I’ve never been good at transitions. And a transition that feels like stepping back? Harder still.
There are things, obviously, about Australia that I love and am ridiculously grateful for. In these uncertain financial times, I’m very glad to have been able to return to my old job (and salary). I love my car and the freedom that offers. My beautiful new house and glorious back deck. The amazing Thai restaurant around the corner. Being an Aunt and wondering at the incredible joys of parenthood..
Life is so easy when you have family and friends around, when you can wear what you like, say what you like, go where you like, when the biggest decision facing me at midday is sushi or salad? When I’m not covered head to foot in sweat 24/7.
However, I’ve returned to Australia (48 hours before returning to work) with a suitcase full of dirty sandals, salwar kameez, hippy skirts and singlets. Not much in there that says “communication professional”.
So…shopping. First stop: trousers. Cue. Sales assistant hands me a pair - size 8. I put them on. I do them up. I stare at myself in shock and delight. I buy them. At work the next day, sat down, size 8 seems like a FUCKING STUPID IDEA. Second stop: shoes. Flats because we’re just gonna take this one step at a time. A matter of hours later, heels covered in blisters.
So, it has come to this. A year in a developing country and I’m incapable of buying myself decent fitting trousers or shoes. Worst still, I don’t know what is fashionable, what looks good on me, what colour complements my complexion. And, I realise furiously, I DON’T CARE.
What upsets me in Bangladesh? The naked child sitting in the road crying, alone.
What upsets me in Australia? Ill-fitting clothing.
It’s superficial and it’s meaningless. And the realisation only compounds my frustration.
This is the third symptom of reverse culture shock.
1. Disengagement – wrapping things up, planning the return home
2. Initial europhia – that first coffee.
3. Irritability and hostility – FUCK this superficiality.
4. Readjustment and adaptation – falling back into old routines.
I hope that fourth stage isn’t too far off.
Because right now?
I miss seeing the cheeky smile jump onto Bilal’s face when I returned home from work every afternoon, asking ‘bhalo acho Casey apa?’ He looked so stern when we first met him but his big grin quickly became an everyday comfort. The last person I said goodbye to.
I miss going into the field and hearing people’s stories. Seeing the struggle in their eyes. The deep lines in the women’s faces. The calluses on the men’s hands. The sagging in their bodies. The resilience of character. The hardness that has long since replaced any real hope for a better life. Hearing how desperately they need our help. Knowing how much more there is yet to be done. They inspire me to tell their stories and give me a reason to hope for change.
I miss the giggles and pokes and laughter of the children, even in the most desperate of situations. The way they’ll grab at my hands and pull me down to whisper in my ear. The way the younger ones will hide behind their mothers, eyeing me coyly, wondering what this strange florescent woman wants? The way the adolescents ask me to sing. To practice my Bangla with them. To ask me how I really feel about their country?
I miss being the only bideshi in the office who lives this side of town, who catches a rickshaw on her own to work every day.
I miss dinner time at home with Matt and knowing that on the down days we’ll make a tuna mash. I miss the nights he’d get out his guitar and I’d pretend to read. I miss our morning breakfasts on the balcony watching the men in their lunghis across the road wash from a bucket of dirty water. And our afternoon debriefs, with a stiff drink and cheeky cigarette, on the roof as the sunset.
I miss weekends at the Aussie club. Weekend breakfasts with James. The five-star quality of a night-in with Tarek. The many, many amazing people I've met and great friends I’ve made.
I miss it because I look at the photos and remember it like another lifetime. Like a dream.
So I’m ready for this stage to pass, for acceptance to creep in. But I love the passion and creativity that Bangladesh has inspired. And I know the key to settling back in to Ozzie life is to find something that brings that to my life… Any suggestions?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Bittersweet goodbyes
In Bangladesh we don’t say ‘goodbye’. Instead we say ‘abar dehka hobe’ (see you soon).
So, it is with tears in my eyes and a strangled voice that I tell my colleagues that I will see them soon, although I know I won’t and I leave my new and incredible friends and this life behind because today I leave Bangladesh for the sunny shores of Australia.
There are many things about Bangladesh that I will miss. I’ve made friendships here that are truly special and I’m incredibly sad to leave these people behind, but I have to hope we’ll stay in touch and will see each other again.
A special and truly heartfelt thanks to Clancy, Rach, LJ, Nat, Tarek, Muraly, Nadith, Denis, James and Shilpi Ma. You guys in particular have made this year so much more rewarding and remarkable.
I’ve learnt huge amounts about myself, what I’m capable of and what I’m not, about who I am and what I want, about development and aid, about the world, about religion, faith and spirituality, and most importantly I’ve learnt that chasing your dreams can only lead you in the right direction.
I don’t know what comes next. But after this incredible year, whatever it is, I know I can deal with it.
Abar dehka hobe Bangladesh. Ami tomra bhalobasha.
So, it is with tears in my eyes and a strangled voice that I tell my colleagues that I will see them soon, although I know I won’t and I leave my new and incredible friends and this life behind because today I leave Bangladesh for the sunny shores of Australia.
There are many things about Bangladesh that I will miss. I’ve made friendships here that are truly special and I’m incredibly sad to leave these people behind, but I have to hope we’ll stay in touch and will see each other again.
A special and truly heartfelt thanks to Clancy, Rach, LJ, Nat, Tarek, Muraly, Nadith, Denis, James and Shilpi Ma. You guys in particular have made this year so much more rewarding and remarkable.
I’ve learnt huge amounts about myself, what I’m capable of and what I’m not, about who I am and what I want, about development and aid, about the world, about religion, faith and spirituality, and most importantly I’ve learnt that chasing your dreams can only lead you in the right direction.
I don’t know what comes next. But after this incredible year, whatever it is, I know I can deal with it.
Abar dehka hobe Bangladesh. Ami tomra bhalobasha.
Love poetry and mortality
I’m a volunteer and I’m a backpacker. This couldn’t have been more obvious when I left Muraly and Tarek at the Kolkata International Airport VIP lounge to take my budget airlines flight to Delhi. Dressed in blazers, polo necks and freshly pressed trousers, they were boarding Business Class to Mumbai and staying in a five star suite during fashion week. I was frizzy haired without a spot of makeup, in an old salwar kameez, with a backpack and headed to the dirty, sweaty, smelly backstreets of Old Delhi.
Trying desperately to suppress an overwhelming desire to go with them, to have that sort of holiday, I spotted a guy who looked to be embarking a similar holiday as me. We shared a knowing look and polite smile. We got chatting while we waited for our bags in Delhi and decided to share a taxi into town. We exchanged email addresses and agreed to meet up later in the week.
Delhi, Old Delhi in particular where I was staying with Matt and Kate, is a buzzing metropolis of people, rickshaws, trucks, bicycles, cows, chickens and chaos. It was hot, dirty and smelly – not unlike Bangladesh. A tourist mecca, there was plenty to see and do during my six days in Delhi.
I met up with Matt and Kate for breakfast the next morning before hitting Karol Bagh where Matt did some serious shopping, we had lunch at a restaurant deploring drink driving (CSR hits India!), went barefoot in the grass at the Red Fort, and had dinner (including sangria and beers!) at a Mexican restaurant (complete with cowboy hats and boots) in Connaught Place.
On Sunday, while Matt and Kate attended the conference they’d come to Delhi for, I hit the highlights of Delhi – Jama Masjid, Ghandi Memorial and Museum, Humayan’s Tomb, India Gate, Parliament House and Lakshmi Temple (wow!). Desperate for a beer I headed to the nearest bar where I fell into conversation with an Indian male model (as you do). Ali works for L’Oreal and said he’d like to take me to Paradise. Really. You can’t make this stuff up. However, by ‘paradise’ he meant Lodi Gardens – which was rather lovely and peaceful and green and full of cute squirrels.
That night Matt, Kate and I went for dinner at Karim’s (one of the best Indian restaurants in South Asia, apparently) where I discovered the Bangladesh’s salad of cucumber, carrot and onion slices with some chilli’s is actually quite impressive.
The following day, while Matt and Kate were on their day trip to Agra, I met up with the nameless Aussie backpacker from the airport. We headed south to visit Lotus Temple, but got sidetracked at a bar along the way where we confessed secrets over a lunch of burgers and Fosters. The beer buzz killed disappointment that Lotus Temple was closed and we instead headed to Humayan’s Tomb and then Connaught Place for Happy Hour! Keen to see for himself the Cowboys at Rodeo, we downed several more beers and cocktails, took some silly photos, confessed more secrets and hopped along to the next bar, where we downed some more beers, took some silly photos and, feeling like old friends, bonded over our backpacks, transient lifestyles, searches for love, hope and something extraordinary, and he confessed to having found out just two weeks earlier that he is HIV+…
WHAM!
Like a punch in the guts, it was a sobering revelation. One that he is still reeling from and trying to accept. I offered all the support and encouragement I could while struggling to deal with such a stark reminder of my own mortality and how scarily little I actually know about HIV and AIDS.
When we parted that night – him to seek spiritual peace in Rishikesh and me in search of cocktails and felafel in Kathmandu – we were more than two backpackers whose paths had randomly crossed....we shared a bond and hope.
The following day, lost in a melancholy of my own, I wandered around the markets and wrote a lot in my diary. I couldn’t get him out of my mind, the panic, the uncertainty, the inability to process it, to know what to do next. I think of him often, hope he is okay, that he is finding the peace he was looking for in India. I am grateful to him for confiding in me and reminding me that HIV is a real and present danger. I hope our paths cross again.
Wednesday I arranged a trip to Agra. The young guide picked me up from the hotel and off we went, a Hindi tape of pop songs playing at full volume all the way to Agra – except when he’d turn it down slightly to tell me about his girlfriend and other sexual exploits (I preferred the music at full volume).
It was lovely to get out of Delhi, where like in Bangladesh, it doesn’t take much driving to feel like you’ve escaped the city. We zoomed (very fast) past little villages and dhabas (road side cafes) on the five hour trip to Agra, via Mathura and a temple that marks the birthplace of Krishna.
The Taj Mahal is humbling in its size and majesty. Built by a Mughal Emporer Shah Jahan for his ‘favorite’ wife Mumtaz Mahal who died giving birth to their 14th (!!) child, the white-domed mausoleum combines elements of Persian, Indian and Islamic architectural styles. That’s a high standard as far as romantic gestures go.
I spent a few hours wandering around the Taj Mahal grounds (which also includes a mosque and a museum and lovely gardens) before tracking down my ‘guide’ (who wasn’t proving information on anything other than other forms of romantic expression). He took me to a marble dealer where I helped line his pockets with commission (but I will have a lovely table to show for it). The drive back to Delhi was torturous beyond belief. Clearly my driver has no problem listening to the same four songs, at full volume on repeat for seven hours. I’d have preferred his trash talk. Nevertheless, I survived, but was very ready to board the flight the following day to Kathmandu.
Love in / loving Kathmandu
I love Kathmandu but the next time I go to Nepal I really need to venture further out – Matt and Rach’s photos of Pokhara and the six day trek they did were amazing. But coming from Dhaka (and in this case also Delhi) a few days of relaxation were all I could manage. I spent the four glorious day shopping, reading, dancing, sleeping and sitting in cafes, drinking great coffee, beer, wine and cocktails, eating pasta, fresh bread and cheese, falafel, cake and a great many other delights.
I went out for coffee with a sweet Nepali boy who worked at one such cafe who I thought had balls for asking. And danced up a storm at a reggae bar with new friends, including one slightly-intense Nepali boy who sat up all night writing me poetry (and has now come to Bangladesh to ‘return my hair band’...you can’t make this stuff up!)
It was also Clancy’s birthday while we were there (actually, the reason we were there – the wine, cheese, coffee, beer, cake, etc just sweetened the deal) so Rach, Lisa & Graham, Simon & Bron, Jez & Nicole, Matt & Kate and I celebrated with him at La Dolce Vita, over wine and antipasti. Happy birthday Matty!
I wasn’t ready to leave Kathmandu, but I was ready to return to Dhaka, to my last few days at UNICEF, to pack up my life and say my goodbyes.
Trying desperately to suppress an overwhelming desire to go with them, to have that sort of holiday, I spotted a guy who looked to be embarking a similar holiday as me. We shared a knowing look and polite smile. We got chatting while we waited for our bags in Delhi and decided to share a taxi into town. We exchanged email addresses and agreed to meet up later in the week.
Delhi, Old Delhi in particular where I was staying with Matt and Kate, is a buzzing metropolis of people, rickshaws, trucks, bicycles, cows, chickens and chaos. It was hot, dirty and smelly – not unlike Bangladesh. A tourist mecca, there was plenty to see and do during my six days in Delhi.
I met up with Matt and Kate for breakfast the next morning before hitting Karol Bagh where Matt did some serious shopping, we had lunch at a restaurant deploring drink driving (CSR hits India!), went barefoot in the grass at the Red Fort, and had dinner (including sangria and beers!) at a Mexican restaurant (complete with cowboy hats and boots) in Connaught Place.
On Sunday, while Matt and Kate attended the conference they’d come to Delhi for, I hit the highlights of Delhi – Jama Masjid, Ghandi Memorial and Museum, Humayan’s Tomb, India Gate, Parliament House and Lakshmi Temple (wow!). Desperate for a beer I headed to the nearest bar where I fell into conversation with an Indian male model (as you do). Ali works for L’Oreal and said he’d like to take me to Paradise. Really. You can’t make this stuff up. However, by ‘paradise’ he meant Lodi Gardens – which was rather lovely and peaceful and green and full of cute squirrels.
That night Matt, Kate and I went for dinner at Karim’s (one of the best Indian restaurants in South Asia, apparently) where I discovered the Bangladesh’s salad of cucumber, carrot and onion slices with some chilli’s is actually quite impressive.
The following day, while Matt and Kate were on their day trip to Agra, I met up with the nameless Aussie backpacker from the airport. We headed south to visit Lotus Temple, but got sidetracked at a bar along the way where we confessed secrets over a lunch of burgers and Fosters. The beer buzz killed disappointment that Lotus Temple was closed and we instead headed to Humayan’s Tomb and then Connaught Place for Happy Hour! Keen to see for himself the Cowboys at Rodeo, we downed several more beers and cocktails, took some silly photos, confessed more secrets and hopped along to the next bar, where we downed some more beers, took some silly photos and, feeling like old friends, bonded over our backpacks, transient lifestyles, searches for love, hope and something extraordinary, and he confessed to having found out just two weeks earlier that he is HIV+…
WHAM!
Like a punch in the guts, it was a sobering revelation. One that he is still reeling from and trying to accept. I offered all the support and encouragement I could while struggling to deal with such a stark reminder of my own mortality and how scarily little I actually know about HIV and AIDS.
When we parted that night – him to seek spiritual peace in Rishikesh and me in search of cocktails and felafel in Kathmandu – we were more than two backpackers whose paths had randomly crossed....we shared a bond and hope.
The following day, lost in a melancholy of my own, I wandered around the markets and wrote a lot in my diary. I couldn’t get him out of my mind, the panic, the uncertainty, the inability to process it, to know what to do next. I think of him often, hope he is okay, that he is finding the peace he was looking for in India. I am grateful to him for confiding in me and reminding me that HIV is a real and present danger. I hope our paths cross again.
Wednesday I arranged a trip to Agra. The young guide picked me up from the hotel and off we went, a Hindi tape of pop songs playing at full volume all the way to Agra – except when he’d turn it down slightly to tell me about his girlfriend and other sexual exploits (I preferred the music at full volume).
It was lovely to get out of Delhi, where like in Bangladesh, it doesn’t take much driving to feel like you’ve escaped the city. We zoomed (very fast) past little villages and dhabas (road side cafes) on the five hour trip to Agra, via Mathura and a temple that marks the birthplace of Krishna.
The Taj Mahal is humbling in its size and majesty. Built by a Mughal Emporer Shah Jahan for his ‘favorite’ wife Mumtaz Mahal who died giving birth to their 14th (!!) child, the white-domed mausoleum combines elements of Persian, Indian and Islamic architectural styles. That’s a high standard as far as romantic gestures go.
I spent a few hours wandering around the Taj Mahal grounds (which also includes a mosque and a museum and lovely gardens) before tracking down my ‘guide’ (who wasn’t proving information on anything other than other forms of romantic expression). He took me to a marble dealer where I helped line his pockets with commission (but I will have a lovely table to show for it). The drive back to Delhi was torturous beyond belief. Clearly my driver has no problem listening to the same four songs, at full volume on repeat for seven hours. I’d have preferred his trash talk. Nevertheless, I survived, but was very ready to board the flight the following day to Kathmandu.
Love in / loving Kathmandu
I love Kathmandu but the next time I go to Nepal I really need to venture further out – Matt and Rach’s photos of Pokhara and the six day trek they did were amazing. But coming from Dhaka (and in this case also Delhi) a few days of relaxation were all I could manage. I spent the four glorious day shopping, reading, dancing, sleeping and sitting in cafes, drinking great coffee, beer, wine and cocktails, eating pasta, fresh bread and cheese, falafel, cake and a great many other delights.
I went out for coffee with a sweet Nepali boy who worked at one such cafe who I thought had balls for asking. And danced up a storm at a reggae bar with new friends, including one slightly-intense Nepali boy who sat up all night writing me poetry (and has now come to Bangladesh to ‘return my hair band’...you can’t make this stuff up!)
It was also Clancy’s birthday while we were there (actually, the reason we were there – the wine, cheese, coffee, beer, cake, etc just sweetened the deal) so Rach, Lisa & Graham, Simon & Bron, Jez & Nicole, Matt & Kate and I celebrated with him at La Dolce Vita, over wine and antipasti. Happy birthday Matty!
I wasn’t ready to leave Kathmandu, but I was ready to return to Dhaka, to my last few days at UNICEF, to pack up my life and say my goodbyes.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A hedonist learns about discipline
I freely admit that self control and discipline are things about which I know little (in the sense that I can apply it to my own life).
I’ve just returned from Delhi and Kathmandu over the Muslim Eid and Hindu Durga Puja holidays. Leading up to this festivity has been Ramadan. Ramadan is a month of fasting from eating, drinking, smoking and indulging in anything that is in excess, including sex, between dawn and sunset, which aims to teach modesty, spirituality and patience. Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and is determined by the phase of the moon. The resilience and determination that this shows is incredibly impressive.
By default I’ve learnt a bit about discipline this Ramadan. Being out in the field often means food hasn’t been available, or I’ve felt far too rude to eat in front of those who are fasting. And dating a charming Muslim has also given me the opportunity to understand the commitment it takes.
During Ramadan work hours are shortened and concessions are made to support those who are fasting. Many shops are closed and road side stalls are curtained off out of respect. The resolve and good humour that my Muslim friends here have shown during Ramadan is truly inspiring.
There isn’t much that I can’t have if I want it badly enough. I’m young, I have every opportunity for happiness, the world is at my feet - I lead a freely, pleasure-seeking, hedonistic lifestyle. I don’t know what it’s like to really go without.
I remember with horror back to Catholic primary school when one day every year we were forced to eat just one cup of boiled rice for lunch as a reminder of the flight of those less fortunate. And boy, have I seen it for myself now. And I occasionally gave up something small and insignificant (like chocolate or swearing – the good Catholic that I am clearly not) for lent, but nothing like the commitment and discipline I’ve witnessed here.
Sadly the days of one cup of boiled rice for lunch are probably long gone with child protection and political correctness as it is (not that this is a bad thing, with health and free will to consider) but I’m glad that I did it, even if it was by force. I see the importance of it, the lesson learned and the discipline it endeavours to inspire. And for this hedonist? It’s a lesson in discipline worth learning.
I’ve just returned from Delhi and Kathmandu over the Muslim Eid and Hindu Durga Puja holidays. Leading up to this festivity has been Ramadan. Ramadan is a month of fasting from eating, drinking, smoking and indulging in anything that is in excess, including sex, between dawn and sunset, which aims to teach modesty, spirituality and patience. Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and is determined by the phase of the moon. The resilience and determination that this shows is incredibly impressive.
By default I’ve learnt a bit about discipline this Ramadan. Being out in the field often means food hasn’t been available, or I’ve felt far too rude to eat in front of those who are fasting. And dating a charming Muslim has also given me the opportunity to understand the commitment it takes.
During Ramadan work hours are shortened and concessions are made to support those who are fasting. Many shops are closed and road side stalls are curtained off out of respect. The resolve and good humour that my Muslim friends here have shown during Ramadan is truly inspiring.
There isn’t much that I can’t have if I want it badly enough. I’m young, I have every opportunity for happiness, the world is at my feet - I lead a freely, pleasure-seeking, hedonistic lifestyle. I don’t know what it’s like to really go without.
I remember with horror back to Catholic primary school when one day every year we were forced to eat just one cup of boiled rice for lunch as a reminder of the flight of those less fortunate. And boy, have I seen it for myself now. And I occasionally gave up something small and insignificant (like chocolate or swearing – the good Catholic that I am clearly not) for lent, but nothing like the commitment and discipline I’ve witnessed here.
Sadly the days of one cup of boiled rice for lunch are probably long gone with child protection and political correctness as it is (not that this is a bad thing, with health and free will to consider) but I’m glad that I did it, even if it was by force. I see the importance of it, the lesson learned and the discipline it endeavours to inspire. And for this hedonist? It’s a lesson in discipline worth learning.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A midget named Taj Mahal
Last week I went on what is most likely my last field trip in Bangladesh. It’s official – I’m leaving. On 8 October at 4.30pm, I am ‘sheshing the desh’. And who knows if I’ll ever be back.
The field trip – to Rajshahi and Rangpur – was exactly the sort of Bangladeshi send off I’d hoped for. The trip invariably included a wealth of culture, amazing people, incredible work and hilarious Bangladeshi moments. The highlight? Hanging out with a midget named Taj Mahal.
I met Taj Mahal through UNICEF’s Adolescent Empowerment project. Through this project, which has proven so successful it is an example of best practice across South Asia, we educate adolescents across the country about their rights (dowry, early marriage, trafficking, child labour, birth registration, HIV/AIDS, etc) so that they then become advocates within their own communities. Through the project 30 adolescents from three regions were selected to participate in a photography training course and thematic exhibition competition. Through Pathshala (Drik Gallery’s photography training arm) the adolescents received training on how to use the digital cameras that UNICEF provided. Besides the technical training they’ve learnt how to take a good photo, considering lighting, framing, composition, etc. Based on the training each adolescent has chosen a theme that impacts their life (child labour, trafficking, disability, etc) and these photos will be submitted for exhibition in Dhaka and around the country.
Farida is one such adolescent I met in Rajshahi. Farida’s father and two sisters are “specially-abled” (dwarves/midgets – sorry, I’m unclear on the politically correct term here). Farida and her mother are “normal”. Although Farida’s father and sisters work (and damn hard) they still suffer prejudice.
In Bangladesh disability is shunned – if you can’t work and contribute to the survival of your family, you are socially excluded. Farida hopes that her photos will help raise awareness and acceptance of people with disabilities in Bangladesh. So we spent a few hours with Farida and Taj in their home, observing Farida taking photographs of Taj as she spends her days – working as a tailor.
Taj at her sewing machine.
Prior to that we’d been across the road from Shuktara’s house where her young neighbours work at a cement business. When there is a contract, the boys (as young as 8) work long hours in midday heat for between 90 and 120taka a day (the younger the boy, the less he is paid) – that’s less than $2 USD.
We also went to Mahfuz’s house to observe him taking photos of a boy who was trafficked to India, but somehow - miraculously - made it home. The boy heard we were coming and hid – clearly untrusting of foreigners with grand intentions.
In between work Topu (the photographer) and I hung out at a great little tea stall chatting to locals, seeing the city by rickshaw, visiting the silk mills famous in that part of the country and watching the sun set over the Padma River (the Ganges where it ends in India). Rajshahi is a town to fall in love with (not in the same sense as Marrakech or London, but on a Bangladeshi scale...), and I did.
Watching the sun set over the Padma.
From there we drove the bumpy road to Rangpur to interview women part of a Mothers Support Group and a UNICEF/Government of Bangladesh project that has seen incredible results in the district - fast approaching MDG goals and breaking down social taboos and gender disparities. It’s a beautiful and inspiring thing.
I have often wondered this year how the naked baby/ toilet thing works. Well, now I know. And, in my opinion, not very well. After the interviews we were photographing Marina, her husband, mother-in-law and baby Munaf. Everyone is posed, straight-faced of course, for the camera. Munaf, content in his mother’s arms, pees. We all laugh, but the family stay put for the photos. And I can’t help but wonder what happens now? In this heat that pee is going to dry quickly. Presumably Marina doesn’t change her sari every time Munaf pees on her. She’d spend the entire day doing washing. This whole scenario disturbs me and I’ve only witnessed a Number 1...
I met a guy at a party last night who works for an INGO here in Dhaka and who is very sceptical of the work undertaken by the UN. I was one of only two UN employees in the room. We were grossly outnumbered but we passionately took up the fight. But the debate is endless. The UN is a massive bureaucratic machine. There is a lot of money to be made in development – UN and NGO alike. But I’ve just returned from a field trip – one of many that has only further reinforced to me the importance of the UN’s place here in Bangladesh.
There are many examples of UN inaction, corruption and impropriety, so there is no denying that improvement is essential. But for all the work that is yet to be done, I know we are improving the lives of men, women and children. I know because I’ve seen it. And I’m proud and grateful to have had this opportunity – I’ve learnt so much, grown as a person, and have found a new meaning and direction in my career. I am inspired to give a voice to those who are silent.
The field trip – to Rajshahi and Rangpur – was exactly the sort of Bangladeshi send off I’d hoped for. The trip invariably included a wealth of culture, amazing people, incredible work and hilarious Bangladeshi moments. The highlight? Hanging out with a midget named Taj Mahal.
I met Taj Mahal through UNICEF’s Adolescent Empowerment project. Through this project, which has proven so successful it is an example of best practice across South Asia, we educate adolescents across the country about their rights (dowry, early marriage, trafficking, child labour, birth registration, HIV/AIDS, etc) so that they then become advocates within their own communities. Through the project 30 adolescents from three regions were selected to participate in a photography training course and thematic exhibition competition. Through Pathshala (Drik Gallery’s photography training arm) the adolescents received training on how to use the digital cameras that UNICEF provided. Besides the technical training they’ve learnt how to take a good photo, considering lighting, framing, composition, etc. Based on the training each adolescent has chosen a theme that impacts their life (child labour, trafficking, disability, etc) and these photos will be submitted for exhibition in Dhaka and around the country.
Farida is one such adolescent I met in Rajshahi. Farida’s father and two sisters are “specially-abled” (dwarves/midgets – sorry, I’m unclear on the politically correct term here). Farida and her mother are “normal”. Although Farida’s father and sisters work (and damn hard) they still suffer prejudice.
In Bangladesh disability is shunned – if you can’t work and contribute to the survival of your family, you are socially excluded. Farida hopes that her photos will help raise awareness and acceptance of people with disabilities in Bangladesh. So we spent a few hours with Farida and Taj in their home, observing Farida taking photographs of Taj as she spends her days – working as a tailor.
Taj at her sewing machine.
Prior to that we’d been across the road from Shuktara’s house where her young neighbours work at a cement business. When there is a contract, the boys (as young as 8) work long hours in midday heat for between 90 and 120taka a day (the younger the boy, the less he is paid) – that’s less than $2 USD.
We also went to Mahfuz’s house to observe him taking photos of a boy who was trafficked to India, but somehow - miraculously - made it home. The boy heard we were coming and hid – clearly untrusting of foreigners with grand intentions.
In between work Topu (the photographer) and I hung out at a great little tea stall chatting to locals, seeing the city by rickshaw, visiting the silk mills famous in that part of the country and watching the sun set over the Padma River (the Ganges where it ends in India). Rajshahi is a town to fall in love with (not in the same sense as Marrakech or London, but on a Bangladeshi scale...), and I did.
Watching the sun set over the Padma.
From there we drove the bumpy road to Rangpur to interview women part of a Mothers Support Group and a UNICEF/Government of Bangladesh project that has seen incredible results in the district - fast approaching MDG goals and breaking down social taboos and gender disparities. It’s a beautiful and inspiring thing.
I have often wondered this year how the naked baby/ toilet thing works. Well, now I know. And, in my opinion, not very well. After the interviews we were photographing Marina, her husband, mother-in-law and baby Munaf. Everyone is posed, straight-faced of course, for the camera. Munaf, content in his mother’s arms, pees. We all laugh, but the family stay put for the photos. And I can’t help but wonder what happens now? In this heat that pee is going to dry quickly. Presumably Marina doesn’t change her sari every time Munaf pees on her. She’d spend the entire day doing washing. This whole scenario disturbs me and I’ve only witnessed a Number 1...
I met a guy at a party last night who works for an INGO here in Dhaka and who is very sceptical of the work undertaken by the UN. I was one of only two UN employees in the room. We were grossly outnumbered but we passionately took up the fight. But the debate is endless. The UN is a massive bureaucratic machine. There is a lot of money to be made in development – UN and NGO alike. But I’ve just returned from a field trip – one of many that has only further reinforced to me the importance of the UN’s place here in Bangladesh.
There are many examples of UN inaction, corruption and impropriety, so there is no denying that improvement is essential. But for all the work that is yet to be done, I know we are improving the lives of men, women and children. I know because I’ve seen it. And I’m proud and grateful to have had this opportunity – I’ve learnt so much, grown as a person, and have found a new meaning and direction in my career. I am inspired to give a voice to those who are silent.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Frustrations in the field
Last week I was working down in Cox’s Bazar learning about UNICEF’s birth registration project in the refugee camps; a new project being implemented by Concern targeting vulnerable children in the district (refugee children as well as children from the host community); and visiting children in jail.
Birth registration is a first and significant step in meeting a child’s rights because it is an official acknowledgement of the child's existence and recognises the child's status before the law. Although most of the 28,000 refugees in the camps are registered with the government (forget about the 200,000 who live outside the camps and suffer far worse State neglect), a birth certificate is an additional measure to ensure their rights are protected. And every child has the right to an identity.
Kids at the unregistered Leda camp at Teknaf
UNICEF has been lobbying the Government of Bangladesh to issue birth certificates to refugees for years. Finally, this year, the Ministry agreed. However, they’ve given us a deadline by which the work needs to be completed – work that UNICEF is supporting (with resources) but that local government need to actually do – and with public opinion of refugees as it is, it’s fair to say that motivation is lacking.
There are many factors that spark debate about the situation of refugees in Bangladesh – whether NGO/UN aid supports reliance instead of livelihood development, growth and sustainability; government reluctance to provide additional support; “forced repatriation” as preferred solution; no legal framework for the protection of refugees in Bangladesh; host community discontent…the list goes on.
However, it is not as though the aid being delivered in Cox’s Bazar is targeted solely at refugees. UNICEF alone has country-wide projects that benefit the host community in Cox’s Bazar, and our district-specific projects aim to be inclusive of and beneficial to all community members. But, for all this complexity, what surprises me most is that for a country so recently and deeply affected by persecution, there seems little concern for the plight of these Burmese refugees.
And, most depressingly of all, this apathy is pervasive within the local government and makes our task here that much harder.
At a meeting with government and judiciary in Cox’s Bazar, in an effort to stimulate cooperation to ensure the release of children currently in Cox’s Bazar jail (children in jail with adults!), we were faced with stubborn, malignant, antiquated beliefs and opinions and undermined at every opportunity.
Bangladesh is a signatory to the Convention on the Rights of the Child, but there is clearly a long way to go before all Bangladeshi children are ensured these rights. UNICEF is working closely with the Government to review the Children Act 1974 and to develop a national child protection system. This is no easy task but changing legislation is only part of the struggle – effecting social and behavioural change in Bangladesh is a long and uphill battle.
Although the CRC stipulates that a ‘child’ is aged up to 18 years, the Bangladeshi Children Act puts that age at 16. Bangladesh is a signatory to the CRC and as an international guideline this should take precedence. But with social norms as they are (high rates of early marriage, child labour, widespread poverty, etc) the reality is far from ideal.
UNICEF’s communication for development strategy is working to effect social and behavioural change in Bangladesh. We are engaging all stakeholders to ensure participation, build capacity, build knowledge and encourage best practices across our education, protection, health and water/sanitation sections.
So it is particularly upsetting when at a meeting with high ranking government officials who have worked with UNICEF for the 60+ years we have been in Bangladesh, some of whom have attended several UNICEF training courses, to get caught up in an debate around whether they are legally obligated to help the six ‘children’ aged between 16 and 18 who were in the jail and without any legal representation. One high ranking gentleman even tried to argue that due to the social and geographical climate in Bangladesh, 14 years should be the legal adult age…I almost had to be held down. Legally? It’s a gray area. But morally?
Equally depressing is the legal black hole that refugees in jail face. If they are not registered (at one of the camps) then UNHCR cannot assist them, Myanmar won’t take them back, and without any legislation around refugees in Bangladesh, their future is uncertain.
From that depressing meeting we went to the jail to visit the children. They were scared, pale faced and abandoned by their families for bringing them shame. One child had been in jail nine months for a small theft. All he needs to secure his release is for his father, a local government officer, to ask. Another child, arrested a year ago, refused to admit to us that he was a refugee, because he knows what that means for his future. None of the six children in Cox’s Bazar jail had, prior to our intervention, legal representation or a chance at release. And no one cared.
UN presence in Bangladesh is not a on-going guarantee. What I can’t help but wonder is what the hell will happen to these children, to these refugees, to the future of this country, if the opinions and actions of those in authority cannot be reasoned with?
Who will protect the children then?
Birth registration is a first and significant step in meeting a child’s rights because it is an official acknowledgement of the child's existence and recognises the child's status before the law. Although most of the 28,000 refugees in the camps are registered with the government (forget about the 200,000 who live outside the camps and suffer far worse State neglect), a birth certificate is an additional measure to ensure their rights are protected. And every child has the right to an identity.
Kids at the unregistered Leda camp at Teknaf
UNICEF has been lobbying the Government of Bangladesh to issue birth certificates to refugees for years. Finally, this year, the Ministry agreed. However, they’ve given us a deadline by which the work needs to be completed – work that UNICEF is supporting (with resources) but that local government need to actually do – and with public opinion of refugees as it is, it’s fair to say that motivation is lacking.
There are many factors that spark debate about the situation of refugees in Bangladesh – whether NGO/UN aid supports reliance instead of livelihood development, growth and sustainability; government reluctance to provide additional support; “forced repatriation” as preferred solution; no legal framework for the protection of refugees in Bangladesh; host community discontent…the list goes on.
However, it is not as though the aid being delivered in Cox’s Bazar is targeted solely at refugees. UNICEF alone has country-wide projects that benefit the host community in Cox’s Bazar, and our district-specific projects aim to be inclusive of and beneficial to all community members. But, for all this complexity, what surprises me most is that for a country so recently and deeply affected by persecution, there seems little concern for the plight of these Burmese refugees.
And, most depressingly of all, this apathy is pervasive within the local government and makes our task here that much harder.
At a meeting with government and judiciary in Cox’s Bazar, in an effort to stimulate cooperation to ensure the release of children currently in Cox’s Bazar jail (children in jail with adults!), we were faced with stubborn, malignant, antiquated beliefs and opinions and undermined at every opportunity.
Bangladesh is a signatory to the Convention on the Rights of the Child, but there is clearly a long way to go before all Bangladeshi children are ensured these rights. UNICEF is working closely with the Government to review the Children Act 1974 and to develop a national child protection system. This is no easy task but changing legislation is only part of the struggle – effecting social and behavioural change in Bangladesh is a long and uphill battle.
Although the CRC stipulates that a ‘child’ is aged up to 18 years, the Bangladeshi Children Act puts that age at 16. Bangladesh is a signatory to the CRC and as an international guideline this should take precedence. But with social norms as they are (high rates of early marriage, child labour, widespread poverty, etc) the reality is far from ideal.
UNICEF’s communication for development strategy is working to effect social and behavioural change in Bangladesh. We are engaging all stakeholders to ensure participation, build capacity, build knowledge and encourage best practices across our education, protection, health and water/sanitation sections.
So it is particularly upsetting when at a meeting with high ranking government officials who have worked with UNICEF for the 60+ years we have been in Bangladesh, some of whom have attended several UNICEF training courses, to get caught up in an debate around whether they are legally obligated to help the six ‘children’ aged between 16 and 18 who were in the jail and without any legal representation. One high ranking gentleman even tried to argue that due to the social and geographical climate in Bangladesh, 14 years should be the legal adult age…I almost had to be held down. Legally? It’s a gray area. But morally?
Equally depressing is the legal black hole that refugees in jail face. If they are not registered (at one of the camps) then UNHCR cannot assist them, Myanmar won’t take them back, and without any legislation around refugees in Bangladesh, their future is uncertain.
From that depressing meeting we went to the jail to visit the children. They were scared, pale faced and abandoned by their families for bringing them shame. One child had been in jail nine months for a small theft. All he needs to secure his release is for his father, a local government officer, to ask. Another child, arrested a year ago, refused to admit to us that he was a refugee, because he knows what that means for his future. None of the six children in Cox’s Bazar jail had, prior to our intervention, legal representation or a chance at release. And no one cared.
UN presence in Bangladesh is not a on-going guarantee. What I can’t help but wonder is what the hell will happen to these children, to these refugees, to the future of this country, if the opinions and actions of those in authority cannot be reasoned with?
Who will protect the children then?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Truce
Men and I, we don’t always get along (see previous post). But I do accept that they aren’t all bastards and in fact I know some pretty cool ones.
Obviously they have a tendency to behave appallingly, but then after a few drinks, I’m no angel either.
So, with this in mind, I’m calling a truce. Because, honestly? I hate men as much as I love them. Which is surely one of life’s greatest cruelties.
As an aside: He apologized in a sufficient form and has therefore been duly forgiven for being an arse.
Obviously they have a tendency to behave appallingly, but then after a few drinks, I’m no angel either.
So, with this in mind, I’m calling a truce. Because, honestly? I hate men as much as I love them. Which is surely one of life’s greatest cruelties.
As an aside: He apologized in a sufficient form and has therefore been duly forgiven for being an arse.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Disappointments
Eventually, the charm wears off. What I’m wondering is if it is actually possible to meet a guy who doesn’t, in the simplest, most basic ways, disappoint?
I’ve just turned 28. That’s 12 years of dating. And 12 years of disappointment – obviously with a few exceptions. I’m always surprised at each new heart break that I managed somehow to dig down and find the optimism to continue the search for love. And right now? I’m fucking tired. How deep does this well of optimism and hope run? When does the well run dry?
Obviously there are the break ups that aren’t really break ups because we weren’t really officially anything to each other. Although we have fun and there is some connection between us, we both know it’s not forever and so I’m not particularly concerned about how and when it ends. That said there is still a level of respect deserved, even within these casual liaisons.
And yet, I’m collating quite a list of incredibly bad behaviour I’ve experienced at the hands of men. Most recent case in point: happily cosy on his couch, when his ex announces she’s coming over. I’ve consulted several people on this and the 100% of those surveyed said it would not be out of line to suggest that the respectful, reasonable solution would involve him telling her, ever so politely, to fuck off. Instead of asking me to leave. Which, clearly put in my place, I did. He won’t have to ask me to leave again*.
If there is a silver lining to the array of bullshit I’ve experienced, it’s that despite a lack of respect some men have for me, I am learning to respect myself enough to say ‘you know what? That’s just fucked. And I don’t deserve to be treated like that’. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Unfortunately there are also the times when your heart gets involved and, let’s face it, the odds of this ending well aren’t high. And there is, sometimes, no one to blame when these things fall apart. There is a delicate balance of time and place and connection and desire for the same things. And, for me, it’s about meeting someone who I can commit to happily, to put away the rucksack (not entirely, obviously) and settle down with.
And somehow, even now when I feel like an old woman I’m so tired of dating, I still have hope.
* Unless he realises he has been a fuckwit and does something disgustingly romantic to make it up to me. In which case, I might take a few weeks to consider this possibility. Maybe.
I’ve just turned 28. That’s 12 years of dating. And 12 years of disappointment – obviously with a few exceptions. I’m always surprised at each new heart break that I managed somehow to dig down and find the optimism to continue the search for love. And right now? I’m fucking tired. How deep does this well of optimism and hope run? When does the well run dry?
Obviously there are the break ups that aren’t really break ups because we weren’t really officially anything to each other. Although we have fun and there is some connection between us, we both know it’s not forever and so I’m not particularly concerned about how and when it ends. That said there is still a level of respect deserved, even within these casual liaisons.
And yet, I’m collating quite a list of incredibly bad behaviour I’ve experienced at the hands of men. Most recent case in point: happily cosy on his couch, when his ex announces she’s coming over. I’ve consulted several people on this and the 100% of those surveyed said it would not be out of line to suggest that the respectful, reasonable solution would involve him telling her, ever so politely, to fuck off. Instead of asking me to leave. Which, clearly put in my place, I did. He won’t have to ask me to leave again*.
If there is a silver lining to the array of bullshit I’ve experienced, it’s that despite a lack of respect some men have for me, I am learning to respect myself enough to say ‘you know what? That’s just fucked. And I don’t deserve to be treated like that’. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Unfortunately there are also the times when your heart gets involved and, let’s face it, the odds of this ending well aren’t high. And there is, sometimes, no one to blame when these things fall apart. There is a delicate balance of time and place and connection and desire for the same things. And, for me, it’s about meeting someone who I can commit to happily, to put away the rucksack (not entirely, obviously) and settle down with.
And somehow, even now when I feel like an old woman I’m so tired of dating, I still have hope.
* Unless he realises he has been a fuckwit and does something disgustingly romantic to make it up to me. In which case, I might take a few weeks to consider this possibility. Maybe.
Settling and resettling
Last week I arrived back in Dhaka after a two week surprise visit home. Where did those two weeks go? They seem to have raced by, creating a rip current of confusion, panic and isolation, but also love, new beginnings and finally (thankfully) acceptance and a readiness for the next chapter of my life to begin.
So much has changed at home and yet none of it seems to reflect the profound change in me. Except for that irrevocable shift that has happened within me, it almost felt as though I’d never left, like my life here in Bangladesh had not existed. Outside of Bangladesh and away from the people I’ve been sharing all this with, it felt as though this massively important thing I’ve done, am doing, didn’t exist.
I joked that the trip was my ‘baby-hugging tour of Queensland’, but really? It wasn’t far from the mark. And it’s not surprising really given my friends and I are now at that age. And it is exciting. And beautiful. And incredible. And being a parent is a gift. And I can see why it overtakes people’s lives. But all of a sudden the people I shared so much with are on a new adventure, one I’m not part of, not even close to being part of. I’m not saying we aren’t still great mates, that’ll never change, but maybe this is just that place in time when we take different paths. Maybe I’m not going to have the same sort of life - the married, settled down, couple of cute blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids life - I expected. But that’s okay too. And there is something exciting about living outside the box, following each opportunity and opening my heart to different people, places and experiences.
It has taken me the week I’ve been back in Dhaka to bring myself to write this post because I’m finding it quite hard to readjust. I’m missing the ease of Aussie life – I miss my car, being able to wear what I want, having great coffee at any time, having family and friends so close, the anonymity, the food, the cheese, the cake, the cute boys (my god, did I mention the cute boys?)...The list is endless really. But at home I missed the adventure of life here, I missed Clancy and LJ and Nat and all my friends here and the conversations that we have, that in no way revolve around babies or buying houses. We’re discussing the effectiveness and political clout of the UN (or lack thereof), the ways we cope with cultural differences and the horrors (young brides physically mutilated, sex work to survive, etc) and successes we see through our work, and the drive this inspires in us.
In just five weeks I leave Bangladesh. Five weeks I’d really love to enjoy every minute of. Five weeks to finish what I started at UNICEF, to mentally record all the madness and beauty of this country and its people, to soak up the best of the friendships I’ve formed here. Five weeks to say goodbye.
Just five weeks left in this place I love. With people I love. Doing work I love. Where everything, even the simplest, smallest things, are different from home. And for all of us, this momentum is creating some unease – what comes next? While part of me doesn’t want to leave all this behind, the promise and anticipation of the future, a new beginning, is calling me.
So much has changed at home and yet none of it seems to reflect the profound change in me. Except for that irrevocable shift that has happened within me, it almost felt as though I’d never left, like my life here in Bangladesh had not existed. Outside of Bangladesh and away from the people I’ve been sharing all this with, it felt as though this massively important thing I’ve done, am doing, didn’t exist.
I joked that the trip was my ‘baby-hugging tour of Queensland’, but really? It wasn’t far from the mark. And it’s not surprising really given my friends and I are now at that age. And it is exciting. And beautiful. And incredible. And being a parent is a gift. And I can see why it overtakes people’s lives. But all of a sudden the people I shared so much with are on a new adventure, one I’m not part of, not even close to being part of. I’m not saying we aren’t still great mates, that’ll never change, but maybe this is just that place in time when we take different paths. Maybe I’m not going to have the same sort of life - the married, settled down, couple of cute blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids life - I expected. But that’s okay too. And there is something exciting about living outside the box, following each opportunity and opening my heart to different people, places and experiences.
It has taken me the week I’ve been back in Dhaka to bring myself to write this post because I’m finding it quite hard to readjust. I’m missing the ease of Aussie life – I miss my car, being able to wear what I want, having great coffee at any time, having family and friends so close, the anonymity, the food, the cheese, the cake, the cute boys (my god, did I mention the cute boys?)...The list is endless really. But at home I missed the adventure of life here, I missed Clancy and LJ and Nat and all my friends here and the conversations that we have, that in no way revolve around babies or buying houses. We’re discussing the effectiveness and political clout of the UN (or lack thereof), the ways we cope with cultural differences and the horrors (young brides physically mutilated, sex work to survive, etc) and successes we see through our work, and the drive this inspires in us.
In just five weeks I leave Bangladesh. Five weeks I’d really love to enjoy every minute of. Five weeks to finish what I started at UNICEF, to mentally record all the madness and beauty of this country and its people, to soak up the best of the friendships I’ve formed here. Five weeks to say goodbye.
Just five weeks left in this place I love. With people I love. Doing work I love. Where everything, even the simplest, smallest things, are different from home. And for all of us, this momentum is creating some unease – what comes next? While part of me doesn’t want to leave all this behind, the promise and anticipation of the future, a new beginning, is calling me.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The First Goodbye
Today I’m grumpy. And irrational. My body is silently screaming, I’m sick of feeling nauseas all the time and everyone is irritating me. I know this means it’s time to get out…I’m aching for Australia.
Partly this is because I’m not sleeping well – it’s so hot these nights that my fan only serves to move the heavy, hot air around my room and I wish to god I’d not been a tight-arse when we arrived and dished out for a Western mattress.
It’s partly because my date with the Charmer was cancelled last night, and rather than being the adult I realized at the time I should be, I became the child who wasn’t allowed the candy she wanted – really, really, reallllly wanted. And really? I know I can’t always have what I want, but why do I have to be a child about it? So I’m also irritating myself…great.
And it’s also because the first goodbye, and one of the two hardest, is coming. In four days I have to say goodbye to someone who, over the course of the last nine months, has become, well, lets just leave it at someone without whom this country, this place, this experience, is less bearable, less cool, less…just less.
We’ve had our own little rollercoaster journey during this time, but what we have firmly established is a solid friendship – one that I’ve relied on in the times I couldn’t cope on my own and one that has made the great moments greater.
I know it’s not the end of our friendship, but it is the end of an era: you won’t be here to call/text/email multiple times every day, we won’t have our Saturday Mango breakfasts, I’ll be the only shit one in our capoeria class, I’ll have to find someone else to fix my computer, it’ll be less easy to critique each other’s relationships, personalities and character flaws and have philosophical debates, I won’t have your bony shoulder to try and fall asleep on in the CNG home, you won’t be around to pull me in for a hug, there’ll never be another ‘Sunday’ and maybe I’ll never get around to saying that one word aloud.
We knew it was ending, and in one way or another it has been since it began, but selfishly I’d hoped to go first. And just because I’m the only one crying and because I’m not afraid to say that I’ll miss you like crazy, doesn’t mean I don’t know that you won’t too.
(because there is no pseudonym that can capture in a few words all the ways you affect me).
Partly this is because I’m not sleeping well – it’s so hot these nights that my fan only serves to move the heavy, hot air around my room and I wish to god I’d not been a tight-arse when we arrived and dished out for a Western mattress.
It’s partly because my date with the Charmer was cancelled last night, and rather than being the adult I realized at the time I should be, I became the child who wasn’t allowed the candy she wanted – really, really, reallllly wanted. And really? I know I can’t always have what I want, but why do I have to be a child about it? So I’m also irritating myself…great.
And it’s also because the first goodbye, and one of the two hardest, is coming. In four days I have to say goodbye to someone who, over the course of the last nine months, has become, well, lets just leave it at someone without whom this country, this place, this experience, is less bearable, less cool, less…just less.
We’ve had our own little rollercoaster journey during this time, but what we have firmly established is a solid friendship – one that I’ve relied on in the times I couldn’t cope on my own and one that has made the great moments greater.
I know it’s not the end of our friendship, but it is the end of an era: you won’t be here to call/text/email multiple times every day, we won’t have our Saturday Mango breakfasts, I’ll be the only shit one in our capoeria class, I’ll have to find someone else to fix my computer, it’ll be less easy to critique each other’s relationships, personalities and character flaws and have philosophical debates, I won’t have your bony shoulder to try and fall asleep on in the CNG home, you won’t be around to pull me in for a hug, there’ll never be another ‘Sunday’ and maybe I’ll never get around to saying that one word aloud.
We knew it was ending, and in one way or another it has been since it began, but selfishly I’d hoped to go first. And just because I’m the only one crying and because I’m not afraid to say that I’ll miss you like crazy, doesn’t mean I don’t know that you won’t too.
(because there is no pseudonym that can capture in a few words all the ways you affect me).
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Friday bloody Friday
Friday. Oh God Friday. Friday was a perfect example of how life in this country swerves viciously from desperate despair to joy to pleasant, unexpected surprise.
I was woken, despite a persistent hangover, in my favourite way, devoured a Sure Hangover Cure breakfast (vegemite toast with ORS chaser) and strolled to my computer to observe James continue to fix my laptop (yes, I could have done this myself, but sometimes a girl needs a boy to just take control of these things).
James was in the middle of ‘synching’ (without properly synching because …blah blah blah IT technical language…Casey tunes out) my iPod with iTunes and pulling the videos, music and photos we’d backed up to the iPod off and saving them back to my hard drive, post System Restore (thank you Dell, you mother-fuc-ing bastards for selling me a piece of sh-t computer that after just six months completely shat itself…but let me not rant here…).
J: Cool. Finished. All your videos and music are back on the hard drive.
C: And my photos?
J: What photos?
C: Ha ha James. Yeah, what photos…yeah right. Ha ha. Hilarious.
J: Ummm, Case, there aren’t any photos here.
(Nausea overwhelms, tears jump into eyes. Casey hides in bathroom while James checks again. After two minutes, Casey re-emerges)
J: Case, there aren’t any photos here.
C: mmm. (Tears freely cascading down cheeks) Ok (sniffle sniffle)...I’m running really late (wipes snot from red nose)…really have to get across town (whimper) to pick up the new Intake of Australian volunteers at the airport (silently swearing for not being able to wallow in misery at home).
J: Ok. But I might be able to recover some of them ok? I’ll come over again soon and look, ok?
C: mm. (sure all hope has died along with the 8 YEARS of photos cataloguing life, love and travel – my whole LIFE – which, no I don’t have backed-up anywhere else, thank you very much for asking).
Building guard stares at the red and spotty girl as she leaves the building, without pestering her in the usual fashion with questions of ‘how are you?’ and ‘where are you going, apa?’
Miraculously a CNG appears and, struggling to speak Bangla while sniffing back tears, I’m on my way to Rach’s place for an omelette lunch before we are picked up and taken to the airport. Despite crying openly (my least favourite thing) all the way to Banani, the CNG driver assured me he had 400 taka change. When we arrived and he only had 300 taka and Nice Casey morphed into Irrational, Screaming, Crying, Psycho Casey:
“You f-cking lying prick. You f-cking said you had f-cking char-sho f-cking taka bhanti (400 taka change). You’re a f-cking disgrace to your country. I hate you. You bastard…I hate you!” Followed by tears and stamping of feet. Resisting the urge to fall to the ground and cry and bash my hands on the ground like a child, I made it upstairs where Clancy (yet again) came to my rescue (he also gave the driver some attitude, though not sure why at the time).
Following some cuddles, reassurances and jokes (my friends are the best!) I decided slitting my wrists might not be a responsible solution and pulled myself together. And I definitely laughed at least twice before we got in the car to go to the airport.
At the arrivals gate of Dhaka International, reminiscing about the day, nine long months ago, when we first arrived in Bangladesh, the day seemed lighter and brighter and full of hope once more.
When the 13 new AYADs stepped out of arrivals and into the humid, crowded parking lot, their faces were a mix of excitement, anticipation, nerves and exhaustion. With so much to overwhelm their senses, we left them at the hotel to get some sleep and won’t see them again until the end of the week, by which time they’ll feel like a month has passed with all that they will learn and see and do.
Always a great reliever of anger, stress and bitter disappointment I went straight to the gym. Feeling much better about the state of the world I went home to prepare for a date with, let’s call him, The Charmer.
I know you’ve all noticed I’ve been quiet on the subject of men in this blog and in part that’s because it’s so damn hard to keep up – both with what’s happening and how I feel about it – and because I don’t quite believe it myself. Suffice to say that Bangladesh has not been the Year of No that I expected would follow my Year of Yes. In fact, I’d recommend the expat community in Bangladesh to any single woman in Australia complaining about the man drought…
Anyway, I digress. The Charmer is, well, rather charming and after a long and emotional day an evening in with a bowl of pasta, a bottle of Pinot Noir, a film, and a lovely man to cuddle was the perfect way to end it.
So, although some days inevitably involve tears of utter desperation, there is always hope that some unexpected happiness is just around the corner. And it is liberating, anticipating what each new day will bring.
I was woken, despite a persistent hangover, in my favourite way, devoured a Sure Hangover Cure breakfast (vegemite toast with ORS chaser) and strolled to my computer to observe James continue to fix my laptop (yes, I could have done this myself, but sometimes a girl needs a boy to just take control of these things).
James was in the middle of ‘synching’ (without properly synching because …blah blah blah IT technical language…Casey tunes out) my iPod with iTunes and pulling the videos, music and photos we’d backed up to the iPod off and saving them back to my hard drive, post System Restore (thank you Dell, you mother-fuc-ing bastards for selling me a piece of sh-t computer that after just six months completely shat itself…but let me not rant here…).
J: Cool. Finished. All your videos and music are back on the hard drive.
C: And my photos?
J: What photos?
C: Ha ha James. Yeah, what photos…yeah right. Ha ha. Hilarious.
J: Ummm, Case, there aren’t any photos here.
(Nausea overwhelms, tears jump into eyes. Casey hides in bathroom while James checks again. After two minutes, Casey re-emerges)
J: Case, there aren’t any photos here.
C: mmm. (Tears freely cascading down cheeks) Ok (sniffle sniffle)...I’m running really late (wipes snot from red nose)…really have to get across town (whimper) to pick up the new Intake of Australian volunteers at the airport (silently swearing for not being able to wallow in misery at home).
J: Ok. But I might be able to recover some of them ok? I’ll come over again soon and look, ok?
C: mm. (sure all hope has died along with the 8 YEARS of photos cataloguing life, love and travel – my whole LIFE – which, no I don’t have backed-up anywhere else, thank you very much for asking).
Building guard stares at the red and spotty girl as she leaves the building, without pestering her in the usual fashion with questions of ‘how are you?’ and ‘where are you going, apa?’
Miraculously a CNG appears and, struggling to speak Bangla while sniffing back tears, I’m on my way to Rach’s place for an omelette lunch before we are picked up and taken to the airport. Despite crying openly (my least favourite thing) all the way to Banani, the CNG driver assured me he had 400 taka change. When we arrived and he only had 300 taka and Nice Casey morphed into Irrational, Screaming, Crying, Psycho Casey:
“You f-cking lying prick. You f-cking said you had f-cking char-sho f-cking taka bhanti (400 taka change). You’re a f-cking disgrace to your country. I hate you. You bastard…I hate you!” Followed by tears and stamping of feet. Resisting the urge to fall to the ground and cry and bash my hands on the ground like a child, I made it upstairs where Clancy (yet again) came to my rescue (he also gave the driver some attitude, though not sure why at the time).
Following some cuddles, reassurances and jokes (my friends are the best!) I decided slitting my wrists might not be a responsible solution and pulled myself together. And I definitely laughed at least twice before we got in the car to go to the airport.
At the arrivals gate of Dhaka International, reminiscing about the day, nine long months ago, when we first arrived in Bangladesh, the day seemed lighter and brighter and full of hope once more.
When the 13 new AYADs stepped out of arrivals and into the humid, crowded parking lot, their faces were a mix of excitement, anticipation, nerves and exhaustion. With so much to overwhelm their senses, we left them at the hotel to get some sleep and won’t see them again until the end of the week, by which time they’ll feel like a month has passed with all that they will learn and see and do.
Always a great reliever of anger, stress and bitter disappointment I went straight to the gym. Feeling much better about the state of the world I went home to prepare for a date with, let’s call him, The Charmer.
I know you’ve all noticed I’ve been quiet on the subject of men in this blog and in part that’s because it’s so damn hard to keep up – both with what’s happening and how I feel about it – and because I don’t quite believe it myself. Suffice to say that Bangladesh has not been the Year of No that I expected would follow my Year of Yes. In fact, I’d recommend the expat community in Bangladesh to any single woman in Australia complaining about the man drought…
Anyway, I digress. The Charmer is, well, rather charming and after a long and emotional day an evening in with a bowl of pasta, a bottle of Pinot Noir, a film, and a lovely man to cuddle was the perfect way to end it.
So, although some days inevitably involve tears of utter desperation, there is always hope that some unexpected happiness is just around the corner. And it is liberating, anticipating what each new day will bring.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
What is perfect anyway? On reflection…
I don’t have the answers. I don’t even pretend to understand the complex workings of the mind or heart.
I trust in people. See the best in them. Look for the right in what I suspect to be wrong. I won’t be told that something or someone is not good enough for me. I will want to prove you wrong.
I’m also very good at ignoring the obvious when it’s not what I want to see.
I think when it comes to love, nothing is perfect, but it’s about finding something or someone perfect enough.
For me that means finding someone who compliments those things that are Fundamentally Casey: (a start, but certainly not a comprehensive list)
• He is interested in my career, supportive of my ambition, interested to read my work.
• He is a keen traveller, interested in exploring the world and understanding all its complexities.
• He is quirky, fun, interesting and ambitious.
• He is mature, responsible, compassionate and loving.
• He gets along with my family and friends.
And, honestly? The search continues…
I trust in people. See the best in them. Look for the right in what I suspect to be wrong. I won’t be told that something or someone is not good enough for me. I will want to prove you wrong.
I’m also very good at ignoring the obvious when it’s not what I want to see.
I think when it comes to love, nothing is perfect, but it’s about finding something or someone perfect enough.
For me that means finding someone who compliments those things that are Fundamentally Casey: (a start, but certainly not a comprehensive list)
• He is interested in my career, supportive of my ambition, interested to read my work.
• He is a keen traveller, interested in exploring the world and understanding all its complexities.
• He is quirky, fun, interesting and ambitious.
• He is mature, responsible, compassionate and loving.
• He gets along with my family and friends.
And, honestly? The search continues…
Sunday, July 5, 2009
What is perfect anyway?
Today, I’m questioning even the simplest of things. A dream last night has me in a contemplative, melancholy mood and thoughts I’d put aside in order to survive this year come flooding back.
What it all boils down to is: what is perfect anyway? When we talk about being in a relationship that is right, healthy and sustainable, is it ever all the things we want?
Does it matter if he doesn’t want to travel, so long as he doesn’t stand in my way? Does it matter if he isn’t interested in politics, so long as he listens to my frustrated rantings? Does it matter that he’s opposite to me in a million little ways (a country boy to my city girl, his easy going to my high maintenance, his rational to my emotional, his metal to my indie rock)? Does any of it matter at all if adores me? If he knows me, allows me to be myself, makes me truly happy? If all the little things he does and says to show he cares (like arriving on my doorstep out of the blue with flowers or flying into town on his one day off so that I can wake up on my birthday with him beside me) are all the more touching because he’s never done them before? If, despite my intention not to, I fell in love with him?
Probably the dream is meaningless and simply a subconscious reflection of my anxiousness about the physical and emotional journey home.
But again I’m standing at a cross-roads and the paths lead in very different directions. How do you choose between two things that your heart wants in equal measure?
What it all boils down to is: what is perfect anyway? When we talk about being in a relationship that is right, healthy and sustainable, is it ever all the things we want?
Does it matter if he doesn’t want to travel, so long as he doesn’t stand in my way? Does it matter if he isn’t interested in politics, so long as he listens to my frustrated rantings? Does it matter that he’s opposite to me in a million little ways (a country boy to my city girl, his easy going to my high maintenance, his rational to my emotional, his metal to my indie rock)? Does any of it matter at all if adores me? If he knows me, allows me to be myself, makes me truly happy? If all the little things he does and says to show he cares (like arriving on my doorstep out of the blue with flowers or flying into town on his one day off so that I can wake up on my birthday with him beside me) are all the more touching because he’s never done them before? If, despite my intention not to, I fell in love with him?
Probably the dream is meaningless and simply a subconscious reflection of my anxiousness about the physical and emotional journey home.
But again I’m standing at a cross-roads and the paths lead in very different directions. How do you choose between two things that your heart wants in equal measure?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Times, they are a'changin'
It wasn’t until after I’d bought the ring that Lyrian said “do you know that symbol means change?” No, I didn’t, but it sure seems appropriate.
On Sunday at 9.30am my baby brother became a father. My parents, now grandparents; my sister and I Aunties. Our once family of five is now a family of eight. Indiana Mae has the face of an angel and I can’t help but fall a little bit more in love with her every time I see her picture.
When I think about what I was doing when I was my brother’s age, I think about milestones like graduating from university, falling in love, leaving home for the first time and travelling overseas, beginning the journey of self-discovery. Nothing like the heart-ready-to-burst love that comes with a baby so entirely dependent on you for their every need, that your life takes on a whole new meaning and importance.
My life is still all about me – what do I want, where am I going, who am I? But this is my right as a happily single woman of the world. For a parent, your wants, your desires, your needs, are a distant second to those of your child.
And the prospect of being a parent scares the hell out of me, even now at 28 (almost). But my brother David? He’s the man. I know, with more certainty than I know anything about myself, that he will be the most incredible, devoted and loving father.
And it is probably because of all the emotion that new life brings to my world, that it is with sadness that I prepare to leave Bangladesh. In only 16 weeks I pack my things and leave, unlikely to ever return. Leaving behind some amazing people, an incredible job, a culture that is both thrilling and frustrating, and heading in different directions from friends who I love as family.
I am grateful for every day here. I smile more at the random little things that happen each day. I laugh and agree to read an Australian poem about rain at the office function in a few weeks to mark monsoon season. I sing aloud in public (albeit quietly). My nails are jagged and dirty, my hair frizzy, my face devoid of makeup, my feet constantly dirty and cracked. But how am I? I’m really living.
(and no Lawrence, not all men are bastards, but there is a whole blog that could be written on my current relationship with various men, best left for a day when I better understand it).
On Sunday at 9.30am my baby brother became a father. My parents, now grandparents; my sister and I Aunties. Our once family of five is now a family of eight. Indiana Mae has the face of an angel and I can’t help but fall a little bit more in love with her every time I see her picture.
When I think about what I was doing when I was my brother’s age, I think about milestones like graduating from university, falling in love, leaving home for the first time and travelling overseas, beginning the journey of self-discovery. Nothing like the heart-ready-to-burst love that comes with a baby so entirely dependent on you for their every need, that your life takes on a whole new meaning and importance.
My life is still all about me – what do I want, where am I going, who am I? But this is my right as a happily single woman of the world. For a parent, your wants, your desires, your needs, are a distant second to those of your child.
And the prospect of being a parent scares the hell out of me, even now at 28 (almost). But my brother David? He’s the man. I know, with more certainty than I know anything about myself, that he will be the most incredible, devoted and loving father.
And it is probably because of all the emotion that new life brings to my world, that it is with sadness that I prepare to leave Bangladesh. In only 16 weeks I pack my things and leave, unlikely to ever return. Leaving behind some amazing people, an incredible job, a culture that is both thrilling and frustrating, and heading in different directions from friends who I love as family.
I am grateful for every day here. I smile more at the random little things that happen each day. I laugh and agree to read an Australian poem about rain at the office function in a few weeks to mark monsoon season. I sing aloud in public (albeit quietly). My nails are jagged and dirty, my hair frizzy, my face devoid of makeup, my feet constantly dirty and cracked. But how am I? I’m really living.
(and no Lawrence, not all men are bastards, but there is a whole blog that could be written on my current relationship with various men, best left for a day when I better understand it).
Adopting cultures
I noticed them almost immediately. I was poolside at the Park Hotel on my last day in Calcutta when they arrived.
He was a thin middle-aged man, pudgy around the middle. She was his fat middle-aged wife. Both blonde with soft white skin.
Their fear, expectation and shock almost tangible.
In his arms was an Indian baby no more than a year old. A child to call their own. A brand new addition to their family. After years of waiting, hoping, praying and fighting for the right to be parents, now, so all of a sudden really, they were.
The baby was so innocently unaware of the magnitude of the moment. If he knew he wouldn’t be looking at me with big, round curious eyes, but at his new parents with a look that said “I’m here, you’re doing great, this is right”.
Because their family back home would expect it, she was videotaping their first swim. He couldn’t smile, couldn’t be playful; the weight of the moment heavy in his arms.
I felt anxious for them. I wanted to run over and say “it’s okay, be natural, you’re doing great, this is right”. But this is just the beginning of the next struggle for them.
That boy will now have a life so different to other unwanted children in India. He will receive an excellent education, speak two or three languages, have all the opportunity in the world. He will also struggle – being an Indian boy, a minority in his class, always wondering about/ aching for Indian life, a yearning that will probably go unfulfilled until his adult life because, I wonder, how often he will return here, with his new parents who may only remember these first hard, awkward days in a city so removed from home, unsure how to bring him back here to reconnect with something they aren’t part of, never will be? And for him, a stranger in his own city – never really fitting in or feeling ‘at home’ anywhere.
The scene in front of me ignites a melancholy and a personal debate about inter-country adoption.
But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, with the struggle so many millions of children around the world in mind, it’s impossible not to believe that, for this little boy, this is right.
He was a thin middle-aged man, pudgy around the middle. She was his fat middle-aged wife. Both blonde with soft white skin.
Their fear, expectation and shock almost tangible.
In his arms was an Indian baby no more than a year old. A child to call their own. A brand new addition to their family. After years of waiting, hoping, praying and fighting for the right to be parents, now, so all of a sudden really, they were.
The baby was so innocently unaware of the magnitude of the moment. If he knew he wouldn’t be looking at me with big, round curious eyes, but at his new parents with a look that said “I’m here, you’re doing great, this is right”.
Because their family back home would expect it, she was videotaping their first swim. He couldn’t smile, couldn’t be playful; the weight of the moment heavy in his arms.
I felt anxious for them. I wanted to run over and say “it’s okay, be natural, you’re doing great, this is right”. But this is just the beginning of the next struggle for them.
That boy will now have a life so different to other unwanted children in India. He will receive an excellent education, speak two or three languages, have all the opportunity in the world. He will also struggle – being an Indian boy, a minority in his class, always wondering about/ aching for Indian life, a yearning that will probably go unfulfilled until his adult life because, I wonder, how often he will return here, with his new parents who may only remember these first hard, awkward days in a city so removed from home, unsure how to bring him back here to reconnect with something they aren’t part of, never will be? And for him, a stranger in his own city – never really fitting in or feeling ‘at home’ anywhere.
The scene in front of me ignites a melancholy and a personal debate about inter-country adoption.
But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, with the struggle so many millions of children around the world in mind, it’s impossible not to believe that, for this little boy, this is right.
Cocktails and cabs in Calcutta
Back when Nat, Lyrian and I were first planning a girly long weekend out of Bangladesh, the plan was Kathmandu. And really, that’s where we should have gone. Kathmandu has everything we wanted in a weekend away – shopping, cocktails, pool-side luxury, great food, tourists, anonymity, etc.
But keen to explore new lands and meet new people, after much deliberation, we chose Calcutta. It’s not that we didn’t enjoy the trip, it just wasn’t Kathmandu.
Crammed with dilapidated colonial era buildings, big old yellow taxis (that speed through the city as though a race track – oddly, the direction of the one-way traffic changing at 2pm every day), the easy availability of alcohol (every hour is happy hour!) and bacon (god bless Hindu’s) and relative anonymity (thanks to a booming tourist industry), Calcutta is a beautiful place to visit.
We managed to fit in some shopping (at New Market and a million bookstores), a visit to Mother Theresa’s Home for the Sick and Destitute (horrific the scene of torture, torment and hopelessness inside, but beautiful the men and women who so selflessly dedicate themselves to these people) and Rabindranath Tagore’s home (Bengal’s most famous poet).
Time between was spent pool-side and in restaurants and darkly lit bars sampling the best Calcutta had to offer (which it turned out consisted predominantly of cocktails – and we were determined to sample them all, several times over).
An Ode to a Girly Long Weekend in Calcutta (when you live in Bangladesh):
I love you
Mojito and Caprioska
sweet minty fresh
Gin n Sin
sour tang
Golden Margarita
Peach Margarita
Apple Margarita
bitter burn
Mai Tai
you are
Singapore Sling
pop
Daiquiri
smooth
down
my
throat
Cosmopolitan
I love you.
A special shout-out to the hilarious old waiter at Flurry’s, who had us in stitches long after our meal. And to the middle-aged man who jumped in the wheelchair meant for the passenger on our plane who had a heart attack and kept us in-transit six hours longer than intended: you had us crying tears of laughter, before they became tears of utter frustration.
Calcutta, in all your beauty, you made us miss Dhaka, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
But keen to explore new lands and meet new people, after much deliberation, we chose Calcutta. It’s not that we didn’t enjoy the trip, it just wasn’t Kathmandu.
Crammed with dilapidated colonial era buildings, big old yellow taxis (that speed through the city as though a race track – oddly, the direction of the one-way traffic changing at 2pm every day), the easy availability of alcohol (every hour is happy hour!) and bacon (god bless Hindu’s) and relative anonymity (thanks to a booming tourist industry), Calcutta is a beautiful place to visit.
We managed to fit in some shopping (at New Market and a million bookstores), a visit to Mother Theresa’s Home for the Sick and Destitute (horrific the scene of torture, torment and hopelessness inside, but beautiful the men and women who so selflessly dedicate themselves to these people) and Rabindranath Tagore’s home (Bengal’s most famous poet).
Time between was spent pool-side and in restaurants and darkly lit bars sampling the best Calcutta had to offer (which it turned out consisted predominantly of cocktails – and we were determined to sample them all, several times over).
An Ode to a Girly Long Weekend in Calcutta (when you live in Bangladesh):
I love you
Mojito and Caprioska
sweet minty fresh
Gin n Sin
sour tang
Golden Margarita
Peach Margarita
Apple Margarita
bitter burn
Mai Tai
you are
Singapore Sling
pop
Daiquiri
smooth
down
my
throat
Cosmopolitan
I love you.
A special shout-out to the hilarious old waiter at Flurry’s, who had us in stitches long after our meal. And to the middle-aged man who jumped in the wheelchair meant for the passenger on our plane who had a heart attack and kept us in-transit six hours longer than intended: you had us crying tears of laughter, before they became tears of utter frustration.
Calcutta, in all your beauty, you made us miss Dhaka, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The random, little things that make me smile
Today I love Bangladesh. And because this isn't an all day, every day thing, here are some of the random, little things that made me smile today:
* I woke up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of light rain
* and I had to turn DOWN my fan
* My hair was frizzy and out of control (as it is every day) and I realised I don't care anymore
* I met a big deadline
* I participated in a Communication for Development meeting, contributed and felt incredibly inspired
* A man wearing a mini-skirt lunghi was paraded past my office
* When my rickshaw-wallah this afternoon gave me the most curious look when I started singing along to my iPod
* and I continued to sing (aloud, in public)
* I noticed that my rickshaw-wallah has a gorgeous square jaw and a tiny arse and hips that are, I swear, half the size of mine
* and that I shouldn't be noticing in such detail
* That I kicked arse at the gym
* That I responded, in Bangla, to a lady in the grocery store
* I looked at the photos of my newborn niece Indi again and fell a little bit more in love
* I cooked dinner and realised I DO suck without Clancy's guidance
* There is chocolate in the fridge.
* I woke up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of light rain
* and I had to turn DOWN my fan
* My hair was frizzy and out of control (as it is every day) and I realised I don't care anymore
* I met a big deadline
* I participated in a Communication for Development meeting, contributed and felt incredibly inspired
* A man wearing a mini-skirt lunghi was paraded past my office
* When my rickshaw-wallah this afternoon gave me the most curious look when I started singing along to my iPod
* and I continued to sing (aloud, in public)
* I noticed that my rickshaw-wallah has a gorgeous square jaw and a tiny arse and hips that are, I swear, half the size of mine
* and that I shouldn't be noticing in such detail
* That I kicked arse at the gym
* That I responded, in Bangla, to a lady in the grocery store
* I looked at the photos of my newborn niece Indi again and fell a little bit more in love
* I cooked dinner and realised I DO suck without Clancy's guidance
* There is chocolate in the fridge.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Held captive
Imagine having to make the heart-wrenching decision to leave your home and country to escape torture, repression, extortion and probable death. Imagine your own countrymen are the ones forcing you to make this decision, wanting you dead. Imagine seeing your father shot, your mother raped, your friends houses burnt to the ground, lives destroyed.
In Australia we put refugees and asylum seekers (those who have been forced to leave their home and country, in most cases without the time to apply for refuge) behind big brick walls and barbed wire. We do not afford them the illusion of freedom.
In Bangladesh, there are no big walls, no barbed wire. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t prisoners.
For the last 17 years the Rohingya refugees of Myanmar have sought safety on Bangladeshi soil. Their crime? Being a Muslim minority. Their punishment? Denied citizenship, torture, imprisonment and death.
In the south-eastern corner of the Bangladesh, which shares a border with Myanmar, two refugee camps (Kutapalong and Nayapara) house more than 28,000 refugees. But another 30,000 ‘unregistered’ refugees are barely surviving in two nearby makeshift camps.
The Government of Bangladesh hasn’t ‘registered’ a single new refugee since 1992, other than to record births. They argue that Bangladesh is a developing country and has a lot to do to help its own people before it can effectively help others.
More than 230,000 refugees have been repatriated (between 1992 and 2006) amidst accusation of coercion. The government has refused to recognise subsequent Rohingya refugee arrivals since 1991 and has prohibited their access to Kutapalong and Nayapara camps. Officially, the Bangladesh Government supports repatriation. But convincing refugees to want to return to Myanmar and probable death is a hard sell. Forced repatriation is a better way to describe the government’s policy on this. But with a high number of seasonal migrant workers crossing the border each day and corruption as it is, slipping a few taka to the Bangladesh Rifles (BDR – border guards) to make it back across into Bangladesh and comparative safety is a small price to pay, even for those with nothing.
In Bangladesh, although there is no national legislation governing the administration of refugee affairs, refugees are not legally entitled to work and do not even have the right to own property. Domestic violence in the refugee camps is widespread (and not illegal in Bangladesh) and polygamy is prevalent. Food shortages and malnutrition are serious problems, heightened by insufficient medical support and staff. Accommodation (semi-permanent structures built in 1992) are overcrowded and in serious need of repair. UNICEF is providing primary education (national government curriculum, plus Burmese) but secondary education is not permitted. But with only a small fraction of refugees offered resettlement in countries including Australia, Canada, India, the Gulf States, Japan, Malaysia, Pakistan, Saudia Arabia, Thailand, UAE and the UK, there is little reason for them to hope for a life beyond the confines of the camp.
Children enjoy school time at Kutapalong camp.
Around 60% of refugees in Kutapalong and Nayapara are children. Children who have never set foot out of the camp. Children who know they can’t go home (don’t want to) and who speak better Bangla than they do Burmese.
Children at Nayapara camp practice their English with me during a visit to see UNICEF's National Vitamin A campaign.
There is a host of UN agencies and NGOs working to support these refugees, but without any tangible and realistic support from the government, there is only so much that can be done and it’s not enough.
It’s not nearly enough.
In Australia we put refugees and asylum seekers (those who have been forced to leave their home and country, in most cases without the time to apply for refuge) behind big brick walls and barbed wire. We do not afford them the illusion of freedom.
In Bangladesh, there are no big walls, no barbed wire. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t prisoners.
For the last 17 years the Rohingya refugees of Myanmar have sought safety on Bangladeshi soil. Their crime? Being a Muslim minority. Their punishment? Denied citizenship, torture, imprisonment and death.
In the south-eastern corner of the Bangladesh, which shares a border with Myanmar, two refugee camps (Kutapalong and Nayapara) house more than 28,000 refugees. But another 30,000 ‘unregistered’ refugees are barely surviving in two nearby makeshift camps.
The Government of Bangladesh hasn’t ‘registered’ a single new refugee since 1992, other than to record births. They argue that Bangladesh is a developing country and has a lot to do to help its own people before it can effectively help others.
More than 230,000 refugees have been repatriated (between 1992 and 2006) amidst accusation of coercion. The government has refused to recognise subsequent Rohingya refugee arrivals since 1991 and has prohibited their access to Kutapalong and Nayapara camps. Officially, the Bangladesh Government supports repatriation. But convincing refugees to want to return to Myanmar and probable death is a hard sell. Forced repatriation is a better way to describe the government’s policy on this. But with a high number of seasonal migrant workers crossing the border each day and corruption as it is, slipping a few taka to the Bangladesh Rifles (BDR – border guards) to make it back across into Bangladesh and comparative safety is a small price to pay, even for those with nothing.
In Bangladesh, although there is no national legislation governing the administration of refugee affairs, refugees are not legally entitled to work and do not even have the right to own property. Domestic violence in the refugee camps is widespread (and not illegal in Bangladesh) and polygamy is prevalent. Food shortages and malnutrition are serious problems, heightened by insufficient medical support and staff. Accommodation (semi-permanent structures built in 1992) are overcrowded and in serious need of repair. UNICEF is providing primary education (national government curriculum, plus Burmese) but secondary education is not permitted. But with only a small fraction of refugees offered resettlement in countries including Australia, Canada, India, the Gulf States, Japan, Malaysia, Pakistan, Saudia Arabia, Thailand, UAE and the UK, there is little reason for them to hope for a life beyond the confines of the camp.
Children enjoy school time at Kutapalong camp.
Around 60% of refugees in Kutapalong and Nayapara are children. Children who have never set foot out of the camp. Children who know they can’t go home (don’t want to) and who speak better Bangla than they do Burmese.
Children at Nayapara camp practice their English with me during a visit to see UNICEF's National Vitamin A campaign.
There is a host of UN agencies and NGOs working to support these refugees, but without any tangible and realistic support from the government, there is only so much that can be done and it’s not enough.
It’s not nearly enough.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Life as an Emotional Nutcase
It has come to my attention recently that this country has a way of identifying a nice, emotionally balanced person (me for example) and screwing with them, so much to say ‘You thought you could cope here, didn’t you? Well, I’ll show you naive Westerner’.
Possibly it’s a mix of the everyday cultural differences, overwhelming amounts of work and general sense of underachievement (due to bureaucracy, not my own inefficiency I’d just like to point out), and a small expat community that at times resembles high-school (Something you’d prefer to keep secret? Don’t want people to know all the details of your private life? Too bad. It’s all anyone is talking about)... not to mention any personal issues you might have adjusting to life away from your family and friends in a country as mad as Bangladesh. This phenomenon is referred to as the Bangladeshi rollercoaster – and the reason that we are the only Asia/Pacific country in the AYAD program to have (because we clearly need) an in-country counsellor.
Excuses aside, I’ve noticed with some despair that not only am I able to flip between hysterical laughing and uncontrollable sobbing with ease, but I do it with some regularity. Which has got to be fun for my flatmates, right? I’ve soaked through the shoulders of Clancy’s shirts on more than a few occasions.
But between the sobbing (I’ll miss my only brother’s wedding and birth of his child; men are bastards; I’m helpless to have any great impact on the lives of children here; I’m sick of being stared at/commented on; men are bastards; and men are bastards) there are many, many fabulous moments.
In particular Friday just gone. When the wonderful and wonderfully talented Matthew Clancy had a gig at a cafe in town. As his (self-appointed) Number One Groupie, I get to listen to him practice at home all the time but give the boy a mike and holy wow. I was like a proud mamma. ‘That’s my Clancy! Did you see him up there?!’ Accompanied in part by Pip on violin and Gus on electric guitar, and with sets by Mitul and Asif, the night was a screaming success. The obvious highlight when Clancy Dedicated A Song To ...ME! ‘The Only Living Boy in New York’ by Simon & Garfunkel, it must be admitted, was played by me a few million times in the flat when we first arrived due to a slight obsession with the Garden State soundtrack. But they don’t do it as well as Clancy...and I’m not just saying that because I love him...ok, well, maybe I am, but it’s also true.
It’s also hard to be depressed when a bunch of Italians fly into town and one of them is rather handsome and interesting and lives in Rome and kisses you ever-so-softly on both cheeks and calls you ‘bella’ and invites you to Rome with promises of a tour of Sardinia on the back of his motorcycle and private, home-made fettucini-making classes....I mean, for godsake, someone PINCH ME PLEASE.
Moments like these are peppered with trips into the field where I am constantly reminded of the massive scale of work still to be done here. One such trip was to the Chittagong Hill Tracts to visit a Maternal, Neonatal and Child Survival project where we are training local villagers to deliver preventative and basic medical treatment, particularly ante- and post-natal care. Most of these villages are a distance from the main town and hospital without proper roads or transport. In one village I visited, in the case of emergency, villagers construct a ‘human ambulance’ and WALK the patient FIVE HOURS in to town. Obviously, not ideal for the person in the emergency. After sitting in on a mothers meeting, where a group of old women kept hugging me and smiling up at me with hauntingly pleading eyes, we returned to our posh five-star hotel to wash off the sticky heat of the day and a sense of lingering sadness.
On another trip we visited a char (island in the middle of one of the many rivers crossing Bangladesh) to observe their water, hygiene and sanitation efforts. In the dry season the char areas seem quite large but in the wet season most of the land is flooded, causing massive hygiene and sanitation issues.
Char areas are often hard to reach, this one (Char Madura) was 3 hours by boat from Narshindi (which is 2 hours north of Dhaka). Well, it would have taken just 3 hours, if half an hour into the journey my colleague hadn’t turned to me and said:
‘Casey. Do you know how to swim?’ – Gita*
‘Umm...yes...why?’ – Casey
‘Good. We forgot to pack lifejackets.’ – Gita
‘Do we need them?’ – Casey
Boat owner appears, covered in oil.
‘Oh. Shit’ – Casey. Frantically texting friends to advise of current location. Text reply from Lyrian, who can always be counted on to give honest and hilarious advice based on her many Bangladeshi field trips:
‘Tip: if boat sinks swim as fast as you can away from everyone else. And I hope you lied and said you can’t swim. Good luck!’
Oh. Dear. God.
Anyway, the boat owner paddled us over to the nearest char, where we sat quite comfortably, enjoyed a shaded breeze, while chatting, eating and taking lovely photographs.
The boat was later fixed with a screw and a small piece of cardboard. Well, of course it was.
Tomorrow I’m heading south to Cox’s Bazar - a rather gorgeous beachside town where I’d happily spend the entire six days sitting in a cafe by the beach drinking smoothies and eating delicious food. Instead, I’ll be visiting refugee camps (to see UNICEF’s education and immunization campaigns) and children with rickets (deformed limbs due to malnutrition). It’s a work trip I’ve been longing for since I arrived and it will be confronting.
But it’s just another day on the rollercoaster. You sort of get used to it. In a way you enjoy it. You enjoy the personal, emotional challenge. You think, you know ‘This is really living’. You learn to just cry out the shitty moments because they are soon forgotten by surprising acts of kindness.
Hate it one moment, love it the next but Bangladesh has a way of getting under your skin.
*A high proportion of child deaths are to drowning. For a country nestled on the Bay of Bengal, criss-crossed with rivers, a yearly monsoon, and prone to cyclones, floods and other natural disasters, you’d be forgiven for thinking most Bangladeshi’s would know how to swim.
Possibly it’s a mix of the everyday cultural differences, overwhelming amounts of work and general sense of underachievement (due to bureaucracy, not my own inefficiency I’d just like to point out), and a small expat community that at times resembles high-school (Something you’d prefer to keep secret? Don’t want people to know all the details of your private life? Too bad. It’s all anyone is talking about)... not to mention any personal issues you might have adjusting to life away from your family and friends in a country as mad as Bangladesh. This phenomenon is referred to as the Bangladeshi rollercoaster – and the reason that we are the only Asia/Pacific country in the AYAD program to have (because we clearly need) an in-country counsellor.
Excuses aside, I’ve noticed with some despair that not only am I able to flip between hysterical laughing and uncontrollable sobbing with ease, but I do it with some regularity. Which has got to be fun for my flatmates, right? I’ve soaked through the shoulders of Clancy’s shirts on more than a few occasions.
But between the sobbing (I’ll miss my only brother’s wedding and birth of his child; men are bastards; I’m helpless to have any great impact on the lives of children here; I’m sick of being stared at/commented on; men are bastards; and men are bastards) there are many, many fabulous moments.
In particular Friday just gone. When the wonderful and wonderfully talented Matthew Clancy had a gig at a cafe in town. As his (self-appointed) Number One Groupie, I get to listen to him practice at home all the time but give the boy a mike and holy wow. I was like a proud mamma. ‘That’s my Clancy! Did you see him up there?!’ Accompanied in part by Pip on violin and Gus on electric guitar, and with sets by Mitul and Asif, the night was a screaming success. The obvious highlight when Clancy Dedicated A Song To ...ME! ‘The Only Living Boy in New York’ by Simon & Garfunkel, it must be admitted, was played by me a few million times in the flat when we first arrived due to a slight obsession with the Garden State soundtrack. But they don’t do it as well as Clancy...and I’m not just saying that because I love him...ok, well, maybe I am, but it’s also true.
It’s also hard to be depressed when a bunch of Italians fly into town and one of them is rather handsome and interesting and lives in Rome and kisses you ever-so-softly on both cheeks and calls you ‘bella’ and invites you to Rome with promises of a tour of Sardinia on the back of his motorcycle and private, home-made fettucini-making classes....I mean, for godsake, someone PINCH ME PLEASE.
Moments like these are peppered with trips into the field where I am constantly reminded of the massive scale of work still to be done here. One such trip was to the Chittagong Hill Tracts to visit a Maternal, Neonatal and Child Survival project where we are training local villagers to deliver preventative and basic medical treatment, particularly ante- and post-natal care. Most of these villages are a distance from the main town and hospital without proper roads or transport. In one village I visited, in the case of emergency, villagers construct a ‘human ambulance’ and WALK the patient FIVE HOURS in to town. Obviously, not ideal for the person in the emergency. After sitting in on a mothers meeting, where a group of old women kept hugging me and smiling up at me with hauntingly pleading eyes, we returned to our posh five-star hotel to wash off the sticky heat of the day and a sense of lingering sadness.
On another trip we visited a char (island in the middle of one of the many rivers crossing Bangladesh) to observe their water, hygiene and sanitation efforts. In the dry season the char areas seem quite large but in the wet season most of the land is flooded, causing massive hygiene and sanitation issues.
Char areas are often hard to reach, this one (Char Madura) was 3 hours by boat from Narshindi (which is 2 hours north of Dhaka). Well, it would have taken just 3 hours, if half an hour into the journey my colleague hadn’t turned to me and said:
‘Casey. Do you know how to swim?’ – Gita*
‘Umm...yes...why?’ – Casey
‘Good. We forgot to pack lifejackets.’ – Gita
‘Do we need them?’ – Casey
Boat owner appears, covered in oil.
‘Oh. Shit’ – Casey. Frantically texting friends to advise of current location. Text reply from Lyrian, who can always be counted on to give honest and hilarious advice based on her many Bangladeshi field trips:
‘Tip: if boat sinks swim as fast as you can away from everyone else. And I hope you lied and said you can’t swim. Good luck!’
Oh. Dear. God.
Anyway, the boat owner paddled us over to the nearest char, where we sat quite comfortably, enjoyed a shaded breeze, while chatting, eating and taking lovely photographs.
The boat was later fixed with a screw and a small piece of cardboard. Well, of course it was.
Tomorrow I’m heading south to Cox’s Bazar - a rather gorgeous beachside town where I’d happily spend the entire six days sitting in a cafe by the beach drinking smoothies and eating delicious food. Instead, I’ll be visiting refugee camps (to see UNICEF’s education and immunization campaigns) and children with rickets (deformed limbs due to malnutrition). It’s a work trip I’ve been longing for since I arrived and it will be confronting.
But it’s just another day on the rollercoaster. You sort of get used to it. In a way you enjoy it. You enjoy the personal, emotional challenge. You think, you know ‘This is really living’. You learn to just cry out the shitty moments because they are soon forgotten by surprising acts of kindness.
Hate it one moment, love it the next but Bangladesh has a way of getting under your skin.
*A high proportion of child deaths are to drowning. For a country nestled on the Bay of Bengal, criss-crossed with rivers, a yearly monsoon, and prone to cyclones, floods and other natural disasters, you’d be forgiven for thinking most Bangladeshi’s would know how to swim.
Monday, April 27, 2009
My first (and only?) visitors!
The morning after my return from Rangpur I was up at the crack of dawn (earlier actually) to collect Bec and Luke at Dhaka International Airport (where ‘visitors’ have to pay to get into possibly the worlds dodgiest arrivals lounge). We spotted each other immediately through the glass separating luggage collection from the exit gates; our pasty white skin positively fluorescent under the early morning hue of airport lighting.
Tired but excited Bec and Luke were keen to get out of the airport and into Bec’s first CNG (baby taxi, motorised rickshaw... as you wish). Hugs all around, confirmation of copious amounts of alcohol and cheese in bags, I threw an orna around Bec’s shoulders and marched them through the swarming crowd surrounding the airport at 4 in the morning (as it is at all hours of the day).
I haggled for the right price, shoved in the bags and we all squeezed into the CNG. A nice, cool morning, the streets were almost empty on the way to Dhanmondi. Within half an hour we arrived at David and Matthew’s house (where Bec and Luke were staying), they grabbed out the cheese and alcohol and jumped into bed (with the luxurious comfort of AC!) to catch up on some sleep before a long day ahead.
I raced the precious cargo home to my fridge and got a spot of work done before returning to collect them. First task: squeeze the three of us on a rickshaw, taking my usual route to work. This was exciting even for me initially, because I’d never sat on the top of the rickshaw seat, with someone between my legs before. Now I know why. Ouch! Anyway, an agonising 20 minutes later we jumped off at Poribagh and walked across to UNICEF. There Bec and Luke met my colleagues over shingara (turmeric chilli veges in pastry – heavenly goodness) and tea/coffee. From there the plan was to hit the National Museum , Dhaka Uni and Liberation War Museum...but like most things in Bangladesh, our plan was thwarted when the National Museum was shut. So we wandered around the University (checking out the Fine Arts College where preparation for Bengali New Year was well underway), then down to Aziz Market to buy some funky Bangla tee’s, and on to New Market where we had to buy red fabric and tips (bindi’s in Hindi culture) for the RED party the next night.
My Bangla is basic at best, but Bec and Luke are easily impressed, but we were gladly in and out of New Market within too long (even in the middle of the day during the week, the place is crammed full of people). By this time we were all dripping with sweat, so escaped to the oasis that is Cafe Mango for lunch (to try their infamous vege burgers and banana lassi’s). Then home for showers and chill out. A short thunder storm followed which considerably cooled the afternoon. At my place they met my Clancy and we watched the sunset on the rooftop before heading to the Drik Gallery to see an exhibit and on to the Bengali Fine Arts Gallery Cafe for a great and cheap Bangladeshi dinner (biryani, bhuna, paratha, bhat and shobji ) with friends Tuni and Clay (visiting from the USA to make a documentary on Bengali river music), Seb (a Canadian guy living here while making a documentary about hirja’s – transsexuals), Shabbab (a darling Bangladeshi boy I met on the plane to Dhaka), James and Clancy. Luke was totally in his element talking film with Tuni and Seb, the rest of us about the UN system, the problems of Bangladesh and the usual utter nonsense.
The following day, we were up early for a traditional breakfast with my beautiful Bangladeshi colleague Shilpi and her family at her house. A first for me as well and Bec and Luke. Breakfast consisted of dhal, bhat (rice), roti (bread), shobji (vegetables) and mishti (sweets). It was lovely and a perfect start to the day. From there we went to the Bangabandu Museum (the home of Bangabanda – political founding father of Bangladesh and father of current Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina – and where he was assassinated). From there we went to the Liberation War Museum (definitely worth the hunt). Full of Bangladeshi history (in all its bloody glory) we headed home (including, for a short distance, in a CNG driving the wrong way down the road!) to prepare for the big party. By the time everyone started arriving, Clancy and I had decorated the house, arranged food (shingara and phushka) and drinks and were still madly getting dressed.
A great night of utter trashiness followed, one of the highlights when Bec and Luke left and Lyrian and I scared them senseless about being mugged.
Casey: You’re LEAVING? Now? But it’s dark out!
Bec: Yeah, why?
Casey: Fuck. You’ll get mugged.
Lyrian: Yeah. Fuck. You need to watch out for gangs of muggers. They creep up on you, sometimes with knives and may stab you before stealing your stuff.
Casey: Yeah and be sure not to have your bag across your body, coz if they drive past and grab it you’ll be dragged down the street. Maybe break bones.
Bec and Luke look cautiously at one another.
Bec: Should we stay the night here then?
Casey: Nah, you’ll be fine. Here, give me all your stuff. Only take what you need, maybe just your keys.
Casey relives Bec of her keys, shoves them in her bra.
Casey: They won’t go looking for them in there. Ha ha!
Lyrian: Let us know if you get mugged...or get home safely.
Casey: Here, take my mobile. Text Shabab when you get home to let us know.
Casey shoves her phone in Bec’s bra.
Bec: Aaah, ok...
Next morning
Casey: Where the fuck’s my fucking phone?
Clearly I’d have been a great help if they hadn’t made it home safely. Anyway, when we were able to drag ourselves out of bed and stand up without being sick, we met Bec and Luke at Cafe Mango for breakfast. From there it took me a few hours to return to my usual cheery tour guide mode, but by early afternoon we were on our way to the north side (Banani) to hit the shops (Nogordola, Jatra, and Deshal), which they did with absolute abandon. Dinner at Indian restaurant Sajna, then home to bed.
The next day I’d booked a tour with Guide Tours out of Dhaka to Comilla (4 hours east of Dhaka) and Sonargaon (an hour out of Dhaka and the ancient capital city of Bangladesh). Unfortunately Bec was up during the night with Bangla Belly (it wouldn’t have been the full experience without it), so she reluctantly spent the day at my place while Luke and I bonded over lush green rice paddies, hindu temples, pottery barns, a WWII grave site, and mini Taj Mahal. A full 12 hours on the road, we returned to a much improved Bec and wandered down for a dinner of pizza.
The next day (their last in Bangladesh) we went on a walking tour of Old Dhaka, taking in Lalbag Fort, several mosques, ancient buildings and the old Dhaka hustle and bustle. Bec was still not feeling great and spending a few hours walking around the heat and humidity in Dhaka takes its toll, so we hopped in a CNG back to Dhanmondi. Refreshed, with bellies full of fresh veges and fresh lime sodas, we collected their luggage from David and Matt’s and moved them to my place for the last night. With the power out we hightailed it to Pizza Corner where we entertained the staff, playing UNO and gossiping like schoolchildren for hours. Luke expertly squeezed all their new belongings in their bags (in the space left by cheese and vodka) so we were ready to pile into Shabab’s car at 4am.
In an absolute record of 15 minutes we were at the airport, where more concerned about munching down Gastro Stop, we made a quick, tearless farewell.
It was a whirlwind week, and now it’s almost as though they were never here. There is an emptiness where they were. It was incredible beyond description to have two of my favourite people in the world here, to show them where I live and work, introduce them to the fabulous people I’m sharing the experience with and show them a country they might never have known.
Who’s next?
Tired but excited Bec and Luke were keen to get out of the airport and into Bec’s first CNG (baby taxi, motorised rickshaw... as you wish). Hugs all around, confirmation of copious amounts of alcohol and cheese in bags, I threw an orna around Bec’s shoulders and marched them through the swarming crowd surrounding the airport at 4 in the morning (as it is at all hours of the day).
I haggled for the right price, shoved in the bags and we all squeezed into the CNG. A nice, cool morning, the streets were almost empty on the way to Dhanmondi. Within half an hour we arrived at David and Matthew’s house (where Bec and Luke were staying), they grabbed out the cheese and alcohol and jumped into bed (with the luxurious comfort of AC!) to catch up on some sleep before a long day ahead.
I raced the precious cargo home to my fridge and got a spot of work done before returning to collect them. First task: squeeze the three of us on a rickshaw, taking my usual route to work. This was exciting even for me initially, because I’d never sat on the top of the rickshaw seat, with someone between my legs before. Now I know why. Ouch! Anyway, an agonising 20 minutes later we jumped off at Poribagh and walked across to UNICEF. There Bec and Luke met my colleagues over shingara (turmeric chilli veges in pastry – heavenly goodness) and tea/coffee. From there the plan was to hit the National Museum , Dhaka Uni and Liberation War Museum...but like most things in Bangladesh, our plan was thwarted when the National Museum was shut. So we wandered around the University (checking out the Fine Arts College where preparation for Bengali New Year was well underway), then down to Aziz Market to buy some funky Bangla tee’s, and on to New Market where we had to buy red fabric and tips (bindi’s in Hindi culture) for the RED party the next night.
My Bangla is basic at best, but Bec and Luke are easily impressed, but we were gladly in and out of New Market within too long (even in the middle of the day during the week, the place is crammed full of people). By this time we were all dripping with sweat, so escaped to the oasis that is Cafe Mango for lunch (to try their infamous vege burgers and banana lassi’s). Then home for showers and chill out. A short thunder storm followed which considerably cooled the afternoon. At my place they met my Clancy and we watched the sunset on the rooftop before heading to the Drik Gallery to see an exhibit and on to the Bengali Fine Arts Gallery Cafe for a great and cheap Bangladeshi dinner (biryani, bhuna, paratha, bhat and shobji ) with friends Tuni and Clay (visiting from the USA to make a documentary on Bengali river music), Seb (a Canadian guy living here while making a documentary about hirja’s – transsexuals), Shabbab (a darling Bangladeshi boy I met on the plane to Dhaka), James and Clancy. Luke was totally in his element talking film with Tuni and Seb, the rest of us about the UN system, the problems of Bangladesh and the usual utter nonsense.
The following day, we were up early for a traditional breakfast with my beautiful Bangladeshi colleague Shilpi and her family at her house. A first for me as well and Bec and Luke. Breakfast consisted of dhal, bhat (rice), roti (bread), shobji (vegetables) and mishti (sweets). It was lovely and a perfect start to the day. From there we went to the Bangabandu Museum (the home of Bangabanda – political founding father of Bangladesh and father of current Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina – and where he was assassinated). From there we went to the Liberation War Museum (definitely worth the hunt). Full of Bangladeshi history (in all its bloody glory) we headed home (including, for a short distance, in a CNG driving the wrong way down the road!) to prepare for the big party. By the time everyone started arriving, Clancy and I had decorated the house, arranged food (shingara and phushka) and drinks and were still madly getting dressed.
A great night of utter trashiness followed, one of the highlights when Bec and Luke left and Lyrian and I scared them senseless about being mugged.
Casey: You’re LEAVING? Now? But it’s dark out!
Bec: Yeah, why?
Casey: Fuck. You’ll get mugged.
Lyrian: Yeah. Fuck. You need to watch out for gangs of muggers. They creep up on you, sometimes with knives and may stab you before stealing your stuff.
Casey: Yeah and be sure not to have your bag across your body, coz if they drive past and grab it you’ll be dragged down the street. Maybe break bones.
Bec and Luke look cautiously at one another.
Bec: Should we stay the night here then?
Casey: Nah, you’ll be fine. Here, give me all your stuff. Only take what you need, maybe just your keys.
Casey relives Bec of her keys, shoves them in her bra.
Casey: They won’t go looking for them in there. Ha ha!
Lyrian: Let us know if you get mugged...or get home safely.
Casey: Here, take my mobile. Text Shabab when you get home to let us know.
Casey shoves her phone in Bec’s bra.
Bec: Aaah, ok...
Next morning
Casey: Where the fuck’s my fucking phone?
Clearly I’d have been a great help if they hadn’t made it home safely. Anyway, when we were able to drag ourselves out of bed and stand up without being sick, we met Bec and Luke at Cafe Mango for breakfast. From there it took me a few hours to return to my usual cheery tour guide mode, but by early afternoon we were on our way to the north side (Banani) to hit the shops (Nogordola, Jatra, and Deshal), which they did with absolute abandon. Dinner at Indian restaurant Sajna, then home to bed.
The next day I’d booked a tour with Guide Tours out of Dhaka to Comilla (4 hours east of Dhaka) and Sonargaon (an hour out of Dhaka and the ancient capital city of Bangladesh). Unfortunately Bec was up during the night with Bangla Belly (it wouldn’t have been the full experience without it), so she reluctantly spent the day at my place while Luke and I bonded over lush green rice paddies, hindu temples, pottery barns, a WWII grave site, and mini Taj Mahal. A full 12 hours on the road, we returned to a much improved Bec and wandered down for a dinner of pizza.
The next day (their last in Bangladesh) we went on a walking tour of Old Dhaka, taking in Lalbag Fort, several mosques, ancient buildings and the old Dhaka hustle and bustle. Bec was still not feeling great and spending a few hours walking around the heat and humidity in Dhaka takes its toll, so we hopped in a CNG back to Dhanmondi. Refreshed, with bellies full of fresh veges and fresh lime sodas, we collected their luggage from David and Matt’s and moved them to my place for the last night. With the power out we hightailed it to Pizza Corner where we entertained the staff, playing UNO and gossiping like schoolchildren for hours. Luke expertly squeezed all their new belongings in their bags (in the space left by cheese and vodka) so we were ready to pile into Shabab’s car at 4am.
In an absolute record of 15 minutes we were at the airport, where more concerned about munching down Gastro Stop, we made a quick, tearless farewell.
It was a whirlwind week, and now it’s almost as though they were never here. There is an emptiness where they were. It was incredible beyond description to have two of my favourite people in the world here, to show them where I live and work, introduce them to the fabulous people I’m sharing the experience with and show them a country they might never have known.
Who’s next?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Making informed choices
Last week I was in north-west Bangladesh - Rangpur and Lalmonirhut to be specific - visiting UNICEF’s education and adolescent empowerment projects. The work we do in the field right across Bangladesh, with the invaluable assistance of NGOs and government, is awe inspiring. It is working; it is changing lives.
In Lalmonirhut we are piloting a new project where Class V students are preparing five year old children for preschool. The project has several aims, but one of the most important is to increase children’s retention at school. By making education fun, preparing them for what is to come, and raising awareness within their communities of the importance of education, the hope is that the project will boost the number of children finishing their education. Widespread poverty across Bangladesh means that most children are forced to work to help support their family. These children do not have time to attend school, let alone to play with their friends and enjoy the sort of childhood we so often take for granted.
Hopefully the project will motivate parents and children to value education,breaking the intergenerational cycle of poverty. The pilot project is running on a small scale in six districts across Bangladesh and it appears to be working. In fact, the families of the children not involved are insistent we implement the project nationwide immediately.
In Rangpur, I visited an adolescent empowerment centre run by one of our NGOs. That day a group of Peer Leaders had gathered to meet me and discuss what they had learnt on a recent trip to Cox’s Bazaar. Peer Leaders from across Bangladesh attended the week-long retreat to discuss the issue of HIV/AIDS and how they as adolescent leaders can raise awareness in their communities. These teenagers were so excited to tell me about their trip – the first for most of them outside of their community. At the retreat they had the chance to meet other adolescents around the country, play sport, hang out at the beach and learn more about HIV/AIDS and community engagement methods.
Basicallly, these kids go out into their communities and educate by coordinating/running rallies, community meetings, interactive popular theatre, making posters and disseminating information on issues such as early marriage and dowry, HIV/AIDS, child labour, child abuse, child trafficking and child rights, gender equality and education. Acting as agents of change within their own communities, these adolescents become confident young achievers who know the importance of progressive change.
Boys posing for the bideshi with a camera in the adolescent empowerment meeting about child rights.
I was all very inspired by the trip, until I had a conversation with a well-educated, well-travelled man about his opinion of UNICEFs interventions. Firstly, he believes it is not necessary to explain to poor, uneducated people exactly what our interventions are for or about, because they are uneducated and stupid and will only become nervous and won’t want to be involved. Sadly, this belief that the poor of the country are incompetent morons is not uncommon. And it makes me fucking depressed. Answer me this: how the FUCK is this country going to achieve anything if it isn’t supporting its underprivileged by giving them the opportunities afforded to the middle and upper classes?
And the most ridiculous part of all of this is that, from what I’ve seen anyway, the reverse is true. It seems to be the poor, uneducated people who are grabbing at our interventions with both hands, able and willing to break the cycle of poverty and give themselves what they need to lead prosperous, healthy, respectful lives. And it is the middle and upper classes (as if there should even be such terms or hierarchy) that is resistant.
Second, regarding our adolescent empowerment project. Apparently it will have a boomerang effect. Because the project encourages adolescent boys and girls to get together to discuss awareness raising campaigns and this will inevitably lead to sex. Potentially sex outside of marriage. Which is why early marriage is okay.
Really? I’m sorry, at which point did we stop having an intelligent debate? Children, young children getting married? Children having sex? Children having children? What planet am I on when this seems like a reasonable suggestion?
I’d argue that actually children should be free to enjoy their childhood. That sex, like any other decision we make in our lives, should be made based on a thorough understanding, with respect of our culture, religion, family and upbringing. Surely, all of this boils down to giving people the ability to make informed decisions?
Ok, so maybe I’m naive. Sure, of course I am. What do I know about the problems people face here, have faced here for hundreds of years? Fuck all. But that doesn’t mean people shouldn’t be allowed to make fully informed decisions. That's a basic human right.
Every child has the right.
In Lalmonirhut we are piloting a new project where Class V students are preparing five year old children for preschool. The project has several aims, but one of the most important is to increase children’s retention at school. By making education fun, preparing them for what is to come, and raising awareness within their communities of the importance of education, the hope is that the project will boost the number of children finishing their education. Widespread poverty across Bangladesh means that most children are forced to work to help support their family. These children do not have time to attend school, let alone to play with their friends and enjoy the sort of childhood we so often take for granted.
Hopefully the project will motivate parents and children to value education,breaking the intergenerational cycle of poverty. The pilot project is running on a small scale in six districts across Bangladesh and it appears to be working. In fact, the families of the children not involved are insistent we implement the project nationwide immediately.
In Rangpur, I visited an adolescent empowerment centre run by one of our NGOs. That day a group of Peer Leaders had gathered to meet me and discuss what they had learnt on a recent trip to Cox’s Bazaar. Peer Leaders from across Bangladesh attended the week-long retreat to discuss the issue of HIV/AIDS and how they as adolescent leaders can raise awareness in their communities. These teenagers were so excited to tell me about their trip – the first for most of them outside of their community. At the retreat they had the chance to meet other adolescents around the country, play sport, hang out at the beach and learn more about HIV/AIDS and community engagement methods.
Basicallly, these kids go out into their communities and educate by coordinating/running rallies, community meetings, interactive popular theatre, making posters and disseminating information on issues such as early marriage and dowry, HIV/AIDS, child labour, child abuse, child trafficking and child rights, gender equality and education. Acting as agents of change within their own communities, these adolescents become confident young achievers who know the importance of progressive change.
Boys posing for the bideshi with a camera in the adolescent empowerment meeting about child rights.
I was all very inspired by the trip, until I had a conversation with a well-educated, well-travelled man about his opinion of UNICEFs interventions. Firstly, he believes it is not necessary to explain to poor, uneducated people exactly what our interventions are for or about, because they are uneducated and stupid and will only become nervous and won’t want to be involved. Sadly, this belief that the poor of the country are incompetent morons is not uncommon. And it makes me fucking depressed. Answer me this: how the FUCK is this country going to achieve anything if it isn’t supporting its underprivileged by giving them the opportunities afforded to the middle and upper classes?
And the most ridiculous part of all of this is that, from what I’ve seen anyway, the reverse is true. It seems to be the poor, uneducated people who are grabbing at our interventions with both hands, able and willing to break the cycle of poverty and give themselves what they need to lead prosperous, healthy, respectful lives. And it is the middle and upper classes (as if there should even be such terms or hierarchy) that is resistant.
Second, regarding our adolescent empowerment project. Apparently it will have a boomerang effect. Because the project encourages adolescent boys and girls to get together to discuss awareness raising campaigns and this will inevitably lead to sex. Potentially sex outside of marriage. Which is why early marriage is okay.
Really? I’m sorry, at which point did we stop having an intelligent debate? Children, young children getting married? Children having sex? Children having children? What planet am I on when this seems like a reasonable suggestion?
I’d argue that actually children should be free to enjoy their childhood. That sex, like any other decision we make in our lives, should be made based on a thorough understanding, with respect of our culture, religion, family and upbringing. Surely, all of this boils down to giving people the ability to make informed decisions?
Ok, so maybe I’m naive. Sure, of course I am. What do I know about the problems people face here, have faced here for hundreds of years? Fuck all. But that doesn’t mean people shouldn’t be allowed to make fully informed decisions. That's a basic human right.
Every child has the right.
Building Homes; Changing Lives
When fellow AYAD and cool chick, Mon, said she was organising a ‘Women Build’ for Habitat for Humanity to mark International Women’s Day, I thought ‘hell yah, count me in’. And she did.
I was all very excited, until the night before the big day, when I realised that actually I haven’t the faintest fucking idea how to build a house, and had sort of just imagined swanning about with a cute little toolbelt around my hips and a hammer in my hand posing for photos. Shit. I’m actually going to have to do some physical labour and get dirty! Shit.
Anyway, being a woman of multiple talents (including a steely determination to do anything a man can do) I met about 50 other women, Australian, American, and Brit alike, at the American Club, where we hopped in some minivans and made our way north to Savar to help build homes for three lucky families. Armed with shovels, buckets, hammers and loads of promotional materials (banners, t-shirts and cameras) we were quite a sight in Savar.
After a quick pep talk and some background on women’s empowerment and gender disparities in Bangladesh, we were motivated to build some houses (and kick male ass...or was that just me? Oh...) A group of us AYADs were assigned to a house which was already quite well built...well, in so far that it had walls and a roof... ‘Oh goody, it’s finished. Shall we take some photos - is there is cute little toolbelt and a hammer I can hold for a second - and then go for a cocktail? ...What? No? Oh, ok then’.
Alternating between brick chipping (which is quite a skill actually...how to get the chips at a size that isn’t too big, but not so small that the Bangladeshi women and children surrounding us aren’t complaining that we are making ‘flour’, is a fine art) and sand sifting. It was bloody hot and some of us were extremely hungover (not me Mum, promise). The locals found us incredibly entertaining and we assisted (albeit in a small way) to building a house for those most deserving.
And I did get dirty.
It was fucking excellent.
I even have photos to prove it.
Anyway, before we knew it the day was over and it was home for a shower and a well deserved massage (not that I’ve convinced either of my Matt’s to give me one yet...sneaks).
A great way to spend the day and support a worthy cause and a great NGO.
I was all very excited, until the night before the big day, when I realised that actually I haven’t the faintest fucking idea how to build a house, and had sort of just imagined swanning about with a cute little toolbelt around my hips and a hammer in my hand posing for photos. Shit. I’m actually going to have to do some physical labour and get dirty! Shit.
Anyway, being a woman of multiple talents (including a steely determination to do anything a man can do) I met about 50 other women, Australian, American, and Brit alike, at the American Club, where we hopped in some minivans and made our way north to Savar to help build homes for three lucky families. Armed with shovels, buckets, hammers and loads of promotional materials (banners, t-shirts and cameras) we were quite a sight in Savar.
After a quick pep talk and some background on women’s empowerment and gender disparities in Bangladesh, we were motivated to build some houses (and kick male ass...or was that just me? Oh...) A group of us AYADs were assigned to a house which was already quite well built...well, in so far that it had walls and a roof... ‘Oh goody, it’s finished. Shall we take some photos - is there is cute little toolbelt and a hammer I can hold for a second - and then go for a cocktail? ...What? No? Oh, ok then’.
Alternating between brick chipping (which is quite a skill actually...how to get the chips at a size that isn’t too big, but not so small that the Bangladeshi women and children surrounding us aren’t complaining that we are making ‘flour’, is a fine art) and sand sifting. It was bloody hot and some of us were extremely hungover (not me Mum, promise). The locals found us incredibly entertaining and we assisted (albeit in a small way) to building a house for those most deserving.
And I did get dirty.
It was fucking excellent.
I even have photos to prove it.
Anyway, before we knew it the day was over and it was home for a shower and a well deserved massage (not that I’ve convinced either of my Matt’s to give me one yet...sneaks).
A great way to spend the day and support a worthy cause and a great NGO.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Kickin' it in Kathmandu
I know I’ve not been back from China all that long, but there was a long weekend here in Bangladesh and the suggestion was made to spend it in Kathmandu.. who I am to turn it down? Ok, I made the suggestion, but I’m no fool, and it was a good suggestion, so off Carly, Chris, Lyrian and I went in search of wine, cheese, cocktails and wine...oh, I said that already...it was really good wine...
Although poorer than Bangladesh, Nepal’s geography makes it a tourist hot spot. Still very much a developing country, westerners are plentiful and, for us at least coming from Bangladesh, the anonymity of that is liberating.
After a total farce arranging visas on arrival (word of warning: take USD with you. We were allowed through to get cash from the one ATM in the airport. It was broken. Leaving blonde girls as collateral, Chris went off in search of an ATM in the city, and a place to convert rupees into USD), we raced to our respective hotels then to New Orleans Cafe where we literally drooled over the menu and wine list. ‘A bottle of your pino noir please sir, quick as you can, it’s an emergency here!’
Giddy with excitement we fell to bed that night with bellies full of salad, crusty bread and red wine. The following morning we met for breakfast. Breakfast that didn’t consist of curry. Rather, real, really bloody good coffee and mushroom toast. Sitting in the courtyard of the bakery, soaking up some early morning sunshine, sipping our coffees, grins from ear to ear, Lyrian spoke what we were all thinking ‘I never, ever want to leave’.
Ready for a full day, we set off, Lonely Planet in hand to do a walking tour around the city, ending in Darbur Square. Blessed by a holy man (and then cursed when we refused to pay him for the ‘service’ we didn’t request) we didn’t quite follow the route, but we did find our way to the Square – although it took some convincing on my part that we were there. I gave up in the end. I think, in hindsight, we were there. But that map was confusing. Anyway, wherever we were, it was nice and had some really old stuff in it ;)
Chris and Lyrian in Kathmandu's Darbur Square
Desperate to cram as many meals into each day as possible, we found a quaint garden restaurant on Freak Street for lunch, then made our way back to Thamel, via the many shops on the way. Quick stop for an afternoon coffee and apple pie, then home to prepare for a night on the town.
Carly and I had time for two cocktails before Lyrian could drag Chris out of the shower and into the bar. Then, on to OR2K – a fantastically fabulous Middle Eastern vego restaurant whose felafels will almost certainly forever be the best I’ve ever had. Two bottles of red, more humus, tahini and felafel than I care to remember later, we stumbled out onto the street. The sound of live music at an upstairs bar beckoned and next thing you know we’re crowded round a sheesha pipe with another bottle of wine.
Carly, Chris and Lyrian at OR2K
Chris, Lyrian and I at the Sheesha Lounge
The next morning didn’t start well for any of us. Taking comfort behind my sunglasses, I sipped my ORS and waited for my greasy fry up to arrive. We hired a driver and decided to see some hotspots outside of the city. First stop: Monkey Temple. Gladly there weren’t too many crazy monkeys running riot and we enjoyed the almost 360 degree views of Kathmandu from the top of the stupa. Next stop: Patan. Just south of Kathmandu Patan has its own Darbur Square, which looked very much like the one in Kathmandu. Next stop: Pashputinpath. This place irked us all before we even got out of the car. Nestled on the river, this is where funeral rites are carried out. Including one while we were there. Creepy. We high-tailed it out of there to Boudna, home to the largest Buddhist stupa in South Asia. We arrived close to sunset and in time to watch monks perform their afternoon ritual (circling the stupa three times, clockwise). We decided to stay to soak up some peace and quiet on the rooftop of a lovely cafe.
The Boudna stupa
That evening, famished, we met at La Dolce Vita for a feast of pasta and, well, steak. Still reeling from the night before we decided to have desert instead of drinks and found a fantastic, darkly-lit cafe that served up cheese cake, apple strudel, a range of mouth-watering deserts.
Lyrian and Chris left Kathmandu early the next morning for Pokara and some serious trekking. Carly and I were also up early to catch our mountain flight along the Himalayas to see Everest up close. Although the flight was delayed an hour and 15 minutes into the flight we were informed there was a ‘door indicator’ problem and that we had to return to the ground, where we waited another hour for a new plane (’10 minutes maximum’), it was a fantastic trip and as close to Everest as I’m likely to get.
The Himalayas
We spent the afternoon shopping. Shopping as though I’d never have the chance again. It was fun. At one shop (where I bought a gorgeous purple skirt that jingles as I walk!) the owner sat us down for Nepali tea and told us a story to explain Hinduism. It was an interesting story, even though it took a good 30 minutes to tell. The moral was that by putting in a little bit of work, rewards will come. But the highlight was his summary. Turning, with all seriousness to Carly, he said “so, because I feel you, I own you. I feeeeeel you.’ Snigger snigger. To Carly’s absolute credit she remained straight faced. But she might have been nervous that he would demonstrate how he feeeeels her...so fair play.
Anyway, that night we went back to the cute darkly-lit cafe to a traditional Nepali meal and rakshi (Nepali rice wine – which tastes like petrol, I imagine). Then we went to find a gig that a bunch of (rather cute) Aussie guys we’d met earlier that day invited us to. Plans for an early night, before our big trek in the morning, evaporated with each beer. Then the sheesha came out and I continued to taste it as debate continued as to whether it was apple or apple and mint, or in fact liquorice (I’m going with apple and mint, but I’d need another puff to be sure...). Sometime after midnight we managed to unentangle ourselves by promising to meet up the following night, post-trek for drinks and dancing.
So the next day, up early we met our guide – Diamond (I managed not to say ‘diamond geezer’ even once!) – and began the drive to Sarku to kick off the 12km trek to Nagarkot. The first 5km were easy, lovely and shady. The next 2km were hellish and hot and steep...they were probably also beautiful but I wouldn’t know, I was engaged in a silent battle about why on earth people trek anywhere when motorized transport is so easily accessible. The last 5km were also steep and rocky...but I’d summoned some inner peace and we were at the top before we knew it. We celebrated conquering the mountain in 2.5hours (more than an hour quicker than usual groups) with a cold beer and buff chilli (chilli buffalo...why the heck not, we thought).
Beautiful Nepali children at a village outside of Nargakot
On the drive back to Kathmandu, Diamond showed us around Bhaktapur – the most ancient city in Nepal. Totally knackered and sunburnt we had a sleep before heading to OR2K for our final dinner in Kathmandu. Carly felt progressively worse over dinner (not even able to have a glass of wine!), so we decided not to brave the thunderstorm to find the Aussie boys, but go home until she felt better, the storm calmed down, or preferably, both. However, I promptly fell asleep (what a party animal) and Carly spent all night running to the bathroom.
The next morning, bright as a button, I went out for my last real coffee and crusty bread breakfast, leaving Carly with her ORS. Returning to the hotel at 11, discussing when we should check out to be at the airport in time for our 6.45pm flight, I noticed with absolute horror that the air ticket said our flight was at 12.15. Panic stations. In a mad dash I ran to reception to ask what time the GMG flight to Dhaka was due to leave. ‘Yes 12.15pm Miss. Don’t rush. Leave now, or in 30 minutes. The plan is always late. No hurry’....fuuuuuuuuuuck.
Ran to the internet cafe to check. Shit. Fuck. Crap. Bollocks. Arse. Yes. 12.15pm. Ran back to the hotel room. Grabbed bags and Carly who was madly chewing down Gastro Stops. Jumped in taxi, tried not to scream at the driver who should ‘bloody fucking step on it buddy!’. Jumped out of taxi, pushed through queues, ran to check in desk. 11.55am. We made it. They let us on. Carly was positively yellow. But she made it. We made it. And now we’re back in Dhaka and its bloody fucking hot and humid. It’s no Nepal, but it’s home and I love it anyway.
Although poorer than Bangladesh, Nepal’s geography makes it a tourist hot spot. Still very much a developing country, westerners are plentiful and, for us at least coming from Bangladesh, the anonymity of that is liberating.
After a total farce arranging visas on arrival (word of warning: take USD with you. We were allowed through to get cash from the one ATM in the airport. It was broken. Leaving blonde girls as collateral, Chris went off in search of an ATM in the city, and a place to convert rupees into USD), we raced to our respective hotels then to New Orleans Cafe where we literally drooled over the menu and wine list. ‘A bottle of your pino noir please sir, quick as you can, it’s an emergency here!’
Giddy with excitement we fell to bed that night with bellies full of salad, crusty bread and red wine. The following morning we met for breakfast. Breakfast that didn’t consist of curry. Rather, real, really bloody good coffee and mushroom toast. Sitting in the courtyard of the bakery, soaking up some early morning sunshine, sipping our coffees, grins from ear to ear, Lyrian spoke what we were all thinking ‘I never, ever want to leave’.
Ready for a full day, we set off, Lonely Planet in hand to do a walking tour around the city, ending in Darbur Square. Blessed by a holy man (and then cursed when we refused to pay him for the ‘service’ we didn’t request) we didn’t quite follow the route, but we did find our way to the Square – although it took some convincing on my part that we were there. I gave up in the end. I think, in hindsight, we were there. But that map was confusing. Anyway, wherever we were, it was nice and had some really old stuff in it ;)
Chris and Lyrian in Kathmandu's Darbur Square
Desperate to cram as many meals into each day as possible, we found a quaint garden restaurant on Freak Street for lunch, then made our way back to Thamel, via the many shops on the way. Quick stop for an afternoon coffee and apple pie, then home to prepare for a night on the town.
Carly and I had time for two cocktails before Lyrian could drag Chris out of the shower and into the bar. Then, on to OR2K – a fantastically fabulous Middle Eastern vego restaurant whose felafels will almost certainly forever be the best I’ve ever had. Two bottles of red, more humus, tahini and felafel than I care to remember later, we stumbled out onto the street. The sound of live music at an upstairs bar beckoned and next thing you know we’re crowded round a sheesha pipe with another bottle of wine.
Carly, Chris and Lyrian at OR2K
Chris, Lyrian and I at the Sheesha Lounge
The next morning didn’t start well for any of us. Taking comfort behind my sunglasses, I sipped my ORS and waited for my greasy fry up to arrive. We hired a driver and decided to see some hotspots outside of the city. First stop: Monkey Temple. Gladly there weren’t too many crazy monkeys running riot and we enjoyed the almost 360 degree views of Kathmandu from the top of the stupa. Next stop: Patan. Just south of Kathmandu Patan has its own Darbur Square, which looked very much like the one in Kathmandu. Next stop: Pashputinpath. This place irked us all before we even got out of the car. Nestled on the river, this is where funeral rites are carried out. Including one while we were there. Creepy. We high-tailed it out of there to Boudna, home to the largest Buddhist stupa in South Asia. We arrived close to sunset and in time to watch monks perform their afternoon ritual (circling the stupa three times, clockwise). We decided to stay to soak up some peace and quiet on the rooftop of a lovely cafe.
The Boudna stupa
That evening, famished, we met at La Dolce Vita for a feast of pasta and, well, steak. Still reeling from the night before we decided to have desert instead of drinks and found a fantastic, darkly-lit cafe that served up cheese cake, apple strudel, a range of mouth-watering deserts.
Lyrian and Chris left Kathmandu early the next morning for Pokara and some serious trekking. Carly and I were also up early to catch our mountain flight along the Himalayas to see Everest up close. Although the flight was delayed an hour and 15 minutes into the flight we were informed there was a ‘door indicator’ problem and that we had to return to the ground, where we waited another hour for a new plane (’10 minutes maximum’), it was a fantastic trip and as close to Everest as I’m likely to get.
The Himalayas
We spent the afternoon shopping. Shopping as though I’d never have the chance again. It was fun. At one shop (where I bought a gorgeous purple skirt that jingles as I walk!) the owner sat us down for Nepali tea and told us a story to explain Hinduism. It was an interesting story, even though it took a good 30 minutes to tell. The moral was that by putting in a little bit of work, rewards will come. But the highlight was his summary. Turning, with all seriousness to Carly, he said “so, because I feel you, I own you. I feeeeeel you.’ Snigger snigger. To Carly’s absolute credit she remained straight faced. But she might have been nervous that he would demonstrate how he feeeeels her...so fair play.
Anyway, that night we went back to the cute darkly-lit cafe to a traditional Nepali meal and rakshi (Nepali rice wine – which tastes like petrol, I imagine). Then we went to find a gig that a bunch of (rather cute) Aussie guys we’d met earlier that day invited us to. Plans for an early night, before our big trek in the morning, evaporated with each beer. Then the sheesha came out and I continued to taste it as debate continued as to whether it was apple or apple and mint, or in fact liquorice (I’m going with apple and mint, but I’d need another puff to be sure...). Sometime after midnight we managed to unentangle ourselves by promising to meet up the following night, post-trek for drinks and dancing.
So the next day, up early we met our guide – Diamond (I managed not to say ‘diamond geezer’ even once!) – and began the drive to Sarku to kick off the 12km trek to Nagarkot. The first 5km were easy, lovely and shady. The next 2km were hellish and hot and steep...they were probably also beautiful but I wouldn’t know, I was engaged in a silent battle about why on earth people trek anywhere when motorized transport is so easily accessible. The last 5km were also steep and rocky...but I’d summoned some inner peace and we were at the top before we knew it. We celebrated conquering the mountain in 2.5hours (more than an hour quicker than usual groups) with a cold beer and buff chilli (chilli buffalo...why the heck not, we thought).
Beautiful Nepali children at a village outside of Nargakot
On the drive back to Kathmandu, Diamond showed us around Bhaktapur – the most ancient city in Nepal. Totally knackered and sunburnt we had a sleep before heading to OR2K for our final dinner in Kathmandu. Carly felt progressively worse over dinner (not even able to have a glass of wine!), so we decided not to brave the thunderstorm to find the Aussie boys, but go home until she felt better, the storm calmed down, or preferably, both. However, I promptly fell asleep (what a party animal) and Carly spent all night running to the bathroom.
The next morning, bright as a button, I went out for my last real coffee and crusty bread breakfast, leaving Carly with her ORS. Returning to the hotel at 11, discussing when we should check out to be at the airport in time for our 6.45pm flight, I noticed with absolute horror that the air ticket said our flight was at 12.15. Panic stations. In a mad dash I ran to reception to ask what time the GMG flight to Dhaka was due to leave. ‘Yes 12.15pm Miss. Don’t rush. Leave now, or in 30 minutes. The plan is always late. No hurry’....fuuuuuuuuuuck.
Ran to the internet cafe to check. Shit. Fuck. Crap. Bollocks. Arse. Yes. 12.15pm. Ran back to the hotel room. Grabbed bags and Carly who was madly chewing down Gastro Stops. Jumped in taxi, tried not to scream at the driver who should ‘bloody fucking step on it buddy!’. Jumped out of taxi, pushed through queues, ran to check in desk. 11.55am. We made it. They let us on. Carly was positively yellow. But she made it. We made it. And now we’re back in Dhaka and its bloody fucking hot and humid. It’s no Nepal, but it’s home and I love it anyway.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Cutting the Fat
Strolling back from lunch today (my first Bangladeshi lunch - consisting of 5 tonnnes of rice and tumeric coated vegetables and well disguised chillis - since my recent bout of gastro) I detoured past Kate's desk to ask if we were going for our usual lunchtime walk in the park, when I happened upon a huddled group of Bangladeshi colleagues.
I thought I'd stumbled upon a party... Yes, a 'let's get together at lunchtime and weight eachother party". FUN
"oooh, whats this? a party?" - Casey (poor, naive Casey)
"no, no Casey, ha ha. We are weighing ourselves...Mahkles is 79kg today. Let's weigh you! How fat do you think Casey is Khokan?" - Salma
"aaaah, no really it's okay" - Casey (oh the futility!)
"Just less than 60 I think" - Khokan
"Mmmm, I'd say 62 or 63" - Mahkles (Gee, thank you Mahkles!)
"No, I think 58kg" - Zia.
(Casey, manhandled onto the scales)
"oh, but I've just eated lunch...I have my shoes on and my orna and...let me put down this banana and my purse" - Casey (oh the futility!)
"mmm 59.8. mmm" - Salma.
Some mumbling from the others. I'm not hearing the words as, head down, used and defeated, I slink off to Kate's desk to warn her.
(There's no point not publishing it here, I'm almost certain everyone in the Communication Section were informed yesterday, and if other completely inappropriate all-staff emails are anything to go by, its probably a topic of conversation around the building)
Ah, the cultural differences. I can't imagine this popular lunchtime activity being well received in Australia somehow.
I thought I'd stumbled upon a party... Yes, a 'let's get together at lunchtime and weight eachother party". FUN
"oooh, whats this? a party?" - Casey (poor, naive Casey)
"no, no Casey, ha ha. We are weighing ourselves...Mahkles is 79kg today. Let's weigh you! How fat do you think Casey is Khokan?" - Salma
"aaaah, no really it's okay" - Casey (oh the futility!)
"Just less than 60 I think" - Khokan
"Mmmm, I'd say 62 or 63" - Mahkles (Gee, thank you Mahkles!)
"No, I think 58kg" - Zia.
(Casey, manhandled onto the scales)
"oh, but I've just eated lunch...I have my shoes on and my orna and...let me put down this banana and my purse" - Casey (oh the futility!)
"mmm 59.8. mmm" - Salma.
Some mumbling from the others. I'm not hearing the words as, head down, used and defeated, I slink off to Kate's desk to warn her.
(There's no point not publishing it here, I'm almost certain everyone in the Communication Section were informed yesterday, and if other completely inappropriate all-staff emails are anything to go by, its probably a topic of conversation around the building)
Ah, the cultural differences. I can't imagine this popular lunchtime activity being well received in Australia somehow.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Oh My Buddha!
To think only last week, while freezing my bollocks off in Beijing, I was wishing to be back in the lovely Dhaka sunshine. Hmm! Now, I'm sitting in my hot Dhaka flat, sweating in a non-ladylike fashion, typing this by candle light because the power has gone out (for the eighth time today) and our building doesn't have a generator. Still, our new cleaning lady Rabeya started today, the house is spotless and I'm happy in the knowledge that I'm helping to support her family, never have to clean this flat or wash my clothes by hand again. It's the small things.
Anyway, back to China. If you can imagine two and a half weeks of pure, luxurious bliss, then you'll know what my time in China was like. Think: dumplings, noodles, spicy tofu, garlic spinach and brocoli, duck, hot pot and all the beer you can drink. Also, the quiet... no incessant car horns or rikshaw bells. Imagine, being able to sleep through the night. Imagine, not being woken at 5am by the call to prayer.
I met the lovely, ever-bubbly Emma at the Beijing airport in the very late hours of Friday the 13th and despite all superstitious concerns, it all went smoothly. Including checking in to possibly the greatest hostel find in the city.
Our first few days in Beijing were spent seeing Tiannamen Square, the Forbidden City, and White Pagoda and getting a sense of the city (particularly the bars). We met some lovely guys at the hostel on our second night, including a rather hilarious Spanish speaking Belgian, a friendly Melbournian and an American guy who worked on the Obama campaign (did you say the Obama Campaign? Why, Emma, aren't those the magic words? hmm). Anyway, Valentines evening was spent knocking back Tsingtao's in the hostel bar with those boys...good times.
From Beijing we flew south to the Yunnan Province. Arriving in Lijiang was like stepping into a magical land, and it was hard to leave. Imagine a labrynth of winding cobbled streets, quaint local handicrafts, rural village folk and the most delicious food. Add to this a million red lanterns (Chinese New Year), few tourists (well, few English speaking tourists anyway), a snow-capped mountain backdrop and you can see why I seriously contemplated packing it all in and staying.
The plan was to trek the Tiger Leaping Gorge from Lijiang, but unfortunately Emma got sick but it meant we had an extra day in Lijiang before catching a bus to Dali.
Dali in its own right is beautiful. But Dali after the magic of Lijiang was the ugly sister. And we wanted out, back to the buzz of a bigger city. On the eve of the day we were due to catch a bus to Kunming to catch a flight to Xi'An, Em (the networking guru that she is) shared a few beers with Jim (of Jim's Tibetan Peace Hotel - where we were conveniently staying). Turned out that Jim, his beautiful 4 year old daughter Julie and a cramped minivan of others were actually heading to Kunming the next day too....did we want to go with them? Why the hell not, we said, we're 'fly by the seat of our pants' gals!
So it was that we cashed in our bus tickets and embarked on a road trip with a bunch of strangers across China. Stopping every 30 minutes for a ciggie break. And for lunch at an 'interesting' roadside cafe (which we both later regretted - not least because we had a room with translucent bathroom walls...but we'll come to that later). Anyway, our heart-felt thanks to the lovely, generous and fabulous Jim (love you Jim!) who delivered us safely to the Kunming airport well before our flight.
With a few hours to kill, and some gastro to fight through, we turned on some Britney and busted out all our favorite's - to the great amusement of all who passed us by (most after standing nearby watching for some time...but each to their own. I might not normally listen to Britney, but that doesn't mean there isn't a time and place...and when Emma needs a pick-me-up, this works a treat!)
Anyway, this seemed to be the end of our run of good luck. We arrived into Xi'An at 1am, caught the shuttle into the city and jumped into a taxi (as the hostel advised) to take us 5 minutes up the street. Of course, nothing could have been simpler. Except that our tosspot driver took us somewhere else entirely. After some shouting and frantic phone calls we finally arrived (no earlier than 3am) at the worlds shittest International Youth Hostel. Where we checked into our shitty room that overlooked the Bell Tower (yes, beatiful except for the incessant traffic noise, the translucent bathroom wall, and dire shortage of toilet paper, on the only day when we are both suffering from gastro). Lovely.
The next morning we caught up with Rory, that friendly Melbournian I mentioned earlier (who was so taken with us - Emma mostly - that he decided to meet us in Xi'An for a few days of fun). Anyway, I'm not saying that Xi'An was horrible, it was okay, it just wasn't Lijiang and it wasn't Beijing. But it was okay. We did get out to see the Terracotta Warriors, which was cool, but not earth shattering - although we were impressed with the emporer's dedication to ensuring his safety in the afterlife. As Em so eloquently put it: "he was a bit paranoid, eh?" (which for me, was on par with her earlier "do you think in China they say 'oh my buddha', you know, instead of 'oh my god'?)
So it was with great anticipation that we left Xi'An for Beijing to see Pi and get to know Beijing through her eyes. We sang karaoke with her colleagues, ate some amazing duck, drank more beer, and met her lovely flatmates and friends. We even took some time out from eating and drinking and shopping to see the Great Wall (and delighted in the toboggan ride down!).
In the midst of all this there was mutiny in Bangladesh and I couldn't help but think I was missing out on history being made. So although we were having a brilliant time with Pi in Beijing, I realised I was actually excited to be heading back to Dhaka - back to my flat, my Matts and the rest of the Dhaka crew, the comfort of my salwar's, to some sunshine, to work and to the pretty incredible (if not uncompromisingly challenging) life we have here.
And I am glad to be 'home'. The break was exactly what I needed to remind me that luxury is only a short flight away, that my life here is fucking hard, but its also really rewarding and that the last four months has flown by and the next eight probably will too and I don't want to leave yet.
And in only four weeks my beautiful sister and her charming husband are coming to Dhaka (for god knows what reason really, Egypt I told them, EGYPT!) and I'm bloody excited to show them around.
Don't forget your ORS and Buscopan Bec, okay? And please bring extra for me...if there is room in your bags beside all the cheese and wine you're bringing your poor deprived sister! ;)
Anyway, back to China. If you can imagine two and a half weeks of pure, luxurious bliss, then you'll know what my time in China was like. Think: dumplings, noodles, spicy tofu, garlic spinach and brocoli, duck, hot pot and all the beer you can drink. Also, the quiet... no incessant car horns or rikshaw bells. Imagine, being able to sleep through the night. Imagine, not being woken at 5am by the call to prayer.
I met the lovely, ever-bubbly Emma at the Beijing airport in the very late hours of Friday the 13th and despite all superstitious concerns, it all went smoothly. Including checking in to possibly the greatest hostel find in the city.
Our first few days in Beijing were spent seeing Tiannamen Square, the Forbidden City, and White Pagoda and getting a sense of the city (particularly the bars). We met some lovely guys at the hostel on our second night, including a rather hilarious Spanish speaking Belgian, a friendly Melbournian and an American guy who worked on the Obama campaign (did you say the Obama Campaign? Why, Emma, aren't those the magic words? hmm). Anyway, Valentines evening was spent knocking back Tsingtao's in the hostel bar with those boys...good times.
From Beijing we flew south to the Yunnan Province. Arriving in Lijiang was like stepping into a magical land, and it was hard to leave. Imagine a labrynth of winding cobbled streets, quaint local handicrafts, rural village folk and the most delicious food. Add to this a million red lanterns (Chinese New Year), few tourists (well, few English speaking tourists anyway), a snow-capped mountain backdrop and you can see why I seriously contemplated packing it all in and staying.
The plan was to trek the Tiger Leaping Gorge from Lijiang, but unfortunately Emma got sick but it meant we had an extra day in Lijiang before catching a bus to Dali.
Dali in its own right is beautiful. But Dali after the magic of Lijiang was the ugly sister. And we wanted out, back to the buzz of a bigger city. On the eve of the day we were due to catch a bus to Kunming to catch a flight to Xi'An, Em (the networking guru that she is) shared a few beers with Jim (of Jim's Tibetan Peace Hotel - where we were conveniently staying). Turned out that Jim, his beautiful 4 year old daughter Julie and a cramped minivan of others were actually heading to Kunming the next day too....did we want to go with them? Why the hell not, we said, we're 'fly by the seat of our pants' gals!
So it was that we cashed in our bus tickets and embarked on a road trip with a bunch of strangers across China. Stopping every 30 minutes for a ciggie break. And for lunch at an 'interesting' roadside cafe (which we both later regretted - not least because we had a room with translucent bathroom walls...but we'll come to that later). Anyway, our heart-felt thanks to the lovely, generous and fabulous Jim (love you Jim!) who delivered us safely to the Kunming airport well before our flight.
With a few hours to kill, and some gastro to fight through, we turned on some Britney and busted out all our favorite's - to the great amusement of all who passed us by (most after standing nearby watching for some time...but each to their own. I might not normally listen to Britney, but that doesn't mean there isn't a time and place...and when Emma needs a pick-me-up, this works a treat!)
Anyway, this seemed to be the end of our run of good luck. We arrived into Xi'An at 1am, caught the shuttle into the city and jumped into a taxi (as the hostel advised) to take us 5 minutes up the street. Of course, nothing could have been simpler. Except that our tosspot driver took us somewhere else entirely. After some shouting and frantic phone calls we finally arrived (no earlier than 3am) at the worlds shittest International Youth Hostel. Where we checked into our shitty room that overlooked the Bell Tower (yes, beatiful except for the incessant traffic noise, the translucent bathroom wall, and dire shortage of toilet paper, on the only day when we are both suffering from gastro). Lovely.
The next morning we caught up with Rory, that friendly Melbournian I mentioned earlier (who was so taken with us - Emma mostly - that he decided to meet us in Xi'An for a few days of fun). Anyway, I'm not saying that Xi'An was horrible, it was okay, it just wasn't Lijiang and it wasn't Beijing. But it was okay. We did get out to see the Terracotta Warriors, which was cool, but not earth shattering - although we were impressed with the emporer's dedication to ensuring his safety in the afterlife. As Em so eloquently put it: "he was a bit paranoid, eh?" (which for me, was on par with her earlier "do you think in China they say 'oh my buddha', you know, instead of 'oh my god'?)
So it was with great anticipation that we left Xi'An for Beijing to see Pi and get to know Beijing through her eyes. We sang karaoke with her colleagues, ate some amazing duck, drank more beer, and met her lovely flatmates and friends. We even took some time out from eating and drinking and shopping to see the Great Wall (and delighted in the toboggan ride down!).
In the midst of all this there was mutiny in Bangladesh and I couldn't help but think I was missing out on history being made. So although we were having a brilliant time with Pi in Beijing, I realised I was actually excited to be heading back to Dhaka - back to my flat, my Matts and the rest of the Dhaka crew, the comfort of my salwar's, to some sunshine, to work and to the pretty incredible (if not uncompromisingly challenging) life we have here.
And I am glad to be 'home'. The break was exactly what I needed to remind me that luxury is only a short flight away, that my life here is fucking hard, but its also really rewarding and that the last four months has flown by and the next eight probably will too and I don't want to leave yet.
And in only four weeks my beautiful sister and her charming husband are coming to Dhaka (for god knows what reason really, Egypt I told them, EGYPT!) and I'm bloody excited to show them around.
Don't forget your ORS and Buscopan Bec, okay? And please bring extra for me...if there is room in your bags beside all the cheese and wine you're bringing your poor deprived sister! ;)
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