You Know You've Been in Bangladesh Too Long When...

...you can name all four places in Dhaka where you can get a cold beer (Heineken only).

...you feel self-concious when people DON'T stare at you.

...every time a car honks you instinctively take a step to the left.

...the staff at Movenpick know you...and your favorite ice cream flavor.

...you refuse to get your news from any source other than Aljazeera English. (Seriously though, it's the best 24-hour news outlet by far.)

...you no longer ask for small or large sizes, but rather "Bangladeshi" or "American" size.

...you know all the commercials on HBO, Star World, and Zee Cafe, as well as the order and frequency with which they appear.

...you make promises like Bangladeshis make promises, i.e. intending to keep about 1 out of every 10.

...you've started scoping out rickshaw drivers to sponsor in the Tour de France.

...you walk on the street, even when there is a perfectlygood sidewalk available.

...your sweat smells like garlic.

...you've stopped complimenting people on their food or dress, out of fear that they will give you the food off their plate and the clothes off their back.

My Favorite Topic....

FOOD! And more specifically, STREET FOOD!

So I've been eating pretty well here. Our cook, Robi, used to work in the kitchen of the Centaur Hotel in Mumbai, a pretty swanky place. His time there really shows--I've never seen someone julienne and chiffonade vegetables so perfectly (sorry dad). His knowledge of soup recipes seems endless,

which is great for me. His specialties are Chinese and Thai food, although he is of course an excellent maker of Bangladeshi cuisine.

Bangladeshi food is pretty much what you would expect--a twist on Indian food. Rice is the staple starch, with bread being considered a lower-status food. Meat is a bigger part of the diet than in Hindu India (fortunately) but pork is still verboten (unfortunately for bacon-loving me). Fish and shrimp are also popular proteins because of the coastal location. Dahl (lentils) is served with every meal but seems to come in only one color/flavor: yellow, with extra garlic. Chai (tea) is served anywhere, anytime, and with anything.

Driving around Dhaka you see signs for "fast food" everywhere. Fast food here includes typical Bangladeshi snacks or quick meals, as well as fried chicken (bizarrely popular here), sandwiches and burgers--halal of course. In our foreigner-heavy neighborhood there are also a Pizza Hut, a gigantic A&W, and a KFC which touts its peri-peri, a sauce characteristic of west African cooking--a unique melding of cultures and palates. We've also got decent Korean, Japanese, Italian, Thai, Chinese, and Mexican restaurants around.

But all of this pales in comparison to the delicious treats to be found on the streets and back alleys of Dhaka.  Fried treats of every kind abound: deep fried potatoes, deep fried vegetables, super greasy samosas-- all delicious when they are served piping hot on an oil-soaked tissue.

There are plays on classic Indian street foods, including one of my all-time favorite foods, pani puri.  In the Indian version, the paper-thin, crunchy, hollow shell (the puri) is filled, street-side, with tiny diced potatoes/chickpeas/lentils, a sweet sauce, and then filled with a spicy water (the pani).  Obviously, filling a paper-thin container with liquid is a recipe for disaster, so you have to stuff the whole thing in your mouth as fast as possible after receiving it from the grimy hand of the vendor.  Delicious.  Amazing.  Unforgettable.

In the Bangladeshi version, most of the excitement of pani puri is gone.  The ratio of solid food to liquid is reversed, so the potatoes/chickpeas/lentils comprise the majority of the stuffing and thus absorb all the pani.  Not as thrilling to eat, but still quite tasty.  And the grimy hand part is still the same, so the authenticity remains.

And this being the developing world, there is, of course, my ultimate favorite food item- grilled meat on a stick.  Here it is usually goat (which tastes better than one might think) or beef.  Smoky, spicy, and salty, these kabobs can be found anywhere and everywhere, which suits me just fine.  A good day in my book is defined as "ten meat sticks, ten pani puris, and ten deep fried vegetable balls."  That's quite the well rounded diet.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the downsides of street food: the potential for traveler's diarrhea, amoebic dysentery, giardiasis, gastric ulcers and the like.  But as someone who has contracted not one but two gastric ulcers from delicious, delicious street food, I think that when you do the cost-benefit analysis, you'll decide that the joy that comes from eating such wonderful food greatly exceeds the the trouble of having to buy toilet paper in bulk.....

The Odd Woman In

I've been stared at my whole life. I've been "the only ____ person" in the room my whole life. I've grown up in places (Maine) and traveled to places (SE Asia, rural west Africa) where there are almost no other brown people around. I've been mistaken for Ecuadorian, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Filipino, biracial, Chinese (yeah I don't get that one either), and an even, most memorably, an albino. I've spent a summer having "hey white man" yelled after me. But all of those were relatively easy, uncomplicated situations---whatever I was in the eyes of the locals, a correct guess or not, I was definitely not one of them. The distinction was clear, black and white, that I was obviously not from there. As such I was treated as any foreigner would be regardless of their race or ethnicity: with curiosity, but also with generosity, kindness and patience.

But Bangladesh is a whole other ballgame. Never before have I had to travel, as an independent adult, in a country where the people look like me. Looking like a local but feeling like a foreigner is a complex and challenging existence.

It started even before arrival. Last year when I was waiting in the Paris airport for my flight to Douala, Cameroon, I spotted a young white woman in the gate area. Being the only two non-Africans boarding, it was almost automatic that we would be drawn together, kindred spirits in our out-of-place-ness. So we struck up a conversation and it ended up that we were going to be with the same organization in Cameroon, and in fact be roommates. I've had similar experiences of befriending a fellow non-local at a transit point a dozen times, in Kenya, Vietnam, Brazil, etc. Its a good way to meet people, hear about their travel adventures, and find someone to split the cost of a cab into town with.

But this year was different. There were about twenty young white people in the gate area waiting for our flight from Amsterdam to Mumbai, most of them traveling alone, many of them women--usually the prime candidates to come up to me and strike up a conversation. But no one did. (And to be fair, nor did I go up to them.) No doubt I was indistinguishable from the other brown faces in line, just another Indian heading home. In contrast, my roommate David, who is white, arrived in Dhaka with a handful of names and contact numbers of interns and graduate students (all white) he had met on his flight from Dubai to Dhaka. This wasn't a big deal, but simply an interesting testament to whom we identify with.

In this same vein I find myself feeling a bit awkward when go to restaurants and bars which are implicitly expat-only. (Local people are usually unable to afford the ridiculously inflated prices at these establishments and know of a better place down the street anyway.) The stereotypical expat in the developing world is white, so my brown face is often the only non-white one in the bunch. This, as we've discussed, is nothing new. But what is different is a sense that I am breaking the "no locals" rule, or people view me (as a Bangladeshi) as having bought my way in to the club. In these moments the phrase "second-class citizen/expat" comes to mind. This may all be in my head, and people may see no distinction between my white friends and I. But I don't know, since I have no non-white, non-Bangladeshi friends to compare notes with.

But more complicated than my relationship with white expats is my relationship with Bangladeshis. Being brown here equates to being a local. (Although there are a fair number of Bangladeshis abroad, seeing me as one of them back on holiday is not the default assumption.) As such people speak to me in Bangla. Not speaking a word of Bangla, and only a mere handful of words of Hindi, I reply (in English) that I don't speak Bangla. This is usually met with one or more of the following reactions: confusion, disappointment, surprise, confusion, mild sadness, and confusion. Then the conversation goes like this:

Bangladeshi: Sister, you don't speak Bangla?

Me: No, I don't. Sorry.

Bangladeshi: Sister, you are not Bangladeshi?

Me: No, I am American.

Bangladeshi: But sister, you are brown like me!

Me: Yes, I know. My parents are from India.

Bangladeshi: Then you speak Hindi? It is same like Bangla!

Me: Um no, I don't speak Hindi either. Sorry.

Bangladeshi: Okay. Hmm, American. I know, Obama!

Me: Yes, Obama. Very good.

If it goes beyond that initial exchange, the conversation inevitably turns to how I ended up in the U.S. and what my parents had to do (which to Bangladeshis means "pay") to get there. The desire to emigrate, which exists in all developing countries, is particularly strong here, not because Bangladeshis don't love their country (in fact they have crazy national pride) but because the competition for resources is so unbelievably fierce--a product of the high population density. And although Bangladeshis are always kind and these discussions never contain overt jealousy or resentment, I sense such feelings must be inevitable. It is a fair question: what have I done to deserve a life of privilege in America when there are so many millions of Bangladeshis slaving away just to scrape together enough savings to even apply for a visa? I have no good answer to this question besides luck, but this is unsatisfactory to all. But what I can offer is an acknowledgment of my good fortune and a sincere promise to make the most of the opportunities I've been given.

Then there is the issue of local celebrity. In Cameroon we would joke that the attention we received walking down the street was as close as each of us would ever get to understanding being at the center of a paparazzi frenzy. Having to shake hands with every child ten times and saying hello to every person who came out of their house to look at you can become tiresome, but its extremely flattering. Here I've traded that fame for the ability to walk down the street anonymously. The only stares I get are because of my gender rather than my race. (I know this because when kids stare at you, as they have everywhere else I've been, its because you look different; when only men (and no kids) stare, its because you're a woman not conforming to gender norms, as is the case with me and my short hair and western clothes.) Although this is a relatively welcome change, there are times when I wish for the celebrity. For example, when we go shopping in the local markets my friends (who are all white) are mobbed by people asking "What is your country? Are you married?" and other invasive, curious questions. I am usually left alone but find myself thinking "Hey! What about me? I'm foreign too!". Vain and bizarre, I know but that's the truth. I think it reflects the fact that to be foreign is "cool" and local is not in the minds of Bangladeshis, and who doesn't want to be in the cool crowd?

Lastly on this front, there is the matter of social norms. Because I might be a local, or at least am definitely from the subcontinent, there are things I can't get away with. I can't feign being unable to eat with my hand in order to get to use a spoon to eat a dish that seems to be 80% liquid--I should know how to do so. I can't wear a tube top under my sari at a wedding rather than a tight, ill-fitting blouse because it's more comfortable, as some of my American friends are doing--I should know better. I shouldn't let my roommate overpay for souvenirs--I should know the price locals get. (Although how on earth am I supposed to know how much an antique bell from a fishing boat is supposed to cost? Seriously?)

Of course, there are several positive aspects of being able to at least partially blend in. First, beggars are much less likely to bother me than they are David, as long as I'm wearing salwar kameez (the local dress). If I'm wearing regular clothes, the odds are even. Second, I can try the "I am your sister, your people; you should give me a better price" thing when bargaining. And if I'm with David or other white friends, the "I am your sister and I brought you my American (translation=rich) friends. You should be good to your sister's friends" thing. This is not a highly effective method of course but it does provide some bargaining leverage and injects the situation with a bit of awkward humor. Lastly, I don't scare babies. In Cameroon babies would either love me and be curious about my unusual features, or burst into panicked tears at the sight of me. It says something about how long I've been scaring babies that when Robi, our cook, mentioned bringing his 2 year old son to visit one day I, panicked, automatically said "Are you sure? I don't want him to get scared of us. Is he okay with foreign people?" which garnered me a blank stare from Robi.

So there you have it. Complicated, messy, awkward, funny. Lots of looks of puzzlement, on both my end and the Bangladeshis'. I guess this situation proves an old proverb wrong. In the new version it would be "If it walks like a local, eats like a local, and looks like a local, you should probably assume its a Scottish-born Indian American short-term consultant."

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.