The Family

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Questions Questions

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

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

Observe question one: What is your country?

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

Next one: What food do you eat in England?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cyclone Sidr

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

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

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

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

Rajshahi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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