Joe Crook

2008-08-01T04:31:00.000-07:00

Someone has asked to see some pictures of the Paris Hotel that I mentioned in my last post so here are a couple. Enjoy.

The Paris Hotel

2008-07-12T23:42:00.000-07:00

I don't cook anymore. It wasn't a conscious decision but all of the vegetables I understand have seized to grow and I'm left with what look like a hundred variations of cucumber. The fruit is excellent; lychees, mangoes, pinapples, jack fruit are piled high and provide a kaleidoscopic treat every time I visit the fruit vendors. But the veg... Another reason I don't cook is that I have one gas burner. I'm an incredibly average cook anyway and struggle to whip up anything very edible with a normal cooker. I certainly lack the culinary dexterity to make a meal on a single gas stove. And so I've just stopped. As a result me and Mbaya (a Kenyan volunteer who lives around the corner) have taken to eating out every night. We eat at a place that they say has no name so we have called it the Paris Hotel. Here is a description of our evenings there. It never changes.

The room is painted white and there are white patterned tiles that go half way up the walls. The lights are strip lights and they bleed out through the open front into the heavy dark night in the street. We climb up the concrete step past the huge steel pots with today’s menu inside. The food is overcooked with too many spices. Fish curry, beef curry, stewed mushy yellow vegetables, good thick dhal and mounds of rice. On the opposite side of the entrance there’s man rolling bread dough. He cuts it, rolls it into a long sausage then cuts it into even pieces. His expert hands work quickly like these actions are all they know. He couldn’t get the them to write or shake hands if he tried.He rolls them into balls, pounds them and rolls them flat on a heavy floured table and then throws them onto a big blackened iron skillet heated from a fire below. They smell good. We walk through to the back of the room, the faces look up from their meals and watch us as we go past. They always watch us. At the back there’s a concrete basin that looks more like a feeding trough for animals. Three plastic taps stick out of the wall. There we wash our hands, using some fluorescent pink overly perfumed Lux soap. It’s dotted with what look like dried fruit chunks.Other men are washing their hands, hocking up and spitting into the basin. Revolting. We sit. The Formica tables are chipped and beaten after years of cleaning and plastic plates being passed along them. The benches either side used to be painted a bright orange. Now they’re dilapidated and look rusted rather than painted. Within seconds two plastic plates are shoved under our noses with three hot rotis, giving off some soft floury steam. Sobji or dhal? The man asks. Vegetable or dhal? We both go for dhal and a plate of beef curry. They arrive in little dishes. Methodically I tear into the first roti and roll it up. I scoop up some of the thick dhal and put it in my mouth. It tastes good. With the next piece I tear off a chunk of beef and dip it in the dhal. It tastes better. Then I get the curry juices from the meat dish and mix them into the dhal to make a browny yellowy mess. I continue to work with various combinations of meat, curry, dhal, and roti until all three rotis are gone and I’m left burping. Cha? The man asks. Tea? Yes, less sugar, chini kom. I say. We talk and let the food go down for a few minute until the thick sugary tea arrives in glasses. It’s more like a stew than a drink. Sickly sweet, a rich brown colour with lumps of unpasteurised milk floating lazily in it. We drink it slowly and talk. There’s not much else to do. Sated we walk to the counter at the front and pay. 120taka. From the sharp clinical light we walk into the thick black air. Like Guinness. We hail a rickshaw and set off into the night.

Guitar Hero

2008-05-14T02:25:00.000-07:00

I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m such a dreadful guitar player. I just can’t figure it out. I was strumming away just now and I was so horrified by the spasmodic movements I was making with my hands that I felt compelled to retire here and seek refuge at the computer. Let my fingers near a computer keyboard and they’re like the proverbial ducks to water, wriggling about happily, moving gracefully from Q right the way over to the Ctrl key on the other side with the greatest of ease. Plonk them on a fret board however and they wander around stunned, disorientated, directionless, like people stumbling out of a crash; unharmed but far from able to master any of the more advanced motor skills.

I’ve been playing now on and off since I was twelve, that’s thirteen years. Even with the breaks I should be pretty good by now, I should have at least got all of Dylan licked. This is not the case. I have a total repertoire of about five songs that I know all the way through. I was in a band once; I even did a bit of writing, something I still do. The problem was the same then as it is now, I’m held back somewhat by my inability to play the bloody thing. It would be like a novelist not being able to write in joined up letters or having to type the way so many of our parents do; with short stabbing movements aimed precisely at the keys but with a fair degree of trepidation every ten seconds or so, interspersed by agonising waits as they look for the next letter, “I saw that fucking ‘D’ just a minute a go, where’s the bugger gone?”

I get real joy out of playing the guitar because it’s completely different from anything else I do. It’s not work, it’s not reading, it’s not watching TV, it’s not exercising, it’s creative and doesn’t use words and for that reason it’s incredibly refreshing. And what’s more important in Bangladesh it doesn’t use electricity so I can use it even during the regular power cuts here. I know though that I’d get so much more pleasure out of it if I could play it better. I think it’s partly down to a lack of natural ability although really it’s far more down to my not being disciplined with it enough to put in the time and effort to learn the technical skills. I know I use it precisely because, for me, it’s directionless; I pick it up when I don’t want to try, when I’m tired and not in the mood for concentrating. Which doesn’t stop me being jealous of good guitar players when I hear one. But then I think to myself ‘Ah-ha! But does he know the current problems facing local government in Bangladesh? I think not! Joe: one, Guitar Player: Nil.’

Kolkata Knight Riders

2008-04-21T02:58:00.000-07:00

I’ve been to the New Home of Cricket today, Calcutta (or Kolkata) to be precise for this month has seen the start of the inaugural season of the Indian Premier League. I’m not sure if it’s making ripples in Europe but its waves have been rising to a crescendo in this part of the world. In many ways it’s bigger than cricket. It is a potent symbol of the emergence of a new world power and encapsulates its brash confidence perfectly. And last night I was there to witness it first hand as I saw Kolkata Knight Riders play their first home game of the season versus Hyderabad’s Deccan Chargers. When I arrived at the Eden Gardens stadium the atmosphere was pulsating. The mid-afternoon heat blazed down on a roaring crowd of 75,000 people who were singing and dancing and may even have been there to see some cricket. Except the cricket was often little more than a break between the cheerleaders, the celebrities, and the Bollywood beats blasting out of speakers. It was like cricket had been crossed with American Football, wrestling, the circus, and a Roman gladiatorial battle. To see how far the game has come you just have to look at the new kits. Gone are the days of whites, and in their place the Knight Riders wear an absurd kit that is mostly golden spangles. Even the helmets and shin pads are gold. Overnight it’s like the sport has mutated from an old respectable albeit slightly dull gentleman into a raving masked wrestler. Presiding over all of this was Shah Rukh Kahn who is officially India’s king celebrity. His God like status dwarfs anything Beckham was able to muster in his heyday. Any time this man waved or talked to a neighbour or stood up the whole crowd went crazy with enraptured adulation, chanting his name cheering and standing on their chairs to get a better look at him. You just don’t see that for Roman Abramovich.

I must confess I felt rather English at times, rather politely tapping on the back of the bloke in front of me who was standing on his chair gyrating maniacally. ‘Excuse me squire I’d dearly like to see some of the game if that’s alright with you.’ No chance. Luckily I’m taller than the average Bengali by a good foot or so which meant I could see most of the game. I’m quite new to cricket but I couldn’t help feeling a buzz of anticipation when Gilchrist and Symonds teamed up at the wicket (is that the expression?) for these players represent some of the best talent in the world. Ponting was out off the first ball and Ganguly did nothing in particular but it was still great to see them.

Then the lights went out. Now the game had not been going as planned anyway. The big screen didn’t work, the water had ran out, the toilets weren’t functioning and the pitch (is it a pitch?) was a shambles. Kolkata were staring defeat in the face and the mood was becoming downbeat if not a little hostile. Then two of the four floodlights failed and we were plunged into semi darkness. The players left the field and the mood of the brooding crowd hung on a knife edge. So what did I do? I left. That meant I missed the end of the game and Kolkata’s eventual triumph as the lights came back half an hour later, but I stand by the decision. I’ve been to many parts of the world and have emerged largely unscathed. This, in my opinion, is partly because I get out of situations that I think may be volatile. The crowds in this part of the world are notorious for becoming very mean very quickly and Bengalis in particular are hot blooded and have shorter fuses than even the Spanish. Imagine, I thought, if the other two lights go out. I’ll be stuck in a stadium with 75,000 miffed Bengalis in almost total darkness. It was like I was stood in a large room full of cans of petrol and boxes of fireworks and someone had just walked in with a match. No thanks.

It was an awesome, exhilarating, slightly terrifying evening. And just to quote a match report from the Indian Telegraph today: ‘The stands were rife with an ominous on-the-edge sense. A trigger and Eden (Gardens) could have become another tragic spectacle.’ Nice to know I wasn’t just being paranoid.

Pohila Boyshack

2008-04-18T04:15:00.000-07:00

Happy New Year! The year is 1415 and I hope it’s going to be a belter. 14^th April was Bengali New Year and I’m not sure how they measure it but that’s the year here. Although really they just use the same year and calendar as us on a day to day basis. I know I know, I haven’t written for ages. I have been writing a lot but non of it is suitable for this blog because it’s often angry and overwhelmingly dull and self-indulgent. I could have written about my holiday to India which was lovely and infinitely bloggable (if it really is an adjective). Indeed that was my intention on my return here but then I was mauled by Bangladesh. I’m going to spare you the details because they involve visas and half finished houses and funding and all manner of things I won’t bore you with, suffice to say that the last two weeks have been perhaps my toughest here so far and so I’ve been in no mood to write.

Now with that said, New Year came as a breath of fresh air. In Bengali it’s called Pohila Boyshack, hence the title, and it is by far the most fun I’ve seen Bangladeshis have en masse and in public. I was invited by my good friends at Rajshahi University to come and spend a couple of days with them so off I went. One of them insisted that if I was going to attend the festivities I had better look the part and so they bought me a panchabi and a dhutti. The panchabi is a long sleeved gown that is either made of cotton or silk and comes down to the knees. The dhutti is a very traditional, if slightly antiquated form of dress that is worn around the bottom half. It’s starched white cotton and is folded intricately around until it resembles a skirt or a kilt or something of that ilk. Needless to say that I looked pretty daft, and yet I drew compliments for the entire day. Apparently I looked like an old Bengali prince so I wasn’t really complaining. The first thing I noticed on our walk around the university campus where the festivities were taking place was that this was first big gathering I’d seen that didn’t appear to have any overtly religious overtones. There is a real divide here between Hindus and Muslims and so it was great to see everybody congregate together as Bangladeshis. The day seemed to allow everyone to meet on common ground.

I’ll be honest, that wasn’t the first thing I noticed, rather the thing that struck me were the women. Women here have a habit of being tucked away, out of the public gaze, either in the house or behind the burqa. And yet today they weren’t just visible, they were stunning. The vast majority were decked out in saris of all colours and patterns although most opted for the traditional white and red, often with a gold trim. The fabrics shimmered and shone in the sun and seemed to accentuate the grace with which the women here move. All around us there was the sound of laughter, singing and of traditional music, the harmonium, the khol (a type of drum), cymbals and bells. The air was heady with the smell of cooking as the food stands thronged with people eating ilish mach, a prized river fish, and rice out of earthenware bowls. I found it utterly enthralling and overwhelming. My friends did their utmost to make sure I was included and that I was comfortable but they couldn’t stem the almost constant tide of people coming up to talk to me and to take my picture. Almost all of them were polite and courteous and merely wanted to know where I was from and what I thought of the place but it felt a little bit like some kind of state visit and by five o’clock I was exhausted. I took my leave and went and sat in my cool dark room for a couple of hours in a rather serene daze.

Bangladesh is in the news again. This time for violent demonstrations against women’s rights. It’ll be in the news again, when the floods start, or when another ferry sinks, or to show lines of people queuing for rice. Bangladesh is plagued by poverty but it is not defined by it. It is an incredibly complex and diverse country and yet it is squashed into a strange two dimensional parody of itself in the western media. I want to tell you about my time here because you should know that Bangladesh is more than its poverty, it’s better than its Islamic extremism, it contains beauty and life and it’s these things that I want to cherish and preserve from my time here, things that I hope to share with you.

Development according to me.

2008-03-05T23:25:00.000-08:00

Give a man a fish and he can feed himself for a day. Give a man a fishing rod and he can feed himself and his family for ever. Amen. If development had a Bible this would probably be on the front cover. The old mantra is well known, even to those who know nothing about development. Indeed, development itself has become such a powerful idea, and effects so many people that some could argue that it is a kind of religion. Now despite what I’m about to say I remain a priest, as it were, of this modern church. However, I am a rather troubled new convert and the catechisms of ‘gender mainstreaming’ and ‘rights based development’ don’t rest easily on my mind. It’s like I’m back at school singing hymns in assembly. Some around me are singing with complete conviction while I mouth the words half-heartedly, shuffling from one foot to the other, sniggering quietly with my friends. In short, I just don’t buy it.

My opinions are not formed on the basis of books; they are taken from my admittedly brief (5 month) stay in Bangladesh. I can’t speak about what I don’t know, development may be a very different thing in other countries but here it’s a bit – how shall I say – it’s a bit warped. To explain I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a dry, but hopefully quick, crash course in how development works here so bear with me.

Right, first you have poor people. Now this lot are really important. You might assume that because they don’t have TVs and shower gel and things like that they’d be quite a demanding bunch. Well let me tell you they’re not really. You see we tend to shout quite loudly when we think we’re missing something but that’s because we think we have a right to it. This is really the thing here, the crux of the matter: rights. There are millions, literally millions of people in Bangladesh who don’t have any concepts of human rights, or the rights of the citizen, or the rights of the child, or any of those other things that Geldof and his monkey side-kick Bono carp on about. This means that they are just passive recipients of aid. This, of course, is far from ideal. To go back to that tired phrase; if a man or woman doesn’t realise that they have a right to a fishing rod then they’ll be bloody happy with a fish. And so what happens here is that lots of NGOs and donors, who I’ll come to later, have been throwing (not literally) latrines, and tube wells, and anything else they feel that the ‘poor’ need. In turn the Bangladeshis take what they’re given, whether they actually need it or not, and go about their business. The problem is that nothing actually changes. You get a few short term benefits but the people stay poor.

Now here comes ‘rights base development’. This is a very new and shiny idea with cool words like ‘duty bearers’. What it basically says is that until people are aware of their rights and are organised enough to demand them collectively then no real development can take place. Why? Because people need to be empowered so that they can develop themselves. They must become active citizens rather than passive recipients otherwise the body politic will whither and die. The social contract of the Enlightenment must be restored. You see? Lovely isn’t it.

So what’s this got to do with Bangladesh? Well as you may know the government here ranks as one of the most corrupt on the planet and doesn’t really function in any real sense to provide its’ citizens with the services they have a right to like healthcare and a clean water supply and a fair trial. So what in theory is happening is that NGOs (Non Governmental Organisations) are trying to work with the people and the government to ensure that the former can advocate for their rights and the latter can deliver on those rights. Fair enough. Where does the money come from? The donors; who are quite and eclectic bunch. They include big multinational organisations such as the IMF and the World Bank, they include the UN, they include the developmental arms of various governments from Canada, Britain, and the EU, pretty much anyone. They also include familiar names such as Oxfam, and Save the Children. If you want to develop a country you have to have serious amounts of cash. Oxfam et al. have serious amounts of cash. And this is really where the problem lies. You can talk about rights based development all you want but the problem is that you need money, or at least control over money, before you can have rights. The situation in Bangladesh now is that development is led completely by the donors. This is hardly empowering to the people.

Let me explain. If an NGO wants to do a project, for example, a women’s education project in ten communities, it needs money. What it does is it goes to the donor with a funding proposal detailing what it wants to do and how much it’ll cost. The donor then says yes or no. It sounds simple but actually what it creates is a bidding war. There are thousands of NGOs, employing hundreds of thousands of people who are all competing for the lucrative contracts with big donors. Each donor has its’ own policies and approaches and so what the NGOs end up doing is proposing programmes that they know the donor wants to hear. And what voice does the community have in all of this? Effectively none. They have no money and so usually a cursory study is taken to canvass their opinions, just to make the project look legit. Each programme is short term, usually for no more than a few years, and so all of these NGOs are effectively free-lancing. There is no job security and so they frantically create new programmes and, when trying to monitor the effectiveness of their performance, i.e. how much they’re actually helping the poor, they twist and bend the evidence until it comes out positive because they’re terrified that a failing project will lead to the funding being cut. And funding is cut here all the time. The thing is that there are no formal, legally binding contracts between NGOs and donors and so donors can effectively break deals on a whim, with no legal repercussions or compensation to be paid.

I fear this is becoming a rant. Am I losing you? Are you getting bored? There is a lot more to say but I realise I’m probably a lot more interested in this than you are so I’ll try and wrap this up. What we have here is a kind of blurring between what is a government and what isn’t. Bangladesh has become so saturated by development that it’s utterly changed the political and economic make-up of the country. All of the money, all of the services, are coming from outside. There are some exceptions but they are few and far between and merely serve to prove the rule. If we’re serious about development we have to rethink our entire approach in this country. Giving a man a fishing rod is fine, but we’re also supplying the fish.

The Family. Part Two.

2008-03-01T02:55:00.000-08:00

An update on the family I know if you read the last blog. I was looking at the last one I wrote and how lamentable the ending was. Rather sad and lonely you see. Well I decided I didn’t want to leave it like that so I bit the proverbial bullet and made contact with them. I’ve been learning a lot of Bangla recently and so my confidence with language has increased. So I used the old tactic of making friends with the kids first as they larked around on the roof of the house. The ploy worked. The indomitable Sheela came over and chatted to me. I understood in my own muddled way that she’d seen all the plastic bottles I’d accrued and that she wanted them. So I said, why don’t I bring them over? She said fine so over I went.

The change in perspective was revelatory. For a start I saw a world that I’d only seen from above from ground level. The goats and cow were bigger than I imagined and the people were smaller. Perhaps that wasn’t the most astonishing discovery. It was actually feeling I was experiencing the family and being a part of it rather than just peering at it from the outside. They invited me to eat with them and so I finally got to taste the source of the beautiful evocative smells that had come drifting into my window for so many months. It was delicious. Piles of steaming rice accompanied by potato curry, meaty pieces of fresh fish and stewed green vegetables peppered with aromatic cumin and coriander. They kept forcing more food on me until I genuinely feared I was going to bring some of it back up. My protestations finally stemmed the relentless tide of food and I subsided into happy burps (which is fine here) and chatting in very broken Bangla. I went over the next day and started taking some of the pictures you see here. I also went to the shop and gave them some of the copies which they were dead chuffed with. It felt like a nice way to repay them for their hospitality.

Maybe I was shooting myself in the foot because now I’ve finally got to know them it’s even more of a wrench leaving them. Still, I’m glad I did. It can be a risk making friends when I have to do so much travelling because I’m always sad to leave them but I can’t really see the point of shutting myself away just because my life here is transitory. I feel honoured and privileged to have been taken in as a friend by that family. And memories of Sheela’s cooking will stay with me for a long time to come.

The Family

2008-02-25T03:44:00.000-08:00

I suppose that now I’m leaving Rajshahi I should write about the family. The family I know better than any other in Bangladesh and so it’s really the closest thing to a family I have here. Not that I’ve ever been to their house or have ever had more than a perfunctory word with a few of them. My front room overlooks their house and yard and as my desk is in front of the window I’ve had many hours to be distracted by the view. I honestly think that they kept me sane during my time here by providing such a brilliantly human dimension to my experience which has sometimes been lonely and somewhat existential. I’ve felt somewhere in between an anthropologist and a Peeping Tom (although what is the difference other than perhaps a professional/amateur interest and approach?) watching them over the days. I have become aware of their relationships, of their dramas, of their daily lives and rhythms. The matriarch of the family is the indomitable, charismatic Sheela. She is probably in her early thirties, has incredible bronze skin, dark black shiny hair, and a powerful body after years of housework which, in Bangladesh, involves feats of strength and stamina that would confound most English athletes. She has two small children. She worries though because they can’t read or write and she doesn’t have the money to give them the education she wants for them.

Whilst I find the life very interesting from the outside the fact is that it seems to be somewhat of a treadmill with no spare money or time for social advance. There are nine of them in total consisting of three generations as far as I can count. However, even Sheela’s mum, the eldest of the family, is probably only in her fifties and so they’re a young bunch. They get up before I do and go to bed later than me and it would appear that the entire day is spent keeping the house ticking over. This is, of course, only a job for the women as the men go out to work long hours driving trucks or pulling rickshaws. And so, for the most part, this is a female domain. Indeed I feel privileged to be a party to this as the Bangladeshi house is a rather restricted zone for men. We are usually confined to the front rooms with no access to the inner workings. And so I get to see these women relax. I mean they are visibly more relaxed when the men are away; less shouting, more time taken over things, they laugh together and enjoy each others’ company. From my understanding this family still follows the rhythms of a rural household. There are two goats and a cow in the yard. They provide muck that is taken onto the roof and dried into patties which are then used as fuel for the fire to cook the food. Also on the roof beautiful clothes of every colour are dried, as is the straw that provides food for the goats and cow. There is a well pump which they use for drinking water and for washing themselves and their clothes. At the back of the yard there is a toilet. This is really just a bricked off area to provide a little privacy although privacy is not really an issue here. Indeed I’ve been confronted by blank stares when I’ve tried to explain to people here my need for privacy and how sometimes I just want to be by myself.

The children here are also fascinating. In England there seems to be a current trend to treat children like incredibly fragile objects. Not so here. The kids quite happily play on the roof, race up and down the bamboo ladder, balance precariously on brick walls, and are expected to help with many of the household chores, some of which involve using knives around twice their size. And yet the only times it ends in tears is when they get ignored for a while. One of them is a 'dushto chele' (cheeky boy) who tears around on the roof scuffing up the straw and throwing sticks. Here's a picture of the little bugger.

I’m really sorry I’m leaving this family behind because I feel genuinely attached to them. I believe I’ve learnt more about Bangladesh by observing their comings and goings than I ever would had I not seen it. What they think of me I don’t know. Probably a strange Gollum-like creature (if they’re conversant with the works of Tolkien) who peers from behind his laptop at them and who can only say one or two sentences before sheepishly retreating into his lonely prison cell.

A New Nation

2008-02-02T00:22:00.001-08:00

I’ve been trying to write about women and the situations they face in Bangladesh. Lord knows I keep trying but it always descends into a swear-ridden rant. And so there is a back story to this that I promise to post eventually but I want to do justice to it first because its affecting me quite deeply. Needless to say that the situation is bad and very complex. So with that said I will continue. Now, I had a very interesting discussion with Mahmun, a Bangladeshi who works at VSO on the way down to Khulna where I’m currently staying. And what he said was this:

The situation that women are in now is a recent occurrence that has developed in the last thirty years in Bangladesh. You see Bangladesh was founded out of the Bangla language movement. Indeed it was this movement against the imposition of Urdu from Pakistan (which hardly anyone here could speak) that drove the independence struggle that culminated in the Liberation War. All countries require the foundations of a national identity on which to build. For Bangladesh this was not Islam but was the Bangla language. Sheikh Mujib was the first leader of Bangladesh and steered its people from armed and bloody insurgency to nation state around the idea of secularism. Indeed secularism is enshrined in the constitution. However, just three years into his rule Sheikh Mujib was assassinated in a plot designed and carried out by some disgruntled mid-level generals from the army. And thus the war on secularism began. From that time until the present powerful, conservative, and often radical Islamic groups have undermined the spirit in which the country was founded in their advocacy of a crude form of Islam.

But enough of the politics for the time being, its time to include some humans. Around thirty years ago, when Mahmun’s mum was young she took part in theatre and would go and play with her friends in the local park. Like most of her friends she wore the traditional Bengali sari. However, Mahmun’s sister, about the same age now, feels under a lot of pressure to wear the niqaab. On my arrival in Bangladesh I saw many women wearing the niqaab; that's the type of hijab that covers the entire body and the whole face other than the eyes. I assumed it was a ‘Muslim thing’. It didn’t cross my mind that this was not how things had always been. In fact the niqaab has no tradition in Bangladesh, it is an import from the Persian Gulf along with many Islamic ideas and practices that come under the common banner of Wahabbi Islam. This is the form of Islam that many believe Al Qaeda advocate and it appears to be corroding and corrupting Islam globally. According to Mahmun, women used to enjoy many of the freedoms that men did but that they have since been intimidated into their current state of servitude and fear.

Back to the politics I’m afraid. For even longer than Bangladesh has existed there has been a political group known as Jamaati Islami. Founded whilst Bangladesh was still part of Pakistan they are a group of conservative and often radical Islamists who actually fought against the Bangladeshi freedom fighters and who, despite growing calls for them to be put on trial as war criminals, enjoy not only freedom but prestige in many parts of society. It is this group who have been growing ever more powerful at grass roots level. One of their main practices is to make people choose: ‘Are you a Muslim or are you a Bangladeshi?’ The problem is that the Bangladeshi nation is a new one and so a national identity still doesn’t have deep roots in people’s hearts and minds. It is thus easier to dismantle this feeling of collective national identity and supplant it with a new international one based around religion.

So why do people opt for Islam over other identities? After all they are rational people who have their own minds to make up. A big issue here is the lack of education and widespread illiteracy. While it would be over simplistic to say that you need an education to have a critical mind a lack of it must certainly leave people less well-equipped to challenge new and powerful ideas sold by articulate and persuasive people. If people are not won over by sheer force of words then they may well be by material benefits. You don’t need to work in development to know that Bangladesh is one of the poorest nations on the planet. It is also one of the most corrupt. As I right this, the country’s two biggest political figures are facing charges and potential imprisonment for the huge amounts of money they embezzled during their respective terms. That would be like Gordon Brown being in a prison cell and David Cameron being on bail...........

Sorry I wondered off into a fantasy dream land there. Where was I? Oh yes, so mainstream politics is completely discredited and the government is only going to look after itself and to hell with the poor. It is in these conditions that Jamaati Islami (you remember them?) can thrive. With their incredibly wealthy supporters from some of Bangladesh’s biggest companies they can ply communities with healthcare centres, social services and, most importantly, Mosques and Medrassas from where they can inculcate more people. It thus becomes more understandable why the poor are siding more and more with this crude version of Islam. There have even been some allegations here that the head of the Red Crescent (the equivalent of the Red Cross) in Bangladesh is a supporter of Jamaati Islami and has been using disaster relief for victims of Cyclone Sidr to further the group’s cause.

All of this is rather worrying for the secularists of Bangladesh. Not to mention the Hindus, the Buddhists, the Christians, the Animists, and many Muslims to boot. So what is to be done? This is where I throw in my two pennies worth so you can stop reading now if you don’t want to hear me (by reading?) carp on. It seems fairly obvious that government must be made to work in Bangladesh for no national identity can take root without a national government that people can trust and that they feel can protect them from natural disasters, disease, and poverty. It also needs to be fair and grant people justice and for Allah’s sake politicians must stop pilfering millions of pounds that are supposed to be going into developing the country. I would also like to see Bangladesh learning some of the lessons from Britain. Now I know there were the train bombs and that bloke with a hook and the Daily Mail but other than that and Nick Griffin I think the UK is doing pretty bloomin’ well as far as curbing radical Islam goes. I don’t know much about it but I know whole communities are working together to take on the issue and have met with all kinds of successes so lets get some of these community workers out here and let them have a look. Maybe there won’t be any parallels but their might be and perhaps there are some things that could be applied here.

I know I moan about this place and Christ knows it bloody well deserves it sometimes but the people here a fantastic. Not in that Lonely Planet kind of way that’s gushing and usually features native pipe ceremonies. They’re REALLY fantastic. And they deserve better. And it would be a fucking shame if this country went down the drain because of some self-aggrandising, sadistic wankers. So come on, in the words of the great philosopher, musician and semi-professional footballer: ‘let’s get together and feel alright.’

Exercise

2008-01-20T00:07:00.000-08:00

I’m actually quite an active person. I enjoy things like sitting and watching TV and stuff but I go a bit funny if I can’t exercise regularly. Fortunately I have opportunities to exercise here but there are some interesting elements to it that I don’t experience at home. First the big benefit: my running route takes me along the banks of the Ganges River and I can see India on the other side. If I catch it during sun rise or sun set which I usually do the sun is a huge red orb that actually looks like the Bangladeshi flag, it hangs suspended in the calm warm air, its doppelganger mirrored exactly in the glassy water.

The next rather lovely thing is that on my run the other day I came across a bunch of lads playing football. I’ve been looking for someone to play football with since I got here and now there are loads of them! Now, this struck me as a good thing but after five minutes on the pitch I was beginning to have some doubts. Firstly I hadn’t realised quite how unfit I was. My heart was palpitating in my chest and I was drenched with sweat. This wouldn’t be so bad if I could have sat back and let the game go on but I’m a ‘Bideshi’ you see, a foreigner. This of course means that I’m incredible at football, my legs a dizzying blur of step-overs and shimmies, able to score from fourty yards with my arse. And so every little bugger on my team immediately passed the ball to me expecting me to run and score. I did nothing of the sort. I stumbled on the uneven ground, gave the ball to the opposition and looked tired and apologetic. Luckily this tactic worked nicely as within twenty minutes they were barely passing the ball to me at all and I was able to feel my legs again. I love playing though because, for the time I’m on that pitch, nothing else really exists. Any problems and work I have to catch up on are left on the bench, there’s only the game.

Back to the jogging. When I’m at home in England I generally find jogging to be quite a zen activity. Here though it’s become...well...really weird. I’ll use the run I went on tonight to illustrate the point. If someone is running and looking very tired and puffed-out then the logical thing would not be to try and strike up a conversation with them. Not here. I am thus bombarded with questions and attempts to engage me in light-hearted banter. Today I was asked what country I’m from a total of ten times on a half hour run. I counted. Another feller rode next me on his bike and implored me to stop so that he could talk to me. I thought, ‘No! Why should I stop? If you want to talk to me you can bloody well keep up.’ Then there’s the heckling youths who, in fairness, plague many-a-run in England. There was one young lad who was posing on his motorbike with a girl riding on the back. He thought he would pit himself and his bike against me and my trainers. Is it just me or does that sound like a waste of petrol? All I can say is that I hope the girl was duly impressed. Then there’s the gaggle of smaller kids who cheer and clap me along. Now this is nice but I suddenly feel obliged to run like a marathon runner to live up to such a reception. So in between dodging motorbike racers, water buffalo, hecklers, fans, rickshaws, serial conversation-seekers, and a whole host of beautiful women in saris who I want to impress I’m actually getting pretty fit.

Christmas 2007

2007-12-31T00:55:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-27T21:27:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-17T19:49:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-13T18:49:00.000-08:00

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

2007-10-23T04:31:00.000-07:00

‘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.

2007-10-18T03:22:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-08T20:54:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-10-05T03:23:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-09-30T03:13:00.000-07:00

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.