Christmas 2007

So that was Christmas. And what have we done? Gone through countless military checkpoints; been stopped and questioned endlessly by plainclothes police; drank enough rice wine with Tripuras, Chakmas, Marmas (indigenous groups) to do permanent damage. Only in the Chittagong Hill Tracts. This is the bit of Bangladesh with hills, indigenous communities, Buddhist temples, endless parties, alcohol, and an insurgency that ended ten years ago. Naturally the military government is against all of the above, being generally a flat funless bunch intent on turning the country into a Joyce novel; a convent of austerity, self-repression, guilt, frustration and (to coin the title of a book) a quiet violence. The area is thus tightly controlled by checkpoints, restricted communications and constant police harassment which, I can tell you, puts an abrupt end to carol singing in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Farther Christmas would deliver here if he could get a permit I’m sure. On the bright side, of which there are many, this is by far one of the most stunningly beautiful areas I have ever seen and, rather snobbishly I know, there is an extra allure to the place because it is utterly undiscovered by any tourism. Jungle-clad hills swathed in mist rise and fall for as far as the eye can see.

But really now, this needs a narrative. I’m trying to clap and hold on for dear life at the same time as our jeep hurtles through village and field and forest. The women are tucked in the back and I’m on the roof with the other men singing traditional Tripura songs. Greens of every hue blur by around us, broken by the odd shaft of golden light as the sun catches its reflection in a lake or river. The jeep grinds to a halt and everyone piles out. We’re on our way to a party hosted by a man called Dinosaur. Unfortunately the party is on the other side of the river we’re facing. This is the dry season and we are able to wade across easily. Crossing rivers and tearing through jungle certainly builds up an event. I recommend putting more natural obstacles in the way of events at home; people always party harder when they think they’ve earned it.

The welcome we get in the Hill Tracts is always incredible and, as usual, we are treated as honoured guests and made to feel like part of the family. We enter the back room of one of the immaculate mud houses. The rice wine is poured and we sit chatting although we can already feel the weight of expectation building in the room. For this is a Tripura party and it is everyone’s obligation, nay duty, to perform something. I have, once again, been roped into bringing my guitar. You see, everyone is to bring something; Miriam dances, I sing and play the guitar, and Rich...well Rich claims he plays cricket. And so, with enough rice wine in the system to steady the nerves and fuzz the edges I play a local favourite: ‘Last Christmas’ by George Michael. This is followed by some Bob Dylan, a host of Tripura songs that I hopelessly try and play along to and an Irish song that I don’t really know other than it has to do with a bell in Belfast City but that I can build up to such a tempo with the clapping and dancing that everyone eventually collapses. There are bars over the windows and the local children look in. Plied with alcohol, guitar in hand, and currently sporting a beard I resemble a performing monkey or a missionary or a bizarre combination of the two.

We emerge blinking into the sunlight, half cut and full of food, so not really different to Boxing Day back home. Crossing a river, however, should only be undertaken sober. The things you learn. I've put some more pictures on my Flickr account just to make you more jealous. Happy New Year.

Questions Questions

One of the fascinating, infuriating things about travelling and living in new countries is the unpredictability of it. A new country equals new food, new manners and customs, a whole host of new and intriguing road hazards from the bicycles of Beijing to the cows of Calcutta. Bangladesh is, of course, no exception. I am subjected to the unpredictable every day whether I like it or not (although generally I like it).

However, there are some things here that are unnervingly consistent. These boil down to a few core questions that I get asked by everyone, and I do mean everyone. Now, depending on my mood I elect for different answers with varying results that have become almost scientific in the predictability.

Observe question one: What is your country?

Answers depending on mood with ensuing reaction:
- ‘England’. Reaction: interest and an attempt to engage in further conversation, usually about food or cricket.
- ‘Birmingham’. Reaction: bemusement, very good for getting rid of people when busy.
- ‘Ireland’. Reaction: see results for Birmingham.

Next one: What food do you eat in England?

Answer depending on mood:
- ‘Er...A whole lot of different stuff. Italian, Chinese, Spanish, Indian, French, it depends how we feel.’ Reaction: Confusion. Most people where I live have rice for at least two meals a day, many have it three times.
- ‘Potatoes’. Reaction: nods of approval. Here the potato is deemed a Good Thing.
- ‘Babies’. Not really! Although on off-days it has been a sore temptation.

Question three. This is more fiendish: What religion are you?

Answer depending on mood with ensuing reaction:
- ‘Atheist’ (a look half of deep concern, half of utter bewilderment. As if you’ve just said ‘I don’t really believe in three dimensions. Height and width seem fine but I just don’t buy into that whole depth idea.’)
- ‘Christian’ (reassuring nods on the other person’s part, and a sense of wrong-doing on mine.)

Question three. This is for the top prize: Are you married? Sub-question: In England, if people are in love, why don’t they get married?

Answer depending on mood:
I actually only have one answer for this because I feel bad enough about denying my atheism and I just can’t fabricate a wife. So I confess I’m not married. They ask why. I say ‘Because people don’t really get married until later in Britain and sometimes people don’t get married at all.’ Then they whip out the sub-question (see above). How do you reply to that? ‘Because people like to fool about with other people.’ Or ‘Because people are always holding out for something better.’ I’m no sociologist.

Final question. If you’ve come this far you really need to come and replace me: Why don’t families live together? You should take care of your parents and they should live with you.

Answer: ‘Most parents in Britain would tell you that the idea of living in a house with your kids after you’ve spent over eighteen years trying to get rid of the little buggers is about as appealing as drinking your own fluids.’ I actually can’t say that in Bangla yet but I’m working on it. I know the word for ‘parents’ and ‘house’.

If you’d like to provide any ideas for new answers I can use I’d welcome them. I’m already wearing even the more outlandish ones rather thin. But please, no bestiality.

Cyclone Sidr

It’s wrong I know but there was a part of me that was getting a kick at the thought of being in a cyclone. Sure I heard they were dangerous but it was sort of fascinating at the same time. I was attending a governance conference in Khulna just near the south coast of Bangladesh. All day during the proceedings we were receiving warnings from our country director warning us to stay inside the hotel and listen carefully for any new developments. The day grew moodier and was downright angry by the late afternoon with steadily building winds and waves of rain. As it became obvious that the storm was inevitably heading towards us the streets grew deserted save for a few rickshaw pullers who showed a dedication to the job that was perhaps going a bit too far.

As night descended the wind ratcheted up several notches. I was in my room as the glass in my window was rattled and shaken in its frame. I thought it was going to break. The tress outside looked like they were dancing with each other, or doing yoga, I never knew trees could be that bendy. It was midnight and the storm was at its climax and what happened? I fell asleep. I fell asleep during a cyclone that was as powerful as hurricane Katrina.

The hotel held firm but the countryside around us fared terribly. On the drive back up to Dhaka the next day we were surrounded by the toll of the storm. Flattened trees with huge branches snapped like twigs, mangled homes a tangle of corrugated iron and bamboo, boats lying sunk, semi-submerged in the river. And yet what was astounding was the sheer amount of work that was going on. The UN World Food Programme was present trying to assess the damage whilst whole communities were busy clearing the wreckage. Fallen trees were being attacked by scores of men with axes, clearing blocked roads and paths whilst rickshaw pullers were ferrying the debris to the road side. People seemed to know exactly what to do. I suppose that living in a land of frequent disasters the business of relief and recovery is a well-rehearsed one. Anything usable was being being arranged into neat piles. The husks of fallen coconuts can be used for mattress lining and so they were in one pile whilst the long grass that had been flattened is used for thatching roofs so that was duly assembled into more piles. The real problem is not the rebuilding of homes which can be done in a matter of days, its the loss of acres of crops. The rice was due to be harvested next month and its loss is irreplaceable.

I’m in Dhaka now which has sporadic power and a rather shaky water supply. Things are getting back to normal but it’s going to take a while. The worst thing is the knowledge that the next natural disaster in Bangladesh is only ever just around the corner.

Rajshahi

First there was the weirdness. It all began when the van stopped in Rajshahi and I got out to find my new home. It really was a prison in every sense except no one was there to provide any food. First, there was no light, no electricity. When they got a few bare bulbs to work they revealed a dim, dirty cavernous concrete bunker. The paint was peeling off the walls and there were no mosquito nets over the windows. This would be ok except that there was no where for me to hang my bed mozzie net off so we had to rig up a make-shift one. The was no running water apart from a solitary tap in a filthy rusting sink in what, I was informed, constituted the kitchen. To be fair to my organisation they were very proactive in helping me find a new place. So I put all of my stuff on the Bangladeshi version of a removal lorry (see picture) and carted it to what is a vast improvement. My current house is very nice indeed thank you. It has not one but two verandas, two bathrooms and a dining room type thing big enough to play five a side football or cricket in depending on your preference.

The other day Patrick, my organisation’s project coordinator, very kindly took me on the motorbike to see his family. His family are indigenous Adivashi which I’ll tell you more about another day. We road along endless vivid green rice paddies and fish ponds into another Bangladesh. Just off the pristine road a beautiful other world of immaculate ‘mud huts’. I put this term in inverted commas because it evokes something dirty, disparaging. These couldn’t be further from such an idea. They were all freshly painted and plastered and were swept clean. A central courtyard for cooking rice and washing clothes. Around this the family rooms are situated. The mud makes an ideal building material because it’s so cool in the summer.

Patrick is alienated from his own family. They don’t even look like they come from the same planet let alone the same family. His parents are old, dishevelled, short and emaciated. Patrick is tall by Bangladeshi standards and powerfully built. When he was nine a friend offered to pay for him to train as an electrician but he would have to go to Dhaka. He took him up on the offer and wouldn’t see his family again for seven years. He left his world and could find no way to return. Quite literally; when he got the urge to return home he had no idea where his family lived, he’d forgotten the way home. When he got back he felt he couldn’t relate to his family any more and had ‘lost the ways’ as he put it to me. To see him in wondering around the village and talking to the villagers is to see and outsider. We came to the middle of the village to encounter and argument taking place amongst the elders. Some of the families in the village are deeply unhappy about the making of the local moonshine from sugar cane to sell at the local market. Not only is it dangerous to the health, apparently men from outside come to village to get drunk and sleep with the women. This has naturally caused a lot of tension in the village and this is what we walked into today. Patrick seemed to arbitrate, a power he has due to his education at Dhaka University and his eloquent if forceful style. There appeared to be no warmth between him and his mother, father and sister. No hugs or smiles, no actual physical contact. They said a few things to each other and he showed me round and we got on the bike and left.

Right, I think you’re about half way through. Now go and have a cup of tea because this blog’s a long one. Go on! I’ll still be here when you get back. Be sure to come back though because the next bit’s exciting. It’s got drug busts and police in it and everything.

I got lost yesterday and rang Tanvir (the organisation’s accountant) to help me get home. He met me at New Market and of course we didn’t go home. We stopped at his friend’s who works selling fabrics at the market. Then we went for the sweet milky tea that I can’t get enough of and some snacks at this hut behind the market. Inside were a bunch of blokes taking tea. They were really welcoming. Lulu bhai, the owner and father, his son making the tea. And then Rahbond bhai who was making the fried snacks. Everyone knows each other and love spending time chatting over tea and it’s been great spending time with them. They are so welcoming and I don’t see myself getting lonely too much. People don’t seem as full-on as I expected what with my being a Bideshi and all. I think it must have something to do with this place being so diverse with a really large Christian population and also many Hindus and obviously Muslims. Adivashis mix with the Muslim majority here and so next to the lighter skinned Muslims there are people that look almost Afro-Caribbean with very dark skin, broad noses and thick lips. I should also mention that Bangladeshis are themselves incredibly diverse from those who look Arabic to those who look South-Eat Asian.

And I love it. It’s total immersion. There is no tourism so there is nothing superficial. I mean, I’m just a PART of it all. I sit having tea with the fellas from the cloth stalls in the market. Then we go and have tea with some other friends who are all welcoming to the last man. Tonight I had tea at Tanvir bhai’s family’s house. There must have been at least 20 people in a flat about half the size of mine. And everyone was so welcoming. It wasn’t intimidating at all and there was no stand-offishness. His wife, his father and the in-laws and the big gaggle of kids were all great. As was the food although I have to admit my attempts to eat with my hands remain rather comedic. Even this welcoming family looked at me like I was a little bit special when I tried to tackle a particularly boney fish. Efforts must be doubled. I love that I’ve gained an acceptance here in just three days that wasn’t possible in a year in Spain. You basically have to marry in Spain to get access and even that isn’t a guarantee. Here people take you into their hearts and homes without a second thought. I like the way people just loiter around having tea, sitting at a friend’s stall. There may be no cinemas or bars or leisure culture but people seem to get along just fine without them.

There was a dead funny show on TV whilst I was Tanvir’s place. It was a crime show where a camera crew and macho presenter accompany some police on their delirious drug raids. I expected to see vast quantities of coke and guns but no, this is Bangladesh. So what were these crack cops pulling out of mattresses and secret holes in the wall of people’s apartments? Alcohol. Now, as a whisky fan I can see the crime in having a bottle of Teachers, it’s vile stuff to be sure but it hardly warrants a prison sentence. I had no idea alcohol was sooo illegal here. This swat team were pulling out crates of Heineken like it was a key of Columbian high grade blow worth hundreds of thousands. It would have made me laugh had it not been for the fact that the hapless people who were caught would do time in some of the worst prisons in the world. Still, if you will drink shit whisky...

Oh, one more thing. I forgot to mention Rajshahi is on the river Ganges so on my morning run I get to see the sun rise over its calm waters. If I sound smug it’s because I am. Check the picture out.

Durga Puja

‘Dance! Yes dance!’ A man covered in purple paint and glitter is shouting at me. I can barely hear him over the drums. How did it come to this? And why aren’t I dead or maimed? Important questions that I can answer only by going back. So I will.

We’re walking through the aptly named Hindu Street in Old Dhaka. All around us the Durga Puja activities are building to a frenzy. The street is narrow and hemmed in by old rotting colonial facades. As we make our way through the throngs of people we are surrounded by freshly cooked food and hawkers selling everything from conch-shell bracelets to spider-man masks. We walk under shrines that have been constructed and raised above the street on bamboo scaffolding. Lurid effigies of the many-armed Durga and other Hindu gods stare down on us as families gather amongst them to dance, chant and celebrate. This is what we have come to see. This is the biggest Hindu festival in the calendar. Now, I’m no expert on this so if you want to know more about the history and meaning of the festival I refer you to the link under my ‘Interesting Stuff’ column. Now, I’ll continue.

We stand on the dock overlooking the vast river dotted with all manner of vessels from huge hulking tankers rusting at their moorings to little passenger boats made of wood. At dusk the contents of the shrines we have passed are due to be thrown into the water to symbolise Durga being reunited with Shiva. We decide to take a boat out onto the river thinking that it will afford us the best view. There is a nice breeze on the water but not much is happening. Crowds seem be gathering on the bank and we are beginning to feel left out so we quickly make landfall and make our way to the centre of the crowd. The anticipation is building, the air crackles with it as the sound of music and shouting can be heard down the street. Suddenly, we find ourselves on the pier, the prime position. We passed the lines of armed police with an ease only white skin can bring. ‘Journalist?’ Says an officer with an AK 47. ‘Yes, BBC’ I reply, meekly waving my tiny digital camera at him. He seems satisfied. And then the crowd falls upon us. A maelstrom of heaving bodies and shouts as the goddess is brought down to the river accompanied by the devil and assorted other dignitaries. Carefully, she is placed on one of the waiting wooden boats and taken out onto the water where, just as quickly as she appeared, she vanishes into the murky depths. The crowd comes roaring back and disperses into the labyrinth of streets behind us. There is more to come.

We’re wandering up a street thinking this is the end, when, in the distance, we see a huge truck carrying more effigies of gods. Surrounding it is a crowd of several hundred all dancing to a drum beat. We climb up onto a wall to get a better view as cheery crowds dance on the street below us. This is great, the view’s incredible. But can’t we get IN the crowds? At first it was intimidating, the people and sounds, but now it looks welcoming, fun. We have to be a part of this. And so we walk down the street swept up by wave after wave of partying crowds, each accompanying their float to the water. Some have drums, some have massive speakers blaring out Bangla dance music. Each time we’re caught in another wave more people implore us to dance, to take part. I feel a hand grab my arm and I wheel around to see a man covered in purple and glitter. ‘Dance. Yes, dance!’

A small (justified?) moan.

The thing as far as I can understand it is this: I’m a bit bored. I suppose I expected that but just not so soon in to my placement. It seems rather odd that we came out here during Ramadan when everything is shut and people go out even less than they usually do in Bangladesh, which isn’t very much. So right now we’ve been left to our own devises in a country we know nothing about, with next to no grasp of the language. This strikes me as a flawed policy. Rather like dumping someone from Papua New Guinea in to the middle of Kent during Christmas and telling them you’ll be back in a week to see how they’re doing. We walk around looking vague, eating rice and practicing Bangla. Which is going alright actually, since you asked.

And now it’s Eid which has been designated as ‘Party Time’ in the Muslim calendar. That is fine, of course, if you are a Muslim and surrounded by family and friends. I have been told repeatedly by Bangladeshi colleagues that Bangladeshis are renowned for their hospitality and that during Eid we are to be inundated with offers of food and invites to family gatherings. I was misinformed. I’ve tried looking appealing and smiling and even talking Bangla but there have been no invites. This brings me to the conclusion that Bangladeshis BELIEVE themselves to be welcoming because they are to each other. There simply aren’t enough foreign tourists here to prove to them that this hospitality doesn’t necessarily extend to foreigners.

The fact of it is that there is no leisure culture here. None. I read a magazine targeted at the young and wealthy and the top things that young people do here according to a feature is go driving around Dhaka and visiting public “lounges”. As this is a dry country, as far as a can deduce this involves going to a lounge, which is a lot like a lounge at home but with more people, most of whom you probably don’t know. Kind of like a pub but without the bar. This does not appeal. Maybe it’s because of the general poverty here or perhaps it’s a religious thing but people simply don’t go out to enjoy themselves so there is thus no leisure industry; no cinemas or bars, no bowling, no anything. I asked our Bangla teacher what the word for “bored” is and she said that there isn’t one.

However, before this turns into an all-out moan, which it may already have done, I would like to put a positive spin on things if I may. I did in fact go to one of the aforementioned “lounges” last night and it was bloody good. Perhaps my concept of a good night has changed in three weeks but we went to the “Hot Lounge” run by a young bloke called Kamrul Islam who prefers to be called Joy (no idea why) and it was, well, cool. Brazilian music, dim blue-ish lighting, comfy booths for sitting, young people hanging out and chatting and a whole array of coffees and cakes and smoothies. I always thought that I’d miss the alcohol but it turns out that it when I went out in England it wasn’t the alcohol I was after, it was the social interaction. I’ve found something more important to me than beer! Talking! I’ve finally cracked what people have been telling me for years: I don’t need alcohol to talk and talk for hours. This is a revelation to me.

Now have a look at this picture. Can you see me? No? Look carefully at the right of the picture. Got it! It’s true I’m a cultural chameleon. Able to adapt; to blend in effortlessly with my surroundings. To just...disappear.

When I hear the word British High Commission I think of a massive gate with lions either side, secure, but not in the American crass way with razor wire and guard dogs, instead with a bit of English elegance, as if the grandeur of the place would embarrass any would-be intruders into a hasty retreat. I’d go in and, with a flash of the British passport, would immediately be greeted by a discreet, polite aging man in a suit who would show me up a marble staircase into a cool ante-chamber where I would be served tea and perhaps a scone whilst I waited for the ambassador to come and greet me with a firm hand shake and a ‘How are you sir, a pleasure to meet you...’ You can imagine my disappointment then when I went to the British High Commission in Dhaka yesterday to find a rather modest redbrick building that looked like an anonymous middle-class detached house. The kind that populates all our medium-sized commuter towns or suburban areas. All it was missing was a freshly washed and waxed Ford Mondeo parked outside. I went inside and perused an issue of OK magazine from June, a Farmers Weekly and a Marie Claire. I then had a quick talk with a nurse about how damaging Bangladesh would be to my health and then signed a couple of forms and handed them in at a counter and that was it. No tea, only a plastic cup of water from a drinks dispenser.

On an unrelated matter but I’ve just thought about it. Its Ramadan at the moment which means people don’t eat or sleep very much. Under the circumstances the general public seems to be coping with it rather well. If the English as a nation had to go through such an ordeal revolution would quickly ensue. Asking them to go without their cereal in the morning, the deli-sandwich at lunch and dinner served strictly between the hours of six and seven would be difficult enough. Then getting them out of their beds at three o’clock in the morning by shouting at them through a loudspeaker to go to church would probably lead to running street battles and burning cars. Or at least a stern letter to the local MP and an angry letter in the Guardian.

There are also nightly power cuts here. I’m slowly getting used to it. Initially I was incredulous that it interrupted my watching films on my laptop. You see, we in England have to go through a power cut probably once a year, for about three or four hours tops. But my God, what a time. People wandering out into the street, lost, like car crash victims. Frantic pleas to local friends and neighbours requesting, ‘Can we come to yours for tea because you’ve got a gas cooker and ours is electric’. Break-downs as the Walls ice-cream you only bought yesterday turns into slop in the freezer. ‘No I won’t calm down, I mean, I just can’t eat it all.’ Talking to our Kenyan and Ugandan friends in the candle light they explained that power cuts can last for days in Uganda whilst around 60% of the population in Kenya is without power. Perhaps we should stop taking our power for granted and learn to cut down a bit more. And, I can tell you, you learn far more about those around you chatting at a table in the candle light than you’d ever know.

We were at a party last night where we met all of the other volunteers. It was plagued with power cuts as the music went off, we were plunged into darkness and, crucially, the fans stopped working. I have never known heat like it. A room full of people talking away as if nothing was wrong, slowly melting with sweat like the candles that had been positioned around the room to provide some meagre light. We helped ourselves to rice wine, a brutal spirit from the hill tracts that burns as it intoxicates. Needless to say that after a few glasses almost everyone had taken a turn for the blurred. I was cornered by an impassioned sweating Kenyan who explained how much he admired the queen of England and insisted I hear his argument “proving” that Princess Diana was killed by Prince Charles. Something about her being pregnant. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’m a republican. I apologise for the lack of pictures, I promise that the next post will be full of National Geographic-quality masterpieces.

I am somewhere peculiar. According to the volunteers who have been here a while the overall verdict is that my time in Bangladesh is going to be an “Experience”. Now, this makes me nervous. I mean abduction is an experience but I don’t know I necessarily want to go through it. The first night, after being almost run over by several rickshaws Richard, Judith and I ended up dining at a Mexican restaurant. It was in a mall with air-conditioning, a coffee shop with muffins and wi-fi and a bookshop that looked like Borders. Just outside: grinding poverty. The wealth gap between the middle class and what in Marxist terms I have dubbed ‘the rest’ is quite staggering. The rich drive around in 4x4s and live an essentially Western life of supermarket consumerism whilst 50% of the country lives on less than a pound a day.

Yesterday we went out. Alone. And lived! I should quickly introduce our gang of volunteers: Richard and Miriam (English), Job (Kenyan), Morrish (Ugandan), Judith (American). Anyway, we caught a CNG (picture a small armoured rickshaw with a cage around it and an engine) and took it down to the river and the old town. You know when kids are allowed to pretend drive on rides at theme parks or amusement arcades? Well that’s how our man drove us as he weaved and bashed his way between cars, buses, rickshaws and people like a maniac with no regard for his life or ours. Now these vehicles are little more than bombs on wheels, bumper cars with cylinders of compressed gas attached to the back of them. Good for suicide bombings, bad for commuting. And it was brilliant! We saw so much stuff and all at a ridiculous speed. See the pictures!

Then we ended up in the seething mass of old town Dhaka. Heat and smells and huge numbers of people. Any time we stopped a crowd of around fifty people would quickly assemble to watch us do interesting stuff like talk to each other, grin moronically and look at the guide book. It didn’t feel intimidating though. The people here are really welcoming and as Bangladesh is visited by just ten thousand foreigners a year we probably did look rather odd. Just as we were growing tired of the attention a man who introduced himself as Mish offered us a boat ride on the river which we accepted. It was great to get on the river away from the crowds and amazing to see all the people that live on old rusty boats out on the water.

From a rickshaw I saw these men worshipping with bags of food around them. A moment of calm surrounded by noise and chaos. People pray anywhere they can, even at work.