Good News!

I now, finally, have an answer to that ever-popular graduation-season question, 'So, what are you doing next year?'. The answer is working for the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) as a Global Health Fellow. Starting this fall I will be based in Kigali, Rwanda, and will serve as a program manager on health system strengthening projects and PEPFAR (HIV/AIDS) interventions. The fellowship is for one year, with the possibility of staying on for another. I'm really really excited about this opportunity and am psyched to be heading back to sub-Saharan Africa. And you are all welcome to visit me!

This job is great news for me, but also for you, as a reader of this blog, because it means that instead of spending 8 hours a day stressing out about what I'm going to do with my life (and scouring the Internet for jobs), I'll be able to write more and spend more time getting myself into amusing (to you) misadventures. So I promise to post more entries (at least until I get wrapped up in Wimbledon) and let you know what's going on in crazy Dhaka.

Boat on the river Buriganga

Bangladesh is a nation of rivers, with more than 230 small and large waterways snaking through the country.  More than half the country's 150 million people depend on these rivers for drinking water, transportation, and food.  Unfortunately, many of these rivers have become so polluted that they are more life-threatening than life-giving.  The worst offender is by far the Buriganga river, which is at the heart of Dhaka's economy and culture.  

A large portion of the city's income is derived

 from river-related ventures, such as trade and shipbuilding. Bangladesh is set to become one of the world's leading shipbuilding nations, and already the banks of the river are full of ships in various stages of construction.  People engage in

 a multitude of other activities right along the river, such as doing laundry, bathing, and transporting people and goods.  But the activity which has done the most damage to the ecology of the river happens a little further inland.  Dhaka's leather tanneries have for years been dumping tons of industrial waste directly into the river, although there are nominal government bans on doing so. The 500 tanneries nearby dispose 4.75 million litres of extremely toxic chemicals and 95 metric tons of solid waste (including raw hides and animal flesh) into the river every year.  In addition, because Dhaka's waste management system is overburdened and mismanaged, 80% of the city's untreated sewage is drained into the river each day.  In sum, more than 2 million cubic tons of waste are poured into the river every day.  This pollution has left the river a toxic wasteland, with levels of mercury, cadmium, and lead at 17 times higher than international standards, and without a single living aquatic animal.  

It was against this charming backdrop that David (my roommate, a UM law student) and I decided to head down to Sadarghat boat terminal in the heart of Old Dhaka for a boat ride.  Of course, we didn't know then about the levels of pollution, or the fact that it was going to be well over 110F degrees that day.  All we knew was that a ride along the river was the top rated tourist activity in Dhaka according to Lonely Planet and that we were in for a memorable experience.  

Sadarghat is one of the world's busiest river terminals, serving more than 30,000 people per

day.  In Bangladesh this translates to even higher than usual levels of chaos and crowding. Even driving down to the terminal the south end of the city in Old Dhaka took most of the morning, as our car swerved and dodged pedestrians, bicycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, buses, animals, and giant holes in the road which seemed not to be dug for any particular purpose.  At the terminal (i.e. a dark, wooden, falling-down warehouse) our car was immediately mobbed by boatmen and curious onlookers.  Although Dhaka is still a city where you can go to the major "tourist attractions" on a weekend and not see a single foreign-looking tourist, enough people appear to have taken Lonely Planet's advice and come in search, as we had, of a boat ride that the locals knew what we wanted.  Our driver kindly helped us negotiate a fare with a "licensed tourist guide" and held on to his ID card as collateral to ensure our safe return.  

Our guide, Jewel, was a gentleman in his early thirties who spoke surprisingly good English.  His co-guide, whose name I never did catch, was a smiley young man whose parents were from India.  As we chatted about America and Obama (a favorite topic of people here) we walked through the decrepit building, down the rickety wharf, and through a large, rusty passenger ferry, at the end of which we were told to crawl down into a tiny wooden canoe, the sea-worthiness of which seemed doubtful.  

An umbrella quickly appeared over us to shield us from the already blazing 10am sun.  Our

 boat was rowed, Venetian style, by an older man with a severely weather-beaten face and sinewy if skeletal body.  While the boatman paddled us along through what was obviously sludge rather than water, I tried to use my little knowledge of Indian popular culture to make conversation and form some sort of 'please-don't-kidnap-me-I'm-one-of-you' bond with our guides.  My knowledge of Sachin Tendulkar and Amitabh Bachchan quickly expended, but luckily we came up on the shipyards at that moment and had a new topic of conversation.  Until then we had been rowing alongside other little canoes or dodging the large ferries which seemed more than willing to plow us over, and had thus been to distracted to observe the huge hulls that lined the opposite bank.  

The ships were packed right along the shore, but also far back on land.  Some being build new were bright orange, yellow and green; the older boats being restored were dull and brown, their thick layer of rust being chipped off painstakingly by men with small pointy sticks.  Other men were scrubbing, painting, welding, and doing all sorts of other ship-related things I don't know about.  Jewel asked if we would like to take a tour of the shipyards.  Although David was extremely hesitant to accept this offer (even though it came with the amusing promise "We will have no problem.  And your problem is my problem, is my country's problem.")  I have long since learned to do whatever the person in control of my transportation tells me to do, so we (or rather then boatman) maneuvered our canoe through a field of other canoes to the shore.  

Our arrival was greeted with amusement and the standard stares.  We responded with stares of awe of our own, amazed at the sheer gigantic size of the ships and the backbreaking work needed to build them.  We walked among the ships, carefully trending over the lumber, metal rods, and electrical equipment strewn on the sand, and then further back into the maze of shanties which the shipbuilders call home.  On one side of the yards were shacks filled with welders, pipe-makers, and engine assembly teams; on the other barbers, tea shops, and homes.  There were many men and children running around, some working and some playing cricket, but only one woman, wearing a full, black burqa.

In a sign of the times, as we tried to unobtrusively take pictures, the locals whipped out their cell phone cameras and began snapping shots of us.  It was apparently an exciting morning for all.

After 15 minutes walking around we climbed back in our boat and set up a little further upstream, enjoying the view, although not the river's smell.  By then there were dozens of canoes crossing from one side of the river to the other, as well as some just floating along with children doing back flips off of them.  The barges and massive shipping vessels continued to dominant traffic, forcing some fancy paddle-work by the boatmen to avoid being capsized.  

Tired of going upstream the co-guide threw a rope onto a small barge passing in the opposite direction and tethered our canoe to it.  We climbed on board the boat, which was carrying sand (apparently needed for construction) and enjoyed the shade.  And even though the movie came out more than a decade ago, we were forced to take Titanic "king of the world" shots from the front of the boat.  (I refuse to post that picture here.)

Eventually we left the kind barge captain alone and got back in our canoe.  As we drifted back towards Sadarghat, I was fascinated by the scenes of life along the riverbanks--kids playing in the water, women washing clothes, men mending their canoes, people shopping in the colorful stores that dotted the sides.  It was a similar experience to my journey two summers ago from Cambodia to Vietnam on a boat through the Mekong Delta, except that pristine, lush, green setting had been replaced by heaps of trash on the banks and oil-slicked water.  

We passed Sadarghat terminal and went down a little ways to see some of the less crowded, but no less interesting areas.  The guides tried to give the boatman a rest by tying our boat to a "party boat" (i.e. passenger ferry with karaoke but no women or alcohol--not much of a party if you ask me) but the boat cop (?) kicked us off.  After taking a picture of David pretending to paddle the boat I ended up sitting backwards, with my back to the co-guide.  Apparently I had a grey hair sticking out, so he quickly pulled it.  I thought that would be the end of it, but somehow it became a game/grooming session, with him pulling out a dozen of my gray hairs (I'm getting old) and me pretending it was funny (and wondering how my life got to this point).   

Finally, sweaty, exhausted from the sun and overwhelmed by the experience, we got back to the boat terminal at noon, our driver anxiously awaiting our safe return.  Although there was hassling over the cost (we thought it was 300 Taka--$4.25--for the whole trip and they wanted 300 Taka per hour), it was definitely one of the most memorable experiences of my life, and a unique welcome to Bangladesh.  It was not the relaxing, calm ride promised by Lonely Planet, but I'll take a ride with excitement, misadventure and a little inappropriate grooming over that any day. 

First Impressions

If I had to describe Dhaka in two words they would be 'colorful' and 'chaotic'.  Colorful in women's dress, the flashy billboards, and the bright if decrepit buses.  Chaotic in lack of rules governing the movement of vehicles and people in the street, the vendors of clothes, food, and trinkets who crowd the sidewalks, the creativity of people in finding a means of supporting themselves financially. The strong smells of sweat, spices, open sewage, and roasting meat, all set in the hazy smog that sits over the city, add to the atmosphere of life lived in the public sphere. 

Although overwhelming and exhausting at times, the mayhem reflects a simple fact: Bangladesh is a vibrant and dynamic society.  In another light, the ever-present turmoil is evidence that the country seems to be experiencing severe growing pains, with a massive population fighting for too few resources, fueled by a deep desire to improve its quality of life, yet lacking the leadership and expertise to effect true reform and growth.  

Forgive Me?

Dear readers,

Please forgive my absence over the past couple weeks.  I know you (or at least my parents) are curious about what I've been up to but I have good excuses for not writing. 

1. I've been busy finishing up things for my job back in Ann Arbor.  See, I'm being responsible.

2. I've been prepping for (and having) job interviews.  This is also known as freaking out about the future. (Note: the phone connections between East Africa and Bangladesh are terrible.)  

3. The French Open is on.  For those of you who know my tennis preferences well, this translates to watching every minute of Rafa Nadal's matches for the 1st week, then mourning his loss in the 4rd round for the 2nd week.  

But that's all done now (with the exception of the French Open finals) so I promise to post frequently from here on out.  I've already got lots of stories to tell you, some of which involve shipyards, villages, and factories, and others on the general madness that is Dhaka, so keep an eye out for more on my misadventures in Bangladesh.

Sincerely, 

Your delinquent blogger

P.S. Go anyone but Federer! 

The trip over

Some travel math for you:

                What is the answer to this problem?

38 hours+ 7 airport terminals + 4 flights + 3 continents + 2 days +1 cyclone = ?

The answer= tired, smelly Zara….in Bangladesh!

 Yup, I made it, and in one piece to boot.   This was one of my more unusual and memorable journeys, so it warrants it own blog post.

Things started out well enough.  Esther kindly helped me finish packing up my apartment and drove me to the airport in Detroit at 4pm on Friday, May 22^nd.  DTW was surprisingly empty so I waited for 2 hours, pretending to read but instead people watching.  We boarded our flight to Amsterdam at 7pm, and that’s when the reality that I was actually going away for the summer finally struck me; until then it had merely been a hypothetical.  The flight to Amsterdam (7 hours) was relatively uneventful, except the young guy sitting next to me, who was on his way to a vacation in the Greek islands (I was so jealous of him!) required the oxygen tank because he was extremely short of breath. Apparently that happens a lot, but I had never seen it.  So take note, if you are every short of breath on plane, you can get hooked up with some free oxygen. Yay?

I spent most of that flight watching movies—Frost/Nixon, Gran Torino (both of which I would recommend). It seems to me like Northwest has sunk all of its money into its entertainment system, rather than its meal service, because the dinner and breakfast they served were truly inedible.  And you all know me, I’ll eat anything, so the fact that I wouldn’t eat it is saying something.  Luckily I always travel with enough food to feed a family of 6 for a week, so I was able to survive.

We got to Amsterdam right on time (got to love the Dutch) and conveniently, the flight to Bombay (aka Mumbai) was leaving from the next gate and already boarding.  One of my pet peeves in life is when people stand too close to you in line and push you forward, as if that is going to speed things up.  (As an aside, one of the great things about being short is that when people do get to close in line, your elbow is at the ideal level for an “accidental” jab to the groin or gut.  I must confess to taking advantage of that opportunity several times, but it is highly effective.)  Indians in particular seem prone to this closeness and shoving.  Perhaps that comes from a lifetime of having to fight for every inch they can get in a country with limited space and even more limited resources.  However, I wish someone would remind them that their seat is reserved and will be there for them regardless of when they get on the plane.  I’ve also learned that one way to spot the most experienced travelers is that they wait until the last possible moment to get on the plane (without holding it up), as they recognize that sitting an extra 30 minutes on the plane is not to their benefit. 

Anyway, the most enjoyable part of this leg of the trip was the conversation I had with the check-in/security guy, a very nice gentleman from Turkey.  He asked me the origin of my name, to which I replied ‘Hebrew’, which is what my mom has always cited.  This apparently was the wrong answer, the correct one being, of course, Turkish.  He then spent 10 minutes (holding up the line) trying to convince me that I was named after a famous Turkish singer (Mom, have you been hiding this fact from me?) and that I should check out her music as she has “some very lovely songs”.  I don’t have access to iTunes, but I’d love to hear what you think of my namesake’s music, if you can track it down.

Now for the more entertaining parts of my trip.  After arriving in Bombay at 10pm we headed for the immigration desk, since I had to transfer from the international to domestic terminal.  In a sign of the times, before reaching immigration you had to go through the “swine flu checkpoint”, which consisted of filling out a form on which you promised that you did not have swine flu and getting it stamped by some guy wearing a mask.  Clearly, a very highly effective screening system.   And although the airport has been modernized, the same smell of old spices and sweat pervades the entire place (I wonder if they manufacture Indian airport carpet with that smell sealed in— that would explain it), as does the general atmosphere of barely contained chaos. 

After going through immigration and customs, and collecting my bags, I went to the transfer lounge (i.e. dimly lit, poorly ventilated room with a couple of plastic chairs) to catch the shuttle to the domestic terminal, where I was to catch my flight to Calcutta (aka Kolkata).  Over my two hours there (from 11pm to 1am) the lounge became progressively more crowded, yet no buses came.   As you can imagine, 150 tired, hot, sweaty people standing crowded into a little room and becoming more irritated every moment as they wait for a long-promised bus is a recipe for disaster, and naturally a fight broke out between a particularly angry gentleman and the airline agent.  A very pregnant woman fainted in the middle of it.  Minor pandemonium ensued, during which time I crouched in a corner trying to stay as far away from things as possible.  Eventually people calmed down, the buses came and slowly we headed off for the other terminal.  Given that the peak time for international arrivals is between 9pm and midnight, the lack of buses seems to be another example of India’s inability to anticipate, and deal with, predictable, routine events.  (For a classic example, see the monsoon.)

Once in the domestic terminal I had to wait 4 hours until the security checkpoint opened so I changed my clothes and purified some water with my UV pen light, which caused minor panic among the janitors in the restroom who couldn’t figure out what I was doing.  I then managed to take a couple hour nap tethered to my backpacks. 

By 5:15am I was at the gate for my Kingfisher (as in the beer) Airlines flight to Calcutta.  Even on short domestic flights in India you get ridiculous service.  On the 2 hour trip we got fresh lime juice before takeoff, a very nice breakfast, the offer of tea/coffee 3 times, ice cream, and multiple newspapers.  Bizarrely, the only two English language programs offered on the personal TV were Larry King (in which he talked with a panel about women’s self-esteem and empowerment—so strange) and the movie version of the Baby-Sitters Club.   We arrived at 9am to Calcutta’s old, dingy airport, where I collected my bags (yet again) and set off in search of the international terminal.  It appears that Calcutta does not place a premium on signage, so I had no idea where to go.  The few people who did speak English simply pointed outside, to the busy road and said “two minutes”.  Was I supposed to cross the road? Walk down it? Get a bus that was coming in two minutes? With the help of a very nice local guy I realized that I was supposed to walk along to road into oncoming traffic (there was no sidewalk) for the Indian version of two minutes, i.e. five/ten minutes, through a construction zone to get to the international terminal, which seemed more like a decrepit apartment complex or high school that an airport. 

I was too early to check in so I sat around and read for a couple hours.   Eventually I was able to check my bags and went to get my boarding pass.  Although I’m very proud of my heavily stamped passport and love it dearly, it is beginning to be something of a liability.  My visa was delayed because the Bangladeshi embassy wanted to know why I traveled so much, and to such random countries (really, who goes to Cameroon?); the check-in guy in Calcutta spent 5 minutes just scanning through it, counting my Cambodian visas (3).  Finally I got through and sat in a corner reading and waiting for immigration to open.  (There are apparently only a few flights out this terminal, so the immigration officers take many extended lunch/snack breaks.)  Within a few minutes the check-in agent was back, but this time not to look at my stamps, but rather the background of the pages: the 50 state seals.  This is a rough transcript of our conversation:

Him: What is this on the front?

Me: The official US seal.

Him: What is it for?

Me: Um, for putting on official things, like passports…and um, money.

Him: What about this? (Looking at the 1^st real page)

Me: That’s the state seal of Alaska.

Him: A-las-ka. Is that a state?

Me: Yes

Him: What is the seal for?

Me: I don’t know.

Repeat 49 more times.

During all of this he was writing down each state in a little pocket notebook, which was kind of cute. It must have been for his children; at least I hope it was.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him he could look this up on the Internet, or in any geography book for that matter. 

After some more waiting around once past immigration, I finally boarded my fourth and last flight (hooray!) at 1pm.  Unfortunately for me, it was a little tiny plane with propellers, as the flight from Calcutta to Dhaka is barely 30 minutes and traffic between the two cities is light.  That I was sitting in the first row, right next to the emergency exit door, was reassuring, especially after the pilot announced that there was “cyclone activity” in the area and that we could not expect a smooth flight.  Ugh, my least favorite combination of things: propellers and cyclones.  However, at this point I was too exhausted to really care and the flight was not as bad as I expected.  Perhaps being in a tiny plane helped with the turbulence. 

Regardless, even on this flight we were served lunch, which came in a rectangular cardboard box.  Because of the box’s shape, and the fact that the propellers were so loud I couldn’t hear the flight attendant properly, I thought it was a carton of cigarettes, which struck me as weird to give out on the plane, so I politely declined with “I don’t smoke, thank you.”  That garnered me a strange stare from the flight attendant, and I had to call her back once the person behind me opened his and I saw that I was actually just a sandwich.  When it came time for her to clear our lunch she said “May I take your cigarette box?”  Served me right—I am an idiot.

Thirty minutes later we were over Dhaka, an amazing landscape with a multitude of rivers and streams connecting and diverging, enormous high-rise apartment buildings next to humble slum dwellings, and gleaming mosques not far from farm plots.  Even from on high one could feel the city’s frenetic energy, sense it teeming with life, ambition, and fervor.  Of course, this was in contrast to the disorganization and mistaken priorities of the government, as reflected in the fact that we spent another 30 minutes circling the airport while the air force completed exercises on the city’s one runway. 

By 3pm we were on the ground.  After another cursory swine flu check and extended review of my passport, I was able to collect my bags and meet Azad, a UM researcher and the local contact in charge of organizing and facilitating our work here.  Outside was the familiar pandemonium of an Indian airport: hundreds of cab drivers (and pickpockets) shouting, begging for you to take their taxi, trying to grab your trolley and steer it towards their car.  It was hot, over 100 degrees, and so so sticky, and although I was sweating like hell, I dared not take my jacket off, as my bare arms would have been as much an outrage-causing faux pas as Michelle Obama wearing a cardigan to meet the Queen; this is after all a Muslim country.

Our car showed up and we were able to escape the chaos.  I was initially struck by the lushness of the tress and vegetation along the road, the colorfulness of the bicycle rickshaws that swerved through the traffic, and the general Wild West-meets-Bollywood feel of the city.  

Although I arrived at my new home in Dhaka just 38 hours after leaving my old one in Ann Arbor, it felt like a lifetime ago and a world away—such different lifestyles, cultures, and atmospheres.  Let’s see if that sentiment lingers, or if it was just a product of jetlag…..

A little background...

On Friday, May 22nd, I head to Bangladesh for the summer (or 10 weeks at least).  Hearing that, you may have several questions, namely, Where the hell is Bangladesh? And why is she going there? 

Ok, so where is Bangladesh.  Well, according to this map, Bangladesh is that little light blue country (no, not Sri Lanka- the other one), almost completely encircled by India.  Although small, it is the most densely populated country in the world, if you don't count the city-states of Monaco, Singapore, and Malta (and I don't). The population stands at over 150 million, making it the 7th most populated country.  More than 40% of people live below the poverty line, including 30% who live on less than $1 a day.  Despite this poverty, Bangladesh has made remarkable progress in decreasing its maternal mortality rate, infant mortality rate and number of children born per woman (from 7 in 1970 to 3 today), which makes it one of the rare countries which is on track to meet the Millennium Development Goals.  Currently 25% of the population lives in urban areas, although this proportion will likely increase to 50% by 2025.  Dhaka, the capital, is already a megacity, with more than 12.5 million people and is projected to grow to 17 million by 2015 and become the world's 8th most populous city.   Given that I grew up in a town of 15,000, it is hard for me to fathom a metropolis that enormous, but I'm sure staying in Dhaka this summer will show me the chaos that accompanies having so many people living in such a small area. 

Bangladesh's unusual geographic arrangement with India also deserves some explaining.  In 1947, at the end of colonial rule, India was partitioned into India and Pakistan along religious lines.  But that Pakistan is not the Pakistan we know now; that was known as West Pakistan.  East Pakistan was what is now Bangladesh.  Although East and West Pakistan had religion (Islam) in common, they shared little else, including language or a border.  Almost immediately there was resentment from East Pakistan, which was frustrated with having its fate decided by people in thousands of miles away in West Pakistan, where the state was administered.  Under the banner of the Language Movement, the 1950s and 60s saw increasing calls for independence. In 1970 a massive, devastating cyclone and the poor handling of the aftermath by the central government further inflamed tensions.  The final straw was the imprisonment of the head of the popular Bengali political party by the Pakistani president after being elected to Parliament and declaring Bangladeshi independence. This sparked an uprising by the East Pakistani people, and a reactionary military assault by the government. The Liberation War lasted for nine months, with the Bangladeshis supported by the Indian government and armed forces. Independence was finally achieved on December 16, 1971, but at the cost of as many as 3 million Bangladeshis killed, and another 10 million forced to flee the country.  

Over the next 30 years the country saw numerous coups and counter-coups, famines and cyclones, a population explosion and the implementation of a successful family planning campaign, labor strikes and economic diversification.  Although there have been a few hurdles to progress recently (i.e. implementation of an emergency caretaker government in 2007, student and Islamic fundamentalist uprisings), the nation has a booming economy and is considered one of the "Next Eleven" countries (i.e. those developing countries with the greatest investment potential).  Another recent positive sign: the Bangladesh national cricket team beat both India and South Africa in the 2007 Cricket World Cup.  Apparently that's a big deal. 

Okay, so that was probably more than you ever wanted to know about Bangladesh.  However if you are still interested, check out the government's official website, Wikipedia, Wikitravel, or the CIA World FactBook. 

Alright, so hopefully that's answered your first question.  Now on to the second: why am I going there?  To be honest, I'm not entirely sure, but here's the general explanation.  The University of Michigan has a Labor and Human Rights Standards Board which examines whether products bearing the UM name or logo are adhering to the laws and regulations which govern their production, i.e. that workers are working in safe conditions, getting paid a fair wage, etc. Bangladesh has become a major garment manufacturer in the past decade, exporting about $11 billion worth of products last year, which translates to 78% of the country's total exports. 

To produce all these goods the industry employs more than 3 million people, 85% of whom are women.  This gender disparity,  along with the general lower status of women in Bangladeshi society and the widespread poverty, have led to poor wages, unhealthy work environments, and abuse by factory owners and managers.  There are a number of NGOs and government agencies regulating the industry, but because of its size and a lack of resources, many bad practices go unnoticed.  

To help reform this situation this summer I, along with a UM law student, will be looking at how to better design and implement policies and laws to protect female garment workers from violence in the workplace.  Collaborating with both the UM Labor Standards Board and Karmojibi Nari, a local union of 500,000 women laborers, I will be doing research and policy analysis, developing monitoring and evaluation tools, and generally hanging out w/ Bangladeshi women.  Basically, its similar to what I did in Cambodia, except with garment workers instead of sex workers. 

Okay, so I think that pretty much answers those two initial questions.  Let me know if you have others, although I'm sure that they will get answered as the summer goes on.  Hopefully I will have electricity and regular Internet access this summer (for a change), so keep an eye out for regular updates.  Til then, go share your new found knowledge of Bangladesh with your friends.  Hint: bring a map. 

 

Senegal, an Interlude

So as some of you know, in February I traveled to Senegal for 10 days with a couple dozen other UM graduate students as part of the International Development program.  My health team went to study the implementation of public health programs (such as the President's Malaria Initiative), as they relate to malaria prevention among pregnant women.  When not working, we explored Dakar, took trips to bird sanctuaries, checked out the local music scene, and generally had an amazing, whirlwind time.  Below are some links to pictures and a blogs, for a more a better taste of our trip. Enjoy!

You can check out our group blog here: http://iedp2009senegal.blogspot.com/
(Although a group blog, I--in my capacity as a member of the 'documentation committee'--wrote quite a few of the posts.  You'll probably be able to pick out mine.)


Here are my pictures from the trip: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2116970&id=1012910&l=73ce2655fd

For a little more background on the program, here's the official site: http://www.umich.edu/~ipolicy/iedp.htm

Pictures from Africa: Summer 2008

After I left Cameroon, I traveled to Kenya on my own, then met up with my parents and brother in South Africa for two weeks of family adventures.  Here are pictures of my time in each of those countries.

Cameroon (Climbing Mt. Cameroon): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2096465&id=1012910&l=4aa839992c

Cameroon (Buea): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2096765&id=1012910&l=f99c01e2d4

Cameroon (Mamfe): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2098884&id=1012910&l=ed286ac74c

Cameroon (Etoko & the health centers): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2098868&id=1012910&l=b82e0b97b0

Kenya: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100001&id=1012910&l=d7c988449a

South Africa (Safari & Joburg): 

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100185&id=1012910&l=62463a4f41

South Africa (Cape Town & around): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100196&id=1012910&l=50a46f6543

South Africa (The Garden Route): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100206&id=1012910&l=016785c1e7

Enjoy!

Miscellaneous Observations: Part 2

After 3 months in Cameroon, I've got some more observations to share with you all.

-To do any job, the ratio of workers working to workers watching is 1:5.

-For a male between the ages of 8 and 68 a machete is a necessary accessory.

-Almost no one smokes cigarettes and it is considered uncouth to do so.

-Beer is an appropriate beverage at any time and at any occassion.

-There is a hierachy in the materials used to make houses, which reflects wealth. Mud is at the bottom, then tin/corrugated metal, then wood (which becomes gray in urban areas and orange in rural areas), and concrete is at the top.

-Pidgin (the most common language in the SW Province) = Jive + English + French + Jibberish - Helping verbs + Saying 'dey' a lot + Jamaican accent.

-There are no wild dogs, just wild goats, chickens, large rainbow colored lizards, vicious cats, giant ants, cocks that crow at all hours, and bugs and birds that make video game-like sound effects.

-The only setting on a TV or stereo is 'Max Vol'.

-Cameroonian men have zero game when it comes to women because they get all their moves from watching bad U.S. dating shows.

-Barbershops have strange names like: Decent Uncle, Dr. Paolo, Anty Unique, and Snoop.

-More women have facial hair (especially neck beards) than men do.

-Every time you drive down an unpaved road (which is 85% of the time) you have a 50% chance of getting a concussion or spinal cord injury.

-The smaller and more run down the exterior of a house (i.e. the poorer the family) the cleaner the inside of the home and the people.

-Children are given unfortunate names such as Gift (a girl), Precious (a boy), Bright (a girl), Prudencial (girl). We even had Elvis and Stella ran the inn in Mamfe.

-Slang terms: dash=to give or a bribe, chop= to eat or food, snap= take a picture, spoiled=broken.

-Eating a lot of peanuts is considered bad because they will make you break out but all food is cooked with a least a pint of palm oil, which is fine.

-The only time there is relative quiet is when the power is out.

-The standard outfit for women is a big, poofy maternity-like dress because they spend so much of their lives pregnant it doesn't make sense to have two sets of clothes.

-If you need to pee you say "I want to piss myself".

-It is possible to ride on the hood of car, as well as on the trunk.

-Every man and child owns a Cameroon national soccer team jersey, ideally one with the name Eto'o on the back.

-It takes 25 ununiformed men and 50 beers to man a road checkpoint (i.e. a bamboo pole on a string).

The Arrival of Zara Egbe

Warning: The following post is graphic and kind of depressing.

Right now, somewhere in Cameroon, there is a baby named after me who I saw delivered. It's really weird. But for the whole story lets go back to the beginning, to Etoko.

Etoko is a small village 20 miles from Mamfe, but 2 hours away because the road there is in such horrendous condition. (See below.) I went to Etoko (pop. 1,200) to evaluate and redesign its small, barely-functioning health center, which was currently being kept afloat by the NGOs I was consulting for. I was accompanied by Sharlotte, my wonderful, amazing, cheerful assistant, who is also an excellent (but currently unemployed) nurse. Etoko is a village of farmers, most of whom never went to school because the nearest one is four miles away. We spent four days living in the health center, which consists of four bare, concrete rooms, with the incompetent nurse, Rebecca. We hung out with local women, played with children, toured the lush countryside, fetched water from the nearby stream, and cooked some delicious porcupine. Overall it was an enjoyable but uneventful trip. Until the last day.

On the morning of June 17th, a Tuesday, Alice came into the health center. We had spent a few evenings chatting with Alice (or at least Sharlotte had done most of the chatting in the local dialect and I nodded politely) and she was quite funny and cheerful. always laughing about something. She was also 9 months pregnant and pretty uncomfortable given the extreme heat and humidity. Although rather articulate, Alice had stopped school after 6th grade because her parents wanted to marry her off, which they did, to a local farmer about 15 years her senior. Since then, she had spent most of her time helping with the farming and child-bearing. According to her health record, Alice is 20 years old, but she already has three children- a boy and two girls. This was her fifth pregnancy- one was a miscarriage.

When I woke up Tuesday morning at 7am Alice was already there, having come in as soon as her water broke. She was pacing, wincing, and chewing a stick which people use as a toothbrush. Her good friend, also named Alice, was with her. Alice2, age 22, was also pregnant, with her fifth child. While Alice2 swabbed the floor (being pregnant doesn't excuse women from physical labor in Cameroon), Sharlotte, Rebecca and I ran around the health center, preparing supplies for the delivery. This was only Rebecca's second birth and she was clearly nervous but luckily Sharlotte, all of 25 years old, is extremely competent and was helping her out.

At 7:30 Alice and Alice2 went outside to the outhouse to give Alice an enema, which Cameroonian women believe speeds up delivery. After they came back in I got trapped talking to a crazy old woman who wanted to take a picture with me while Alice was delivering in the next room. I go there just as the baby was coming out. It was incredibly messy because the enema clearly wasn't complete and the plastic mattress, scrap of sheet, and Alice herself were covered in shit, blood and various delivery-related fluids. The baby was out by 8am, a girl with a fair amount of hair and seemingly healthy, except for her eyes, which were red, puffy and swollen. It is recommended, especially in Cameroon where the prevalence of STIs is high, for babies to be given antibiotic or silver nitrate eye drops immediately after delivery to prevent blindness caused by chlamydia or gonorrhea infecting their eyes. But because this was a rural health center with such a lack of supplies that only two sets of gloves are allocated per delivery, there were no such medications.

In fact, the health center was so short on supplies that in order to clean off the amniotic fluid, Rebecca rubbed peanut oil all over the baby. She was then wrapped in a set of hand knitted clothes- shirt, pants, booties, sweater, hat, blanket. While all this was going on, no one asked Alice how she was doing, if she needed anything. She was simply left to soak in the mess on the bed. When she was given any help by Rebecca she was manhandled, and yelled for wincing when she was roughly given an injection of ergometrine (to stop post-partum bleeding). Alice asked no questions about the baby nor bothered to turn and look at her, check how she was doing.

Because there is no scale at the clinic, the baby was not weighed and measured, just given a once over to make sure she was alright. She barely cried, just giving a plaintive wail every now and again. Once she was wrapped up, I suggested that we give Alice a chance to see and hold her. Sharlotte tried to give Alice the baby but Alice just turned her head away, refusing to look at her. It was clear then that Alice was not happy about the baby being a girl. After all, Cameroon is still a place where girls are considered unecessary and expensive, since they must be married off and are less useful on the farm. Boys are highly valued and mothers are judged on the number of sons they produce. Alice now had 3 girls and just one boy, and she clearly upset about that. Women in Cameroon believe that the sex of their baby is determined by them, rather than their husband, and thus blame themselves if they have a girl.

Watching Alice refuse to hold, or even acknowledge her child, I had to conceed that this was definitely not the happy occassion that we, in the West, romanticize childbirth to be. This was a baby who was quite literally born into shit, was likely going to be blind, and had a mother who didnt want her. This was not a cause for celebration for Alice, but rather an extra burden for her to carry. Looking at the disappointment and resignation on Alice's face, I was both frustrated and heartbroken. I was frustrated with her for not loving her baby the way I expected her to and frustrated with the culture of girlchild hating that exists in so many developing countries. But my heart went out to Alice, who while three years younger than me, had more responsibilities and fewer opportunities than I could ever imagine. Her attitude towards her child was a product of history, culture, sexism, economics, and politics, and she was only responding as she was conditioned to. All she and millions of other women have to define themselves is their identity as a mother and they want to fulfill the ideal their society creates for them.

Eventually Alice got up and changed and went into the next room, which been decorated and prepped by other women to serve as a maternity room. It appeared that every woman in the village had come to the health center as soon as she heard Alice was giving birth and had brought some supplies for her. They were extremely efficient and everything was brought in and set up in a highly systematic way, which should not be surprising given how often they probably do it, as Cameroon as a birth rate of 4.5 children/woman. Everyone fawned over the baby while Alice sat, ignored, in a corner. No one congratulated her or asked her how she was doing- it was all about the baby. The mothers and their children all sang and danced around, clearly enjoying themselves. Alice's 35 year old, toothless, raggedly husband came in, smiling. He hugged Alice proudly, but got no response from her. Oddly enough, he wasn't dissapointed about having another daughter- he actually seemed extremely happy about it, but he may have been putting on a front for me.

While we cleaned and packed up, a friend of Alice's came in and told me that it had been decided that the baby would be named Zara Egbe, in honor of the 'white man' in town and the two nurses who delivered her, Sharlotte and Rebecca, both of whom have the Cameroonian name Egbe in addition to their Christian names. Alice herself clearly had had no say in the matter but didn't seem to care either way. She was in slightly better spirits as we departed and had agreed to hold the baby, which we considered great progress.

A few weeks later Rebecca came to Mamfe and I ran into her. I asked about Alice and baby Zara and found out that they had stayed in the maternity room for 5 days but left without paying a single franc. Why? Because the baby was a girl and not worth paying for.