It takes a lot to laugh

I have to say, I have been frequently impressed with the innovativeness with which people here take on the challenges of a weak public infrastructure, little capital, and poverty. The buses for example are extremely overcrowded--you get the sense that they could run many more and they'd all be full--but they've built benches up on top as a first step to alleviating the crowdedness.
There are no pay phones, but instead there are many booths where you can buy more cell phone minutes (many people have pre-pay plans), and at those booths, you can use a phone that the owner has there, and then pay him for your call afterwards. So, functionally a pay phone, but without the same physical investment.
I went to the post office today and realized while in line that my envelopes did not have the sticky stuff that seals when you lick it. Luckily, the post officer had a gluestick--it is possible that you could not mail things that were already sealed, I am not sure--that he quickly used to close my letters. An old fashion glue stick as a tool for the official post office. A gluestick! I'm not even sure that the post office uses electricity, frankly. I am absolutely amazed at what people here accomplish with the tools they have.
Things here are coming to a close--tomorrow is the official day off and Sunday is Victory Day. I have a few things left to take care of, including figuring out what the departure tax is from here (that would be a rude awakening to learn at 3AM at the airport with no working ATMs), and trying to make it to a beautfy parlor (I know, what a tough life). And tonight, pizza and margaritas with the ex-pats. Alas, still no chocolate. It's painful to think about JP Licks' brownie sundae (JP licks is Boston ice cream chain which has a location across from my office), but I'm pretty sure it's going to be one of the first things I eat upon arrival!

This may be it for the blog. Thanks for reading it, and thanks even more for the e-mails. Makes it harder to be away when you have great people to miss, but the e-mails help me feel connected. Donyobad and asalam aleikum!

Fields of gold

Check out my post on the GHD website with pictures and information about my field visits at http://ghd-blog.blogspot.com/2007/12/snapshots-of-bracs-health-program.html. It includes a link to some of the pictures I took in the field as well: http://picasaweb.google.com/SilverBullet523/BRAC. BRAC recently began a collaboration with Scojos Foundation, a group that has worked primarily in Latin America and aims to provide low-cost eye glasses in resource poor settings. It is pretty amazing to watch care get delivered in such a different setting than the sterile and rather alienating context that prevails in the U.S. These women work with the same confidence and expertise without many of the technologies and luxuries that we assume are necessary for high quality care.

I also had a chance to go to the Liberty Monument on my way back to Dhaka last night. The six pillars on each side represent East Pakistan's rebellions against West Pakistan, beginning in the 1950s, and culminating, as represented by the culmination of all the pillars in an apex on the middle pillar, in liberation in Dec. 16, 1971. It's located in a beautiful park as well--a welcome relief from the sometimes claustrophobic density of crowds in Dhaka. It creates the same sense of solemnity and admiration that the best monuments in DC, for me, the most recent WWII fountain and the Vietnam War wall.

Sunday will be a big holiday here!

Blowing in the wind

So I've realized that there's no way to explain Dhaka to someone who isn't here--it's like trying to explain colors to a blind person. It's simultaneously huge, as in, you can walk for half an hour and not be sure you've gotten anywhere (How many roads. . . ?), and really small--the roads are barely wide enough for a rickshaw, and you can't see anything besides the buildings on each side, so you have no sense of the scope of the city. The vast majority of the time, I am the only white person visible (I think yesterday in my day's wanderings in Old Dhaka I saw two other whites, and probably over 1000 Bangladeshis), but more than that, I am one of the few, if not only, women out. This was particularly true yesterday when all the men were out to go to mosque, but I think I'm now much more acutely aware of the gender ratio than the attention I get for being light-skinned. In some areas, this is changing, the BRAC headquarters has a fair number of women, but it's definitely extremely different from anywhere I've ever been.
I was trying to find an art store yesterday and after searching for over an hour (so I can't read street signs here and usually can't figure out where I'm starting, which makes using a map, especially a bad one, hard), including a foray down Hindu street, which was pretty interesting, and bicycle road, where one can buy anything from tricycles to rickshaws, I was pretty much ready to give up, and so happily accepted an invitation to have tea on the street with a pair of brothers coming out of mosque. We enjoyed our tea as the crowd grew around us, with people asking excitedly, "What is your country?" and all sorts of other things. One guy carrying a cage of canaries came up and laughingly asked me if I wanted one to take home. I declined. After two cups of tea, I was invited to a family's nearby apartment for lunch. I went and ate, cross-legged on a rug, using my right hand to eat rice, lentils and chicken curry. On my way down the stairs, the neighbors came out to see what was going on, and promptly invited me in for dessert. I have no idea what it was, but it sure was tasty! We then headed over to a pool hall where one of the guys worked, and in the rickshaw ride over, they requested that I sing, "Careless Whisper" by Michael Bolton. How could I say no?
After playing pool for a while (just to note, I was wearing a scarve for these games and may well have been the only woman to ever play pool at this place), I decided that I should probably head home if I wanted to get there by dark. Buses in Dhaka leave something to be desired--they are overflowingly (literally, people are coming out the doorway and hanging off the roof), not numbered, and have no designated stop. Also, their idea of a stop is to slow down enough for you to hop on or off. So when I say that I took the bus home, I want you to understand what an accomplishment/experience this was. My friends helped me find one going to Gulshan, and as an unaccompanied woman, I sat up in front by the driver. After the first 20 minutes, I had no idea where we were, and after 40 minutes, I decided that I really had never been anywhere near where we were. But, when the ticket guy told me that we'd arrived at "Gulshan" (the neighborhood where I'm staying) and pointed me to the left of the bus, helping me get situated to jump off, I just did what he said. 10 minutes later, the sign of the Westin hotel appeared and then I was totally oriented and managed to land a rickshaw that got me home just as dark was truly setting in.
Last night I went to the apartment of two world bank health economists for a tasting of wines available in Dhaka (evidently given that only foreigners can buy alcohol and there are few foreigners, it has not become a wide variety). It's interesting to see the ex-pat's lifestyles here and think about whether my life here would look similar and whether, based on their experiences, it's something that appeals to me. The jury is still out. Though, I plan to get on my plan on the 17th, either way. The people here are as friendly as they come and more curious than just about anyone I've ever met. That's probably the only thing that makes this trip possible and almost as importantly, a lot of fun. I've had a lot of "Hello. Your country please?" conversations, but if that's the debt I pay for being unable to say much in Bangla other than Hello/Goodbye; yes; no; no problem; okay; dog; eggplant; and water; I think that it's relatively small. It will be something I miss in the city of Boston, where there is not such as sense of collective energy and interaction.

Maybe, before my trip ends, I'll find that art shop. But I'm finding that Dhaka often has its own agenda that sweeps you along. That's what indhakactrination is all about.

OohlalaDhaka

After spending part of this morning reading about all the food being eaten in France (which, to be honest, sounds like an awful lot of food for two people--I hope you're walking A LOT in between!), I decided to go on a culinary adventure of my own: Dhaka street food. Now, I know what you're all thinking: what a bad idea for reasons from taste to sanitation to not wanting to spend the weekend (which starts on Fridays here) recovering. All good thoughts, I had them all week. But, my curiosity has been growing, and as I do brag about my iron stomach, it had to happen eventually.

We begin at a snack stand at the busy intersection about a half mile from here. A local favorite here seems to be what I can only call Bengali chex mix. I believe that it is rice that has been given a chance to dry out significant, so it's a little tougher to bite into, mixed up with onions, cilantro, chile, curry spices and a little bit of oil to make it stick together (you get to what all of this going on) and then is stuffed into a make shift bag, fashioned from freshly recycled paper; mine, for example, was someone's old recipt. And then you dig in with your hands, ensuring that your nails will be yellow for a while and smell like curry. The price for this deliciousness? a mere 5 taka (around 8 cents).

I continue on. I believe that people now stare at me a little less; my shalwar and now my snack make me look less exotic. Or, I've mastered the art of not noticing when people are staring at me. Either way, it's a lot easier to walk around now. A little harder while trying to eat rice with my (right) hand. I pass more snack stands, many with bread and short-bread like biscuit cookies (random side note: why has the sandwich not caught on everywhere in the world? How can people not see that as a truly genius food worth emulating!), but feel that after my main course of rice, what I'm really ready for is dessert. So, I deviate from my plan slightly by stopping in a dessert shop with a huge display of sweets. I walk in, find that they all look about the same, with slight variations of color and shape, and pick two of them. They are presented to me in a nice green box with a pink ribbon tied around it securely (for whatever reason, you rarely get any sort of plastic container or bag here). I pay the 40 taka it costs ($0.60, steep!) stick it in my purse for the moment.

I head back towards the BRAC office. This is the bit where there is the street food that I've been eyeing every day this week. I go for it. What I really want is something straight from the thick metal frying pan that's bubbling with oil and little dumpling-like balls of dough. Those are currently germ free. But, I point at something else on the table that resembles a samosa, and get two little ones for the road--this time in a small brown bag that looks manufactured--spending yet another 4 taka.

I proceed to eat these samosas, which turn out to still be quite warm and be filled with delicious potatoes, and walk around a little bit. My biggest issue with Dhaka is that things seem to be done in a hurry most of the time. There is no lingering over a cup of tea or a meal; people come in, eat and move on. There are no benches to sit and watch folks go by while enjoying your samosas and rather tasty desserts, whose main ingredient appears to be condensed milk (yum). But, I know that there are things to be done, so here I am, back in my office. Soon there will be someone circulating with hot cups of tea with milk and sugar for us to enjoy while we work.

Went out to a village yesterday to learn more about the TB program. Among other things, we met the health worker and talked with her patients as they took their daily medications under her supervisions (A pillar of DOTS treatment). Below are a picture of me with the Shastha Shebika, as the health worker is called and a shot of the landscape surrounding the village. This was only about a half out hour the city (considered periurban because it's outside of the "city corporation"), and next week it looks like I'm going to Manikgonj, which is a few hours by car and the birthplace of BRAC's TB program in, coincidently, 1984!

A hard rain's a-gonna fall

What a day, what a day. This place rocks. What can I tell you--I started the day with my mission of getting a cell phone. Evidently to get a cell phone here, you have to provide them with 2 passport photos, your fingerprint, and present your passport. They mean business!
While I was waiting for my pictures to develop, I stopped for a cup of tea (pretty much the only thing I know how to order) in a tiny little diner/restaurant, where I was soon befriended by a grandfatherly old man who spoke a bit of English. As luck would have it, he works at one of the private hospitals in the city, and he invited me to come have a look. You can imagine that I was only too happy to hop in a rickshaw with him and head on over. We talked for a while over a cup of coffee (good coffee at that!) in the hospital cafeteria, which was far nicer than any hospital cafeteria I've ever seen in the states, and I learned that his wife and daughters are in Pakistan, and all of his brothers are in the states. After he saw me safely back to the photo place, I got his phone number and may meet up for lunch with him at some point later in my trip.
While buying my phone, there was another woman who I suppose was also buying a phone (mainly she sat there reading over my shoulder as I filled out forms and talking about me in Bangla), who took my number down as they gave it to me, and followed me outside to ask if she could call me and maybe she could practice her English with me. I figure I can use all the friends I can get!
Ate lunch in a legit Bengali place. I was not only the only westerner, I was also the only woman (which according to my guide book, is normal and does not mean that I'm not welcome). Folks here seem to be quick to look out for me though--not sure why, but I actually really like it. Everyone else was happily eating their rice with curry sauce and watery dhal WITH THEIR HANDS, which I can't even begin to figure out how that would work (also, you have to do things right handed here, that much I know), but luckily the owner found a fork for me. He also happily brought me out an "american salad", which consisted of cucumbers and hot chilis with lime. Now, I hate cucumbers more than anything on this earth, and normally would not touch them in a country where one is so prone to getting sick, but for this guy, who was clearly trying so hard to make me feel at home, I had to accept the generosity with a smile. Hopefully karma beats e coli. At the end of the meal, they brought me a bowl of water in which I washed my hands, and then the guy sent me over to a sink in the corner with a mirror so that I could wash all the curry off my face (I was not the only one who had to this, thankfully!).
I accomplished my other task of the day as well: to acquire a shalwar kameez, which is the long tunic-style shirt that virtually all the women wear here. BRAC has a branch called Aarong, which works to bring together poor women who make clothes and handicrafts and gives them a venue to get their goods to a bigger market through a series of stores in urban areas. I went to one today and bought my wardrobe for the trip--two of the shirts, a shawl, and a longer dress. Work starts tomorrow, so I have to look sharp! There's an all day meeting here with all the people who masterminded BRAC's tuberculosis program and currently run it, so it's a great introduction to the program and chance to meet all the people I'll want to interview.