We all have these small moments that happen in our lives that somehow create a much larger impact upon than one would originally think. Often these moments would be deemed insignificant to another, but instead they tug at your emotional and psychological state so much so that you cannot forget a millisecond of such a moment.
Today I was having my usual Sonibar (Saturday), starting with a late wake up and then a trip down to my local café for breakfast for the usual eggs and toasts. I then took a trip in a CNG (3 wheel auto-rickshaw) to the orphanage, which actually happened to clean up a lady that didn’t look to cross the road and stepped out right in front of us; but she managed to pick herself up again… a tough lesson in road crossing for her. Although it quite shocked me, it still didn’t inflict the aforementioned moment.
I arrived at the orphanage to give the toddler boys their weekly male role-model interaction that they always really look forward to. As soon as I arrived, I was swamped with the screams of “uncle” and “uncy, uncy” as well as numerous cuddles. The afternoon was filled with the usual ball games, the stealing and wearing of my hat and thongs and the odd potty training incident. Again, these few hours didn’t quite create that unforgettable moment, even as it was the last day at the orphanage of one of my favourite toddlers.
I wandered through the old city for a while, and somehow I ended up at the national stadium watching a top-league clash in the national football league. I was admitted into the VIP section for only 100 taka ($1.80). It was an interesting game that ended up goalless, although both teams had legitimate goals ruled out which left me really worried about the livelihood of the referee who was escorted off the pitch by 10 policemen.
In what had been a really fruitful and enjoyable day for me, I jumped in a cyclo-rickshaw just as the monsoonal rains hit. It was whilst on this trip home that the one certain moment was etched into my mind forever. We had come to a stop at a major intersection waiting to cross. Finally we got our chance as the policeman waved us through, surprisingly we were not given even 10 seconds to get across before he was trying to pull us up, many rickshaws continued to go even though the policeman was blowing his whistle and waving his stick. In his fury, the policeman stormed across to where an obedient rickshaw-wallahs had stopped his rickshaw, although hesitantly, upon the policeman’s request. The disgruntled policeman then proceeded to punish him through stabbing his tyres with a sharp object, a method that is sadly all too regularly used.
This was not the moment that will be etched in my memory forever, rather my memory is of the wallah turning around in the monsoonal rain to the hissing of his tyre and I can clearly remember his face dropping into despair as the sole income generating tool of him and his family had just been ruined for the day. His face stared not at me but into oblivion, his eyes welled up and a few tears joined the raindrops that were rolling down his cheek. He had realised not only was he going to have to pay to repair the tyre, he wasn’t going to be able to get any work for the rest of the afternoon. This ultimately meant that he wasn’t probably going to be able to feed his family for the day.
It is amazing how one stupid action can have such devastating effects… sadly this is a problem that happens at a national level here, not just to the poor wallah trying to earn a crust.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Bangladesh - A Fantasy Kingdom???
When it costs US$63 for an adult to get into Disneyland, many tourists do not really blink an eyelid, but here in Bangladesh a trip to “Fantasy Kingdom” only costs US$4 for an adult entry ticket but yet the average bangladeshi's family trip to this kingdom will cost them approximately a tenth of their yearly household income. Although “Fantasy Kingdom” isn’t Disneyland, it is the closest that many of the 140 million Bangladeshi’s will get to “a wonderland where your dreams come true” – a wonderland that doesn’t present any of the realistic elements of the poverty outside but somehow this US$600 million theme-park can exist in a city where approximately a quarter of it population (3 million) live in slums.
My expedition to this new kingdom was lead by intrigue, although I wasn’t sure what I was most intrigued about; was it the intrigue in seeing women in burkha’s going down waterslides, or the chance to experience a western theme-park all for $8, or was it just to see such a juxtaposition within society, or just simply was it a chance to get out of Dhaka? To be honest I think that it was all of these factors that led me to heading north-west of Dhaka in a beaten up old taxi!
After an initial fight with the attendant at the gate about whether he was charging us skin tax on top of the price we had seen in the paper that morning, in retrospect we were arguing over $3, but somewhere between the marketing department and the gates there was a 100% increase. To be honest it is a wonderful advertising ploy, get people to come an hour out of town with the expectation of a day in a “Fantasy Kingdom”… and then offer them the options of a 100% increase in price or a return trip back to a place far from the world of “Fantasy Kingdom”.
So our little aussie possie decided to spend the day in the “water world” half of the kingdom, far from Bangla reality was this kingdom. There were girls showing skin and not getting stared at, teenage boys and girls openly cuddling and flirting in public, no crowd watching the foreigners every second move… and of course $600 million of theme-park fun! But the reality of all of the waterslides, the random water cave disco and the biggest rollercoaster in Bangladesh was all gone when it was time to get stuffed back onto the hot and humid local bus home!
My expedition to this new kingdom was lead by intrigue, although I wasn’t sure what I was most intrigued about; was it the intrigue in seeing women in burkha’s going down waterslides, or the chance to experience a western theme-park all for $8, or was it just to see such a juxtaposition within society, or just simply was it a chance to get out of Dhaka? To be honest I think that it was all of these factors that led me to heading north-west of Dhaka in a beaten up old taxi!
After an initial fight with the attendant at the gate about whether he was charging us skin tax on top of the price we had seen in the paper that morning, in retrospect we were arguing over $3, but somewhere between the marketing department and the gates there was a 100% increase. To be honest it is a wonderful advertising ploy, get people to come an hour out of town with the expectation of a day in a “Fantasy Kingdom”… and then offer them the options of a 100% increase in price or a return trip back to a place far from the world of “Fantasy Kingdom”.
So our little aussie possie decided to spend the day in the “water world” half of the kingdom, far from Bangla reality was this kingdom. There were girls showing skin and not getting stared at, teenage boys and girls openly cuddling and flirting in public, no crowd watching the foreigners every second move… and of course $600 million of theme-park fun! But the reality of all of the waterslides, the random water cave disco and the biggest rollercoaster in Bangladesh was all gone when it was time to get stuffed back onto the hot and humid local bus home!
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Tiger Pride
During my travels I have found that every nation has found something or someone to be extremely proud of, so proud that it can be an executable offence to whisper a bad word on the subject. In Thailand its the King, in China its Chairman Mao, Vietnam Uncle Ho, Turkey its Kemal Attaturk, in Ireland its the Guinness, in Scotland it’s the fact that they’re not England, Jamaica its Bob Marley and the Ganga, America has its gun laws (or lack thereof) and even us Aussies have Bob Hawke and his drinking record!
But the Bangladeshis seem to have a great amount of pride for everything of theirs – the language (what other country has a national holiday to celebrate their language?), the tea hills, the design of their rickshaws, the longest beach in the world (although Wikipedia says that there are many longer… but never claim that to a local!), their two Nobel Laureates… the list is endless. Over the last two months you can add ‘The Tigers’ to that list. For those unknown to who “The Tigers” are, they are the national cricket team named after the national animal of Bangladesh that is said to be seen as commonly as its Tasmanian namesake.
The country was in a state of euphoria during the Cricket World Cup. Their Tigers, ranked last out of all test playing nations were the pride of Bangladesh throughout the 6 week cup journey. The excitement started with a win over eventual semi-finalists New Zealand in a warm-up game, the talk on the street was whether they could continue this form into the Tournament – the media down talked it just a fluke and that it was NZ that played badly… How the media ate their words!
Three AM on the 18th March will be a defining time in the short history of Bangladesh, for they had beaten their former colonial rulers, India, in what could only be described as a massive upset, a result that saw the powerhouse Indians knocked out of the World Cup.
In all of the excitement, the citizens took to the street, but with a strange sense of confusion. Confusion, not because they had registered the biggest sporting win in their country’s history, but because it was one of the first times that Bangladeshis were united on the streets with excitement and patriotism, rather than the all so common strikes and hartals against the country’s continual corrupt government. This time there was no throwing of projectiles or burning of political effigies. Rather there was the hugging of strangers as every man and his son danced down street singing “My Bangladesh, Your Bangladesh, Our Bangladesh”. That morning all newspapers were delivered late as the print run did not start until the celebrations had finished and reported. The newspapers had digested the words that they had written a week ago and honoured the Tigers with a red font headline, a headline font that was last used when the State of Emergency was announced.
Although the Tigers lost their following game to Sri Lanka, there was even more dancing and singing in the streets after the Tigers beat Bermuda and had against all expectations qualified the for the following stage of the tournament. Celebrations continued long into the morning, headlines were again red, along with many of the revellers eyes, as they made their way to work straight from the celebrations.
The following game they were drawn against Australia. Who was I to support - My mother nation of 23 years or my newly adopted home? My decision was easily made when I was informed that if Bangladesh did indeed beat Australia the chances of a national holiday being called were quite high. I grabbed a green and red bandanna and followed the hordes to Dhaka University, the only live site within Dhaka. Upon arrival, we found that the area had been closed off, not even uni students were being allowed in. The site had been packed full with the students taking up every vantage point that they could find, from the roofs of surrounding buildings to the branches on the adjacent trees. For once it was beneficial to be the white foreigner in a sea of black locals, as we were allowed to squeeze in with the local fans that had already started to sing and dance.
The game did not start for 5 hours as the rain stalled proceedings, but this rain did not hold back the Deshi’s from dancing and singing as to each of the revellers that day at Dhaka University their Tigers were already winners! The eventual thumping from the Aussies and many other teams within the world cup only put a small halt on the celebrations… as Their Tigers were now competing on the world stage!
But the Bangladeshis seem to have a great amount of pride for everything of theirs – the language (what other country has a national holiday to celebrate their language?), the tea hills, the design of their rickshaws, the longest beach in the world (although Wikipedia says that there are many longer… but never claim that to a local!), their two Nobel Laureates… the list is endless. Over the last two months you can add ‘The Tigers’ to that list. For those unknown to who “The Tigers” are, they are the national cricket team named after the national animal of Bangladesh that is said to be seen as commonly as its Tasmanian namesake.
The country was in a state of euphoria during the Cricket World Cup. Their Tigers, ranked last out of all test playing nations were the pride of Bangladesh throughout the 6 week cup journey. The excitement started with a win over eventual semi-finalists New Zealand in a warm-up game, the talk on the street was whether they could continue this form into the Tournament – the media down talked it just a fluke and that it was NZ that played badly… How the media ate their words!
Three AM on the 18th March will be a defining time in the short history of Bangladesh, for they had beaten their former colonial rulers, India, in what could only be described as a massive upset, a result that saw the powerhouse Indians knocked out of the World Cup.
In all of the excitement, the citizens took to the street, but with a strange sense of confusion. Confusion, not because they had registered the biggest sporting win in their country’s history, but because it was one of the first times that Bangladeshis were united on the streets with excitement and patriotism, rather than the all so common strikes and hartals against the country’s continual corrupt government. This time there was no throwing of projectiles or burning of political effigies. Rather there was the hugging of strangers as every man and his son danced down street singing “My Bangladesh, Your Bangladesh, Our Bangladesh”. That morning all newspapers were delivered late as the print run did not start until the celebrations had finished and reported. The newspapers had digested the words that they had written a week ago and honoured the Tigers with a red font headline, a headline font that was last used when the State of Emergency was announced.
Although the Tigers lost their following game to Sri Lanka, there was even more dancing and singing in the streets after the Tigers beat Bermuda and had against all expectations qualified the for the following stage of the tournament. Celebrations continued long into the morning, headlines were again red, along with many of the revellers eyes, as they made their way to work straight from the celebrations.
The following game they were drawn against Australia. Who was I to support - My mother nation of 23 years or my newly adopted home? My decision was easily made when I was informed that if Bangladesh did indeed beat Australia the chances of a national holiday being called were quite high. I grabbed a green and red bandanna and followed the hordes to Dhaka University, the only live site within Dhaka. Upon arrival, we found that the area had been closed off, not even uni students were being allowed in. The site had been packed full with the students taking up every vantage point that they could find, from the roofs of surrounding buildings to the branches on the adjacent trees. For once it was beneficial to be the white foreigner in a sea of black locals, as we were allowed to squeeze in with the local fans that had already started to sing and dance.
The game did not start for 5 hours as the rain stalled proceedings, but this rain did not hold back the Deshi’s from dancing and singing as to each of the revellers that day at Dhaka University their Tigers were already winners! The eventual thumping from the Aussies and many other teams within the world cup only put a small halt on the celebrations… as Their Tigers were now competing on the world stage!
Monday, April 23, 2007
Discovering the 'real' Bangladesh
As I stepped off the plane I was immediately hit by a wave of excitement, I had finally arrived at my new home for the year. This wave of euphoria only lasted for a few moments until I was hit by an even greater wave, a wave of thickly polluted humidity. Little was I ready for wave of mosquitoes that followed. Luckily, these persistent little buggers that will plague me for the next 12 months don’t carry Malaria, only the nauseating Dengue fever – which I have already succumbed myself to sometime in the near future.
As I walked through the International airport, which to me felt far from International after 3 hours earlier being in Singapore, I could already sense this country’s financial desperation. Foreign investors were treated to the same privileges as diplomats, as they were rushed through the express immigration lane. If only I had known that 30 minutes earlier, I would have ticked yes to the ‘are you carrying over US$10,000’ question on the immigration card and I would have been whisked away to a nirvana of air-conditioning and no mosquitoes. Instead I joined the masses to sweat though immigration and collect my own baggage.
I waited for ages at the baggage carousel and as everyone else’s luggage had arrived, I was starting to doubt whether mine would arrive, and if it did, would my cricket bat, which I would later find to be worth over ½ as much as the annual average household income, be still in my cricket bag? To my surprise, the bag with bat intact was personally delivered to me by a member of the airport crew, someone who knew its value and didn’t want to put it though the baggage carousel. I repaid the man with a 15 minute conversation on the upcoming Cricket World Cup and whether Bangladesh could one day be like Australia, I now think that maybe he meant this more than just on the cricket field.
The following week involved me, and my fellow volunteers being chauffeured to and from our the volunteer program office and the aptly named "Hotel de Castle". Protected by the high walls of the hotel, we were not overly exposed to the society that had 44% of its people living in poverty and about half of these people living in extreme poverty; the society that has such extreme corruption that the people were happy that the nation is in a state of emergency, rather than having either of the two corrupt political parties in power; or the society where success was achieved upon leaving to live in a western country. After all the language training, embassy visits, Muslim clothes shopping and safety & security talks; it was time to join this society that faced many day-to-day struggles.
My next 12 months will be spent working for the Rural Development Board, a govt organisation that aims to alleviate all poverty within rural Bangladesh. My role is to establish the IT infrastructure within the organisation, not an easy feat when they have little infrastructure there and no funding to seed its growth. My first trip to work has been etched into my memory forever, not because it was the first day of my new job, nor because I could not communicate with my tuk tuk driver and he charged me double, nor for the fact I almost fell out of the tuk-tuk, but because it was my first experience to real Bangladesh society, not the chauffeured air-conditioned high society I had been hiding in.
This society hit me when I was stopped at a set of lights and I was approached by a range of desperate people- a lame man on a home made rolling board, a man whose arm was majorly deformed hanging at right angles, a mother who was leading around her blind daughter whose eyes were clouded over, street kids as young as 2 who were selling lollies and tea towels... and all these people wanted was a few taka for their food for the day.
This trip became really memorable a few blocks further down as we pull up next to the median strip and again I was swamped by beggars and young kids trying to make a buck by doing anything for you - from dusting your car to selling used flowers. At these lights there was a lady with her family living on the median strip, she was desperately trying to get a few taka, then all of a sudden a car going in the opposite direction came to a massive screeching halt right next to us. Her young baby had fallen off the median strip and into the oncoming traffic and was cm's from being hit. The desperation she had shown just to get some money is incomprehensible.
I froze, I was confused as to what to do, and even more confused in regards to what my behaviour should have been as she was desperately begging to provide the basics for her and her children.
I have chosen to give to the local NGO's, as they ensure that the money goes into the right hands and the people that need it most. It is extremely hard to say no to all the desperate people, it has not got any easier and will not get any easier.
As I walked through the International airport, which to me felt far from International after 3 hours earlier being in Singapore, I could already sense this country’s financial desperation. Foreign investors were treated to the same privileges as diplomats, as they were rushed through the express immigration lane. If only I had known that 30 minutes earlier, I would have ticked yes to the ‘are you carrying over US$10,000’ question on the immigration card and I would have been whisked away to a nirvana of air-conditioning and no mosquitoes. Instead I joined the masses to sweat though immigration and collect my own baggage.
I waited for ages at the baggage carousel and as everyone else’s luggage had arrived, I was starting to doubt whether mine would arrive, and if it did, would my cricket bat, which I would later find to be worth over ½ as much as the annual average household income, be still in my cricket bag? To my surprise, the bag with bat intact was personally delivered to me by a member of the airport crew, someone who knew its value and didn’t want to put it though the baggage carousel. I repaid the man with a 15 minute conversation on the upcoming Cricket World Cup and whether Bangladesh could one day be like Australia, I now think that maybe he meant this more than just on the cricket field.
The following week involved me, and my fellow volunteers being chauffeured to and from our the volunteer program office and the aptly named "Hotel de Castle". Protected by the high walls of the hotel, we were not overly exposed to the society that had 44% of its people living in poverty and about half of these people living in extreme poverty; the society that has such extreme corruption that the people were happy that the nation is in a state of emergency, rather than having either of the two corrupt political parties in power; or the society where success was achieved upon leaving to live in a western country. After all the language training, embassy visits, Muslim clothes shopping and safety & security talks; it was time to join this society that faced many day-to-day struggles.
My next 12 months will be spent working for the Rural Development Board, a govt organisation that aims to alleviate all poverty within rural Bangladesh. My role is to establish the IT infrastructure within the organisation, not an easy feat when they have little infrastructure there and no funding to seed its growth. My first trip to work has been etched into my memory forever, not because it was the first day of my new job, nor because I could not communicate with my tuk tuk driver and he charged me double, nor for the fact I almost fell out of the tuk-tuk, but because it was my first experience to real Bangladesh society, not the chauffeured air-conditioned high society I had been hiding in.
This society hit me when I was stopped at a set of lights and I was approached by a range of desperate people- a lame man on a home made rolling board, a man whose arm was majorly deformed hanging at right angles, a mother who was leading around her blind daughter whose eyes were clouded over, street kids as young as 2 who were selling lollies and tea towels... and all these people wanted was a few taka for their food for the day.
This trip became really memorable a few blocks further down as we pull up next to the median strip and again I was swamped by beggars and young kids trying to make a buck by doing anything for you - from dusting your car to selling used flowers. At these lights there was a lady with her family living on the median strip, she was desperately trying to get a few taka, then all of a sudden a car going in the opposite direction came to a massive screeching halt right next to us. Her young baby had fallen off the median strip and into the oncoming traffic and was cm's from being hit. The desperation she had shown just to get some money is incomprehensible.
I froze, I was confused as to what to do, and even more confused in regards to what my behaviour should have been as she was desperately begging to provide the basics for her and her children.
I have chosen to give to the local NGO's, as they ensure that the money goes into the right hands and the people that need it most. It is extremely hard to say no to all the desperate people, it has not got any easier and will not get any easier.
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