A Canuck Amuck

And the award for Most Honest School goes to.......

2012-01-31T08:56:00.000-08:00

Pardon My French

2012-01-30T03:03:00.000-08:00

My ability to communicate in French can best be described as atrocious, or as one would say in French………………………….see what I mean? Though I faithfully attended French classes for a total of nine years during my formative years, little of the lessons remained with me, aside from a smattering of phrases, such as “Mon crayon est grand”, which tends to take on a whole new meaning outside of the classroom. Though Canada is officially a bilingual country, the two solitudes of French and English afforded me sufficient protection from ever being forced to mangle a language other than my mother tongue. So, the lessons of past and present participles, reflexive pronouns and subordinating conjunctions (which sound naughty but aren’t really that interesting) all fled to the dark recesses of my brain, never to be found again, along with the innumerable passwords to my various email accounts. Confident that my language deficiencies would never be discovered provided I just ducked my head when travelling through Quebec, I merrily went along my unilingual way. I never wanted to be Prime Minister anyway.

Once outside the safe confines of Canada, though, the absence of a second language skill is a sizeable handicap in the majority of countries, as I’ve discovered over the past five years. My efforts to incorporate Hausa, Bangla and Tajik into everyday conversations have proven to be colossal failures, though my local colleagues have all ably covered for me. In return, I like to think I gave them the feeling of empowerment that comes with preventing international incidents. My arrival in Cameroon provoked a greater sense of grief regarding my lack of proficiency in another language, however. As I was reminded on numerous occasions during my first couple of weeks in the country, Canada and Cameroon share the distinction of being the only two officially bilingual countries in the world. Moreover, the two official languages are the same, French and English. I couldn’t verify whether that claim was correct, since that would require doing research, so it was easier just to accept it.

What was more difficult to accept was the presumption on the part of others that since I’m from Canada, I must be able to speak French fluently. There always seemed to be a sense of disappointment conveyed in response to my excuse that since I come from the English part of Canada, I never learned how to communicate with my French Canadian brethren. It was like I was admitting that I peed on my local Tim Horton’s (never proven, by the way). On the verge of engaging in witty French banter with me, my Cameroonian counterparts would instead shake their heads and say, “C’est dommage.” and then provide the English translation to make me feel doubly bad.

So, I resolved to once again learn the Language of Love. But where to start? Jumping into conversations with the cabbies in Yaounde seemed likely to end in me being tossed from the taxi or being driven to Nigeria by accident. And ironically, my placement was in the Northwest region, the last bastion of Anglophones in Cameroon, so the opportunities to practice French were limited. Undaunted, I decided I would teach myself with the aid of a helpful Cameroonian textbook. Acting on the recommendation of a Bamenda bookseller, I picked up the latest copy of:

The approach of the textbook was rather unique, in that half of its sections were in French without translation of any kind, leaving the learner to guess the lesson being taught. Often, one paragraph in English was followed by one in French. It was like reaching the climax of a detective novel and being told that the murderer was, in fact, 思嘉小姐與燭台在客廳裡. Equally novel was the text’s method of testing, consisting of 1500 multiple choice questions. Apparently, the author ran out of pages, as the correct answers aren’t provided. As a result, I’m proud to say that I achieved a perfect score, despite my lack of study and comprehension. But what the text lacked in form and precision, it more than made up for in content, providing useful phrases such as the following:

But for some reason, knowing that I have my bases covered when it comes to beating puppies didn’t make me feel more confident in my mastery of the language. So, I decided it was time to find myself a tutor.

As luck would have it, I had just recently met a couple from France who are also living in Bamenda. Elphie had been living and working here for some time, but her boyfriend, Stephane, had just arrived in the country the same time I did. He was eager to practice his English, so we set up an exchange of sorts. On alternating weeks, we would speak only French or English at our Monday lunch at PresCafe, the local meeting spot of choice for expats. It soon became apparent, however, that our respective skill levels were not close to being equal. While Stephane could express himself quite easily in English, I found my attempts to speak French were somewhat laboured. I had so many pauses in my speech that Stephane must have thought I was choking on my food. I could see him mentally preparing himself to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre while listening to me. He was a most patient and genial tutor, but I clearly needed professional help, so it was time to return to school.

Some of my fellow volunteers had been enjoying their sessions at the local language school, so I decided to enrol as well. And this is where I met the Odd Couple. My work schedule was such that I thought it best to do one-hour sessions on Tuesdays and Thursdays during the lunch hour. As a result, I was assigned two different tutors according to their schedules. I quickly learned that they were a study in contrasts, both in their personal style and their method of teaching. My Tuesday tutor, let’s call him Felix, arrived at our first session impeccably dressed in his shirt and tie, looking as though he had just returned from a photo shoot for the Cameroonian GQ. Having been reduced to a sweaty mess by the noontime sun, I already felt self-conscious before opening my mouth. His diction proved as precise as his dress and he expected no less from me, so I soon became accustomed to him repeating words after me like a corrective echo. As a teaching technique, it is effective enough, though it does tend to make our interactions rather stiff and formal. I keep expecting him to brandish a ruler at any moment for a quick rap on the knuckles.

My sessions with my Thursday tutor, Oscar by invented name, are much more relaxed. Older than Felix by about twenty years, Oscar set the tone early by showing up in a baseball cap and golf shirt that were both obviously well-loved. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, Oscar looked as though he’d rather be conducting these sessions from the comfort of his favourite bar, so I liked him immediately. As an instructor, he is less precise than Felix and technology seems to be his bête noir. He often treats the CD player as though it’s a bomb he’s been asked to defuse. But he is generous with his praise and rejoices loudly any time I manage to come up with the correct French translation, so I tend to exit our sessions with a smile on my face.

Given that my French study is currently limited to two hours per week plus homework, progress is slow, but at the very least, I am improving my skill level day by day, and I’m happy with that. Achieving fluency in both languages of Cameroon and Canada remains the ultimate goal, but if it doesn’t happen, well, c’est la vie.

And "VIP" Stands For.....

2012-01-22T06:27:00.000-08:00

The hair salon business in Bamenda is competitive to the point of being cut-throat, which is exactly what the customer seems to fear in the sign below advertising VIP Cuts. This leads me to wonder what "VIP" might mean:

Various Injuries Possible?

Vanity In Peril?

Visitors Instantly Panicked?

The Toughest Doctor in Cameroon

2012-01-12T04:40:00.000-08:00

They say this doctor is a bad m..........shut your mouth!

Don't Delay - Order Today!

2012-01-07T00:11:00.000-08:00

Power Tea is a drink that receives heavy promotion in Cameroon. The local radio stations broadcast extended advertisements that extol the benefits of its regular use. When I first heard these spots, I actually thought they were saying “Poverty” rather than “Power Tea”, so I was a bit confused as to how being impoverished could be so healthy for a person. In any event, I was curious to learn more about this miracle elixir, so I picked up a pamphlet that provides further details. Based on what I read, I think Power Tea just might be the cure for all of our ills. Have a look at the list below and judge for yourselves. I’m now taking orders for international shipping. As an incentive, I’m offering a discount on the Man Strong powder, for a limited time only.

The Return of my Nemesis

2011-12-01T04:17:00.000-08:00

When I arrived in Cameroon, I expected there would be an interesting melange of music to be discovered here. After all, a culture rich with its own musical heritage, as well as the influences of French and English music that came with its colonial past, must have a diversity that would be enviable anywhere. And I’m sure that’s true if one explores far enough into the customs and traditions of the country. But soon after I arrived, I found an immediate musical phenomenon that I didn’t expect. It seems that Cameroonians love Dolly Parton and Don Williams.

At first, I attributed hearing the warblings of Parton as a joke played for laughs by a sidewalk vendor eager to attract customers. But I’ve since heard her songs played in multiple locations, so there seems to be a real affection for her jaunty tunes. The popularity of Williams is even more mystifying. A country singer who reached his peak in the ‘70s with his driving hit “Tulsa Time”, Williams seems to have been embraced by people in both Nigeria and Cameroon. It’s a bit surreal to be eating rice and beans in one of my favourite lunch spots and to be serenaded by Williams’ ode to “Amanda”, whom fate should have made a gentleman’s wife, at least according to the song.

But it’s now the first of December and that can mean only one thing – time to dust off the yuletide musical chestnuts for three weeks of non-stop holiday cheer. Now, I’m no Grinch when it comes to enjoying the music of the season; in fact, I made a point of buying one new CD of Christmas music every year when I was in Canada. Of course, I tended toward the more unusual of offerings to avoid an overload of the saccharine sweet banalities or melancholic broodings that tend to define playlists at this time of year. For my money, James Brown’s rendition of “Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto” or Clarence Carter’s “Back Door Santa” were as capable of making one merry as anything in the catalogues of Nat King Cole or Der Bingle.

As the Northwest region of Cameroon is predominantly Christian, the Christmas season is now in full swing here, including the attendant anthems. My taxi ride this morning hummed along to Boney M’s “Mary’s Boy Child” on the radio, and I arrived at the office to find that our neighbours had “Jingle Bells” on a continual loop for twenty minutes, so that we could all have time to ponder the intricate meanings found in the lyrics. Exactly why are we dashing through the snow? And what is it that keeps us laughing all the way? These and other questions demand the kind of answers that can only come from the happy place that I send my mind when faced with the type of musical barrage that greeted me this morning.

And yet, I will happily endure all of the sentimental holiday stylings of Kenny G and Michael Bolton for the next three weeks, as it means a respite from my nemesis, P-Square. Long-time readers of my blog will recall that this Nigerian musical duo tortured me for my entire stay in Nigeria with their hit single “Do Me”, which is about as complex a song as the title suggests. The combination of a catchy beat and their status as homegrown musical superstars ensured P-Square’s song was played more or less continuously in cars, clubs, sidewalk kiosks and anywhere else that had access to a radio. The ubiquitous mobile phone adopted it as the hippest of ringtones. I’m quite sure that babies were lulled to sleep by the same Muzak version that graced shopping malls and elevators throughout the country.

Since my arrival in Cameroon, there has been one song that has dominated the airwaves like no other, and that is “Chop My Money”, which is Pidgin English for “Take My Money”. Of course, I was a bit confused by this, as “chop” also means “food” in Pidgin, so the song could also be “Eat My Money”. In any event, the song is inescapable and began to drill its way into my brain the way “Do Me” had years before. Other expats were similarly affected, none more so than a French couple who have the misfortune of living across the street from a nightclub, so they get to enjoy the song on multiple occasions each evening.

The song had become such a part of everyday life that comparisons to my experience in Nigeria began to creep into my head. It finally reached a point of needing to know more about my enemy, so I asked one of my afflicted French friends the name of the group that was responsible for this ear worm. When he said “P-Square”, I shook my head in disbelief that they had come back to haunt me for another year. And yet, I also have a certain amount of grudging respect for them. It’s one thing to dominate the charts in one’s home country, but to enjoy cross-border success on a level that I see in Cameroon, a group needs to be able to both tap into the current musical zeitgeist and to market itself as the best purveyors of it.

But it’s still an awful song.

This is best appreciated by hearing the music that goes with such memorable lines as:

If you see her eye-yies, eye-yies
You no go believe she’s looking at me
My temperature dey rie-yies, rie-yies

So, I invite you, at your own risk, to check out the band’s offering on YouTube at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZslcTuKYeDk

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if you find yourself running for the comfort of your iPod or stereo to turn on “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” or “9 to 5”, I completely understand.

Big Blue in Cameroon?

2011-11-26T07:39:00.000-08:00

As a former member of IBM's Contracts and Negotiations team, I'm well aware of IBM's global presence. But even I was a bit surprised to learn that Big Blue has opened a branch office in my new hometown of Bamenda. Or has it? IBMers interested in working in Cameroon had better look at the picture below before applying for a transfer.

Taxicab Confessions

2011-11-12T09:11:00.000-08:00

Riding in a taxi in Canada did not prepare me for my daily Cameroonian cab commute. Though I have had my share of interesting rides in Canada – a driver in Nova Scotia recently regaled me with his experiences with the cast of the original Hawaii Five-O and his opinion that the actor who played Steve McGarrett was “an a**hole” – usually the trips have been fairly uninteresting and straightforward, a simple payment for a service provided.

Not so in Cameroon. I now look forward to my morning ride, because it really is a case of not knowing what awaits me. My home and office are on opposite sides of Bamenda, so walking or biking the distance are not really options, leaving a taxi as the only means of transport. But unlike in Canada, where a taxi can be hired for your own use, Cameroonian cabs are shared with others. Many others. And this is where the fun begins.

Typically, I start my morning commute by standing at the corner of Foncha junction and gesturing at one of the yellow Toyota Corollas (the car of choice for discerning cabbies) that I want to be picked up. The taxi driver will slowly cruise by me as though he was a John in search of company, and it is up to me to yell my destination through his open window. In the case of my office, this means shouting “City Chemist” as this is the name of the nearest landmark building. For some reason, my Canadian accent often seems to make my pronunciation of these two words unintelligible to many drivers, as they often look at me as if I asked to be driven to Sicily and continue on to find passengers who are less odd.

When I am understood and the driver is headed in my desired direction, he honks his horn to indicate that I am acceptable to him and stops down the road to allow me to enter the taxi. Unfortunately, there is often a row of potential customers lined up together on the roadside, all yelling their different destinations at the same time as the cab passes by, so when a beep occurs, none of us is entirely sure who has been selected. Usually, it takes the driver to wave his hand at me and yell “White Man” to ensure that I know that I am the fortunate one.

Entering the taxi, I meet my fellow passengers and we all greet each other with a cordial “Good morning” before settling in to battle for space for our respective asses. Space is an issue in the taxi, as the cars are loaded to overcapacity to ensure the drivers get the most francs for the journey. To be fair, the average fare for a twenty-minute ride in a cab is 150 Cameroonian francs, which is the equivalent of about 35 cents Canadian or 20 Eurocents, so it is understandable that the drivers want as many customers in their cars as possible. This usually means three people in the back seat and two people sharing the passenger seat in the front, though the numbers are often greater. My personal record to date has been nine people, including children and babies, and I expect that mark to fall any day now.

With that number of people sharing one car, there is no such thing as a quiet ride. The recent election in Cameroon provided much fodder for discussion, as the customers and driver shared their common dislike for the expected outcome. As most of the conversations take place in Pidgin English, a form of the language that loses me completely, I can only pick up bits and pieces of the discussions, so I often focus on other things, such as the décor of the cars, inside and out.

Cameroonian cabbies are intensely proud of their vehicles and will do anything to distinguish them from the others on the road. A common method is to paint slogans on the rear bumper of the cars. Usually these are of a religious nature and proclaim their allegiance to God in one way or another – I was a bit alarmed once to read one driver’s assertion that “God is my pilot” as it made me wonder who was actually driving his car. Not surprisingly, I have yet to see a “How’s my driving? Call XXX-XXXX” as I suspect this would only invite constant abuse. The interior of the cars are similarly distinct, with some drivers favouring so much kitsch on their dashboards that it’s surprising they can see out their windshields. One car had so much pink shag carpeting that I expected the driver to be Austin Powers.

On the rare occasion that the conversation lags in the taxi, the radio provides a buffer to any awkward silences. The radio station of choice is BBC Africa, which provides its usual professional presentation of news and sports and is therefore the most boring of the possible alternatives. Far more lively is the local Bamenda station, as its selection of programs is the most eclectic I’ve heard. I’ve often kept my fingers crossed that the driver will tune in to the weekly public shaming program, where one of the local mayors will pronounce the transgressions of his constituents. “Mercy Abraham, your pit toilet is full and overflowing. How do you use it?” or “Excellence Restaurant, you use dirty utensils. Please stop.” Once the list has been completed, the mayor will inevitably warn, in the most dire of tones, that “We will be coming back to check on you.” I live in fear of the day that I’ll hear “Glenn Dodge, please stop hanging your underwear outside to dry. Polka dots aren’t manly”.

On other occasions, airtime on the radio is devoted to educational programming, such as how to write a CV or how to speak English correctly. Of these, some of the most interesting and graphic are the public health spots, such as how to tell if you have a venereal disease. My fellow travellers listen to this information as though it was the weather being discussed. One particularly long trip provided me with more details than I ever wanted about yeast infections. Ladies, you have my sympathy.

Though the trip downtown isn’t a long one, invariably there will be at least one traffic jam to negotiate, and the cab drivers are often quite inventive in their methods. Most see congestion as tacit permission to completely ignore the rules of the road, so sidewalks become fair game and new lanes open up by playing chicken with oncoming traffic. Somewhat remarkably, there is little anger from other drivers at these tactics, perhaps because there is a certain amount of admiration for a particularly bold move. The drivers also have their favourite short cuts to avoid traffic, which unfortunately seem to take longer than just accepting our fate on the main road. This is especially true when we patrol back roads that have ruts that threaten to swallow the car whole and our progress is slower than the livestock that walks past us.

At the end of the journey, I indicate that I want to be let out of the taxi by exclaiming “Drop me!” This might sound somewhat rude, but one lesson I’ve learned over the years is that using a surplus of words only serves to confuse the listener. “Pardon me, but I would like to be let off here” will only result in the driver saying “Huh?” as he zooms past your stop, but a concise “Drop!” will pull the car over immediately.

Most taxi rides are thankfully free of incident and accident, but some have proven to be more dangerous for my fellow expats. In the past month, two of them have fallen prey to the “Broken Seat Scam”, a robbery technique employed by crooked cabbies. The unsuspecting foreigner is approached by a taxi that is full except for half of the front passenger seat. After entering the car, the expat settles in the front seat as the cab starts down the road. Suddenly, the back of the seat gives way and the two front passengers are thrown backwards into the rear of the cab. Much commotion occurs at this, as the other passengers react to having the front seat now in the back. As the expat struggles to regain his or her balance, one of the other passengers quickly and deftly unzips the purse or backpack of the foreigner and removes as many valuables as possible, including money and mobile phones. The driver of the cab then pulls over to the side of the road and explains that he can’t continue with the broken seat, kicking the expat to the curb and leaving him or her to discover the robbery after the car is a distance away. Though it sounds unlikely that anyone could ever steal the contents of a purse without it being felt, the distractions of the other passengers, who are all in on the scam, work well to prevent any suspicion until it’s too late. With this in mind, I always choose the back seat if available and keep a tight grip on my backpack at all times.

But the occasional larceny of some dishonest drivers isn’t enough to keep me from making the taxi my preferred mode of travel in Bamenda. Most trips have been memorable for all of the right reasons, and a shared taxi can’t be beat for getting a sense of everyday life in Cameroon. I expect that my future cab rides in Canada will seem a bit lonely now. Unless the driver happens to know Steve McGarrett, of course.

Bullets and Bruschetta

2011-10-28T07:21:00.000-07:00

Mob violence is an interesting phenomenon. Whether it’s the loss of hope for the future or the loss of a hockey game, the ensuing explosions from these triggers are often impossible to predict with anything approaching certainty. Considering the turbulent histories of the countries where I’ve worked, I’ve lived a remarkably charmed life in avoiding outbreaks of violence. But all good things, as they say……

The presidential election was held in Cameroon in early October, and it was largely a foregone conclusion that the incumbent would continue as president for another seven-year term, extending a reign of three decades. Whether this would be the result of popular will or a dubious electoral process was anyone’s guess, though the two-week gap between voting day and the announcement of the results certainly didn’t inspire confidence in the impartiality of the outcome. Suspicion of tampering was especially strong in the Northwest region, often seen as the exception to the Cameroonian rule and often taking exception to the Cameroonian ruler. An anglophone culture in a country where French dominates and a loyal supporter of the main opposition party, the Northwest has embraced the sentiment, if not the wording, of “Vive la difference!”.

The announcement of the election results was expected to bring trouble to Bamenda, the capital of the Northwest, and my new hometown. Safe houses were selected for the VSO volunteers living in the area and a member of the program office was dispatched to act as coordinator for any needed evacuations. But in what must have been a calculated move to stifle potential outrage, the government announced the election results last Friday in the slowest and most boring way possible. Over a span of six hours, the venerable and ancient Chief Justice of the Supreme Court announced the results for each party in each district of each subdivision of each division of each region in the country. Very slowly, in a riveting monotone. With an occasional cough or sigh for added entertainment. Our Supreme Court proceedings are a mixed martial arts match compared to this. And the sedative effect seemed to work, as those who could stay awake to the end were likely too exhausted to add up the results to see who won, let alone take to the streets in protest.

Despite the subsequent condemnation by the opposition parties of the ruling party’s overwhelming victory with eighty percent of the vote, there were no calls for official protests or demonstrations. Perhaps wanting to avoid the bloodshed experienced in other countries this year, the opposition went so far as to call for calm and peace, and their appeals seemed to have the desired effect. The days following the election results were remarkable only for their ordinariness, as people seemed willing to accept the results and move on. In light of this lack of developments, VSO recalled its staff member to Yaounde and the volunteers went back to work and made their usual plans for getting together.

Among these was a dinner party scheduled for mid-week at the home of one of the volunteers living in the centre of the city. As my office is a short twenty-minute walk from her house, I decided to take the opportunity to get some exercise and go for a stroll. Right into the middle of a street riot.

As is usually the case, my timing was impeccable. Moments before, the leader of the main opposition party had made his less-than-triumphant return to his home city, with an entourage of supporters on okadas (or motorbikes) following close behind. According to some reports, the parade was stopped by police who encouraged the leader to take a less popular route along a sidestreet. Undeterred, the leader left his vehicle to continue his return on foot along one of the main streets in the city. Apparently, a vehicle then drove against this flow of people and ran into his supporters, striking one of the okada riders and injuring him. Enraged, the crowd stopped the vehicle, tossed out the driver and set it on fire.

Cue my entrance. Of course, I had no idea of what had just happened, so when I arrived at the intersection, I just saw a crowd of angry people, broken glass and plenty of smoke. Being the intuitive guy that I am, though, this was enough for me to decide that I needed to be somewhere else at that moment, so I walked past the crowd without making eye contact and hoped that no one would notice I was the only white person there, since being unique is usually a bad thing when faced with an angry mob.

Luckily, the crowd was focused on the aftermath of the accident, so I was able to walk on without any resistance. It soon became clear that as bad as the incident was, it was still very localized at the moment. Two hundred metres farther up the road, people really seemed to have no idea of what was going on, except that something was wrong. Another hundred metres on, people didn’t even seem to register that, though the number of people receiving texts on their mobiles indicated that this blissful ignorance was soon to come to an end. In the meantime, I still had time on my side as I made my way to Yvon’s apartment as quickly as I could.

Arriving somewhat out of breath, I blurted out my eyewitness account and was somewhat disappointed to find out that others had already heard the news. From the balcony, we could see the smoke still billowing up from the torched truck. Other volunteers soon arrived in a more agitated state, having encountered the mob at a later stage and witnessing how the anger was starting to build. The consensus among the new arrivals was that they needed to leave right away to get home safely, much to the disappointment of our host, who had spent hours preparing three courses with an Italian theme. Gamely adjusting her schedule, she brought out the bruschetta and salad and invited us to eat as quickly or as leisurely as we wanted. Taking her at her word, my dinner companions noshed and dashed, but I decided to linger for a while. My home was in the opposite direction of everyone else, and I had no desire to test my survival skills on my own. Besides, I had spent $7 on a bottle of wine and wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

After the others had left, the three of us still remaining enjoyed the biggest meal we’re likely to eat in Cameroon, as we worked to finish off the portions of those who didn’t make it for the dinner. As the sun went down and the streets turned dark, we made regular trips to the balcony to keep track of developments as best we could. It became apparent that the police and military were starting to make their presence known, as the amount of traffic on the streets started to dwindle, which posed a bit of a problem for me, as I still needed to find my way home somehow.

The atmosphere became more tense when the electricity was cut soon after darkness fell. The reason for the outage was unknown, but one didn’t need to know the cause to feel more vulnerable. Lighting candles to cut through the gloom, we soon heard the sound of gunshots in the distance and feared the worst, though we all felt quite safe in the apartment. With nothing but darkness on the balcony, we became more aware of the sounds surrounding us, the voices of neighbours and the occasional sputtering of a passing motorbike. One sound stood out for its strangeness and menace – a large chorus of people chanting with the fervour and conviction of those at a political rally, the militant sound of people being called to action. It sounded real and unnatural at the same time, and we debated whether it was a recording or an actual group of people that we were hearing.

Thankfully, electricity was restored soon after, so the threats we detected in the dark seemed less dangerous with the lights on. Spotting one of her downstairs neighbours, Yvon asked him about the riot and told him that I still needed to return home. “I would put your chances at 20%”, he replied. “Of getting a taxi?”, I asked. “No, of reaching your home safely”, he said. Suddenly, couch surfing at Yvon’s place for the night became a very attractive option. The chanting and gunfire had both stopped around this time, but the prospect of running into trouble still remained high, so the decision to spend the night wasn’t a difficult one to make. Even the neighbours, who normally would have been scandalized at the notion of a man staying overnight at the home of a single woman, seemed to understand that morality needed to take a break on this occasion.

The next morning, awakened early by the call to prayer, I rolled myself off the sofa and made a cup of tea to drink on the balcony. Watching as the neighbourhood roused itself, I was somewhat surprised to see no evidence of the night before. Children in smart school uniforms walked by, waving at me and yelling a cheery “White man!” as a greeting. Women set about their preparations for the day, whether it was washing or getting food ready for sale. Okada drivers lapped the streets, honking their horns at potential passengers. The normal daily rhythm of life had returned. Though it was on everyone’s mind, the violence of the night before had to be pushed aside to get on with the activities of the day. That’s a good lesson, I thought, as I walked to find a taxi to finally take me home.

The Canuck Goes Amuck Again - Cameroon Edition

2011-08-25T06:06:00.000-07:00

Some rather exciting news to share with all of you. I'm off to Cameroon! I'm going to be Project Coordinator for an organization called ALL for Cameroon, a legal aid organization that works with law students as a way of providing training to the students and free legal services to those who can't otherwise afford representation. ALL stands for Aide Legale Libre. I think it's a great opportunity and represents the kind of project I've wanted to work on since I first started doing development work - something that will allow me to make use of my legal background and my more recent development experience. Here's a link to a video that they've put on YouTube that describes the organization and the work they do. I'll be working with the second woman in the video, Mbinkar Caroline (and replacing the first, Roxana Willis):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX40g_EYXoM

The project has already accomplished great things and has the potential to do even more, and I look forward to being a part of that over the next year. Departure date for Cameroon is the end of September, so look for new stories and pictures on the blog beginning sometime in October!

The End of the Canuck Amuck (For Now)

2010-12-26T08:36:00.000-08:00

With the end of my latest assignment in Tajikistan, the Canuck Amuck is now going into hibernation for a while. Should another interesting posting come up in the future, new stories and pictures will follow, but for now, thanks for following the blog!

All the best,

Glenn

Watch That Acronym

2010-09-27T06:21:00.000-07:00

Many of you have noted that the Canuck Amuck blog has been rather quiet as of late. Very true! The sad thing about my time here in Tajikistan is that while there have been plenty of things to write about over the summer, not many can be shared in a public forum such as this, for reasons of confidentiality and job security. And while Tajikistan does have its share of interesting experiences, life here in Dushanbe is quite similar to what I (and the rest of you) experience in Canada, Holland, the U.S. or elsewhere, so it becomes difficult to get motivated to write about things that we all know too well.

But the following item in the weekly online newspaper for expats living in Dushanbe did catch my eye and make me laugh, so I thought it was worth sharing. Enter this contest at your own risk!

The Swiss Cooperation Office in Tajikistan announces a contest of logo for donor anticorruption initiative

Switzerland’s development cooperation activities aim at improving living conditions for the world’s most disadvantaged people. Swiss Cooperation Office in Tajikistan works in partnership with other donor organizations with the aim to achieve sustainable development through promotion of transparent, accountable and effective public institutions; equitable access to good quality public services; sustainable, private sector-led growth.
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The Swiss Cooperation Office in Tajikistan is a member of the Donor Anti-Corruption Forum in Tajikistan (DAFT), which is an informal group of international donor for anti-corruption issues in Tajikistan. DAFT’s overall objective lies in devising an effective action plan with the aim:

• to implement a formal approach through which a core group establishes contact with the Tajik Government on anti-corruption issues; and

• to raise the concept of the Donors' Anti-corruption Forum in Tajikistan as a focal point for the coordination point for project work and engagement with the Tajik Government on anti-corruption issues.

In order to raise the public knowledge about the Donor Anti-Corruption in Tajikistan, and further enhance its visibility, Swiss Cooperation Office in Tajikistan announces a contest for creating a Logo for the DAFT among local artists and designers.

Selection criteria:
- content/reflection of the subject
- artistic/design quality/professionalism
- technical quality

Requirements to contestants:
- personal info in brief
- maximum quantity of draft logos submitted: 2
- minimal resolution: 300 d/i
- size: 2 Mb

Honorarium: Total prize for the successful Logo is 400 USD.

All the proposed Logos meeting the above requirements should be submitted either electronically via email or saved at media device, or in a hard copy (A4 format) in a sealed envelope to address given below. .

How to apply:

If submitted as a hard copy: in a sealed envelope indicating the subject DAFT LOGO CONTEST and containing contact info of the applicant to the following address: Swiss Cooperation Office in Tajikistan: Dushanbe, 3 Tolstoy street;
Tel: (+992 37) 224 73 16, 224 38 97

If by e-mail: dushanbe@sdc.net with the subject line indicating DAFT LOGO CONTEST

Deadline for submission of the complete application package: October 15, 2010

Tajik Portraits

2010-05-15T03:47:00.000-07:00

On our recent trip to Iskanderkul and the Seven Lakes, Kristel and I met many of the local people and were introduced to life in that region through them. What follows is a selection of the best pictures taken by Kristel from our time with them.

Iskanderkul and the Seven Lakes

2010-05-15T03:22:00.000-07:00

Located in the northwest of Tajikistan, Iskanderkul and the Seven Lakes offered plenty of spectacular scenery as Kristel and I explored the region. Here are a few of our favourite pictures from our week of trekking. Book your summer vacation to Tajikistan today!

Yakshanbe in Dushanbe

2010-04-11T04:57:00.000-07:00

In the Tajik language, "Dushanbe" means "Monday", and as the story goes, the capital city received its name for the large market that was held here each Monday. "Yakshanbe" means "Sunday", so you can either read the title of this blog entry as "Sunday in Dushanbe" or "Sunday in Monday", which sounds like a reject from the Mamas and the Papas. Either way, these are some of the pictures I snapped on a brilliant Yakshanbe afternoon in the capital.

The park next to my flat.

Opera House plus fountain and elephant. The elephant isn't mine.

Rudaki Avenue - the main boulevard in the city.

The statue of Samani, founder of the Samanid dynasty and a dead ringer for Sean Connery.

The Presidential Palace at the centre of the city.

Fountains in the central park.

Mother and daughter in the "Naughty Cat" (?!) Bouncy Castle.

Pirate Ship swing at the carnival, which runs daily throughout the Spring and Summer.

Ferris Wheel with a somewhat alarming tilt.

Mother and daughter on the Flying Swings.

Waiting for their turn.

Bus stop at the carnival site.

Dushanbe Billboards

2010-04-11T04:55:00.000-07:00

In Dushanbe, billboards are found throughout the city. Most have a governmental slant, encouraging support for the President or the Roghun Dam, but some make rather unexpected use of celebrities.

Support urged for the Roghun Dam.

You too can look like a princess.

Support for the President, I think.

No Waterworld fallout here. Judging by the number of these billboards in the city, Kevin Costner is the most famous man in Tajikistan. Next to the President, of course.

The Roghun Dam again.

And again.

More Roghun Dam. No, just kidding. Karaoke, drinking and bowling. A dangerous combination.

The Headless Goat Men

2010-03-21T23:33:00.000-07:00

As the crowd of panicked spectators slammed into me and jammed me against the barricade, I spun around to try to get a look at the herd of horses that was galloping toward us.

This was a bit closer to the action than I would have liked.

The day had given no hint that I was going to be putting myself in this kind of danger. A group of expats had decided to take in the annual Buzkashi event at Hissar, about an hour outside of Dushanbe. Timed to coincide with the annual Navruz or New Year’s celebration, the Buzkashi is staged at different sites throughout Tajikistan and other Central Asian countries, and its reputation as an unmatched spectacle makes it an irresistible draw for local people and foreigners alike. The roots of the Buzkashi date back centuries, when horses were the only mode of transport available. In order to prove their prowess as riders, men would engage in a series of games on horseback that evolved into the Buzkashi or “goat grabbing”, which may give a hint at the objective of the game.

The rules of Buzkashi are fairly simple. A rider must pick up a goat that has been beheaded before the game, carry the goat on horseback around a marker at one end of the field and then travel the length of the field in order to throw the goat into a scoring circle at the other end. Challenging enough, but the real catch comes with the other thirty riders who are trying to do exactly the same thing. Beyond such severe fouls as attempting to trip another rider’s horse, anything is considered fair play to get one’s goat (so to speak), including whipping the other riders, prompting many of them to adopt the leather helmets that were fashionable among footballers in the Roaring Twenties. In the past, games carried on for days, though a shorter limit is favoured in modern times, perhaps in recognition of the fact that most participants have day jobs. At the end of the event, the best riders are rewarded with prizes of money or valued items like carpets.

The Buzkashi is also notorious for observing few physical boundaries on the playing field. The focus of the riders on grabbing and carrying the goat is so intense that their momentum often carries them into rivers, parking lots and crowds of people. I suppose this should have been a warning signal to me, but as I stood at a safe distance on the crest of a hill overlooking the preparations for the Buzkashi, I also felt completely disconnected from the event and the local people watching it. Bidding farewell to my fellow expats and to my common sense, I left to find a spot closer to the field of play.

The riders and their horses had already started to assemble at the far end of the field, as had a sizeable crowd perched on the side of hill. I decided this would be the place for me. A sturdy metal bar that stood shoulder high seemed to provide adequate separation between the riders and their audience, so I lined up behind it with the other spectators. The thought did occur to me that a horse travelling at full speed could probably jump the obstacle without much problem, but I assumed if this had been the case, no one would put themselves in danger by choosing this spot, so I felt relatively secure. A police officer repeatedly admonished people for getting too close to the bar and ordered them to retreat, which probably was another sign that I should have heeded. But by that time, the goat had been tossed and the crowd was on its feet, so I stayed put.

The participants came together in a rugby-style scrum to battle for the goat, horses and riders joining together in an amorphous mass that seethed with yells and curses. The breath of the horses clouded the cold air above them as they collided with one another. Arms brandishing whips flew indiscriminately and struck riders and horses in equal measure. The group surged back and forth as one, belying the chaos that took place at its heart. Suddenly, a rider and his charge broke from the pack with goat in tow and the chase was on! Tearing across the field, he made for the first marker while the other riders tried in vain to strip the dead animal from his grasp. Making the turn, he charged across the field at full gallop as the crowd roared its approval and propelled him toward the scoring circle on the other side. The onlookers assembled in front of the circle scrambled for cover as the horses thundered toward them, barely getting out of the way before the first rider tossed the goat into the circle for the score. The crowd rewarded its champion with shouts of appreciation and applause.

This scene was repeated for the length of the match – a scrum followed by a breakaway and a mad chase. True to its reputation, though, the Buzkashi remained dangerously unpredictable. Only when the horses and their riders were a safe distance away did you dare to take your eyes off the field, for fear of being caught unaware that the game was coming your way at top speed. The sight of horses coming toward them caused people to scatter even when they still had half a field between them. I still enjoyed a measure of security thanks to my iron bar standing fast, though I still backed away when the game came to me. All in all, though, I still counted myself lucky to be so close to the action without having to worry about being trampled. It would have taken something entirely unpredictable to happen for me to be in danger. Which is, of course, what happened.

At the halfway point of the match, another rider carrying the goat made his final charge for the scoring circle and steered his horse up the side of the hill. The pursuit was a close one this time, though, and he enjoyed no space to slow down before tossing the goat, so half of the herd charged up the hill. Reaching the top of the hill, the horses turned and raced along its edge behind me. Spectators perched at the top who thought their position was a safe one suddenly were faced with the horses coming at them, so they jumped up and dashed down the hill to avoid the stampede, knocking others out of their way as they ran toward the field. And me. There was no time to avoid the wave of people coming my way, so I went with the flow until we came up against the barrier. With nowhere else to go, the crowd piled up on one another and we had no choice but to turn around and face the horses coming toward us in the faint hope that we would be able to avoid them.

Except there were no horses to avoid. Whether by luck or the skill of the riders, the horses had steered straight along the edge, rather than coming down the hill behind us. Finding a bare spot on the hill, the horses charged down to the field to rejoin the competition, and the group piled up against the barrier released its collective breath and shook our heads at the close call. As the crowd dispersed, most returned to their places on the hill or resumed their posts on the rail. For me, I had had enough of seeing (and being) the action, so with shaky legs, I walked past sympathetic police who allowed me access to the VIP staircase to move away from the field and rejoin my group farther down the field to watch the rest of the match in relative safety.

Other spectators weren’t lucky enough to avoid collisions. On a regular basis, people in the crowd were clipped by horses as they passed by. The most foolhardy, the ones who wandered out on to the playing field for a closer look, were often rewarded by a hit that sent them tumbling across the turf. Riders also took their share of lumps, falling off their horses while reaching for the goat or getting knocked off while on the chase. Such spectacular spills were met with an appreciative roar from the crowd that would have done the Roman Coliseum proud. Amazingly, all of the people knocked down were able to pick themselves up again and walked off the field to an equal amount of applause and taunts for their troubles.

After two hours, the weather turned and the temperature dropped as the sky opened up. Despite dressing for the cold, the wind still sent a chill through me, so I gladly accepted the invitation to go for a walk to warm up and see some of the other sports taking place. Though the Buzkashi is the marquee event, it shares the day with a number of other popular attractions, including wrestling. Walking over to the next crowd of people, we found pairs of men trying to knock each other down in the mud that was growing deeper by the minute. The wrestling techniques of the combatants seemed to have been learned outside a pub after last call. Plenty of pushing and grabbing each other’s shirt, followed by hugging and “I love you, man”. Of course, I might have the translation wrong.

Finally, the time had come for us to leave. The crowd had thinned somewhat because of the weather, but we could still see the horses and riders still furiously competing as we walked toward the van. Some riders could be seen on the sidelines proudly displaying their hard-earned prizes and accepting congratulations from their friends and fellow competitors. With only one opportunity to see the Buzkashi, I’m glad I was able to take it all in. It certainly lived up to its reputation as a dangerous and unforgettable spectacle.

The Buzkashi

2010-03-21T06:20:00.000-07:00

The Olympian

2010-02-21T03:12:00.000-08:00

Andrey Drygin represents the best of the Olympic spirit. For the past three Winter Olympics, Drygin has been Tajikistan’s sole competitor, its lone shot at Olympic glory. It would be tempting to say that the hopes of an entire nation have rested on his shoulders for the past eight years. Tempting, but not very accurate, because Tajiks don't seem to expect Drygin to excel at the Olympics. And in each competition, he has lived down to those expectations. That’s what makes him special, at least in my estimation.

An alpine skier, Drygin began his Olympic quest in Salt Lake City in 2002. In each of the Giant Slalom and Super G events, he failed to finish the race. Four years later in Turin, he didn’t finish the Giant Slalom and finished 51st in both the Downhill and Super G. He came to Vancouver this year for what is likely his swan song in Olympic competition. Now well into his thirties, Drygin is past the prime age for competitors in his disciplines, making it unlikely that he will return for a fourth Olympics in 2014 (though the lure of competing in Russia may prove irresistible to someone from that part of the former Soviet empire). Realistically, then, Vancouver represents his last chance at bringing home a medal to his home country. At the end of this past week, half of the alpine events completed their runs and Drygin finished 44th in the Super-G and 59th in the Downhill, second from the bottom in his first race and dead last in his second. His only solace may come from actually completing his races, a feat that eluded some of his competitors.

It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what drives an Olympic athlete like Drygin. Certainly, it’s not the overwhelming support of his home country. Surveying the city of Dushanbe this past week, it’s next to impossible to find evidence that the Olympics are on the radar of any Tajiks. Whether that’s the result of the (extremely) low number of competitors representing the country in the Games or a disinterest in sport in general is hard to say. It is true that other things tend to take priority for citizens of a country like Tajikistan. In the middle of a cold February, most people are focused on such needs as ensuring the basics are provided for their families. Games staged on the other side of the planet don’t take precedence over these interests, especially when there is little chance for Tajikistan to distinguish itself in the competition. As is usually the case, I met a number of people for the first time this week. Most asked which country I called home and when I said “Canada”, there was no reaction, no big smiles and declarations of “Olympics Number One!” or the like. I opened the weekly Tajik Times with the expectation of a feature story or two on Drygin and his participation in the Games. Instead, I found his name buried in an article on the Sports page that discussed all of the Central Asian countries taking part in the competition. Top spot on the page went to a Tajik chess player who had won a round of the Aeroflot Open in Moscow, an accomplishment, to be sure, but not exactly on par with the Olympics in terms of global recognition.

Of course, everyone loves a winner, so there is no doubt that a medal would ensure that Drygin would be welcomed home as a hero, his name enshrined forever more in the pantheon of Tajik legends. A tickertape parade down Rudaki Avenue would be assured, as would a stamp in his honour. Endorsements would follow, and while not as lucrative as those enjoyed by the sports celebrities in North America, he would surely receive enough to live comfortably for many years. But there are no parades or sponsorships for fourth place, let alone for fifty-ninth. And displaying one’s medal for participation is as unlikely to impress as a fifth grader’s certificate for perfect attendance. Drygin must know that securing his place in history would require a place on the podium. But at some point, his history of bottom finishes in international competitions must have voiced a serious concern in the back of his mind that the trend might never reverse itself. The most successful athletes are masters of the psychological as well as the physical, but those suffering more defeats than victories must often find themselves victimized by a nagging self-doubt that threatens their performance. So, it is unlikely that Drygin entered the Vancouver Games convinced that the third time would be the charm.

Nor was it ever a probability that Drygin would be fortunate to fall into the category of “lovable losers” and achieve a kind of notoriety by his ineptitude. To find this kind of fame requires a degree of incompetence on the level of Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards, the ski jumper who soared only in people’s hearts, or a uniqueness born of an unlikely marriage of country and sport, as memorably achieved by the Jamaican bobsled team. Drygin can claim neither. His last-place and nearly last-place finishes weren’t so far behind the rest of the pack to be endearing, just worthy of the faint praise that goes to those who manage to complete the course without falling down. And as a citizen of a country dominated by towering mountains, he can scarcely be said to be out of his element on the downhill slopes. It is doubtful, then, that Drygin will ever be commemorated in film or song in the years to come for his failure to demonstrate anything other than his willingness to compete.

But it is exactly this willingness to compete without hope of substantial success or gain that should be celebrated as a pure example of the Olympic spirit. For every Michael Phelps who dazzles in repeated gold-medal performances, there are dozens of athletes who come to the Games as unknowns and leave the same way. Their only rewards are the thrill of the competition and the pride that goes with representing their countries to the best of their abilities. This is likely the motivation that has compelled Drygin to return to three successive Olympics and endure finishes well off the podium each time. The Olympics would do better to promote competitors such as Drygin, rather than simply lauding those who best the others in their fields, and countries should embrace all of their athletes, not just those who bring home medals. Andrey Drygin will never be known as a great Olympic champion, but he is still an Olympian, and he gave Tajikistan a place on the world stage. If only for that, he deserves a measure of appreciation and congratulations.

Two events remain for Drygin in these Olympics – the Slalom and Giant Slalom. Though by birth I’m required to cheer for the Canadians in these races, there will still be a part of me that hopes that Drygin will be able to complete a miraculous run in one of the races to achieve a personal best. That would be enough to make this Olympics a success for both him and Tajikistan.

The Girls' Support Service

2010-02-14T05:18:00.000-08:00

More than one person has written to me in the past month to express an interest to learn more about what I’m doing in Tajikistan (beyond mastering the game of Charades and setting East-West relations back to the Cold War days with my mangling of the Russian language). Now that I’ve been here for a month or so, I’ve had the chance to work with the different components that make up the Girls’ Support Service (or GSS) and to start making contributions to the project. So, it seems as good a time as any to provide an introduction.

The GSS project was started in response to the dire situation that faces many girls in Tajikistan. With a population of just over seven million people, Tajikistan’s demographic skews very young, with close to fifty percent of its citizens being under the age of eighteen. Of those falling within this age bracket, two-thirds live below the poverty line, and this has exposed young people to a host of risks, including family breakdown, trafficking and institutionalization. Girls are particularly at danger of being trafficked in Tajikistan, being sent to the United Arab Emirates, Turkey and Russia for the purposes of sexual exploitation. The possibilities for girls within the country are further restricted by their limited access to education – only 20% of girls finish the full nine years of primary education due to pressures both within and outside of their families. With such an inadequate education, many girls are faced with bleak choices: some end up living and working on the streets as prostitutes while others agree to marry before the age of eighteen, often to a much older partner and possibly setting themselves up for many years of abuse. In addition, girls who have been exploited or abused often find themselves doubly victimized, as they sometimes are then shunned by their families and communities for being sexually active, without regard for the fact that the sex was forced upon them.

Though many aid agencies are currently operating in Tajikistan, a need was identified to set up a service that aims specifically to help girls between the ages of 10 and 18 who have been or are in danger of being abused, exploited or trafficked. To help address this need, the GSS was created through a partnership between the Children’s Legal Centre in the UK and the Child Rights Centre, an NGO that had been working in Tajikistan for a number of years. Four areas were identified as priorities for the service: the creation of a Support Centre where residential placements and day services could be provided to girls deemed in the most need; the development of Semi-Independent Living Units for older girls as a place to transition back into society; the establishment of a network among NGOs throughout the country to allow for girls nationwide to receive the support they need; and the creation of a Policy Development Team to work closely with the project’s government partner, the Committee on Women and Family Affairs, to develop the capacity of the Committee to continue the GSS once the project completes its term at the end of 2011. In addition to these components, the need for a Legal Services branch to work in conjunction with all aspects of the GSS to provide legal advice as needed and to effect prosecutions where warranted was also cited as a critical need.

Now one year in operation, the GSS has already enjoyed a significant amount of success in meeting many of its objectives in these areas. Chief among these has been the setup and development of the Girls’ Support Centre in Dushanbe, the first of its kind in Tajikistan. An enormous amount of effort was needed to convince the government of the need for such a centre and to enlist its support in providing a location for its operation. These discussions with the government revealed a disturbing oversight to that point in the management of girls deemed at risk. An existing facility in Dushanbe, known as the Special School, was the institution of choice for those looking to house the girls somewhere, but its selection often resulted in further abuse of the girls, as there was no division between boys and girls in the school. One of the early achievements of the Policy Development Team was to change the regulations of the Special School to close admissions for girls and to have the girls currently housed there moved to the newly established Girls’ Support Centre.

From the outside, the GSC building doesn’t look like a great environment for girls, or anyone else, for that matter. An imposing and unfriendly concrete behemoth designed with little care for aesthetics, it screams “institution” at anyone who approaches it. But inside, the atmosphere is a much different one. The staff of the GSC has done much to make it as welcoming and warm as possible. On my first visit to the Centre, I was greeted by the girls as I walked down the hallway – they were friendly and curious about me being there, as well as understandably wary of who I was. With those who live and work with them, they displayed no such suspicion, welcoming them with hugs and broad smiles, eager to show them their rooms and their latest projects. Currently, there are eight girls living at the Centre. They attend school six days per week (the practice here is for students to attend school for only half of the day) and their remaining time is spent at the Centre, doing assigned chores or receiving classes in cooking and other skills. A dance class has also proved popular, as have outings to theatres, museums and a circus. Beyond the activities, social workers at the Centre have developed individual care plans for the girls with an eye to keeping their time at the Centre as short as possible, though the reality of many of their situations dictates an extended stay of a number of months before they will be ready to return to their families or move on to a new life for themselves.

Entering its second year, the GSS now has the foundation in place for all of its major components and is looking to expand its reach. As mentioned, eight girls are in residence at the GSC. This is obviously only a small fraction of the girls in the country who would benefit from such accommodation. To increase the available access, a Helpline has been set up that would permit girls to be referred to the services provided by the GSS. The Helpline is not meant as a counselling service; rather, its function is solely to provide an initial contact point that may ultimately result in a girl receiving help through the GSC, Semi-Independent Living Units or other aspect of the GSS. Calls to the Helpline have been infrequent to this point, because knowledge of its existence has been limited to those with exposure to the GSS. To address this, a National Awareness Campaign has now been started that will advertise the GSS and its Helpline while also seeking to raise awareness of the rights of girls and the criminality of the abuse suffered by them. The use of brochures and other publications will be supplemented by announcements on television, radio and newspapers. In addition, the network of NGOs that is being created by the Satellite Support Services branch of the GSS will be used to promote the GSS throughout the country, as will a nationwide tour by members of the GSS later in the year.

As part of the Policy Development Team, I work with two other individuals, a Legal Officer and a Policy Officer, to develop the capacity of the Committee on Women and Family Affairs, among other things. In order to better develop the relationship with the Committee, the PDT has been seconded to the Government building where their offices are located. Over the past year, the Legal Officer and Policy Officer have had a number of successes through working with the Committee, the government body assigned the responsibility for looking after the rights of children in the country. However, much work remains to be done to improve the policy and legal framework supporting the rights of children and girls in particular. Certain laws in the country were drafted with little regard for the rights of the victims, and these will need to be examined with an eye to their revision. In addition, the capacity of the members of the Committee will need to be assessed to allow for the development of a training plan to address the gaps in their skills and knowledge. The PDT has also been asked to take the lead on coordinating the National Awareness Campaign - I have already chaired a pair of meetings for a Working Group dedicated to the Campaign,and I can confirm there are a number of passionate opinions provided on the direction of the Campaign, often expressed in Russian and English at the same time! My hair is getting greyer by the day.

Unfortunately, my arrival in Tajikistan coincided with the departure of the Head of the Committee on Women and Family Affairs (I have tried not to take this personally), leaving the Committee at a standstill until her replacement is named. The loss of the Committee Head is a bit of a blow to the fortunes of the PDT, and by extension, the GSS, as it means the loss of a relationship that has been carefully cultivated over the past year and the need to start the process over again with her replacement. The building of such a relationship obviously takes time, but the hope is that this won’t drastically delay the initiatives identified as key for the GSS. A national election has been called for the end of the month, and our hope is that the new Committee Head will be named before that time, so that initial meetings can take place within the next week or so.

Hopefully, this provides some insight into the project and its plans for the future. I’ll provide updates during the course of the year as to how things are progressing. The need to maintain the confidentiality of the identities of the girls being assisted mandates that their stories and pictures won’t be a part of the blog (at least not in an unaltered form), but I still hope to be able to provide some interesting updates on the project in addition to reporting on my misadventures living here in Tajikistan.

Everybody Hates Canada Post

2010-02-06T03:45:00.000-08:00

This headline dominated the last page of the latest edition of The Tajik Times, the local weekly paper, proving that Canada Post's reputation for service is known all over the world.

The Landlady's Brother

2010-01-31T01:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve discovered there are certain universal truths that exist no matter where you are on the globe: taxi drivers are the biggest con artists, politicians love playing power games and landlords will do anything to avoid spending money. I’ve now been in my flat on Chekhov Street (named after the writer, presumably, not the ensign on Star Trek) for almost a month. I moved in rather quickly upon arrival, as my temporary digs were costing me $40 a night and I hate to bleed money. The flat seemed pleasant enough upon first inspection, though the frilly and fragrant boudoir of a bedroom hinted that the last occupant was likely a chain-smoking lady of the evening. The rest of the apartment was fine, though the windowless holes in the stairwell lent new meaning to the term “open air concept” and promised that the building would offer little protection against the extremes of any season. Regardless of these reservations, I anted up my first month’s rent in US dollars, the unofficial currency of choice here in Tajikistan, and moved in.

One month on, I’ve learned that acting in haste results in something other than leisurely repentance. A power cut on a Saturday evening was an annoyance at first, but I had been warned that such losses were common in Tajikistan, so I grimly accepted it until I looked out my window and saw every other building on my block lit up with a cheery glow against the approaching gloom. Things became a bit more urgent when I opened the door of my flat and found my stairwell also basking in light. As much as I appreciate having a unique apartment, I hadn’t counted on being the only one in my building with optional electricity. And here is where the fun began, as complaining to one’s landlady becomes a real test of linguistic acrobatics when one doesn’t share a language with her. Thankfully, one of my office mates with a solid grasp of Russian was willing to make the call on my behalf. When word came back that nothing could be done until the next morning, I cursed under my breath, put on all of the fleeces I could find and rolled myself up in Miss Kitty’s duvet for the night. The next morning, as promised, the landlady arrived with her electrician in tow, who also happened to be her brother. Supervising a team of individuals who appeared more interested in me than in the wiring, he nevertheless managed to get the lights back on, so I thanked them and counted myself lucky.

Until the following week.

That’s when I noticed hot water starting to stream into my bathtub. Not a huge flow, but a steady drip that promised worse if left unrepaired. Again, a phone call to the landlady through a helpful office mate resulted in a promise that a visit was in the near future. But while electricity failures rate high on a landlady’s scale of urgency, a hot water leak is a bit less concerning, apparently. So, three days later, she arrived with her plumber, who is also her electrician and brother. I greeted them again, as they were becoming the most regular guests in my flat, and the brother set about to fix the leak. I had every confidence in him after his deft handling of my power loss, but it soon became apparent that he had skipped class on the plumbing days of his handyman school. Asking for a wrench, he sent his sister downstairs to fetch it, leaving the two of us alone for a few minutes. And this is where things took a turn for the bizarre.

Knowing I couldn’t speak Russian or Tajik, he started an impromptu game of Charades to communicate with me. He began by running his fingers around his face and tracing out what looked like the letter “M” over his head. “You want to take a shower?” I asked, “You’re sad, maybe?” I’m terrible at Charades, even more so when the person doesn’t understand my guesses, but apparently I was so far off the mark that even he sensed I was in the wrong ballpark. But he kept doing the motions, so I kept guessing. “You like birds, no, wait, you believe in angels, no, you’ve just escaped from a mental institution?”. Shaking his head vigourously after each wrong answer, he finally gave up and said one of the few English words he knew, “ Woe-man”. Oh, man, I thought. This didn't clear things up at all. Hoping he was asking me if I liked women and not if I needed to be fixed up with one, I nodded my head and smiled. Pointing to the floor, he appeared to be asking if I had a partner here, so I shook my head and explained in my best Tarzan-speak: “No woman here. Woman Holland”. That’s probably not how Kristel would prefer to be introduced, but at this point, simplicity was the key. The word “Holland” proved a puzzler to him, though, so he shook his head and said, “Woe-man” again, pointing at the door. With a sinking feeling, I realized that he was trying to set me up with his sister, so I smiled and shook my head, hoping he would take that as a sign of my lack of understanding, rather than a rejection of his flesh and blood. Thankfully, at that moment, his sister reappeared with the wrench and he could get a start on bashing my faucet off the wall.

After twenty minutes or so, the tap had clearly been defeated and hung at a nifty forty-five degree angle, exposing a gaping hole in the wall. Through the hole, a flow of water now gushed into my tub, no longer impeded by the pesky plumbing. Looking at me, my new friend shrugged his shoulders, and even I could guess what that meant. Shutting off the water, he left his sister to try to straighten up the remains of my bathroom while we stood out in the hallway. Safely out of sight of his sister, the Charades again started, with him pointing at my bedroom and resting his head on his hands to indicate sleep and then pointing at the bathroom where his sister continued to work away. At that point, I knew that I was having my chain pulled, though I’m not sure that particular action would have translated properly into Tajik had I demonstrated it for him. So, I laughed at him and said “Nyet spasiba” and hoped that his sister would reappear soon to rescue me. Promising to return the next day to finish the job, the two of them left me to enjoy my waterless apartment.

And waterless it stayed, for the next four days, though the landlady and her brother did show up during that time to check in, as if paying a visit to an incarcerated relative. It wasn’t until the leak deepened and spread down into the flat below me that something was finally done. Arriving at my door somewhat out of breath on Saturday night, the landlady pointed to the floor and said “Up”, which entirely confused me. I assumed the direction of her pointing was more accurate than her description, so I followed her downstairs to survey the damage. And the water had indeed spread to the ceiling of the bathroom and kitchen of the downstairs flat, with my new neighbour glaring at me as though I had filled my tub to overflowing and gone out for the day. I made empathetic noises that I hoped would mean the same in Tajik and we returned to my flat to try to complete the repairs. The landlady’s brother arrived soon after, and I didn’t need pantomime to understand that he had been properly chewed out by his sister. Promising to return the next day to finish the job, he once again left, this time shutting off the water to half of the building to prevent further damage. And he was true to his word, arriving promptly on Sunday morning to finally return the faucet to its rightful place on the bathroom wall. By this time, the novelty of trying to communicate with me, whether through Charades or not, had clearly been played out, and we only exchanged the most perfunctory of greetings and thank yous before he left. But I didn’t feel slighted. Given the state of this flat, I suspect that there will be plenty of opportunities for us to talk again in the near future.

The Varzob Valley

2010-01-31T01:40:00.000-08:00

Located a short 20-minute drive outside of Dushanbe, the Varzob Valley is a favourite location for expats looking to enjoy a hike. With a new group of friends from VSO, I set out to explore it on a brilliant Sunday afternoon.

NEXT STOP....TAJIKISTAN!!!

2009-12-02T23:54:00.000-08:00

So, the winter season is now here in Bangladesh – the sun is shining and the temperatures are perfect during the day and night. What better time to pack up and move to one of the coldest places on Earth?

Yes, the Canuck Amuck is moving to Tajikistan in the dead of winter (hopefully, that phrase won’t come back to haunt me). And no, Tajikistan is not the country where Borat hails from, so please keep your “Sexy Time” jokes to yourself. Tajikistan is a former Soviet state in Central Asia that is bordered by China to the east, Uzbekistan to the west, Kyrgyzstan to the north and the-country-that-shall-not-be-named-for-fear-of-traumatizing-my-mother to the south.

The reason I’m heading to Tajikistan at the beginning of January is to take on a position with the Children’s Legal Centre, a UK human rights NGO. I will be acting as a Policy Advisor for their Girls’ Support Services project in Tajikistan. The Girls’ Support Service is a nation-wide, multi-purpose support service that responds to the complex needs of girls who have been, or are at risk of being, subject to sexual abuse, exploitation or trafficking in Tajikistan. The project will be delivered over three years (I’m there for one) in 10 regions of Tajikistan, including the capital, Dushanbe, where the centre will be based. The project will be implemented with the Children’s Legal Centre as the lead agency, partnered locally by the Child Rights Centre, and the State Committee on Women and Family Affairs. For more on the Children’s Legal Centre and the Girls’ Support Service project, check out their website at: http://www.childrenslegalcentre.com.

As Policy Advisor, I’ll be leading a Policy Development Team that will focus on developing the legislative and policy framework to embed the Girls’ Support Service into the national child protection system, among other things.

Not sure at this point whether I will continue with the Canuck Amuck blog from the Tajikistan, but if I do decide to write some more tales, I’ll be sure to let you all know. Until then, take care, everyone!

The Way The Fortune Cookie Crumbles

2009-11-07T17:16:00.000-08:00

So much for my career as the next Michael Ondaatje. In June, with the help of my friend, Ron, I submitted an entry to Geist magazine, a Canadian publication focused on writing and photography. The theme of the contest was "fortune cookies" and people were invited to send their best story, poem, rant, etc. that matched this topic. The word limit was capped at 500, but otherwise, there were no restrictions. The list of winners was published this week, and sadly, my name wasn't there. But I hate to let anything go to waste, so, in the green spirit of reusing and recycling, here is my entry:

That’s the Way the Proposal Crumbles

I’m nervous. I reach into my pocket for the tenth time to make sure the ring is still there. “Take it easy, Norman,” I mutter to myself as I walk along East Hastings Street. I know everything will work out perfectly tonight, but the pessimist in me still delights in sowing doubt. As if on cue, a light rain starts to fall, and I hurry to reach Leung’s before the downpour.

Ducking inside the restaurant, the familiar smell of garlic reaches me immediately, and I begin to relax a bit. I had told Amy to meet me here at seven, so I still have plenty of time to check that everything is ready. I speak to the manager on duty, and he assures me that my special surprise has been prepared and will be delivered as planned. He wishes me luck with a wink and motions for one of the waiters to take me to a table by the window. I pass the time watching people dodge the raindrops.

Amy arrives ten minutes later, looking a bit harried from her battle with the rain. I wave at her and she joins me at the table. After commiserating about the weather, we order our food and a bottle of red to celebrate the end of another work week. The meal is delicious, and we get caught up on today’s gossip from our respective offices. We linger over our bottle of wine and debate whether we want dessert. The rain has all but disappeared, so we decide to make a run for it. I ask for the cheque, and it arrives with the customary fortune cookies. The waiter gives me the slightest of nods, and I pass the cookie on the right to Amy. As I pretend to busy myself with getting my wallet out, I keep my eyes on Amy as she opens the cookie and pulls out her fortune. My hand goes into my pocket to retrieve the ring as she reads the message written there. Her brow furrows and she glances up at me. “What the hell kind of fortune is this?” she asks as she passes me the slip of paper. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I take the piece of paper and read the very elegant script:

No man wants to marry you.

I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “Can I borrow a pen, honey?” I ask Amy, whose look of confusion has grown to one of irritation by this time. She hands me the pen impatiently and asks me what I’m going to do. Carefully filling in the missing “r”, I pass the message back to her. As she reads it for a second time, I pull the ring out of my pocket and get down on one knee beside the table. This time, there is no confusion, and she takes a deep breath as I propose to her.

Back to the Bizarre

2009-10-18T02:20:00.000-07:00

Some places deserve a return visit. After our trip to Cox's Bazar in March, Kristel and I thought we likely wouldn't be back for another look. But the opportunity to visit some of YPSA's projects in the area, coupled with the chance to go with our friend, Carrie, who had never been to the Bazar, convinced us to make another trip to the coast. Here are some of the best pictures from our weekend there.

Our trip had a bit of a rocky start. An hour into the journey, the passenger sitting next to Carrie spontaneously erupted and vomited his breakfast all over himself and the floor around him. In order to keep to their timetable, the bus driver and attendant opted to wait until our scheduled stop an hour later to clean up the mess. To keep the smell from causing them to join in on the barf-a-rama, most people opted to cover their noses and hope that our stop was coming up soon.

So much for the welcome mat. I believe the motto for the Bangladeshi Boy Scouts is "Be Prepared.......To Be Obnoxious".

Kristel and Carrie at the beach in Cox's Bazar. Reputed to have the longest sea beach in the world, Cox's Bazar is the holiday destination of choice for many Bangladeshis.

Swimming at Cox's Bazar requires a bit of an adjustment to Western expectations regarding beach wear. In order to respect local custom (and avoid causing a stampede of Bangladeshi men), Kristel and Carrie did what all women here do when they go swimming - they took to the waves with all of their clothes on.

But even fully clothed, two bideshi women swimming in the ocean will always attract more than a little attention. Here, Carrie poses with a few of her admirers, most of whom were far more interested in looking at her than at the camera.

One of our roommates at the guesthouse where we stayed. Though the picture makes it seem rather huge, this gecko was actually smaller than my finger.

On our second day in Cox's Bazar, we set out for the island of Maheskhali, about 6 kilometres off the coast. Our plan for the day was to visit some of YPSA's projects on the island, including a training centre and some of the cyclone shelters that had been built there. To get to the island, we first had to take a somewhat leaky rowboat (whose fragrance suggested that its previous passengers had been recently deceased fish) out to a speedboat that navigated its way out of the harbour and then crashed its way through the open ocean at speeds not seen since Relic hung up his cap on the Beachcombers. While we sat in our smelly dory, we attracted the attention of these kids who were rightly mystified by what we were doing there.

Fishermen unloading their early morning catch at Kastura ghat.

A fishing boat makes its way out of the harbour at Kastura ghat.

Carrie speaking with some of the villagers next to a cyclone shelter. Because Maheskhali is an island, its residents are particularly at risk from cyclones and other severe weather that regularly strike the Bay of Bengal.

A shopkeeper proudly shows off one of his prizes - dried salmon. We decided to pass on buying it from him, fearing it might cause another vomit explosion among our fellow travellers if we took it onboard with us on the return bus to Chittagong.

A New Career?

2009-10-03T20:04:00.000-07:00

My Law School class celebrated its 15th reunion this weekend in Halifax. Since I'm on the other side of the world, the reunion committee kindly asked me to participate by sending a video message to be shared with those who could attend. Have a look at the result. And don't worry, no one was harmed in the making of this video.

Sylhet Slidin' Away

2009-09-24T23:03:00.000-07:00

Uneasy Rider

2009-09-24T00:51:00.000-07:00

In moments of peril, the cliché is that one’s life passes before one’s eyes, but in my case, my only thought was that I was going to end up as the grand prize winner of this year’s Darwin Awards, the annual compendium of stories showcasing people who have died as a result of their own stupidity. Not the sort of internet fame that I had desired, but at least my name was sure to be mentioned at any future reunions of my various alma maters.

There certainly hadn’t been any hint earlier on that danger and a dumb decision would determine the defining moment of the day. In fact, the entire trip to the Sylhet division in the northeastern part of Bangladesh had been remarkable to that point for the lack of stress that usually accompanies a journey to parts unknown. Though the ten-hour bus trip from Chittagong required a start time of 11 pm, the three travelers in our party still managed to sleep through most of the Ramadan messages and Bangla movies broadcast inches over our heads. And the rest stop at 3:30 am for the last meal of the day for our Muslim companions on the bus made for an interesting cultural observance: no matter your background, everyone looks funny when they are jolted from a sound sleep.

The first two days in the city of Sylhet were pleasant enough, though the most memorable part of the experience had to be the overwhelming creepiness of our chosen hotel. Billing itself the East End Hotel, a more appropriate moniker would have been the Dead End. Arriving there at 9 am, we found the place in complete lockdown, a gate drawn across the front entrance and no sign of a welcome mat anywhere. After a couple of phone calls to a number earlier used for making our reservation, a bleary-eyed clerk came to the gate and unlocked it for us. Our concern for the guests who were locked inside the hotel was short-lived, as we soon discovered that we were the only guests favouring this place. Thanks so much for the recommendation, Lonely Planet. After signing us in to a guestbook that required us to share not only our passport numbers but also the lower branches of our family trees, the clerk marched us upstairs to our rooms. “Looks like something out of the Shining,” said Carrie, as we checked the darkened hallways for any sign of dead twins imploring us to come and play with them forever. Unlocking our room, Kristel and I found the charming addition of an equal access peephole drilled through the centre of the door, effectively allowing people to peep into the room as well as out of it. Finding the room clean but shy of the usual amenities such as towels and toilet paper, we approached the clerk and asked for some supplies. “No, I’m sorry, but you asked for rooms with no air-conditioning”, he replied with a rueful shake of his head, “Only air-conditioned rooms get towels and toilet paper.” Hard to argue with that kind of logic. We eventually negotiated for some tp to be brought up to our rooms, but this appeared to be a major concession on the part of the hotel and likely the last one we would be receiving.

After unpacking our bags and admiring the “roses and guitars” motif of our bedspread, we received our first guest, one of the boys from downstairs who appeared to be employed by the hotel as a bellhop, though this designation didn’t actually extend to him helping us with any of our bags. Pointing his finger down, we understood that we were being summoned to the front desk, so Kristel followed him to learn our next bit of good news. Arriving back in the room five minutes later, she shook her head with a laugh and said that we had been asked to pay for our stay in advance so the hotel could afford to pay its electricity bill. The thought of the Dead End plunged into darkness was enough to convince her that this was a worthwhile investment, though she negotiated the advance payment down to cover only one night’s stay, correctly reasoning that paying for a second night would be a bit of a waste if we didn’t survive the first. We also chose to dash the hopes of any would-be Peeping Toms by carefully taping some of our valuable (and stylishly pink) toilet paper over the hole in our door. Apparently, our voyeurs were not so easily dissuaded, however, as we discovered the next morning when we found our stopper pushed back into the room, though thankfully not far enough to uncover the hole. Shudder.

But on to better days. Making the two-hour bus trek south to Srimangal, we found ourselves in the centre of the tea universe for Bangladesh. All of the major national brands have their tea plantations here, so the lush greenery stretches for miles. Having made a reservation at the Nishorgo Eco-Resort, we arrived with a certain amount of trepidation, hoping that our Dead End experience wouldn’t be repeated. Thankfully, we found our cottage to be a gem, a cabin with a thatched roof and all of the modern conveniences, including towels and toilet paper. Settling in for the afternoon, we made our plan for the following day, a visit to the Lowacherra National Park that is walking distance from our doorstep. Heralded as one of the few places to see the subcontinent’s only ape species, the hoolock gibbon, the park was also said to be home to dozens of other mammals and birds, as well as some monstrous insects that would we likely recognize from our flat.

The next morning came with the overcast skies that are common at the end of monsoon season. Hiking into the park, we soon found the headquarters for the local guides and hired one to take us further along the trails cut into the forest. After a short hike in the nearby bush that offered up one curious monkey (not the famed gibbon) and some spiders that paled in comparison to the ones in our bedroom, the guide offered to show us his village down the road. He opened up his home to us, offering us tea and biscuits, and then introduced us to his neighbours. Around this time, the skies started to blacken and the threat of imminent rain began to loom. And this posed a bit of a problem, as we had no way to get back to our cottage. The prospect of walking in a downpour wasn’t an attractive one, especially since it would likely take over an hour to make that hike. So, we turned to our guide for help and he agreed to help us flag down a vehicle. Cue the ominous music.

The threat of rain became a reality, and the skies opened up on us. Finding shelter beneath the canopy of trees, we waited as our guide gamely waved at any vehicles passing by. One early offer came courtesy of a motorbike driver, though the redness of his eyes and his fascination with the chests of Kristel and Carrie made us reluctant to accept a lift from him. Finally, our guide gave us the signal and we scrambled down to the roadside to find our transport – a truck that was already overloaded with people. With no room inside, our only option was to climb on to the roof and take the remaining space at the front. Hopping on to the hood of the truck, we climbed to the roof and greeted our fellow travelers. With barely enough time to get settled, I did manage to find a small rail that ran along the edge of the roof and braced my feet against it. It wouldn’t be enough to stop me from catapulting off the roof if we stopped suddenly, but I gained some solace from knowing there was something between me and the front of the truck. Waving goodbye to our guide and our sanity, we started off down the road.

The rain continued to pelt us as we raced along, its velocity increasing with our own. Soon, whatever vision I started with was lost in the fog of my glasses and the water blurring my sight. Being blind is not terribly comforting when one is perched on the roof of a speeding vehicle. At one point, our truck was forced to stop momentarily due to a jam of buses blocking its path. Though I couldn’t turn around, I could hear Carrie and Kristel behind me, so I knew they were still there. The pause in our trip gave me a chance to release my white-knuckle grip on the rail and shake off some of the rain, though the downpour actually felt worse while we were sitting immobile. Seizing the opportunity, I opened up my umbrella to ward off some of the drops, but my victory was short-lived. Lurching forward suddenly, the truck geared up and sped off again and my umbrella imploded with the force of the wind buffeting us. Not knowing what else to do with it, I held it out in front of me like some kind of lance, a modern-day Don Quixote tilting at imaginary foes. Actually, the blown brolley did serve a purpose, as it fended off the passing low branches of trees that otherwise would have swept me off the truck. Sensing my discomfort with the rain, some of the passengers behind me helpfully extended their tarp over my head and kept pulling it down until I couldn’t see anything at all. Luckily, the oncoming gale soon caught the tarp and turned it into a flapping sail, so I could catch glimpses of the curves in the road before we reached them and guess the proper direction to lean.

After a ten-minute eternity, we spotted our corner and thumped on the roof of the truck to stop and let us off, our shaky legs inventing a new dance step on the hood as we jumped down. We fumbled our way to one of the tea stalls to get out of the rain and were pursued closely by one of the riders from the cab of the truck. It took a minute for us to understand why he was coming after us, but we soon realized that we still hadn’t paid for our trip, so we laughed as we wrung out the proper number of taka notes to give to him. Reliving the thrill ride over cups of calming tea, we marvelled at how we ended up in such a position and our good fortune in surviving our journey. I also made a silent oath to ensure that this experience would forever remain a unique one. The Darwin Award is one trophy I can live without (with the emphasis firmly on “live”).

Amazing DVD Extras

2009-08-31T00:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, the additional features offered by a DVD are even more incredible than the movie itself. See if you can spot the one that caught my eye in the second picture below.

Ramadan

2009-08-31T00:10:00.000-07:00

Dhaka has turned into a ghost town. The normally chaotic traffic, with its cacophony of horns and shouted expletives, has vanished from the streets, leaving behind only a handful of rickshaws to take command of the empty boulevards. The crush of pedestrians competing for space on the sidewalks has also disappeared, much to the relief of Kristel and me, though we soon start longing for the safety offered in numbers as the dusk gives way to night and the shadows consume our path. Hushed conversations that would ordinarily be lost in the din of daily life spring from the candlelit corners of street stalls as we approach them, their occupants offering us greetings that would have gone unnoticed only an hour ago. I check my watch to confirm the time – 7:35 pm. Iftar has already begun - another day of Ramadan has come to a close.

Pretty suspenseful, eh? But before you applaud my audition for the lead in “I Am Legend II”, I should say that the reality of the situation is a bit less dramatic than portrayed, though no less interesting. The holy month of Ramadan began last week, and for the first time, it has my full attention. In Canada, a country that is overwhelmingly Christian in its religious leanings, the most I would ever hear about Ramadan is a passing reference to it on the radio at its beginning and end. Without any contact with the Muslim communities in Toronto or elsewhere, the month never took on much significance for me. Even in Nigeria, where fully half of the country follows the Muslim faith, I heard little about Ramadan, because my community there was predominantly Christian, and the tensions between the two religions didn’t exactly encourage exploration of each other’s beliefs. But in Bangladesh, it’s a very different situation. With over 80% of the population claiming Islam as their religion, the Muslim community here is the fourth largest in the world, so Ramadan is a very big deal indeed.

The ninth month on the Islamic calendar, Ramadan is the time when the Muslim faithful observe complete abstinence from food and drink from dawn until sunset. From the time of the first morning prayer shortly after 5 am to the evening prayer just before 7:30 pm, nothing can be taken, including water. Other practices deemed ill-natured, such as smoking or having impure thoughts, are also forbidden during this time. The principle that the month emphasizes is a reaffirmation of the spirituality, patience and modesty within each Muslim along with their dedication to Allah. Fasting is not the only manifestation of this observance; a greater number of prayers and good deeds are also performed during this month to atone for past sins and ask for forgiveness.

The timing of Ramadan changes if one is to go by the conventional solar calendar, shifting forward about ten days each year. Its exact start is determined in Bangladesh by the first observation of the waxing crescent moon by the Moon Sighting Committee. Weather conditions this year prevented the committee from completing its task for a day or two, resulting in the start of Ramadan being set for August 23rd. The festival of Eid ul-Fitr (or the Festival of Breaking the Fast) marks the end of Ramadan after 29 or 30 days of fasting and is usually a time of celebration with friends and family.

A typical day of observance for Muslims during Ramadan begins with getting up before dawn to eat the meal that needs to sustain them throughout the day. In addition to the regular set of five prayers that occur throughout the day, an emphasis is also placed on reading the entire Qur’an over the course of the month. Of course, regular life doesn’t stop during this time, so people must continue with their work as they would at any other time of the year, although in recognition of Ramadan, businesses often reduce the hours for their employees and shorten the workday from 9:30 am to 4 pm. With the evening prayer complete, those observing the holy month can then take the Iftar meal to break the fast for the day. Shops and other offices will often shut down during this time to accommodate the prayers and the meal, resulting in the calm and quiet that take over the entire country for a short time. Once the prayers and meal have finished, the shops reopen and the bustle of life returns for the evening.

As someone who is not participating in the fasting, I tip my hat to my colleagues who are observing the practice. Fourteen hours without food or water requires an enormous amount of discipline and takes a huge toll on the body. With temperatures in the country hovering around 30 degrees each day, I would find it next to impossible to abstain from drinking water for the better part of each day. Considering the physical nature of the labour that many people perform, it would seem to require a superhuman reserve of strength to get through each day. Exceptions to the fast are permitted where one’s health could be endangered by going without food or water, though these seem to apply more to those who can’t complete the fast due to pregnancy, age, or illness.

Ramadan also has a way of tipping things upside down for the foreigners who live here. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I feel guilty about eating and drinking. Because my office is shared with a colleague who acts as a team leader for one of YPSA’s projects, there is a high amount of traffic from team members and other YPSA staff coming to visit. I often find myself strategically ducking behind my desk to make a fake adjustment to my sandal straps while sneaking a biscuit or cracker at the same time. I feel as though my water bottles should be stored in my desk like an alcoholic’s secret stash of gin. None of this pressure comes from my colleagues, of course, who understand that I’m not fasting and encourage me to behave as I usually would. But one can’t help but feel some remorse over indulging when others can only watch.

Kristel and I have also experienced some bizarre moments that would never take place at any other time of the year. On the first day of Ramadan, we travelled by bus from Chittagong to Dhaka. The journey is a relatively long one, averaging about six hours, so the norm for the bus companies is to make a pit stop at one of the roadside restaurant and shopping complexes halfway through the trip. Usually, everyone on the bus makes use of the facilities before heading to the restaurant for a meal, so Kristel and I did the same. This time, though, we looked around and saw all of our fellow travelers returning to the bus without entering the restaurant. We hesitated outside the restaurant, knowing that the entire bus would be waiting for us to have our meal and likely grumbling about our lack of consideration. Seeing our indecision, the restaurant staff came out and pleaded with us to enter, knowing we would be their only business from that bus. Wanting to avoid the label of “bastard bideshis” while still needing to eat something, we arrived at a compromise and smuggled a tin of Pringles on to the bus and crunched as quietly as possible as the bus rolled on to Dhaka.

As the month of Ramadan continues, we expect to experience more moments like this, as the basic needs of food and water continue to compete with the higher needs expressed by the Muslim religion.

Tarantino Bollywood

2009-08-19T07:35:00.000-07:00

The most fun I’ve ever had at the movies was in 1996 at the Ridge Theatre in Vancouver. The Ridge was one of the grand old theatres in town, long ago losing the battle for box office to the newer and flashier multiplexes in the downtown core. Reborn as a rep cinema, it primarily showed recent second-run movies but occasionally dug deeper into its vaults for twin bills of classic films. Usually, the two films had something in common, a shared director or star. Woody Allen was a mainstay, Stanley Kubrick made his regular appearances. On this night, however, the films only could claim a common genre between them – Science Fiction. And not just any Science Fiction, but the most beloved of cult films ever to make it to celluloid. The late feature was “Blade Runner”, Ridley Scott’s bleak vision of a dystopian future. But the real attraction of the evening for me was the early show, an original print of “The Planet of the Apes”. I had long heard that this film was a treat, not to be missed for reasons both good and bad, so the chance to see it for the first time on the big screen was irresistible.

From the opening credits, I knew this night would be memorable. Planet of the Apes had its debut in 1968, which meant that the print we were watching was older than me. It had not aged gracefully. The screen showed a spider’s web of scratches on the film and the soundtrack was ear-splittingly loud. On regular occasions, one scene would abruptly stop and jump to the next, betraying the splice that had been needed to keep the tattered film in one piece. And the crowd loved it. They howled with laughter at each wobble of the film, expecting it to burst into flame at any second. It was as if we knew that this might be the last time this particular reel would ever be seen. And of course, the action onscreen only added to the cheesiness of the experience. Charlton Heston swaggered his way through the entire film, chewing the scenery with such gusto that the talking apes became mere bystanders to his performance. The signature lines of the film drew loud cheers, not for their poignancy, but for their incredibly hammy delivery. When Heston hissed “Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!”, the audience almost gave him a standing ovation. It was a great night at the movies, never to be repeated.

Or so I thought.

On a recent trip to Bandarban, Kristel and I happened upon the town’s lone cinema on one of the back streets. Posters decorating the front of the theatre advertised the current feature and promised a pleasant afternoon matinee filled with romance, intrigue and death from sharp objects. The two blood-soaked central figures appeared to be locked in a struggle for control of a battleaxe last used by Braveheart. A supporting cast seemed equally tense, brandishing swords and scythes coated bright red to emphasize their recent nastiness. Not exactly what I would consider a great date movie, but Kristel was enthusiastic about giving it a try, having already experienced Bangladeshi cinema on a recent trip to Jessore. As we stood there staring at the posters and taking pictures of them for posterity, the usual crowd of local people began to gather around us. One fellow pointed at the poster and asked whether I would be going to see it. When I asked him whether it was any good, he nodded enthusiastically and gave a big smile to reinforce his recommendation. “This film, it’s called ‘Killer Biya’”, he said, pointing at the title. I had to check that I had heard him correctly, thinking he might have been saying “Kill Bill”, the Tarantino movie from a few years ago. But it appeared that this movie didn’t share the same title as its American cousin, only a similar appreciation for bloody mayhem. With the dark skies threatening to deliver on the promise of the monsoon season, we decided that an hour or two indoors was time well spent, so we made our way to the ticket counter, where I generously offered to pay for both of our 40-cent tickets. As we took our tickets, a bell rang inside the theatre to indicate the start of the next showing, so we hustled inside past the crowd of onlookers who were clearly amused and somewhat mystified by our interest in a Bangla movie.

Entering the theatre, we started toward the main floor entrance, only to be directed upstairs. Apparently, our more expensive tickets entitled us to the deluxe seating that was only available in the balcony. The chairs were reminiscent of the Ridge, beaten up from years of use but not uncomfortable. Looking over the edge of the balcony, we could see that the cheap seats below consisted of wooden benches arranged for maximum occupancy. As we took our seats, we looked around the mostly empty balcony and returned the friendly stares of our fellow theatre-goers. All of them were men, and whether this was a comment on the movie or of cinema attendance generally was difficult to tell. In any event, we had arrived just in time to enjoy the commercials preceding the main feature. Actually, there was only one commercial that was repeated a couple of times, a musical number that seemed to be promoting a certain brand of rickshaw tires. The familiar hum and pop of feedback that followed signaled the start of the star attraction for the afternoon.

At least, we think it was the start. Skipping over the opening credits, the movie jumped to the main storyline, which centred on the main character solving his community’s problems. His wisdom and fairness had apparently earned him a place of great standing among his peers, signified by his use of a small outdoor stage and a big blue throne that would do Papa Smurf proud. As he sat on his throne, his fellow townspeople would approach him and tell their tales of woe, to which he would make thoughtful humming noises as he pondered a solution. I found myself pondering his magnificent hair, which surely ranked with that of Steve McGarrett of Hawaii Five-O as the most impervious hairdo ever captured on film. A hurricane wouldn’t budge a hair on this man’s head. Once the problem had been described, he dispensed his answer without hesitation in a rich, sonorous voice that Barry White would envy, and there would be much relief and gratitude expressed.

Of course, sometimes a man of great wisdom must prove himself to be a man of great kung fu talents as well, so the film regularly showed our hero getting off his throne to battle the various evil-doers in his community. Without ever disturbing his hair, I might add. His martial arts skills were impressive, as his kicks to the chest caused his opponents to fly through the air in slow motion with echoing clanging sounds. One particular move I admired was his method of grabbing his foe by the bottom teeth and spinning him over his head before casting him aside to land in a defeated heap. Bruce Lee, eat your heart out.

To maintain the dramatic tension of the film, our hero was matched against a nemesis who was nearly his equal in cunning and hairstyle. Leading a small gang of thugs, the criminal terrorized the populace through regular use of his trusty battleaxe, swinging it to decapitate or to maim, depending on his mood. If he was ever caught without his axe, he always managed to find it, at one point opening the hood of his car to grab his craftily stored weapon. His evil deeds were sometimes accentuated by the use of special effects, as the movie would reverse its exposure at critical moments, like the negative of a strip of film. At least, I think this was done on purpose. The villain would regularly come into contact with our hero, but aside from some slow motion glares, there was little fighting between the two. But make no mistake, there would be some climatic ass-kicking to come.

But an epic film such as this one wouldn't allow itself to be defined by senseless brutality. It must have dance sequences! So, after a particularly gruesome beheading or mass killing, the film would cut away to concentrate on two minor characters who were obviously madly in love with each other. The two would be walking along, hand in hand, and one would take the opportunity to start singing. And…..cue the music! Soon, the two were joined by various bystanders in performing more or less synchronized dance moves, which would have been impressive had the dancing not resembled that of a drunken wedding guest. As it was, the pelvic thrusts were so exaggerated that I feared someone might pull a lower back muscle. These sequences proved quite popular with our fellow audience members, though, as they seemed to enjoy the sexually charged nature of the dancing. Perhaps a little too much. At the end of one such scene, someone a few rows behind us let out a loud “Aaaaaah” which I hoped wasn’t as relieved as it sounded.

After another hour or so of dancing and decapitating, the movie reached its critical final scene. Our hero had raced to protect a family who were being menaced by you-know-who. Somehow managing to put them on a train to safety while single-handedly (and footedly) holding off five of the attackers, he turned now to take on the bad guys. And was promptly stabbed and killed. Hmmm, I must admit, I didn’t see that coming. A bit of a downer of an ending, but….Wait! It’s not the end! As it turns out, our hero has sired a son who will inherit the mantle of community saviour and will now take on……

I looked at Kristel and asked, “Are you ready to go?” and received a nod in return. We gathered up our things and fumbled our way out of the balcony, past the surprised looks of the rest of the audience who couldn’t believe that we weren’t staying for the sequel. As we left the theatre, we squinted at the daylight still remaining and experienced that sense of momentary imbalance that comes with reentry into the real world. Grateful that we weren’t being set upon by axe murderers or gyrating dancers, we walked back to our hotel and recalled our favourite moments from the film. Though it’s unlikely to achieve the same enduring popularity that Planet of the Apes has enjoyed, Killer Biya still made for a cinematic experience that I likely won’t ever forget. No matter how hard I try.

Khagrachari

2009-08-15T18:13:00.000-07:00

I Dream of Ronald Reagan

2009-08-07T01:52:00.000-07:00

As with many developing countries, the threat of malaria in Bangladesh is a very real danger to the people who live here, though the malarial zones in this country are smaller than in other countries afflicted with the disease. Carried by mosquitoes, the effects of malaria can range from flu-like symptoms to much more severe consequences, including the onset of coma and death. Volunteers posted to these countries have no inherent immunity to the disease and are just as likely to develop malaria as anyone else who lives here without the proper prevention being in place. For most of us, this means taking one of the antimalarial drugs prescribed as prophylaxes for the prevention of the onset of the disease. Each of these drugs has side effects that differ in severity and kind from person to person. The widely-prescribed doxycycline can burn one’s throat, damage the liver or cause an over-sensitivity to the sun, a rather regrettable side effect in sub-Saharan Africa. Malarone has been touted as an effective alternative with few side effects, but the cost of the drug, combined with a required daily dosage, makes it unattractive for agencies responsible for providing the drugs to a large number of long-term volunteers. This leaves Lariam, or mefloquine, as the remaining alternative for people at risk of contracting malaria. But as many people have discovered, the effects of the drug can be almost as dangerous as the disease it’s meant to prevent.

The warning posted in the VSO Health Handbook provides a clue as to the particular risks invited by taking Lariam:

People with a history of epilepsy, cardiac arrhythmias, anxiety, depression or other psychiatric problems, or those who have not reacted well to it in the past, should NOT take mefloquine.

Common side effects listed include stomach upset, insomnia, dizziness, vivid dreams and anxiety or depression.

An assurance is included at the bottom of the section that any side effects that do occur are usually “transient and tolerable”.

Well, I guess that all depends on your love of giant insects. Having spoken with a few volunteers in Nigeria about the side effects they experienced from Lariam, some listed hallucinations so severe that they decided the risks posed by malaria were preferable to the mind warp that Lariam induced. One described the sensation of having something crawling on her leg and looking down to find a monstrous maggot the size of a terrier coming up to greet her. Another volunteer had regular visits at night from a ghostly figure sitting at the foot of her bed, an annoyance for sure, especially if the damn thing can’t carry on a decent conversation.

And me? I have Ronald Reagan.

I’ve been taking Lariam for the last eighteen months, and I can happily report that I’ve been one of the lucky ones who haven’t suffered severe psychotic episodes as a result of taking the drug. But this doesn’t mean that I haven’t been affected by my weekly dosage. The most significant side effect has been its impact on my dreams, which have been elevated from pleasant distractions to something approaching performance art.

On most occasions, the dreams are innocuous, though they do bear the worrisome hint of underlying insanity. My afternoon with Ronald Reagan is a good example. Now, I must admit, growing up in the 1980s, I was a fan of the President, being at that young and impressionable age where his charm and personality meant more than a careful consideration of his policies. But since he left office twenty years ago, I can’t say that he has occupied my mind. So, I’m at a loss when it comes to explaining why I chose to dream about spending a few hours with Ron and his family. The selection of appetizers we enjoyed was impressive, as Nancy had ordered in quite a spread, but the mood in the Reagan home was anything but buoyant, as Ron had just lost his bid for re-election. In real life, of course, Reagan had rolled over Mondale to gain another four years in the Oval Office. My dreams may be vivid, but they do take artistic liberties. Despite my best efforts to console him, Reagan remained downcast throughout the afternoon. Things didn’t improve when George Bush (Senior, not Dubya) called the house to offer his condolences and complained to Reagan that I answered the phone by saying “Hello, this is the Kennedy household”. (For the record, I said no such thing.) Somewhat soured by the Bush accusation, Reagan banished me to the kitchen, where I took solace in drinking all of their filtered water. Maybe it was all of that water, but I woke up then with an overwhelming need to pee, so I didn’t find out whether Reagan and I were able to patch things up. And I guess I never will.

The dreams sometimes drift into nightmares, and even these have proven to be entertaining. One night, I became convinced that our bedroom had been invaded by rats that were now targeting our bed. Feeling one of the nasty beasties brush my arm, I snapped awake and jumped up in the bed. Making a break for it, I found my escape blocked by the mosquito net, so I began madly pawing at it to find an opening. Meanwhile, the rustling behind increased, so I knew the rats were right behind me. With a flashlight, no less. “What are you doing?” Kristel asked, and I spun around to look at her with a wild wide-eyed look that was likely equal parts frightening and hilarious. I collapsed on the bed in relief and tried to explain, in the nicest way possible, how I had mistaken her for a pack of vermin. Luckily, she was still laughing too hard at my deer-in-the-headlights impression to be offended or banish me to the sofa.

Providing the side effects of the Lariam never go beyond these Presidential dreams and rodential nightmares, I’ll consider myself lucky and keep taking the drug. But the night that I wake up to find Reagan and Bush in bed with me is the night that I flush those damn pills down the toilet and take my chances with the mosquitoes.

Maturity Test

2009-08-07T01:35:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, the test for maturity was defined as being able to listen to the entire William Tell Overture without once thinking of the Lone Ranger.

Here's a test that is even more successful in determining maturity. Kristel and I came across this mistake in a restaurant menu in Bandarban. If you can read the typo below without cracking a smile, congratulations. You are a serious, sober-minded and mature person. If, on the other hand, the misprint causes you to laugh and shoot water out of your nose, well, then you're like me.

How did you do?

Suprem Bliss Full Filled Buddha Dhatu Ceti

2009-08-01T04:37:00.000-07:00

Bangladesh on Five Dollars a Day

2009-07-27T02:50:00.000-07:00

As part of its annual check of the monthly living allowances paid to volunteers, the VSO office in Dhaka asked us to go shopping. Or more properly, to go snooping. Armed with a checklist of items that are supposed to sustain a volunteer for a month, Kristel and I visited our local supermarket to confirm whether the allowance would cover the cost of the goods. Reading through the list of groceries allowed, I was dismayed to find none of my favoured staples. Where were the Pringles? Where were the Mars bars? Madly searching through the inventory for any sign of processed sugar, I could find only a listing for 500 grams of dried beans, which thankfully left itself open to creative interpretation, since the jelly beans I’ve eaten have always been dry. Other items seemed to promote some kind of insidious California-hippie-granola-cult agenda, the most striking of which was the extravagant allotment of ninety pieces of fruit for the month. Ninety pieces! The last people to eat ninety pieces of fruit in a month were Robinson Crusoe and Gilligan. If I ate that much fruit, I might as well move my desk into the washroom, since I’d be spending most of the day in there anyway. Pointing out the amount to Kristel, I laughed and shook my head in disbelief. “Well, that sounds about right,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. Apple eaters. They all stick together.

Walking around the Wellmart, we carefully checked each item on the list and scribbled the price down, trying to avoid attracting too much attention to ourselves. This is not as easy as it may sound, since the supermarkets employ small armies of employees to watch the customers as they shop. We established ourselves as legitimate shoppers by putting a few items in our basket and feigned indecision over the other eighty that we checked and ultimately returned to the shelves. I was convinced that we would soon be discovered and accused of being spies from the Meena Bazaar around the corner, so I distracted the Wellmarters from Kristel’s list by transferring the goods from our basket to a shopping cart nearby. The shopping carts themselves are a bit of a distraction. For some unknown reason, the carts seem to have been designed for toddlers – not to carry them, but to get them to push. Most that I’ve seen are barely three feet high and hold a maximum of six items or one jumbo box of Corn Flakes. Pushing such a cart either requires walking on one’s knees or moving it with one’s groin, neither of which is that comfortable. Personal pride kept me from resorting to them in the past, even though the store employees helpfully pushed empty ones at me like they were laying down some kind of shopping gauntlet. I would cheerfully brush them aside while secretly straining under the collection of baskets attached to my arms. On this day, however, I embraced the cart for the sake of a diversion, even jockeying for control of the aisle against some punk five-year-old pushing a rival cart. With our snooping list complete, we purchased the six items in our cart and waved goodbye to the Wellmart brigade.

The completion of the price list for the goods did underscore the cost of living issues faced by volunteers in Bangladesh. Volunteers currently earn a monthly allowance of 10,400 taka per month, which translates to a little over $160 Canadian ($150 US or slightly more than 100 Euros). Breaking that number down further, our daily take is about five dollars per day, or about what I used to spend on a Venti Hazelnut Latte at Starbucks. No complaints about the amount – after all, we all understood before we came to Bangladesh that we were coming here to volunteer, not to save for our retirement. But Kristel and I have found that surviving on the monthly allowance does require an adjustment to one’s buying patterns.

As it was in Nigeria, the mantra for the volunteer is “Buy Local”. Whether it’s buying fruit and vegetables from the street vendors or frequenting the neighbourhood barber shop, the goods and services produced here are very affordable. An armful of cucumbers, potatoes, carrots and eggplant will rarely set one back more than two hundred taka, and this is enough food to feed two people for a couple of days. The wise person chooses to do his or her shopping this way, buying for only the immediate future, as the heat and humidity are not kind to perishables. So, if one chose to stick entirely to the VSO list of recommended purchases, living within the allowance provided would be a fairly easy task. But when it comes to buying imported goods, I’m with Oscar Wilde: I can resist everything but temptation. And the temptation in Bangladesh is much greater than it was in Nigeria. There, it was quite easy to avoid the imports, because in my village, they simply didn’t exist. Buying a jar of Nutella meant a two-hour drive to the nearest city, and my hankering for chocolate often lost out to my laziness. But living in Chittagong is a different story. Though we still rely on the local vendors for our supply of fresh goods, Kristel and I have now found ourselves getting regular fixes of foreign goods from the Wellmart, and this is hell on the food budget. Though some items are so ridiculously overpriced as to inspire a kind of awe ($11 for a box of Rice Krispies comes to mind), others exist in that grey zone between luxury and affordability, resulting in a rather tormented trip through the cookie aisle. In the end, we’ve reached comfortable compromises in most cases, or maybe I should call them comfort food compromises. Wherever possible, we continue to buy locally produced treats, balancing them with a Toblerone or Twix on a regular basis. The Price Krispies? They can stay on the shelf.

Of course, some perspective is called for in all of this – the kind that comes from living in a country like Bangladesh. Though the living allowance we’re earning is a paltry amount by Western standards, it represents an absolute fortune to most Bangladeshis. A recent account of wages in Bangladesh estimates that 40 per cent of the 150 million people who live here get by on less than $1 per day. When that number is increased to $2 per day, the percentage jumps to an astonishing 84 per cent of the population – that’s close to 130 million people. Numbers like that boggle the mind. In real terms, this means that many of the local goods that we depend on to save money are out of reach for many Bangladeshis; these are the luxury items to them. So, while we volunteers may lament the items that we have to forego while we’re here, any sacrifices we may congratulate ourselves for pale in comparison to what the vast majority of Bangladeshis never get to enjoy in the first place. As for me, I likely won’t stop missing my Cheerios, but I hope I’ll continue to appreciate that my standard of living here is really nothing to bemoan.

Dirty Old Bideshi

2009-07-19T20:52:00.000-07:00

The pirated movie industry is alive and well in Bangladesh. Though the country boasts a respectable number of legitimate theatres, the features shown are quite outdated, though the lure of the big screen does pull in its share of faithful cineastes. After our experience in Nigeria, where the capital city could claim only one multiplex (and that closed down within months of our arrival), Kristel and I were eager to check out the new theatre complex in Dhaka that some of our fellow volunteers had raved about. Located at the top of the swanky Bashundhara City shopping centre, the theatres were said to be state of the art when it came to their seating, sound and screen. Somewhat desperate for a cinema fix, we made our way to the top floor of the mall, thankfully untouched by a recent disastrous fire that destroyed a number of other shops and offices in one of the nearby towers. We found the theatre in the corner, and I eagerly grabbed one of the playbills to see what was being shown. And the feature attraction for the week was……Rambo IV. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said, my hopes for a decent movie dashed by Sylvester Stallone’s last gasp at cinematic glory. Sensing my disappointment, Kristel looked at the playbill and said, “Well, it might be OK”. Given her abhorrence of mindless movie mayhem, this likely ranks as the most unlikely endorsement in the history of film. Looking at the posters for the Coming Attractions, our gloom deepened, as the parade of films on the way included such masterpieces as “Rush Hour III” and “Dragon Wars”. With my lip in full pout mode, we left the theatre behind, slowly descending by escalator to find solace in the pirated movie shops three floors below.

As in Nigeria, these shops offer discs with multiple movies on a single DVD. Though I’ve yet to see the extravagant claims of “80 in 1” that were common in Nigeria, the discs on display usually average six movies linked by a common theme, though this design is sometimes sacrificed in favour of filling up the DVD. Since there have only been five of the blood-soaked “Saw” horror films, for example, the remaining spot was reserved for the Charlize Theron flick “Monster”, presumably because the title promised something equally gruesome. The DVD pirates will go to any length to promote their disc, resulting in some slight exaggerations. The Cate Blanchett film “Elizabeth” was touted as having won 71 Oscars and 56 Golden Globe Awards, a rather remarkable tally that would have meant it had swept every award for the past three years. The pirates also seem to assume that no one really bothers to read the copy used to describe the movies, as they are willing to put anything on the reverse of the package. The best descriptions have been those taken directly from the internet, sometimes from ordinary filmgoers who were disgusted with the movie. It’s not often that a film gets promoted as “the worst piece of garbage I’ve ever seen”. The text can also sometimes prove to be educational as well. I learned quite a bit from reading the plot of Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night”, though it had nothing to do with the movie it accompanied, except maybe that both were produced in Britain.

The emphasis in the pirated movie industry is on speed; a film in theatres today should mean that the DVD is available next week. And for the more popular titles, this is exactly what happens. The summer blockbusters currently raking in the dollars at the box office in North America are already on sale in Chittagong. In some cases, the pirates are the equal of the Hollywood distributors. On one occasion, I saw a film being offered in my local version of Blockbuster that I had never heard of before. Later on, I clicked on the Globe and Mail’s website and found the same movie being released in Toronto theatres on that same day. Of course, a few things end up getting surrendered in this race to the market, like quality and functionality. It’s not unusual to have a film interrupted by someone standing up in front of the video camera that has been smuggled into the theatre. And subtitles are often equally suspicious, as when one character shoots another and exclaims, “I got you, you son who has intimacy with his mother!!!”

The sheer volume of DVDs available in these stores can lead to some interesting misunderstandings. On a recent trip to my Blockbuster, I asked the clerk if he could show me their collection of discs with six movies on them. Expecting him to produce the usual box with hundreds of the most popular titles, he instead gave me a nod and reached behind him for a plain paper bag with a few dozen discs in it. Somewhat confused, I looked inside the bag and found a fine assortment of pornographic DVDs. Eager to make the sale, the clerk spread the discs all over the counter and pointed out the most popular ones. Quickly looking around to see if anyone else was watching us, I waved him off and said, “No! No! I don’t want these. I want regular movies.” Since his command of English was a little shaky, he interpreted this to mean that I found these movies too tame, so he grabbed another basket with even raunchier discs to show me. Soon, there was a collect of porn on display that would rival the back pages of Hustler. Other customers had drifted into the shop by now, so I protested even more loudly and gestured somewhat frantically in the direction of the latest Star Trek film. I was sure at this point that the Bangladeshi vice squad had already been called, so I quickly helped the clerk pack up the pornos and put them back behind the counter. “Six movies, not sex movies!” I exclaimed, but the bewildered clerk had already given up on me and gone to find someone else to help this picky pervert. Quickly doing a mental check on my Bangla vocabulary, I greeted the next clerk by counting on my fingers until I reached six, and he nodded his head and reached for the correct box of mainstream movies. The first clerk appeared soon after and I repeated the counting exercise in an effort to prove that I wasn’t a dirty old bideshi. He acknowledged the miscommunication with a laugh and a repeated “Sorry”, though I could see in his eyes that he still harboured some suspicions about my particular peccadilloes.

Though these discs suffer from dubious technical quality that often render them unwatchable, their unbeatable prices and speed to market ensure that the Bangladeshi public will continue to make the pirated movie industry a booming one here. And I look forward to continuing to see the inventive packages offered by the local video shops. Providing I dare to show my face in there again, that is.

In the News

2009-07-13T01:00:00.000-07:00

In an effort to gain some publicity regarding the rapid deforestation in the Sitakunda area outside of Chittagong, YPSA and other concerned groups staged a human chain in Chittagong yesterday. Some estimates place the number of trees cut down at 20,000 in just one week. The picture above appeared today in The Independent newspaper, one of the national papers for Bangladesh.

The Lost Weekend

2009-07-11T15:05:00.000-07:00

The concept of the weekend is ingrained in us from the time we set foot in our first kindergarten class. Five days a week, you might be working for The Man (or Woman), but come closing time on Friday, yabba-dabba-doo. It’s a five o’clock world when the whistle blows. No one owns a piece of my time. Everybody’s workin' for the weekend. Everybody wants a new romance. Saturday mornings with Scooby Doo and a full bowl of Cap’n Crunch give way to Saturday mornings erased by Friday nights at the pub turning into Saturday mornings ruled by soccer hockey ballet practice for the kids. Golf games and barbeques. Brunch dates and the Sunday Star Sun Times Herald. The Wonderful World of Disney with an encore by the Beachcombers. And then it’s Monday again.

For many people, this kind of ideal weekend went out with bowler hats and being able to smoke at your desk. Computer connectivity means user reachability. Proposal deadlines don’t have children and emails never sleep. Switch off that cellphone at your peril. Weekends or weekthatneverends – take your pick, but get that report to me by Monday morning.

But still…….

There’s something sacrosanct about the idea of the weekend. Even if it gets sacrificed on a regular basis to appease the God of Industry, the weekend usually represents a break from the norm. Office work without the office. A commuted commute. We continue to value the notion of the weekend even while reducing it to tatters in practice. If anyone were to tell us that our weekends were due to be cancelled, we’d protest their elimination – a Day of Unrest for the Day of Rest! – and when they were finally ended, we’d mourn our loss.

But maybe I’m just grumpy about being in the office on a Saturday. In Bangladesh, the workweek is quite different from the norm in the West. In observance of the Muslim holy day, Friday is the only day that all offices in the country close. For the most part, stores and other businesses follow suit, although it seems that most of the larger supermarkets buck the trend and remain open, looking to capitalize on the narrow shopping window of those who must buy their groceries on their one free day.

If the nation stands united in choosing Friday as the one day of rest, it becomes a bit more fractured when the discussion turns to Saturday. For some organizations, particularly those with a connection to international parents, Saturday is also an observed day off, but many others refuse to recognize a second day of rest. For many people, then, the weekend begins and ends on Friday and a six-day workweek is the norm. This demanding schedule produces a considerable amount of strain, especially on women who work outside the home. More than one colleague has complained that the single day off amounts to another day of work, albeit of a different kind. When one is faced with doing the household chores and shopping for the week in addition to entertaining visitors who only have the one day to pay a call, there really isn’t much rest to be had. The alternative is to spread the chores throughout the week and preserve some time off on the Friday, but after a demanding day at the office, this is also an unattractive option.

The schedule can also be somewhat disorienting, especially for an organization with a donor in the West whose weekend remains defined as Saturday and Sunday. The effect is to cause the two to be out of synch for three days out of each week due to their respective office closures, resulting in delays and inefficiency in getting the work done. Unfortunately, as is often the case, if there is a sacrifice to be made, it’s the recipient organization that is called upon to make it, so it’s not unusual to see my colleagues working on their only day off in order to meet a deadline set by their donors.

For a Westerner working in Bangladesh, the effect is also somewhat confusing. Almost six months into our stay here, our minds have yet to adjust to the notion that Saturday and Sunday are regular days at the office, so we tend to lose track of where we are in the week. And just as the office is out of touch with its donors for three days, we also lose contact with friends and family back home for those days. The result is what I call the dreaded “Dead Zone” for emails from people in Canada and elsewhere outside of Bangladesh. With the time difference of ten to fourteen hours between here and Canada, there is little news to be had for three solid days, from Saturday morning through to Monday night. The reason is that just as we “borrow” from company time for personal emails here, so too do most people back home, so out of office means out of touch. This wasn’t as much of an issue for Kristel and me when we lived in Nigeria, because that country kept the same weekend as the West and we were also away from our offices for the same period of time, but here, an empty inbox for three days in the office can be rather dispiriting, especially when one needs a friendly message to lighten an uninspired day.

How things have changed for the overseas worker! Fifteen years ago, email was in its infancy and most countries in the developing world would have been unable to offer any connection at all. Letters and packages would have been the only means of communication, aside from outrageously expensive (and unreliable) telephone calls. I can’t imagine how VSO volunteers coped back then, but I guess it’s difficult to miss instant communication when it doesn’t exist yet. And that’s the interesting thing. Just as deadlines for proposals and reports have shrunk with the availability of technology, so too has the tolerance for being out of touch with people far away. Where once it may have been acceptable in an overseas posting to receive word from someone once every few months, it now has become the norm to expect a response as quickly as if the person is living in the same city. Those in charge of organizations such as VSO must worry about this retreat into technology for its workers and the impact it has on their level of immersion in the cultures they’re visiting. Given the choice between spending one’s time on Skype with friends and family and visiting one’s colleagues in a new country, most people would likely choose the familiar over the unknown. That’s human nature. So, technology has provided a new level of comfort at the expense of integration, with the result that volunteers are likely less lonely and more lonely at the same time.

Whoops! Nice digression there. Getting back to my rant about the six-day workweek, we’ve also found that the longer week has put a serious crimp in our exploration of the country. In Nigeria, it was relatively easy to travel to most parts of the country over the course of a weekend (providing “the weekend” included a generous portion of Friday afternoon as well). Volunteers regularly visited each other in their placements to celebrate birthdays, farewells and other significant events. The same can’t be said for Bangladesh, partly because of the limited time available for travel and partly because half of the volunteers in the country are located in one place, Dhaka. Though Chittagong offers a respectable amount of diversions, the need to escape the city is still felt on a regular basis. Our recent trip to Malumghat for Kristel’s birthday was a welcome break, but it necessitated a dip into our vacation days to make it a “true” weekend.

Bah, humbug. I guess I am grumpy. Compared to the strains felt by our colleagues in trying to balance family and work over the course of a six-day workweek, the complaints that we have are minor at best and are manageable for the limited time that we have here. But it has underlined for us the importance of the weekend, and I expect we won’t soon take it for granted when we finally return (or move on) to a country with a two-day break.

We've Got the Power

2009-07-04T03:38:00.001-07:00

If I could pass along only one piece of advice to new VSO volunteers, it would be this: never walk into a dark room in your bare feet. Darkness acts as an invitation for all of the critters previously in hiding to come out and play, so the potential for stepping on one of them tends to increase exponentially when night falls. I haven’t actually felt the sensation of a cockroach between my toes yet, but I’ve come close enough on a few occasions that my flip-flops are now mandatory footwear whenever I’m in our flat.

But this isn’t meant to be a continuation of the previous blog entry’s lament about the various pests that share our flat. Rather, it’s meant to highlight the importance of having a reliable power supply to shine a light in the darkness to thwart the invasion, if only momentarily. In Nigeria, the supply of electricity was notoriously bad, and I essentially lived a year under lantern light. Power in my village would be available so infrequently that days would pass without any sign of its sustained viability, so its sudden appearance was a cause for celebration, like the greeting of a visitor too long absent from the home. In Bangladesh, the situation is an improvement over those days, but it’s still far from perfect.

The demand for electricity here regularly outstrips supply, with the result being the practice of load-shedding at various points during the day. Load-shedding is the euphemism given to planned blackouts, and it is a necessary evil to level demand and supply. Depending on where one is in the country, the number and length of these blackouts vary. Certain neighbourhoods in Dhaka may lose power three or four times per day for an hour or two. Once one is outside of the capital city, the situation generally gets worse. In Chittagong, electricity tends to be cut at least four or five times per day and the outages usually last two hours or more. Compared to Nigeria, this is a somewhat more tolerable position to be in, if only because the power makes a welcome appearance during the course of each day. But this glass-half-full view of the crisis is not surprisingly uncommon among our colleagues.

In an effort to combat the problem, the newly elected government has recently taken the rather drastic step of changing the clocks for the first time in Bangladesh’s history. The use of Daylight Saving Time is such a common practice in most parts of Canada that it’s taken for granted that the clocks will be moved forward at some point in the Spring. For most people, the extra hour of daylight makes for a pleasant addition to a summer’s evening. In Bangladesh, the hope was that the added hour would encourage people to delay flipping the switch to turn on their lights, thereby saving some strain on the system. Asking people to change their clocks for the first time in their lives is no small matter, and the discussions with the public leading up to the planned event on June 20th were fascinating. People were understandably confused about the idea that one hour could simply vanish from their day, only to reappear months later. The pessimist in me was anticipating a disaster on June 20th, but to the credit of the government, the changeover happened without major incident. Unfortunately, early reports indicate that it also has had little impact on power consumption, and the rolling blackouts continue as before.

The reason for this seems to be that the demand for power is driven not so much by the need for light as for other things, such as air conditioners and fans, and these are not as dependent on the light of day. Kristel and I can testify to this fact. The disappearance of light is troublesome, but it can be replaced with lanterns or flashlights as needed. It’s the absence of fans that makes life miserable. The heat wave of the past two months has been unlike anything that we’ve experienced before, so a power cut was always met with a groan, especially in the middle of the night, because we knew the temperature would soon skyrocket in the flat. As a result, we began to address the problem in the best way we could – by wearing as few clothes as possible. Stripping down to our underwear before sitting down to dinner became so routine that one would think we were living at the Playboy Mansion. We took care to draw the curtains to avoid scandalizing our neighbours, but any glimpses they may have been able to take before the drapes were drawn likely confirmed in their minds that all Westerners are shameless Dionysians.

Sadly, our life in the flat was nowhere near as decadent as our neighbours might have imagined. In fact, the combination of sleepless nights and constant sweating had reduced us to a pair of smelly zombies (as opposed to the fragrant ones, I suppose) by the end of April. With the prospect of another two months of heat before the start of the monsoon season in June, we knew the chances of one or both of us snapping were quite high. Since a straitjacket would likely be frowned upon as inappropriate office attire, we decided to take action. We pooled our first quarterly payments from VSO and invested in an Independent Power Supply or IPS. And the impact it has had on our lives has been nothing short of transformational.

The IPS is a backup power supply that is the size of a car battery. It’s designed to turn on as soon as the main power switches off, so it becomes the primary power source in the event of a blackout. When the main power is on, it uses the existing electricity to charge itself. Though it’s not large enough to supply electricity to the entire flat, it does have enough juice to keep the fans and lights on in three rooms until the main power returns. To put it simply, it’s the most brilliant investment I’ve ever made, which perhaps isn’t saying much, since my retirement portfolio is largely dependent on my anticipated earnings from the Lotto 6/49. But nevertheless, it has made a huge difference for us. When the power fails now, the changeover is almost instantaneous and we barely notice the switch. We do tend to shut off more lights and hunker down in one room to conserve the power in the IPS, but that’s a very small inconvenience. And we can now sleep through the night, thus preserving our relationship and sanity.

If there’s any kind of a drawback to this newfound power independence, it’s that we’ve become addicted to our IPS. We’re heat weaklings now. An upcoming trip to Dhaka for VSO training presented us with a level of anxiety we hadn’t known before, as the possibility of staying in the VSO visitor flat where (Gasp!) the fans sometimes stop running, made us reconsider whether we really needed to learn anything new ever again. We eventually relented and made the journey, but the possibility of buying a seat on the bus for our IPS briefly crossed my mind. In the end, we were saved by a friend who offered us a room in his beautiful flat with backup power and air conditioning. Meeting up with the VSO volunteers based in Dhaka, we knew we had made the right choice. The temperatures in the city over the past month had been even warmer than in Chittagong, and many looked haggard from too many sleepless nights. When the power clicks off in the night, most give up hope of sleeping and try to use their time for reading or working until the fans start moving again. When we revealed that we had added an IPS to our household, people responded so enthusiastically that one would have thought we just had a baby. I almost regretted not having some pictures of it in my wallet to share with them.

So, the IPS has vastly improved our quality of life in Chittagong. Unfortunately, the cost of the IPS, though an affordable three hundred dollars for us, puts it out of reach for the majority of Bangladeshis, who must continue to rely on the regular power grid for their supply. And the lack of power is not just an inconvenience for the local people; it can have a much more devastating impact. Closely tied to the power supply is the availability of water, as many pumps for the neighbourhoods run on electricity. When the power stops, so does the water for many areas. Combined with the escalating temperatures, this can result in dire consequences, and stories abound of protests by concerned people frustrated with their inability to access water when they need it the most. The government has responded with promises of projects to tap energy from new initiatives, but as can be seen from the limited benefits enjoyed from their embrace of Daylight Saving Time, a quick-fix solution is unlikely to provide the panacea for the current crisis. It seems that Bangladeshis will continue to wait for some time to get much-needed relief from the heat and darkness.

The War on Bugs

2009-06-26T03:14:00.000-07:00

As I lay sprawled naked and facedown on the bathroom floor, I realized that our war on bugs wasn’t going quite as well as I had hoped. I had just finished my morning shower and was feeling refreshed after another humid night of restless sleep. My rendition of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” had almost been in tune, so I counted it a good morning. As with practically all of the bathrooms in Bangladesh, the entire room acts as the shower stall; there is no tub or enclosed area to contain it. The water flies everywhere during the shower and tends to collect on the tiled floor, so Kristel and I use a squeegee mop to push the water to the drain in the corner in an effort to dry the room a bit faster. Grabbing the squeegee, I made a swipe at the floor and out of the squeegee jumped a spider. Not a hairy tarantula or black widow, mind you. Just an ordinary house spider. Regardless of its small size, I jumped back out of instinct, completely forgetting for a moment that the floor was currently a skating rink. One foot went up in the air, soon to be joined by the other. Anyone watching me might have thought I was clicking my heels in joy. I timbered to the floor, somehow managing to avoid impaling myself on the squeegee or bashing my head on the sink on the way down. Even more miraculously, I avoided landing on the spider, which seemed remarkably unperturbed by the commotion. It crawled slowly away from the crash site, unprovoked by the four-letter words that I was hurling in its direction. Hearing the ruckus, Kristel arrived at the doorway and said, “Oh, fuckyducky.”, which I thought summed things up nicely. She peeled me off the floor and I checked to make sure all of my limbs were in working order. My right shoulder and hip took the worst of the fall and would be a purple and yellow mess in a few hours, but otherwise, all was fine. I picked up the squeegee and put it back in its corner, but not before using it to send the itsy-bitsy spider to join Charlotte in arachnid heaven.

Our apartment in Chittagong is a nice two-bedroom flat located across the street from the YPSA office. Having seen the small flats occupied by our colleagues and their families, we recognize that our apartment has an embarrassing amount of space for the two of us and count ourselves lucky. Soon after arriving, we christened it the “Maple Mill”, a name representing the combination of our Canadian and Dutch heritages in our new home. Located on the main level of the YPSA Guesthouse, we enjoy the benefits and deal with the challenges of being on the ground floor. One of the latter has certainly been the invasion of critters that pay us a visit on a daily basis.

Of our unwanted guests, the least objectionable have been the lizards. They race up and down the walls and provide a surprise that replaces coffee as our morning wake-up jolt. Generally no longer than five centimeters or so, they usually appear and vanish before we can get a good look at them. Often, they’re much smaller, and one has to almost touch one’s nose to the wall to get a good look at them. For a couple of weeks, one of them had taken up residency somewhere near the head of our bed, and it often serenaded Kristel and me with its series of clicks and trills. Despite the fact that they’re a bit of a nuisance and likely causing more destruction than we know, I’m still amused by them and can’t bring myself to kill any of them, especially the tiny ones. In the pantheon of pests, they are able to chalk up enough cuteness points to merit preservation.

As you might have gathered from the opening tale, spiders haven’t earned the same degree of consideration from me. Actually, with the exception of satisfying my need for revenge, I tend to be a compassionate host, though this kindness is driven more by self-interest than any real sense of benevolence toward my fellow creatures. My reasoning is that spiders catch and kill the more annoying bugs that we must endure, such as mosquitoes, so if given the choice, I’ll turn a blind eye or shoo them out of sight before Kristel sees them. She tends to be less accommodating when it comes to our eight-legged friends. I think it may have been the gigantic one that crawled up from under our stove top that was the last straw for her. When she told me about it later on, I actually felt some regret. Not over her killing it, but that I didn’t get to see the monster before she reduced it to a bad memory.

But the worst of our visitors have been the cockroaches. I know it’s not their fault that they were born creepy, but oooo-waaaa-gehhh. The mere sight of one of them skittering across the floor releases some primal urge to destroy. Or, in my case, to flee, especially when the roach seems to show a suicidal lack of direction and heads straight for my bare feet, at which point I do a dance step like I was auditioning for A Chorus Line. One night, after we had turned off the lights and started to drift off to sleep, my voyage to the land of Nod was interrupted by a bite on my foot. And this was no mosquito nibble. I jumped up and counted toes to make sure all my little piggies were still there. “Whassyoudoingsszzzz”, said Kristel. “Something just bit me!” I yelled, as though I had just suffered a shark attack, and we both grabbed for our flashlights at the same time, spraying spotlights over the inside of our mosquito net. Sure enough, a cockroach scurried up the side of the net closest to my head. Kristel and I looked at each other and thought the exact same thing: “Abandon Bed!” We dove through the net to safety and checked to see whether we were carrying any passengers. Standing on the outside of our formerly cozy bed, we weighed our options and decided that surrendering the bed to the little bastard for the night was not on the list. So, we shook the net and pulled it up to make sure the roach was really gone before we finally tucked the net back in and returned to bed, both of us careful not to put our heads too close to the net. Sleep returned slowly that night, as the slightest touch either of us received from the other was mistaken for the cockroach’s return and given a reflexive jump.

With the monsoon season now officially here, though not yet underway, we expect the number of visitors will rise as they head for the nearest dry ground. On the bright side, we’ve yet to see any sign of the rats or scorpions that were infrequent guests at our homes in Nigeria. But maybe we’re just not looking hard enough. In any event, we’ve reluctantly grown accustomed to sharing the Maple Mill with the local creatures and understand that they probably regard us as the unwelcome pests to be endured. I’m sure there will be a creepy-crawly celebration held on the day we finally pack our bags and leave them to enjoy their home in peace.

P.S. As this will be my last post before July 1st, a very happy Canada Day to my fellow amuck Canucks back home and abroad! I'll enjoy a Moosehead vicariously through you. Cheers!

A Birthday in Malumghat

2009-06-21T00:35:00.000-07:00

Shave and a Haircut, Four Bits

2009-06-14T01:19:00.000-07:00

The prospect of getting a haircut in a foreign country is a bit intimidating, especially at my age. Twenty years ago, I could afford to be a bit more cavalier about my choice of barber, secure in the knowledge that a bad haircut would only be a short-term embarrassment. But these days, with my hairline in full retreat and more new growth in my ears than on my head, I’ve become a bit more selective about who comes at me with a pair of scissors. This proved to be a challenge in Nigeria, as the phrase “bature hair” became synonymous with an impossible task for the resident hairdressers. The nature of foreigners’ hair was such a departure from the norm for the local salons that most could only make a best guess as to how to approach it, resulting in horror stories that were very amusing to those not in the barber’s chair. For this reason, I tended to put off my visit to the hairdresser for as long as possible, extending my usual monthly visit to quarterly or beyond. I wish I could say that the moptop that resulted from such a delay made me look like a holdover from Woodstock, but the truth is, the hair piled up only on the back and sides of my head, so I more closely resembled Jack Nicholson at the end of “The Shining”. Not quite the look I was going for. Eventually, I did manage to find a salon in Abuja that catered to ex-pats, so the results were much more to my liking, but the price of the cut made each appointment an extravagance on a volunteer’s salary, so I still only managed three visits over the course of the year.

So, it was with no lack of trepidation that I faced the same dilemma in Bangladesh. I wisely visited my trusted and true hairdresser in Toronto two days before I left to get a decent haircut and some consolation about the fate awaiting me overseas. His broken English always made him sound a bit like Tarzan, but I understood him well enough. “Yeah, them don’t know what them doing over there. Make you look like shit.” Point taken, King of the Jungle. Following the pattern established in Nigeria, I put off my first trim for as long as possible, but after four months, Kristel had begun to hide the sharp objects in the house and lock me out of the bedroom, so I knew the time had finally come.

One fact provided me with more confidence than I had ever felt in Nigeria. Surveying the heads of my colleagues here, I found their hair to be much more like my own. Only much more luxurious, damn them. Most Bangladeshi men my age boast a head of hair that would rival that of a Hollywood leading man. So, the only real risk might be that a barber accustomed to sturdier follicles would attack my head with his usual zeal and reduce my head to a moonscape. In order to mitigate this hazard, I strategically interviewed those coworkers who were less blessed when it came to dome coverage. No consensus resulted, but most pointed to a small salon around the corner from the office as the most convenient place to go. Steeling my nerve one afternoon at the close of the workday, I set out to meet my destiny.

An interesting quirk among barbershops in Bangladesh is that most of them prefer to call themselves salons, except that the majority misspell the word, adding an extra “o”. Given the general prohibition of alcohol in the country, it’s very funny to see the abundance of “saloons” open to the public. My saloon was located literally around the corner from our flat, a quick two-minute walk away. A commercial strip of stores has grown up there, but the shops are so small and the strip so short that it feels more cozy than imposing, a neighbourhood of its own. It’s become our drop-in centre when we’re too tired or lazy to do our shopping farther downtown. One of the shopkeepers has made a point of rewarding us with sweets whenever we come by to buy potatoes, onions or toilet paper. As an incentive, it works pretty well on me. We also trade vocabulary lessons with him, although it hasn’t progressed much past learning the words for potatoes, onions and toilet paper. Well, maybe just potatoes and onions. In any event, my focus this day was on something other than vegetables, so I passed his shop with a wave and the briefest of greetings.

Arriving at the salon, I slid the door open and was greeted with the usual shocked stares. The shop was not unlike any of the ones that might be found back home, and I was pleased to see plenty of mirrors so that I could keep tabs on the potential destruction. Taking a seat by the door, I smiled at the barber currently clipping another customer. In the corner, another fellow was enjoying a full facial that seemed to have relaxed him to the point of unconsciousness. A television set near the door occupied the attention of the barber and his customer, a Bollywood movie blaring at full volume. After a couple of minutes, the door slid open and a man entered. Looking at me sitting there, he sized me up and said, “Cut?” I hoped this meant he was another barber and not a travelling surgeon. I nodded and he motioned me to the lone unoccupied chair.

Covering me with layers of sheets to guard against the flying hair, my barber looked me in the eyes and said “Short?”, which is always an interesting question, no matter where the barber is located, since everyone has their own definitions of that word. Deciding that an explanation might cause more grief than a simple agreement, I nodded my head and helpfully gestured with my thumb and forefinger close together, though this really didn’t mean anything to me, either. Settling in to his work, my barber pulled out a pair of scissors that probably could have pulled double duty as hedge clippers. Actually, his approach to my head was not unlike creating a work of topiary, the scissors in constant motion and clacking perilously close to my ears. At certain points, the Bollywood movie would broadcast a particularly compelling moment and his attention would be drawn to the screen, but not at the expense of stopping what he was doing. Visions of my ear doing a van Gogh danced in my head, but I resisted the urge to flinch too much, sensing that any movement of my head might increase the danger. The main cut complete, I looked at the results and admitted that it looked alright. Taking a short break, my barber went to the air conditioner to spray an air freshener into it. Soon, the scent of a citrus rainfall filled the salon. At this point in the cut back home, an electric razor would be produced to provide the final trim, but the power cuts here would make that somewhat useless. So, my barber reached into the drawer for his trusty straight razor instead. “Your name isn’t Sweeney Todd, is it?” I wanted to ask, but I sensed that the joke, even if understood, probably wouldn’t have been appreciated. So, I remained as still as possible while the razor scraped its way around my head.

Signalling the end of the cut, my barber held up a mirror to show me the back of my head and I confirmed that it was still there. Actually, the cut looked as good as any I would have received back home, so I complimented him on his efforts. Finishing me off with a dusting of powder and a good brushing, he swept the fallen hair off me as he cast the cover sheets aside. Asking him the cost of the cut, I was surprised to see him hold up three fingers. Going through the possibilities in my head, I assumed three hundred taka to be too much and three taka to be ridiculous, so I confirmed that he meant thirty taka, and he nodded. Thirty taka for a haircut - the equivalent of about fifty cents in Canada. Haircuts haven’t cost that little since Diefenbaker was in office. I thanked him once again and assured him that I would return again soon, to which he gave his smiling approval. Or maybe he just liked the ending of the Bollywood movie. As first haircuts go, this was a good one and the cost of the service was brilliant. I may even return for a followup before the year is over.

Workshop II: Shhhhh! Don't Wake the Toddler!

2009-06-10T05:30:00.000-07:00

The Tortoises of Bayazid Bostami Dargah

2009-06-06T19:13:00.000-07:00

I Feel Like a # 5

2009-06-06T19:10:00.000-07:00

First Workshop

2009-06-03T08:15:00.000-07:00

On the Wagon

2009-05-27T01:33:00.000-07:00

As I walked through the VSO office on my way to meet with my Program Manager, one thought resounded – these guys are all alcoholics. Desk after desk was adorned with quart bottles of familiar tipples: Gordon’s Gin, Smirnoff Vodka, Bacardi Rum. It was like walking through the aftermath of a fabulous Christmas party, where the only other evidence of the previous night’s debauchery can be found in the sheepish grins of those who overindulged and the photocopies made of various parts of their anatomy. Sitting down across from my Program Manager, I surveyed his desk for Tylenol bottles, AA brochures, pictures of his bottom or any other sign that he may have been one of the guilty revelers last night. But aside from the enormous bottle of Jim Beam next to his laptop, I could find no clues. “Before we begin, can I get you anything?” he asked, “Would you like a drink of something?” Allllll right!, I thought, Let’s get this party, er, meeting started. I always knew I would enjoy being a volunteer here.

Of course, the contents of his bottle (and all others in the office) proved much more innocent, and we both enjoyed a stiff glass of water as we reviewed my work plan for the upcoming year. Any sense of disappointment I may have had was mitigated by an appreciation of the irony presented by the situation. Alcohol is forbidden in this country, at least for Bangladeshis, so the use of derelict liquor bottles to hold water is a scene straight out of Prohibition. I half-expected Eliot Ness to come crashing through the front door and my Program Manager to exclaim, “Cheese it! It’s the coppers!” At which point, I would grab the nearest gat and take it on the lam. All of which would have been much more interesting than discussing my work plan.

The ban on alcohol is a reflection of the strict Muslim prohibitions in effect and is reinforced by the country’s legal code. Look behind the bar at the Dutch Club in Dhaka, and one will find a sign stating clearly “We are prohibited by law to serve alcohol to Bangladeshis”. Now, the fact that there is a bar at the Dutch Club in Dhaka does provide a hint that alcohol has not been completely banned in the country. Its permitted use has been restricted to foreigners, but this segregation has not allowed its widespread sale and availability. Only a few hotels are licensed to serve alcohol, so it mostly falls to the clubs catering to various foreign nationals to serve the demon elixir.

Even in Dhaka, a city approaching 15 million people, the locations where one can purchase alcohol for home consumption are so rare that they have taken on mythical auras rivaling the lost city of Atlantis. Not to be denied in their Arthurian quest for the Holy Ale, VSO volunteers have proven to be as adept at finding these oases of booze as airport dogs sniffing out a different kind of vice. But even their combined talents have yielded only one legitimate place in the capital city where alcohol can be bought without a club membership, hotel reservation or mob ties. My curiosity piqued, I had to pay a visit to see it for myself.

As with many places that are much discussed in advance of the actual experience, the Duty Paid shop had already been built up in my mind. I saw endless rows of fine wine from every vineyard worthy of mention, a selection of beers not seen since the last Oktoberfest and a collection of hard liquor that would shame a Monte Carlo casino. Having been warned that the shop was difficult to find, a fellow rookie and I enlisted the help of a more seasoned volunteer, though one many years our junior. Hopping into a CNG, the three of us set off on our journey across the city. True to its reputation, we missed the shop on the first pass and had to request that our driver turn around to make another attempt. Not willing to waste time by following silly traffic laws, our driver spun around on the spot and drove us back against traffic on a one-way street. I could see the headline: “VSO Volunteers Killed on Beer Run” with the sub-header: “Said They Were Really Thirsty”. Luckily, the CNG is small enough to drive on the shoulder of the road, so we avoided the transport trucks and other vehicles large enough to crush us like an empty can of Moosehead.

Arriving at the shop, it turned out to be a bit different than expected. No gleaming bottles on display or counters set up to provide tasty samples. In fact, one would be hard pressed to distinguish the shop from a post office or other government office. We were greeted inside by a pair of friendly clerks who presented us with the list of alcohol on sale. Given the restrictions on alcohol in the country, the list was passable, but any wine connoisseur would be slightly disappointed, as the choices were red and white. One bottle of each. Beer enthusiasts were slightly better off, with a half-dozen selections, and hard liquor was also adequately represented by at least one well-known brand in each category. The prices were steep, as one might expect from any place having a monopoly on imported alcohol, but we weren’t about to be denied at this point. True to the law, we were asked for our passports to prove we weren’t Bangladeshis in disguise, and we handed over our documents for inspection. Our purchases were delivered to us outside and we sailed off once again in the alternate direction down the one-way street, singing the old standard “24 Cans of Beer on the CNG”.

Much like Prohibition, the ban on alcohol for Bangladeshis hasn’t ensured its disappearance, only its growth underground. Those who wish to drink have managed to find an alternative by setting up stills and making it themselves. Local versions of rum and whisky can be found for sale at different establishments in Dhaka, and rice wine has proven popular throughout the country. I had the chance to sample some rice wine at a party for VSO volunteers in April, and its alcohol content would set sailors on their rears. Its potency tends to be accentuated when one makes the unfortunate error of mistaking a glass of rice wine for Sprite, as some volunteers did at various points in the evening. Though its taste will never be confused with a buoyant glass of Chardonnay, the rice wine does have the advantage of doubling as a durable floor polish.

None of this is meant to paint a picture of lonely volunteers seeking a respite from their difficult assignments by getting blotto on a regular basis. Most volunteers are perfectly content with the prospect of living without a drink or only raising a glass occasionally. But being able to enjoy a nice glass of wine with one’s meal or a cold beer on a hot afternoon is something that is taken for granted in most of our home countries. When it no longer is available, except through extraordinary means, one realizes the role that alcohol plays in our social lives, for better or worse, and its absence requires an adjustment in how we interact with each other. Sober conversations last throughout the evening, rather than devolving into karaoke singalongs or Austin Powers impersonations. And though the dancing remains a bit more self-conscious, there are fewer limbo-related injuries.

So, the experience of living in a “dry” country remains more of a curiosity than an inconvenience or trial. Though the lack of alcohol has meant a minor shift in the customs of the bideshis living here, the adjustment hasn’t been onerous. And our floors have never looked shinier.

Happy Silver Jubilee, YPSA!

2009-05-23T01:41:00.000-07:00

Cutting of the cake to celebrate the start of YPSA's 25th year. From the left: Rubayat Farzana Yusuf Tania (Human Resources); Some joker from Canada; Mahabubur Rahman (Director of Field Operations); Arifur Rahman (Chief Executive Officer); Khaleda Begum (Project 912 Lead).

Let's Talk About Sex, Bideshi

2009-05-13T03:39:00.000-07:00

Enjoying a stroll in Bhawal National Park outside of Dhaka, Kristel and I were hailed by a man who had been busily photographing his partner when we walked past. “Your country, please?” he called out to us, the usual opener for most conversations with the Bangladeshis we meet. Normally, the conversations don’t extend much beyond our responses to this question. Not this time. Abandoning his girlfriend, the man introduced himself as a naval officer enjoying some time on leave from his post in Chittagong. When we mentioned that we also lived there, it was if he had discovered some long-lost relatives, and any hope we had of making an early exit quickly evaporated. After asking how long we had been in Bangladesh and how long we would be staying, he quickly moved on to matters of greater interest to him. “So, how long you two together?”, he asked, and we described how we met in Nigeria, which was probably a case of supplying too much information, but it’s become our routine answer whenever someone asks how a Canadian and a Dutch citizen managed to meet. Nodding his head as he listened, the man then asked, “And how many times have you copulated since then?”

I must admit, I didn’t have a routine answer for that one. In fact, the last time I’d heard the word “copulate” was during my grade 10 biology class, when its mere mention elicited giggles from me and the rest of my hormone-enslaved classmates. Sensing that the same response would probably be inappropriate here, I quickly racked my brain for the best possible reply to his question, one that wouldn’t be too outraged (“That’s none of your business, sir! Pistols at dawn!”) or bawdy (“We’ve lost count, know what I mean, eh?”). Finally, I settled on the universal response to an awkward question. I pretended I hadn’t heard it and moved on to discuss the weather (“Yes, it sure is hot today”). Of course, given the question, it might not have been the best move to discuss how hot we all were. Anyway, after a less than skillful segue into our opinion on Bangladesh and how much we enjoyed being here, we agreed to pose with the man’s girlfriend while he took some pictures of us. I can only imagine the stories that will be told when they’re displayed. “And these two bideshis, they didn’t even know what “copulate” meant!”

We were cautioned during our orientation training that we could expect some rather direct and unexpected questions during our time here. Our status as foreigners, or bideshis, makes us objects of curiosity for the people that we meet, and they tend to want to find out as much information as they can in a short period of time. This requires the discarding of the usual conversational pleasantries in favour of beginning the interrogation early. The rather disarming thing about this is that the questions are asked in the same friendly, matter-of-fact way that one might be asked one's educational background or how many times that one eats rice in a day. Questions about sex are meant to be answered with the same lack of concern that one would have in discussing sports or politics. And in asking these types of intimate questions, Bangladeshis may think they are doing nothing more than holding a mirror up to the foreigners and letting us fog it up with our own salacious details.

Though it’s perhaps too simplistic to say that all of the impressions of foreigners held by Bangladeshis have been the result of movies, television and other popular media, these sources of entertainment must have a considerable influence on the way people from “The West” are perceived. (I know that Westerners form only a small subset of the larger group of people from foreign countries, but for the purpose of this discussion, I make them the focus). Bangladesh finds itself well-supplied with the latest movies and television shows produced mainly by American studios. Though the more subtle and intelligent offerings are available (in pirated form, naturally) in shops throughout the country, the majority of the films and TV shows for sale are of the action-oriented, sexually-charged variety, where plenty of skin is shown and the good-looking leads always get it on at some point. Likewise, the television networks here provide their viewers with American movies around the clock; these are perhaps a bit more sedate to appease the local censors, but they still emphasize buff bods and liberal attitudes toward sex. On a recent visit to a village in the Rangamati community, I was surprised to enter one of the homes and find two men watching Wrestlemania videotapes. The usual lowbrow antics were on display, as was much of the girlfriend of one of the wrestlers, who, of course, ended up in the ring for the finale. As I watched the two men who were transfixed by all of this nonsense, I couldn’t help but wonder whether they think this type of entertainment is representative of Western society. I’m sure they recognize that not all of us walk around half-naked and hit each other with chairs, but even if they think that this our preferred spectator sport, they must think we’re up for anything.

So, it should come as no surprise when we’re asked rather frank questions about sex. The timing and location for receiving these questions can still throw one for a loop, though. The other day, one of my colleagues came into my office with a dictionary. “Can you help me, please?” she asked, “I need another word for this.” Looking at where her finger was pointing, I saw that she had highlighted the phrase “Nocturnal emissions”. “It sure is hot today, isn’t it?” I wanted to ask, but somehow, I knew I wasn’t getting off so easily this time, no pun intended. So, I ummmm’d and cleared my throat for a while and finally asked, “Do you know what these are?” “Yes,” she said impatiently, “They’re wet dreams. But what else can you call them?” Admitting that my sexual thesaurus was shooting blanks, I shook my head and said, “No, I think that’s the only thing I would call them, too.” “OK, thank you!” she said brightly and walked out of the room. To this day, I still don’t know what that conversation was about.

As we continue with our placements over the next two years, I expect that we’ll continue fielding many more of these types of inquiries. And I expect I’ll be talking about the weather enough to qualify as a meteorologist before I’m through.

Oldtimer Power in Social Action

2009-05-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

An observant reader of this blog pointed out the irony in me working for an organization called Young Power in Social Action, given my recent achievement of official middle-age status. I believe his exact words were “Young Power in Social Action? Who are you kidding?” It’s a fair comment – a slightly nasty one, but fair, nonetheless. And it did start me thinking about the organization that I’m supporting. Given that I’ve yet to dedicate a blog entry to YPSA and the work I was recruited to perform here, it seems like a good time to introduce both to all of you.

YPSA was created in Sitakund in 1985 in response to the United Nations’ declaration of that year as the International Youth Year. Initially known as “Young Power”, YPSA began its life as a club for youths seeking to make a change in their communities. The early years of the club were spent in developing sports and cultural programs for youth in the area, but the organization came of age with the arrival of a major cyclone in 1991. Participating in the relief and rehabilitation work that followed in the wake of the devastation proved to be a galvanizing moment for the club and spurred it on to seek greater and more long-term projects. A change in status was required in order to better pursue these goals, so the club transformed into a full-time development organization in 1992, renaming itself as “Young Power in Social Action”. Two of the founding members of the club, Arifur Rahman and Mahabubur Rahman (not related), have remained with the organization throughout its existence and now occupy the two top operational posts of Chief Executive Officer and Director of Field Operations, respectively.

The seventeen years that have passed since YPSA came into being as a development organization have seen it undergo substantial growth both in terms of the projects undertaken and the size of the organization. Currently, YPSA counts among its personnel over 600 full-time and 300 part-time staff, making it one of the largest NGOs (or non-governmental organizations) in Bangladesh. Beyond the staff members, YPSA is able to call on the services of over 500 volunteers trained by the organization. With its head office now located in Chittagong, YPSA also maintains field offices in eleven communities throughout the south-eastern part of the country. It estimates that the total population of disadvantaged and vulnerable people served by the organization is approximately five million people.

In order to reach this number of people, the projects and programs undertaken by YPSA are understandably diverse in their scope. Too numerous to list here, the thirty projects range from separate HIV/AIDS prevention programs for street-based sex workers, youth and garment workers to a program dedicated to the prevention of human trafficking to a pair of projects focused on disaster management and the reduction of risk from such events. One of the highest profile projects in the YPSA organization is the advocacy group that lobbies for more rights for those involved in the ship-breaking industry. Chittagong is one of global centres for this industry, which involves the dismantling of cargo ships that have completed their years of service and the selling of the scrap metal and other parts that result from their demolition. Conditions for the workers are deplorable and dangerous, and the attempt to improve these has earned YPSA much recognition internationally and an equal amount of enmity domestically from the local ship-breaking companies. More can found on this program in YPSA’s website dedicated to the issue: http://www.shipbreakingbd.info . And YPSA's own website can be found at http://www.ypsa.org.

With all of these projects running simultaneously, it can be difficult to determine the impact that they are having on the communities they serve. Funding for the projects often comes from a number of different international donors, and a common (and reasonable) requirement is for a project to report to its donor regularly on the progress made. These international donors tend to have their own favoured mechanism for reporting, and as a result, the projects within YPSA employ a myriad of structures to satisfy their respective donors. Though accepted as a necessary element of working with donors, the impact of these diverse reporting schemes has been to individualize the monitoring and evaluation of the projects to a certain extent, and a common framework for such activities is missing from YPSA. Without a shared system for monitoring and evaluation, it’s as if the projects are all speaking their own language, and the management of YPSA sensed that this babel of project reporting could result in the projects failing to deliver to their fullest capacity. A common Monitoring & Evaluation (or M&E) system for the projects was determined to be the best way to rectify this, an internal system that would operate as a complement to the reporting requirements of the donors.

This is where I come in. As the M&E Adviser for YPSA, my main responsibility is to design and implement an M&E system for all of the programs and projects over the course of the next two years. Or rather, my responsibility is to work with YPSA to help them develop the tools and skill needed to do this for themselves. Understanding that my placement is only for two years, the expectation of YPSA and VSO is that I will help individuals within YPSA learn how to construct the M&E system and to keep it running after I leave in 2011. To that end, YPSA has already assigned an individual within the organization to act as my counterpart during this time, someone who already occupies the position of M&E specialist for the programs and projects. The expectation is that the amount of work entailed in the implementation and continuation of an internal M&E system will dictate the creation of a team dedicated to this pursuit.

How are we going to construct this M&E system? As a starting point, a format for the system must be selected. Based on the stated requirements of YPSA for this reporting structure, I decided that an Outcome Mapping system would best suit their needs. Briefly, Outcome Mapping focuses on the changes in behaviour that an organization is able to contribute to in its boundary partners that lead to a greater change overall in the community. Boundary partners are those individuals and organizations with whom YPSA has direct contact and is able to effect an influence on their behaviour. The Outcome Mapping system is designed to examine how a project or program can develop its strategies and internal organizational actions to move the boundary partners toward behaviours that it would like to see exhibited by these partners. The actual reporting on these activities is done through a series of journals that can be reviewed on a quarterly basis or however often the organization deems it necessary. Management can review these journals with an eye to assess whether the project or program is achieving its stated goals and the changes that may be needed if it is falling short.

Still with me? I know this isn’t exactly riveting stuff. With the format for the M&E system selected and confirmed by YPSA, I modified a facilitators’ guide for Outcome Mapping that had been developed by the International Development and Research Centre in Ottawa. The guide sets out a series of workshops to help the members of a project team develop a structure for their Outcome Mapping M&E. My expectation is that this guide will be used by the members of the YPSA M&E team whenever they want to implement an M&E system for a new or existing project or program. The next step will be to take this facilitators’ guide for a test drive by running a pilot workshop with one of the projects within YPSA. This is where the fun begins, as we get to see how well the plan translates into actual practice. I expect there will be some tweaks needed to make the workshops, er, work, so once the pilot is complete, I’ll sit down with my counterpart to review what went well and what flopped and make any adjustments needed before moving on to the next project. Along the way, we hope to develop M&E expertise in other YPSA personnel, so that they can also start to run workshops for the remaining projects and programs.

So, that’s the plan as it stands right now. But if my experience in Nigeria has taught me anything, it’s that a plan is like a garbage truck – everyone agrees that it’s needed, but no one wants to follow it. So, while a plan is good to have, I expect that things will change over the course of the two years that I’m here. And that’s part of what makes this position so interesting. Should anyone have any suggestions that you think would be helpful as I work through this, please feel free to post a comment or send me an email. I can’t promise regular updates on the blog about the M&E work, since I think most people would find it eye-crossingly dull, but I will post anything that strikes me as worth sharing. Thanks, everyone, for your continued support!

Glenny Can't Read

2009-05-03T02:40:00.000-07:00

If you’re a regular visitor to this blog, the odds are that you’re a literate person. Either that, or your computer froze on this site by accident and you’ve been left to try to decipher the identity of the geek in glasses, in which case, you would have my apologies if you could read this. In any event, our ability to read is something that we take for granted, thanks to an education system that taught us our ABCs from the time we walked into our first kindergarten class. Though I must admit that my favourite activity from those pre-school days was nap class, even I managed to pick up the basics of the alphabet at a fairly early age. For most of us, reading is as automatic an activity as breathing; we don’t think about it, we just do it. Now, imagine losing that ability and how unsettling that would be. Street signs rendered unfathomable. Newspapers as enigmas. Prices at the grocery store left to the good graces of the clerk assisting you. It’s a very humbling experience.

So, consider me humbled. It was one of the cruelest of ironies that I found myself on Mother Language Day in February no longer being able to read anything around me. The reason, of course, is that the Bangla language is represented by a Bengali script that has nothing to do with the alphabet with which we’re familiar. For example, the Bengali script uses eleven different characters to represent the vowel sounds used, with multiple characters standing for the same vowel, depending on how it is pronounced. So, while we would use the letter “o” for both “vote” and “cot”, different characters are used in the Bengali. And don’t get me started on the consonants and their combinations! Instead, here is the first clause from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as a sample:

ধারা ১: সমস্ত মানুষ স্বাধীনভাবে সমান মর্যাদা এবং অধিকার নিয়ে জন্মগ্রহণ করে। তাঁদের বিবেক এবং বুদ্ধি আছে; সুতরাং সকলেরই একে অপরের প্রতি ভ্রাতৃত্বসুলভ মনোভাব নিয়ে আচরণ করা উচিৎ।

Which, of course, translates to:

Dhara êk: Shômosto manush shadhinbhabe shôman môrjada ebong odhikar nie jônmogrohon kôre. Tãder bibek ebong buddhi achhe; shutorang shôkoleri êke ôporer proti bhrattrittoshulôbh monobhab nie achoron kôra uchit.

And this is part of the challenge facing foreigners trying to learn how to read and write in Bangladesh. Even if one is able to learn the intricacies of the Bengali script, one is still left with the significant hurdle that the script represents the Bangla language, so even if one is able to read the script, it would still require translation. As a result, foreigners find that the language must be approached in two stages, with the first being to speak and understand Bangla before being able to write and read it, a prerequisite that will likely doom me to illiteracy during my time here.

This is not for lack of sponsorship on the part of the agency that brought me here. Voluntary Service Overseas provided for an extensive set of language lessons at the HEED Language Centre in Dhaka during our orientation training. HEED stands for Helping Educate Exasperating Dummies (or more officially, Health, Education and Economic Development) and their teaching philosophy with respect to language is to assume that the Bengali script is a boogeyman best kept in the closet and to focus instead on the oral. Arriving at the centre with Kristel and five other rookies, I sat in a waiting room until a handbell was rung to signal the start of class, something I hadn’t seen since Laura graduated from her school on Little House on the Prairie. Following the group, I was led to the small classroom that would be our crucible of learning over the coming weeks. Finding the only left-handed desk in the room (ahem), I took my seat and waited for our teacher to arrive. We exchanged the type of nervous banter common among those about to experience the unknown and glanced at the posters of happy Bangladeshis whose reassuring smiles practically gushed, “You can talk to us!!!”

Our teacher arrived soon after and greeted us with a wary smile that spoke of her experience with Bangla manglers. Not quite suppressing a sigh, she introduced herself, “ Asalam alakum. Amar nam Sultana. Apnar nam ki?”, and all seven of us broke eye contact with her at the same time, which is the universally followed method of avoiding getting picked by the teacher. Finding her victim in the second row, Sultana repeated the question, saying the words with a deliberate slowness that Forrest Gump would have found slightly sluggish. “Apnarrrrr……….naaaaam…….kiiiiii?” she asked again, helpfully pointing at me, to avoid any possibility of misidentification. “Amar nam Glenn?” I asked, as if I were an amnesiac or the victim of a severe head trauma. “Bhalo!” Sultana replied, with a smile that signified my guess was a good one. I tried to contain my pride at this accomplishment, but it was no use. I was already a star, and the others knew it.

Over the next two weeks, we explored some of the key phrases needed to survive in Bangladesh, including “Please slow down” and “Not so much spice, please”. Sultana and I forged a special relationship during those classes, as I became her relief pitcher, the ace who could save the conversation when her questions stumped my classmates. New verb tenses were tested out on me like a champion lab rat, and I wore her “Bhalo!”s like medals on my chest. Conscious that this type of behaviour used to get me beaten up in junior high, I judiciously limited my responses to avoid being too much of a showoff. Finishing off the first series of classes, I wished Sultana well and looked forward to resuming the lessons with her after a short break to explore our placements.

Returning to HEED after six weeks, our group was greeted by the centre’s administrator and was informed that our lessons would now be taken with another teacher, Mr. Polash. My face fell at this news. No Sultana? No more ace relief pitching? This wasn’t bhalo at all. To add to the disappointment, we learned that we also had been bumped from our classroom and would now be taking our lessons on the roof, subject to the capriciousness of the weather and depraved Dhakanian pigeons. I was inconsolable as we trudged up the stairs behind Polash and entered onto the roof into the glare of the early afternoon sun. My anguish was only slightly assuaged by the sight of a proper classroom with four walls and a roof, albeit one that was baked hotter than the sweatbox that Alec Guinness endured in Bridge on the River Kwai.

I tried to make things work with Polash, but the magic just wasn’t there anymore. To a certain extent, he was a victim of his circumstances. The city endured a series of blackouts at that time (that continue to this day) due to a demand for electricity that outstripped supply. No power meant no fans nor airconditioners for the first hour of each lesson, so we all spent our time with one eye on the clock, waiting for that awful hour to be complete. But Polash and I also never really connected in any meaningful way. Compared to Sultana, he wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine. When we failed to use the possessive form of the pronoun in a sentence during one class, he hung his head and said, “You make me want to kill myself”. While I was pretty sure he was kidding and admired his passion for possessive pronouns, I didn’t want to have that kind of blood on my hands. So, I decided to become a language school dropout. With only a couple of lessons remaining, I knew I wouldn’t be missing much, and there was the opportunity to take further lessons once Kristel and I returned to Chittagong, so I made my excuses and bailed on the classes. I suspect that things will go much smoother with the tutor that we’ve selected, as he seems less interested in perfect grammar than in teaching us the basics of communication. While I doubt that I will ever progress to the point of being able to read and write in Bengali, I hope that I’ll at least be able to understand some of what is being said around me and to respond in some limited way. At this point, that’s the most that this dropout can hope for.

Bangladesh's Big Brother

2009-04-16T21:23:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't a reference to Orwellian surveillance or a local reality TV show. It's me. I'm Bangladesh's big brother. I realized last night at the welcoming party for new volunteers that I'm older than the country that is hosting me. How's that for a revelation on the eve of one's 40th birthday? Does it stand as a testament to my advanced years or as a comment on the relative youth of this nation? Probably both. But this is my blog, so let's focus on me and my mid-life crisis.

Actually, there is no crisis, only a time for reflection. When I look at where I was in 1999, celebrating my 30th birthday at a surprise party with friends in Vancouver, I realize that the real surprises were yet to come. At that time, the most exotic location I had visited was a Club Med in Mexico, and I thought that would be about as wild a place as I would ever experience or want to experience. Even though I celebrated my 30th at a rather turbulent time economically, which is a grand euphemism for being unemployed, the thought that I would ever leave Canada never entered my mind. In fact, even leaving Vancouver was not a thought I wanted to entertain, especially when the alternative might be, shudder, that cold metropolis of Toronto.

So, of course, the next ten years consisted of stops in Toronto, Nigeria and now Bangladesh. A textbook example of solid planning for the future! And I guess I wouldn't want it any other way. Getting lost in the mountains of Ecuador or jumping out of a plane over the Namibian desert were never things I would have considered ten years ago, but I'm glad I had those adventures and I hope for more. Life is meant to be experienced, after all - it's just a question of how a person chooses to do it.

Some heavy thoughts for such a lightweight blog! But as I celebrate the milestone next week, I'll do it with thanks to everyone who has been a part of my 40 years, family and longtime friends half a world away and those who are with me now. Here's hoping for a future for all of us that is just as rich as the past!

Cox's Bizarre

2009-03-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

Roaring along the seaside highway on the back of Pegasus’ motorcycle, I held on to him as his long hair blew back in my face, and I …….feel like I’m writing a Harlequin Romance novel. Maybe I should rewind a bit. Ever since we arrived in Chittagong, Kristel and I had been repeatedly asked whether we’d visited Cox’s Bazar, a seaside resort town on the Bay of Bengal, four hours to the south of us. Said to be located on the world’s longest beach, Cox’s Bazar is the vacation destination for many Bangladeshis looking to escape the crowded cities in favour of a crowded beach. Until last week, we didn’t have the time or opportunity to pay it a visit, but with the Independence Day holiday on the calendar and a chance to travel there on official YPSA business, we packed our swimsuits and headed for the sunshine.

After attending the launch ceremony for a new water and sanitation project that YPSA will be implementing in the area, we were free to start our beach holiday. Wandering back toward the bay from YPSA’s guest house, we found Cox’s Bazar to be pretty much identical to any resort town – same hotels, same stores selling beach gear and trinkets, same cows walking down the street. Well, there might have been one or two differences. The beach itself was vast and surprisingly uncrowded, considering that the holiday weekend was about to begin. Beach chairs with their own umbrellas stretched for a mile in a perfect line at the tideline and were being hawked for 20 Taka an hour. Some swimmers were enjoying a late-afternoon dip, but in observance of the strict Muslim codes of the country, most did so more or less fully clothed, which made for an interesting scene. It was if we had gone back in time in Canada, when the revelation of flesh at the beach was a cause for scandal and even an uncovered knee was met with disapproval. Some of the men we watched were a bit more liberal in this respect, choosing to doff their shirts and go in with only their swim trunks, but the women went into the water covered from head to toe. We even met some women in full burkas strolling along the beach, which must have made for an incredibly hot experience. Though we were the only bideshis in sight, we weren’t as much of a target for vendors as you might think – a handful of children offered us seashell necklaces and we were given a few opportunities to go for a horseback ride or dune buggy cruise, but for the most part, people let us walk in peace.

This may sound a little strange, given where we were, but neither Kristel nor I is much of a beach person, and the thought of spending an entire afternoon suntanning our ankles never really held much appeal, so we directed our attention to our guidebook in an effort to find another diversion. Lavishing praise on the Mermaid Café, the guide said it had received more positive comments on this one spot than on all of the other restaurants in the country put together, so how could we possibly not go for a (sadly) non-alcoholic drink there? The only remaining question was its location, somewhat vaguely described in our book as being “on the beach”. As we scanned the treeline for signs of enraptured tourists blissfully enjoying banana shakes, we were approached by two young men who said they were from the Mermaid and handed us a map. Surely, this was a sign that we were meant to drink there!

Following the map’s directions, we soon found the café, and it was fine, though not exactly the oasis of pleasure that we were expecting. Its outdoor tables were great for enjoying the setting sun, but the speakers blaring Shania Twain detracted from the ambiance, though my Canadian pride did get a boost from hearing her sing about the best part of being a woman. Kristel was less impressed with Shania’s warbled declarations of womanhood, so we were soon headed for the exit in search of a second Mermaid Café that was listed on the map as being farther down the beach. But with darkness now fully descended, we had to abandon our quest and settled for a less lauded but still great eatery down the road.

The next day, we decided to make another attempt to find the elusive second café. Never underestimate the ability of people to become fixated on something out of reach. Again consulting our guidebook, we determined that the Mermaid Café had recently completed construction of an eco-resort and artists’ village that would be every bit the equal of its superior cafes, if our book was to be believed, which started to become a question worth asking. Deciding that this must be where the second café could be found, hopefully along with some actual mermaids to justify our effort, we began to ask directions to the eco-resort and received repeated confirmations of the location of the café we had already visited. Finally, one fellow said he had been to the place the day before and told us how to find it. “Can’t miss it,” he said, “There’s a big sign across the road from Inani Beach.” In the annals of the English language, there are probably no three words that are more untrue than “can’t miss it”, except maybe “this won’t hurt” or “I’m completely sober”. Hailing a CNG for us, he gave instructions to the driver and we were on our way. Looking to hedge our bets a little, we asked the driver to pull over and called the mobile number on our map (something that likely should have occurred to us twenty-four hours ago). Speaking to a Mermaid Café representative, possibly himself a merman, we asked how to get to the eco-resort and whether it was worth visiting if we weren’t looking for a room. “Oh, yes,” said the merman, “the artists’ village is quite lovely, so you will really enjoy yourselves.” Handing the phone to the driver, we watched as he received his directions and soon were back on the road, more confident than ever that our eco-resort awaited us.

The drive along the coast was a brilliant trip. After leaving the outskirts of Cox’s Bazar, we were treated to kilometer after kilometer of unspoiled beach, the only signs of humanity being the odd fishing net strung up along the way. We could have dropped at any point and had the entire shoreline to ourselves. Just before a large bridge that straddled the ocean as it narrowed to an inland river, our driver stopped and announced that we had arrived. We looked around us and were somewhat confused. A collection of huts huddled near the roadside and there was nary a mermaid nor Shania to be found. We insisted there must be some mistake, to which the driver shrugged, as if to say, “And you’re the ones who made it”. Dialling our friendly merman, I told him of our predicament, and he asked, “You actually went there?”, as if this was the first time we’d spoken. When I reminded him of his recommendation and the sublime artists’ village that he had promised, he said, “Yeah, but all of the artists left months ago.” I rested my head against the side of the CNG and asked how we would know whether we were in the right spot. “Let me call someone to show you around the place”, he replied and hung up, without answering the fundamental questions of where “the place” was and if we were actually there. At this point, Kristel and I decided to split up to double our luck, so I kept the driver company while she scouted out the purported resort. Coming back after five minutes, she confirmed that we had the right place and it was basically deserted, but that it might be a nice spot for a couple of hours, with the emphasis on “couple”. To ensure this was the case, we negotiated a price with our driver to return to pick us up. A broad smile either indicated agreement or amusement, so we hoped for the best as we watched him disappear around the corner.

As with the eco-resort that we discovered in Nigeria, the Mermaid resort was undeniably ecologically friendly, as there was no one there to produce any waste. A few staff members poked around the site, but there were no guests to be found. Our tour of the site revealed that the artists must have been quite protective of their works, since they took everything with them when they left. The only sculptures to be found were a wood carving at the entrance and a lonely mermaid looking out over a boggy wetland. The main washroom was a bit of a marvel, though, with an open air concept that was somehow relaxing and unsettling at the same time. The rest of the site consisted of two buildings housing the bedrooms, with the larger of the two having a patio with chairs for relaxing and a foosball table for foosing. As we sat and enjoyed the views of the ocean and river delta, our tour guide for the afternoon arrived.

From his Mermaid Café T-shirt, I deduced he might be a staff member, so we introduced ourselves. “Hi, my name is Shahin,” he said, “but my friends call me Pegasus.” And I thought to myself, why didn’t I think of this before? Here I am, in a country where nobody knows me. It’s the perfect opportunity to give myself the nickname that I’ve always lacked. How easy it would be to say, “Hi, I’m Glenn, but my friends call me Hercules” or “Hi, my name is Glenn, but you can call me Mr. Dressup”. While I worked out the possibilities in my head, Kristel asked him the obvious question of why he was called Pegasus, since he didn’t appear to have wings or be a horse. “Because I’m so fast”, came the reply, with a “how you doin’?” smile that made me abandon my nickname search and jump back into the conversation. I asked him if someone had told him we were there and he confirmed that he had been asked to show us around, so “I jumped on my bike and here I am”. “Wow, you ARE fast!” said Kristel. “So, let’s start the tour,” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from Pegasus’ speed.

And so, we spent a pleasant afternoon with Pegasus, who turned out to be a very nice young man. After a brief chat on the patio, we made our way to the bridge and took many photographs of the boats nearby and the people who work on them. And then it was time to return to Cox’s Bazar. Looking at our watches, we saw that our appointed time with our CNG driver was drawing near, so we asked some of the staff who witnessed our conversation with him whether they thought he would be coming back. Slight smiles and shakes of the head easily translated to “no way in hell”, so we were left to work out a solution with Pegasus. “Well, I can call a CNG for you or we can all go on my bike,” he said. “Ha! Ha!”, I laughed, thinking that Peggy was making a joke. But I appeared to be the only one laughing, so I quickly passed it off as a cough. “It would save us some time,” said Kristel, “What do you think?” I tried to come up with a cool way to say “This isn’t prudent”, but when I asked myself the important question, “What would Mr. Dressup do?”, I knew there was only one answer.

As we approached the bike, I began to have second thoughts. According to Pegasus, the government of Bangladesh has severely restricted the use of sportscars and their motorcycle equivalents, levying a tariff on them that’s stiff enough to discourage all but the wealthiest from putting them on the road. All of this was done in an effort to limit accidents on the road, and while I applauded the government on this initiative, it did mean that Pegasus had a pretty small bike for the three of us. Visions of us hitting a speed bump and losing one of us loomed as we positioned ourselves on the bike, with me occupying the relatively comfortable and safe sandwich seat between Pegasus and Kristel. “Are you ready?” said Peg, and off we went. To his credit, he didn’t try to live up to his nickname on this trip, driving at an easy cruising speed that allowed him to dodge the CNGs and buses that came at us like invading armies. Every now and then, Pegasus would yell something to me that the wind would immediately take away. With no chance of hearing what he was saying, I just kept replying, “Yeah, that’s great!” and hoped he wasn’t asking if he could open it up a little or jump the next bridge.

Arriving back at Cox’s Bazar, we drove down to the beach once again and dismounted. Having skipped lunch, Kristel and I were both famished, so we decided that dinner would come early that day, and given the amount of effort by Pegasus that afternoon, there was little doubt about where we would be dining. So, we thanked him for everything and said we would be heading to the Mermaid for drinks and a meal. “See you there!”, he said, “I have a shift tonight.” Leaving him to find a place for his bike, we walked down the road to the café and arrived just in time to hear Shania sing, “Looks like we made it”. Truer words were never sung, Ms. Twain.

A Day at Cox's Bazar

2009-03-28T00:06:00.000-07:00

Man Eating, Shark

2009-03-28T00:02:00.001-07:00

The Ol' '69

2009-03-23T22:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve always had a fascination with trains. Well, not really, but I needed a snappy intro for this piece. The truth is, I’ve never really spent much time thinking about them, since they had largely been relegated to a fond memory in Canada by the time I was born. I would often listen to the whistle of the cargo train as it passed through my hometown, but I never once fantasized about hopping onboard with my harmonica and my trusty companion, Winky the wonder dog, to ride across the country with the other hobos for parts and adventures unknown. This was probably for the best, since the only wonder about Winky was the amount of flatulence she could produce, and this likely wouldn’t have endeared us to our fellow tramps. Though it was still possible to catch a passenger train to many parts of the country when I was growing up, the romance of train travel had clearly been replaced by the convenience of using one’s own car, so it’s somewhat telling that I boarded my first train at the relatively advanced age of 25 and even more telling that the train was part of the subway system in Toronto. And believe me, there’s nothing romantic about that experience.

In the years since that magical first ride, I’ve only had a few train trips that weren’t subterranean, and most were memorably bad, with delays reducing the train schedules to works of fiction and train personnel being capably condescending in both official languages. Perhaps the best of the worst was a trip from Montreal to Toronto that was over an hour late because our train had started down the wrong track and needed to back up to avoid another train that was bearing down on us. So, count me among those who failed to get nostalgic when discussing the bygone age of locomotion. When I moved to Nigeria in 2007, I found a country with even less regard for its railway, as evidenced by the rusted hulks resting on the tracks in Kafanchan. I would sometimes use the railyard as a shortcut to the town centre, and I could confidently walk through the deserted rail cars that were blocking my path, knowing there was little chance that the train would suddenly come to life and spirit me away to Lagos.

So, the appeal of a train trip in Bangladesh was more than a little lost on me when I was told that we would be catching a ride from Chittagong University back to the city at the end of the day. We had arrived on the campus earlier that day to deliver a lecture to a group of debating society students on the prevention of domestic violence. More accurately, Kristel and I attended the lecture delivered by our YPSA colleague, since our command of the Bangla language is still limited to “Hello!” and “I’m lost. Please help me.”, neither of which would have advanced the discussion very far. Though we understood little of the presentation, it was easy to see that the students were very engaged, as many asked questions throughout and competed to provide answers whenever the opportunity arose.

With the presentation completed, we were free to wander the campus for a couple of hours. And what a tremendous place it is. Since arriving in Chittagong, Kristel and I have been searching for a refuge from the congestion of city life. With a population that hovers around the five million mark, Chittagong seems to have precious few places that could be considered peaceful. Even the parks and designated areas of nature like Foy’s Lake have a sense of being surrounded by the city, so one never really seems to get the chance to take a break from it all. But Chittagong University provided such a sanctuary, at least on this day. Said to be the largest university in the country in terms of acreage (but only fourth or fifth in student population), the school is set among a forest that, for once, wasn’t completely sacrificed in the name of settlement. Located far on the outskirts of the city, the University seems to have taken great pains to separate itself from the bustle of life there. Gone for the most part are the CNGs (also known as baby taxis) that are ubiquitous throughout the rest of the city, along with their ever-present horns and daredevil driving. Even cars seem to have largely forsaken this spot, leaving only rickshaws as the main form of transportation here, their gentle bells ringing through the forest like a convention of woodland fauns, if they had bells tied around their necks and rode bicycles.

The university itself, it must be said, has seen better days. Just over 40 years old, the university houses some buildings that are in great need of restoration. The classroom we visited for the lecture had graffiti scrawled on the doors and walls that was mostly in English, oddly enough, as though the students were eager to show off their second language skills. Years of heat, humidity and rainfall have also taken their toll, as the paint that originally covered the walls has surrendered to mould and decay, leaving the buildings discoloured and crumbling around the edges. But the natural beauty of the surroundings more than makes up for this decline, and one ends up accepting the neglect as part of the landscape.

As it turned out, even the buildings here can surprise with unexpected beauty. Leading us away from the main campus, our colleagues introduced us to a Buddhist monastery that was the essence of tranquility, except maybe for the group of monks playing cricket just inside the gates. As we walked through the courtyard, we admired the flowers and the abundance of quiet before discovering the hidden gem of the monastery, an outside staircase at the back descending to pools of water and lush greenery. These monks really know what time it is. I briefly considered chucking it all and throwing in with them, but I still don’t know how to play cricket, so I expect my application would be respectfully declined. After a short pause for some photographs and deep breaths, we looked at our watches and realized it was time for our train ride back to anxiety.

As we approached the train, Kristel and I asked where the ticket counter was and were amazed to hear that the train was free. Well, not quite. Costs for the operation of the train are included in the fees paid by the students to attend the university, so students aren’t required to pay to travel each time they boarded. This still seemed quite progressive, and not just because we were mooching a ride. The train had two departure times per day, so the students knew they had to be on the train before 5:20 pm to catch the last ride of the day. Arriving five minutes before this, we found a scene that might have existed a hundred years ago in Canada, with a crowd of people approaching all of the train cars at once, but with no sign of apprehension or frustration, just plenty of activity and energy. Finding a seat proved to be very easy and we were soon joined in our car by a group of young people who filled it to capacity. I was surprised to see a vendor come on board to begin selling nuts in the last moments before the train was due to leave. Promptly at 5:20, the train started down the track, though students were still joining the train at 5:21 and 5:22, making running jumps onboard that would likely have given their parents cardiac arrests if they had seen them.

And that was one of the surprising things about this train. There were no adults in each car to ensure order was kept and unruly behaviour discouraged. No one gated the doorways or insisted that people remain seated. And no one was needed for this. The students understood the consequences of hanging off the side of the train or sticking limbs out the windows and no one attempted this. The only evidence of delinquency that could be found was on the walls of the train, again liberally decorated with English words such as “cockpit”, and more interestingly, “’69”, which can be interpreted in a number of ways.

As we rode on to Chittagong, it began to feel as if the kids had commandeered the train and were taking it wherever they wanted. Laughter coursed up and down the aisles as the students recounted their days and likely made fun of the ancient foreigners sitting among them. Part way through the 45-minute journey, a group of students next to us started up a song that was soon joined by many others, with some providing percussion by clapping and slapping the walls next to them. The car soon swelled with music as we passed the setting sun outside. It was a great moment. All too soon it seemed, we reached our stop, and we left the train by literally jumping out the door. As we walked beside the train, the remaining passengers onboard stuck their heads out the windows to watch us pass. The train pulled away just as we turned to head to nearest intersection, and I paused to watch it go. And suddenly it dawned on me that I finally understood the enduring romance that people have with train travel. I only wished that Winky was there to share this moment with me.

Chittagong University and the Ol' '69

2009-03-23T22:25:00.000-07:00

A Visit to an Agrabad Community

2009-03-21T18:58:00.000-07:00

Southpaw's Lament

2009-03-09T02:36:00.002-07:00

From the time I was first able to pick up a crayon, I have always been left-handed. Unapologetically so. Lefties are a proud group who have bravely persevered in a decidedly right-handed world. Gear shifts taunt us. Scissors in our hands become instruments of havoc. Banks chain their pens in impossible locations. In my elementary school classrooms, the one desk designed for left-handers usually sat forlornly in the back row in the choice position next to the bathroom. In the unfortunate event that there were two lefties in the class, we were forced to battle it out each morning for occupancy rights, or worse, one of us would be assigned a neutral-hand desk, a nondescript table rescued from the teacher’s lounge that still retained the fragrant mélange of cigarettes and broken dreams. Much like Canadians have an obsession with trumpeting the achievements of their fellow citizens in Hollywood and Major League Baseball, left-handers also love to celebrate those of our own kind. Napoleon? Leftie. Kermit the Frog? Not easy being green or leftie. Joan of Arc? The very symbol of southpaw persecution. When Barack Obama took the oath of office, it continued the proud tradition of left-handers occupying the Oval Office over the past thirty years or so, with the notable exception of Dubya, and we all know how well that turned out.

But being left-handed is tolerated in Canadian society. People smile when they see me sign my name and invariably say, “Oh, you’re a leftie, eh?” as if giving me one last chance to deny my status and blame it on a mental lapse or an injury to my right arm from a vaccination mishap or bear attack. These same people then feel the need to go on to mention a relative or someone they know who’s similarly afflicted to let me know that I’m not alone. And if it turns out that by chance they themselves are lefties, we give each other the secret lefthandshake and confirm our plans for world domination. In Bangladesh, being left-handed is a more serious issue, as people can take offence at one’s use of the left hand. The cultural norm is that the right hand is used for greeting, eating and passing items, while the left is reserved for wiping one’s posterior and other acts unmentionable on a family blog such as this one. The notion that the left hand could be multi-purpose if properly cleansed is unacceptable here. As a bideshi, or foreigner, I could likely be excused for my mistaken use of the left hand, but I have been determined since my arrival to conform to the custom in an effort to fit in as much as possible. Or at least, to stand out less.

This has resulted in some interesting fumbling. In my usual course of buying anything, I would simply pull out my wallet and hand the bills to the salesclerk with my left hand. Since this would be considered an insult here, I often end up juggling my wallet and money like I’m performing a magic trick for the benefit of the bewildered vendor. Even better, there have been times when I’ve started to pass the money with my left hand, remembered the faux pas at the last minute and withdrawn the bills, leaving the clerk wondering whether I was having second thoughts about buying their Corn Flakes. After the seamless transfer of the cash to my right hand, we try the process again, and the vendor relaxes and calls off the security guard who had been on his way to assist me out of the store.

But by far, the most interesting aspect of having to adjust to using my right hand has been at mealtimes. Actually, eating a meal in Bangladesh has been an interesting adjustment generally. The custom here is to eat with one’s right hand and avoid using any utensils except for putting the food on one’s plate or for eating desserts that would be unmanageable otherwise. There is the sense that the tactile aspect of taking food in one’s hand adds to the enjoyment of the eating experience and heightens the pleasure one gets from the food. If it’s done properly, of course, which would be opposite to the way that I have been doing it. Though it sounds rather simple, eating directly with the hand is a skill that I clearly need to develop. Rice is a particular challenge, as the grains tend to go everywhere but in my mouth, prompting some sympathetic coworkers watching the meal massacre to lean in and confide that it’s really OK if I decide to use a fork or spoon. “Nebuh!”, I declare, as the food I did manage to get in my mouth threatens to fly out and blind someone. Adding to my embarrassment is the fact that Kristel has taken to the new technique without missing a beat and now eats as comfortably as those around her. I watch enviously as she expertly compacts the rice with her fingers and pops the newly formed morsel in her mouth without any collateral damage.

Deciding to eat strategically, I carefully ladle some dahl on to the rice, thinking that it will help to glue the rice together. Instead, the soupy mass that results would easier be taken up with a straw. I hope I can distract those around me from noticing the increasing flood on my plate by grabbing some of the more solid food on the table, but the boiled eggs placed next to me have been heated to the approximate temperature of the sun, so I’m reduced to blowing on my fingers and making odd whimpering sounds. All the while, my left hand dangles uselessly by my side and I begin to resent its presence at the table, thinking it could be making better use of its time somewhere else, maybe wiping someone’s bum. But with the meal completed and me somewhat sated, I decide to forgive my wayward appendage and give it another chance.

It seems that it is only on the roads that the left hand redeems itself. Having adopted the British style of driving on the left side of the road in vehicles that position the driver on the right, the left hand can finally assume some importance in manipulating the gearshift and making threatening gestures at those who are about to cut into one’s lane. Being on the receiving end of a Bangladeshi bird being flipped is probably made all the worse by it being the evil left hand doing the curse.

And so it seems that my favoured hand will continue to fall into disfavour for the two years that I’m here. But even if the left hand is at a decided disadvantage in Bangladesh, I will continue to proudly use it whenever possible in an effort to promote equality for left-handed people everywhere. Anything else would just not be…..right.

The Mutiny

2009-03-03T23:22:00.000-08:00

Thursday, February 26th, 4 pm: Bangladesh is a country in crisis. Mutineers in the military have staged an open revolt against their superior officers in Dhaka and bullets are flying across city streets. The mobile telephone network has just been disconnected to prevent the spread of violence, but rumours of gunfire in other parts of the country continue to circulate. The VSO Country Director has just issued an order for all VSO volunteers to return to their homes and stay there until further notice. As I get set to leave the office, a colleague motions me into his office and hands me an envelope with my name on it. I ask what it is, expecting it to contain the evacuation plans for the organization. “My son is about to start eating dry food,” he replies, “so we’re having a party to celebrate”. I open the envelope to find an invitation, complete with party details and the picture of a smiling six-month-old. And somehow, this makes me feel much better.

I haven’t had much experience with mutinies. Mention the word to me and I’m hard pressed to think of anything beyond scurvy scallawags forcing their captain to walk the plank or keelhauling him while making snide remarks about his peg leg. So, when I started to receive text messages from the VSO office in Dhaka on Wednesday that a mutiny was underway in the capital city, I was understandably confused. It didn’t help that Kristel and I were on the move at the time, as our induction program called for us to travel that day to Sitakund on the outskirts of Chittagong, so we had no access to television or the internet. The news we did receive came via updates from the Director of YPSA who was accompanying us to Sitakund and continued to get calls on his cell phone throughout the trip. Though the details were lacking at the time, it was clear that the situation was explosive and in danger of deteriorating quickly.

Our position as newcomers to the country only added to our lack of understanding, as terms such as “BDR” really meant nothing to us and could have equally been applied to a rebel group, military unit or a McDonald’s sandwich without us knowing the difference. Though the Director did his best to explain the situation based on the fractured reports he was receiving, we remained at a loss as to who was fighting whom and why. As the conflict seemed to be contained within the city limits of Dhaka, we felt reasonably assured that we could continue with our program without any danger, so we spent the remainder of the day exploring Sitakund and YPSA’s projects there. It was only with the arrival of the Daily Star newspaper the next morning that the scale of the insurrection became apparent.

“Mutiny, bloodshed at BDR HQ” screamed the headline in bright red letters, as if there was a need to further highlight the horror that occurred. The story that followed outlined the events leading to the rebellion. The BDR, also known as the Bangladesh Rifles, is one of the key military units within Bangladesh and is second in size only to the Bangladesh Army. Assigned the duties of border patrol and anti-smuggling control, the paramilitary group has a history that stretches back a century or more, following the region through its various incarnations. According to the reports spread throughout the paper, the mutiny was the result of unmet demands held by the lower ranking members of the BDR, including those related to their pay and benefits. Seizing the opportunity afforded by a gathering of officers and those under their command, some members of the unit began to issue their demands, and this is when the situation began to worsen rapidly. A response from the officers was answered with gunfire from the regulars and those attending the ceremony soon were held hostage. Those involved in the rebellion soon fanned out to defend their position and began to shoot indiscriminately into the streets. The BDR Headquarters is located in one of the central neighbourhoods of Dhaka and the mutiny began just as many people were making their way to work. As a result, a number of civilians were hit by the bullets and some were killed as they tried to escape the area.

The army responded soon afterwards by bringing its tanks into the centre of the city on Thursday, though it delayed any further action while negotiators brought in by the government attempted to defuse the situation and bring it to an end without further bloodshed. With reports coming in from around the country of BDR soldiers blocking roads and firing their weapons in the air in support of their comrades in Dhaka, the government required the mobile phone network to be shut down to avoid a coordinated effort among the BDR regulars. Blissfully unaware of these latest developments, Kristel and I had decided it was a good time to pay a visit to the British Council in Chittagong to view the facility and what it had to offer. Turned away at the gate for security reasons, we shrugged our shoulders and hopped onto a rickshaw to take us back to our flat. Along the way, Kristel decided she would like to shop at the market for a while, so I left her there and continued on to our home. Soon after I arrived at the flat, there was a furious banging on our front door, and I opened it to find a very anxious member of the YPSA staff who said I must come with him to the office because VSO was trying to contact us. I asked why they didn’t just call us on our mobiles and pulled out my mobile to see for the first time that there was no network. “Oh, look,” I said, “There’s no network” and my YPSA friend stared at me with a look reserved for naïve foreigners who are becoming a huge pain in the ass.

Arriving at the office, I found a congregation of YPSA staff who greeted me as though I had just returned from the front. Always glad to get a hearty pat on the back, I basked in their welcome with no idea of what was going on. Expressing their happiness that Kristel and I were safe, they looked behind me and asked me where she was. “Oh, I left her at the market” and I watched their faces darken. “You left her at the market?” they asked, almost in unison, and I felt the welcome mat get yanked from underneath me. At this point, I asked what was going on and was told that VSO had been trying to reach us for the past hour or so to tell us to stay at home because of the situation in Dhaka. “Umm, we didn’t know. No mobile network,” I said, helpfully shaking my disconnected phone for full naïve-foreigner-pain-in-the-ass effect. Assuring me that nothing was wrong in Chittagong, my colleagues nonetheless offered to mount a search party of the market for Kristel. Imagining the chaos that would result, I told them that it probably wasn’t necessary if everything was OK in the city, and this likely branded me as a heartless bastard in addition to my new status as an ass pain. “OK, well, please come back to the office when Kristel arrives home and we will contact VSO,” they said, at which point I received my party invitation.

After an hour, Kristel came to the flat and I informed her of her status on VSO’s “Most Wanted” list. We went back to the office and made the call to VSO, confirming we were both in one piece (or I guess, more properly, two pieces) and that we would stay at home until we received further notice from them.

After two very tense days in Dhaka, a truce was negotiated with the mutineers and the hostages released. Though many were relieved that the worst seemed to be over, in the days that have passed since the crisis ended, the news has been just as dire. With the BDR Headquarters now reopened, investigators have found dozens of bodies in mass graves. The dead have been identified as officers within the BDR who were killed by the mutineers during the two-day uprising. Combined with the civilian casualties, the death toll now stands at over seventy people, with some officers still missing. The country has been shocked by the scale of the carnage. For some, the number of people killed invokes painful memories of the fight for independence in 1971, but some analyses have said this is even worse, as this battle involved Bangladeshis killing Bangladeshis.

Three official days of mourning have just been completed and fifty of the officers were buried together with full ceremonial honours. The government has now required all members of the BDR to report for duty and promises a full investigation with the assistance of foreign governments to determine who was responsible and bring the appropriate charges against them. This promises to be a difficult and extended process and will no doubt continue to dominate the headlines and remind the nation of all those lost during those two days.

But the people persevere, as they have through all of the disasters in their history, whether they be natural or man-made. Just one day after this crisis, my colleagues gathered to salute a child eating dry food. All of our past anxiety was forgotten for a couple of hours as we all ate dry food late into the night, happy to have an event celebrating life and providing a respite from the darkness of the previous two days.

Mother Language Day

2009-02-27T02:32:00.001-08:00

Foy's Lake

2009-02-27T02:02:00.000-08:00

Old Dhaka

2009-02-06T18:32:00.001-08:00

Buriganga River and Shipyards

2009-02-06T18:22:00.000-08:00