Where the Ladies At?

Definitely not on the streets of Dhaka, that's for sure.

One of the most striking and immediately noticeable things upon arrival in Bangladesh is the relatively absence of women in public life. There are almost no women walking the streets (except at rush hour), sitting at cafes or restaurants, working in retail, or participating in social gatherings. I have yet to see a woman driving a car, or taking a rickshaw alone. Only after three weeks of being in Dhaka did I see a South Asian-looking woman (other than myself) wearing western clothes, walking down the street alone.

The male-dominated public sphere of Bangladesh is quite a contrast to the other places I've worked. In west Africa, women are ubiquitous and very much the engine of society; one wonders there where the men are and what their purpose might be. In Cambodia all the markets are run by women, with very few men as buyers or seller. Even in India, right next door, women play a major role in all aspects of public life and are prominent in business, entertainment and politics. Yet Bangladesh remains a society where women are neither seen nor heard.

Despite this relative absence, women do play a huge role in the country's economy. More than 80% of the workers in the garment industry, the nation's largest export industry, are women. But an estimated 75% of employed women are unpaid agricultural laborers, as compared to 13% of employed men. Women's labor contribution accounts for an estimated 55% to 66% of total labor per unit output for agricultural work. A recent interesting study found that in one area of the country a pair of bullocks works 1064 hours, a man 1212 hours, and a woman 3485 hours a year per one hectare of farmland. Because women tend to work in the largely unregulated informal agricultural sector, they are afford no legal or economic protections. This arrangement leaves the open to mistreatment and abuse, and does not provide them any safety net in the form of social services such as pensions, disability insurance, and minimum wage.

Given their dependence on the low (or no) paying agricultural sector, its not surprising that Bangladeshi women face extremely high levels of poverty. Approximately 22% of the country's total population is comprised of poor and destitute women, and 95% of female-headed household fall below the poverty line. Although this situation is bad, it is not as it could be, thanks to the help of microfinance projects. The Nobel-prize winning Grameen Bank has given microloans totaling $8 billion to more than 7.87 million women since 1983. The bank has chosen to focus almost exclusively (97%) on women as borrowers since they are not only the most needy, but also the most likely to use the money responsibly, invest in sustainable projects, and repay the loan. In fact, the current repayment rate is near 98%, a level only dreamt of by major Western financial institutions. The bank has now expanded its projects, operating pension programs, health insurance plans, housing projects and many more ventures. In fact, I am able to post this entry because of Grameenphone, which provides our wireless network card, as well as our cell phone plan.

Yet for all the progress made by Grameen Bank and other empowerment projects (like the one we went to see in Manikganj) women in Bangladesh are still second-class citizens. While the country's constitution affords them equal rights in public life, on private matters such as marriage, divorce, child custody, and inheritance, they are at great disadvantage. For example, to divorce a man may simply claim adultery against his wife whereas she must prove adultery and other matrimonial offenses to be granted a divorce. After divorce women are not considered to be the legal guardians of their children, and as such may only keep their sons till the age of 7 and daughters till the end of puberty, if they are allowed to keep them at all. As for inheritance, a daughter may receive only half the share of her brother's, and wives only 1/8 of their husbands' estates. These rules result in limited economic mobility for women and a reinforcement of traditional patriarchal values that further degrade women's social status.

The social values of Islamic countries have come under even more public critique recently thanks to French president Nicolas Sarkozy, who last month called for a ban on the wearing of burqas in public. (To learn about the different types of head scarves, check out this infographic from BBC.) Although only about 10% (in my estimate) of women in Dhaka (and a slightly higher percentage in more rural areas) seem to wear the burqa, all dress very conservatively in public and most cover their heads when in the presence of men. The rules governing the interaction (or lack thereof) between men and women make participation in paid, formal sector labor or institutions of higher education extremely difficult, which in part explains their absence in public life. Of course, the fact that 78% of women are married by age 18 and formal sector employment/secondary education for married women is looked down upon probably has something to do with it as well.

But this issue of the burqa, independent of employment, intrigues me. What some have called "portable seclusion" and others (like Sarkozy) "walking prisons", the burqa has become the most visible icon in the "Islam/conservative versus secular/modern" debate. Yet from what I can decipher from various articles, there seems to be little religious justification for the burqa (as opposed to the hijab). In that case there must be some social or moral justification, right? Well that too is shaky. Modesty, respectability and symbolism of separate spheres seem to be the leading rationales, but they are inadequate explanations of why the burqa over the more practical hijab. But regardless, the overall argument here is that if a woman were to show any part of herself (or even create the outline of a the female figure), she would inflame the passions of nearby men, all of whom are supposedly lacking in any self-control.

So here's the part I don't get. The western line has been that the Taliban and conservative religious organizations, which are comprised of men, imposed the burqa on women as a form of psychological shaming and economic/social immobilization under the guise of modesty and protection. But for men to stress that women need protection from men is to degrade their own sex and heighten the power of the other. Put differently, why admit the savagery of the male sex and proclaim your powerlessness? And why imbue women with such mystic that if they dare show you their face or even a wrist you must, by definition, be filled with lust and rendered unable to think logically. If you don't react that way you've discredited the need for the burqa and if you do, then heck, women everywhere should flash some wrist and take over the world. Its an odd, delicate paradigm that is difficult for an outsider to understand but I think the key point is that the debate over the burqa and women's autonomy isn't black and white. Yes, it can inhibit participation in education and employment. Yes, it does offer women privacy and demonstrates their modesty. Yes, it was made mandatory under the Taliban. But yes, some women do choose to wear it of their own free will.

So what does all that have to do with Bangladesh? Like I said before, Bangladeshis aren't big into the burqa. But they still value the general overarching principle of purdah (i.e. the practice keeping women segregated from--or unseen by--men), at least as the ideal, even if they can't afford to in practice. (As we've seen, women are key to the economic survival of most Bangladeshi families.) Purdah operates under the same logic as the burqa--a demonstration of modesty and protection from men and their lustful ways. And it is largely this strongly-held belief that has prevented Bangladeshi women from entering male-dominated spaces; unfortunately this translates to being excluded from the public sphere in general. Purdah and patriarchy are the two pillars of Bangladeshi society, and in their manifestations, whether it be the burqa, early marriage or inequality in the law, have served to supress and oppress women.

Progress is being made thanks to the media and economic need, but there is still a long way to go. The revolution will be comprised of an extra year of school for young girls, the delay of marriage by a year or two, continued employment after marriage, the first paycheck in a lifetime, and yes, the flashing of a wrist or two.

(For anyone interested in learning more about the status of women in Bangladesh and the role of Islam there are three great reports I would recommend. One is the Asian Development Bank's country briefing paper, another is Healthbridge's report on women's contribution to Bangladesh's economy through unpaid labor, and the last is a more general study of women's position in Islamic countries by Bridge.)

Village People

A couple weeks after arriving in Bangladesh, we got a call from Azad, the young, Bangladeshi consultant for UM who set up our work here. He knew we were getting Dhaka-fever (a combination of boredom, claustrophobia, and sensory overload) so he invited us to come out to Manikganj, a small village a few hours away, to see one of his other projects. Based on similar model to that of Heifer International, the program gives a milking cow to extremely poor women as a means of both generating income and empowering them in household decision-making. All of the recipient families lost their land 10-15 years ago because of river flooding and erosion. (Every year the monsoons bring vast floods which cause villages to be wiped out and the river to change their paths, drowning former farmland and displacing thousands of people.) These families have since struggled to earn a living and many have been forced to take their children out of school, as they can no longer afford essential supplies such as pencils and notebooks. This program, still in its pilot stage, selects motivated, responsible, entrepreneurial women and provides them with training on animal care and business management, as well as giving them the milking cow. They are encouraged to save half the milk for their children (and/or grandchildren) and sell the other half in the market. The women are also required to save 25% of all their earnings and attend monthly meetings on social empowerment issues, such as domestic violence prevention and the importance of educating female children.

On this occasion Azad was going to Manikganj to check on how the women were doing six months after receiving their cows. We set out from Dhaka with Azad and his niece at 11am for a"1 to 2 hour" car ride. The translation of "1 to 2

hours" turned out to be 3.5 hours, but it was a beautiful drive so we didn't mind. Beyond the chaotic "suburbs" of Dhaka the land is rich, lush, green. The scenery was a welcome change from the packed crowds and madness of Dhaka, the villages seemingly serene and quiet, and the brickfields offering the contrast of the deep red of the bricks and the verdant green of the rice paddies. Disrupting the tranquility was the honking of the trucks, cars, buses, rickshaws, and motorcycles as they came careening towards us, trying desperately to overtake another truck, car, bus, rickshaw or motorcycle. It was a road sorely in need of a median.

As we pulled off the main road and starting winding down the side streets barely wide enough for a single car, it became clear that we were in for a serious storm, the sky nearly black even though it was the middle of the day. In the quickly fading light the women standing along the side of the lane were bursts of color against the dark forest background, popping in their saris of saffron, turquoise, and violet; the men, clad in white lungis (sarongs) and button-downs glowed like skinny phantoms. As we went further into the villages, the low hanging trees became even lower and denser, forming an impenetrable canopy above us, blocking out the light, as well as the heavy rain which had begun to fall. In that moment a phrase came to mind usually reserved for another part of the developing world and I found myself thinking that we were entering "the heart of darkness," at least in a highly romanticized sense.

Finally, at 230pm we arrived in Manikganj and were quickly escorted in the downpour to a house formerly belonging to Azad's grandmother, a small three-room dwelling. The power was out so we toweled off in the dark and said hello to the family (distant relatives of Azad), including a 10-month old baby whom everyone swore never cried, a couple 9 year-olds as tall as I am, and assorted 20-something young women whose husbands had left for work in the city. We were

then presented a feast of a dozen dishes, most of which were made with seafood, including fish head curry, whole deep fried shrimp, and tiny sardine-like creatures in mixed vegetables. We ate by the light of gas lamps, adding to the haunting atmosphere created by the rain and our remote location. Of course, I ate everything--it was delicious.

After lunch we sat with the family until the light came back on, then started out on a walk to see

the seven women in this village who had received

cows, out of a total 15 participants at this stage. We attracted a crowd of shirtless children who followed us as we greeted the families. Each was exceptionally welcoming, and extremely proud of their cow and their resulting economic prosperity. All seven women had done very well for themselves, with all of them sending their kids to school again, some having saved enough to expand their farm to include chickens and others purchasing sewing machines with which to start a small tailoring business. One woman proudly told us how her new earnings has inspired her husband to stop drinking and working harder to match her income. All of them were extremely hard working and resourceful; one had found a farmer with fields in need of cutting so they had all starting working for him and taking the cut grass to feed their cows, a practice which had more than halved the costs of feeding their cows. Before we left one woman gave us a papaya she had just pulled from a tree in front of her house, the only one on the tree; another sent over a few litres of milk for Azad, even though he begged her to sell it in the market instead. The sense of pride and confidence among these women was palpable and the progress they had achieved in moving their families out of abject poverty was remarkable.

After a quick game of in the rain/mud soccer with the kids (all of whom were far better than us) we got back in the car for a harrowing ride home in the dark. It seems almost no one in Bangladesh has discovered headlights, or if they have, believe they are used solely for flashing frantically to tell oncoming traffic to get back on their side of the road. Despite the peril we reached home safely at 10pm, tired but inspired by the women of Bangladesh, and the village of Manikganj in particular.

In the A/C Box

After spending the last few summers riding in the back of ancient pick-up trucks, being coated in sweat, and wading knee-deep through mud (or at least I hope it was mud), getting used to our relative life of luxury has been difficult, and at times, downright frustrating. Now, I'm not saying that you should feel sorry for me, what with our private car and driver, overly air-conditioned apartment, and personal chef--that would be obnoxious. But for those you like me who enjoy having total freedom of movement, don't mind being disgustingly filthy, and consider themselves adventurous (some may say stupid), you may sympathize with my frustration over being so overly protected and sheltered. No doubt Dhaka is a city where one (especially a woman) can't just going running around wherever and whenever desire directs, but neither is it a place that can be truly experienced from the confines of a cool, locked Toyota Corolla or a gated compound in the foreigner district.

Because I spend so much time locked in the A/C box (as I refer to our life of privilege) I've had to come up with unique ways to entertain myself. Sadly for you, that includes writing terrible, ironic poetry. Therefore I subject you to two haikus on the A/C box, one slightly positive, the other a bit more of a lamentation.

Two Haikus to the A/C Box:

cool, clean, and sterile

makes life into a movie

gliding through traffic

home to car to home

keeping us isolated

this is our Dhaka

Oh, please forgive me. Poetry is not my strength. I apologize.

(Ak! That was another haiku! See, I just can't help myself. Really, I'm sorry. I won't do this again.)

You Might Be a Bangladeshi If.....

Having been here for a little over 3 weeks, I've taken note of a few peculiarities of Bangladeshis which I think are defining qualities. So beware, you might be a Bangladeshi if.....

...you can cross the street (without nearly peeing yourself out of fear).

...you don't appear to sweat, even when the heat index says its 115+ degrees outside.

...you wash your clothes in dirty river water yet they always come out impeccably clean and white.

...you would have the physique of a body builder if only you had access to a proper, protein-inclusive diet.

...you have an intense obsession with all things 'Chinese' (ex Fu-Wang's Pizza, Wu's Bowling Alley).

...you have superhuman peripheral vision. (Drivers only.)

...you love watching Slamball (i.e. basketball played on trampolines).

...you own at least three skin-lightning products.

...you eat your body weight in rice every four days.

...you get your electricity by splicing into the wire of a government office/shopping mall a couple miles away.

...you can make anything fit (and balance) in a rickshaw, and then manage to ride on top of it.

...you ask every foreigner the same three questions: "What is your country? What is your religion? Are you married?".

...you hold your motorcycle helmet in your lap on your way to and from work instead of wearing it.

...your car has an extra metal bumper on the front, since fender benders are an everyday occurrence.

...you won't pay attention to a presentation or lecture, until they get to the singing and dancing parts, of course.

...you appear to have no sense of smell, as you are not made nauseous by the stink of rotting garbage in the sun...or jackfruit.

...you know how to arrange yourself in an auto rickshaw so that instead of holding two people, it can hold seven.

...you understand the language of the car honks, considering a form of Morse Code.

...you know someone who has been eaten by a Royal Bengal Tiger in the Sundarbans, but recommend a trip there to every foreigner.

...you own at least one piece of clothing by "Clavin Kline" or "Dona Karen".

...you know which city bus to get on, even though there are no discernible bus stops or numbers/signs on any of the buses.

...you answer multiple choice questions with "Yes, no problem."

...you take pride in how corrupt your country is and tell every foreigner, "We were last on Transparency International's list five times in a row! A record!".

...you are less than 5 feet tall, even if you are a man.

...you drive a Japanese or Korean car (i.e. Toyota, Nissan, Mitsubishi) but in a make no one in North America has ever heard of, such as Probox, Noah, Voxy, Bluebird, Pajero, Sage, Saloon, Corona, Succeed, Hiace, Esteem, Premio, Surf, Hover, Torrance or Prado. Or else you drive a Toyota Corrolla.

...you dye your hair/beard/mustache neon orange because you think it looks so natural on you. (Men only)

...you have night vision.

...you appear to need almost no ingredients to make a delicious, three course meal.

...you need only four hours of sleep a night, and make fun of people (like me) who need eight.

...you are friends with wild dogs, most of whom turn out to be better trained than American house pets.

...the concept of a speeding ticket is entirely foreign to you, since you're never able to drive faster than 10 mph in Dhaka.

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.