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.