (Friendship Day, Agriculture Day, Independence Day, Water Day, to name just a few), in a country in which arranged marriages are the norm, dating seems to be a foreign concept, and hand-holding between even married couples is frowned upon, I just didn't expect to see a day publicly celebrating romantic liaisons to be a cause for national attention.

Valentine's in the Hills

But – again, like so many things – Valentine's Day is an example of where the different pieces of my Bangladeshi experience just don't fit together. This year I'm in Khagrachari, and even here in the hills, Valentine's Day has been most definitely visible. I haven't seen any roses, soppy cards, or heard plans of romantic getaways, but it's here nonetheless.

In the office, the greeting of the day, shared in person and shouted excitedly over the phone, was an enthusiastic 'Happy Valentines' Day!'. One colleague, soon to be married, could barely contain his excitement, as – smile shining across his face – he greeted everyone in turn.

Upon arrival at our regular lunch-spot, my colleagues and I were greeted by balloons – red, shiny and heart-shaped – hanging outside and from the ceiling, and heart-shaped candles on each of the table. This might not sound so strange, but given that the only usual decoration on the bare concrete walls is a faded piece of A4 with the restaurant's name on it, this indulgence in romance-related bling is notable, to say the least.

'Say it Loudly, Say it Slowly'

But while my mobile phone provider repeatedly offered me the opportunity to send 'romantic ringtones' to my loved one, the exchange of gifts or candlelit dinners don't seem to have quite caught on. I was however invited by a colleague's wife for very tasty indigenous cakes to mark the occasion. From their house we could hear Valentine's chanting from groups of young people outside, on their way to the evening-stroll hotspot of the town ('say it loudly, I love you! Say it slowly, I love you!').

'Only Those in Love Can Know'

And, just like in the UK, Valentine's Day brought reflections on this most philosophical of topics. As we walked to lunch, a colleague asked me, 'what is love?'. In the end, he gave his own response: 'only those in love can know'. With this in mind – and as surprising as the practices may be - just as love itself may not easily be understood from the outside, who am I to judge how its special day is celebrated?

Happy Valentine's, everyone.

Back to England... and Back to the Desh

2010-02-12T13:54:00.007+06:00

I remember very clearly the morning I first arrived in Bangladesh. Flying over Dhaka, peering through the small, clouded windows of the plane, I looked down over vast expanses of water and wondered where the city was, and where the plane could land. Suddenly, there was the appearance of thousands of small, rectangular tower blocks in amongst the lakes, looking like a combination of model toys from a children's board game and a tribute to aesthetically-poor 1970s architecture. There was Dhaka, there was Bangladesh, and there was the beginning of my time as a bideshi.

Back to England

In December, I arrived back in London. After 14 months away, this once oh-so-familiar skyline had taken on new elements of strangeness. My face pressed up against the plane's window, my eyes did actually widen as I gazed at the dazzle of what seemed like a sci-fi city of the future. The street-lights snaked in smooth lines through spots of darkness, as steady and ordered streams of cars travelled home on the evening commute.

Dancing with impatience in Heathrow's passport queue, I was also nervous: would I be able to handle life in this lap of luxury? Did the Tube still work the same way? Would I be able to negotiate the realms of choice in even the smallest of supermarkets? Would my friends understand when I kept asking them if they had eaten rice? A year is not long in the scheme of things, but after being firmly encased in my Bangladeshi bubble, it felt like I was stepping into the unknown once again.

Being 'Home'

But it's a funny thing, having multiple 'homes'. My fears were unfounded: of course, I could manage the Tube, and became an impatient London commuter again a little too quickly for my liking. Supermarkets weren't really that scary, and the pub banter of the festive season was familiar after all. My month in England was both incredibly normal, and very special: four weeks of laughter, laze, overindulgence in luxury, and – most importantly – falling back into much-loved friendships and family life.

There were a few moments of confusion. There was a moment of moral uncertainty in a Brighton shopping centre, when I looked at a pair of £4 leggings labelled 'Made in Bangladesh'. To my shame, I got a little lost in an old London neighbourhood. But despite feeling in general like life was just a little bit too good to be true, it was England that felt real now, and Bangladesh that became the blurry haze in the distance.

Back to the Desh

And then – four weeks ago – I travelled again, and came back to the Desh. When I first came to Bangladesh, the plan was to be here for a year or so. Enough time for a taste of this country, but I thought then my itchy feet and desire for discovery would quickly take me on somewhere else. Now, my time has been extended, and Bangladesh is still a 'home', for 2010 at least.

And, just like in England, it's amazing how quickly it all became normal again. I saw a rickshaw on the runway, spoke Bangla in Immigration, and the fights with Dhaka CNG drivers began as soon as I left the airport. I was back.

And 'Home' Again?

But, again, it's a funny thing, having multiple 'homes'. Despite its appearance of normality, my second settling into Bangladeshi life for the long-term has been more of a challenge. After spending weeks highlighting the positives of Deshi life to friends and family in England, and explaining why I wanted to come back for another year, I had forgotten – or at least put to the back of my mind – the ups and downs and semi-permanent state of mild confusion that is so often part of life here.

I was genuinely excited to be back in Khagrachari: to see friends and catch up on the news of wedding season (a story for another time), to see what was in the markets, to wander the dusty streets. And it has been lovely: this little town in the hills really does feel like a home. But, beneath the surface, beyond the rice paddies and colourful dress and banyan trees, the social conflicts continue to run deep. In my few weeks back, rumblings of years of unresolved divisions and disputes between indigenous and Bengali populations have been resurfacing once again.

Still More Questions

And I am reminded that I still have so many questions about this place. How can 'development', or positive change, or whatever you want to call it, ever happen when the traumas of the past are still so current? As conflicts continue, what hope is there for overcoming inequalities and injustices, and making differences that are real and lasting? In light of these big questions, for which there are no easy answers, I wonder about my own time: my struggles with websites, Annual Reports, jargon-filled project proposals and small-scale organisational change often feel inconsequential in comparison.

So, I'm back in the Desh, and I'm still working things out. But that's one of the things I've learned in my time in Bangladesh. It requires constant readjustment and revaluation: of patience levels, of expectations, of understandings of progress. And sometimes I love it, and sometimes I'm exhausted by it, and sometimes I want to leave it all behind. But, for now at least, it's where I am. And I do call it 'home'.

'The Vegetables Here Tasted Different'

2009-12-02T21:46:00.005+07:00

Today, again during my daily scan of The Guardian online, I found this video, stories of families from rural southern Bangladesh who have been forced to migrate to the capital after their villages were destroyed by one of the many cyclones that have hit the country in recent years. While it does not do much to expand upon those limited representations of Bangladesh repeated in the international media that I have written about and questioned before, it does at least help to make these images more real for audiences far removed from the realities of the effects of ever-increasing natural disasters and climate change.

The video captures scenes of Dhaka’s streets and slums, and hints towards the sensory overload the city induces. And crucially, it provides a heart-wrenching glimpse into the stories and struggles of a few of the city’s millions of newly arrived inhabitants, who describe home villages now underwater, tough transitions to city life, and unanswerable questions on their futures.

And while a video on climate migrants is never going to offer much to make the viewer smile, the complaint that the vegetables in the capital taste different from those in the village, made by one interviewee, did bring a wry smile to my face. While in my day-to-day I find numerous differences in my interactions with Bangladesh’s indigenous and Bengali populations, this gem suggests that strict culinary habits and preferences are at least one commonality. More on that another time.

Note: I’m on a search for resources that look at the impacts of climate change on Bangladesh’s indigenous populations. If anyone reading this has any articles or other information, please do send links my way.

The VSO Experience

2009-11-07T18:19:00.003+07:00

I recently found this excellent resource, a website giving details of the numerous blogs by various VSO volunteers across the world. It gives links to some fantastic stories, by many people who manage to write much more regularly, and much more concisely, than I seem to be able to. If you are thinking of becoming a volunteer, or are just interested in volunteers' experiences, it is well worth exploring.

And for an account of some of the more negative reactions existing volunteers may have to the fabulous tales told in other peoples' blogs, have a look at my friend Josephine's explanation of a little-known but common phenomenon, amongst volunteers in Bangladesh at least, the so-called 'VSO envy'.

All this reading of other blogs has inspired me to try to keep this one a little bit more up-to-date. We'll see how that goes. And I don't really know who reads this, but if you do, and there's something you want me to write about, or if you have any comments, please do let me know. I'll be very happy to hear from you.

In Sickness and In Health

2009-11-07T15:39:00.010+07:00

Typhoid, dengue fever, tuberculosis, giardia, urinary tract infections, appendicitis: just a few of the plethora of illnesses experienced by volunteers in Bangladesh over the last year. This is despite the fact that all of us underwent medical examinations before we left our home countries, in which we were declared to be healthy* individuals. These days a stay in Apollo, the Dhaka hospital of choice, is almost like a volunteering rite of passage, alongside our first journeys on cycle-rickshaws, first realisations that our work plans are entirely unrealistic, and first tastes of illegal Bangladeshi whiskey (for some volunteers at least).

The Hospital Visit

My own stay in Apollo was back in July. The hospital is a mammoth maze of shiny floors, many departments, vast numbers of patients and their families, and confusing bureaucracy. It is a private hospital, very expensive, but well-equipped and with some highly qualified doctors. My stay was a few days only, and while it was luxurious (a single-occupancy room including a fridge, a television and an en-suite bathroom with hot water), I was itching to leave by the end. I won't go into the frustration of trying to talk to select doctors and nurses, whose interests lay not in my symptoms, but in those important questions of where I am from, what I do in Bangladesh, and if I cook for myself. Similarly, there's no need to describe the rather invasive pre-surgery tests and preparations required, nor the sickening taste of the soup I was served twice a day.

Because really, I was lucky to be there. Given that more than 80% of Bangladesh's 150 million-strong population lives on less than two dollars a day, the numbers that can afford this sparkling, monotone haven of sterility must be tiny. A one night stay in my room cost 7,500 Taka, which translates to about £75 or three-quarters of my own high-income month's salary. Indeed, Apollo's bright lights and high-tech equipment are worlds away from the colour and the poverty of the slums just outside its doors, and equally distant from the dark, crowded hospital in the hills I first visited for tests, whose single ultra-sound machine had been unusable for weeks.

The Attack of the Change of Seasons

As I write, my own hospital experience has been reduced to a few blurry memories, some minor post-operation scarring, and a rather hefty medical insurance claim. I am however now grappling with a much more common, and significantly less serious, illness. It is the sneezing, sniffing, coughing, sore throat and headache of that well-known 'disease': 'The Attack of the Change of Seasons'. I have mentioned several times that Bangladesh has many seasons. The exact number I am unsure of, as no matter the time of year, I am told that the seasons are changing. Similarly, the vast majority of minor illnesses I have or hear about are attributed to this continuous shift in temperature and climate.

Being eight hours away from Dhaka, and given that the flu I am experiencing is not exactly a major illness, I have been undergoing self-treatment in the hills, along with the help of my friends and colleagues. I am very lucky to be surrounded by incredibly kind individuals, who take good care of me, whether I am sick or well. But as with most of my experiences in Bangladesh, the cultural differences around illness are striking.

Despite the general importance placed on modest appearances (for women at least), this emphasis on privacy disappears entirely when it comes to bodily functions. Not only are belching, burping, spitting, and noisily clearing phlegm from one's throat all entirely acceptable as public behaviour, but any illness, blemish, or appearance change are widely, openly, and enthusiastically discussed, as are possible causes and cures.

While of course the change in seasons is the main explanation given for my flu, other possible explanations have included late nights (I was out until 11pm the night I got sick), loneliness (I now live on my own, which is very unusual here) and not eating enough chilli (even though I claim to like chilli, and to use them quite generously in my own cooking, being a bideshi means that I cannot of course be eating enough).

Doctors visits here are not one-on-one affairs, but involve at least five additional visitors, partially for translation, but mainly for group dissection of the sickness. And while suggested cures are generally not so different from those in the UK, there is little of that doctor-patient explanation of the various pills being prescribed, and almost none of doctor-patient confidentiality. The first time I was asked by a doctor in front of a group of still-new colleagues if I was experiencing a 'burning sensation' while urinating I was rather shocked. But I have now realised that these group visits are just one way for people to show that they care. And to indulge that fascination with all things bodily function-related.

You will be pleased to hear I am now slowly overcoming my coughs and sniffles. And since there must be at least a few weeks until the seasons shift again, and I have already gone through my hospital visit rite of passage, I should be able to look forward to a healthy future. But really, given both the resilient nature of Bangladeshi germs compared to weak bideshi immune systems, and the multiple meanings of the word 'healthy' (see below), I must say instead that I can hope for a period of being well, for myself and my fellow volunteers.

*A Note on Being 'Healthy'

After a few months in-country I realised that being told you are looking 'healthy' is not quite the compliment it seems. Rather than indicating a bright-eyed and fresh-faced appearance, it is basically a more polite, and widely used, way of saying that someone is looking rather chubby.

Bangladesh in Numbers?

2009-10-26T20:15:00.004+07:00

I found this article in a recent morning trawl of The Guardian online, describing the reactions of Jamie Hewlett, the guy that designed the Gorillaz, to his visit to Bangladesh. It’s an emotive piece, highlighting the horrors of climate change here, the vulnerabilities to natural disaster faced as a country, and the precariousness inherent in the everyday lives of millions.

For me, it’s also interesting as it paints a quite different picture to the Bangladesh I know. This article, like the vast majority I read in the international media, presents Bangladesh as chaotic, colourful, and monolithically flat and vulnerable to floods. The first paragraph states,

'There are only two numbers you need to know to grasp Bangladesh's problem. The country makes up less than 10% of the land mass of south Asia, yet more than 90% of south Asia's water passes through it on the way to the sea. Oh, and 80% of the country is floodplain.'

Living and working in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, I can identify with the chaos and colour the article describes, but other numbers are required to grasp some of the problems of this area, which falls into that unelaborated, and so often overlooked, 20% of non-floodplain in Bangladesh. Here are just a few:

• 45: the approximate number of indigenous communities in Bangladesh, of which about 11 are found in the CHT, each with their own language, history and cultural practices.
• 1.6 million: the approximate number of indigenous peoples living in Bangladesh, of which about 600,000 live in the CHT.
• 40%: the percentage of cultivable land flooded in the CHT in the 1960s, an area in which land was already scarce due to the geographical landscape. In that pre-climate change decade, the floods came not from natural disaster, but rather in the name of ‘development’: the building of Kaptai, Bangladesh’s only hydro-electric dam.
• 100,000: the approximate number of indigenous people displaced due to the building of the dam, few of whom received compensation, and thousands of whom fled to India.
• 25: the number of years of armed conflict in the CHT. Lasting from 1972 to 1997, it was between the Bangladeshi state and Shanti Bahini, the armed wing of an indigenous peoples' political party.

Of course, these numbers are themselves only a beginning. They can't show the implications of displacement and conflict for individuals, families, and communities, or consider the meanings of the attached transformations of social structures and relations. They don't measure the degradation of the area's natural resources, examine the impacts of this on people's economic survival, most of which is based in agriculture, or quantify its effects on cultures and cultural practices closely linked with land itself.

And they do not look to the future of the CHT. The numbers do not give a hint as to what benefits and challenges may come with the ever-increasing influx of development actors and activities here in the years since 1997. They cannot predict what will happen as the terrors of climate change across Bangladesh become ever more real and ever more devastating. And they do not say who will watch its implications for the land of this region, or show who will listen to, who will write about, or who will read, the stories of the people here.

So when I see an article in the international media employing the same statistics to give, yet again, the same view of Bangladesh, its peoples, and its environment, I can’t help but search for something different. Because the reality is that alongside the chaos, colour and flooding of this country is a diversity of histories, geographies, cultures and problems. And in that Bangladesh, questions of change – climate or otherwise – cannot be summed up in numbers, no matter how many we choose.

Statistics Source: CHT Commission

On 'Becoming Bangladeshi' (Part One: Language)

2009-10-13T23:11:00.013+07:00

It was a year ago today that I arrived in Bangladesh, wide-eyed despite the jet lag, and full of enthusiasm, optimism, curiosity, and excitement. The time since then has induced enough ups, downs and mood swings to leave even a hormonal teenager dizzy and disoriented. It's been at once inspiring, disillusioning, fascinating, hardening, guilt-inducing, satisfying, exhausting, exhilarating, laughter-inducing, frustrating, occasionally tearful, and quite regularly rather ridiculous.

It has also been, of course, a year of learning and change. Professionally, I do not doubt the value of the exposure I have gained or the opportunities I have had. Personally, there's been endless new experiences, from biting down on the stringy, juicy mess that is fresh sugarcane, to being forced to dance to Bangla songs in front of an hundred-plus audience, to getting caught in monsoon storms while sitting side-saddle on the back of a motorbike. Indeed, this year has had such an effect that recently I have been told that I am undergoing the ultimate in cultural adaptation: that I am 'becoming Bangladeshi'.

I myself am rather sceptical of this assertion, and can re-assure any of you worried that I may be losing my American-English cultural identity that this transition is far from complete. For example, I still don’t think that eating pineapple within several hours of drinking tea can make you sick (apparently pineapple and milk, as is found in tea, are a bad combination, inducing at the very least an upset stomach, and at the most, if you believe the panic in people’s voices if you mention the possibility, some other much more horrible, but as yet unidentified, fate).

If I am honest however, I must admit that there are a few 'Bangladeshi' traits I seem to be developing. And in the interests of avoiding any shocking surprises for those of you that will be seeing me in my brief return to England at Christmas time, I thought it would be best to warn you of these here.

Becoming Bangladeshi Trait Number One: Language

After a year, I still have a long-way to go language-wise. I can at least haggle with a rickshaw-driver in Bengali and inquire after the prices and names of various exotic fruit and vegetables in the market, but quickly get lost when attempting anything more complicated. Gradually I am starting to understand phrases amongst my colleagues' high-speed Chakma, but when it comes to responding to their questions I am left with a very limited speaking vocabulary (based mostly around, surprise surprise, food and eating).

So when I say I am adopting 'Bangladeshi' language habits, I mean something rather different: picking up the sayings of a little-known, but quite distinctive dialect, that of 'Bangladeshi English'. Recently I have started to doubt my ability to accurately correct my colleagues' English, as I myself take on more and more of these words and phrases. For example:

'Maybe': said not in times of actual uncertainty, but instead just to add some necessary vagueness to any assertion. Why this vagueness is needed I have yet to determine, but it seems to be crucial to even the most basic of statements. For example, I could say 'maybe I am going to lunch now', as I leave the office at lunch-time, stomach rumbling. Or, in response to the question, 'have you completed the report / proposal / any other task?', I could respond with either the uncertain, but probably negative 'maybe not', or the equally uncertain, but possibly positive 'maybe yes'.

'Programme': the word 'programme' is perhaps one of the most useful words in Bangladeshi English. Used to indicate that one has (unspecified, but clearly important) plans at a particular time, it is perfect for avoiding any unwelcomed invitations. For example, upon receiving an invitation, I could say 'I am sorry I cannot go to your house / shop / meet your wife / mother-in-law / eat rice, but I have a programme'. Said inviter would then nod knowingly, and the conversation would reach an amicable end.

'Maximum': indicates the majority activity or preference. For example, 'maximum time I have programmes on weekends' would mean 'I am busy most weekends' or 'maximum people in Bangladesh take rice for lunch' would mean most people in Bangladesh eat rice at lunch-time.

'Very gorgeous': simply meaning something (a beautiful view, a sparkly salwar kameez), or someone (David Beckham, Princess Di, endless Bollywood actresses) is deemed to be, as you have probably guessed, rather fit.

'I am coming': used to indicate not, in fact, when one is coming, but instead rather when one is leaving. Generally it seems to mean that one is returning after some (of course uncertain and unspecified) time. For example, if someone said to me 'okay, maybe I have a programme, I am coming' this means they are leaving the current location to go to some other, unnamed location. I may not know where they are going, what they are doing, or when they will be finished, but I can be safe in the knowledge that, one day at least, they will return.

Maybe.

(Other modes of 'becoming Bangladeshi' include changing my eating habits, dress, and staring at, and adopting a fascination with, unknown bideshi.)

Where Has All The Time Gone?

2009-09-26T22:28:00.006+07:00

The more committed readers amongst you will have noticed that there have been significant gaps in blogging of late. While my updates are generally rather sporadic to say the least, recent time lapses have been even longer than usual. So, what, you may ask, have I been doing that has meant I have not been able to fill you in on my Bangladesh adventures? What mysterious activities have occupied my minutes? Where, in fact, has all the time gone?

Following months of slow days in the beginning of my placement, the last few months have gone by in a blur. After becoming accustomed to searching for small tasks and excuses to fill my office time, with regular tea and Facebook breaks the norm, I now struggle to find enough minutes in the day. After pages of near-blank spaces, my diary is now full with meetings, workshops, deadlines, and to-do lists. And here lies the first answer to the question of the disappearance of time: I have been working.

Now this answer may not seem satisfactory to some of you. Of course I’m supposed to be working, this is whole reason I’m in the Desh: sharing skills, changing lives, and all the rest. And, really, I have been working throughout my time here, dutifully arriving at the office at 9am sharp (or thereabouts… my punctuality, not a particular strength anyway, has become even more fluid as I have adjusted to ‘Bangladeshi time’). And in the office I stayed, until 5pm at least, apart from the odd trip to the local tea-stall, and the standard at-least-one- hour-long lunch break (crucial both for one’s nutritional needs and general well-being).

These days, while my office hours have extended somewhat, it is in the office activities themselves that there has been the biggest change. In the first three months of my placement, most of my ‘work’ was settling in, learning about the organisation, adjusting, planning, and building relationships with my colleagues: talking, joking, eating (see post below). In the following three months, and since, more actual activities started, and I discovered some of the challenges of implementing said plans. Some challenges are practical: frequent power cuts, lasting hours or even days at a time, limited staff and resources, language barriers, gaps in communication. Some are to do with significant differences in working style: understandings of deadlines, time management, organisational skills, taking responsibility for implementing planned actions. Some are to do with my job: working in a capacity-building role means working with other people, which requires said other people to find ways to contribute the necessary time in between their many other commitments.

These days winter is approaching, which, in this country of many seasons, means I have completed close to a year in Bangladesh. Looking back at the detailed, precise, and oh-so-hopeful work plan developed at the beginning of my placement, I can tell you that little of it has actually been completed. We do have an Annual Report, completed about six months behind schedule, but completed nonetheless. Various trainings can be ticked off the list, and various proposals have been submitted. But more significant is what has been started: slowly, gradually, all our talk of plans and changes and organisational developments are being put into action: monthly staff meetings, rather sporadic in the past to say the least, have taken place each month since May; a website and a gender policy are on their way; an organisational strategic plan, still far from complete, is being thought about at least; to name but a few of the things that myself and my colleagues have been working on.

The answer to where all the time has gone is therefore neither mysterious nor extraordinary. The question, however, is one I often ask myself on the still-not-infrequent slow days. I do, at times, look back over the many days at my desk and wonder why so many tasks are still not finished and why so many plans are still only under process. But after almost a year of life in Bangladesh, living through at least six seasons, at least sixty quiet days, and many more busy ones, I know that change is slow. The trick is being able to appreciate the small achievements of the past, and identify the possibilities for future: when change could happen, how it could occur, and channeling all these talks and plans and dreams into action that is followed-through and followed-up. The secret behind performing that magic trick is one I'm still considering however, but the answer is, I'm guessing, the same I discovered after three months, that endless, age-old solution to everything: it just takes time.

(Other possible answers to 'Where Has All The Time Gone?', and other possible excuses for not writing, include: the hospital stay, the holiday, the power cuts, the laziness.)

My Life Revolves Around Food (Part Two: A Sad Tale)

2009-06-20T20:07:00.005+07:00

There is one final tale in today’s outpouring of food-related routines and obsessions, separated for its sadness, as much as its distinctiveness. Here in Bangladesh, far away from the glut of supermarkets, markets, delicatessans, bakeries, restaurants and cafes of the UK, I do quite regularly have cravings for the numerous items and tastes of home that are not on offer here. With this in mind, my dear parents, during their visit several months ago, brought me an incredible mix of treats for the Desh (with balsamic vinegar, chocolate, tahini and white wine just a few of the rather random items). Particularly special were three bread mixes, enabling me to make exactly three real, crusty, chewy bread loaves right here in my own Deshi home. Yesterday, after a stressful week at work, I had the fantastic idea of using the second of the precious bread mixes, which had – until now - been carefully rationed. Excited at this little taste of English comforts, I opened the packet, poured out the flour... and found the wheat goodness joined by hundreds of crawling black insects, which somehow managed to invade the mix, without a) the packet being open or b) the packet having any holes in it. I then opened the next and final packet, the particularly special 'Sundried Tomato and Parmesan Ciabatta' mix, and found the same. At which point I proceeded to utter several expletives, which there are no need to repeat here.

Now, you may or may not be able to identify with my sadness at this situation. If you can, don’t worry: following the swearing I burst out laughing, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of being in a context in which previously normal things become oh-so-very special, and at how almost everything seems to get infected, mouldy, rotten, or otherwise destroyed here at some point or another. Except those damn insects. I did give brief thought to advice given to me when I was a child by my Grandmother, who spent decades in the Nigerian jungles: if you put said insect-infected substance into the oven, the insects will die, making it easy for you to pick them out from the otherwise good foodstuff. Needless to say, I decided against this particular strategy, questioning the feasibility of baking flour more than the waste-not, want-not philosophy behind it.

So, my life may revolve around food, but my Parmesan and Sundried Tomato Ciabatta is now but a dream. With this in mind, I will end with a plea: think of me the next time you wolf down your sandwiches, spare a moment’s thought for my lost bread mixes, and take the time to appreciate that savoury bready goodness slipping down your throat. A girl in the Desh is thinking about it.

My Life Revolves Around Food (Part One: A Realisation)

2009-06-20T20:00:00.002+07:00

My life revolves around food.

This statement is a realisation. Despite its apparently confessional nature, it does not intend to indicate an obsessive disposition developed in the Desh on my part, nor is it a sign of an urgent need for me to visit ‘Overeaters Anonymous’. It is merely a realisation, gained during a much-overdue phone conversation with a much-loved friend a few weeks ago.

In the conversation, I was asked to describe my day. I proceeded to outline what was a fairly typical Saturday: the English class I was supposed to be helping at had been cancelled, I got called into the office for a last-minute meeting, I was invited to eat mangoes and other assorted tropical fruits at a friend’s house, and then to lunch at one of her friend’s houses, where despite the huge plate of rice, various vegetable curries, and eggs* I consumed, I was told that my hosts were disappointed with how little I had eaten. In the afternoon, I had a craving for a walk, and for some pineapple, and so wandered up to a nearby market, where salesmen and women squat or sit cross-legged in front of their wares. That day however there were no pineapples in sight, so I took a ten-minute rickshaw journey to the main bazaar, bought the desired pineapples (two for ten Taka, or about ten pence), plus some attractive-looking fresh lychees, and went home. By the time the phone-call took place, I was eating said lychees, and wondering what to make for dinner.

None of the above is surprising, if you consider my context. In a country in which any meal that doesn’t include rice is considered a ‘snack’ - even if said meal is a plate of noodles, followed by fruit and biscuits, a standard meal itself in other countries – every social event involves food in one capacity or another. If you go to someone’s house, on an invitation or as a spur of the moment decision, you will always be fed. If you go to a stall for a cup of tea, you will generally also eat ‘pitha’ (cake). Even if you don't, the thick glop of condensed milk, sugar and tea leaves that is 'ca' in Bangladesh offers the calorie-equivalent of a meal itself. And if you go to 'take a little bit', code for drinking rice wine, you will also eat: not the shared packets of crisps or peanuts that accompany drinks in the UK, but salads, boiled vegetables and – for my compatriots – various fish and meats.

(Confession: even I, my curiosity and courage fuelled by the rice wine, had a momentary lapse of vegetarianism recently when I was persuaded to try frog, one of the CHT rainy season delicacies, and which I was told was ‘very tasty’. I should add here that I am constantly being told various exotic items are ‘very tasty’, including dried monkey, pigs intestines, fish eggs and tiger (I’m not quite sure I believe said informant was speaking with experience with regards to that last one). In actuality, the frog was chewy, and mostly tasted like chilli: not bad, but not good enough for my guilt at the poor frog's fate to subside.)

The obsession with food extends beyond social settings to office life. When I first arrived, I thought the regular question of ‘bhat kheyechen?’ or ‘have you eaten rice/lunch?’ (here, since every meal includes rice, the same word is used for both) following office lunchtimes was a sign of curiosity surrounding my peculiar bideshi eating habits. I have since realised that asking if someone has eaten is also a sign of politeness, as is piling someone else’s plate with food. Even on the busiest of working days, the entire office stops for lunch: a few bring Tupperware of rice and curries into work, the majority go home to their families, resulting in lunch-breaks of a minimum of one hour, and generally more. Work is regularly, and welcomingly, interrupted by various seasonal snacks for us to share: huge, sticky jackfruit for us to plunge our fingers into, plates of fresh mango or pineapple, bowls of homemade olive pickle. And those questions of ‘have you eaten?’ in the post-lunchtime lull continue, joined with more detailed discussions of exactly how many ‘items’ we have all taken on that particular day.

My own contribution to the office eating potluck has, of late, been cakes. Excited at the inheritance of an oven from a previous VSO volunteer, and with a serious longing for breads and other English baked goods, I have taken to regular weekend baking. Given that I like to make cakes more than I actually like to eat them, the vast majority of my experiments end up in the office, where they have resulted in numerous discussions of what exact ingredients are included in these exotic items, and several requests for baking lessons. And it’s not just cakes that take up my weekend time: in a small town, visits to the market, browsing the various items on sale, chats with the sellers about how to cook some of the more unfamiliar items, and the resulting kitchen experiments, are some of the highlights of what’s on offer.

Social life, work life, week-end life. It's true: my Bangladesh routine revolves around food.

*A note on eggs: I am constantly being fed eggs. Despite living in a Buddhist-majority region, the concept of ‘vegetarianism’ is rather rare here, and people get very concerned about what it is I eat if I eat no fish or meat. Hence the eggs: boiled, or in omelette with chilli, and provided especially for me at every work lunch or party. ‘Egg’ was the first word I learned in Chakma, one of the indigenous languages in the CHT, and my egg-eating is the source of ongoing office jokes (eggs are apparently ‘baby-food’, information that is conveyed to me quite regularly. In response I say that since I am the youngest person in the office, I am entitled to eat ‘baby-food’. Both statements induce much laughter).

Getting Angry In Bangla / The Taxi Driver Who Gave Me Popcorn

2009-04-25T21:40:00.003+06:00

For many years, I believed that one's ability to 'negotiate' with taxi drivers in a foreign language was a sign of emerging linguistic fluency. It was four years ago in Nicaragua, while trying to cross the concrete jungle of horrors that is its capital Managua, that I first realised my attempts at learning 'El Español' had paid off. Despite losing the argument spectacularly (our taxi driver stopped the car in a quiet, backstreet of a city known at the time for the armed hijacking of gringo-carrying vehicles, and demanded payment ten times the agreed price to ensure our safety), I was pleased to put up a fight that included not just raised voices, but also coherent(ish) Spanish sentences. And very pleased to make it out of Managua with wallets and bags – although dented – still present and intact.

In Bangladesh however – as I am discovering over and over again – old rules just don't apply. Here, despite being well used to negotiating with CNG drivers and rickshaw-wallahs, I am far away from developing any sort of Bangla coherency. Although I know the main Bengali numbers well enough for bargaining, the quick-fire responses of my Spanish days are a distant memory. In my defence, Bengali numbers are very difficult: there are actually different words for each, not just the compounds of 'twenty-one', 'twenty-two' and so on that we are used to. And actually, more important than words or numbers here are the subtle body movements that indicate agreement or disagreement: the raised upside-down head nod asking if a driver will go; the slight head-tilt to the right indicating 'yes', 'I agree' and 'I will go'; the slow, deliberate – but only half-genuine – walk away from the vehicle of a stubborn driver, waiting for him to change his mind and shout agreement to a lower price.

It is not all waving, walking and head-tilting however. While this choreographed dance of negotiations has its effectiveness, it does not exactly indicate upcoming mastery of the Bangla 'basa' (language). My previous belief in the link between negotiating power and linguistic fluency took a further beating two months ago, during my parents' visit to Bangladesh. Before explaining further, some background information is required: Bangladesh has one of the highest fatality rates for road accidents in the world, and according to official statistics, more than 10,000 people are killed in various accidents every year. When booking bus tickets, we choose our seats not on the basis of comfort or views, but on safety (the safest are those on the opposite side to the driver, about halfway down the bus, just in case you ever need to know). I am well used to the sheer craziness of driving here: the speed, the driving directly into oncoming traffic, the regular accidents. My parents however were not, and with their comfort in mind we had decided to hire a car and driver to make to the eight hour-plus journey from the hills to Dhaka.

Unfortunately, our forward thinking and careful planning backfired. When I say that the drivers taking myself and my parents back to Dhaka were the worst I have seen, I am not exaggerating. My poor mother kept her eyes shut in fear for most of the journey, as the drivers consistently ignored my increasingly angry admonishments of 'aste aste jan' (go slowly). It was after their attempts to bribe their way through an Army cantonment area that voices first began to be raised. It was while getting lost in Chittagong, Bangladesh's second largest city, that tempers frayed further. And it was eight or so hours later, on the outskirts of Dhaka, when the drivers demanded an additional 2000 Taka to travel from where I was staying to my parents' hotel (about ten times the amount I have previously paid), that – much to the later amusement of my parents – I really lost my temper. Using such simple phrases as 'bhalo lage na' (I don't like), 'ami khushi na' (I am not happy), and 'debo na' (I will not pay), I conveyed said anger neither sophisticatedly nor coherently. Eventually however, the combination of my basic Bangla, furious face, angry hand gestures, and the added negotiating power of a phone call to the drivers' boss, was effective: destinations were reached, appropriate sums were paid, and we ended up with the standard Bangladeshi conversation about marriage (them: 'do you have a husband?', me: 'no', 'them: when are you going to get married?', me: 'later', etc).

So my negotiations with taxi drivers may still be a long way from those confident, verbal expressions that would indicate emerging linguistic fluency, but all's well that ends well. And lest you think I have turned into a crazy woman who takes pleasure in shouting at drivers, I would also like to end with a more positive story here: that of The Taxi Driver Who Gave Me Popcorn. This also occurred after an eight hour journey, but is significantly more representative of my time in the Desh than the story above. Arriving in Dhaka, I took a taxi to the VSO office. The journey began well (the cab not only actually had a meter, but the driver also actually offered to use it), and became even better as a conversation ensued. The topics were nothing unusual (where am I from, what am I doing here, do I have any brothers or sisters , and – of course – am I married) but I was pleased to be able to both understand and respond to the driver's questions, and smiled when he told me it made him happy to hear Bangla from a bideshi. Then - to indicate his happiness, and much to my amusement – he called over one of the young sales boys that are ubiquitous amongst Dhaka traffic, and bought me a bag of popcorn. And, despite my protests that I had already eaten, he insisted that I eat. Which, of course, I did.

This is Bangladesh: land of terrible driving, corruption, curiosity, and unwaveringly generous hospitality. You don't need more than basic Bangla to discover that.

The Three Month Hurdle

2009-03-24T19:27:00.001+06:00

Two weeks ago, I celebrated my five month anniversary in Bangladesh. I say 'celebrated', but really all I mean is that I woke up, went into the office, looked at the beautiful Brighton calendar hanging by desk (thank you KW), and realised that it is now mid-March. It was five months ago that I arrived in Bangladesh, peering out of the airplane's windows, wondering where exactly Dhaka was and how the plane could land amongst so much water. Then, the seasons of rain and heat were at an end. Now, all signs indicate that summer is approaching: the days are getting hotter and more humid, power cuts are even more frequent, any illness is attributed to 'the change of seasons', and there are an increasing number of ants, mosquitoes, spiders and cockroaches taking up residence in my flat.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't know what the sweaty days ahead will bring or what effects the rains that follow will have. Instead, in true VSO reflective style, I want to look back: to sometime in January, when the days were short, the nights were cool, and my colleagues wrapped themselves in scarves and balaclavas to protect themselves from being 'besi thanda' or 'too much cold' (I should point out my body, used to dark and damp English winters, managed with a cardigan). In England, the debts and detoxes associated with January generally means it is a rather depressing month. In Bangladesh, where the sun was shining and the festive season is barely recognised, the usual post-Christmas blues were not present. Instead, January in the Desh brought its own – significantly more colourful - version of winter gloom: a time I'm calling the Three Month Hurdle.

Those of you familiar with VSO will be aware of its love, along with that for ice-breakers and acronyms, for reflective tools encouraging self-analysis of personal, as well as professional, adjustments to new surroundings. In the pre-Bangladesh era, at the first training I attended, we were given a particularly descriptive outline of the rollercoaster of emotions many volunteers experience. Summarising settling-in, the process of transition was said to include such highs and lows as 'denial', 'euphoria', 'pining', 'anger', 'guilt', 'depression', and 'apathy', before reaching the final stage: 'gradual acceptance'. I would like to make some confident comment about my ability to circumnavigate these peaks and troughs, and avoid the angst and adjustments of a struggling volunteer. But the truth is – to varying levels of intensity, and despite how clichéd or confessional it sounds – I have experienced many of these highs and lows since arriving in Bangladesh. And it was in January that these conflicting emotions were at their height.

On the one hand, I spent many days sitting at my desk feeling guilty about feeling despondent, as I wondered how to fill my days and my evenings, and how to overcome the differences of language and understandings of planning that stood between me and the tasks I had been assigned. After three months, the ability to eat rice with my hand no longer felt like much of an achievement, and the initial pride at being able to ask in Bangla for fruit and vegetables in the market had worn off. I thought instead that it was time for me to move past these minor victories, and towards making some contribution to the objectives of my volunteer placement. On the other hand, there were definite moments of euphoria. I felt on top of the world as I hurtled along the top of the Khagrachari hills on the back on a motorcycle, during a rare village visit. After weeks of planning, postponing and rearranging, I was very pleased and relieved to finally facilitate my first training workshop in the office, even though the second was again delayed.

The wall of frustration that was the Three Month Hurdle was created by these constant ups and downs, along with the usual self-pity brought about by cold weather and minor illness. Although I am very lucky in my placement – as regular readers will know, I am in a beautiful and fascinating setting, with wonderful, welcoming colleagues - it was a time of struggle as I tried to negotiate the challenges of actually settling in and contributing to a very different environment. Despite knowing this was all part of transition, living and working in a small place means that the world outside Khagrachari and Bangladesh can seem rather vague and distant, and keeping perspective can be difficult. And without other distractions, moments of frustration (many) – and of inspiration (again, many) – are significantly more intense than they would be otherwise.

To continue the use of cliché, the tricks to overcoming the Hurdle were not the mindless DVDs I entertained myself with during down times, but – those age old solutions to everything – talking and time. After a few days in Dhaka sharing various frustrations and worries with my fellow YfDs, I was relieved to discover that we were all facing the same issues. As the beginning of February rolled on, the trials and tribulations of January began to fade. After an increase in assertiveness at work in my side and sharing of some of my concerns with my colleagues, gradually I was able to begin new tasks and start addressing some of the reasons why they requested a volunteer.

Five months in, and the seasons have indeed changed. I have tried to give up thinking about what I should be accomplishing, and focusing instead on what I am doing. My achievements are still minor, but they were never going to be more than that, and that does not detract from their significance (for me, at least). I don't really know what impacts my being here have or will have, but that's besides the point – we can only ever guess about the potential impacts of our actions. And while the ups and downs, frustrations and inspirations - ever-present in the life of a VSO volunteer - continue, most of my time is spent getting on with the day-to-day: thinking about Annual Reports and English lessons and upcoming indigenous festivals and what to cook for dinner. Of course, I still don't know what's ahead, but right now the sun is shining, watermelons and green coconut juice are in season, and the Hurdle – like the Tube, roast dinners, and Shoreditch haircuts – seems to belong to somewhere in the distance, to a place I know well, but struggle to picture clearly right now.

Sharing Moves, Changing Lives: Shaking Up - and Being Shaken By - the Desh’s Dancefloor

2009-03-21T00:18:00.003+06:00

Despite having its own Facebook group dedicated to the cause (aptly named DHAKA NIGHTLIFE, capital letters theirs), Dhaka – with its generally conservative culture, ban on the alcoholic and often disapproving attitudes towards mingling between members of the opposite sex – may not seem the best place for a big night out. Yet while Khagrachari, my little home in the hills, does offer its own unique and very special forms of festivities (see Bangla Birthday post below), it’s to the capital I must come if I crave the thrills of a party that finishes after 10pm.

In my time here so far, I’ve encountered three types of Dhaka nightlife. The first, and most common, generally involves lovely evenings in Dhaka-based VSO volunteers’ flats, with good food, good company, and beers bought from a duty-free shop only open to foreigners. Being the diverse bunch we are, these parties are always multicultural affairs. Filipino-hosted parties provide fabulous food and – to my horror – karaoke. We British volunteers are not quite so organised on the food front, often resorting to last-minute ordering of a selection of fried snacks at various local street stalls. However, true to our reputation, we are quite adept at ensuring alcohol is plentiful, and have introduced a variety of drinking games to the world of VSO-Bangladesh parties. My African colleagues not only ensure that everyone is eating and drinking, but also bring the bonus (or challenge, depending on your skill level) of amazing dancing to our Deshi festivities. While the dancing styles are a world away from the east London emphasis on pouting and posing I was used to, I am gradually learning to overcome my fears, and attempt actual movement in places where other people actually see me.

The second type of party takes place at the BAGHA club: Dhaka’s home-from-home for British ex-pats. In Dhaka’s poshest area, the BAGHA includes squash and tennis courts, a swimming pool, and – importantly – the availability of gin and tonics. To many an ex-pat it is Dhaka's own Shangri-la, allowing a moment of utopia away from traffic noise and grime, and the opportunity to replace one's ca (tea) and orna (scarf) with rather more risqué Western drinks and dress. BAGHA parties include their own notable dancing sights, all of which are very far away from the images outside the club's doors: teenage girls in hotpants and guys in baggy jeans halfway down their asses grinding to 'Gasolina', white-haired old men trying their own moves on said hotpant-clad women,and the type of awkward dancing that looks straight from the end of an office Christmas party. While its clientèle can include rather dislikeable characters, and its atmosphere can conjure up some uncomfortable colonial connotations, the quiet, the British food, and the gin and tonics it offers are things I increasingly appreciate the longer I spend here.

The third type of party is the most rare, and the most bizarre. While I can count on one hand the number of times I had entered five-star hotels in my life pre-Bangladesh, in the last five months I have been to two parties at two of Dhaka's luxury hotels. Attended by a scattering of ex-pats and many more very wealthy Bangladeshis (by far the majority men), the first of these featured Lisa Loud from Ministry of Sound, and took place in the same type of bland hotel function room I remember from my school prom, despite the opulent extravagance of the hotel itself. The second party was more of an ex-pat affair, and more luxurious: on a hotel rooftop overlooking the Dhaka skyline, complete with swimming pool, shisha, sofa-beds, and – importantly in these days of living on a volunteer allowance - complimentary cocktails.

Despite the skills of my African companions at the second hotel party, it was our very own British dancing at the first that really shook things up. Fed up with being crowded by middle-aged Bangladeshi men, but having noticed that they seemed to be mimicking our dancing styles, we introduced two special moves that should be very well-known to my UK audience. The first, mainly common these days only amongst 'ironic' ravers, was 'Big Fish, Little Fish, Cardboard Box', the hand movements of which were enthusiastically copied by our unwanted companions. The second, known to anyone who made it to nursery school, was 'Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes'. Much to our amusement, again these elite, suit-clad men followed, touching their head, their shoulders, their knees, and then their toes, as they lived it large to Lisa Loud.

Each of these types of parties offer their own particular brand of benefits. What they all offer is entry into worlds far away from that I am used to in the CHT. While I feel privileged to be able to skim the surfaces of these different sides of the Desh, I have realised that I cannot reconcile their conflicting co-existence. And even though I now feel more at home sipping rice wine in the hills than I do sampling cocktails in a posh hotel, I have also realised the importance of that occasional Shangri-la moment: to dance, to drink, to forget the contradictions. And if that involves bringing Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes to the Dhaka massive, so much the better.

A Very Special Bangla Birthday

2009-02-10T23:33:00.002+06:00

It’s a family tradition on birthdays to remember those of the past: where we were, what we did, what we ate, and occasionally - with reference to my 11th birthday in particular - what mishaps occurred. So in December, as I marked the occasion of my 23rd birthday here in Bangladesh, I thought about celebrations of recent years: the dinners and drinks with friends and family, the fancy dress themes, the parties that lasted until sunrise and beyond. Since it’s a whole year away until I can reminisce about this year’s celebrations, I thought I’d put together a little description for you all here.

My birthday definitely had a Bangla twist. My penchant for costume parties over the last few years was translated to dressing up in a brand new - and bright red, yellow and orange - salwar kameez, and even – somewhat of a rarity here – wearing make-up. Rather than setting up a Facebook event (witty name and embarrassing photo inclusive), invitations to my birthday party were done in what seems to be typically Bangladeshi-style: loudly, over a mobile phone, and only a matter of hours before the party was due to start. But despite only knowing me for a matter of weeks, it is a testament to the incredibly welcoming nature of my new friends and colleagues that about 20 of them joined me in celebrations, and many more sent messages and phone calls.

The venue this year was the roof of my office, with views of treetops, hills fading into the distance, and – less attractively – the building holding my flat, which is only five minutes walk away and protrudes a prominent but ugly red and white mobile phone tower from its top. While the standard mix of eating, drinking and conversation at parties seems to extend across cultures, one of the peculiarities to festivities in Bangladesh that I have noticed is the emphasis on the Party Programme. Despite being a country in which events always start late, and seem to only happen following a haphazard and last-minute rush, parties in the CHT – when they eventually start – generally follow the same strict schedule. We began with birthday cake, a sugary and vaguely chocolately concoction covered in green and pick icing flowers, large pieces of which were forced into my mouth by several colleagues (representative of the importance placed by them on making sure I am always fed).

Moving on to the next stage of the evening, and the drinks were poured. Unlike in the majority of Bangladesh in which the purchase of alcohol requires either dodgy dealings or the possession of a foreign passport, in the Chittagong Hill Tracts ‘rice wine’, served surreptitiously from plastic drinks bottles, is the tipple of choice. A traditional part of indigenous cultures, and also known as ‘pagla pani’ (crazy water) or ‘gorom pani’ (hot water), it’s lethal stuff. Watered down with water or Sprite (a visible example of the blending of cultures here in the CHT), and accompanied by communal bowls of curries and sliced cucumber, it is a central component of all kinds of celebrations.

The drinking of rice wine generally brings on the next activities of parties: increasingly louder conversation, and raised voices as people begin to talk over one another. Following a series of speeches in which all my colleagues were requested to speak by the self-appointed director of the evening (and in which I was renamed ‘Hill Moon’), the real entertainment began: the singing of Chakma and Bangla songs, and ‘gorom’ (hot) dances along to the ‘gorom’ music. Although my fear of singing has not subsided here in the Desh (something I am still trying to explain to my colleagues, who just can’t quite understand that someone could be afraid of singing), I did try my best to participate in the ‘gorom’ dancing, which induced a lot of laughter (something I try not to take personally). Finally, despite eating the equivalent of at least one meal already with the rice wine, the real food, ‘bhat’ (rice, accompanied by more meat curries, vegetables, and a special dish – always egg – for me), was served.

After the ritual of washing the right hand-eating with the right hand-washing the right hand again was completed and the food was finished, the party began to end. While there were a couple of stragglers still sipping at the rice wine (another trans-cultural element of parties it seems), most left – the men on motorbikes, and the women riding pillion on the back. I left clutching the bunch of beautiful flowers and stunning Chakma dress that I had been presented with, and was back at home by 9.30, about the time I would normally be beginning my birthday celebrations. There I got to read messages from home, which, given the distance they had to travel, were all the more special this year.

Maybe it’s because I’m going soft in my old age (!), maybe it’s the influence of Zen Dog (see post below) and my increasingly non-cynical approach to life, or maybe it’s because I spent my birthday drinking rice wine in the moonlight while being serenaded with Chakma love songs, but I spent my birthday feeling very positive about my year of being 23. At the very least, I know that in the reminiscing of celebrations in years to come my Bangla birthday will definitely be one of the ones that is remembered.

Three Bideshis Went To Market

2009-02-10T21:53:00.006+06:00

One of the first things you notice as a bideshi, or foreigner, in Bangladesh is the difference in dress. Bangladeshi men, depending on their wealth and status, wear either Western-style shirts and trousers or shirts and lunghis. Shirts and trousers are generally the preserve of the higher classes; they are invariably immaculately pressed, with the shirts tucked -in neatly to trousers held-up at the waist with impressive belts, and may be followed with a stylish tank top if the weather’s cool. Lunghis, worn by rickshaw-wallahs and other 'working' men, are significantly more interesting: like man-sarongs, they are long pieces of material, often in bright colours and with random patterns, tied around the waist. Exactly how they are tied I am yet to discover, but they provide a clothing option that is both cool and airy, and versatile, as they seem to change from full-length skirts to miniature hot-pants in a matter of seconds.

Unfortunately for my male VSO counterparts however, the option of lunghis as the clothing of choice for bideshis seems limited to the household (although I am pleased to say that we managed to persuade Ollie, one of my fellow Youth for Development volunteers, to buy two. He’s also bought at least one tank top. But that’s another story…).

While men's clothing has its areas of interest therefore, it is in the arena of women's dress that the real differences, and scope for creativity, lie. In plainlands Bangladesh women wear both saris and salwar kameez, although it is the latter that seems much more common (here in the hills there are many other indigenous dress styles, but I’m taking my time getting acquainted with those, particularly following the shoebox incident – see post below). Salwar kameez consist of long tunic tops (kameez), long trousers (salwar), and a scarf (orna) that is draped across the chest, (one would not want to reveal one's feminine assets in public of course). Salwar kameez, like saris, come in pretty much every colour and pattern you could think of, often all at once. As my previous comments might imply, and as those of you who know me might guess, I do have a certain ambivalence to dress customs that seem to suggest women's bodies must be covered as a testament to their female modesty and honour. I do also of course recognise arguments that the short skirts and low-cut tops favoured by so many in the West are not themselves signs of female emancipation, but it's not a debate I feel like pursuing here.

Instead, I want to tell the story of ‘The Three Bideshis Who Went To Market’, otherwise known as ‘How (to borrow another friend's phrase) I Got 'Bangla-ed Up'’. I originally started writing this post way back in October. At that time, myself, Laura and Jo (two more of my fellow YfD volunteers), were led by another, more established volunteer, to a small shop in Mohammadpur Market, a market about five minutes from our flat back in Dhaka. Mohammadpur is one of my favourite places in Dhaka; a trip there entails the full range of sensory experiences described in the ‘Setting the Scene’ post below, and inevitably draws crowds of 5, 10, 15, or 20+ people. There, crammed into a tiny shop, pulling giant rolls of fabric down from the walls, we took our first steps into the vibrant world of Bangladeshi dressing, in which the word ‘matching’ is given a whole new meaning. Lime green salwar and hot pink kameez? Why not? Stripes and spots? Of course.

Leaving the shop with arms full of fabric – and a promise to return with our friends in exchange for a discount (the discount was also achieved by Laura patting the shop owner on his rather prominent stomach, but the art of bargaining can be described another time) – we then set off to the next step in the process of getting Bangla-ed Up: buying ribbons. In a land in which glitz, glitter and anything shiny seems to be revered, undecorated fabric is simply unacceptable. This time we stretched ourselves over a ribbon counter, pulling down rolls of ribbon, comparing them to the fabrics and discussing the merits of each. After eventually deciding on just the right shades of shimmer, we made our way to the final stage in the pursuit of salwar kameez: the tailors. Just like buying cloth and ribbon, going to the tailors is an event in itself, requiring an entire series of decisions, measurements and discussions (particularly over necklines – tailors generally have at least one book of various neckline styles). Eventually, after the standard cups of sweet tea, biscuits and answers to the usual set of questions (where are you from? how many brothers and sisters do you have? what are you doing here? are you married? why not? when are you going to get married?’), we left, returning in one week to pick up the finished products.

Since October, the process of getting Bangla-ed Up has developed significantly. My first salwar kameez, despite the bright colours, were in reality very tame, consisting of block colours and only the most minimal ribbon decoration. Shopping trips in Dhaka have extended beyond the basics of Mohammadpur to the vast, crowded and chaotic markets of New Market and Chandni Chowk, and with the occasional purchase in more upmarket stores which display stunning clothes, but require onek taka (lots of money) and so are generally beyond the scope of the volunteer allowance. I’ve given up matching ribbons to plain colours, instead opting for printed fabrics in contrasting patterns. My consideration of necklines has now extended to discussions of salwar styles (tight or loose? front tie or side tie? with buttons at the ankles?), and kameez lengths (below the knee for conservative areas, shorter if you want to be more risqué).

Although there are some pattern combinations that I am still hesitant about, I recently spent about twenty minutes considering one particularly memorable salwar kameez that included:

• multi-coloured salwar (trousers) with thin stripes,
• a multi-coloured (different shades of course) kameez (top) with thick stripes and a bright yellow fish-like pattern embroidered on top of the stripes,
• and a multi-coloured (again, contrasting colours to those used in the trousers and top) orna, which sported checks, not stripes.

While I couldn’t quite bring myself to buy this explosion of colour and pattern this time, my consideration of it is a sign of how far I’ve come since that memorable day four months ago when Three Bideshis Went to Market. I may not be fully ‘Bangla-ed Up’ quite yet, but I’m on my way.

On the Right Side of the Tracts

2009-01-10T23:57:00.007+06:00

It is now about eight weeks since I made my first journey from Dhaka to Khagrachari, the site of my placement. Since then, I have made the bus journey (which so far has lasted from seven to twelve hours) an additional three times and so I’m beginning to know it well. Despite the differences in length, each journey is pretty similar: an hour or two to crawl through the Dhaka traffic and smog; a few hours flying down the flat, straight roads of the plainlands, narrowly avoiding buses, trucks, people, cars and cows; a stop at a bizarrely large resort in the middle of nowhere for lunch. Eventually there is a fork in the road: one road goes to Chittagong, Bangladesh’s second city, and the other to Khagrachari, in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT).

The hills of the CHT start suddenly, and steeply. They’re green, lush, and strangely small, even compared to the vast flatness of the rest of the country. Nevertheless, they’re a very physical sign of the distinct nature of the CHT compared to the rest of Bangladesh. Home to 11 different groups of indigenous peoples – as well as increasing numbers of Bengalis – the CHT is definitely unique. Its indigenous peoples have socio-political histories and linguistic, cultural and religious practices distinct from those of the plainlands. The history of the region is decidedly marked by conflict between the Bangladeshi military and indigenous groups. And despite the signing of a Peace Accord in 1997, this is still a post-conflict area in which there is a significant military presence and disadvantage, discrimination and human rights abuses continue.

After about three hours of climbing up and down the hills, the Dhaka bus descends to an area of relative flatness and reaches an army checkpoint: the point of entry into Khagrachari, and where I and my fellow bideshis sign in and out every time we enter or leave. The majority of the town’s 40,000ish population are from Chakma, Marma and Tripura indigenous groups. Here, mosques and the Muslim call to prayer so ubiquitous in the rest of Bangladesh are replaced by Buddhist temples and chanting at sunset. Although Bangla is still the common language, added to the polyglot are Chakma, Marma and Tripura languages. Rice is still the staple and eaten three times a day, but is accompanied by local wild vegetables and dried fish: the speciality dish of the area and with a smell so pungent you can catch it from the bus. And even though saris and salwar kameez are still common, there’s a whole new world of indigenous dresses and fabrics to discover (although salwar kameez is still my favoured option so far; my first attempts at indigenous dress made me look like a bright blue shoebox).

Continuing further into the main roads of Khagrachari, there’s a large market area, shops and government offices. In the market different types of goods are granted their own selling spaces; there are separate streets for fruit, vegetables, meat, spices, clothes, timber, shiny silver pots and pans. I am yet to discover anywhere to buy cheese or an ironing board, but I have found pasta, peanut butter and – which I’m saving for the day that things get really tough – Hershey’s chocolate syrup. Although there are almost no cars, there are plenty of motorbikes and cycle rickshaws, as well as smaller numbers of buses, trucks and army vehicles. Right now the town’s dusty, but outside of the main roads it’s green, golden, and a lot of fields. Even outside the main streets, the town is full of people, animals, noise and activity: women laying out rice to dry, kids running around, teenagers playing volleyball, men on motorbikes, cows, chickens, goats and ducks wandering.

Houses are mostly made from bamboo, which means that the four-storey building holding my flat is a landmark itself. Just as noticeable is the sight of a bideshi: I am not the only foreigner in town, but there’s few enough of us here that we definitely stand out. Calls of ‘bideshi, bideshi’ from across a street or a field are common, as are children running to shake my hand, and curious faces peeking around the side of a rickshaw after it has rolled past. It's a strange feeling hearing information about myself whispered amongst strangers as I walk to the market: ‘VSO’, the name of the NGO I work for, and the name of the area and building where I live. Despite earlier descriptions of the attention received in Dhaka (see below), the city now feels like a haven of anonymity in comparison to here in the hills.

Like everywhere in Bangladesh so far, Khagrachari seems complicated and contradictory. It's Bangladeshi but not Bengali; rural but densely populated; a town but full of fields; beautiful but dusty, dirty and lined with litter. It is not an idyllic tribute to the ‘traditional’, but there is a distinct sense of place and history to try to understand and negotiate. It is both familiar, and still very alien. The added twist for 2009 is that the contradictions of Khagrachari aren't something for me to learn about from a distance. The challenge is to find ways to place myself within the town's many layers, to build relationships, to learn from within, and to make it – for this year at least – my home.

The Wisdom of Zen Dog

2008-11-30T20:56:00.002+06:00

Today I want to introduce you to a greeting card that sits on top of a set of drawers in my new home. It may seem strange to choose a greeting card as my muse, particularly considering the abundance of sources of inspiration provided by the rich sensory environment enveloping me here in the Desh. Yet, without wanting to turn this into a Hallmark moment, the card aptly captures my recent feelings, so please indulge me. Featuring a cartoon dog – ‘Zen Dog’ – floating on the sea, relaxing and soaking up the sunshine, it is the caption on the card that I want to draw your attention to:

‘He knows not where he’s going’, it says,
‘for the ocean will decide – it’s not the destination…
…it’s the glory of the ride’.

Before you start to wonder what exactly it is VSO volunteers do, I can assure you that my last few weeks have not been spent on the beach or sunbathing. Far from it. The last month has been a whirlwind of activity, taking me from Bangla language classes, induction activities, and English, Filipino and African parties in Dhaka; to spending hours on buses, ferries, and a variety of other very slow, but very entertaining, modes of transport during an intense and eye-opening foray into rural Bangladesh, during a visit to a town called Patuakhali, in the south of the country; to moving into my new ‘home’ for the year - the town of Khagrachari, in the Chittagong Hill Tracts region - and meeting my new neighbours, colleagues and friends.

Each of these experiences have contributed a piece to the Bangladesh puzzle that I am devoting so much time to trying to understand. My head is full of images, which flicker sporadically as I try to make sense of where I have been and what I have done. There was sitting and facing one hundred sari and salwar kameez-clad women on the dirt floor of a small village, listening to the endless list of social problems affecting them, feeling two hundred eyes fixed on us. And then there was walking away from the women, and feeling the anger at their circumstance slip away as I returned to my own life. There’s the elaborately painted cycle rickshaws, and the skinny legs of the underpaid, overworked and malnourished men who drive them. And then there was riding through Dhaka’s richest area following a party in which the food was good and the wine was flowing, when my friend decided to take a try a being a ‘rickshaw-wallah’ himself. There’s the posh ex-pat hang-out, the BAGHA club, which offers gin and tonics, proper British grub, and a break from the Dhaka noise. And there’s ‘System’, a little bamboo restaurant in Khagrachari, offering service with a smile, rice wine in plastic bottles and Mickey-Mouse patterned bowls of rice, vegetables and fish, which are scooped up eagerly by the hands of its clientele.

Each of these images deserves much fuller descriptions than I can provide here. But they are some of the components that make up the the Bangladesh puzzle that I have seen far. I have learned that the jigsaw is multi-layered. There’s the puzzle of Bangladesh, including its multiple languages, cultures, histories and politics; and the puzzle of its environment: the rice paddies that flood, the land that is being lost, and the hills that separate the Chittagong Hill Tracts from the plainlands. There’s the puzzle of development in Bangladesh: the vast number of NGOs operating here, the even larger number of problems they are trying to alleviate, and the processes of social change that have failed to tackle the staggering inequalities in existence. And then there’s the puzzle of my time here, which can take me from dancing in a five-star hotel one day to witnessing desperate poverty another and which has introduced me not just to ‘Bangladeshi’ culture, but also to those of the Chakma, Marma, Tripura and other indigenous groups, and to people from Asia, Africa, Europe and the Americas.

After only seven weeks in Bangladesh, this puzzle is far from complete. I’ve learned that it can’t be after one year, and it couldn’t be after ten years, twenty years, or a century. Its contrasting and contradictory pieces are often irreconcilable; the pieces of the Bangladesh puzzle don’t fit neatly but rather move and change and grind against each other. As for myself, I still have little idea of where I’m going on my Bangladesh adventure or what I’ll find on the way. But it’s the ride that counts: it’s at once interesting, fun, difficult, intense, frustrating, eye-opening, scary, strange, wonderful and ridiculous. It makes me smile, laugh out loud, and – very occasionally – want to hide away under my blanket. And learning from the wisdom of ‘Zen Dog’, I know that it’s this combination that makes the ride glorious.

Jumping on the Stars and Stripes Bandwagon

2008-11-06T13:29:00.006+06:00

This blog is supposed to be about Bangladesh. I promise that stories of saris, samosas, floods, rice paddies, and all the other stereotypical Bangladeshi images, will come. But today I am joining millions of others and choosing to comment on a topic that may not seem immediately connected to this small South Asian country: the election of Barack Obama as President of the United States of America. Apologies to those of you who are fed up with news of American political happenings, but bear with me, because it was here, sitting in the back of a rickety, three-wheeled, green and yellow CNG during a traffic jam, breathing in Dhaka’s pollution fumes, while speaking broken Bangla to its driver, that I became really excited about the potential for change Obama’s victory represents.

During the hopes and hysteria of these last months I haven't been biggest the Obama fan. In the primaries, I half-heartedly leaned towards Hilary and her healthcare plan, and was sceptical of the political substance behind Obama's rhetoric. Since the Conventions my daily news briefing has largely consisted of scrutinising polls and predictions, and hoping that somehow the horrors presented by the prospect of Republicans in the White House for four more years – and of the not-too-distant possibility of Sarah Palin as President – could be avoided. I assumed that in reality I – with my idealistic notions of peace, equality and environmental sustainability - would probably never be truly inspired by a mainstream presidential candidate in the USA, and instead adopted a stance guided by my fervent desire to ward off the Maverick Duo as I ticked the box by 'Barack Obama and Joseph Biden' on my absentee ballot.

Today however, I am allowing cracks in my cynicism and am, as I have increasingly been since I’ve been in Bangladesh, truly optimistic about the ‘change’ the election of Obama represents. Over the last few weeks there have been telling reactions from Bangladeshis to the two fully-fledged Americans in my induction group (my own ‘Americanness’ generally varies according to context, mood, and how up I am for the often volatile reaction its announcement entails from others).
There has been harsh criticism of Bush, the war in Iraq and his mishandling of ‘the war against terror’, with the recognition that Bush does not represent Americans as a whole. At the same time, there has been excitable enthusiasm, with people crying ‘Obama bhalo!’ (Obama good!), smiling broadly, and waving their hands in the air. They believe, as I do, that the nature of American leadership has effects far beyond the Land of Plenty, and that having Obama in the White House means a change for the better.

It’s easy to forget that it’s been less than 50 years since the Civil Rights Movement in the USA, at a time in which African-Americans were still fighting to ensure their right to vote in the country, let alone sit in the White House. While of course Obama's election does not signal the end of racial prejudice, inequality, or injustice in the States, it does show again that these can be challenged, and that – sometimes at least – these challenges can be successful. The mass mobilisation of organisers and voters in the USA – in ‘red states’ as well as ‘blue states’ (labels I’ve always hated) – demonstrates the influence, commitment and power of people when they are inspired. It challenges stereotypes of Americans as apathetic, and reaffirms my belief once again none of us have to accept the status quo. It’s a reminder that positive changes can happen, and that these come from individuals, coming together, and taking action: an important reminder relevant not only to the USA, but to all countries and communities.

What change Obama will bring remains to be seen. I don’t think he’ll solve the USA’s problems, let alone those of Bangladesh or the globe. There are many of his policies I don’t agree with or don’t expect to be implemented. I know it was just over half of Americans that voted for him, and that’s only counting those who voted. But I do believe that the enthusiasm provoked by his call for change, and the connections formed by peoples across barriers of class, ethnicity, religion, nationality, age, culture and gender in the USA and around the world are things to be excited about. So when the driver of my CNG today turned around and said ‘Barack Obama?’, I said ‘Barack Obama khub bhalo!’ (Barack Obama very good!) and grinned. And when he said, ‘apnar deS kothay?’ (‘where is your country?’) I continued grinning as I said, for the first time in years, ‘America’. And so it was then, as I smiled with the nameless CNG driver, and he spoke at me excitedly in a Bangla I didn’t understand, that I jumped on the Stars and Stripes – and Obama - bandwagon. And it’s where I’ll remain, for now at least. Thank you to all of you who made this happen.

Setting the Scene...

2008-10-19T18:30:00.003+06:00

It is now the end of my first week in Dhaka, and time to attempt a description of the organised chaos surrounding me. Dhaka, my home for the next month or so, is a city of 12 million people, crammed together in a maze of unlabelled streets; rectangular apartment blocks; crowded roads full of traffic (going in all directions when it's moving, or stuck in miles of honking, ringing, beeping traffic jams when not) including cycle rickshaws, CNGs (like autos in India or tuk-tuks in Thailand), cars, falling-apart buses (including double-decker buses so packed they lean sideways), motorcycles and pedestrians; mosques (sending out deafening prayer calls five times a day); markets (selling live chickens, dead fish, weird and wonderful fruits and vegetables, mobile phones, clothes, haphazard stacks of pharmaceuticals, and probably everything else you can think of); and more.

And, of course, Dhaka's full of colour: women's flamboyant saris and salwar kameez in luminous shades, often with added rhinestone or sequin glitz; bright flowers and green trees, vines and grass covering empty spaces and climbing over buildings; advertisements painted in Bengali (the symbols of which are still alien to me), or 'Bangla-style English', lining the streets (the best so far include for 'Mysterious Broadband' and courses at the 'London School of Economics').

Travelling through Dhaka induces an all-out assault on the senses: the sights I've described above; sounds of horns, bells, calls to prayer, traffic, people selling everything from fruits to Dhaka city maps to fish and chickens; smells of sewage and car fumes, but also flowers, food, spices – and, only occasionally so far – rain; it even feels possible to touch the air around you because it’s so heavy and humid. The tastes of Bangladeshi food warrant a post of their own at a later date, so all I will say for now is that Alta, the VSO cook who does our lunches, is amazing.

A description of my time in Dhaka so far would be incomplete without a note on a few of the characters involved. My VSO induction group consists of ten volunteers: there are four of us British Youth for Development volunteers, two Americans, two Filipinos, one Ugandan and one woman from the Netherlands. Together, we are learning about and trying to negotiate Dhaka: the journeys from our houses to the VSO office, to our Bangla language classes, to the markets. And together we are a sight: a group of ten bideshi (foreigners) of different ages, nationalities, appearances and languages, causing - to put it mildly - quite a stir wherever we go. We’ve been stared at, greeted, shouted at, laughed at, smiled at, helped and welcomed. Heads turn as we walk down the road and buying vegetables in the market draws crowds of 20 to 30 people, who stand still, just watching us.

Particularly notable was a trip to a mobile phone shop which resulted in a two-hour conversation with two eccentric middle-aged Bangladeshi men which covered topics from Princess Diana (they are a fan) to George Bush (they are not a fan), Bangladeshi love songs to offers of help (including on how to find beer and whisky – Bangladesh is mostly a dry country), and finished with them buying us coffee and samosas and phoning us the next day to invite us for more. It’s a strange privilege being the local entertainment.

To end, and to borrow a phrase from a much loved friend, Dhaka is consistently inconsistent, and the only thing that feels constant is the possibility of a new sight, sound, smell, touch, taste or person just around the corner. It’s exciting, energising and at times exhausting and overwhelming, but somewhere that – for now at least – I feel very lucky to find myself in.

Banglatown, Bangladesh and Hodgepodge Multiculturalism

2008-09-30T03:11:00.018+06:00

'Banglatown': the nickname commonly given to the area around Brick Lane, in east London. Just past the City and on the edge of the East End, Banglatown today is reknowned for its curryhouses, its Bengali sweetshops, clothes shops full of brightly coloured saris and salwar kameez, and street signs, often displaying Bengali first and English second. It's an area with a history of change and immigration, combining influences from the Indian sub-continent, Judaism (Brick Lane still holds the best bagel shop in London), the old East End, amongst others. Increasingly, it's also emblematic of the new East End: hot young things venturing from the bright lights of Hoxton and Shoreditch to Banglatown's bars and markets - all skinny jeans, bedhead hair and eyeliner - swigging on Caribbean lager, choosing between chewing on organic pizza, freshly grilled burgers from outside stalls, and BYOB curry deals.

Banglatown is also my favourite area of London. It's a fascinating combination of cultures and histories, smells and sights, foods and colours. Being the Sociology geek I am, I may say that it's an example of 'hodgepodge' multiculturalism, with peoples from different backgrounds and traditions, languages and religions, all living, working, and entertaining within its concrete surrounds, reciprocally influencing one other as the area's demographic twists and turns and changes. This might be contrasted with 'mosaic' multiculturalism, often used to describe cities like New York, in which different cultures live in their own microcosms, side-by-side within the city as a whole, with limited cross-cultural interaction.

Having spent the last year or so living just beyond the edges of Banglatown - within hearing distance of the Bow Bells - it's an area I'm only beginning to discover and could not pretend to have a deep understanding of. This makes me re-think the depth of my 'hodgepodge' experience, and presents me with thoughts and challenges for times ahead. While I - also displaying messy hair and eyeliner - frequented the restaurants and shops of 'Banglatown', I knew very little about the 'Bangladesh' that has had such great impacts upon the area. Following my own path from bus stop to market to restaurant to pub, observing the sights, but not really considering their significance, the multiculturalism I knew may have been hodgepodge on the surface, but remained strictly mosaic underneath.

Having discovered about three months ago that Bangladesh would be my destination as a VSO volunteer, I've tried to learn a little more, but still struggle to tell the difference between Bangladeshi and Indian food on Brick Lane menus, or even to work out if it matters. So this is the challenge that I have ahead: moving from Banglatown to Bangladesh, jumping from the partly familiar to the entirely unknown, taking the time to learn about my surroundings, discovering ways of forming cross-cultural relationships across differences of language, religion, wealth and outlook. And trying to turn the hodgepodge or mosaic surrounding my new and old homes into something more meaningful than a Brick Lane curry.