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.  

When I’m in my office, I distract myself by staring out the window, especially when it rains.  I have a panoramic view of the city.  People drop by often, sometimes in follow up to the many requests I’ve sent for data (some that exist, some that don't), to get help on something, just to say hi, or to bring me tea or goodies that someone’s brought back from a recent trip (reeses peanut butter cups from a trip to NYC is my current favorite to date).  So this past week I decided that since I was serious about writing, I wasn’t going into the office at all.  That lasted one day.  Then I realized that if I wanted anyone else to do anything related to my book, I better get in there and get in the queue.  I did manage to hide offsite one day at a place, CoFi11 ("Not a day without coffee") near my house where they’ve invented a “cold mocha coffee slush” with extra whip cream and chocolate syrup for me.  It is AWESOME—no need for starbucks to come to Bangladesh as far as I’m concerned.  I’ve been happily writing away for less than thirty minutes before the phone rings.  Grant proposal due today—can you read it?  Yes, of course.  Before long I’m sms-ing with several colleagues to get the background and other details.  Writing successfully derailed.  But that grant proposal, let me tell you, those donors have never seen a better written proposal on TB.

The next morning I decide that I must be more convincing in my efforts to “hide” if I want to write.  I have a meeting scheduled with another organization treating tuberculosis for 9AM that’s near my apartment, so around 7AM, I bashfully walk into Marino guesthouse, where Ruthie stayed here, because I figure the guys will let me sit in the dining hall and have a cup (or two or three) of coffee and use the (relatively fast!) internet for a little while.  I’m not disappointed—they certainly remember me and are incredibly hospitable.  They try to force breakfast onto me, but no dice: I finally attempted to make steel cut oats for breakfast this past week and Rashida, being an awesome human being, has been making them for me most mornings now.  I’m telling you, a big bowl of oatmeal, freshly brewed coffee, and a bunch of lychees, Tahiba, my friend who turns 2 next month(!!), inspected me to make sure I have on earrings and to steal any hair elastics I have on my wrists; my days always start well.

I head back into the office to check in on things, and somehow inadvertently insinuate myself into preparations for the board meeting.  Again, the writing goes on the back burner—I see that there’s little room for anything that requires creativity and/or concentration; these are too resource intense for implementation most of the time.  I’m reminded of writing my thesis: then too, I found the 5AM-9AM window, when no one else was awake, the hours when my fingers would just fly on the keyboards.  My host family is getting used to finding me scrunched over my shiny black notebook, hair thrown up in a messy bun, in random corners of the living and dining room.  Tahiba whispers that I’m working and that they should be quiet.  I could use her in the office too.  Although the random intervals when she uses my lap as a springboard for the table are less than helpful.  But still cute.

Fast forward to the final 48 hours prior to sending this out:

Sunday—we have a nationwide politically enforced strike (a hartal—third since I’ve been here) because the ruling party and the rival party are in a disagreement over whether a caretaker government should be allowed during elections (ruling party says no, BNP says yes—how surprising that those in power want to stay longer, and the opposition wants them to leave soon).  So the office is closed.  So all that number crunching that I was hoping that the accounts office and management information system people would do for me, not going to happen.  I’m supposed to stay home, but where I live is too posh and filled with foreigners for people to really get involved in these types of political demonstrations (in other neighborhoods there are demonstrations and it’s hard to predict if or when they will turn violent); also one my theories on life is that few people have the energy for violence early in the morning.  By 8AM I’m sitting outside North End coffee, waiting for the owner to open it up.  He’s a few minutes late because his son’s bus isn’t running today (due to the hartal), so he had to take him to school by rickshaw.  The coffee shop is pretty quiet, which is great for me.  One of the employees, Smriti, makes the best iced Americano in the world (whole mike is delicious and the only kind to be found here!), and I quickly get into a writing groove.  Around 2PM, the owner asks if I want pizza.  Uh…..of course?  Turns out one of the other employees is making a run to an Italian place.  On his motorcycle.  I sort of invite myself along.  The roads are EMPTY—the drive that usually would take us 40 minutes takes under 10.  I look around and marvel at how empty it is, then pause to remind myself that it still looks like Central Square on the first weekend in spring.  Funny how everything is relative.  After that break, refreshed by the sunshine, wind on my face, and pizza, I lock myself back up until 10PM to get this manuscript stitched together.  It’s a long, long day, but very productive.  I think that the hartal also limited power usage somehow?  Only one outage all day!

Monday--I’m in the office by 8AM and work until 5, with lots of support from various staff people in different departments (I owe a lot of people tea and lunches at this point; cashing in a lot of favors).  At 5, my Bangla professor picks me up and I step out of book world for an hour to learn words related to transportation.  I learn that nouka (boats) can sometimes be seen on the main avenue in Gulshan (neighborhood next to mine) in the height of the rainy season.  Awesome!  I also learn how to say “Can you take me all the way there?” (Okhane jete parben?) which hopefully will eliminate these adventures of being dumped out halfway to where I’m trying to go, then left to explain why I don’t feel like paying the full fare.  I also learn the word for bribe (ghus)—handy since I’ve decided to limit how much of my fares go into the pockets of the police (we all pick random things to fixate on; this is mine for now).  In theory I could hire a steamer (steamer) now; I’ll keep you posted on that one.

All that stands between me and sanity is sending my manuscript.  Easy, right?  You should know better than now; I really should know better by now.  I step into the coffee shop near my house to send it, and the power is out.  Somehow they are still able to make me a blended cold mocha coffee slush, but the internet is out.  No prob, I think, I’ll just get them all set and the power should be back any minute.  And then, a warning pops up on my screen: your battery will die in 30 minutes.  Nooooooo!  (remember, power is out). It’s 7:15PM now and soccer starts at 8PM.  What to do?  I pay for my drink and ask the guys where I can find internet.  They suggest downstairs and I remind them that they are also out of power (because otherwise I’d already be stealing their internet).  They think, and then say, you can go to our new location down the street.  It’s not open yet, but the wifi is step up and they’ll let you in, no problem.  Great!  So I head across the main road, walk into FR tower and take the elevator to the 5^th fl, get off, and see a big sign that says “High wi-fi zone”.  Hmmm.  I walk in.  It’s a pool hall.   I ask if there is internet (wifi acche?).  Yes.  Password acche?  Yes.  Cofo11 kotai (where is Cofi11)?  Ekhane (here).   Really?  Because this looks like a pool hall.  I promptly log onto “Pool Lovers” network and start sending.  Sure enough, one of the waiters from the other location sees me, points at me and says, “cold mocha coffee slush,” and I say, no, and he looks hurt and confused.  I try to explain that I’d been at the other location and just finished one, but my bangla is not there yet (if only I were trying to hire a steamer instead).

I plug into the outlet on the wall, but it doesn’t work.  So I go for speed to get these messages sent out before my computer dies.  Success!  Our lucky five reviewers in Japan, Thailand, Bangladesh, and the U.S., get 136 pgs delivered personally to their inboxes.  I have time to send a “mission accomplished!!!!!” message to my editors.  If only they knew the adventures (and sources of caffeine) involved in “the last mile”, they’d probably have more appreciation for why there are so many exclamation points in my email (“we did it!!!!!”).  Not that the work is done by any stretch, but the book is now a tangible thing that’s been released on the world.  Against all odds (even my most supportive advisor confided in me that he thought these deadlines were completely unrealistic and unachievable.  I said, "I'm so glad you are only telling me that now." and silently added,  "And love that you continue to call me 'kiddo' even though I've entered my late 20s"). 

A few rejected book titles (still taking suggestions for more to reject if you would like to suggest one):

TB or not TB

TB mountains beyond mountains

Three cups of TB

Oh and soccer?  We ended up starting at 9PM because electricity was out for an hour so we didn’t have any lights.  Life in present intense indeed (thanks Uncle Craig for that one :).