Yesterday was our day off. Every Friday we wake up, eat a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit (purchased off the street the night before) moori (a kind of puffed rice) and TugDoi (basically, sour cream, their version of yogourt).
We then head out to catch the bus. Catching the bus in Bangladesh is not like it is anywhere else in the world. We first take a rickshaw to the unmarked bus stop. The only reason we know where to go is because previous volunteers have shown us. Previous volunteers showed them where to go and so on and so forth. At the unmarked bus stop there are tiny wooden desks, just big enough for one person to sit behind. These have no distinguishing markings on them. One has an umbrella. In the dense crowds they are very easy to miss. At these desks sit a couple of men who sell the bus tickets. So we buy our tickets at the unmarked bus stop.
The bus has no exact schedule. We just buy our tickets and wait, hoping it comes soon. The buses themselves have no numbers on them. Many different buses are almost identical, but the small variations in paint are how the passengers appear to distinguish them. Our bus has musical notes painted on the side. Each bus is privately owned, so each route is set by the company that owns the bus. There is no transit system.
For 32Taka we take an hour long bus ride into Gulshan. That's about 50cents. Gulshan is the posh area, but you wouldn't call it that anywhere else in the world. The electrical wires are hanging in bundles of thousands. They cut through corners, leaning into the houses and rubbing off the plaster wall paint. The high rises are rough plaster over rougher bricks. There is glass and metal in Gulshan however, which is not common in the other areas. The rich people live here, and all the expat clubs are here as well. The rich people have small estates. Many of these are beautiful by any standard.
Other than the two main roundabouts in Gulshan, it is a much quieter place then the rest of Dhaka. I cannot impress on you enough the noise here. So Gulshan is a welcome respite from the constant battering of horns. The other main reason we go to this area is there are several western style places. There is the Dutch club (I had the dutch pancake for lunch) Lavender (the western grocery store) and Bitter Sweet (the best milkshake I have ever had in my life came from this lovely little cafe). We spoil ourselves rotten after 6 days of living on $3.00CAD a day.
The bus ride home makes the bus ride in feel quaint and domestic. The ride home is wild. Everyone is returning in the evening and the bus is packed. Yesterday we arrived as the bus was leaving. We were informed the next bus would arrive in 10minutes. 50minutes later a bus pulled up so packed with people there were literally arms hanging out the doors. We managed to jam in a few more people, including the three of us. I was on the steps leading out the door. Terrifying. Joy was on the bottom step leading out the door, and hanging on for dear life!
There is no question the most dangerous thing we do here is ride that bus. But we survived another harrowing bus trip, and met a few nice people on the way. Everyone here is very curious about us, so it is impossible not to talk to strangers. Though I have already been asked three times for a visa to Canada. (One man offered to be my housekeeper!)
I find Dhaka so overwhelming in so many ways, but we are not living in Dhaka like the people here. We can get away from the noise, the poverty and hunger and the garbage, even if only for brief periods of time. We are the ones walking away from the beggars. Being able to walk away is freedom. I paid a very small sum for my amazing milkshake (less than $2.00) but that is a day's wage for some people here. According to my lonely planet, half the country lives on less than $2.00/day and that will support a whole family. (Support may be a lofty term here).
I find myself conflicted. I think we all (well, those that think about it anyways) justify our lifestyles to ourselves. We do so by saying things like, "Well, I work hard. I deserve this." But I don't think anyone works harder than a single mother in an impovershed country trying to support her family. We look at our country of Canada and think, well aren't I lucky to be here. And we are, more so than we are willing or even able to understand. Being in Bangladesh has magnified that. I'm not sure where this is going. Maybe just that we all need to live more simply, protect our environment from global warming (which is creating so much more poverty by destroying the little bit of fertile land many of these people have) and be a bit more generous. I for one am going to cut out hot showers (There is no hot water here, so I'm used to it now) and give to the CRP and other well run, recognized charities. Also, I plan to keep volunteering abroad. What a great way to travel conscientiously.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
A little about the people
I've talked about the country but I haven't really introduced the people. Making generalizations about people from a specific country is always shaky ground. There are distinct cultures and of course distinct people within this massively populated country (This is the most densely populated country in the world.150million people are not all going to be alike) but I will try to make a few generalizations based on my experiences non the less. Hopefully, I will not insult anyone or put my foot in my mouth.
The people we have me are very excited about Bedieshi's (foreigners). Because this is not a tourist country (the tourist industry is almost non existent) foreigners are still quite the novelty. This means we get a load of attention. People surround us taking photos of us. At the Hindu festival of Purja (soooo much fun) we were ushered to the front of every temple. Every big business man creates his own temple, so we saw many temples. The actual Hindus and jointly celebrating Muslims had to wait in line, or at the very crowded temples, stay at the back while we were brought forward. This despite our best attempts at declining the privilege.
At the Embassy, we do not have to wait in line like the Bangali's. Again we are ushered to the front. We receive top notch service where ever we go.
We do pay more than the locals for most things, but being that the people here aren't used to ripping off Bedeshis like other countries (Thailand was one rip off after another) the price increases are reasonable. (and still outrageously affordable).
We were discussing how this is quite embarrassing, this constant preferential treatment and Mizan, a Bangali man explained that we are the guest, and that is how you should treat the guest. I said, but were not all these other people's guests. He replied, you are the guest of all Bangladesh, that is how we treat you. What an amazing concept!
So, other than a few isolated occasions, the people treat us here as if we are an honoured guest of all of Bangladesh. The few occassions of rudeness come from men who are terrified we might sit beside them on the bus, or the CNG (three wheel baby taxi) drivers who seem to be in a foul mood most of the time and do not, will not and have never turned on the meter.
Initially, my view of Bangladesh was one of shock. Dhaka is shocking, I stand by that, but I enjoy so many parts of it now. The people are a massive reason for my enjoyment.
I'm on my tea break (I drink a lot of tea now) and so don't have time to proof read this post. I apologize for what, I'm sure is hurrendous grammar and loads and loads of spelling mistakes.
L
The people we have me are very excited about Bedieshi's (foreigners). Because this is not a tourist country (the tourist industry is almost non existent) foreigners are still quite the novelty. This means we get a load of attention. People surround us taking photos of us. At the Hindu festival of Purja (soooo much fun) we were ushered to the front of every temple. Every big business man creates his own temple, so we saw many temples. The actual Hindus and jointly celebrating Muslims had to wait in line, or at the very crowded temples, stay at the back while we were brought forward. This despite our best attempts at declining the privilege.
At the Embassy, we do not have to wait in line like the Bangali's. Again we are ushered to the front. We receive top notch service where ever we go.
We do pay more than the locals for most things, but being that the people here aren't used to ripping off Bedeshis like other countries (Thailand was one rip off after another) the price increases are reasonable. (and still outrageously affordable).
We were discussing how this is quite embarrassing, this constant preferential treatment and Mizan, a Bangali man explained that we are the guest, and that is how you should treat the guest. I said, but were not all these other people's guests. He replied, you are the guest of all Bangladesh, that is how we treat you. What an amazing concept!
So, other than a few isolated occasions, the people treat us here as if we are an honoured guest of all of Bangladesh. The few occassions of rudeness come from men who are terrified we might sit beside them on the bus, or the CNG (three wheel baby taxi) drivers who seem to be in a foul mood most of the time and do not, will not and have never turned on the meter.
Initially, my view of Bangladesh was one of shock. Dhaka is shocking, I stand by that, but I enjoy so many parts of it now. The people are a massive reason for my enjoyment.
I'm on my tea break (I drink a lot of tea now) and so don't have time to proof read this post. I apologize for what, I'm sure is hurrendous grammar and loads and loads of spelling mistakes.
L
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Our Glorious Day Off
We get one day a week off here. When you only get the one, you look forward to it even more than with a whole weekend. To us (the volunteers) its a day of utter indulgence. We splesh out (a british term meaning splurge) on western style food. Two weeks ago I had pizza, an eclair, french fries and two milkshakes! This week I had only one milkshake (cookies and cream) but also a thai dinner (did not taste anything like Thai food) a cappucino, an apple pie, and an orange banana smoothie. We have narrowed down all the western style shops in Dhaka. That and some of the volunteers have memberships to their expat clubs, so that's where a lot of the spleshing out occurs. We go to the western grocery store after and buy things like oreo cookies and pasta. It's more of a treat than you can imagine. I think I've had 10 oreo cookies already today.
Yesterday was a more somber occasion than usual though. We chose to attend the Liberation War Museum in Dhaka. Pakistan (of which Dhaka was once a member) chose not to recognize Bangla as one of the national languages. This infuriated the 70million Bangla speaking people. There were unarmed student protests in response to this discrimination. So Pakistani police opened fire killing many students, professors and other educated peoples. The crack down came much worse in 1971. Pakistan lead an genocide against the people of East Pakistan. The raped, torutured and murdered thousands. They specifically targetted women, children and those who were educated. They rounded up women to be sex slaves in their soldier's camps. They murdered thousands of children. Students at Universities did not fair well.
India came to the aid of Bangladesh as well as many other foreign countries (though not the USA. In a recently unclassified document, Nixon wrote 'do not squeeze Yhan at this time.'). As a result of brave internal fighting and foreign support Bangladesh was able to liberate their country. On the last day before Pakistan conceded defeat the PAK army rounded up thousands upon thousands of doctors, professors, engineers and other leaders of community. They murdered them and threw their bodies in mass graves. And this, remember was on the final day. They already new the war was over, but attempted to create an intellectual vacuum for the new country.
The museum was a beautiful tribute to these martyrs. It was also graphic and disturbing with photos of mutilated bodies and starved children. They have items of clothing of many of the people who were tortured and died. The most disturbing is possibly the small vest of a child that was murdered because the soldiers were looking for his father. The child had been stepped on.
I was prepared for this as I had read a great deal about the liberation war before arriving. Even with that it still makes you stick. The perpetrators have never been brought to trial, as is so often the case.
It's times like this I wish I'd been born something innocent like a dog or a cat.
L
Yesterday was a more somber occasion than usual though. We chose to attend the Liberation War Museum in Dhaka. Pakistan (of which Dhaka was once a member) chose not to recognize Bangla as one of the national languages. This infuriated the 70million Bangla speaking people. There were unarmed student protests in response to this discrimination. So Pakistani police opened fire killing many students, professors and other educated peoples. The crack down came much worse in 1971. Pakistan lead an genocide against the people of East Pakistan. The raped, torutured and murdered thousands. They specifically targetted women, children and those who were educated. They rounded up women to be sex slaves in their soldier's camps. They murdered thousands of children. Students at Universities did not fair well.
India came to the aid of Bangladesh as well as many other foreign countries (though not the USA. In a recently unclassified document, Nixon wrote 'do not squeeze Yhan at this time.'). As a result of brave internal fighting and foreign support Bangladesh was able to liberate their country. On the last day before Pakistan conceded defeat the PAK army rounded up thousands upon thousands of doctors, professors, engineers and other leaders of community. They murdered them and threw their bodies in mass graves. And this, remember was on the final day. They already new the war was over, but attempted to create an intellectual vacuum for the new country.
The museum was a beautiful tribute to these martyrs. It was also graphic and disturbing with photos of mutilated bodies and starved children. They have items of clothing of many of the people who were tortured and died. The most disturbing is possibly the small vest of a child that was murdered because the soldiers were looking for his father. The child had been stepped on.
I was prepared for this as I had read a great deal about the liberation war before arriving. Even with that it still makes you stick. The perpetrators have never been brought to trial, as is so often the case.
It's times like this I wish I'd been born something innocent like a dog or a cat.
L
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Fried Chicken
Yesterday four of us went to Savar Bazaar. It is a rollercoaster, a rodeo and circus ground all rolled into one. Imagine the busiest place you can imagine. Then understand that this is busier.
We took two rickshaws into Savar. The only way there is by rickshaw, which presents its own problems. Peter, a volunteer from England who is a wheelchair user, has to either rickshaw surf (hold onto the back and get pulled behind the rickshaw) which is suicide in this traffic, or transfer up into the rickshaw. Because I'm quite sure he is superman, he is able to do the transfer. Peter is causcasion with bright red hair (you thought blonds got attention here). Red hair is a sign of superiority in a religious sense. It means you've been to Mecca. You can't imagine the crowd that forms when he is performing his transfer. And I mean perform. He candidly stated, "I guess we're the entertainment for the night" as the crown around him grew and grew.
There are not really streets as they are crumbled at the edges. There are not sidewalks, just red, muddy dirt and there is definitely no wheel chair ramps. After a rain (of which there was a mid day shower yesterday) there are ankle deep "puddles" everywhere. I use this term loosely. They are sludge puddles of the murkiest smelliest fluid.
But Peter conquered Savar Bazaar as only Peter could. I keep joking that he is the king of awareness raising.
The purpose of the ardous journey: The fried chicken stall. The naan bread is 1.5cm thick and layered. There is no butter on it, but it is buttery goodness through and through. The fried chicken is coated in spices. It is fantastic. And totally worth the journey. It was really expensive though. About 120Taka for a half chicken. That's not quite $2.00 CAD. Ha. Some parts of Bangladesh are great.
Sorry Aunty Lorraine, only buying food that other people don't touch or that can be washed would condmen me to starvation. Luckily, I'm a bit of a scrub anyways, and I'm getting used to servers handing me my meal! Plus, I've already had food poisening once, so I think my body is learning to fight off Bangladesh.
On the way home we took the rickshaw against rush hour traffic. Literally, we were heading directly into the paths of buses and trucks. As a truck slammed on the breaks and we swerved out of the way (remember, it's now night, and rickshaws don't exactly have headlights)Peter exclaimed, "This guy is fecking Mad." (fecking may be more of an Irish translation, but his liverpool accent was close to fecking as well).
I know of a guy who believes that any day where he hasn't risked his life is a day wasted. He should come to Bangladesh.
We took two rickshaws into Savar. The only way there is by rickshaw, which presents its own problems. Peter, a volunteer from England who is a wheelchair user, has to either rickshaw surf (hold onto the back and get pulled behind the rickshaw) which is suicide in this traffic, or transfer up into the rickshaw. Because I'm quite sure he is superman, he is able to do the transfer. Peter is causcasion with bright red hair (you thought blonds got attention here). Red hair is a sign of superiority in a religious sense. It means you've been to Mecca. You can't imagine the crowd that forms when he is performing his transfer. And I mean perform. He candidly stated, "I guess we're the entertainment for the night" as the crown around him grew and grew.
There are not really streets as they are crumbled at the edges. There are not sidewalks, just red, muddy dirt and there is definitely no wheel chair ramps. After a rain (of which there was a mid day shower yesterday) there are ankle deep "puddles" everywhere. I use this term loosely. They are sludge puddles of the murkiest smelliest fluid.
But Peter conquered Savar Bazaar as only Peter could. I keep joking that he is the king of awareness raising.
The purpose of the ardous journey: The fried chicken stall. The naan bread is 1.5cm thick and layered. There is no butter on it, but it is buttery goodness through and through. The fried chicken is coated in spices. It is fantastic. And totally worth the journey. It was really expensive though. About 120Taka for a half chicken. That's not quite $2.00 CAD. Ha. Some parts of Bangladesh are great.
Sorry Aunty Lorraine, only buying food that other people don't touch or that can be washed would condmen me to starvation. Luckily, I'm a bit of a scrub anyways, and I'm getting used to servers handing me my meal! Plus, I've already had food poisening once, so I think my body is learning to fight off Bangladesh.
On the way home we took the rickshaw against rush hour traffic. Literally, we were heading directly into the paths of buses and trucks. As a truck slammed on the breaks and we swerved out of the way (remember, it's now night, and rickshaws don't exactly have headlights)Peter exclaimed, "This guy is fecking Mad." (fecking may be more of an Irish translation, but his liverpool accent was close to fecking as well).
I know of a guy who believes that any day where he hasn't risked his life is a day wasted. He should come to Bangladesh.
Today, I contributed
Although I have really enjoyed the work here I have not felt I am making a difference or contributing to CRP. My patients like me, but on a bigger scale than that I am not impacting CRP. I am working with patients who would have other physios if I was not here, and when I leave I will leave a gap that needs to be filled. Not very sustainable.
But today I felt I made a difference. There is a boy here who was badly mistreated in a government hospital. I've been told "you just can't imagine" what the government hospitals are like. They are bleak and corrupt. Although they are supposed to be funded by the government treatment is rarely free. The doctors and nurses take bribes, providing better treatment to those who sneak them money. As a result this boy was left on a tile floor in a corner of a hallway. His parents rescued him from this situation because they were appalled at his care (or lack there of). He was later referred to CRP. He came here with 35 pressure sores. Many so deep they required surgery. One of which was so drastic the surgeons were forced to remove his greater trochanter (the hip bone that sticks out of the side of your upper leg) as it was coming through the sore.
Although he is now recovering, no one here has thought to take him outside in a rolling bed. His condition is fragile, which is certainly one reason, but with only two pressure sores remaining I thought a short trip away from his air bed was warranted. He is 16 years old. He has been in the same bed in the same corner of the same room for 22 months. He was 14 years old when he arrived.
Despite much resistance I got my way. I took him outside today. (you know I'm good at getting my way). He was amazed by the colour of the sky, by the number of trees, by the basketball court. We went and visited another ward so he could see patients he's met along the way. We saw the two resident geese, we wandered through the reception area. We stopped and watched the workers hauling bricks.
Today I made a contribution.
There is a sign outside CRP headquaters that states "Service to Sufferers is Service to God." I may not be a religious person, but it felt good to serve.
L
But today I felt I made a difference. There is a boy here who was badly mistreated in a government hospital. I've been told "you just can't imagine" what the government hospitals are like. They are bleak and corrupt. Although they are supposed to be funded by the government treatment is rarely free. The doctors and nurses take bribes, providing better treatment to those who sneak them money. As a result this boy was left on a tile floor in a corner of a hallway. His parents rescued him from this situation because they were appalled at his care (or lack there of). He was later referred to CRP. He came here with 35 pressure sores. Many so deep they required surgery. One of which was so drastic the surgeons were forced to remove his greater trochanter (the hip bone that sticks out of the side of your upper leg) as it was coming through the sore.
Although he is now recovering, no one here has thought to take him outside in a rolling bed. His condition is fragile, which is certainly one reason, but with only two pressure sores remaining I thought a short trip away from his air bed was warranted. He is 16 years old. He has been in the same bed in the same corner of the same room for 22 months. He was 14 years old when he arrived.
Despite much resistance I got my way. I took him outside today. (you know I'm good at getting my way). He was amazed by the colour of the sky, by the number of trees, by the basketball court. We went and visited another ward so he could see patients he's met along the way. We saw the two resident geese, we wandered through the reception area. We stopped and watched the workers hauling bricks.
Today I made a contribution.
There is a sign outside CRP headquaters that states "Service to Sufferers is Service to God." I may not be a religious person, but it felt good to serve.
L
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Week 3 in Bangladesh
Ok, so I've been here three weeks and I'm only now creating a blog. Those who know me understand already. Those who don't probably aren't reading this anyways.
I'm going to quote my email to my parents to describe Bangladesh. This place is so impossible to describe and I think I kind of got it right before so I'm sticking with it.
Dhaka is the capital and where I am staying (I'm actually in Savar, but it's all one continuous dirty city). Dhaka is impossibly dirty and noisy. Everyone uses their horns here. Sometime the honking is a dire warning, "Hey, I'm here and you might kill me if you keep going in that odd direction." Other times the horn appears to a chance to show the world that you are going slightly faster. Regardless, the honking is incessant.
There are more people here than is possible. The congestion manifests itself in the most unusual of traffic jams. I've been in vehicle jams, rickshaw jams and even people jams. Yes, I did say rickshaw jams. We got out, paid the rickshaw wallah and walked on.
The people are desperately poor. The "middle class" live in decrepit buildings that most certainly would not be allowed to stand in Canada. they appear to be made with a soft brick that crumbles easily and is often scavenged from other work sites. And, like I said, these are the middle class. The poor are shirtless and shoeless, and about five years old hanging onto my salvar kameez begging for money.
The rickshaw wallahs are a study in anatomy. Every sinewy line of muscle straining across rough roads. They are so skinny and so strong. Bangladesh should recruit these men and form a cycling team. The power to weight ratio would be phenomenal.
Tourists are few and far between here, so we're a really big hit. Crowds form around us every time we leave CRP. Also, I've been asked to bless children.
Everyone here wants to know where I am from and what my husband's occupation is. They are shocked (and some are appalled ) when I say I am here by myself without my husband. They're not sure what to make of this. One man was outwardly offended. But most people hide their shock and carry on trying to ask me questions.
CRP is the most amazing hospital. It's a NGO that started as a couple of tinshade buildings. It's now an organization with a college, special needs school, paedatrics ward, neurology ward, community development schemes and over 1000 employees. Please, please look it up online. Just google CRP Bangladesh. And consider donating or volunteering here.
That's already a lot, and I want to save something to write in the next posts.
The best way to get a hold of me while I'm here is through email.
L
I'm going to quote my email to my parents to describe Bangladesh. This place is so impossible to describe and I think I kind of got it right before so I'm sticking with it.
Dhaka is the capital and where I am staying (I'm actually in Savar, but it's all one continuous dirty city). Dhaka is impossibly dirty and noisy. Everyone uses their horns here. Sometime the honking is a dire warning, "Hey, I'm here and you might kill me if you keep going in that odd direction." Other times the horn appears to a chance to show the world that you are going slightly faster. Regardless, the honking is incessant.
There are more people here than is possible. The congestion manifests itself in the most unusual of traffic jams. I've been in vehicle jams, rickshaw jams and even people jams. Yes, I did say rickshaw jams. We got out, paid the rickshaw wallah and walked on.
The people are desperately poor. The "middle class" live in decrepit buildings that most certainly would not be allowed to stand in Canada. they appear to be made with a soft brick that crumbles easily and is often scavenged from other work sites. And, like I said, these are the middle class. The poor are shirtless and shoeless, and about five years old hanging onto my salvar kameez begging for money.
The rickshaw wallahs are a study in anatomy. Every sinewy line of muscle straining across rough roads. They are so skinny and so strong. Bangladesh should recruit these men and form a cycling team. The power to weight ratio would be phenomenal.
Tourists are few and far between here, so we're a really big hit. Crowds form around us every time we leave CRP. Also, I've been asked to bless children.
Everyone here wants to know where I am from and what my husband's occupation is. They are shocked (and some are appalled ) when I say I am here by myself without my husband. They're not sure what to make of this. One man was outwardly offended. But most people hide their shock and carry on trying to ask me questions.
CRP is the most amazing hospital. It's a NGO that started as a couple of tinshade buildings. It's now an organization with a college, special needs school, paedatrics ward, neurology ward, community development schemes and over 1000 employees. Please, please look it up online. Just google CRP Bangladesh. And consider donating or volunteering here.
That's already a lot, and I want to save something to write in the next posts.
The best way to get a hold of me while I'm here is through email.
L
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