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.