the bideshi chronicles

Visa Extension Shenanigans Part Tin

2008-07-27T05:11:00.000-07:00

The saga continues…

After leaving the letter from the Vice Chancellor with the inspector at the eSpecial Branch office of the police in Malibag, we did not hear anything for several days. We’ve found it to be mostly the case here that as long as we do nothing no one else does either. So Jen finally got on the horn and called the police inspector to see if he’d received our application from the folks at the passport office. No so sorry, he had not. He suggested that we go back to the passport office and ask them to give us back our application so that we could hand deliver it to the inspector in person. Naturally we were reluctant to do this because it would involve another trip to the passport office AND another trip to the eSpecial Branch office in Malibag. So we let it slide for a few more days. Jen tried several times to call the Assistant Director of the passport office, but the woman never answered her phone. So when we’d still heard nothing by the end of the week we decided to take the police inspector’s advice.

But first we thought it would be prudent to get another copy of the letter from the VC, this time addressed to the Director General of the passport office, in case the incorrect salutation on the previous letter was the cause of the present hang-up. This meant another trip to Baridhara, which is actually not so bad. We have lots of friends staying there, and it doesn’t hurt to have an excuse to pay them a visit once in a while.

With the new letter in hand, we went back to the passport office. It was about 11:30 AM when we arrived. We waited in line until it was our turn to speak with the Assistant Director, a woman whose face is now very familiar. We explained that the application had not been received yet by the police. We wondered if the cause was the incorrect salutation on the last letter. Yes that was the reason she said. But you said the last time that it would be okay. No response. Well here is the new letter with the correct salutation. Now can we have our application, please, to take to the police? Before we can release your application we must write a letter to the police. Wait until my window closes and then remind me and I will give you the letter and the application. Okay, that sounded good, never mind that her window didn’t close for another hour and a half. Luckily we had anticipated the possibility of a long wait and sat down, me with a book and Jen with her knitting.

At 1:00 PM the Assistant Director’s window closed. We went to inquire and were admitted beyond the “Entry Forbidden” sign. We were pointed towards the Assistant Director’s office. No one was in there, but we sat down and tried to look like we belonged figuring she’d have to show up eventually. About forty-five minutes later she did. She came in, sat down, and started signing papers on her desk. Then a Korean man came in and started complaining about how someone had told him he’d have to wait an hour for something or other. He was very put-out but eventually sat down and began to wait. Periodically various people came in to drop off or collect papers. It was interesting to see the conversational dynamics between the Assistant Director and her colleagues. Mostly she yelled and griped at the men and women who were bringing papers in and taking them away, telling them (as far as I could tell) that they weren’t doing their jobs properly and that they’d better get their shit together. At first I thought, oh great, maybe things will go more smoothly now that she’s cracked the whip.

Nope. Upon further observation, I realized that the men and women shuttling papers remained totally unfazed by the tongue lashings. In fact, this appeared to simply be the daily order of things. At one point the Director General walked in and asked some questions. There was a remarkable change in the Assistant Directors demeanor when she spoke to him. She switched to a more educated/bookish Bangla register that clearly demonstrated deference and respect.

Eventually the Korean man grumped at the Assistant Director again, then got up and went out, leaving only the three of us remaining in the room. The Assistant Director turned to us and started complaining about her job. What do these people want from me? How do they expect me to work here? What does it take to make them happy? (At which point I thought to myself, gee, most people when they come here, they really just want a visa. Getting one would probably make them happy. But I refrained from making this point at the time)

The astute reader may have noticed that I have not yet reported any communication from the Assistant Director to us about the status of our application or the letter she was going to provide. Why? Because she hadn’t said a damn thing about it! When she came in she greeted us and simply got to work signing papers. There was absolutely no mention of what was happening with our application. So there we sat. And sat. And sat for about an hour.

Finally, of course, we broke down and asked what was going on. The letter has been written she said. Now it must be signed. So we’re waiting here for someone to sign the letter? Yes, he’s having lunch. Thanks for keeping us informed…

We took advantage of the current lull in activity to re-explain our case and re-state our primary concern, which was that we be able to leave the country without paying a big fine for having overstayed our visas. What happens if the police do not grant us permission this time? Oh no problem, she said, just come back here a week before your flight and submit a letter requesting an exit stamp. Then three days later you can come back here and get the stamp. And they won’t charge us when we leave? No, no everything will be fine. (AAAAARRRRGGGGGG!!!!!!! Why have we been running around all over this godforsaken city writing letters and talking to police inspectors and vice chancellors and your charming customer friendly staff for the past month trying to get this issue resolved wasting their time and ours, when we could have simply filed our appeal and let the application sit on someone’s desk gathering dust until a week before our flight, when we could just come in and get an exit stamp?!!! I’ll tell you why!!! Because we didn’t know it was a @!*&% option! Because no one had the good @!*&% sense to tell us that it was an option!) Oh, great that’s good to know, we reply.

We continue to learn over and over that if you don’t ask the right questions, you don’t get the right information. How do know which questions to ask? You get screwed repeatedly until you develop an intuition. That’s all I can figure.

Then again, maybe the Assistant Director did try to communicate this option to us when we received our initial rejection. She seemed very unconcerned about the problem. She just kept telling us all you have to do is file the appeal and every thing will be fine. You’ll still be legal, everything will be fine. But how will it be fine, we needed to know. And what is fine? Is fine showing up at the airport and having to pay 30,000 Taka in order to be allowed to leave the country? It might be fine with you, but it’s not fine with me.

I guess she didn’t feel like she could just come right out and explain the let-it-sit-and-gather-dust option. Or maybe she just wasn’t thinking ahead enough to consider that as a labor saving option that was very much in everyone’s best interest. Or more likely, it was just so obvious to her that that was the thing to do that she couldn’t figure out why we kept asking so many questions. I guess we’ll never know.

But back to the details of the moment. After realizing, implicitly, that the best thing for us to do would really be to stall the process (so as to save everyone the hassle of having to deal any more with this application) rather than try to complete it, Jen and I exchanged glances and stood up to leave. After all we’d been sitting there for four hours. Nothing seemed to be happening. If we managed to leave before anything happened it seemed pretty clear that we could count on having to make only two more trips to the passport office and no more trips to the eSpecial Branch office in Malibag. That seemed like a tolerable outcome. We’d made it half-way across the lobby when someone came running after us. Madame! Madame! Your letter!

Damn! Damn and blast! We turn around and go back to the Assistant Director’s office. The letter is typed. The letter is signed. But the application must be photocopied. So we wait. The application is sent out of the office. It comes back. There is now a photocopy of the letter. No, no! Photocopy the whole thing, the Assistant Director cracks her whip again. The application goes out. We wait some more. The application comes back. Now there are two copies. You go with them. She will give you the application for the police, the Assistant Director says.

Which one will we take to the police Jen wants to know, the original or the copy? The original the Assistant Director says. We will send the copy later. The original? I’ll take the original, Jen asks just to be sure. Yes, the original. Don’t loose it or there will be big problems.

We go into the other room with the Assistant Director’s passel of assistants. One addresses an envelope. Another staples some pages together on the application.

They put the photocopy of the application in the envelope and hand it to Jen. Jen takes it out of the envelope. She said to give us the original. This is the original he says. No listen to me, Jen says, She told me that you would give me the original. This is the original, he’s pointing to the letter. Jen steps into the hall intending to go back to the Assistant Director for clarification. The door is closed. Shit! Jen says. The female assistant says, she hasn’t had lunch yet.

Jen turns back to the man. She told me – He interrupts her. This is the ori- Jen is furious. NO! You listen to me!! Are you listening to me!!? It’s plain that he’s not, but Jen goes on anyway. She told me you would give me the original. If I go all the way down to the eSpecial Branch police station in Malibag and they tell me I have brought the wrong copy I will be very angry, do you understand! He stands there totally unfazed.

We could wait another half-hour to speak again to the Assistant Director, but it’s 3:30 PM and we haven’t eaten since breakfast either. So we take the photocopy and leave. Outside we try to get a CNG to Dhanmondi where we could get a bite to eat at a restaurant. The CNG driver says he’ll go. We get in. He won’t turn on the meter. He wants sixty taka. It should be a 20 Taka ride. Jen jumps out of the CNG. Because I’m white you think I’m stupid! You’re stupid!! She smacks the windshield as hard as she can. I get out. He drives off. A peanut vendor says, wow she’s crazy. Let’s just go home, I say.

We try to get a rickshaw. It’s never hard to get a rickshaw to our house from here. Today the first three we ask say they won’t go. Finally, someone will take us. We spend the ride home glowering and thinking very uncharitable thoughts about Bangladesh.

The next day we get an early start and head down to the eSpecial Branch in Malibag. I have misgivings about going down there. After all we could just go to the passport office on August 31 and request and exit stamp. But some how now it feels like too many people know about our situation. They’ll notice if we don’t show. We’d better go.

At the eSpecial Branch office in Malibag. We are promptly admitted to see the inspector with whom we’d met previously. He took our application – the photocopy was fine – and left the room. He came back. He left again. He came back and asked us to come with him.

We went down the hall and entered a big air-conditioned office with only one desk. Clearly the man sitting there was important. We sat down in front of his desk and he asked us some questions. Jen explained that we’d applied for a visa extension, been denied for lack of proof that she was doing research, we had that proof now, bla, bla, bla. The man asked about me. I’m just family, I said. Okay, so when are you leaving he asked. August seventh we replied. So you will stay another year? No, fifteen days! I say. He doesn’t say anything, but by the look on his face it seems clear that he thinks this is ridiculous. What’s all the fuss? Sure, we’ll have someone take care of this right away. He motions over one of his subordinates and says some stuff to fast for me to catch. Then to us, he will take care of your case.

So we go across the hall. The subordinate inspector (who is totally new to our case, as far as I can tell) sends someone to find the record of our first application. It comes back. He spends a few minutes reading the cover page, which must be the report from the inspector who’d previously investigated our case. Then he starts asking us questions. So it looks like you did not have proof that you were doing research in Bangladesh. Yes, that was the problem. We have proof now. Oh, I see. How many times have you been in Bangladesh? Jen explains that she has come here twice before for language courses, and now she’s here doing research for her Ph.D. Do you have a certificate? What? A certificate? You mean from the summer courses? Yes. No. I see. What, is that a problem? No response.

We sit for a while longer. Then the inspector says, okay I will write my report today and send it tomorrow. Can I call you to check to make sure it was sent, Jen asks. Yes call tomorrow or Sunday. They exchange numbers.

Jen doesn’t bother to call the following day. In fact she probably won’t call on Sunday either. After all we really should just stall at this point, that much has been made clear enough.

Sunday morning, the phone rings early. It’s our friend the inspector. He would like to have a meeting with Jen and the people at IUB about her summer language courses for which we have been unable to provide proof of attendance. What? My summer language courses have nothing to do with this visa. This is a research visa. Nevertheless, he insists, they must meet at IUB. Can she come today? NO. How about tomorrow? Well okay, maybe tomorrow.

And that brings us up to date. Jen has arranged to meet with the Inspector at IUB tomorrow. The IUB people were totally unfazed by the request. Oh yes, not to worry this is just standard procedure. Do not be offended. Everything will be fine.

So now the totals stand at 5 visits to the passport office, 3 visits to the eSpecial Branch, and 3 visits to IUB (counting tomorrow’s) and we are guaranteed at least one and more likely two more visits to the passport office, in order to get this resolved. That will mean a total of 13 separate trips to official offices in order to avoid a 30,000 Taka fine. That’s around $430. Do you suppose it’s worth it?

To be continued…

Visa Extension Shenanigans Part Dui

2008-07-12T02:33:00.000-07:00

To all our concerned readers, no we have not been deported. Alas, Bangladesh is too poor to actually deport people. They told us we had to leave, but it was not possible for us to leave. So here we remain. Forever... Not really.

As I said in the last post, the problem was that our visa extension had been denied by the police, who were not convinced that Jen was actually doing research. When we asked the passport office folks what we needed to do to resolve the situation, they said we needed to file a new application with their office. That meant filling out another copy of the application form (yes the one that we’d already filled out three times) and submitting new photographs (the first three were no longer sufficient) and a letter explaining that we would like our case to be reinvestigated along with proof that Jen was doing research. Then we were supposed go to the eSpecial Branch police station in Molibag with a letter from the Vice Chancellor of the Independent University of Bangladesh (IUB), to affirm that Jen is actually doing research under the auspices of an approved research institution, and plead our case in person.

First, we got the letter from the Vice Chancellor. This was relatively painless. It merely required that Jen write a letter that said what she wanted it to say, email it to the VC to be printed on IUB letter head and signed. Then we had to pick it up in Baridhara. Which meant braving streets flooded up to the floor-boards of our little CNG baby taxi – turning around mid-stream when the water appeared to be getting too deep – but that’s really nothing out of the ordinary.

Then we had to get more photos and photo copies. The last time we had passport photos taken, the guys at the camera shop had said that if we ever needed more photos, just come on back. They have our pictures stored in the computer and can print more copies anytime. So I went over there on the morning after we picked up the VC’s letter. The guys recognized me and asked for our account number. I didn’t have it. Can you find me by name? They laughed. No we don’t keep track of names. Can you remember when you came in? Maybe two months ago…No maybe in February…I think it could have been February. You think? But you’re not sure? No,I really don’t know.

They were very helpful and started looking through the thumbnails on the computer, but I could tell we weren’t going to make much headway that way. So I asked if they had a phone I could use to call my wife. Maybe she would remember when we’d been in last. They thought that was pretty funny. You don’t remember? No. But you think your wife might? Yes. They laughed and handed me the phone. I called Jen. As luck would have it, she was able to find the little slip of paper that had our account number on it. I relayed the numbers to the shop guys. Oh your wife knows the number? Ha ha. They laughed at me again and quickly located our pictures. I asked how long it would take to print them. About half-an-hour they said. I started to leave, then remembered that Jen had asked me to inquire about prices for printing larger photos from a digital file. I turned and said I have another question. By this point I’d lost all credibility. The guy returned with, yes sir what is your question?, mimicking my overly formal Bangla. I asked about prices, got the answer and left.

In another country, in other circumstances, I might have been offended or insulted, or even emasculated by the mockery. But the idea that I should be embarrassed because I had had to call my wife for a piece of information was so foreign and backwards from my perspective that I really just thought it was funny. At least we can entertain each other…

Anyway, back to the real story. We got the letters and the pictures and the photocopies and went back to the passport office. At the office we went to Counter 3 to hand in our application. The woman there looked at our letter from the VC. This is addressed ‘To Whom it May Concern’ she said. It must be address to the Director General. I looked over at Jen and noticed the steam emanating from her ears. So you need another copy of this letter? Yes. Addressed to the Director General? Yes, we will accept this for now, but next time you must bring a letter addressed to the Director General. Jen managed to keep the lid on just barely. And what else do we need to do? You need to take a copy of this letter to the eSpecial Branch office in Malibag and plead your case with the police in person. We were expecting this, but couldn’t resist asking, Are you going to send our new application to the police as well? Yes. With this letter attached. Yes. But we need to take another copy of this letter to the police ourselves in person. Yes, you should talk to the officer who investigated your case and convince him to change his statement.

A few of days later Jen calls the man who had investigated our case. She explained the situation and asked if we could come by to see him. No, that will not be possible. He has been reassigned to Khulna. He will no longer be working in Dhaka. (Oh boy this could get interesting…) So who should we talk to now? He gives the name of his former supervisor. When should we go see him? Anytime. What should we bring? Bring proof that you are doing research. Anything else? No.

So the next day we decide to go to the eSpecial Branch office in Malibag. Before we left the house we got together all our letters and copies of everything we thought might be important and put them in a folder to bring with us. After about 45 minutes in hot stop-and-go Dhaka traffic we arrived at the office. We entered the room labeled ‘Foreigners Registration’ and went to the counter. Jen read a sign in Bangla. ‘Passport verification’ it said. Shit! I said. What?

Shit! Shit! Shit! I say Don’t tell me… Jen asks. I forgot the passports, I say. You’re kidding. Nope. She’s doing an admirable job of containing her fury.

Let’s just go, I say. Wait, let’s see if we can get some information, she says. So we go and talk to a guy. Jen asks if they need to see our passports. No, he says.

(What a stoke of fortune!) Jen explains our situation. Do you have your receipt from the passport office? Jen looks at me. (The receipt was in my passport.) No we don’t have it on us. Bring the receipt the man says. Then we will see what can be done.

We leave. It’s hot. Traffic is miserable and there are no empty CNG’s. I suggest catching a bus to Pharm Gate. We walk one way to try to find the right bus. Don’t find it. Walk back the other way looking for a CNG. It’s hot. There are no empty CNGs. Jen is not speaking. We keep walking. About half a mile later we come to a big cross street. Finally an empty CNG. We hire it and start the long crawl home.

The following day we get an earlier start, remember the passports and the receipt, and go back to the eSpecial Branch office. We find the same guy and give him our receipt. He disappears with it for 10-15 minutes and then comes back. We do not have your application. Jen and I look at each other. No surprise really. Jen explains our situation in more detail, asks if we can see the guy who was our former investigator’s supervisor. This guy is really trying to be helpful and goes to make further inquiries. Another 10-15 minutes later he comes back with some sort of hall-pass-looking-thing and says that so-and-so will see us now.

So we follow him upstairs and enter an office with about five men sitting or standing and performing various work related tasks. Jen explains our situation to the guy sitting behind the desk, indicating that she expects that he’s heard of us already. He doesn’t contradict anything she says, but it’s pretty clear to me he’s never heard of us before. Nevertheless, he wants to be helpful and listens to our story. He sends someone to check for our application again.

Meanwhile the men in the room begin asking us the usual questions. Where are you from? Colorado. Oh, Colorado is that close to New York? No. Do you have a mother and father? Yes. What do they do? We answer appropriately. Do you have brothers and sisters? We explain. In your country, what do you eat? And so on and so on. The funny thing is that nobody in the room seems to be listening, because each man goes around in turn and asks us the same questions all over again and sounds freshly amazed or appreciative or inquisitive at the answers. Jen, of course, is very accustomed to this from her time spent DOING RESEARCH!!! in the market. Someday she will be able to tell us what function this repetition serves. But that’s another story altogether.

Eventually a guy comes back to say they don’t have our application. Well that’s no surprise. But listen, Jen says, it’s a bit of a pain for us to make the trip all the way over here to the police station. We have this letter with us now. Do you think you could hang on to it until our application comes? Then you could just add it to the application (which already has a copy of the letter, but who’s keeping track right?)

The guy is very accommodating and says yes he would be able to do that. In fact, he says, when your application arrives we will begin a fresh investigation and send someone round to visit you and the matter will be resolved as promptly as possible. Ummm…if you say so…

To be continued…

Visa Extension Shenanigans

2008-06-30T05:45:00.000-07:00

Bideshi 1 and I need to extend our visas in order to stay in Bangladesh legally until our August 7^th departure date. Because Jen is a Fulbright recipient with a scholarship to conduct socio-linguistic research from November 3, 2007 to August 2, 2008, we thought this would be no problem. Ha Ha Ha!

In Bangladesh everything is a problem. We know this, of course, but everything seemed to be going so well… until today.

We began the visa extension application process in early May. Jen’s visa which was initially granted so that she could attend the Bangla Summer Institute language program last summer expires (well, now has expired) on May 23, 2008. We had initially thought that it would be a good idea to take care of the extension at the end of April before going to Nepal. But time got away from us and suddenly it was a week until our departure date. By that point it was too late to risk applying for a visa extension because what if they needed to keep our passports for a week like the Indian embassy did?

So we waited until the beginning of May to apply for the extension. We tried to find some information about the process before going to the office – without much success. Several blogs mentioned that it was such a huge hassle you should just give up and go home. Our Bangladesh Lonely Planet guide book was not much better. It told us where the Dhaka passport office was located, but basically said that it’s easiest to apply for the visa from your home country. So we knew three weeks was probably cutting it close, but we figured hey, the worst they can do is deport us right? And would that really be so bad…?

We were prepared for the worst, but our first visit to the passport office really wasn’t so bad. We arrived at the office around 10:30 AM. As was to be expected, it was very crowded and not air-conditioned. There were five counters with various signs in Bangla and English explaining their various functions. We picked up our applications at Counter 3. Each application was two pages long and we were told to fill out three copies each. Three copies? Yes. Three copies each? Yes. We each have to fill out the same application three times? Yes, madam.

The application included the usual name, passport number, and nationality questions, along with questions about our local sponsor. In particular we were to provide the Name and address of persons in Bangladesh who will furnish information as to the applicant and also furnish financial guarantee for maintenance and repatriation if necessary. We were asked to provide those persons names and addresses and annual income!? How are we supposed to know that?

We did the best we could, then went to Counter 2. The woman there looked over our applications and mentioned that passport photos were also needed, one for each copy. Luckily we had anticipated this and had enough photos. Also, we need a copy of your passport, one for each application. We had those too. You’ll also need a cover letter explaining why you need an extension, she said. Well, we just happen to have this letter here from Our Sponsor, at the American Center in Dhaka. Perhaps this will satisfy the requirement. Yes, yes okay that will do nicely. (Whew, another narrow escape! We had not known we’d need this before hand – how would we – but luckily Our Sponsor had given us a letter three months ago explaining our purpose in Bangladesh for when we left the country to go to India, just in case we had any problems at the boarder.)

Finally, the application was accepted. The lady at Counter 2 scrawled something unintelligible on the front and sent us to Counter 1 to pay. We took a place in line at Counter 1 and waited several minutes. Just as we stepped up for our turn, a man rushed up from the side and shoved his arm in Jen’s face and pushed some documents through the window. Excuse me, we were standing here, Jen says. Oh this will only take a minute, he says. The hell it will, I’m thinking, he’s got six names on his application.

He continues to stand there with his arm in Jen’s face, shouting at the guys behind the counter. Jen says to me, plenty loud enough for everyone to hear, lines don’t exist in Bangladesh, huh? No response from the man with his arm in her face. Another minute passes. There is some problem with the man’s application. Clearly it will take more than a second. Finally, Jen gets in his face and yells, you can’t wait just one minute!?

Okay, okay, he says and goes to the back of the line. Slightly incredulous, Jen says to the guys behind the counter, lines don’t exist in Bangladesh, huh? They laugh and say, sometimes we have lines. I hear the guy behind me, who’s been standing there patiently the whole time, say, actually lines are good. There seems to be general approval that Jen has put the obnoxious man in his place.

We hand our application through to the guys at Counter 1. Okay, they say, that will be nine-thousand-thirty-nine taka (about $130). Come again? Nine-thousand-thirty-nine taka!!? For both of us right? No, no each. Total for two… (punch punch punch on the calculator)… eighteen-thousand-seventy-eight taka. We look at each other in dismay…Umm, we don’t have that kind of cash on us. Really!? They can’t believe it. You don’t have that much money? Nope, not today. Actually, we don’t usually walk around Dhaka with 260 dollars cash in our pockets. We’ll have to come back tomorrow.

Rats…things had been going so well. Still we figured, if we only have to go back once, that’s not so bad, is it? But $260 dollars, that’s a lot of money. How much would it cost if we just over-stayed our visas? We knew that the fine is 200 taka per day for the first fifteen days, and 500 taka per day after that. We started doing the mental calculations. My visa would expire July 19^th. We are leaving August 7^th. So 200 X 15 = 3000 gets us to August 3^rd. Then four days at 500 is another 2000. So I could save 4000 taka by not applying for a visa extension.

We pondered this for a moment. I wonder, when do you pay the fine? Do you just show up at the airport and hand over the cash? Or do you show up at the airport and get told that you have to drive across town to pick up such-and-such a paper and take it to the other side of town for so-and-so’s signature before taking it back across town to pay your fine, by which point you’ve missed your plane out of this godforsaken place? Surely it’s not that bad… On the other hand we really don’t know, do we? So maybe it’s better to play it safe and just apply for the legal extension.

We caved to our law abiding inclinations and returned to the passport office the following day, cash in hand. We went straight to Counter 1 and paid. Then we took our receipt to Counter 4 and handed it through the bars. Come back on June 30, the man behind the counter said. June 30? Yes. June 30! That’s like seven weeks from now. Yes, madam. My visa will be expired by then. Yes. Won’t that cause a problem? No, no. No problem. Come back June 30. Do you need our passports now? No, no. Bring them back on June 30.

So we left. By this point we’d visited four out of the five counters, some of them more than once, but things actually seemed to be going smoothly. Though it only occurs to me now, Counter 5 which is labeled “Passport Stamp”, has been closed with a large plywood board each time we’ve been to the office. I did not realize it at the time, but clearly it was a portent of things to come…

The next several days passed uneventfully. Then we got a call from Our Sponsor from the American Center. A police investigator assigned to our case had been by to see her. She had confirmed that Jen had a Fulbright scholarship and was doing linguistics research. She said the man was very friendly, but apparently needed some photocopies of our current visas or something. So we should get in touch with him at such-and-such a number. Our schedule was a little busy that week. So we didn’t get on it right away.

Then, a few days later the investigator showed up at our house. Oh, shit! We don’t have the copies ready. Thank you, sir, for making this trip. Really it is very considerate of you, but so sorry, can you wait while we run and make some copies. No problem. I run off passports in hand and leave Jen to answer some questions about her work in Bangladesh.

While I’m gone, it comes to light that the investigator would like to have copies of more than just the visa pages from our passports. He’d also like to have a copy of the Fulbright award letter. So Jen sends Shohag, the darwan’s son, out with the letter to find me at the photocopy shop. Unfortunately, we must have passed in the street without realizing it because he never found me. So the three of us, me, Jen, and the investigator, are now waiting for Shohag. Eventually he shows up. Rather than wait for me to go out, make the copy, and come back, the investigator decides to go with me to the shop – it’s on his way anyhow.

En route to the shop, I tried to make some polite conversation. I asked the investigator where his office was. How long had he been doing this work, and a few other banal questions like these. We’d said on my application that I was learning Bangla, and I figured I’d better try and keep up appearances.

He was polite in answering my questions, but then he said, you said on your application that you are here to learn Bangla. But you are not affiliated with any institution. How do you explain that? Or at least that’s what I thought he said.

I said, I’m sorry I didn’t understand everything you said. He repeated himself. This time I know he said what I thought he said. I wasn’t sure how Jen had explained my situation, and I didn’t want to put my foot in my mouth. So I said, I’m sorry I don’t understand. He let it go.

Back at the house, I asked Jen how things had gone. She said she thought they’d gone well. The investigator had been very polite. He had asked a lot of questions, but just seemed to be trying to get the situation figured out. She thought that in the end he’d been satisfied.

So we didn’t think about it again until today. This morning we braved the flooding in our neighborhood and went back to the passport office and stepped up to Counter 4 labeled “receipt and passport.” The guy asked for our receipt. We showed it to him and he told us to go to Counter 3. Luckily it wasn’t crowded today.

The man at Counter 3 took our receipt and began riffling through an ominously large stack of papers. Not to worry, he soon found ours and brought it to the window. You have seven days to leave the country, he says, come back this afternoon and get your exit stamp. What? Seven days to leave the country, did he just say? I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that.

Your application has been refused. You have seven days to leave the country. This is not right, Jen says, I’m here doing research. I have a grant through August 2^nd. My plane leaves August 7^th. I’m sorry, madam, you will have to talk to the Assistant Director. Please have a seat.

Not knowing what else to do, we have a seat. Ten minutes go by. Nothing seems to be happening. Neither of us feels like we really understood what the guy at Counter 3 said. So I get up and go back to Counter 3. Who am I supposed to talk to, I ask. What? the man asks. Who am I supposed to talk to? She hasn’t come yet, he says, we’ll call you. What is her title, I ask. What? he says. What is her title? The one I’m supposed to speak to, what is her title? Assistant Director, he says, we’ll call you. I go back and sit down.

Another ten minutes pass. It has been our experience that as long as you sit quietly and wait for something to happen, nothing will happen. So Jen goes back to the window. Excuse me, she asks, I just want to know what is going on. Why was our application refused? The police rejected your application. What? We spoke to the investigating officer. I told him about my work. He knows what I’m doing here. I’m sorry, madam, the police rejected your application. Can I see, Jen asks. He shows her a small piece of paper written in Bangla. She studies it for a minute. But this says I’m not doing research. Yes, madam. But I am doing research. By this point the Assistant Director has appeared.

Can you explain this, Jen wants to know. No, the problem is not with us. It is with the police. You must leave Bangladesh in seven days. But that’s impossible, Jen says, we have an apartment here. I have work to do. We can’t just leave. Then you must appeal this decision with the police. How do we do that? You’ll have to submit a new application, with a letter asking for the police decision to be reconsidered. A new application? The application that we already filled out three times? Yes. With more passport photos? Yes. Jen’s so mad she can hardly see straight. We leave.

Outside, we call Our Sponsor and explain the situation. She’s incensed. This is the first time in the history of the Fulbright program that a student hasn’t been granted a visa! Who did you talk to? I want names!

Good, at least we’ve got her on our side. So we go back into the office and get names. Again they repeat, the problem is not with us it is with the police. You must talk to the police.

Jen calls Our Sponsor and gives her some names and numbers. A few minutes later she calls back. What is needed is a letter from the Vice Chancellor at the Independent University of Bangladesh confirming that Jen is in fact doing socio-linguistic research. Apparently the police investigator has never heard of the field of linguistics and, despite his civil demeanor, remains unconvinced that Jen is here doing research. Arrrgh!!!

To be continued…

Flooding

2008-06-28T22:46:00.001-07:00

Here are some photos to go with the bit about sewage treatment in Dhaka. They're not great, but they'll give you the idea. I took them from the window of our apartment.

More from The Daily Star

2008-06-25T22:28:00.000-07:00

Every other day, it seems like, there is some news story in The Daily Star that makes us shake our heads in disbelief and think, “where are we?” I keep thinking that nothing will top the current story for sheer absurdity but inevitably another story comes along that’s even crazier. I’ve decided to share some of the highlights.

Several weeks ago there was an article about sewage treatment in Dhaka. The article was based on an interview with one of the head officials at WASA, the local water supply and sewage treatment company. According to the WASA guy, WASA has the capacity to treat one-third of the sewage produced in the city. However they are currently only operating at half-capacity because a vast number of home and building owners prefer to connect their sewage lines directly to the city’s storm drains in order to avoid paying a sewer bill. This means that only one-sixth of the shit from a city of 15 million people is getting treated, which means that the shit from 12.5 million people is going straight into the rivers that run through Dhaka. Gross!!

It also means that the shit from 12.5 million people is flowing through the storm drains. When it rains, especially in our neighborhood, the drains overflow and flood the streets. The water can frequently be over a foot deep in several places between our home and the local markets. And what are you walking through if you have to walk through that water? The shit from 12.5 million people!!! Argggg!!!! Naturally we take rickshaws as much as possible when it rains.

On a related note, there was another article about pollution in Dhaka’s rivers on June 15. It was titled Rivers void of life forms. There are three rivers that flow around Dhaka, the Buriganga, the Turag, and the Norai. The article reports that a recent three-year research project found that basically nothing lives in these rivers. It said that when the monsoon comes and the water flow increases on account of the rains, then “some invertebrates and small organisms come into being…But these life forms completely disappear in the dry season…” Bummer man.

Another common theme in the Daily Star is ‘corruption.’ Recently an article caught my eye titled Bridge built without approach road. It’s about a bridge that is being built under the supervision of the Local Government Engineering Department (LGED) on the Shibu River in the Rajshahi district. The construction company doing the work, which is owned by the vice-president of the Rajshahi chapter of the Bangladesh National Party (BNP), was awarded 39,200,000 taka (about $580,000) for the project despite the fact that neither they nor the LGED owned any land around the bridge site on which to build an access road. The article was mainly about the details of this one case, but it mentions 20 other bridges that were built during this particular BNP coalition rule that are still unusable. The article concludes by saying, “the number of unusable bridges is 600 in Rajshahi division. Contractors, chosen allegedly at the behest of former ministers and lawmakers, have reportedly withdrawn all the money for the constructions.” The organization and prose in this article, which is typical of The Daily Star, leave me somewhat skeptical and confused as to the actual facts, but it seems pretty weird to build 600 bridges and no roads – and this is just in one district!

A third theme that appears practically every day in The Daily Star is the ‘mob beating’ which usually results in the death of several people. An article from June 13 serves as an example. It was titled, 8 bandits beaten to death in Natore with the subheading one shot dead during Rab-robber gunfight (Rab stands for rapid action battalion. They are the elite military branch that has carried out numerous assassinations over the past two years.) The highlights are as follows:

The incident occurred around 1:30 am when the gang of at least 13 gathered on Adimpur Primary School ground prior to launching an attack on the village…But more than 100 villagers were lying in wait for them around the field with the gang oblivious…The villagers chased the gang and a few of them managed to flee while most jumped into a pond, finding no escape route, on the northern part of the school compound. The villagers encircled the pond as announcements were made through loudspeakers of mosques alerting other villagers about the criminals. The gang opened fire on the villagers in a bid to scare their way out of the situation. Rab personnel tried to negotiate their surrender but the criminals kept on firing forcing Rab to retaliate…The criminals later ran out of ammunition and the law enforcers asked villagers to get the criminals out of the pond. The villagers got them out of the pond, took them to the school ground and gave them a mass beating. Six of them died on the spot and the law enforcers were able to rescue two of them but they died on their way to Singra Health Complex…The body of the other criminal was found in the pond with a bullet wound in the head…

These articles typically refer to the people beaten as ‘robbers’, ‘bandits’, or ‘criminals’ and never mention any charges being levied against the ones doing the beating. As in this example, the scenario is usually something like this: criminal observed being a criminal, someone gets on the horn at the local mosque, a chase ensues, one or more criminals are beaten to death by the mob, end of story. And it happens every day. Sometimes there are several articles like this in a day. I would really like to know how the number of people beaten to death by mobs in Bangladesh every year compares to the number killed by handguns in the US. If anyone can answer this, let me know.

Finally, in the category of sheer absurdity, one of our friends pointed out an article last night at dinner about the international airport in Chittagong. It needs to be read almost verbatim to be fully appreciated. The title was Ctg airport faces risk as fire tenders out of order.

Aircrafts are facing serious risks while landing at or taking off from Shah Amanat International Airport (SAIA) in Chittagong since all the airport’s three fire-fighting vehicles have been unserviceable for about two months. Airport authorities have made arrangements with the fire service stations in Chittagong city for sending fire-fighting vehicles daily to attend aircraft landing and takeoff. But the authorities often have to advise planes awaiting landing to fly slow or hover in the sky when fire-fighting vehicles delay in reaching the airport…Airline officials fear that if the international aviation watchdogs come to know about this situation at the SAIA, they might downgrade it from its present status of an international airport. According to rules, the presence of fire-fighting vehicles at an airport is a must at the time of aircraft’s landing and take-off. On June 12, the pilot of an aircraft of Biman Bangladesh Airlines landed the plane at the airport at his own risk after hovering in the sky for about 40 minutes although fire fighters had not yet arrived…”We ask pilots to fly slow or hover in the sky when fire-fighting vehicles arrive late or when an aircraft arrives before its scheduled time,” a high official of the SAIA told The Daily Star seeking anonymity. He, however, initially declined to provide any information, saying as a government official he cannot give journalists any such information…

Vehicles out of service for two months? Fly slow? Hover? What more can I say…?

A Joke

2008-06-24T21:52:00.000-07:00

The other night Bideshi 1 and I had dinner with some Fulbrighters and friends at a local restaurant. One of the people in attendance was a Bangladeshi man who had gone to the US on a teaching Fulbright. He told a joke that was pretty funny and captured a certain Bangladeshi cultural motif. I’ll do my best to retell the joke for your reading pleasure, but first you need some Bengali vocabulary.

The vocab: Bhai-jan, kemon acchen? means Brother how are you?

Bhai-jan, ami bhalo acchi means Brother I’m well.

The joke:

Bill Gates recently put out an add seeking a regional manager for the Pakistani branch of IBM. The position was to be a lucrative one and would confer much honor on the chosen candidate, so about fifty-thousand people applied. As part of the selection process Bill Gates called a meeting with the candidates to expound on the necessary qualifications for the job.

First, he said the successful candidate would need to be able to program competently in the Java language. About half the people present did not know Java and promptly got up and left. Now, among the applicants there was a Bangladeshi man. He did not know how to program in Java either, but he looked around and saw that no test was being administered. So he figured what the hey, I’ll just hang around and see what happens.

Next Bill Gates said that the successful candidate would have to be familiar with current semi-conductor manufacturing techniques and supply chains. Again, about half the remaining people got up and left, realizing that they did not possess the requisite qualification. As for the Bangladeshi man, he didn’t know the first thing about techniques for manufacturing semi-conductors, but still no one seemed to be administering any tests. So he figured what the hey, I’ll just hang around and see what happens.

This process continued for quite some time. Bill Gates would name a requirement for the job and about half the people would get up and leave realizing they lacked this particular qualification.

Eventually there were only two candidates left, the Bangladeshi man and one other guy. Bill Gates said, “since this job will be located in Pakistan, there is one final qualification. The successful candidate must be able to speak Pakistani. You are the only remaining candidates. Let me hear you speak some Pakistani.”

So the Bangladeshi man turned to the other guy and said, “Bhai-jan, kemon acchen?” To which the other guy responded, “Bhai-jan, ami bhalo acchi.”

The End

Put it in the fridge!

2008-05-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

Shadin, charming little man that he is, has taken to issuing quite the list when he comes upstairs to “Char Tala” (“The Fourth Floor”, as he calls our residence). These days, the list goes something like this: “I’m gonna wash my hands, and then I’m gonna wash my feet, and I’m gonna do it by myself, and then I’m gonna eat a cookie, and then I’m gonna drink some water, and then I’m gonna wash my hands, and then I’m gonna wash my feet.”

A couple of days ago, he brought up an 7-Up bottle filled with water. (Ben and I have been going through the 7-Up like mad; we have discovered that if you juice half a lime and add it to a glass of iced 7-Up, the result is quite possibly the best soft drink ever. So we have amassed a ridiculous collection of empty green 1-liter bottles, which we give to Rasheda, who in turn passes one along to her grandson from time to time.) Before launching into his usual list of activities, he had a request for me. Frize thun, he said, with that enormous brilliant smile of his: Put it in the fridge! But alas for Shadin, there was no room for his bottle in the fridge. I can put it in the freezer, I told him, but then it will become ice and you will have to wait for it to melt before you can drink it. He beamed again: Okay! So I put the bottle in the freezer, and he came back late that day. Sure enough, it had frozen solid. He grabbed it with both hands and grinned: oooh! Cold! And giggled, and lugged the heavy thing back downstairs.

Today he arrived at Char Tala with another 7-Up bottle, and he was chattering away: That bottle, that bottle from the fridge? That one, you know, last time? That bottle? Inside it turned to WATER! It turned to WATER! Hee hee hee! Now put THIS one in the fridge, okay? Put this one in the fridge too!

I freaking love that kid.

The Post Man

2008-05-15T02:07:00.000-07:00

Twice now we have received an item of mail delivered to our house by the Bangladeshi post. The same post man has made the delivery both times. The first time he showed up there was a knock at the door. After the obligatory scramble for an orna for Jen, we opened the door a crack and peered out. It took a few seconds to process the new face and understand the words, but the stack of letters in his hand helped. Realizing he was a post man, we opened the door and invited him in. He handed us the letter, we signed for it, and business complete right? Nope. The post man continues to stand there showing no signs of leaving. Jen and I are confused. Finally he asks for a glass of water. Oh sorry! Sorry! Jen scrambles for a glass of water, asks the man to have a seat, brings him the water. He drinks it at a stately pace. When he’s finished Jen offers more, or would you prefer a Cold Drink (meaning soda). He would prefer the Cold Drink. So Jen gets him a glass of Coke with ice in it. He finishes the Coke and then leaves.

Today he showed up a second time. This time, to Jen’s embarrassment, I opened the door before the orna had been located. Oops! Dada, the doorman from down stairs is there with another fellow that I now recognize as the post man. I invite them in. Before I can get the words out to offer, the post man asks if he can have a seat at the table. Yes. Yes. Have a seat, I say. He sits.

Then Jen shows up, modestly blanketed by the orna and offers him something to drink. No, no he won’t drink anything, he says, he has a car waiting. Then he struggles with the knot on his cloth bag for about a minute and a half, finally gets it open and removes a thoroughly battered white Priority Mail box. (Dada, meanwhile, is also sitting at the table, examining Jen’s computer, and trying to ask me questions about Tuni-didi, the much beloved former resident of our apartment. Even on a good day, I understand practically nothing Dada says and now I’m distracted. So it’s doubly hopeless.) The post man asks for our names. We give them. Jen’s name is on the box so he presents the papers for her to sign (three signatures are required), and you will give seven-hundred-forty Taka, he says, plus boksheesh (tip) for me. Oh really! We’re supposed to pay for the package that has already been handsomely paid for by the sender and then tip the mail man!? What can you do…?

I went for some money. We didn’t have the correct change. So Jen presented him with 1000 Taka and asked for 200 back. I’m thinking 60 Taka tip is more than generous. The man claims not to have change. He’ll just take the whole amount, he says. No, Jen says, if you can’t make change then give me the money back. Oh wait, actually, I have change, here take 100, he says. Now I’m pissed. I point to the package and say this is your job, is it not? The man appears offended and says something about his work that I don’t understand. (Dada laughs and says something unintelligible. I can’t tell who’s side he’s on – probably he’s just heckling both of us.) My look continues to tell the post man, I don’t give a shit, you’ve overstepped your bounds. (What’s in the box? Dada wants to know. I don’t know, I say.) The post man hands over another hundred and says well if you won’t give me a decent tip will you at least give me a Fanta, then?

Oh really, Jen says, a Fanta? You said you wouldn’t drink anything. She’s slightly offended, but mostly just amused. We don’t have Fanta, she says, you can have ice tea.

Jen fixes him a tea and the post man sits and drinks it. (Dada is now examining the Leatherman that was on the table, he takes it out of its pouch, tries to fit it back in, has difficulty, finally succeeds.) Jen begins to open the package. Don’t do that now, I say in English, it’ll cause a distraction.

I’m curious about the contents of the package too, but mostly I just want these people to leave and stop messing with our stuff. I still can’t get used to the way people just come into our house, make demands, riffle through our things, and expect that we’ll cheerfully serve them tea for their trouble. It makes me angry…

Nepal Trip Report

2008-05-12T04:24:00.000-07:00

Bideshi 1 and I recently took a much needed vacation from her work here and went to Nepal. It had long been a desire of mine to see Mount Everest. So we did the trek to Everest Base Camp and climbed Kala Pattar - which is a little "hill" that tops out at just over 18000 feet (thin air up there) and gives one of the best views of Everest you can get from anywhere in the world - or so they say. It was spectacular to be sure. The scale of those mountains is unbelievable. The hike to Everest comes up from the south and for most of the trip you have a good view of the Lhotse ridge, most of which is at an elevation of around 27000 ft. Down at the base of the mountain, there are some other peaks that top out at about 15000 ft, which is taller than any mountain in Colorado. From the valley these 15000 ft peaks look tiny, like you wouldn't even call them mountains, they're just little rock piles at the base of a mountain! And Kala Pattar, which is 4000 ft taller than any mountain I've ever climbed, was just this little hill, the pinky toe of Pumo Ri. Mind blowing stuff.

It was also cool to get a look at the ice fall where people start the route up Everest. I hear the route is really well marked because so many people go up and down it each season, but looking at it from a distance, I couldn't even imagine trying to find a line through the mess. I guess some of the crevasses are so big you just rappel down and then climb out the other side with ice tools. That's how it was with all the big mountains. I'd look at them and have no idea what the climbable line would be. I definitely won't be going up any of them any time soon.

The walking part was mostly easy, though there were a couple of prolonged uphill sections that had Bideshi 1 looking dour-faced and cranky. But she managed to suck it up and proceed without complaint. The biggest challenge for anyone attempting the trek is adjusting to the altitude. From my experience climbing and reading about climbing, I was aware that there would be some risk of AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) or even HAPE or HACE (High Altitude Pulmonary/Cerebral Edema), but in my mind these were pretty unlikely – and, if fact, the worst symptom either of us experienced was a fairly mild headache that went away over night. However, on the way up we heard some stories that certainly gave us pause.

We met a young woman one evening in Phiriche, a small village at about 14000 ft, who was recovering from a very near brush with death. She was from Oregon and fit and had plenty of experience backpacking in the mountains. She was traveling alone and had made it up to Everest Base Camp and then spent a night at Gorak Shep, the final town on the route (elevation 16864 ft), and then climbed Kala Pattar the next day. She made it to the top of the hill in an hour-and-a-half (which is pretty fast), and felt like the hike was easy. She had no adverse symptoms – not even a headache, no dizziness, nothing. Then she spent another night in Gorak Shep and woke up at about five in the morning and felt like she was drowning. Her lungs were filling with fluid. She was coughing up pink stuff. She felt dizzy and stupid. She new enough to know that she had to get down to lower elevation, but her brain was too addled to know that she should ask for help. So she just jammed her stuff into her pack and started hiking down. But she said she felt drunk and kept stumbling and falling and her legs were totally banged up. Apparently she passed several people on the trail and just told them that she was feeling bad and headed down. What she should have said was, “I have HACE and HAPE both, please help me get to the clinic in Phiriche before I die!” but, of course, when you have HACE you can’t think clearly. So she just waived and stumbled on.

About 10 hours later (the same trip took us five) she stumbled into Phiriche, and went into the first building she came to. She told us that she thought she was walking into a hospital. In fact she had walked into a common treker’s lodge and passed out unnoticed on a random bed. Apparently there was a party going on at the time on, and it wasn’t until the following morning that someone heard her coughing, woke her up, and dragged her into the clinic.

At the clinic she said she kept passing out until the doctor slapped her and said, “listen, you have a fatal condition. You need to concentrate and talk to me so that I can help you live.” I guess she got it together well enough to answer some questions. Then the doctor gave her some Diamox and Viagra (which was apparently first developed to treat problems with the lungs before men noticed a particularly desirable side effect…) and told her she had to get down the following day.

When we met her later that day she was feeling significantly better and pondering her options for decent. The doctor had said that she could either take a helicopter for $5,000 or a horse for $200. But our hero was cheapskate and felt like even the horse was too expensive. She was feeling so much better she thought she could probably just walk down. Take the horse! For cryin’ out loud we said. Get a receipt, heck you’re insurance might even cover it! When we parted company that’s what she had decided to do. Here’s hoping she made it down okay…

We also heard some other stories without such happy endings. A British guy told us a story about a German who’d gotten sick a Gorak Shep just the day before he arrived there. Apparently the German had come down with HAPE in the evening and been told that he needed to take a helicopter down first thing in the morning. Unfortunately he didn’t make it that long. In the middle of the night he went to the bathroom, and that’s where the lodge staff found him, stark naked and dead, the next morning.

Then some Swiss told us about a Japanese group they’d met in which a woman had died, and while they were talking to them another woman from the Japanese group keeled over and fainted. They didn’t know how she’d fared.

So in just the time we were there at least two people had died – not climbing mountains or anything - just doing the very same thing that we were doing. It kind of made us wonder, “are the views really worth it?” And yet we really felt fine the whole time. We took it real slow. Bideshi 1 set the pace. I followed along in tow, and we both acclimatized just fine. I think the people who had problems were fit people who had just gone up too fast – because they could, because it felt easy – and their bodies just hadn’t had time to adjust.

We met another British couple, Carl and Alice (who’s pictures you’re looking at, actually. More on that later..) who were also very fit and had done lots of trekking before. Alice said she’d been feeling horrible the whole time. Every time they got up to a new elevation she felt nauseous and sick and had a splitting headache. We were basically following the same itinerary, but come to find out that Carl and Alice had been walking really fast. What might take us four hours to do, they’d do in two. So we said hey I bet that’s your problem. Slow down. Look at the view. You’ll probably feel better.

We met up with them later in Kathmandu and it sounds like they did feel a little better when they went slower. So the moral is, when walking at high altitude, enjoy the view, meditate on the turtle, and … walk…very…slowly.

In addition to amazing views, Nepal was a nice cultural change from Bangladesh. The Nepali people in general were very friendly and helpful and seemed genuinely glad that we were there. I suppose the same could be said of Bangladeshis, but in contrast to Bangladeshis, they did not pry into our personal lives or persist in interactions that we had politely closed. Nepalis were just far less pushy. Getting into the country was also remarkably painless. The officials were efficient and courteous - without any of what we have come to refer to as "the South-Asian Male Ego." The food was also amazing. In Kathmandu you can get food from pretty much anywhere in the world, and it's all reasonably good and some of it is excellent. I'm sure this is a result of the booming tourist industry. I suppose some people would complain that the experience of traveling in Nepal lacks "authenticity" because there is so much catering to foreign tastes, but coming from Bangladesh that was part of what made it so great. People there are used to dealing with foreigners. It makes things easy.

The not so great thing about the trip was that we lost our camera. On the first day of the trek we set our packs down on a stone wall in order to fill up some water bottles. Jen had been carrying the camera and would have had to take it off in order to take her pack off. The best we can figure, we just left the camera sitting there on the wall. We didn't realize what had happened until the following morning. Some porter, no doubt, was very psyched about his find. Luckily we met several other people on the trip and some of them gave us their photos so we’d have something to share with our readers.

The Movies

2008-04-06T00:14:00.000-07:00

Earlier this evening Bideshi 1 and I went with some friends to our first movie-at-the-theater movie in Bangladesh. The experience was much the same as going to the movies in the States, with a couple of notable differences. Like many theaters in the States, this one is located in a big mall. Bashundara City is the closest thing Bangladesh has to an American mall – it’s quite similar actually – with lots of small shops, a couple bigger ones, escalators, glass walled elevators, a food court, and a central atrium with eight stories of open air up to a glass ceiling. The theater set-up was also like most American theaters. Buy your tickets at the ticket counter, enter the main lobby and purchase snacks, then find your theater. But at the ticket window we had the choice of premium or normal tickets. The premium tickets cost a little more and seat you further from the screen so you don’t have to crane your head up to see the picture. As far as I could tell, all tickets were for assigned seats. We got premium tickets – just under ten dollars for four - pricey by Deshi standards, but a good deal coming from D.C. We were early for our movie so we bought some popcorn and hung out in the lobby for a little while. When the time came an usher came through the lobby telling everyone that Transformers would be starting soon in Theater 2.

Inside Theater 2 another usher pointed us to our seats. Shortly after, the screen lit up displaying the Bangladeshi flag. Most of the crowd stood respectfully (Diba and Srabone did not, so we didn’t either) and listened to a few stanzas of the national anthem. Then with no previews or anything the movie started and we were all transported to a world of explosions and cars that turn into talking robots and genius kids whose computers can do amazing things and there were fights and car chases and more explosions and all of a sudden the lights came on and the movie stopped…

People stood up and started walking out of the theater. Intermission? Yep, Diba confirmed that in Bangladeshi movies, there’s always an intermission, happens anywhere near the middle of the movie. Don’t need a break in the action. Nope, just flip the switch. Cut it off. Take a break…Well I did kind of have to pee anyway. So I joined the crowd of fifty or so other men who apparently felt likewise, and headed for the restroom.

Once again I was confronted with cultural differences concerning personal space. In a typical men’s room in the U.S. you have a row of urinals and a row of stalls. Often the two are directly opposite along a fairly narrow corridor – as was the case in this particular restroom. However, in my experience in the States when there’s a massive crowd and men are waiting for their turn, they mostly stand behind the invisible line that separates said corridor from the rest of the bathroom. Then, when a stall or urinal becomes available the next man in line steps forward and takes his turn. Well, not knowing any better, I managed to hold the crowd behind the invisible line for about twenty seconds, but when a urinal opened up some guy behind me just pushed right on past and went for it. Rude I thought, but then more guys walked around me and started queuing up behind each urinal. Okay, different rules. I can play that way. So I stepped up and took my spot behind some dude. Man must have had a bladder the size of a horse’s because about four people who had been behind me for the first twenty seconds got to go to their spots ahead of me. Eventually, the dude finished and stepped away. Immediately some other dude stepped up to take his place. What!? Am I invisible? He stepped right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the look that says what the heyal do you think you’re a doin’. Oh, sorry he said and stepped back.

I’m still a little puzzled over the incident. Was I just receiving the minority treatment? I look different. I’m clearly a foreigner. And there have been other occasions – in the supper market for example – where I seem to be pretty much invisible when it comes to waiting in lines. Or was I – at a full arm’s length away – merely standing too far back from the dude in front. Clearly at that distance I was waiting for the john behind my back??? Heck if I know…

Anyway, I finally got to do my business, and made it back to the theater to find that the movie had started again. Bideshi 1 tells me there was no warning for that either. It came on as suddenly as it had stopped. Good thing I’d seen it before or I would have certainly missed important plot details and been intellectually fuddled and confused for the rest of the movie. Luckily my memory’s like a steel trap. So I was able to rejoin the action with minimal duress.

After many explosions and climactic fight sequences with much broken glass an digitized robot zheezowwchhzz zchunkk sounds the movie ended, credits rol…no actually the credits didn’t roll. After the final scene, where our heroes smooch on the hood of their car/robot friend in the orange glow of the late afternoon sun, the picture went off, the lights came on– no pretence here that people might actually want to see the credits - and we left the theater. Things to do. Places to be. People to see. Certainly no time to sit and read a big list of foreigner’s names - never mind that those people have just entertained us for the last two hours…

Odds and Ends

2008-03-28T01:03:00.000-07:00

Even now after four-and-a-half months of living here, nearly every time we leave the house we see something that makes us raise an eyebrow in amazement, amusement, puzzlement, or dismay. Some examples:

If you read the “Daily Star and Other Funny English” you might have gathered from the orange juice container quote that product labeling standards here are somewhat relaxed compared to what we’re used to. On our most recent outing to New Market we ran across these cherries? tomatoes? cranberries? – clearly food of some sort, yet the label claims they are men’s briefs. Well they won’t trick me!

A couple weeks ago Jen and I were walking through Farmgate to catch a bus. Farmgate is one of the busiest transportation hubs in Dhaka as well as a big market area. On a typical day the side-walk is so jammed with people that you are literally bumping shoulders with someone on every-other step. Imagine leaving a large stadium after a major-league sporting event as everyone tries to press through the row of double doors to reach the outside – only in Farmgate you are already outside. There are just that many people... So there we were walking through the crowed, when I noticed that the sea of heads (I’m taller than most people here, so that’s my view) was parting up ahead, much like water flows around a rock in the river. When we got closer we could see that the cause of the disturbance was a man – probably the father - with a child - his son? - stopped in the sidewalk. The man was holding the kid’s pants around his knees, and the kid was taking a wiz! Right there in the middle of the sidewalk! (Alas, my camera was at home.) What was most shocking to me was not that a kid was taking a wiz on the street – after all there are practically no public restrooms in Dhaka, and if you’ve gotta go you’ve gotta go – but here was a clearly upper middle class adult teaching a child that it was okay to just piss wherever you please. There was no attempt to aim for the gutter or a trash pile – to my eyes it constituted a total disregard for public space. And people just walked on by…

To be fair I should point out that this is the only time I’ve seen such a blatant display of public urination in Dhaka. On any walk around the city you will see men crouching by walls or ditches or in the corners of shady alleys and you know that they are peeing and that that is one of the reasons this city smells so bad, but somehow it’s not quite the same as the kid parting traffic with his stream.

There is not much grass in Dhaka, but the other day as I was sitting on a wooden box squished between a smelly man and a couple sets of women’s knees at the front of a bus to Gulshan, I looked out the window and saw a lone woman crouched on the ground using shears to trim the swath of grass between the air force base fence and the sidewalk. Behind her the grass was uniformly short, with piles of raked clippings forming a grid on evenly spaced six foot centers. Ahead the grass was still tall. I always know that Bangladesh is a poor country, but scenes like this really drive it home. Apparently, it is cheaper to hire a woman to spend all day, day after day, cutting the grass painstakingly snip by snip than to buy a mower and run it for the half-hour a day it would take to do the same job. At around 50 Taka a day, you can hire that woman for a long time for the cost of a lawn mower. With her there are no maintenance costs. If she breaks down, just get another. And there’s no startup cost for that either.

This next observation doesn’t raise my eyebrows anymore, but I haven’t mentioned it in the Chronicles yet, so I will now. Nearly all the multi-story buildings in Dhaka have concrete pillars on the roof with scraggly stalks of re-bar sticking out. The fact that the rest of the building is finished, makes the roof look like a demolition site. Like rubble. Communicates a sense of run-downess or decay. For a while I was puzzled by this. After all, how hard would it be to cut off the re-bar once the building is finished. In fact, buildings are left this way for a good reason. It makes it easy to add another story in the future. Given that Dhaka is tied for the fastest growing city in the world that is probably smart planning.

You know you’re in the third world when this message appears on your TV. It reads “This cable network has payment due and is requested to clear same immediately.” It interrupted our viewing of American Idol.Ohhh, the hardships we face…

Clever Deshi Inventions

2008-03-26T01:11:00.000-07:00

For a while now I’ve been keeping my eyes out looking for cool Bangladeshi inventions/better ways of doing things that we could learn from or implement at home. Alas, after four months of observation the list is pretty short. So far it contains two items:

1. The wood block doorstop

2. The dishwashing liquid refill pouch

(Lest I be accused of wandering around with my eyes shut, I should point out that I have noticed an immense collection of different tools/practices/ways-of-doing-things here that I had never seen before and to my eyes constitute Deshi inventions - the bodi knife, cooking on the floor, tandori ovens, rickshaws, ruti rolling sets, etc. However, none of these seems to me an improvement over the old stand-byes that we use at home. So I've left them off the list.)

Surely there exist many more useful innovations from this part of the world (local readers please offer your own observations in comments on this post), but perhaps many of them have already circled the globe, and so go unnoticed by me by virtue of already being familiar. (Actually, I have no idea were the two items on this list were actually invented. I first saw them here. So, as far as I’m concerned, here’s where they were invented.)

That said, I am impressed by the two that made the list. The wood block doorstop caught my eye when we first moved into our apartment here. Nearly every room has a door to a little balcony outside. During the day we usually leave a few of these doors open for better airflow. The doors themselves are solid wood and fairly heavy. When the wind gusts and blows them shut they make a bang that shakes the house. That’s where the wood block doorstop comes in. On each doorjamb there is a little wedge of wood attached to a hinge. When you open the door, you can swing the wedge between the door and the jamb and it will hold the door open and keep it from slamming shut. The real genius of the tool is its simplicity. At home we have those fancy hydraulic-arm things on our screen doors, but they’re almost always broken or at best semi-functional. But the little wood block is sturdy, simple to use, and does the job. The catch is, you need a sturdy door. When the wind blows there’s a lot of leverage on the little block and it can generate quite a bit of force on the door. I imagine if we tried the block method with our flimsy aluminum screen doors they’d buckle where the block meets the door in a moderate wind.

The other item on the list, the dishwashing liquid refill pouch, is also straightforward and perhaps already exists in the states though I’ve yet to see it. It’s just a good way to reduce packaging. Instead of buying a whole new sturdy plastic bottle with the spout at the top, you just buy a little plastic pouch of dishwashing liquid and reuse your perfectly serviceable old plastic bottle. You are still creating some waste in the form of the plastic pouch, but it’s less than the amount of plastic in the dispensing bottle.

Monkeys

2008-02-24T06:55:00.000-08:00

We saw these monkeys in Darjeeling. They're just common pests like stray dogs, I guess. But I got a big kick out of them. So here's a short clip for the fans.

The Daily Star and Other Funny English

2008-02-20T04:51:00.000-08:00

The Daily Star is the local English language newspaper. We have it delivered to our door every morning, and it serves as our primary source of information about the goings-on of the country and the world. The Daily Star is a fine publication which blends thoroughly researched and unbiased reporting with artfully crafted prose. It is such a pleasure to read that I’ve decided to post a few excerpts here on the Bideshi Chronicles. For best results switch your internal narrator to the voice of Abbu from The Simpsons and read on.

Headline: Even 2yr olds got plot in huge housing graft Taskforce probe unearths mind-boggling irregularities in NHA affairs

Excerpt: A taskforce of the National Coordination Committee (NCC) to Combat Corruption and Serious Crimes designated to investigate National Housing Authority (NHA) yesterday revealed corruption of the authority officials and employees as cavalier as allotting housing plots to even two-year old children…Besides, the taskforce found out that many unscrupulous allottees ended up encroaching on more land than they had been allotted, maintaining an unholy nexus with the corrupt NHA officials and employees…

Headline: Special bus service shatters hope of commuters

Photo Caption: Buses of city special service stop at the middle of the road to take or drop passengers violating the traffic rules and ignoring the safety

Excerpt: The city bus service launched about two months ago to provide special services has shattered hope of the commuters as it failed to keep its promises. The commuters are being cheated in the name of Metro Special City Service inaugurated on November 21 last year. Defiance of rules set for the vehicles under the service, harassment of commuters and realization of excess fare have become a routine picture due to the indifference of the authorities concerned…

Headline: CTG Ammo Haul Fresh Probe ordered to find real culprits court also asks CMP to appoint honest IO

Excerpt: A Chittagong court for the second time ordered further investigation into the cases filed in connection with the haul of 10 truckloads of deadly weapons and huge quantity of ammunition at Chittagong Urea Fertiliser Ltd jetty on April 2, 2004 to find out the real culprits. Mystery shrouds over the identity of the smugglers…The Court…ordered the Chittagong metropolitan Police commissioner yesterday to appoint an efficient and honest investigation officer (IO) to conduct further investigation of the case…In the order the court said further investigation is required as the time demands for it and to find out the real culprits.

In addition to the Daily Star, local signs often display quality English advertising. This one reads:

Thing Care of Her Eternal Beauty

Dear Shahzadi

Unfold is your beauty
Untold is your love…
What a paragon you are
I look on over and over

Equally moving and informative is the labeling on common food products. The back of our orange juice box reads:

Orange concentrate from selected best quality orange, blended carefully with other suitable ingredients and packed aseptically to make it a natural fruity, delicious & refreshing orange juice. For better taste, chill & shake well before serving. Revitalize, Rejuvenate & Reactivate yourself with ACME orange juice.

The instructions on Crispo’s Chocolate Custard Powder read:

Take two Tablespoons of Crispo Custard Powder in a bowl
Thoroughly mix Custard Powder in some milk in from the ½ liter potion
Mix Sugar (four Tablesopoons or to taste) in remaining milk bring to boil.
Stir Continuously as you add boiling milk in custard powder. Delicious Custard is ready.

I’m still trying to figure out what the “1/2 liter potion” is…

I also like company tag-lines on TV commercials. My favorite is:

And for beautiful hair you would want to keep touching – Dove Hair Care!

Tee-shirts are also good. Here I’m wearing one that says Man Style If You Like This. You can probably read Kelsey's. It says Wonderful Bangladesh. Jen's says Me Only Babe The Power Ober Ourselbs Let Make Something Out Of It. Make Your Own Destiny.

Religious Revivals Deshi Style

2008-02-12T21:27:00.000-08:00

Back in January in our neighborhood we noticed workers constructing a huge bamboo structure in the local park/cricket field. Over the course of a week the structure began to take on the shape of a palace, with big towers crowned with the tear-drop-shaped turrets that are common in this part of the world. Eventually they covered it with colored cloth to complete the look. Meanwhile, livestock in increasing quantities began to line the main street between our neighborhood and Farmgate. Among the animals were two camels and one of the largest bulls we've ever seen - certainly the largest we've seen in Bangladesh. One night as we were walking home from our friends’ house, we stopped to ask some people what all the preparations were for. An old man wearing a toupee and Punjabi explained that it was for Urosh. We asked what they were going to do with the animals. Kill them he said. I guess one of the camels must have heard him. Because it stuck its head through the makeshift fence and took hold of the old man's coat in its mouth. Quick as a greased lizard the old man ducked out of his coat and commenced a pulling match with the camel. More because I wanted to touch a camel than for any other reason, I stepped up and poked the camel between the eyes a couple of times. He didn't let go of the man's coat. Then someone shooed me away and whacked the camel on the head with a stick. It let go then. The old man got his coat back a little worse for the wear, I imagine.

Later we learned that Urosh was a festival in honor of a living saint. From our perspective it looked a lot like the tent revivals folks have back home. They had preaching (and even some music, I think) all day and all night for about three days. The darwan and his grandson, Shadhin, from downstairs got decked out in their Friday finest and asked us to take their picture before going out to pray.

On another walk past the camels, an old man asked us if we wanted to come in and meet the saint. We declined. I’m not sure why.

Bideshi Dam

2008-02-12T20:42:00.000-08:00

One of the running themes of this experience (and hence this blog) is the question of what to pay for stuff. It is a well known fact that the average bideshi has more money than the average Bangladeshi, but the consequences of this vary widely from place to place, situation to situation. It is standard practice for sellers to ask anywhere from two to ten times the normal price when we inquire about a purchase price. We refer to this marked up price as Bideshi Dam (foreigner price). Depending on our mood, the amount of the mark up, the general attitude of the seller, and who-knows-what-else we either bargain hard or simply purchase the desired item. We've resigned ourselves to the fact that we will always pay more than a Bangladeshi, and that's okay. After all, even the Bideshi Dam is typically dirt cheap for us and you can't fault the seller for trying to take advantage of that fact. However, on a couple of recent outings we've run across examples of institutionalized Bideshi Dam (see the signs below). Somehow this is more offensive. For example, the entrance price to Lalbag Kella, a fort in old Dhaka, is 5 Taka for Bangladeshis and 50 Taka for forgeiners.

Even more outrageous is the difference in entrance price to the Lawa Charra, and old forest/national park in Sylette. There the standard price is 20 Taka (10 for children). Bideshis pay 350 Taka! (Actually, in the interest of honest disclosured I should mention that, despite the sign, we did not have to pay any entrance fee at all - who knows why. Must have just been a free day.)

Overdue Update Number One: Qurbani Eid in Cox's Bazaar

2008-01-21T21:21:00.000-08:00

In the past month, many of the (mis)adventures of these Bideshis have gone underreported. I’ll try to give a few overdue updates over the next few days.

Qurbani Eid fell this year on the 21st of December, just before Christmas – and it happily coincided with our trip to Cox’ Bazaar, Bangladesh’s southeastern beach province (which contains “the longest sea beach in the world,” according to proud Bangladeshis). The trip was our friend Karen’s idea. She is also a Fulbrighter, here doing PhD fieldwork on medical anthropology. She used to live in Cox’s Bazaar as a Peace Corps volunteer, and she wanted to take a trip to her old stomping grounds and visit her old friends. Ben and I were looking for some way to get out of Dhaka during the Eid holidays – we weren’t relishing the thought of witnessing the slaughter of thousands of animals in our neighborhood. The streets are narrow and drainage is poor, and a friend had told us that the blood literally flows inches deep through this area! So we jumped at the opportunity to vacate the premises.

On the 20th we boarded a very plush overnight bus from Dhaka. Tickets were outrageous – 700 taka (over $10) per seat – but we got what we paid for: blankets! and headphones! and comfy reclining seats with adjustable reading lights! And after a 12 hour bus ride, we reached Cox’s Bazaar at about 5:30 am. The air was cool, the streets were deserted, and you could smell a little bit of salt in the air. Karen led us to our hotel, a little place called “Sun Moon.” It wouldn’t have passed sanitation muster in the US – dirty sheets (we asked to have them changed); a toilet that didn’t flush; a filthy trash can – but we decided we could live with it for a few days. Exhausted after our bus ride, we slept soundly for a couple of hours and woke to the strange sound of a screaming animal and loud applause and cheers. We went out to our balcony and had a look to see what the ruckus was – turns out we hadn’t completely missed out on the Qurbani experience, after all. The hotel owner’s family conducted their sacrifice directly beneath our balcony, cutting the cow’s throat and letting it bleed into the street (that part we didn’t see), then tidily butchering it into pieces using the hide as a tarp to keep the meat clean. The work was done so neatly, so efficiently, and nothing went to waste. All the organs, all the meat, even the hide – everything was accounted for.

According to a friend of mine, just before the slaughter of a cow, the names of seven individuals are read out and a blessing is given. The seven names are those who will receive the benefits of the blessing. (In the case of a goat, one person receives the blessing.) When the slaughter is complete, the meat is equally divided among those seven people. Then each of them is responsible for dividing their portion equally into thirds: one part for themselves, one for their friends, and one for the poor. She said that the strict application of this rule would mean that every single part of the cow is ultimately divided into twenty-one pieces. This seems like a very intricate method of accounting; the family whose butchering we watched didn’t seem to be following those rules quite as closely as my friend might have expected. They gave whole pieces away at a time – we watched them give the stomach/intestines to a poor woman, who piled the whole mess into a big basket, hefted it up onto her head, and walked away down the street, swaying under what must have been at least fifty pounds’ worth of innards.

The finer butchering was going on upstairs on the roof. We went up to have a look. Here the women were at work: the men would carry big chunks up in baskets (little drops of blood on the stairs marked their trail); the women sat together on the concrete floor and divided the meat into usable sizes. Their primary tools were boti – knives that curve upward like a sickle blade, with the sharpened edge along the outside of the curve. They rest on the floor on tripod legs, which are held with the feet while you sit or squat on the floor. The floor is to Bangladesh what the countertop is for us Americans: the prep space. It’s a fine system as long as the floor is kept clean… but given my experience with dust and dirt and grime in my own home, I’d just as soon keep my food off the floor.

Anyway, we watched the butchering process until the only thing left was the scraped hide, which the men folded up and dumped in a bucket with the tail flopped over the top. We watched them wash the blood from the street and rinse out the gutter, and pretty soon there was no evidence of a cow ever having been there at all – except for the bucket of hide, that is. Leaning on our elbows on the balcony railing, Ben and I pondered what we’d seen. It made me feel sad: all those animals, all that blood. Millions of them, all over Bangladesh, dying in the streets. All over the world, in fact. So much death. But Ben’s take was different: these people know where meat comes from, he said. They are connected to their food in a way that we’re not. We go to the supermarket and buy a steak and pull off the plastic and toss it on the grill and it’s dinner. We don’t have to think about the fact that it was ever alive, or where it came from, or whether it died a good death. But here you invoke Allah and you spill the blood with your own hands - I think it’s a really humane thing, actually.

We spent the rest of our first day on the beach, which was miraculously empty – turns out that even though Cox’s is the number one tourist destination for Bangladeshis and honeymooners, and even though winter is its peak season, Eid is the one day when people are guaranteed to be home with their families. So we had much of the beach to ourselves that day, and rolled up our pant legs and waded out into the water and looked for shells, and drank cokes at a little snack stand and ate puffed rice with mustard oil and chilies and tomatoes and onions and watched the sun start to set. Toward evening more people started coming down the beach, and we decided to call it a day – walked back toward our hotel through an eerie pine forest planted in the sand. It’s supposed to be a buffer for big storms, protecting the town behind it from cyclones and tidal surges and other Bay of Bengal maladies.

On our second day we paid a visit to the lively harbor, the departure and landing point for fishing expeditions on the Bay. Bangladeshis don't eat much seafood, but in this area they do a lot of exporting - everything from little sharks (hammerhead and otherwise) to squid and octopus and sole. Ben got some great pictures of the boats; the smaller ones will go out for three or four days at a time and the bigger ones can spend up to a month at sea. As frequently happens, we were 'adopted' by a prestigious male in the community who took it upon himself to point out interesting sights and answer our questions. Turns out he has a few boats of his own; this is a picture of him with Karen and me next to one of them. He also took us on a tour of the ice-making facility, a government-operated ice-cube tray that produces thousands of kilos of ice at a time. The ice is frozen in huge bricks, maybe three cubic feet or so, and then they're pulverized under picks and hammers wielded by skinny young men with superhuman strength. Our presence at the harbor was something of a spectacle: we drew a crowd wherever we went and people seemed to be almost in competition to be the first to answer our questions, point something out, pose for a picture. It was a crazy, noisy, smelly place. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

The rest of our stay was mostly uneventful: some shopping at the Burmese market in town, some pacing on the beach. Bangladeshi beach behavior is quite different from American and European customs. We sit on the beach. Build sandcastles. Stretch out on beach towels, bake in the sun. Read. Wear sunglasses and bathing suits. Bangladeshis pace. They don’t stake out spots on the sand; they walk in groups along the water’s edge. The kids might take a dip; sometimes the men in their lungis go out for a swim. And the women might wade, up to waist depth if they’re very daring. But swimming in a salwaar-kameez is a recipe for disaster: between the baggy salwaar pants and the enormous carpet of an orna, there’s too much fabric to make staying afloat very easy. So mostly everybody sticks to the shore. Ben and I decided that we’d like to sit on the beach, though, and so we bought an overpriced starched cotton bedsheet at one of the shops in town and spread it out on the sand and lay down with our books. We made quite a scene. At one point there was a whole group of kids standing around the perimeter of our blanket, gawking wide-eyed. I grouched at them to go away. They retreated a few steps, watched us read for about fifteen minutes more, and finally lost interest. As we were leaving the beach that day, we were mobbed by the same group of children – this time they wanted boksheesh – alms. Madam, boksheesh, saar, boksheesh, they chanted. Ben and I have gotten very used to this phrase; we hear it everywhere we go. We tried the “ignore and outpace” tactic, which tends to be generally effective. But one little guy wouldn’t be outrun; he trotted up alongside Ben and held out his hand. Boksheesh, saar, boksheesh. One hundred taka? A hundred taka. About a dollar fifty – an obscene sum for anyone to request here. Utterly outrageous. Ben and I looked at each other and started to laugh. We laughed almost all the way back to our hotel.

On our last day, I received a call from my friends the Barois (aka the Sidr Family). The eldest sister asked where we were staying in Cox’s and was delighted to hear that we were at the Sun Moon. They are my dear friends! she said. Please tell them I said hello. So I did as she asked, told the owner that Irene’s family from Nodda Bazaar in Dhaka said to send greetings. Next thing I knew, we were invited to the owner’s upstairs apartment for tea and a meal – which turned out to consist of the very cow that had been slaughtered two days before. A fitting end to our stay, we thought, and thanked them profusely for their hospitality.

The ride back to Dhaka was as miserable as the trip out had been comfortable. We got tickets on another bus line; the bus was late in departing, the seats were tiny and very uncomfortable; no lights for reading/knitting; no apparent shock absorbers on the bus chassis. We lurched into the night. The road seemed to have worsened terribly in the three days since we’d arrived; we clattered and bounced over all kinds of strange obstacles and bumps. Despite the grimy curtains hung in front of the windows for insulation and the blankets and shawls I’d heaped over myself, I was cold. My window wouldn’t close and there was a constant whistle-blast of chilly air on my face. We tried to sleep. At some point the bus stopped and a whole lot of shouting began. I gradually figured out that the driver of the bus was completely lost, and the passengers were giving him hell for it. He’d been driving through backroads from one little village to the next – that was why the road was so bumpy! It took us two hours longer than it should have just to get to the halfway point.

By the time we reached Dhaka at 6:30, we were grouchy and out of sorts. We found a ridiculously overpriced rickshaw to take us to our house, where we went directly to bed (so nice to be able to stretch out! To lie flat! Not to lurch and bump!). At 8:00 Rashida, our part-time "house help", came up and pounded on our door, asking for us to give her our trash can. I stumbled to the door and tried to explain, in very bad half-asleep Bangla, that we’d been gone for three days, we didn’t have any trash to give her, we’d been on the bus the entire night with very little sleep, could she please just let us sleep and not bother us this morning. I closed the door, scuffled back to bed. Fell asleep again. At 9:00, more pounding on the door. We stirred. I sleepwalked to the door. Tajul, the doorman, wanted to use our faucet to fill his washing bucket to wash the building’s stairs. I groaned. Told him please, not now, please ask someone else, please please please let us sleep. Closed the door in his face. Sleepwalked back to bed. Ben turned to me and started to laugh. “Merry Christmas,” he said. And I cracked up, too, and we laughed until we fell asleep again.

To The Market

2008-01-12T03:49:00.000-08:00

Leaving the House

2008-01-12T03:24:00.000-08:00

The Sidr Cow Saga Continues...

2008-01-11T22:07:00.000-08:00

Well, friends and neighbors, a blog update is long overdue from this Bideshi. While Ben has been regaling you all with stories of near-death experiences in buses and video tours of our home, I’ve been studiously avoiding Blog-Land. My motivations are selfish: I have made a terrifically embarrassing discovery, and have been trying to figure out how to break it to our readers, especially our generous Sidr Cow Fund donors. In a series of deliberations, my Chief Advisor (aka Bideshi 2) and two other influential members of my cabinet have suggested that honesty is the best policy; they thought our constituents might after all find some humor in what I am about to relate. So here goes – I hope you’ll all forgive me for the inconveniences I have caused!

Early on the morning of December 28th, Ben and I take an auto-rickshaw from our neighborhood to one of the huge teeming bus stations at the edge of Dhaka. Once there we manage to find our way to the appropriate ticket counter and eventually to the appropriate bus – a typical specimen, filthy, impressively dented, its seats covered with grease-stained antimacassars and aisles littered with trash and gooey with spit. Mmmm. Then begins our four-hour lurching, careening ride from one of Dhaka’s large stations to Gopalgonj. The countryside is gorgeous outside Dhaka; everywhere there are people out working in the paddy fields, planting a new crop for summer harvest or fixing irrigation ditches with hoes and hands or crouching over a little plate of rice. In almost every field there was at least one woman pedestrian, wearing a bright-colored print sari draped over her hair, balancing a basket or sack on her head and a child on one hip. Sometimes there would be another kid running along beside her barefoot. At one little village we passed an elephant standing by the side of the road in a little open plaza among tea stalls and corrugated tin shops – I poked snoozing Ben and he looked just in time to see the tips of its ears and the top of its head, and then it vanished behind the curve of the road.

Halfway into the trip we cross the Padma river (one of the two major rivers in Bangladesh, here pronounced “Podda”). Everyone piles off the bus in an open sandy space where there are long lines of stores selling tea and crackers and tortilla-like flatbread and various fried snack foods and cokes and grapes and oranges. We wind our way out toward the river, which could be the Bay of Bengal for all we can tell; it’s so wide that we can’t see the bank on the other side. We shuffle along with the rest of the crowds and into one of a number of boats strung up along the shore. “Launches”, they are called – passenger ferries with a lower cabin and an upper deck, where you can buy hard-boiled eggs and have your shoes shined while you chug slowly across the river.

On the other side, after a 20-minute crossing to the opposite shore, we made another longish trek by foot to another bus. It was slightly less dinged up than the first had been, but its seats felt much smaller. Ben had to sit with his knees stuck out into the aisle. I wanted to find a restroom quickly before the bus started up again and asked the woman in the seat ahead of me if she knew where the women’s bathrooms were. She looked at me kind of funny and said, well, there were some in the launch. The launch? I said, disbelieving. Will there be another stop? She shook her head. How long till Baniarchor? I said. Two hours. One and a half at the very least, she said.

I crossed my legs, bit my lip, and tried to fall asleep. But with the jerking and honking and swerving of the bus, sleep was a tricky project – every fifteen minutes or so I’d stir and sit up and gaze out the dirty windows at the world rolling by. As we went further south, we passed something I’d never seen before - little clusters of homes made of bamboo frames with tarps strung over them, tent-like. People cooking over open fires rather than the clay ovens that are typical of village kitchens. Where were the huts made of corrugated iron sheets and the woven cane fences? Why was everything such a mess? Everybody seemed to have all their worldly possessions piled up outside their tent-homes. It looked like utter chaos. Gradually it dawned on me that these were temporary housing arrangements for those who’d lost their homes in the cyclone.

I started to think about our own Sidr victims, my dear friends the Barois, and their poor dead cow. I watched the scenery tipping and pitching outside my window and imagined how delighted our dear friends would be when they’d heard about the surprise we had for them. I started rehearsing in my mind how I would tell them that they would have a new cow, a good healthy cow. I was thinking about how fitting it was that the local Cedaredge 4-H club had donated to our cause, and how Ben and I would go with the family to a dairy somewhere nearby and pick out a cow – maybe even with a calf! – and how we would take lots of pictures to post on our blog, and how all of this would be such a wonderful way to bring strangers together through charity, etc. etc. And then we would pass a pond or a creek or a river and I would suddenly remember my uncomfortable bladder, and I would squeeze my eyes shut and count to three hundred and try to fall asleep.

And so the trip passed. At last we got down in Baniarchor, a dusty village on a riverbank. Koligram, our actual destination, lay just across the river. We called our friends’ mobile and were told to sit tight, they’d be there shortly to meet us. After fifteen minutes of pacing and rocking and reading and re-reading various bits of Bangla signage on the sides of buildings and cars, my friend Dolly came walking up the road to meet us with a hug and a grin. She suggested that we have tea. I begged her not to feed us any liquids and implored her instead to take us to her family’s house as soon as possible. So we went through the little village and past a series of lumber mills, down the riverbank to where another set of shallow wooden boats sat waiting for passengers, some driven by poles and oars, others by loud spluttering motors. We got into one and out again on the other side, walked up the steep reinforced bank and down the other side, then down into another little village where a brick walkway led out among more stores – shortbread cookies, dried fish, packets of chanachur-the-Bangladeshi-Chix-Mix, tea and betel; tailors shops where skinny men operated ancient treadle machines; sari shops where skinny men stretched out on curling linoleum and snoozed the warm afternoon away. On either side of the path were tidy rows of fuel for the womens’ clay stoves: hollow jute cores with cow dung neatly packed around them, neat finger-shaped ridges down each side. Lined up like a fence of oversized incense sticks. No, poop sticks, I thought to myself, and almost giggled out loud.

We wound through the village with Dolly clutching tight to my hand and calling out to almost everyone we passed as Auntie or Uncle or Cousin – her parents were both from Koligram, so a good percentage of the village is related to her in one way or another. We saw a lot of building going on – people hammering on new wood structures, replacing roofs, cutting down huge damaged tree limbs. It’s been like this for a while, Dolly said. Everyone’s still doing repairs from the storm. People really suffered during Sidr, she said, and shook her head. I thought again of our secret plan and felt like skipping. At last we came to her family’s main house, a good-sized “pukka” house, made of brick and concrete, with its tidy swept courtyard and her father’s grave all decorated for Christmas with tinsel and garlands, and chickens and chicks and ducklings and ducks all awkwardly hobbling around and squawking and lurching, and squealing kids playing cricket. And then our path curved around past a little stable, and there, to my utter amazement and dawning dismay, I saw:

A cow.

A full-grown red dairy cow.

Happily munching away at her feed.

And my first thought was, oh well, they went and bought a new one already. So I asked Dolly, did you get a new cow? And she looked puzzled. And she said, no, we've had this one for a while. It was her baby that died in the storm.

And I looked over at Ben and immediately felt just sick. Great, Jen, I'm thinking. Marvelous reporting. Why, why, why didn't it occur to me to ask whether the cow they'd lost had been their only one?!? I just assumed that when Dolly had told me "our cow died", the tragedy was self-evident - if I were on an assignment I'd be fired for sure!

I excused myself and locked myself in their restroom while I tried not to panic. What’s the problem? I thought. This is great – they’re much better off than I thought! They don’t need a cow after all, how wonderful for them! But how wretchedly, terribly awful for me, who has now collected something in the neighborhood of $460 for the cause - for now I must write to our wonderful sponsors and tell them the ridiculous truth. In short: ONE of the family’s 2 total cows died, and while they have no milk now, they've had the cow inseminated and sometime this year she'll calf and there will be more milk to sell.

Which brings me, then, to Plan B: If you have donated money to the Baroi Family Sidr Cow Fund, you are fully entitled to a refund and our profound apologies. But if you’d like the money to go to another form of Sidr relief, we suggest using the funds we’ve collected to help those left homeless by the storm. Habitat for Humanity in Bangladesh is a great organization that provides temporary shelter and permanent housing using what they call “sweat equity” and zero-interest loans. Donations and on-site build volunteers help keep the costs down. Ben and I have been in touch with their administrators and volunteer coordinators, and we’d like to be able to participate in a build later in the year. We propose using the Sidr funds for that purpose – if the two of us can get slots on a volunteer team, we’ll be able to meet and work alongside a Sidr-struck family. If we can’t get slots, we’ll still be able to donate the money we’ve collected to Habitat to help pay for materials and other building costs. What do you think? Is this a fair substitute? Perhaps it’s not quite as compelling/profound/poetic as the original story, but it’s still a way for our community at home to be involved with a community here.

So in closing, I extend to all our readers my very sincere and very embarrassed apologies for my oversights. Please forgive my zeal – I solemnly promise that my future reporting will be more thorough!

House Tour

2008-01-08T21:30:00.000-08:00

The Rumors Are True

2008-01-07T01:03:00.000-08:00

Whatever rumors you’ve heard about South Asian driving – they’re true. Bideshi 1 and I have now ridden several buses hither and yon across the country, and can confirm their veracity. Most have been dirty and overcrowded. People, parcels, and sometimes even livestock jam the seats and aisle. The distance from seat-back to the back of my seat is often shorter than the distance from my knees to the back of my seat.

Recently after boarding a bus, Jen clambered over a mass of people and luggage to her seat, sank down with some relief, put her feet on the floor, and stepped on a chicken. The chicken was not happy and told her so. Jen was not happy and told the owner so. The owner was sorry for the inconvenience and graciously jammed the chicken down among some packages on the other side of the bus. The chicken still wasn’t happy, but nobody much cares what a chicken thinks. So it was all good. Eventually even the chicken resigned to fate and shut up.

On most trips we’ve been seated somewhere in the mid to posterior region of the vehicle. There we can typically look out a grimy window and see the country side pitching and yawing pleasantly from side-to-side as we charge along. Always there is the sound of horns honking and engines roaring. Frequent accelerations in all directions hint that the path is strewn with obstacles that must be either avoided or overrun, but the precise nature of the obstacles has remained a mystery – until recently.

On our last journey we had the privilege of sitting in the very front-most seats of the bus, where I at least, had a clear view of the road ahead. It was very illuminating. The road was strewn with rickshaws, motorcycles, pedestrians, potholes, speed bumps, livestock, and other cars, vans, and trucks in all sorts of shapes and sizes. In places it was very narrow - sometimes less than two trucks wide. Faced with the view of so much traffic competing for the roadway I found myself wondering how we would get anywhere. But then, I realized that there is a system – that in fact there exists a well defined rule to order the flow of traffic – namely the vehicle with the most momentum and loudest horn has the right of way. All other vehicles yield in order of descending momentum and horn volume.

Slow truck ahead? No problem. Just lay on the horn, swerve into the other lane (yes the one full of oncoming traffic) and gun it. That sedan headed straight for us at sixty k? No problem. It’ll move. Rickshaws in the road? A few cows? A little courtesy toot should do. Don’t bother with the brakes, they’ll move… Things do get interesting when two vehicles of comparable momentum and horn volume find themselves barreling in opposite directions down the same lane while the other lane is occupied by a slow moving truck, three rickshaws, and a motorcycle.

Thankfully there is a system here too. In every bus there is a copilot whose job it is to ride in the leading doorway on the left side of the bus and holler warning information to the driver and to persons outside the bus. The louder the copilot yells, the more relevant his comment to the safety of the intended audience. Faced with the situation of two vehicles of comparable momentum (say our bus and another bus) careening towards each other, the copilot will yell, “Oy, rickshaw!” to the driver, then “OY OY OY!!!” with his head out the window to the rickshaw. The driver continues to lay on the horn and the gas. When he’s passed the truck (and both buses are maybe three meters from utter mutual annihilation), the driver begins his swerve back into the other lane - the rickshaws had better be gone by now! The swerve is timed so that the leading right edges of both buses pas within about two feet of each other. In the rare circumstance when the oncoming vehicle actually had to apply some brake, this distance is reduced to six inches or so.

In employing these rules for efficient motorized travel, it is important to remember a few points that may be counter intuitive to some bideshis. First, just because the vehicle is designed to be driven on the left side of the road doesn’t mean you should restrict yourself to only half the road. Oh no. Efficient travel requires the whole thing. Second, just because it isn’t paved doesn’t mean you can’t drive there. Road too narrow? Use the gravel shoulder (never mind that it’s only three feet wide and there’s a twenty foot drop to the rice paddy below). Third, remember the road signs have been put there for the amusement of those passengers wishing to engage in a little missile-hurling practice. Signs should therefore bear no relevance whatsoever to any decision made by the driver.

With these things in mind one can see that, not only is it possible to travel the congested roadways of Bangladesh, it can be a downright exciting way to spend the day!

Sidr Cow Update

2007-12-27T04:14:00.001-08:00

According to Sheri McFadden, Bidehi 1's mother and this couple's secretary/treasurer, the Sidr Cow Fund has done quite well in its short history - thanks so much to all of you who contributed! Here's a list of some of our benefactors, and we had a few generous 'anonymous' donors as well....

David Boyd
Mr. & Mrs. Cedarburg
Dick and Sharlene Hamilton
Women's Surface Creek Saddle Club
Jessie McFadden
Donna Ames
Darlene Johnson
LuAnn Lundberg
Best of the West 4-H club
Zach and Kara Gergely
Joe and Jeri McFadden
Jessica Koehler

(If I missed your name, or if you see yours listed and would prefer to be anonymous, please let me know and I'll update accordingly...)

Thanks so much for helping to make this happen! According to our current tally, the fund has just over $400 in it - which should be plenty for a cow, and will leave some left over for other cyclone relief, too. We're hoping to use the leftover money to fund a Habitat for Humanity building trip later in the spring, though details are still up in the air.

We haven't told the family the news yet - we plan to surprise them with it in a few days. Ben and I will be traveling to their village in Gopalgonj to celebrate New Year's with them. Because we'll need their help to coordinate the actual purchase, we unfortunately won't be able to just present them with a healthy cow... apparently the issues of purchase and transportation are pretty complicated. But we'd like to go with them and take pictures to document the event for all of you, so stay tuned and we'll let you know how things turn out.

Thanks again for all your support - you've made us very happy and very proud of our communities!

“Common Sense” and Manners

2007-12-27T03:35:00.000-08:00

The past couple of days Bideshi 1 and I have been remarking on what a cultural phenomenon “common sense” is. At home it is not uncommon for people to appeal to “common sense” to justify a certain practice. For example, if you want to keep a swimming pool clean you don’t jump into it with your clothes on, or if a stranger in a big city asks for your phone number you don’t give it, or if you want to borrow a cooking pan from your new neighbor you knock on the door and introduce yourself first, or if you want a wound to heal you keep it out of the dirt. For most Americans above age ten these things are simply “common sense.”

However, the fact that I have to qualify this statement to include Americans “above age ten” illustrates that these customs are in fact learned. In Bangladesh where the education is different and the prevailing religion is different and the family living situation is different and the houses are different and the streets are different and the cars and plants and animals are different – where every blasted thing is different! – it should be no surprise that what we think of as “common sense” really doesn’t apply. Yet Jen and I are regularly perplexed, humored, and even offended by actions that contradict our “commons sense” notions. I’m sure it goes both ways. What seems like “common sense” to us probably seems completely bassackwards or even rude at times to the locals.

A case in point: the other evening we were boarding a bus with our friend Karen in order to return to Dhaka from Cox’s Bazaar. The bus was leaving at 9:30 p.m. We would be spending the night on the bus and arriving in Dhaka at dawn. The bus was like a typical Grey Hound with two rows of two seats separated by an isle. We had purchased three seats, two next to each other and a third window seat right across the aisle. When we sat down, Jen and I sat next to each other and Karen took the window seat across the aisle. To the three of us this seemed like a perfectly “common sense” arrangement. Let Jen and I have the benefit of each others’ shoulders for the night and let the third wheel have her own window seat.

But the steward on the bus noted the arrangement and pointed out that a man would likely sit next to Karen. Yes, Karen was aware of that. There was an awkward pause. Again the man says, but a man might sit there, pointing to the empty seat next to Karen. Yes… are you saying you would like me to move? Confusion ensues. Jen, who is next to the window on the other side, can’t hear what the steward is saying and thinks Karen wants to move. But Karen doesn’t want to move. She’s traveled the world alone for years and is perfectly comfortable, but the steward can’t seem accept that Karen doesn’t want to move. I understand the situation, but can’t get any words out in either Bangla or English to explain to anyone else. The problem is that our behavior is violating the steward’s “common sense.” No respectable woman in her right mind would choose to sit next to a male stranger for an overnight bus ride when she could instead be sitting next to a female friend – it just doesn’t make sense! Eventually Jen and Karen succeed in ignoring the steward and manage to sort things out in English. We all stayed put (and as luck would have it, the seat next to Karen remained empty for the better part of the trip).

The differences in “common sense” are even more evident in any situation involving personal privacy. Personal privacy doesn’t exist here – at least not as we construct it in the U.S. Consequently the culturally appropriate “manners” for respecting someone else’s privacy are quite different. It is quite common for neighbors, acquaintances, and even total strangers to just walk into our house. Typically people have some business to conduct –newspaper or milk to deliver, trash to pick up, pots and pans to borrow or return – but rather than knock politely and wait for someone to answer, they just barge right on in. The thought that maybe we’re in bed or in the shower or eating breakfast in our underwear doesn’t seem to occur to them. And why would it? Here, people sleep in their clothes, usually in a bed full of other relatives. There’s nothing private about sleeping. Since you don’t sleep unclothed you wouldn’t be eating breakfast half-dressed. So why knock? Everyone should be ready to deal with company any time.

Once inside, people don’t usually conduct business and leave straight away. Given half a chance, they tend to wander aimlessly through the apartment, peering into corners and snooping in a manner that drives the two Americans crazy. Perhaps if we spoke better Bangla they would put more effort into making conversation. As it is they often just wander past one or the other of us to wherever curiosity takes them. I’m not sure, but I suspect that the snooping is not actually considered typical polite behavior. But people just can’t seem to help themselves when faced with the intriguing prospect of exploring a Bideshi’s household.

Initially we felt rude throwing them out (after all we really shouldn’t have to explain…common sense?) but as time goes on we’re getting better at it. Just this morning Jen, very straight faced and sternly, told a young woman that she expected her to knock before entering, yes we will eat (there seems to be genuine concern that we don’t eat properly), and do you need anything else at this time. No? Well then let me walk you to the door…

By this point, the astute reader is probably wondering why we don’t just lock the damn door!? Well, in fact, we do. However, in any given household in our building there are enough people that someone is always home. So someone always knows when we are home. So even if we lock the door to prevent people from just walking right in, they will bang on the door until we come open it. If we ignore the first 30 seconds of banging, they just bang harder and maybe give a shout. It seems not to cross anyone’s mind that we might not want to come to the door. Or perhaps we are just being incredibly rude by ignoring them – they know we’re here, for crying out loud!

I can feel my character building at an alarming rate…

Five Rolls of Toilet Paper, a Haircut, and a Shave

2007-12-16T06:22:00.000-08:00

I got my first haircut in Bangladesh today. Today is Victory Day, a national holiday commemorating Bangladesh’s victory over Pakistan back in 1971, and a popular day for haircuts by all appearances. The first barber shop I went to had all three chairs full and a line of people waiting. When I came looking for a trim they waived me on down the street to the next shop. There, there were also three chairs full and some people waiting, but they told me to go ahead and take a seat to wait my turn. That gave me a chance to take in the scene a little.

In the first chair was a teenage boy. Next to him was an older man getting a haircut and beard trim. In the last chair was another kid. The older man was the first to finish up and I watched carefully to see what he paid. One of the chief concerns anytime I do something new is the question of what to pay? I know a hair cut here should be fairly inexpensive. But what does that mean? Our friend Donny recently went for a haircut and received a haircut + shave + facial. The process took a painstaking 2 hours to complete -way more than he had anticipated. Afterwords the hairstylist declined to state a price. He just asked Donny to pay what he thought it was worth. That’s always the worst. Donny gave 200 Taka. He later checked with Sujit, the cook, about the price. Sujit said it was a little high, but not ridiculous. That was in upscale Baridhara. Here in Rajabajar I was expecting to pay 100-150. The old man gave 30 Taka. Hmmm, glad I saw that.

Next to draw my attention was the teenage boy in the first chair. When the stylist was just about finished - at the point where they ask, “is everything okay?” – he didn’t ask the boy, he asked the boy’s friend (brother? cousin?). The cut looked fine but the friend found something to be critical over. So the stylist took a few more inconsequential snips at the boy’s head before pronouncing him finished and waiving me to take his seat.

As I was sitting there getting the towel wrapped around my neck and water splashed on my head, I continued to watch in the mirror as the two boys finished their transaction. I couldn’t follow most what was being said, but I did understand the numbers. The boy who’d received the cut was silent while his friend did the talking. He kept saying, “something something 20 something something.” To which the guy running the shop replied, “no something 30 something something something.” Apparently they were disputing the price of the other kid’s haircut. The argument gained volume. The man pushed the kid into a chair. The kid stood up. The argument continued. They took it out into the street. More shouting. Is this going to come to blows? They moved out of my line of sight. Quieter now…eventually the shop manager came back in - incident apparently over. Okay, I definitely have to pay more than 20.

Apparently unfazed by the drama, the stylist went to work on my hair giving it a nice trim. Then he splashed water on my face and put some yellow face cream all over it. Then he put some lotion over my stubble, then some shaving cream, and out came the straight razor – Yikes! It was my first experience being shaved by a tool that could cut my nose clean off (or slit my throat) if put to the task. The thought was somewhat disconcerting. I also have a bit of a cold, which made the process even less comfortable. My main concern was trying not to cough anytime the blade was in contact with my face. Thankfully, the stylist was a skilled man and apparently harbored me no ill will. I survived both rounds (he shaved me twice) unscathed.

When the time came, I asked the price. “Sixty,” he said in English. Apparently the facial and extra shave is worth the price of a haircut. Or it’s just another example of the “bideshi dam.” Either way, the price (less than a dollar) was fine with me. I, somewhat guiltily explained that I only had a 500 Taka note to pay with, and could he make change? Yes, of course. He passed the bill down to the shop manager who asked how much? Someone else said “ponchash” or “fifty” and the manager set to digging up enough change. Another customer said, “pach-sho diYe” (500 he has given you!) and rolled his eyes in disgust. The manager, unfazed, handed me 450 Taka in change. I could have made out like a bandit with the extra 10 Taka and everyone would have been happy enough (for all I know the stylist meant 50 but got his English confused), but I went ahead and handed back 10 Taka to assuage my guilt at having paid with a 500. It was received without comment.

One the way home I stopped at one of the local convenience shops – there are about 3 on every block – for some toilet paper. I said to the clerk (in Bangla) that I would take 5 rolls of toilet paper. He looked at me rather blankly and with a delayed reaction said (also in Bangla) “five?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Now?” he said, “you will take five rolls of toilet paper?”
There was a pause. I’m waiting for him to hand me the toilet paper. But he’s just standing there staring at me. Hmm, maybe his statement was a statement not a question. Maybe he just told me to take five rolls of toilet paper out of that sack hanging on the wall. I take the sack down off the wall, pulling the nail it was hanging from out with it (oops), and start fumbling with the knot to get at the toilet paper. The man sticks out his hand. I hand him the sack. He opens it and pulls out five rolls, stacking them in plain view.
“Five?” he says, pointing to the rolls.
“Yes.” I say. Why is this hard? Surely language is not this issue this time. I guess no one ever buys five rolls of toilet paper at one time.
“What’s the price?”
“sixty-five”

Five rolls of toilet paper cost more that a haircut and a shave… I pay and walk away.

A Christmas Wish: A Cow for a Sidr-Struck Family

2007-12-11T12:22:00.000-08:00

December in Bangladesh doesn’t feel much like the holiday season at all – especially since the news here is still full of tragic stories about Cyclone Sidr. My friend and research assistant Shakil was telling me about a conversation he had with a rickshawallah the other day. He asked the rickshawallah where he was from, and he said "Borisal" (one of the provinces hit especially hard). Shakil asked whether his family was okay, and the guy said that of his immediate family, eleven people were killed – and they were all men. Sons, brothers, uncles. They were all out on a fishing boat miles from shore - even if they'd had a motorboat, it would have taken them 12 hours to get back after hearing the warnings. But they didn't have a motorboat - just a rowboat. And now it is a family of widows and orphans. The rickshawallah said his youngest son called him from their village and said, "Baba, we have no rice. We're catching shrimp and throwing them into a fire and eating them - it's all we have. Baba, please send money." So the rickshawallah sold one of his two rickshaws for 5000 taka - about 80 dollars, much less than it was worth. And later that day he was planning to sell the second one. That means no income in the future, but it will at least buy his family some rice.

Also affected, though to a less traumatic degree, is a family who adopted me during my first summer in Bangladesh. This family has been so kind to me in the year and a half since I met them; they have been my best Bangla teachers and my first glimpse of real Bangladeshi life. And they have done all this despite their many problems: lack of a job for the two men in the house, lack of husbands for two of the daughters, lack of money generally. They, like so many others, are trying to make ends meet in Dhaka – but they’re barely scraping by. Two summers ago I visited their village home with them for several days, and it was the best experience I’ve had so far in Bangladesh, sharing their food and their entertainment and their talk. They were so proud of their village compound, with its main house built of sturdy brick and its bamboo outbuildings. In one of the bamboo and tin sheds lived the family’s prized possessions – a dairy cow and her calf. The cow produced over 4 liters of milk a day, which provided the village family members with an ongoing source of income – meager (at about $0.50 per liter, or $2 per day) but dependable. In addition, they could sell her calves. She was a very valuable member of their family.

Like so much of the livestock in rural Bangladesh, she was killed in the cyclone last month.

Ben and I talked about how we might be able to help this family. We knew that it wouldn’t be feasible to purchase a cow for them – our budget is comfortable enough, but it doesn’t cover sudden relatively large expenses, such as the $200 - $350 it would cost to buy a cow at this time of year. (Prices are especially high because the second Eid is coming, a festival that commemorates Abraham’s sacrifice with ritual livestock slaughter.) But we thought it might be a worthy cause to bring to our friends and family – if those of you who are able could make small donations to our Christmas Cow Fund (even just $5 or $10), it shouldn’t take too long to come up with enough cash to fund a dairy cow. On a large scale, it doesn’t even make a dent, of course – Sidr left so many dead, injured, homeless… but on a very small scale, for this one particular family, it could mean some income again and a return to a basic level of security. And it’s a way for people to connect in a personal way in the face of an otherwise anonymous disaster on the other side of the world.

If you’re interested in contributing a small amount to this little grassroots holiday project, we’ve asked the McFadden parents to handle processing of checks (made out to Jennifer McFadden or Ben Lamm, or both) or cash. They should be sent c/o Sheri McFadden, 19795 2325 Rd., Cedaredge, CO 81413. My mom will keep a running tally of the funds, and I can post updates on the running total as we hear back from people (and please let us know if you’d be willing to let us thank you by name on this blog!). If we can manage to collect more than the amount needed for a single cow, we think we can find other ways to use the money to help Sidr victims. We have been in touch with Habitat for Humanity Bangladesh about helping reconstruct housing later in the spring, and there are lots of other fund drives happening in various places throughout Dhaka. We’ll find a way to put it to good use – and of course we’ll keep you updated with pictures and blog posts throughout the process. We hope to hear from some of you! (Email us at jenniferlamm at gmail.com or ben_lamm at hotmail.com if you have questions, comments or suggestions - about this or anything else!)

Our New Digs

2007-12-10T22:11:00.000-08:00

After two weeks of Internet problems and another week of post-moving-in chaos, we can finally send an update: we’ve settled into our new home. Various adventures and misadventures have ensued over the course of the last few weeks, which Bideshi 2 has chronicled. (The latest of these is the installation yesterday of our new hot water heater in the bathroom. The guys from the shop came expecting a 20-30 minute process involving installing the 15-gallon heater in its space, connecting some pipes, and plugging the thing in. They ended up staying here for about 7 hours, drilling and chipping and hammering away at the brick walls in which our bathroom plumbing is apparently embedded. They had to put in a new electrical box, extra long pipe fixtures, and who knows what else. But the good news is that the operation was successful, and we can now have a warm shower any time we want!)

Ben and I are very happy with this arrangement. The flat is ridiculously large for a couple, especially in Bangladesh – it would normally house a good-sized extended family with its three large bedrooms and two bathrooms, a sitting room and a dining room. Tuni and Clay had the glass divider removed that separated living and dining spaces, to the main space is open – usually Bangladeshi apartments are arranged in a sequence of boxes with lots of doors, like the mouse-mazes from Psych 101. But this place is comfortable and breezy, with windows on all four sides. The large window in the sitting room looks out onto the tops of three coconut palms, with clusters of green fruits like oversized grapes. From my seat on the sofa (recycled from a retired ship dismantled in the Chittagong wrecking yards, Tuni told me), I can see the balconies of neighboring apartments, where buwas (housemaids) in their mismatching colors hang laundry, sweep, fill and empty buckets. There are very few cars in the narrow winding strets of this neighborhood, but there are lots of rickshaws dinging their bright bells, and feri-wallahs selling fish or chickens or spinach or pots and pans and towels – whatever ware they have, they carry on their heads or in their hands, and with their voices loud and strong and tense they call out to the apartments: oi, murghi! (Hey! Chickens!) We buy our milk from one of them; the sweet doorman Tajul introduced him to us and explained in his Mymensingh dialect (among many other things I didn’t understand) that he will come every day, and we will pay him once a month based on our own reckoning. The milk is delicious, especially after a month of consuming powdered substitute.

I can hear all kinds of snippets of our neighbors’ lives – when they are sweeping or pounding laundry or putting away the dishes, the chink of silverware, the clack of plates stacked. The crows make a great ruckus all day long, and hundreds of other twitters and croaks and caws come in through our open windows. The temperature here now is delightful: December is the start of the “cold” season, which menas something in the neighborhood of 70-75 degrees. (Outside people have started wearing shawls, knit hats – even scarves wrapped around their heads!) It is such a blessed change from summer and the sweltering heavy heat of borsa. Monsoon. We will have two or three months of beautiful weather before the wave of hot dry still air settles in March or so.

This apartment building is a small one, with just five flats. The landlord and his wife, their three-year-old sone, and two younger brothers live on the top floor; we are on the fourth. I haven’t met anyone of the lower floors yet, though I caught a few people staring at us through cracked doors when we moved in. In the garage on the ground floor lives Tajul the doorman (darwan in Bangla) and his wife Rashida, who is the landlords’ buwa and who will help us with sweeping and laundry three times a week. Their youngest son, ten-year-old Shohagh, lives with them and keeps an eye on his little nephew, Shadin, who is three and as adorable as any three-year-old I’ve ever seen. They think we are great fun, and come visit us every day and bang on my tabla drums. They’d like to play with the computer, too, but they do as they’re told - they don’t touch. They just watch, eyes as big as saucers. Rashida is worried about our eating habits; she sends up big plates of rice with little dishes of vegetables every few days, and over the last weekend she asked us to eat dinner with them in their little room in the garage. They live in virtual squalor down there, with hardly any possessions of their own and no money to buy fish or meat, but they are wonderful hosts. Rashida served us rice cakes with bitter mustard, and rice with yellow dal, and we ate until we thought we’d burst. Such is Bengali hospitality – most clearly demonstrated by those who have the least to share!

Tales from the Rickshaw Part 3

2007-12-10T03:39:00.000-08:00

The other day Bideshi 1 and I were out grocery shopping at one of the few “supermarkets” that is comparable to an American supermarket at a local mall called Riffles Square. We loaded up on expensive convenience foods and approximation western goods for when we don’t feel like trying to make real food out of exotic (or at least unfamiliar) ingredients. We left the supermarket with a couple of sacks of groceries and hired a rickshaw to drive us home. We are new to the neighborhood and don’t really know all the variations on how to get from point A to point B, and we’re also not super competent Bangla speakers, which makes asking directions a little difficult. (I’m sure those readers who have traveled in foreign lands are familiar with the experience of asking a perfectly clear question and understanding absolutely nothing of the answer…) Usually we’re able to tell the rickshaw walla where we want to go and he will either say he can take us there or he can’t. So far, we have always ended up where we wanted to go…eventually.

We told this particular rickshaw walla to take us to West Rajabajar, Indira Road, which is where we live. He tilts his head to the side with the subtle gesture that indicates he can get us there. The journey is complicated by the fact that between Riffles Square and West Rajabajar is Mirpor Road. Mirpor Road is one of the biggest roads in Dhaka and rickshaws are typically not allowed to cross – although maybe sometimes in some places they are able to. When those times are, I doubt anyone could accurately describe. Anyway, we board the rickshaw and get under way. I glance at my watch in order to be able to pay our standard fare of 1 Taka per minute. If we take a reasonably direct route, I know it should take 15-20 minutes.

The journey is tortuous, the buildings are tall and box us in, and the sky is a uniform smog grey. After about ten minutes I don’t know what direction we’re headed, only that I have never been here before and that by this point we should be near Mirpur Road, which is nowhere to be seen. We get to a big road, Green Road, take a left, travel a ways, reach another big intersection, and stop to wait for the traffic light to change (a rare occurrence – the stopping and waiting that is). I ask the rickshaw walla where Indira Road is. He points straight across the intersection. Can rickshaws go on Indira Road, I ask. This is a somewhat stupid question, because I see rickshaws on Indira Road outside our house all the time. No, he says. The light changes and we proceed through the intersection and take a left. Where are we going, I ask. He doesn’t answer. Jen asks the question. West Rajabajar, he replies somewhat annoyed. He’s obviously thinking, “just where you told me to go dumbass.” Jen says, our house is on Indira Road. Indira Road? You want to go to Indira Road? Yes we say. House eighty-eight-by-one Indira Road, Jen says in English (meaning that our house is number 88/1 on Indira Road). He turns around.

Now we’re heading the wrong way on a divided street. Yeehaw! We get back to the big intersection and turn left (which would have been straight across from where we were previously stopped) go a little way and then break off into the narrow side streets. We take some rights, some lefts, and get good and turned around. At this point it’s pretty clear that the rickshaw walla doesn’t have the faintest idea where we are relative to house 88/1 Indira Road. He stops and asks for directions, “basha eight-by-one Indira Road kothay?” No, eighty-eight-by-one kothay, Jen corrects. The men across the street point up the road. Okay, good, we must be on the right track. We go to the next intersection. The rickshaw walla stops again to ask directions, “basha eight-by-one Indira Road kothay?” No, eighty-eight-by-one kothay, Jen corrects. The men across the street point left. We go left. This scenario repeats four or five times – not incredibly confidence inspiring. The rickshaw walla keeps telling us “no stress, no stress.” Finally Jen recognizes a sign (hurray for reading in Bangla!). We are just a few blocks from home, and getting the rest of the way there is no problem.

We get off the rickshaw in our driveway. I look at the watch. Shoot. In all the fuss I’ve forgotten what time we got on, but I think probably 30 minutes ago, maybe 40. I give him 30 Taka. He’s not happy. He wants 100 Taka. This is ridiculous. A rickshaw fare is never 100 Taka. Jen tells him so. He sticks to his guns. 100 Taka! No way, we start to walk away. He follows us into the gated garage. He and Jen are now arguing at high volume. I take the groceries upstairs figuring he’ll leave soon enough. Four floors up I can still hear them arguing. I go back down. The rickshaw walla is pleading his case to the doorman and his family. I don’t understand a word of what he’s saying, but I imagine that it goes something like these stupid foreigners hired me to bring them to West Rajabajar then changed their mind when I was half way there. They didn’t know where they were going and made me drive all over kingdom come. Now they won’t even pay me a decent fare for my trouble. Meanwhile, Jen is saying we’re foreigners, we’re new to this area, we don’t always know the shortest way to go. That’s your job. Don’t think we’ll give you 100 Taka just because you took us the long way round.

Finally Jen says, if I give you another 10 Taka will you leave? The rickshaw walla says 20. Jen pushes a ten Taka note into his hand. At this point I’m just tired of the scene we’ve created. So I take the rickshaw walla by the shoulders. He’s surprised. His eyes pop open like a deer in the headlights and he shuts up for a second. I turn him gently around, push him out the door, and close the gate. He gets on his rickshaw and rolls down the driveway, stopping at the end to talk to the man standing there. I wonder if he is asking directions or deriding the cheating, cheap-ass bideshis that live in house number 88/1 - both probably.

Inside the garage Rashida, the doorman’s wife, is asking what we paid the rickshaw walla. Too much Jen says. Where did you come from she says? Riffles Square we tell her. Should be 15 Taka she says. We gave 40, Jen says. Oooh, bideshi dam (price), she says.

Fifteen minutes later Jen is in tears. She’s replaying the events in her head. One-hundred Taka he wanted. That’s one dollar and forty-three cents. For us that is next to nothing. Why didn’t we just give it to him? She feels terrible. But at the time, money was not the issue. The fact is, a rickshaw fare is never 100 Taka. He was trying to take advantage of us. Asking for 100 Taka is an insult. That’s why Jen was mad.

In retrospect it seems so trivial, so petty. How could it matter to us when the price is so low either way? But it does matter. He was out of line. It is not his place in the world to follow a customer into the garage and ask for more money. From our perspective as Americans to perpetuate that sort of class division seems wrong and unjust, but here to allow a rickshaw walla to charge you 100 Taka, to actually pay him that much, is to display your social incompetence. Not that we retained much dignity in the end. As it turned out, I’m sure we put our social incompetence on broad display by having a shouting match with him. Sometimes it’s just hard to get it right.

No Thank You

2007-12-09T00:39:00.000-08:00

One of the strange things for a bideshi in Bangladesh is the fact that Bengalis almost never say “thank you.” It’s not that they just don’t say “please” or “thank you.” They don’t even have the words. They do sometimes say “dhonnobad” (which translates as “thank you”) if you pay them a compliment or give them money or do some other favor. But it is a stronger word than the “thank you” we use in English. In day-to-day transactions there is no “please” or “thank you” (or “excuse me” for that matter, though occasionally someone will say that in English). Even to a rube like me, the lack of “please” and “thank you” rubs me the wrong way when it catches me off guard. Today, for example, we have some guys installing a hot water heater in a little crawl space above our bathroom. When I got home from class they were working up there with only two sputtering little candles to see by. Having done a fair amount of similar work in the past, I am sympathetic to the need to have good light to work by. So I figured out a way to rig up an incandescent bulb in the crawl space. The workers adjusted their tool bag so that it wasn’t blocking the light and kept right on working without saying a thing. Rude right? No, just the way it’s done around here. Out in the street it’s even more pronounced. People are all the time bumping into each other, pushing each other out of the way, etc. and no one says anything. The fact is though, if you said “excuse me” every time you brushed shoulders with someone, you’d never say anything else. So maybe there is method to the madness…

A Real Live Snake Charmer

2007-12-04T20:42:00.000-08:00

A few days before Thanksgiving, a traveling snake charmer was passing through our neighborhood in Baridhara, calling out to the apartment buildings as he went along. Lucky me, I just happened to be making my way home from a day in the markets as he was walking past. I didn't know what he was selling at first - he carried a bamboo pole across his shoulders with a cloth bundle tied to each end. But as he walked and called, he stopped and played a few notes on a strange-sounding bulbous flute. It reminded me of a clarinet with a head cold. One of the security guards on duty told me he was a "Shapkhela" - which literally means "snake player." And so I decided that this was something Ben and I had to see. After the usual price negotiations, we invited him into the cool shade of the garage, where he unpacked his bundles: three lidded baskets. In one were two cobras, in another some kind of viper, and in the third a skinny green milk snake. Of course the batteries in our video camera hadn't been charged, but Ben managed to get a few minutes of video using our little Sony camera. See for yourselves! (But folks living in godforsaken parts of the country where high speed internet is still unavailable might want to try their local libraries or educational institutions - the video might not play well on a dial-up connection...)

Thanksgiving in Dhaka

2007-12-04T04:15:00.000-08:00

We spent Thanksgiving here much as we would have in the states, cooking food, socializing, eating food, socializing, eating more food, etc. The party was held at our new friend Kristin's apartment in Gulshan. Kristin is a former Fulbrighter who has stayed on in order build an "eco-resort" tourist destination in southern Bangladesh that she hopes will draw ex-pats out of Dhaka and give them a chance to experience the country away from the city. Kristin likes to entertain (note how the flowers match the table cloth which matches the chairs) but doesn't really cook much. So she envited her friends over to help with the preparations. We baked some pumpkin pies and supervised the roasting of the turkey. Tuni and Clay made mashed potatoes and "orange fluff." Kristin put together a green bean casserole and Jen whipped up some stuffing out of a box. The chief difficulty in preparing the meal was the fact that the numbers on the temperature dial on Kristin's oven bear no correlation to the actual temperature in the oven. So we were forced to use the somewhat low tech stick-your-arm-in-and-see-if-its-hot method of temperature monitoring. Consequently, the turkey took about 2 hours longer to cook than expected. Gee, that's never happened before...

The food was all yummy. The Americans ate plenty. The Deshies ate less. Watching the six-year-old daughter of one of Kristin's friends pick gingerly at the food on her plate we realized, "oh yeah, kids don't like weird food, and this food is weird to them." We had cooked for twenty Americans and so had lots of left-overs. That's all right with me, though, 'cause I love pumpkin pie.

Masala Cha - Try it at home!

2007-11-20T04:52:00.000-08:00

Tea is one of my favorite things about this place. Tea is everywhere. Everyone drinks it. You are not strange and eccentric if you like tea here; it is something that a normal human being is supposed to like. It is the default beverage at all gatherings and social functions. When you go to someone’s house, the first thing they do is offer you tea, which you are obliged to drink, regardless of your actual preferences. (Coffee, on the other hand, is regarded as something strange and eccentric – which is not surprising, given that “coffee” in this country means Instant Nescafe.)

I am something of a tea snob at home. I like loose tea – my favorite is single-estate Assam tea, TGFOP, which I take strong, with milk. (Shameless plug: if you’re curious, check out Hajua Assam Tea at www.SpecialTeas.com, along with the rest of their fabulous inventory. You name it, they’ve got it. And they ship quickly, too!) I haven’t found any Assam tea here, but Bangladesh is home to several large tea gardens of its own, and although they export their best stuff, the tea they sell in bags (the Bangladeshi version of Lipton’s) is excellent. When you buy it on the street at one of the myriad tea stalls, it’s fixed with a healthy dose of sweetened condensed milk and a couple spoonfuls of sugar for good measure. (All this in a demitasse the size of an espresso cup.) Generally sweetened tea makes my teeth hurt and my head ache, so I avoid the sugar if I can.

But there’s one exception: masala cha, or what we know as chai in the US – served sweet, with plenty of milk. The “masala” (pronounced here kind of like “moshla”) means “spiced”, and despite what Starbucks has led us to believe, chai does not really come out of a box. In fact, it’s much better if you make it at home, the ‘real’ way – which is what Ben and I decided to do recently. We thought we’d share our recipe and let you figure out how to improve upon it.

We took a trip into the bazaar at Gulshan to purchase our spices – we visited one of the dry goods vendors who’s come to recognize me. The place is called Iqbal’s Store, and the guy who runs it has been working in the same place for 24 years. I’m getting to know the vendors pretty well – did some recording there the other day, as a matter of fact, and got to watch them in action. Their store is the most popular one around, if traffic is any indicator. But anyway. We bought all our spices from them; they helped us sort out what we needed and gave us little vocab lessons along the way. We picked up a bunch of cloves, whole black peppercorns, stick cinnamon, ginger, bay leaves and cardamom pods (the total cost came to 76 taka – just over a buck, for spices of much better quality than you’d usually get in the US, and in much larger quantities... and all cleverly wrapped in recycled paper and magazine pages!), took them home to our little 2-burner propane stove and brewed up a very overspiced pot of tea. We toned down the cloves and peppercorns quite a bit and tried some different proportions. The magic numbers for an acceptable 3-4 person pot of tea turned out to be in the 4 or 5 range. But try them out and mess with them, and once you’ve got it mastered, let us know…

Boil together in a pot with plenty of (potable) water:

4-5 whole cloves
4-5 whole black peppercorns
4-5 whole cardamom pods
1 bay leaf
thinly sliced fresh ginger (start with – you guessed it - 4 or 5 paper-thin slices; more to your liking)
lots of stick cinnamon (at least one whole stick; more to your liking)

After a few minutes of moderate boiling, you can go ahead and add tea – loose (e.g. English breakfast) or bag tea (yes, even Lipton’s!) both work; you’ll have to strain the tea either way. I'd recommend using at least 3 bags or three healthy teaspoons of loose tea for a 3-4 person pot – the milk will weaken the brew. Once it’s brewed strong enough for your liking, lower the heat and add milk (not skim!) – about ½ the quantity of water seems to work well. Get the whole mixture nice and hot, strain it, and serve immediately. You can either pre-sweeten while it’s still over the heat, or serve unsweetened and pass around the sugar bowl. Yumminess!

More Bazaar Pics

2007-11-20T04:13:00.001-08:00

Cow Brains and Salty Fish Paste

2007-11-18T05:43:00.000-08:00

Last night I ate cow brains. Or rather, last night I had a small (teaspoon size maybe) taste of cow brains.

Jen and I spent the morning wandering around New Market – probably the largest market/bazaar in Dhaka. Jen’s research partner, Shakil, took us down to show us around and help Jen get her bearings for the thesis project. The market is full of riveting spectacles – live catfish flopping black and slimy for a last gasp or three of water in shallow trays, all the critical organs of several goats suspended by their esophagi attached to a wire a la clothes hanging out to dry, a pile of heads from said goats lying beneath on the wooden butcher stall floor, some old dude whittling small fish into fish-chips with a two foot blade, dry salted fishies of all sizes suspended and stinking from the ceiling, a room full of chickens and chicken parts that smelled so foul we only dared the most furtive of glances in its direction…All the while as we wander about and gawk, the locals gawk back. We are followed the entire time by a small gaggle of children, “mintis” who first want us to pay them to carry our groceries, and when they realize we’re not actually buying anything, then just to be near the spectacle we continually create. At Jen’s urging, I work up the courage to take out the camera – much to everyone’s delight. All the fish dudes want me to take their picture. Then the butcher sees what’s going on and poses for me, holding open the carcass of one of his goats so I can see the fine quality of the meat he’s selling. Some men laugh and talk rapidly. Jen and I look quizzically at Shakil. Oh, they’re just saying how happy they are to have their picture taken by a good looking American, he reports. Cool…

After the market experience, Jen and I part ways with Shakil and go over to Dhanmundi to meet our new friends Tuni and Clay for lunch. We spend the rest of the afternoon running errands with them, stop briefly by their apartment for tea, meet our soon-to-be-new internet providers (twiddlebuggs they call themselves), and then head out to catch the first screening of a film that one of their friends recently made.

After the film, which was preceded by no fewer than six speeches (in Bangla) and which was low budget and loud and also in Bangla (and so not an incredibly great experience for me), we went out to dinner with Tuni and Clay and some of their friends.

The restaurant caters mostly to students. So it was nice and cheap. The meal consisted of lots of small dishes, some vegetables, meats, fishes, etc. that you mix with rice and eat with your hands. As we ate I took note of the dishes I liked and those I didn’t. On the good list: bitter gourd and spices (kind of sour), potatoes and peppers, okra (definitely slimy), mashed potatoes, green banana, green beans, spinach. On the bad list: small fishies, salty fish paste (made from the suspended and stinking fish mentioned earlier)…oh, and cow brains.

Actually the cow brains weren’t so bad. They were ordered at Clay’s request. (Clay, by the way, is a tall read headed dude from Memphis Tennessee who talks about as much as I do and at about the same rate but with a slightly more noticeable southern drawl). He referred to them simply as “a brain fry.” When they arrived I took a teaspoon size helping, mixed it with ample rice, and popped it into my mouth. The flavor was like any mystery meat (think hotdog or spam), the texture soft (what did you expect?) and vaguely chalky (that was a surprise). Well, what do you think Clay asked? Not bad, I replied, I might even eat more if I didn’t know it was brains.

Reason Number 376 Why it Sucks to be a Rickshawalla

2007-11-18T05:28:00.001-08:00

The other day Jen and I decided to go out for dinner. This is not unusual. We’ve been sampling the local restaurants with considerable frequency. There’s an excellent Thai restaurant halfway between Gulshan 1 and Gulshan 2. Right next door is a Chinese place that makes excellent soup but lousy tofu. Some blocks away is a Korean restaurant that ranks among Jen’s favorites. For cheaper eats there is an assortment of Bengali restaurants. The unifying theme in all of these is rice - rice and oil.

The other night, partly in an effort to avoid rice and oil and partly just to satisfy our curiosity, we decided to try the local Pizza Hut. We both recalled seeing a Pizza Hut somewhere in the vicinity of Gulshan 1. In fact both of us were pretty convinced that it was somewhere near the Thai place between the two Gulshans. Donny, another Fulbrighter, claimed that it was south of Gulshan 1, which was at odds with my recollection. The point is we didn’t know exactly where we were going. Which, of course, makes it a little more difficult to get there.

Our transportation options typically consist of either a rickshaw (three wheeled human powered vehicle) or a CNG (three wheeled compressed natural gas powered vehicle). Rickshaws are cheaper, quieter, less smelly, and generally nicer. However, they are restricted from traveling on certain big roads except for at certain times. And there always seems to be some confusion about what roads and what times those are. This past Saturday there was some rickshaw traffic between on the big road between Gulshan 1 and Gulshan 2. So we decided to try our luck and hired a rickshaw to take us toward Gulshan 1.

Traffic was moving along nicely until we came to an intersection where a police officer was waving the rickshaws off the main road. Unbidden by us, our rickshawalla tried to plead his case with the police officer, pointing to the white people on his rickshaw. No exceptions! We were forced to take the side road. Normally this would be fine, except this time we didn’t really know where we were going. So we didn’t know how far down the main road we needed to go before getting off.

The rickshawalla took us around the block and back to the main road. O.k. fine, we probably didn’t miss it yet. We continue down the main road. Ahead there is another cop at an intersection waving the rickshaws off the main road. This time our rickshawalla doesn’t stop in time to make the turn. The police officer yells at him. The rickshawalla pleads his case pointing to his bideshi cargo. No exceptions! But this time we have to turn around a full 180 degrees in order to get back to the side road. The rickshawalla dismounts to make the turn. But he’s not moving fast enough, apparently, because the angry police officer comes over and WHACK! WHACK! with his baton, hits him on the butt. That was totally unnecessary, but Jen and I are both speechless. Nothing comes to mind fast enough to say in the rickshawalla’s defense.

Having turned around, we continue several more blocks down side roads. At this point it seems there’s a fair chance we’ve missed our desired destination. So we take the next opportunity to get back on the main road and dismount. We give the rickshawalla 50 taka (nearly twice the normal rate) for his trouble. That amounts to about 74 cents, and he’s totally psyched.

The story is basically over at this point. We walked back the way we had come until it was obvious that we hadn’t missed the Pizza Hut yet. Then we turned around and walked the other direction until we got to Gulshan 1. Still no Pizza Hut, Donny must be right. At this point we were hungry and tired of stumbling up and down the dark and muddy streets (the power was out in lots of places on account of the storm the night before). So we decided to stick with the familiar – Thai rice and oil.

Post-Cyclone

2007-11-18T05:04:00.000-08:00

First of all: Ben and I are fine. Safe and healthy, and as of today our power and Internet are both up – so we can finally contact all our friends and family and let them know we’re okay.

We’d heard word from the State Department that a cyclone was on its way – I have to give them credit; they really do look after their own. So we were prepared for a day or two of no electricity and minor inconveniences. The storm hit Dhaka on the 15th, after we had just finished watching a pirated copy of the movie “Ratatouille” (great fun, except it makes you crave French bread and soft cheese and mushrooms like crazy – none of which are really available here). The wind started to pick up, a sudden crescendo from a dull rumble to a terrifying scream. It beat against the windows so hard I was sure they would shatter under its pressure. Our laundry had been drying on the balcony clothesline before the storm; at about 11:00 I remembered it and got up from bed to see if it was still there. Miraculously, it was – but several socks had fallen to the floor, and the T-shirts were knotted around themselves on the line. With the wind and rain roaring around us we went outside, fiddled with the clothespins, brought in the things that looked most likely to fly away, went back to bed. I lay awake, tossing and turning for a long time – such an awful, heart-wrenching sound, that wind. Then at about 1:30, clever me, I remembered that I had brought along some earplugs. Stuffed them into my ears and slept like a baby.

We woke Friday morning to quiet grayness. Nothing looked particularly amiss – there was no power, but since we are rich and privileged bideshis, we have a generator wired to our ceiling fans and to a few switches and outlets in each room – so we didn’t even have to suffer darkness. The day was cool and drizzly, and we spent most of it inside until we got restless late in the afternoon. The world of the Diplomatic Enclave didn’t look much different – a lot of branches and sludge piled along the sides of the streets, trees with recent wounds, here and there a young one uprooted. The area around Gulshan was dark – no electricity in anyplace without a generator – but our favorite Thai place was open, and we were even able to do a little evening-time marketing. Life as usual, mostly.

It wasn’t until today – Sunday – that I was able to get information on how bad the cyclone actually was. We don’t currently get a newspaper, and all our news comes via our little electronic boxes. So today, with Internet service working at last, I went straight to NPR’s news website. And o what a terrible wrath the storm hath wrought. More than 1700 counted dead so far in the southern part of the country, and many of the small villages are inaccessible to relief workers, so there’s no telling how many more will be found. Hundreds of thousands of refugees – people whose homes were nothing more than a few corrugated tin sheets and bamboo poles, and whose worldly possessions were some baskets of rice and lentils, woven cane sleeping mats, a water jug, a few colorful saris, perhaps a radio. Outside some chickens, a boat and a fishing net. It is so little. It is so much.

And here I sit, typing away on my little electronic box, in the comfort of my air-conditioned three-bedroom concrete flat, far away in the Diplomatic Enclave where all the bideshis live. And soon our dinner will be ready, and our cook will come to the door and knock softly, and we will eat until we are full and he will clean up the mess, and we will go peacefully to sleep, and all around us nothing will be different.

Brick Hauling, Deshi Style

2007-11-12T03:20:00.001-08:00

I’ve been taking language classes at the HEED Language Center in Banani, another local neighborhood. This morning as I was waiting for my teacher to arrive, I was looking out the window watching some workers hauling bricks in the building next door. The workers were boys who looked to be in their late teens or early twenties, and they were carrying the bricks up to the 6^th or 7^th floor of the building. They do this by stacking a load of bricks onto a tray on their heads. Starting with an empty tray on a cloth pad on his head, a worker will grab a brick in each hand, reach up, and put them on the tray. He repeats this until he has 15-20 bricks on the tray. Then he stands up and carries the bricks up one flight of stairs. On the landing he’s met by another worker with an empty tray. The second worker sets down the empty tray and the two workers lean toward each other in order to pass the loaded tray from one head to the other. Then the two workers bump chests in a wave-like-motion pushing off each other to help the newly laden worker get his body under the tray. The second worker carries the loaded tray slowly up the next flight of stairs while the first goes down with the empty tray for another load. The process repeats until the bricks reach their destination. I don’t know how long their shifts last, but in the 10 minutes I was watching they must have carried 15 loads. There’s no need for them to hit the gym on the way home from work, that’s for sure.

How to draw a crowd in Dhaka in 2.5 seconds or less

2007-11-09T23:34:00.000-08:00

Buying sweets was Ben's idea. Earlier in the day he had passed several vendors selling assorted candies by the side of the road, but he didn't have any small change at the time so his curiosity went unsatisfied. But when we found ourselves with nothing better to do on Thursday afternoon, he suggested that we go back to Bonani and do some reconnaisance.

Most of the vendors had cleared out by the time we arrived, but one tenacious seller remained, calling out to passers-by and waving off the flies that flitted and buzzed around his wares.

"Eigulo ki?" I said to him - "what are these?"

He grinned. "Sweets."

"What are their names?"

I pointed and he recited.

"Wait, I want to write these down. One minute." I fished my little notebook out of my bag. "Will you say them again?"

He dictated once more.

"Bagami." He pointed to a little pile of what looked like (and turned out to be) peanut brittle. In my notebook, with my best Bangla handwriting, I wrote "ba ga mi." The vendor regarded me with something between awe and glee.

He pointed to a mound of rock candy.

"Tal mishti."

I wrote this, too, and looked up when I'd finished to find that at least five or six men who'd been walking by had stopped to watch and were now craning their necks toward my notebook.

"And that?" I pointed to a chunk of candied fruit.

"Moroba."

I scrawled. The crowd grew.

"And this here?"

"Shondesh."

Completely self-conscious now, I closed my notebook and looked up to find no fewer than a dozen men gathered around us.

"Thanks," I said. "How much for one of each?"

"Thirty taka."

"I'll give you twenty," I said, and the bystanders chuckled. The vendor gave a sideways head-nod and a grin, and we waved and went on our way, munching, as the crowd dispersed behind us.

The Problem of Space

2007-11-08T01:00:00.000-08:00

Bangladeshis do not have the same perception of personal space that Americans do. Yesterday evening Bideshi 1 and I had some time to kill in Gulshan 2 while waiting for Tuni and Clay (the fulbrighter couple whose apartment we will be taking over in December) to meet us for dinner. Jen likes pretty fabric. So we went into a nice sari store to browse. Inside the store we were greeted with a polite nod from a salesman. No words were exchanged. Jen and I started to browse. We took a few steps down one aisle. About six feet back, the salesman took a few steps in our direction. Jen stroked some saris and exclaimed over the colors and the workmanship. I glanced nervously over my shoulder. The salesman smiled and nodded. We took a few steps further down the aisle. The salesman took a few steps behind us. Jen fondled some more pretty fabric - Oh isn’t this lovely - Look at the embroidery – Can you believe that this is all hand made, fishing for some response from me. I cast more furtive glances behind me at the salesman. Why is he following us? He hasn’t said anything. Does he speak English? Can he follow our conversation? I wish he would just go back to the counter or something. Jen turns down another aisle. I follow. The salesman follows six feet behind. This is really starting to bug me. Jen exclaims over more fabric. Grumpy now and preoccupied, I don’t respond. She says, o look this is Georgette. The salesman says that is muslin this here is Georgette. So he does speak English and he is listening to our conversation. Aaaaaa now I’m really uncomfortable. Jen notices my sour face. What’s the matter? Do you want to leave? Are you unhappy here? This is her big fear. That I will be unhappy here and that somehow I’ll blame her. This is fine, I say. Damn that damn salesman. Why won’t he leave us alone? Why does it bother me? It shouldn’t bother me. He’s there to be helpful, to answer our questions. He’s happy to have us in his shop. Arrg, I just wish he would stop following me. After a twenty minute eternity I finally admit to Jen that I’d like to leave. We exit the shop back out into the hustle and bustle and stench of the street. Let’s go to Coffee Eleven and wait there for Tuni and Clay, I suggest. Coffee Eleven is a chique little coffee shop that could be in any college town in America. The setting is familiar and comforting. I order a latté and feel the tension slip away.

Bideshi 1 checks in

2007-11-06T22:12:00.000-08:00

I figured it was finally time for Bideshi 1 to get going on this blog thing – so here we go.
Bangladesh.
Where to begin?
This is my third trip to Dhaka, and I have spent enough time here by now that what I see is mostly what I expect to see. The haze, the lush green, the bright colors of the rickshaws and their drivers and passengers, the markets full of all sorts of produce and carcasses, the brick-breaking and hauling, the gimcracked shanties and jerry-rigged electrical wiring. It is a noisy chaos: endless blaring of horns, ringing of bells, calls of beggars and children, loud salaams as neighbors greet one another in the streets; as we walk past Bangladeshi men, we inevitably hear small choruses of “helohwaryu.” The shirtless children are a little more hip – they chirp ‘hi’ and beam thousand-watt smiles at us.
We are a spectacle. Ben with his green eyes, me with my short, rather unkempt hair and un-made-up face. The weather is cool enough that I can wear jeans fairly comfortably, but while I prefer them infinitely to the huge baggy cotton pants of salwaar kameez, I feel conspicuous wearing them in public. I’ve seen only a few of the most elite, modern, wealthy Bangladeshi women wearing jeans – so it feels like wearing a signboard that says “HEY! Check this out! I am rich, liberal, and SEXY!” But jeans will only be an option for a few months out of the year – I plan to wear them while I can. I wear the long top without too much complaint, and of course the obligatory orna – the wide scarf-shawl worn to cover a woman’s chest. So all in all, I’m probably marginally respectable (at least as far as a western woman is concerned).
We walk side by side and talk as we go. Sometimes I want to reach for his hand, because he’s my husband and because I’m happy to have him beside me – but I don’t, because men and women do not hold hands here. Not unless they are hiding in the shadowed groves of a public park, in which case the rule seems not to apply – they can hold hands and flirt and sit with their thighs touching and be generally scandalous. So I suppose if Ben and I really wanted to hold hands, we could search out a place to do it – but it just seems easier to resist the urge and go home instead.
Home right now is the same apartment where I’ve spent that last two summers: a vast echoing 3-bedroom cavern in the diplomatic enclave of northern Dhaka. Two other Fulbrighters are occupying the other two bedrooms. Ours is as comfortable as we could make it under the circumstances – over the summer I acquired a floor mat, a rug, a collection of floor pillows, a little glass-topped coffee table (which I actually had made to order – an excellent language-learning exercise, since it involved not only giving specs in Bangla, but calling to change the order once I’d submitted it. It turned out quite nicely, and I am inordinately proud of it.). My set of tabla drums is in one corner, and there’s a nice bright spread on our lumpy bed. Overall, quite homey. Our arrangement here is a temporary boarding-house sort of deal; we have a cook who keeps track of our meals and costs, and we pay him whenever it’s time for more groceries. Our food so far has been edible, but it contains so much oil that I can’t bear to eat it more than once a day – but restaurants are cheap, so as my guts adjust we can find lots of other alternatives. So far we’re making do just fine.
But we are very much looking forward to a time when we’ll have a kitchen of our very own, and a cozy living room where we can stretch out and relax. We’ve found the perfect place – a large apartment in central Dhaka, in a place called Rajabazaar. It’s currently occupied by another married couple – also Fulbrighters – who will be moving out at the beginning of December and who will be able to pass on all their appliances and furniture to boot. The place is fantastic, with a beautiful view of some coconut trees from the living room, windows in every room, balconies off each of the three bedrooms (Ben and I can each have our own Playroom!), in a pretty neighborhood that is 100% authentic Bangladeshi. (As opposed to the diplomatic enclave, that is – which I estimate to be between 0 and 5% authentic Bangladeshi.) The kitchen is small but adequate, and we’ll have a refrigerator and cookstove (no oven). Internet is already sorted out, as are other conveniences such as newspaper and fresh milk delivery. Besides that, it’s in a great situation for my research – just a short walk to several markets of various types and sizes. We’re already counting down the days till we can move in – just three weeks and some change until Dec. 1, when we can start cooking for ourselves!
Which, come to think of it, will be a bit of an adventure – I know next to nothing about the various fruits and vegetables in the bazaar, and there are scads of kinds of rice and lentils to choose from. And the spices! And the dried fish! And the live fish! So perhaps our readership can help us out. I propose that once we’re settled in the new place, B and I should initiate a weekly Market Challenge, in which we provide a photograph and a name of a particular foodstuff, and Our Dear Readers can send us suggestions for what to do with it. Results will be duly reported. (We suggest this in honor of our friends the SpokaFocas, whose Use-It-Or-Lose-It Challenge has produced some very tasty meals.) But speaking of food – I think Sujit, our kindly cook, has an oily and heavily spiced lunch ready for us. I’ll go slurp it down, followed immediately by another dose of Ranitidine - which already looks like it will be an indispensable wonder-drug over the next 3+ weeks!

What to Pay a Rickshawalla?

2007-11-06T08:10:00.000-08:00

In the two days that we’ve been here we’ve hired six or eight rickshawallas to give us rides into Gulshan 2, the perpetual traffic jam/market area where most of the Baridhara neighborhood residents do their shopping. The ride one way takes 10-15 minutes during which some 80 lb bean pole of a Bangladeshi is pumping the pedals for all he’s worth while dodging oncoming cars and busses and rickshaws and soldiers with guns and trying not to fall into the crater sized potholes in the pavement or run over the beggar with his elephantitis afflicted legs sticking out into the street or get to close to the reeking heap of garbage with the little kid picking through it. When we reach our destination the inevitable question arises, what do we pay him? What is the ride worth? The going rate seems to be about 10 taka. That’s what Sujit our housekeeper or Shakil Jen’s language teacher/assistant would pay, which amounts to approximately 14 cents. But what if there are two people on the rickshaw? Or three? Should you pay more? How much more? What if you change your mind about where you’re going partway through the ride and cause the rickshawalla to take a slightly longer route than he would have chosen? Taking all these things into consideration we’ve paid anywhere from 10-60 taka. Every time we pay, the rickshawalla looks at us like we’ve just broken his balls. How could we give him so little? He had to take us the long way round, he got hassled by a cop on our behalf for taking an illegal shortcut, the ride was sooo long… Each time I feel his pain. He does have it hard. Harder than Jen or I will likely ever be able to relate to. Neither of us would work so hard for so little. But if the going rate is 10 taka, are we displaying our social incompetence by paying more? Shakil told us this afternoon, “never pay more than fifteen.” Fifteen is an awkward number for us. We have 10’s and 20’s but no 5’s yet. So we’ve basically settled on 20 taka per ride or 1.4 cents per minute per person.

We've Arrived

2007-11-06T08:09:00.000-08:00

We’ve arrived. The journey here was uneventful and from my perspective not even very painful since I managed to sleep through most of both long flights. We were met at the airport by a guy named Hasan from the U.S. embassy who took us through customs. We got to use the short line for special people and made it through in record time. All of our checked luggage including the guitar arrived intact and without delay. Even the trip from the airport to the IUB apartment in Baridhara was hassle free since it was about 3:00 a.m. local time and the streets were mostly empty.

Heads of State

2007-10-31T07:36:00.000-07:00

Bideshi 2 writes –

Here it is T minus 42 hours and change until departure and I’m concerned because today on the train to the National Gallery to see the Edward Hopper exhibit, the Examiner (a freebee paper which I found lying on the seat) brought to my attention the fact that I did not know who Nicolas Sarkozy was. I exposed my ignorance to Bideshi 1 and she graciously explained that he was the president of France and was getting divorced. This led me to examine the recesses of my brain for the names of other foreign politicians that a worldly, educated cultural ambassador of the United States ought to know. Who is the president of Germany I asked myself? No answer. Britain? Tony Blair? No that’s not right, he was ousted for being too buddy-buddy with our genius head honcho. Who’s his replacement? No answer. At this point I’m starting to get nervous. Canada? Drawing a blank. If my mother were dead, she’d be rolling in her grave with shame …

So in the interest of postponing the display of my American ignorance at least two rounds in an exchange of small talk I decided that I should learn the names of six or eight foreign heads of state. Here goes:

Nicolas Sarkozy, France

Angela Merkel, Germany

Gordon Brown, United Kingdom

Stephen Harper, Canada

Felipe Calderon, Mexico

Yasuo Fukuda, Japan

Hu Jintao, China

Manmohan Singh, India

Fakhruddin Ahmed, Bangladesh (technically a stand-in until they actually elect someone)

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iran (actually, I knew this one already)

Nuri Al-Maliki, Iraq

Kim Yong Il, North Korea (knew that one too)

Roh Moo-hyun, South Korea (at least until December)

Okay that’s a start anyway. The fact is though (it now occurs to me) in Bangladesh I’ll hardly be able to talk to anyone, not knowing the language and all. So no matter how many heads of state I know, they’ll still think I’m an idiot…So it goes when you’re a Bideshi, I reckon.