This is my brain on or off drugs

So I go radio silent on the blog for a few reasons: 1. overwhelming work, 2. enforced time away from my computer, 3. lack of anything interesting to report (ha, yeah right), and 4. gross feelings make me unable to come up with energetic/funny/un-depressing things to write about.  This last week was # 4, followed by #1.  Now that I've reemerged and regained my characteristically sunny perspective, I can find humor in my past misery that will hopefully have entertainment value.

I woke up last Friday feeling like I'd been hit by a truck or something. My muscles ached, which was weird since I'd gone out with some friends the night before instead of playing soccer.  I glumly decided that I was getting too old for even a glass or two of wine as I made my breakfast.  Determined to not let my age interfere with my plans, I met Susmita, BRAC summer interns, to head down to the Parliament house, which I still consider the most beautiful place in Dhaka (I needed inspiration for the writing crunch period).  The CNG driver offers to take us for tk 200.  Too much!  I say, 100 taka!   He says no, and we turn and walk away.  How much should it be? Susmita asks.  "I have no idea.  I just assume that if he says 200, that's too much."  A few blocks later we find a guy to take us for 100.  At least I looked like I knew what I was doing.

Parliament house is beautiful, but I am hurting.  I'm starting to feel feverish and just more and more gross.  What felt like the flu started to turn into food poisoning-like symptoms.  After a month of perfect health, I'm probably overdue for a bout of GI symptoms, but that doesn't make it any more fun.  Particularly since I have a deadline and can't just hide in bed for a few days.  I try not to complain, but evidently it's universal that when you look horrible, people ask, "Are you ok?" in that way that implies that they think you look as horrible as you feel.  Lack of sleep and limited food intake means that I'm pale and a little weak on my feet.  And just less generally obnoxious.  My diet coke intake is also a bit of a joke here, so when I change that up for a massive bottle of water, the people need to know why.  Luckily, since I'm mixing in packets of ORsaline (oral rehydration saline) with the water, soon the explanation becomes pretty obvious.  Huge public health success in Bangladesh: teaching people that you can prevent death from diarrhea, which is caused by dehydration, simply by giving the victim water with specific amounts of salt and sugar.  You can make it, or buy these packets to mix with 500 ml of water for tk 5 (7 cents).  And they are available everywhere.  Based on the number of empty packets I see on the streets (we don't really have a trash system), the use rate is pretty high.

I valiantly try to force myself to eat during this period.  I pack a pb & j on homemade bread (by Bernard, the cook, not me!) for the office and head out the door.  Two blocks later I have a new friend following me to work.  The difference between this friend and my other "friends" is that she doesn't speak Bangla or English.  This street dog walks between 1-10 ft from me, never growling or trying to touch me, but clearly sniffing me out and accompanying me.  I'm not thrilled about this, but she's undeterred by my crossing the main road, hopping the median on the bridge, and even entering another dog's territory (she cowers behind my legs and despite my annoyance with her, I kind of shelter her).  My buddy at the tea stand overlooking the water invites me to sit and have a cup of tea (escalation!) and I can think of few worst ideas for getting over my stomach bug.  "Pore" (later) I promise.

The next day, I don't pack a pb and j because I hate friendship.  Nonetheless, a few blocks farther than where I'd met my friend yesterday a new friend awaits me.  Today I'm not in the mood.  "No!"  I say.  She keeps trotting along behind me.  "Na!" I try.  Same.  I lower my voice a few octaves.  "GO!"  She stares at me.  I walk along ignoring her, and that seems to do the trick.  But what's this about?  I didn't even have food today!  Why are dogs suddenly following me!  Unsolved mysteries of Dhaka.  Luckily this was the day when I started to feel a bit better, at least well enough to consume enough food to lose that lightheaded feeling.  Everything's relative, so that was amazing!

By yesterday, I am a new woman.  I got up early to get some work done before my morning meeting, so by the time Tim, my host, came downstairs, I was on my third cup of coffee and WIRED.  He had gotten accustomed to this ghost of a Maria over the past few days and looked at me quizzically when I started spouting off about some theory I had about global health acronyms or something similarly strange.  Upon learning I felt better, he began to list out different causes of my symptoms.  Doctors are funny like that; they need an answer, whereas I was just happy to feel better.  While we eat breakfast, he asks some specific questions about my symptoms (why would that interfere with one's appetite), and he arrives at a diagnosis: giardiasis.  A common parasite.  "You should take metronidazole."  I point out that I"m already feeling better, so no need to involve medication.  But evidently it is recurrent; it comes back cyclically.  Which explains why I've been getting sick on a monthly basis for about three months now.  Now I'm listening.  I grab my little BRAC notebook and write down, in purple pen, "M-e-t-r-o-n-i-d-a-z-o-l-e.   500 mg.  2g over 4 doses.  every 12 hours."  Tear half the sheet out of my book (no reason to waste the whole thing) and put it in my pocket.  Tim recommends a few pharmacies that he thinks have good quality medications, and I decide to go there later that afternoon.  "There are some pretty serious side effects of the treatment though,"  he says.  Now this makes me reconsider taking medications; I've got less than a week to complete my book and I really am feeling better.  "You can't drink while you take this medication."  That is hardly a problem.  "And you might have a metallic taste in your mouth."  "No problem, I used to chew on bullets before my boxing matches to get in the mood."  Blank silence and staring.   Joke fail.  I blame the parasite for feeding on my humor.

I decide to make like a bullet and leave for work.  The day ends up being insanely hectic and going all sorts of interesting ways.  I spend a lot of time running up and down the stairs, so it's a good thing that I'm back to my normal energetic self.  When I get ready to leave around 7PM, Zahed bhai says, Maria, it's raining.  I'm carrying several books for my advisor, so can't shrug it off like I normally do.  I decide to head downstairs and talk to the guards until the rain stops.  Well, that's the thing about monsoons.  It just doesn't work that way.  You'll be waiting all summer.  Luckily my boss comes downstairs before too long and offers to drop me off, since I'm on the way.  Once here, I drop off my books, and ask the cook if he knows where an umbrella is.  He says, with the faintest hint of a smile (which is more than I usually get), "I have never seen an umbrella in this house."  That's strange, I think, but I grab my bright green raincoat and head out the door.  There are a number of puddles to hop in and around and cars to avoid (I'm very glad that my coat is super bright but wish that hoods had peripheral vision), but I make it to the pharmacy without too much difficulty.  I present my "prescription" that I wrote and the guy reads it all back to me.  "So how many pills to you need?"  2g of 500 mg pills.  Someone help me out here.  "Four" I say.  Although my confidence at this point is rather low.  He only has 400mg.  Luckily 2g can also be divided evenly by 400 mg.  For about 25 cents, I've got my treatment course.  No instructions.  Just the pills in the foil/plastic wrap.  No box. No instructions about taking it with food, avoiding alcohol, contraindications.  Free market pharma.  It's a little scary for me.  I am used to checking the little box on the electronic thing at CVS that "No, I don't want to speak to a pharmacist."  I have to say, I have a lot more appreciation for regulation and quality standards now that I live in a place where they are largely absent.

To be on the safe side, I decided to take my first dose with food.  So I went to a coffee shop called Bittersweet with a friend and got a carrot cupcake with sour cream icing and a lemon meringue tart.  Both were up to the mark!  And they played the kind of 1990s hits that you'd expect in that kind of kitschy upscale coffee shop.

11 hours later, I'm still waiting for the metallic taste!  I  did sleep the whole night through without waking up even once--and since we have a busted circuit, I have no power in my room, so that was sans fan, sans AC.  It was like being back in Boston in August.  This is why I "trained" at sleeping in the heat!  Now I'm clearly a champion at it ::)

Off to North End for a cinnamon roll to accompany dose 2.  Ohh, and I left out the best detail about giardiasis.  It's common among hikers and in places with monsoons (go figure), ponds, etc. and also known as "beaver fever."  Sorry typhoid, you are no longer the coolest illness I've ever had.

I'm not the only one posting!

Ei bangladesher post office (Hello Bangladesh's post office),

Ami onek onek (very very) sorry for all the horrible things I've been saying about you since I tried to send 20+ christmas cards in 2008 and you failed to deliver a SINGLE one (nai!).  These comments were probably exacerbated by the fact that I got typhoid during the same trip and then was pretty loopy for the next few months   (who needs drugs when you have a persistent fever?!).

I've recovered, thankfully, and evidently so have you!  After a delicious dosa and aam-azing fresh mango juice last Monday, I took a bunch of letters and postcards to the same post office.  You still have the same western union sign out front and don't seem to have electricity.  Seeing the long queue of Bengali men standing very close to one another that didn't appear to be advancing, I created a "bideshi" (foreigner) line, and was promptly, though a bit silently, served.  Your staff took the stamps, stuck his finger in a pot of glue, and promptly adhered the stamp to my letters.  I will admit that I was skeptical and talking a bit of smack before I had even walked out of the building.

A mere week later, several recipients have already received their letters AND let me know about it (you don't get credit for that part though).  I have to say, as far as I'm concerned, that tk 800 went further than I ever imagined.  Even if the rest of them don't get delivered (I can't actually remember everything I sent at this point, that's how low my expectations were; I didn't want to be able to quantify your failure), I'm impressed.

You hurt me pretty badly the first time, and I'm not sure that I can ever trust you like I did then.  Invisible scars take the most time to heal.  But I think we can give this a shot and see where it goes.  Tik acche?

Sincerely yours,

Maria

Dear readers,

So....send me your address if you want to participate in the next phase of this experiment :)

Two other notes since I'm writing:

1.  Inexplicable happiness continues.  And the only escalation with the guy at the cha stand by the water is that today he opened in Bangla, "Bhalo acchen?"  I thought about calling him "bhai" (brother) since supposedly that will dispel any romantic hopes (let's be honest, there's no way it's that simple).  Other suggestions on what I should say next time? 

2.  Best discovery about Bangla to date: the word, "dorka."  It means necessary.  Unnecessary is "dorka na." How awesome is it that I can now work "dork" into just about any conversation?!

(perhaps the explanation is just the simplicity of what it takes to amuse me these days).  Explanation dorka?  Ha.  Dork-a.

Rain on my parade

You know those days when you just wake up with a smile on your face for no reason?  That was me this morning.  I am in an exceptionally good mood today.
My alarm went off at 6, and I dragged myself out of bed for a quick yoga session before coming downstairs to an amazing breakfast--irish oatmeal (thanks R!), fresh mango (that I got from the garden, more on that soon!), pineapple, and a steaming cup of Ethiopian fair trade coffee.  I'm telling you, life here is tough.  Last night I washed a few dishes just because I didn't have to.  This morning though,  I was in a bit of a hurry, so I only could manage a few pages of Peter Hessler's "Country Driving," which is a fantastic read for anyone with the slightest curiosity about what it'd be like to drive around China.  I admire the way he describes the Chinese people with such dexterity; if I could emulate any of that in my writing about Bangladesh, I'd be quite satisfied.
Breakfast has to be quick because in my planning for working offsite, I forgot my editor's notes on my desk at work, so I have to "swing" by the office on my way to North End.  There is nothing quick or easy about Dhaka, especially if you lack transport (although with transport it's still not quick, but you sit in an AC-ed car while you wait).  I embark by foot.  I moved recently to an even posher neighborhood than I was in before, so the rickshaw wallahs are even more ridiculous in their pricing than I imagined (for a tk 40 ride, he asked for tk 200).  But now that I insist on raising a fuss in broken Bangla, at least it's an opportunity to practice what I'm learning in class.  On the other hand, when I take a rickshaw from the BRAC office, it's a pleasant ride and they rarely fuss when I give them tk 50 (tk 30-40 would be the Bangladeshi price).  Although yesterday one kept saying, "Ami apnar wife, bhujjen na?" (You are my wife. You don't understand, do you?).  I think that if I have to ward off advances during the ride, the price should go down.  Especially if the rickshaw driver is a.) married, b.) has kids, and/or c.) is a bit creepy.  But my bangla isn't that good yet--it is good enough to say "I do understand and I don't want a husband."
Anyway, back to this morning.  The monsoon season officially began last Thursday, so it's been raining on and off most days.  This means that there are BIG puddles all over, so you have to be prepared for some jumping and hiding when cars come by (the splashes can be devastating).  I love the moments of calmness that you can find in the early morning if you know where to look, so I have taken to taking a route that requires me to hop a median on a bridge so that I can walk along the water.  It's totally worth the adrenaline rush that comes with getting across in one piece (and holding onto my scarf since I'm still convinced that it will lead to my death when it gets caught on something and drags me away; there have been several close calls).
Once the road turns away from the water, I cut along a side "path" that lets me get a little more of the waterfront walk.  It takes me past a few little food stands, set up on bamboo poles perilously perched in the water or on the ground, depending on the water level.  In another city, you'd be paying big money to sit out in an open air restaurant with this kind of view; here you could enjoy a cup of tea for almost nothing.  It's still early so there are a few people eating some breakfast while others wash dishes and prepare to open.  Yesterday was the first day I'd walked through there in a while, and one guy came up to me and said, "Hi girlfriend.  You are nice, beautiful.  Sweet scented."  Now I know he's lying!  I'm tickled but keep walking.  Today, I see him again and when he notices me, he jumps out onto the path to try again.  "Hi friend, how are you?"  I respond, "Bhalo acchen?" He smiles, "Hehhhh, apni bhalo?"  I do a "coy" (by my assessment) little head nod and keep walking; he's shouting to his buddies about the interaction.  I can't wait to see how tomorrow's conversation goes.  I have this problem with letting situations escalate because I'm just too curious to see what happens.  Keeps things interesting at the very least.
My Bangla is not improving at the rate that my love for the language of Bangla is increasing.  It's a fun language.  I love that you can make a really nasally "hehh" and it means yes.  I can't quite take myself seriously when I do it because I feel like I'm simulating how I would sound if I had a bad cold, but I like it when other people do it, nonetheless.  It comes from the gut; it's genuine, instinctive.  Unlike the head nod, which I'm now starting to use as a ubiquitous response to everything (unless it involves someone being my husband, in which case NO is important to communicate very clearly).
I get to the BRAC office just before 8AM and manage to sneak in to grab my papers without almost anyone seeing me. Five minutes later I'm out the door (if I'd been 10 minutes later the elevator rush would have begun and it'd have taken 5 times as long).  But not before seeing one of the guards to whom I'd promised mangoes on Saturday. I say, "apnake aam dibo" (I will give you mango).  She is surprised and excited; her son really likes mangoes.  I manage to ask her where she was yesterday (since I'd brought them then but given them to other people since she wasn't around).  She took the day off; something I would never do if I thought someone was bringing me mangoes.  But it was good.  I manage to buy two pepsi diets all in Bangla (normally I speak just Bangla but the shop owner speaks English), and noting the rapidly changing color of the sky, hop in a rickshaw to get to North End a bit quicker.  "Brishti hobe?" I ask my driver.  I constantly think it's going to rain and get told it's not going to.  Today is no exception, except for the fact that today I'm right, and within 5 minutes there is a massive downpour. I have a rain coat but wrap it tightly around my laptop bag.  I can survive a little water, but I'm not sure about it!  We pull over, I get out and from under the seat, the rickshaw wallah pulls out three pieces of plastic.  And puts the hood on the rickshaw up.  I get back in and he puts on piece of plastic on me.  He takes the bills out of his pocket (I note that he has quite a lot of change, which will be helpful when we square up at the end of the ride) and puts them in a bag, and then puts the final plastic bag over himself.  I had hoped that he'd put the small bag on his head--many people do that here and it looks like a clear peter pan hat.  I kind of want one.   Still time, I suppose.
He deposits me at North End, and I'm in too good of a mood to bargain hard (it's still much less than tk 200), so we both leave happy.  Up in the coffee shop, Smriti has brought me a massive ketal (jackfruit) that I'm to take home and cut up.  Farhan takes a picture of me with it on my head (the owner, Rick, is out of town for a few weeks and things are slightly sillier as a result...hopefully he does not read my blog).  While my scarf dries, I warm up with a good hot cup of (decaf) coffee (Smriti just gives me decaf all the time; probably best for everyone).
And now, a day of writing in my favorite creative spot, listening to the sound of rain outside (makes me happy to be inside and dry, though lunch will be an interesting challenge).  Nothing out of the ordinary, minus the fact that I'm just in an incredibly good mood about life today.  So I hope that you all are smiling and enjoying your own respective adventures.  Up next on my life: eat a brownie and consider investing in a good pair of rain boots and an umbrella.

Beyond the city limits

There is nothing like hard work to make me antsy.  Actually, if I just think about traveling (like I am right now), my leg starts twitching a little bit, and I get hungry.  For adventure.  And since I'm at North End Coffee while writing this, a brownie to tie me over for the time being.

So, out at dinner with my friend Tawsif last week, I said, "I'm taking time off.  Where should I go?"  "How about Sylhet?"  I like it.  Sylhet is one of Bangladesh's six divisions (like a state), and if Bangladesh is a Eastern (right?) facing pacman, it's the top of the pacman's mouth.  I could also tell you it's by the border with India, but since we're like 90% surrounded by India, that would not be helpful.  It's tea country and considered by some to be the prettiest part of the country.  Perfect for detaching myself from my laptop and doing some sociological exploring for a few days.  Tawsif seems to think so too, so he decides to end his five year streak of not leaving Dhaka to join me (my legs start twitching like crazy at the mere thought of staying anywhere that long!).

As a gemini, my element is air, but the longer I'm here, the more I think that water is more accurate.  Maybe that's just because there's an increasing amount of it for me to reckon with these days.  But, water is smart, it takes the path of least resistance.  This pretty much sums up my traveling strategy.  I avoid decision-making to whatever extent possible.  In this case, my traveling companion arranged bus tickets, hotel accommodations, etc.  All I had to do was pack my backpack and show up at the bus stop.  To buy my ticket (because e-tickets don't exist for plane or much less bus at this point) around 5PM for a midnight departure.  This is down in Motijeel, which seems a bit epic of a journey to go just to buy a ticket when you're in an auto-rickshaw (CNG cage), but when we take a rickshaw back up to Gulshan, it's pleasant and takes us through a lot of those windy backroads that are almost too narrow for cars, which doesn't mean that the traffic is less chaotic, but at least there are no honking horns.

A few hours and tacos al pastor later (Unexpected surprise: the mexican resturant El Toro in Dhaka is really tasty!  Could make the chicken quesadilla cheesier, but otherwise, no complaints), we're back at the bus stop.  While waiting for the bus, to Tawsif's horror, I roll up my capris pants to show him the horrible bruises I have from this week's football matches.  Evidently showing my calves is ok; bare knees cross the line.  Luckily all 30 or so of us that are sitting there feeling awkward now have the opportunity to board the bus together and not make eye contact.  I slide into a window seat and manage to wait until the bus has pulled away from the curb to fall fast asleep.  I swear I sleep better while in motion than any other time.  Around 5AM, my eyes open briefly and catch sight of the dawn.  I manage to keep them open on and off for the next hour; Bangladesh must be the flattest country in the world, so it's green and flat with a beautiful sunrise.  

My camera is broken--this picture from flikr, taken in 2006.
Looks about the same 5 years later; lungi fashion has not really advanced....

Almost missed my cue

If I had a poisa for every time I thought, “this is SO not in my job description,” I’d be rich (at least in taka).  My job description is pretty straightforward: write a book cataloging the 27 years of BRAC’s TB program.   I wrote my own job description, so I knew what I was signing up for.

At least in theory.  This was one of those weeks where I just laughed at myself for thinking anything could be as simple as it “should” be.  Since I got here, it’s been clear that there is no neat stack of reports, memos, articles, proposals, etc. that relate to the book.  Nor even a full list of the people that I should speak with about the program.  So a lot of the last few months has just been going to different floors in the building, having cups of tea with anyone interested, and just seeing what I learn.  If our book had a methodology section (which I would be scared to write because then BRAC would learn everything I’ve done on their “behalf”), we might include “participant observation” as a main method.  As one of the few native English speakers, there are endless reports, proposals, and presentations that come through my inbox.  If money for global health talks, it speaks English—that’s the language of the donors.  I’m always torn between feeling like no one at the donor agency is going to actually read the report so there’s no reason to spend the time revising it so substantially, and, as a “full-time” “writer,” becoming increasingly sensitive about the quality of writing and right that every document has to shine, regardless of whether or not anyone will read it.  But that’s a losing battle, because there is a fairly long backlog of documents I could clean up and not even make a dent. 

Ironically, these other tasks often end up helping my work.  I learn who knows all the data on human resources while working on a grant proposal, then turn right around to ask for information related to the TB program that two weeks ago I didn’t know existed.  I wander downstairs to meet a friend for coffee on her floor and discover “the library,” which is a few shelves of old annual reports and internal research documents.  Which are rather useful!!  They are guarded by this short, older man with a slight limp and a big scowl.  He refuses to let me take anything up to my office, one floor up, and lets me remove one document at a time, under his supervision, from the shelves that he keeps locked at all time.  When I ask for a photocopy of something, he sighs then resignedly asks, “how many pages?” “Four.” Loud, very dramatic sigh.  “if you must.”  He’s a character—the kind that I will put in “The Office—NGO edition” if I ever get around to writing it.  The best part is on his desk, he has “motivational” sayings posted everywhere.  They range from things that are mildly interesting, “leave each day like it’s your last, because it might be,” to awkward conversation starting, “Hug me!  I have HIV,” to straight up strange, “having your destiny told to you and getting to live it yourself is like the difference between an arranged marriage and one you choose.”  This guy’s face is so grim at the sight of me, I haven’t dared venture to ask about these quotations yet.  Nor suggest a new one.  

Not everything is in the library though.  The other day I went to four different floors looking for a report and then, knowing that there was a copy of it on the coffee table by the chairperson’s office, I headed there to “borrow” it (the “librarian” can’t be everywhere at once!).  Unfortunately, I had worked myself late into the night and it was locked, so I headed back downstairs.  Zahed bhai, one of my colleagues, had been waiting for the elevator when I left the 16^th fl for the 7^th by taking the stair—our elevator only goes to even floors and the intermittent power outages sends it on a safety protocol up and down cycle that’s HORRIBLE if you’re in it.  From the 7^th fl I ran up to the 19^th, then the 20^th, then back down to the 16^th.  Zahed bhai is still waiting there—we make eye contact and without any words it’s very clear that he’s as frustrated with the elevators as I often am.  I sometimes wonder what else BRAC could accomplish if so much time didn’t get spent waiting for and on the elevators.  The only thing standing between them and total elimination of poverty is time lost in the elevators and in slow internet.