A fair and balanced look at the right of way

You drive me crazy

I've realized that I expand a lot of energy complaining about rickshaw drivers.  While generally I think they deserve it, it occurred to me that I should perhaps also highlight the moments when they surprise me (in a good way).
On Saturday night, we got our first rain show since my arrival.  Thunder, lightning, and violent rain.  It woke me up at 4AM because through my window screen AND malaria bednet, I was getting wet.  And yet, when walking to work on Sunday morning, I neglected to account for the possibility of massive puddles when picking out my footwear for the day.
"I'm tough," I tell myself as I start spotting puddles on the walk.  And yet, when I see that truck coming in slow motion, driving through the puddle next to me, and mouth (in a really deep voice) "noooooooooooooooooo" as the water sprays up and throughly soaks me from the ribs down, I feel more like the wicked witch defeated by Dorothy in the wizard of oz (although "I'm melting! I'm melting!" is not exactly what I yelped when the water hit me).

Bring it on, Dhaka

Dhaka and I are in the throes of a torrid love affair.  It’s a jealous and needy lover, the kind that constantly tests the bounds of my feelings and patience.  Quick to pick up on my vulnerabilities, publicly mock me when it observes my eyes wandering, or a smirk at some inside joke rising on my face.   And yet, in those moments when it finally gives me the peace that I’ve been waiting for, I find myself missing that sense of being owned and overwhelmed by its presence.

Somewhere in the last two months, I realized that I didn’t just like the work here, but I liked being here.  For reasons that are difficult to articulate.  Reading the opening to Khushwant Singh’s novel about Delhi hit home for me: he describes the ugliness and grossness that immediately confronts you in the city—here, the guys squatting to urinate on the side of the road, the constant sound of people hawking up phlegm, the disease and squalid poverty that’s everywhere, but writes, with apparent tenderness, that for things to appear different, you must “cultivate a sense of belonging.”  And once I realized that I truly liked Dhaka, it freed me from having to keep up the appearances of trying to like it, and let me begin to settle into it.  The way that it takes a few weeks for a new relationship to settle in before you really start acting like yourself.  So since I’ve accepted Dhaka, I’m slowly opening myself up to it and together we are figuring out where we will each compromise to make this romance more than just a brief affair.

March Madness

My civic activism has increased exponentially since arriving to this side of the world. Two marches in two months!

7:30AM and we are ready to go!

Today is World Tuberculosis Day. On March 24, 1882 Robert Koch discovered the TB bacillus, so in countries with a lot of TB, there are often a lot of events to raise awareness, try to reduce stigma, and encourage people with symptoms (a cough) to get treatment.

There is NOTHING that can't be done with a rickshaw! Just put a megaphone on top of it and you've got a portable sound system. Video may trump radio star, but rickshaw trumps video.

To be honest, I've just been calling it March Madness in my head and that's why I was excited. Go Duke!

TB or not TB? Stupid question, Hamlet!

All ball

All last week, I attended the Annual Scientific Conference of the International Center for Diarrheal Disease, Bangladesh (usually just called ICDDRB). It was hosted at the Sonargaon Hotel, one of the nicest places to stay in Dhaka (where the world cup cricket teams would stay, for example). There's a cappuccino place right across the street that serves Lavazza (but don't forget, "right across the street" still requires you to traverse the ~10 lanes of chaotic traffic and not get jostled by the people carrying big containers of vegetables and fish to the nearby market).

I brave the streets. It's a latte trouble for a coffee, but it's worth it.

The conference culminates with a black and white charity ball and auction at yet another high-end hotel, the Radisson). While I'm more inclined just to participate in the brains part of the week and leave the dancing to the beautiful among us, I was invited and then, during one of my protests, instructed by my boss to attend. I would excuse myself on the basis of not having owned a remotely formal dress for several years, but my dad bought me a beautiful sari in India which is perfect for this occasion, so I glumly accept my fate.

We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto

Pretty Oz-some wizard

Tonight I had the opportunity to attend a high school musical production at a fine arts academy in Uttara, a northern suburb of Dhaka. They performed "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz." My host family's grandson played Uncle Henry. He enjoyed it, although at the end when he had to hug Dorothy and ask her never to leave home again, that made him pretty uncomfortable.

Aunty Em, Uncle Henry, and Toto

All in all, the show was great (I should know, I'm almost through the first season of Glee, which really makes me an expert). There were only a few moments that made a fairly familiar show seem foreign:
1. The prayer in Arabic (then recited in English) that preceded the show
2. The dancers all clearly moved with those subcontinent hand gestures and head movements (although I was later corrected and told that they made the dances very American to be consistent with the show......)
3. When the power went out mid-show for a minute or so.
4. When the power went out again. Kudos to the actors for not losing it.
5. When we stood up after the show for the national anthem. The linked version is much better than the one I heard; it reminded me distinctly of the ice cream truck song.
6. When people met me, they excitedly asked if I was from Kansas. Clearly they don't know much about Kansas. Although my jokes are so corny, it would make sense.

Western style dancing during the Tinman's "If i only had a heart" song

Afterwards we went out for chinese food at the Thai/Sichuanese/Chinese/Indian restaurant (yes, there was a page labeled "Sichuan" and a page labeled "China." As usual, I can't make these things up). In addition to the vast array of stated cuisine options, the items menu was really confusing--I was hoping for pad thai and couldn't decide if it would be "Crispy noodle", "thai noodle" or "dry noodle" on the thai part of the menu. Also there was Thai soup listed on the Chinese menu, as well as Ching Chong chicken (or Ching Chong beef). It started to remind me of a somewhat racist SNL chinese delivery skit. I ultimately abdicated responsibility for choosing any dishes, deciding that between not really understanding the options nor knowing what normal choices where, I was pretty useless. The resulting options (thai soup on the Chinese menu, chow mein, sweet and sour prawns, fried rice, beef with mushrooms, etc.) were not things I would have chosen, but fairly decent.

My bangla is coming along slowly, but as sports fans in the U.S. do the same pre-game analysis dozens of times, so too do sports fans here, so I now "understand" when the topic is how England needs to lose to West Indies for Bangladesh to be guaranteed to advance in the cricket world cup. It's equally as interesting as the football pregame show......

I have to admit, when little Bengali Dorothy said, "there's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home," I got a little misty eyed. Can only imagine how I would have felt if the band had started in with Dark side of the moon. The ice cream truck version!

Culturally appropriate ways to waste time at work

Ever since a friend sent me this spoof of "All the single ladies" about girls at Columbia Business School working on getting an MRS degree. Ever since then, probably because with slow internet and power outages it took several tries to get the full video to load, so I got to listen to the opening bars SEVERAL times, it's been stuck in my head like no one's business.

I'm at the office late, hoping to score a ride home with my boss, and got sidetracked momentarily from the challenges of TB control in Bangladesh by this website that I find hysterical. I was inspired by Beyonce and the CBS girls to think about what a version for this part of the world would like it. Here's my first shot.

(And yes, it is culturally appropriate because pretty much everything on TV comes from India).

Hopefully this will distract you all from your jobs as well and we can have an international moment of lost productivity. Oh wait, it's Sunday, so y'all are not at work. Slackers!

Should I enroll?!

My longest post ever....

. . . .If a picture is worth a thousand words. Because this one is going on 35,000 "words" then.

Last night I was walking to meet some friends for dinner, and a rickshaw driver that I've conversed with before tried to convince me to go with him. After saying no many, many times, he said, come on, it's a free ride. "No such thing as a free ride," I grumble under my breath, but it's been a long day, so I climb in. A few blocks later, we arrive where I'm meeting my friend Farhan. As I scramble out, Farhan gallantly reaches into his pocket to pull out a wallet and pay my driver, but when he asks how much it was, the driver says it was free, says goodbye to me, and leaves me with a very puzzled Farhan staring wide mouthed at me. This rickshaw driver knows I'm a long-term investment, he's courting me so that when the hot season hits, he'll be my daily chauffeur to and from work. I've got his number in my phone and I have every intention of calling him when we get to that point. But I don't need to tell Farhan all that; instead I just nonchalantly look at him like this happens all the time.

With the impending heat right around the corner, I went for a walk around the neighborhood this afternoon with a camera and took some photos of the everyday sights. I'm sorry that the sounds and smells don't come through as well--they can be powerful too! Hope you enjoy.

Lebowski challenge out: new game--power hour

I'm creating a new drinking game for work--for every power outage, I have to drink a cup of coffee (the Bangladeshi version of a white Russian). Today we had 6 power cuts (so far), so I'm a little WIRED.

I sense that as it heats up here (it's almost 80 degrees when I leave the house in the morning--perfect!) and everyone starts turning up the AC, these cuts are becoming more frequent. In preparation, I've found a **fan** as a back up :)

Ok fine, you're onto me. Mr. Zahed did make this sign to pick me up at the airport, and I had to ask him to pose for this picture. I don't actually have a fan to greet me every time I walk into my office, though in Bangladesh, all is possible.

Leaving the office to avoid the possibility of another power cut. All is possible, except for decaf!!

Getting to know you!

Yesterday I decided it was time to attempt a solo adventure--namely, take a road trip outside of Dhaka. Markers of success would be: arriving at the right bus station, getting on a bus going to my determined destination, getting off at that destination (or in the general vicinity, can't be too picky on this on), and of course, making it back to Dhaka, before dusk or not too long after. High standards if you ask me.

And I should preface this account by saying that i truly love Bangladesh and am having a great time. People here as a general rule are incredibly hospitable and friendly, and I rely on those kindnesses many times every day. But they can be so enthusiastic in these characteristics that it borders on absurd (or obnoxious, depending on who it is). I only allow myself to make fun of this because it's said with great affection and appreciation.

So, step 1: go to the right bus station and get on the right bus. Surprisingly easy. My bus to Morgapara, my chosen destination, has seen better days. Several seats are unhinged, many of the cushions have split open. I slide into one that seems sturdy and not too torn up. There are several guys selling things on the bus--popcorn, soda, toothbrushes--and the one selling ice cream sounds like he's selling "ass cream," so I am definitely smirking silently over in my corner (and lose my appetite for it!). A young guy in muslim clothes sits down next to me. Once we've been stuck in traffic for about 30 minutes (Lonely planet in its infinite helpfulness told me the whole bus ride would take 40 minutes, which seemed suspiciously short to get anywhere), he asks if he can say something to me. I say ok, and we start talking. He asks if I've heard of the Holy Quran, which he knows fully, and whether I think Islam is good (tricky question for magnetic word game). He wants to know if I have any friends (I say yes, thankful for that), and if I want children (he informs me that he does before asking). He also tells me that my smile or smell is "very good." I will accept either compliment; having not had a hot shower since arriving, the latter is certainly a greater challenge. He gets off the bus before me, and invites me to come with him next time to meet the family.

I continue onward and eventually arrive at Mograpara (random stranger that replaces my friend informs me when to get off). Mograpara is a "village" (50,000 people) situated near Sonargaon, the region's capital several hundred years ago. There are some tombs and things, but I've decided to start by heading to the folk arts and crafts museum. In asking directions, I realize that having a two-year-old for a friend is actually really helpful. What she needs to communicate are things like "No!" and "I don't want it!" and her mother is constantly telling her "let go!" and "stop!".....all phrases that are actually pretty handy to have in my back pocket). I manage to score walking directions (go straight for a long time) instead of getting escorted into a rickshaw. Major victory.

The village is really quiet, minus the occasion tourist bus that comes roaring through every now and then. Otherwise rickshaws are the major form of transportation. It's a pretty day and I appreciate the chance to walk without feeling like I'm in mortal danger from the chaotic traffic. I eventually arrive at the museum and am stunned at how many people have come to the museum, dressed in beautiful sharees (that's bangla for sari) and with picnics in tow. The museum is surrounded by a sprawling park with paths and many lakes; it is a nice place to wander and pass the afternoon.

I've gotten used to people wanting to take my picture. Given the large number of mainly teenage guys who do this without asking me consent, when someone asks, I feel obliged to say yes. But I've decided to reciprocate these requests; I ask the husband (usually the wife and I take a picture) or the friend to take one with my camera too. So I now present to you some of the many friendly people that I met yesterday.

After checking out the exhibits, which included some lovely items but also some space fillers, like the "lamp stand" and "wood spoon" from the 20th century, I head out into the gardens. I found a space in the shade next to a lake and settle in with my kindle. I'm deep in the final chapters of the Count of Monte Christo when I hear, "hello!" from right next to me. I look up, and there are about 10 children to my left, all with bright green popsicles. I say hello, and another one of them says hello, and we go back and forth until we've all said hello. At the point I look to my right, and realize that there are 5 more people there, and that the older women that had been picnicking behind me are also now standing by me. One of them offers me a bright green popsicle and a spot on their blanket. We then take a little bit (I say in bangla, "what is your name?" to one of the women who doesn't speak English which causes great commotion and the temporary misperception that I actually speak bangla. I can now say, "a little," a phrase that I think will be helpful perhaps in managing portions on my plate!), and take a series of family photos.

I finish my popsicle and decide to move on. Two guys try to escort me on my walk and after realizing that the word "alone" is not one of my options in magnetic conversation, I settle upon the phrase "Ok. goodbye." which seems to do the trick. Another guy then comes up to me to inform me that he's "been observing me and has noticed that I have some education and probably also have a personality." Wow! I tell him that he is correct, I do have a personality. Not that it matters since he wants to talk at me. He's starting an NGO and wants to expert "opinions" of foreigners--I am a little skeptical and decide to deny my ownership of a local cell phone (I'm all for direct communication, but sometimes magnetic conversation makes it difficult). A crowd gathers and we have another round of photos. I get to hold someone's baby (the baby's name is also Maria!).

At this point I'm a little tired and it's getting late, so I excuse myself from the group, shrug off the persistent admirers that try to accompany me, and walk back to the main street of the village en route to the highway to catch a bus. I find a tea stall that has a few empty benches, so I settle in for a cup of tea and a bit of the cricket match (Bangladesh is up by 58 but that is very bad. I nod as if that makes sense somehow). The folks sitting here are locals and very relaxed. A local English teacher/tour guide and his cousin and friend begin to talk with me, and by the end of my second cup of tea, they've invited to visit their house, which is across the street. It's always easier to accept these invitations knowing that they tend to live with their parents and several siblings (although in this case my host in an only child). While we sit and watch cricket, drink semi-flat "normal" coke (i.e. room temperature), eat biscuits (i.e. sweet crackers) and talk, several neighbors come in to stare at me for a little while. We take a few pictures and my host shows me some shots of his girlfriend. And tells me that I really should get on facebook (I love that this has become a multi-country effort. I am creating global alliances!!). It's fun and I'm a little regretful that I have to hurry for the bus because dusk is falling quickly. Although now that I know how to get there, it's easy to go back, and my host assures me that his mother is a fantastic cook (am I that transparent?).

The guys put me on the bus and off I go, to sit in traffic for long intervals again, trying my best to finish the Count of Monte Christo in the last rays of sunlight (not quite). Because of the traffic, we take a "shortcut", which is filled with others who had the same idea. When we stop at what appears to be the last stop, I am not entirely convinced that this is where I began my journey--in the darkness, most of my landmarks have disappeared and the chaos of the night (there are limited streetlights and rickshaws don't have any sort of lighting to warn you that they are coming straight at you), I'm a little disoriented. I make my way to the intersection to catch an autorickshaw--I'm headed to my friend Hezzy's house for dinner (yummm. food. I have a one track mind). While fumbling with my phone to pull up his address, three guys approach me and ask if I need help. I tell them I'm trying to catch an autorickshaw and show them the address. We walk a few blocks, can't find an empty one, and they ask if I can take a rickshaw instead. No problem. They talk to a few guys and reject one who agrees to do it for taka 80 (USD 1.15) because that's outrageous. I find myself wondering how outrageous that was when I and two of these guys arrive at the destination, which was at least a 30 minute ride. My escorts wait for Hezzy to come out to meet me, and in Bangla inform him that they found me crying and terrified at the bus terminal and were very happy to make sure that I was safely delivered to him. I guess I've got my damsel in distress act down pat as well. Score.

It was surprisingly refreshing to be at the apartment of another American. I was allowed to stand in the kitchen instead of awkwardly sitting in a living room by myself, and could refer to March madness without having to wonder if the other person had any clue what I was talking about. We ate at the same time (though sitting on the floor and without any silverware!), not me first and then him. His girlfriend's due to move in with him in a few weeks, so we talk about how to set up the apartment most amenably (I gently suggest that buying silverware might be a good start). Evidently getting a shower curtain put in has been a 1-month process, in large part because they put the rods above the tiles, which means that they are abnormally high and required an extra portion to be sown at the bottom of the curtain (he's been here two years and is annoyed; I've been here 1 month so still find this hilarious). I helped clean up afterwards. There was no magnetic conversation or ambiguous moments. And we both have personalities.

All up in my krill

Sometimes, working in the field of global health requires people to make big sacrifices in comfort and quality of life. Other times, it requires you to unquestioningly go into the depths of the field to see what's **really** happening on the ground. The field can be a scary place, away from the A/C and "highspeed" internet at the head office. A week in the field, can I do it?

In this case, "the field" began in Chittagong, Bangladesh's second largest city and extended down to Cox's Bazar, advertised as the "longest sea-beach without breaks", Cox's Bazar is beautiful. If you turn south instead of heading up to the main strip, you meander through thick forests of tall palms, interspersed with groups of pine trees. It looks uninhabited at first, but then you notice the crops, and then the long, almost barrack-like houses made out of dried brush that create a camouflage for the small, but steady population that lines the coast. We stopped at Inani beach and walked the sunset. It was "empty", but Bangladesh standards. We stayed at BRAC's Training and Resource Center, which is located right on the water. I drifted off to sleep listening to the waves crash.....

I went for a walk early this morning, and other than a few guys out catching shrimp in their smiley-faced shaped boats and one hungry dog that almost made me reconsider my recent advocacy efforts, I really did have the beach for myself. What a luxury! Global health is a rough life, let me tell you.

I was also forced to try the local variety of bananas (short and sweet!), a lot of very fresh fish prepared in a number of tasty ways (fried, stewed, curried), fresh chipati, and, a vegetable that's slowly coming into season much to my delight: okra! No forks to be found, so I had to dive in local style straight with my hand, but definitely makes eating with gusto fairly easy.

Now back in Chittagong, enjoying the sounds of rush hour traffic. You can take the girl out of the honky-tonk, but you can't take the honky-tonk out of the girl. Wait a minute. . . .

(full disclosure: this is two days old--bandwidth in paradise was too slow to load the pictures). So I'm safely back in Dhaka and contemplating what to do this weekend!