Follow me.... a VSO volunteer in Dhaka.

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Sunday, 29 April 2012

Wonder what the poor people are doing?

I've been avoiding the subject, haven't I?  Marginalised people, the poor, extreme poor, hard-core poor, street kids, slum people, beggars. The poor are always with us.

I was over-prepared before coming to Bangladesh. It's unavoidable - poor Bangladesh. Literally.  I'd seen Slumdog Millionaire (I know it's about India), and listened to old India hands talking about stepping over abandoned babies on the pavements in Delhi. I heard about the millions of beggars besieging people as they left their hotels, and about the gangs of street kids who mill about amongst the traffic, tapping at windows and pointing at their stomachs then hurling abuse when it becomes apparent that money isn't forthcoming. Thousands and thousands of homeless people sleeping on pavements. So I was ready for it.

Well, Delhi may be like that, but Bangladesh isn't.  Of course there are just too many people who are desperately desperately poor. There are beggars. There are street kids wearing practically nothing, toiling away to earn practically nothing for picking rubbish or brushing outside the front of a shop. Once a week there is a rolling beggar who rolls his way past the office, calling out to Allah. He's obviously disabled as his legs are thin and bent, wears only a loin cloth and is covered in dust and muck. He rolls along the street, receiving alms from most people who pass, even from the rickshaw-wallahs who can ill-afford to give away any of their hard-earned cash. I thought he was some sort of pilgrim but no, he was working conscientiously at his job. As soon as the wad of cash is large enough his 'agent' arrives, takes it off him and on he rolls.

There are beggars. But just not as many as I had expected. A couple of kids poking their fingers through the grill-door of the CNG when we stop in the traffic jam, "please madam please".  Relent and give one of them 10 Thaka (1 penny) and half a dozen more arrive. Often they and the always near-by adults will be selling something - popcorn, candy floss, pirated books with half the pages missing, pens, sets of plastic Tuppaware boxes, laminated cards showing pictures of animals with badly spelled words in English and Bangla - elpant, "learn English" they shout. I hate staring ahead and ignoring them, so I just shake my head and repeat 'no, sorry' until they get bored and move on to the next potential money-bags.

There are beggars. Gulshan area, home to the Bagha Club and lots of the international development organisations and therefore being a quite salubrious area, has more than its fair share. Old people sitting on the pavements with their hands out, or shuffling along the road trying to catch your eye, kids trying unsuccessfully to sell strips of childrens' sticker-book stickers. I was walking along one day, looking for somewhere that did phone unlocking (don't ask) when a boy of about 8 years old and holding a couple of grubby strips of stickers approached me. "Madam, you looking for something?" He became my guide to the underbelly of posh Gulshan as we looked unsuccessfully for this imaginary unlocking shop in the back street market. I was about to give him 20 Thaka when I remembered. I needed an umbrella and he was the perfect person to find one for me. So off he went to find a good umbrella at a good non-bideshi (foreigner) price. Ten minutes later and after some to-ing and fro-ing as he whizzed back and forth negotiating at a distance, I agreed the price, followed him to the stall and bought the "good Japan umbrella, madam".  I  offered him 50 Thaka. 'No money, madam. Food."  In my head I was running through what I thought a small Bangla boy would want to eat as he led me through and out of the market into a supermarket. Oh, biscuits or chocolate I thought. No. Although we passed the aisle of biscuits a little wistfully, we headed to - cooking oil. He was obviously the breadwinner of his family and definitely took his responsibilities seriously. Humbling.

I could go on and on with examples of extreme urban poverty. 'We don't know how lucky we are' is still my constant refrain. But describing it in all its gory detail is the same as taking photos of the poor - voyeuristic and inappropriate. So I haven't done it. Except for the photo at the top of this post - street boys whooping it up in the lake opposite the parliament building.

After I wrote about the water leak outside the apartment, Sara sent me a poem by woman Pakistani writer, Imtiaz Dharker. Thanks, Sara.


The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.

Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly god.

Sometimes, the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation : every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands,

and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.

Saturday, 14 April 2012

Shoeboo Noboo Boshore

That's a very bad phonetic spelling for Happy New Year! Today is the first day of the year 1419 in the Hindu calendar and, loving any excuse for a party,  everyone's out in the streets in their new red and white clothes. And yes, that means the Muslims, the Christians and the Buddhists too. Bangladesh is that kind of country.

We went for lunch with our new friend Sultana, a north London Bangladeshi, and then she, her maid Eve, Karen and I went for a walk amongst the crowds around the nearby lake. 

Millions of people; young boys hooting away with their plastic trumpets; gorgeous girls in all their glory; groups of young men laughing,  joking and ogling the girls; cute children (impossible not to photograph); street hawkers selling bangles, plastic toys, balloons, pop rice and ice-cream; so many approaching to practice their English - "hello, how are you? where are you from?" and then laughing with shyness when asked a question back; me saying 'shoeboo noboo boshore' to everyone and gaining smiles and applause for being able to speak Bangla.

So many people, so many photos......

Arranged Marriages-R-Us

Intent?    or.......






Outside our local supermarket

Friday, 13 April 2012

Working, wilting or raining

The weather has caught up with us. All of a sudden it's 36/37 degrees (that's in the top 90s to you and me) and the humidity is on the up and up. 50% today and due to be 60% + from tomorrow.

....... I started this post nearly two weeks ago and since then the weather has been the constant topic of conversation.......

First of all, I must tell you about my friend and colleague Karen. Would I have made it alone through this whole experience? Well yes, you know me. But would I have still been sane at the end of it? I'm not so sure. We arrived on the same day, we're both short-term volunteers, both based in the VSO country office in Dhaka, both share a tiny office (the one with the server), both share the apartment. So it was crucial that we got along. It turns out that Karen is the same age as me, was born and brought up in Stockport, just down the road from where I was brought up. She's an HR expert, working as a consultant and interim, I'm a free-lance consultant and trainer working on people issues. She worked at the Commission for Equality & Human Rights, I work in equality and human rights, she trains in HR, strategy  and management skills, I train in management and strategy skills. She now lives in Malvern - we used to live down the road. Her brother lives five minutes away from my sister. Her partner died  a very few years ago and mine eighteen months ago. I could go on and on. All I can say is thank goodness. And thank you Karen, you've made it all not just survivable - but fun.

So, back to the heat. Weeks ago, when the heat was still bearable, we had started an exercise regime. We can't go out and walk around during the evening, so my bedroom became our gym and we were religiously following a 'six weeks to the perfect body' workout programme. 15 or 20 minutes every day. Sweaty but do-able. But, as the temperature and humidity increased, we had to stop. There is no air-conditioning in the apartment, just ceiling fans which aren't enough. The warm-up exercises are ok, but any more exertion and we immediately started to feel ill and had to stop. It's very strange, it must be a combination of the heat and the humidity and maybe because our bodies are just not used to it. So we spent our evenings lying on the sofa wilting and complaining.  At the weekend we drag our increasingly flabby bodies (well, mine anyway) to the Bagha club to use the pool and the gym which does have air-con. 

Then, a water crisis. WASA the state water company is ridiculously inefficient and corrupt, like most of the utilities here. No leaks are ever repaired. Outside the apartment, we've had a mains water pipe leaking gallons and gallons of water. It runs along the road for a couple of metres before dropping into the street drain every minute of every day for the past two months So, no wonder the water stops so often. For the past three week we've not been able to swim as the Bagha Club swimming pool water has been used to flush the toilets. Lovely. 

Then it rained. Cats and dogs. Stair-rods. Almost every day for the week we've had some rain. Not lasting more than a couple of hours or so, but torrential. With amazing thunder and lightening. Black as night during the day and the roads immediately becoming lakes. The temperature has gone down a couple of degrees and, bizarrely,  it's made all the difference. I'm not sweating all the time and my energy doesn't disappear so drastically as it was doing. I could almost say it felt quite fresh in the morning (almost).

And I missed the latest earthquake, damn it. It was 8.7 (epicentre offshore) and apparently it lasted five minutes. But where was I? In a damn CNG rattling through the streets of Dhaka trying to get from one meeting to another. I miss all the fun.