Earth Hour party for one Part 4

My torch is sitting on the table next to me, shining up onto the ceiling. There are bugs walking around on top of the lamp.

I look up to where my torch is shining, and I see a shadow-puppet show projected onto the ceiling, with huge bugs crawling around. It looks cool.

Earth Hour party for one Part 3

The more you look at the stars the more stars you can see.

I went out onto the veranda, but couldn't really see the sky from there. I braved the trecherous, apparently snake-ridden back yard and found a clearing where I could tilt my head right back and look up. It hurt a little bit after a while, but it was worth it. I saw one shooting star within about 5 mintues. I might have seen another one, but I was getting confused between shooting stars and bats.

It was cooler outside.

As I was looking up I had the realisation that I am certainly not the only person in the world looking up pensively at the stars at this very moment. There are many others. And then I realised that I am also probably not the only person in the world realising that I'm not the only person in the world looking up pensively at the stars at this very moment. And then I thought that maybe there's someone imagining ME, out in the desert, looking up at the stars all by myself, just like I was imagining someone sitting next to the harbour bridge, and on a beach, and sitting on top of a car on a farm, looking up at the stars.

Earth Hour party for One Part 2

Observations. Right. Well. I figure that if I'm going to be doing this by myself, I might as well be writing about the experience, otherwise I'm literally just sitting in the dark by myself and I think there might be potential for that to turn into something profoundly weird.

Now that I think about it, this is actually rather reminiscent of my time in Bangladesh, except this time my "current nei" (no electricity) is voluntary.

I'd completely forgotten how quickly the room heats up and how many bugs the computer screen attracts when you have nothing but candlelight.

I've spilled candle wax on the table. My fridge is loud. I'm hearing funny noises in this new house I've moved into. I'm getting bitten by mozzies.

Think I'll go outside and look at the stars. There's nothing as beautiful as stars in the desert.

Earth Hour party for one

Is doing Earth Hour by yourself something really amazing and inspirational, or is it just someone sitting alone in the dark by yourself?

Perhaps I am a sad and lonely individual, but I've decided to join the hype tonight, despite being on my own.

It's not quite time yet. I'll continue once lights are out, in 2 minutes.

Bag and Baggage with Luggage

Dhaka
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

Time to say goodbye to Bangladesh. What a ride!

I reckon I’ll be back. One day.

My Many Names

Gilliand
Gilliant
Gillian Kennedian
Australian Kennedian
Joolian
Miss Gillie
Kennedy (mistaken for my first name for about 2 weeks.)
Jelly
Apa (meaning “sister”)
Apu (ditto)
Aunty
Halla Unty
Sister
Bondhu (meaning “friend”)
Bideshi (meaning “foreigner”)
Madam
Mam

Attack of the Poo Man

Are you sick of carrying around heavy guns for your armed hold-ups? Constantly accidentally nicking and pricking yourself on those sharp knives and syringes? Tripping over your machete? Well, why not try the new wave in armed robbery that’s taking Dhaka by storm: Poo!

All you have to do is smear a little bit of it on your body somewhere so you stink really bad, and then carry some around, either in your hand or in a translucent plastic bag. Then, if people refuse to hand over the dosh, threaten them with poo! There’s nothing that disgusts people, nor is as effective when push comes to shove, than human poo.

Don’t believe us? Here’s what some of our victims are saying:

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!! Just give him the money.”
“OK, OK! Take it! Take ALL of it. Just don’t come near me.”
“Oh my God!!! I can still smell it! Did I get any on me?”

The Staring Competition

Venue: Local bus from Hajigonj to Naora

Contestants: Australian female (Player A)
Bangladeshi female (Player B)

Positions: Player A: Row 9, Right side, Aisle Seat
Player B: Row 8, Left side, Aisle Seat

Weapons: Player A: None
Player B: Full-face burka

Play-by-play report:

Point 1: Player B, with her weapon at the ready, takes an aggressive stance by turning her entire body around to glare confidently and inquisitively at Player A, taking the Australian not entirely by surprise. She’s used to these sorts of hustles. Player A concedes the first point by glancing at the Bangladeshi and looking away, nonchalantly.

Points 2 and 3: At the 14th second, it looks like Player B’s plan is persistence – she’s going for the big points. She hasn’t turned away yet, and it doesn’t look like she plans to any time soon. She hasn’t blinked yet, either, so that’s a bonus point right there.

Point 4: The Australian meets the eyes of the Bangladeshi once again, this time with more determination. The four eyes lock - the Australian really glaring now; her eyes narrow. Oooh, but she can only persist for six seconds. She turns her head to look out the window. Player A surrenders yet another point.

Point 5: Despite her convincing lead, it looks as though Player B has been shaken. She’s taken out her secret weapon – The Black Shroud. She pulls it securely over her face, but she may have been led into a false sense of security because this only seems to make Player A more determined. Player A, not to be fooled, manages to find the gleaming eyes through the Bangladeshi’s secret weapon. Player A locks in and forces an error from Player B: Her eyes dart, first to the left and then to the right.

Points 6 and 7: The Australian is really getting the upper hand now. It’s as if she’s burning a hole right through the Bangladeshi. After another 8 seconds, the veiled eyes lose their target once more. No blinking from Player A. A bonus point to her.

Points 8 and 9: This stare-out has got to see a winner soon, surely? But unless Player B can pull out another weapon, I don’t think she’s going to be able to make a come back - Player A is as solid as a rock. Again, Player B falters. She’s fidgeting. And what’s this? It looks as if she’s turning her body around to face the front of the bus! The Australian is still not wavering and has not blinked an eye in the whole second half of the game. Another bonus point.

Point 10: Player B’s eyes and head drop as she finally concedes defeat, and turns her head to look out the window. Who would have thought that a Bangladeshi could’ve been beaten at her own game? This one will go down in history!

English amusement

For many rural Bangladeshis, there is rarely an opportunity to practice the few English phrases they learn at school. But since I’ve been around, the people here have begun to take advantage of the situation by practising their English on me as I’m walking down the street. This has resulted in some amusing approximations for “hello” as they pass me by. Some of these have included:
“Thank you!”
“I love you!”
“Good!”
“I am fine!”
“Good morning” (at any time of the day).

Names for Bangladeshi girls that I think are fabulous

Happy
Lucky
Beauty

Haleem

While my mum and dad were here, we went out for an Indian meal one night. When mum and I had had our fill, it disgusted me, but didn’t surprise me, to see my dad pick up the silver curry dishes and a spoon and polish off the leftovers until not a drop remained.

Well, it wasn’t until yesterday that I learnt that this type of thing is not only accepted in Bangladesh (etiquette, when it comes to food, is not really a priority), you can actually order it off the menu. And it is called Haleem.

Yesterday I was in a “restaurant” (I use the term loosely) with my friend Sohel in Hajigonj. He felt like a little snack, so he decided to order Haleem. I was intrigued to find out what it was as I’d never heard of it before.

A few minutes later, it arrived at the table. A little bowl full of goat curry and one of those big spoons you get at Asian-style restaurants. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it soup. It was much more like gravy with bits of meat in it.

So the term “Haleem” therefore must translate as: “Can I have the goat curry with extra sauce? And a spoon, please.”

This is how short Bangladeshis are:

Dolly, yesterday: My son is VERY tall: 5’7”!

(Incidentally, Dolly is 5’)

When I grow up, I want to be…

Today I saw a boy, perhaps 7 years old, “in training” to be a rickshaw puller. His dad and brother were sitting in the passenger seat, giving him instructions. The little boy was getting absolutely nowhere. He was only tall enough to push the pedals when they were right at the top, and even then he had to move his whole torso over to either side of the cross bar to push them. But he couldn’t push them hard enough to make them turn far enough for him to reach the one on the other side. Or to go anywhere.

It appears it’s watermelon season

I haven’t been this happy since tomato season began.

Halla Unty

When my little neighbours, Sritty (3) and Raphy (2) first moved in, their mother, Sultana, tried to make them feel comfortable with me by calling me “Aunty”. It is a common thing for people to do here. Everyone is either your “Aunty” or “Uncle”, your “Apa” (sister) or “Bhai” (brother).

Every morning since their arrival, Sultana has said to her children, “Say, ‘Hello Aunty’.” And then the children yell out, “Halla Unty!”.

Well, it now seems that this has gone a little too far, to the point where Sultana and her children seem to have mistaken the expression, “Halla Unty” for my actual name, because lately I’ve been hearing them saying such things as:

“What’s Halla Unty doing?”
“Do you want to visit Halla Unty’s office?”
“Where’s Halla Unty?”
“Goodbye Halla Unty!”

On Spiders

I’m definitely not averse to the idea of killing bugs if they’re annoying me, but the larger the bug, the worse I feel if and when the time comes to administer capital punishment for crimes against human peace of mind.

It is for this reason that I’ve managed to live a non-violent co-existence with a few generously proportioned, yet peace-loving spiders in my immediate surroundings – there’s been the two black and yellow ones who made their large webs in two convenient corners of my veranda, the one who lived under my bathroom sink and never came out (I would only ever see it if I really craned my neck to see if it was still there, and it always was), then there was my favourite, which lived behind my bathroom mirror by day and would crawl no further than 20cms up the wall at night and then go back again, not to mention the numerous small ones that I’d let travel free-range around my two small rooms.

But one day, a new spider arrived. It was huge. And it was brave. And it was mean. It started on my curtains and then moved to the wall near the bathroom. It then walked up the bathroom doorframe, where it waited in secret to scare the living daylights out of me one night as I switched on the bathroom light. It was at this point that our short relationship began to sour.

I wanted to give it the benefit of the doubt, assuming that it just needed to find a space to settle down and feel at home. But this was not to be. After making its way into my bathroom, it started crawling everywhere. Under my watchful eye, it ventured behind my towel, over the toilet seat and up the wall. I figured that if I could see where it was, all would be ok. But then the lights went out (current nei). I went into my bedroom to get a candle and when I got back into the bathroom, the spider had moved again. And then I found it crawling down towards the floor, but it made a sudden right-hand turn and crawled behind a picture I have hanging on my bathroom wall. And it was at this point that I decided to go and get my shoe.

The thought of dealing with a half-dead spider was too much to handle, so I whacked it so hard I hurt my hand. But it was gone. An inconvenience I no longer had to deal with.

Until I noticed that it had friends. Big friends. Three other spiders surfaced on my bathroom walls that night. There was no way I was getting any sleep with those guys hanging around. Besides, I’d got a taste for the kill and the more I whacked, the easier it was.

Now I only have one spider left in my bathroom - the one behind the mirror. Although, after months of keeping the same routine, it suddenly decided to venture a little further this morning. Only time will tell whether this cold-blooded killer will feel the need to strike again!

Valentine’s Day

Cards: 0

Flowers: 0

Gifts: 1: A 20 gram packet of Tamarind Chutney from Nizam (Nothing to read into here. I think he was just feeling sorry for me).

Phone calls: 0

Text Messages: 1: “Wishing to Happy Valentine’s day. It brings happiness, peaceful and delightful for everlastingness. I hope that you’ll stay fine this day. Shahjahan.”

A few one-liners from conversations I’ve had recently

“Today you look so sweet.” Mirza

“Do you like Hindi flims or Bangla flims?” Alam

“Bah! You are a very great. I like you.” Shahin

“My mind is very fresh.” Mirza

“Before, you were all over too much fatty. Now you maintain your figure.” Dolly

“Your mind is incompressible.” Shahjahan.

“I will try, heart and soul, to help you always.” Raju

Sohel: What is “blonde”?
Me: It means light-coloured hair.
Sohel, pointing to my head: This is grey.

There’s always something

Work: Going pretty good. Teachers and kids seem happy, although one little girl the other day had to go home because she was so scared of me and wouldn’t stop crying.
Social life: Great – visiting locals, going on lots of nice holidays with Aussie friends.
Weather: PERFECT, but getting hotter, in a good way at the moment – you know, the smell of jasmine in the air, balmy evenings, etc.
Mould: Non existent.
Bugs inside room: Mice: 0
Frogs: 0
Weird, prehistoric animals/bugs: 0
Geckos (“Tik Tikkis”): 2
Flies: Now: none (it’s night time)
Yesterday, while cooking my lunch: 8
Small Spiders: 3
Large Spiders (ie bigger than your palm): 5
Mosquitos: Now: about 5
Every morning: about 300 in my bathroom (Why? Why? Why? And what’s wrong with the stupid spiders? Isn’t the whole point of letting spiders live is so they can build webs and catch annoying things like mozzies?)

You’re never too young

I just bumped into one of the local kids, 3-year-old Fateha. She was eating paan. Her whole mouth was red and she even spat out the excess saliva like a seasoned, toothless paan eater. I’m not sure how much of a habit this is for her, but I fear for her beautiful white teeth and winning smile.

Although, come to think of it, her teeth are going to fall out in a few years anyway, so she might as well make the most of it now.

You know summer’s coming when…

You can hear frogs at night again.
Pineapples taste sweet again.
Wearing shoes and socks makes you hotter than you should be.
You can see fireflies when it’s dark.
Chocolate melts in your bag on the way home.
Cooking heats up the room in a bad way, not a good way.
Hot chocolate doesn’t seem that comforting anymore.
Salads sound more appetising than soups.
“Current Nei” (no electricity) lasts longer and longer each night.
The sweat moustache begins to reappear.
Your water consumption increases dramatically.
The fields are green with rice paddies again (thus making afternoon power walks much quieter and enjoyable, because there aren’t lots of people out playing cricket and football and yelling out to Bideshis as they walk along).

Bad Karma or just a bad day?

OK!! I admit it! My ipod fell off the back of a truck. It only cost me $250 when they retail for $400. Which may explain why, the night before I was due to come to Bangladesh, its entire music library was completely wiped, leaving me with only a few hours to redeem a small fraction of my favourite music.

And I don’t reply to or participate in chain mail – I just delete it.

After having the worst run of bad luck I’ve had in years over the past 24 hours, I’m beginning to think maybe the deeds of my past are coming back to haunt me.

10pm: Realise my ipod, ipod charger and camera battery charger have been stolen from my backpack, probably by “security” officials at Kolkata Airport. (I have good reason to suspect this, but won’t go into it now).

10am, next day: Mobile phone breaks.

12pm: Am required to deal with most horrifying, awful, unhelpful people at Indian Visa Application office in Dhaka. Leave almost in tears.

5pm: Get bus home from Dhaka. Bus gets flat tyre.

8pm: Step in weird gooey stuff in the kitchen at my house while wearing thongs.

I’m not even sure if it’s over yet, but whatever the cause of my bad run of things, I feel I’m being tested to see just how far my patience can stretch.

Bloody Eid? Bloody Bewdiful!

Bloody Eid
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

Rumour had it that the streets of Dhaka would literally be running with blood. I thought this might be a bit of an exaggeration.

The second great festive holiday for Muslims around the world has been dubbed “Bloody Eid” by ex-pats in Bangladesh. And rightly so. In this festival, Muslims get a chance to show their dedication to Allah (and, in some cases, their wealth) by purchasing a slaughter-worthy animal (or choosing one personally reared and loved on the family farm) such as a goat, a cow or a camel, killing it and chopping it up to be enjoyed, in full, by family, friends and the poor.

I decide to get an early start and walk outside to see how true the rumours really are. As it turns out, I don’t have to go very far. I don’t even make it outside the gate of our guesthouse before I’m met with the sight of three goats lined up on the footpath – two sans heads - the blood, redder than paint, dripping out of their open necks into the gutter - and the third being held down for the Imam to say his prayer and make the first lethal incision. As the goat’s hind legs begin flailing I realise this is not going to be an easy day.

Just down the road there are butchers covered in blood up to their necks standing inside upturned, de-bowelled cows in order to get the best angle for the hacking and skinning. Steaming stomachs and intestines wobble on the blood stained street. A few local poor people watch with smiles, patiently waiting for their share. An Imam smiles at me, white Punjabi spotless, face speckled with blood.

Pete Kennedy can’t get enough of the action, snapping photos up close and personal with the blood and intestines. He marvels at the butcher’s skill at skinning the animals. It has obviously created some sort of sense of nostalgia from his days at the abattoir. I think I might have even seen a tear in his eye. Or was that just the pungent odour reacting with his senses?

As the smell begins to waft into the nooks, crannies and nostrils of Dhaka, we decide to escape the city slaughter and head out to a quiet little town called Sonargoan. While the slaughtering is still apparent, it seems to be a little calmer out here. Instead of the barbaric scenes we saw in Dhaka, we’re met with little groups of families happily hacking away at their carcasses. Not one part of the animal is spared, leaving the wild dogs’ mouths watering and unfulfilled. Even the cow’s poo is saved so it can be dried out and used as fuel for fire.

I can’t help but feel for the Hindus today, for whom the cow is sacred.

The next day we escape Dhaka once again to lap up some serenity in Naora. We’ve been invited to lunch at Anju’s house. When we see her that morning she makes us a breakfast of piping hot chappatis. Being the Aussie larrikin he his, my dad decides to teach Anju a little “Australian”. He tells her that the Bangla term for “nice food” (khub shad) means “bloody bewdiful”. After a little practice, Anju perfects the saying with just enough of an Aussie accent to make us all laugh. She also informs us that we’ll be having beef at her house for lunch.

When we arrive, we’re of course given the mandatory snacks, tea and other beverages. This, combined with the fairly sizable breakfast has pretty much satisfied our appetites for the next few hours at least. I try to stall the onset of lunch by suggesting a walk around the village. However, this only leads to yet more tea and snacks being offered at the various relatives’ houses we’ve come to visit.

Back at Anju’s house, we reluctantly go inside to have our plates piled high with rice and huge chunks of the driest, toughest and most gristly meat we’ve ever seen. Not only this, but the three of us are the only ones eating and we have an audience of the entire family watching our every move. As mum picks up massive chunk after massive chunk in an attempt to bite of a piece of edible meat, I hear someone whisper to Anju’s mum (aka the cook), “Mangsho Shockto” (The meat’s tough), to which she retorts, “Na, norom!” (No, it’s soft!).

I can tell mum is finding it difficult to swallow but she manages, through the great piece of gristle wedged in her mouth, to remark, “Mmm. Esh Deleshesh”. Dad backs her up by saying, “Bloody Bewdiful!”. He is rewarded for this by receiving another huge spoonful of meat on his plate.

After what seems like an eternity, and with three plates still half full, we miraculously manage to convince the family that we’ve had enough.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen my parents feel the need to lie quite so enthusiastically in all my life, nor “get the hell out of dodge” quite so rapidly.

Now, just to put the record straight, I’ve been back to Anju’s house for lunch since this frightful day and I even ate beef. Believe me, I was dreading it, but I felt that I had to get back on the horse. And, for the record, the meal really was delicious, and the meat really was “norom”. Wouldn’t want to give my Anju a bad name.

And another memorable moment…

“We eat lots of different people. Every Friday we eat different people.”
Nipu, my boss’ wife, while I was there for lunch one weekend.

Ploffy Dicks

Oh, Raju, you’ve done it again!

Raju: Gilliand, do you have a USV port for your computer?
Me: A USB port? Yes I do.
Raju: I need to take a USV port to Hajigonj to get a document from a man’s computer.
Me: You mean a memory stick? Can’t you just use a floppy disk?
Raju: I don’t know. Maybe he will use ploffy dicks, but if he can’t manage the dicks, then we will use the USV port.
Me (covering the smile with my hands): Yes, that’s a good idea.

Oshook

I find it quite disturbing that the word Bangladeshis use to describe things like rat sack and fly spray is “medicine”.

Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton

Badminton
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

I think I’ve covered the Bangla and Biryanis (well, food in general, really, but for the record, unfortunately the only Biryanis I’ve eaten have been out of greasy “packet” lunches – a cheap way of feeding hundreds of people at work functions), but up to now I haven’t said a word about Badminton – simply because it’s a winter sport and it has only really just got going – in a big way.

Semi-permanent nets are being put up all over the country – in the school grounds near where I live; in driveways in Dhaka, complete with floodlights; in the middle of rice paddies. And people are using whatever means possible to get that shuttlecock flying – two beautiful little boys who live at my office, 10-year-old Hassan and his 8-year-old brother, Hussain, were using their thongs as bats the other day because they don’t have real ones. It was so adorable, I even took some video footage. Actually, these boys were also using piles of rubbish as soccer goals a few months ago – ten points for creativity!

I think badminton could be giving cricket a run for its money in the popularity stakes in Bangladesh. Forgive my prejudice against the sport, but badminton seems to be an odd sport to be SO popular. It's a bit daggy, isn't it?

May contain traces of rocks

Again with the dhal. Where is Anju buying this stuff?

I am invisible

When I speak English to people in the office, I suddenly turn invisible to my non-English speaking colleagues. I was just having a conversation with Raju and, in mid-sentence, I was interrupted no less than 5 times by various people who did not even look at me when they began their conversation with him, and continued until they’d finished whatever it was they had to say.

Go Bangladesh Observer, Go!

I wonder what might be the long-term psychological effects of seeing pictures of dead bodies, complete with blood and gun-shot wounds, consistently on the front page of the morning newspaper.

I know the short-term physical effects include a lurching of the morning’s breakfast in one’s gut.

The Haircut

Sitting at home, looking out my window at three men shinning up the trees opposite me, cutting off all the branches.

I’m amazed at the skill with which they can climb and am having flashbacks to my trip to Fiji in 1990, watching the locals knocking the coconuts out of the trees – and also to my Dad, who, whenever he wants to cut branches off a tree, uses a ladder.

I’m sad at the prospect of my lovely green outlook turning into a bare, wintry vista.

More talk about the weather

The slow and steady descent into winter has begun. It is a gradual and predictable process, not like in Sydney where you can be in the middle of winter and suddenly get a 30-degree day. The days at the moment are absolutely perfect. Cool in the shade, sometimes with a gentle cool breeze, not a cloud in the sky, and the sun a perfect temperature to warm the bones. Like reading the paper in the park on an autumn day.

And today, a harrowing reality of winter in Bangladesh has dawned on me. Winter means runny noses and colds, which, in a country famous for its loogie-hocking, the levels of mucus lining the footpaths, roads and anything else that happens to get in the way has already started to rise dramatically.

I am almost used to the hocking and spitting. But the nose-blowing (whereby one casually leans over, blocking one nostril and blows with all their might, leaving a long line of snot dangling from the nose, which is then swiftly pinched away from the nostril using two fingers and then flicked onto the ground) is a new habit for which I’m quickly learning I have little tolerance.

I had the displeasure of witnessing one particularly gross example of the old Blow, Pinch and Flick today – except there was a pause between the pinching and the flicking whereby the man looked at the contents of his nostrils (now dangling from his fingers) with a look of combined disgust and confusion as to what to do next. After some careful manoeuvrings, he managed to perform the flick with relative success.

Before I came here, my Aunty Gaye told me about when she lived in Papua New Guinea and the children used to use leaves to wipe their noses. If only I could say that was the case here.

However, winter also means that it’s not stinking hot – so I will concede that the snot is a relatively small price to pay.

The Kidnapping

Anju invited me over to her house this afternoon. I told her I’d go straight after my walk, so we decided I’d go at about 5pm.

I purposely ate a pretty big lunch, because I figured that combined with the usual cha, biscuits and other snacks that Anju would be likely to feed me, I wouldn’t need to eat any dinner.

I arrived at Anju’s at 5pm as planned. I was immediately swamped with family members, kids and other unknown village people; told to “boshen” (sit down) on a wooden chair; handed the obligatory glass of “dub” (green coconut water); and yelled at in Bangla in the hope that by doing this I would understand more easily. Anju’s family always has the most wonderful of intentions, but they tend to come across quite aggressively and I definitely have to be in the mood for it whenever I go to her house – her family are quite intense and I think they’d actually like to keep me.

Luckily I was in the mood today.

One thing was missing today though. Biscuits… chanachur… bananas… Where was all the food? I thought maybe Anju had relaxed her hospitality practices – much to my delight – I was still full from my lunch. I thought I’d take advantage of this by casually laying the groundwork for myself by saying that I MUST leave before dark (these days, it’s around 5.30). Anju said that’d be fine.

A little while later, Anju took me inside her house, where I was given the (again, obligatory) cup of cha. But still no food! I was impressed. As I drank my cha, I looked around Anju’s house. I was interested, although not entirely surprised to notice that there were lots of things around the room that had once been in my garbage bin. Things such as the cheap, rusty cheese grater that I’d bought when I first moved in; a thin-based frypan that burnt everything I cooked in it for the first month or so; and my horribly mouldy bamboo mat. I wondered what Anju and her family must think of me – throwing these things out when, to them, they are still perfectly useable. Never in my life have I been so aware of my innate materialistic nature than I was at this moment.

So, with tea cup empty and tail firmly between my legs, I said in my most assertive voice and best Bangla I could manage, “Anju, I have to go now.”

“OK, just come into this room for a minute.”

I was led into another bedroom and told to “Boshen” on the bed (minus a mattress). The next thing I know, I’m being handed a plate piled high with rice and told to wash my hand.

Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!! I CAN’T stay for dinner! I have to GO!! Grrrrrr!!!!

“Anju! You are SO naughty! I told you I have to go. You didn’t tell me you were inviting me over for dinner!”
“I know, but if I had’ve asked you for dinner you would have said no.”

That shut me up. I probably would have. But she’s very cheeky.

So that was that. Her mum gave me 4 huge pieces of chicken. Anju and I ate together, along with her younger brother, Jackir, who she’s been wanting me to meet for ages, her sister and mum and dad, which is quite special – this goes completely against custom: usually the guest eats with the men first and the women serve the food and eat hours later. The food was delicious, and I didn’t even need Anju’s encouraging calls of “Khao” (Eat!) every couple of minutes – not until I got to the drumstick and reached my limit. At this point, I pleaded with Anju to let me leave the unfinished chicken, for I knew there was more food coming. But she again told me to “khao” and she pulled the meat off the bone for me, gave the bone to her mother to dispose of, and told me to “khao” once more.

Next came fish, and once again, Anju felt obliged to take the meat off the bones for me – but I felt a little bit like a child being fed by my mother, so I told her to stop – my dignity was at stake here.

Eventually, somehow, the contents of my plate ended up in my belly and Anju was finally satisfied that she had successfully had me over for dinner.

One of the most fortunate customs in Bangladesh is that it’s ok to leave as soon as you’ve finished eating, so I told Anju that now, I definitely had to go. At this point, I was ushered into the third (and final) room of the house, where some more relatives had mysteriously appeared and were sitting waiting for me to talk to. We chatted small talk for a little while, and once I felt that my duty had been done there, I looked pleadingly into Anju’s eyes and said that I really had to go.

Thankfully, she released me. I walked outside, where I said goodbye to Jackir. At this point I experienced another break with custom. Anju instructed her brother (a 20-year-old young man) to shake my hand. This type of behaviour is also unheard of, especially for village people – so I was most impressed with Anju for being such a progressive older sister and good role model for her brother.

Anju and her dad walked me all the way home – Anju with her arm around me the whole time and her dad on torch duties.

Yet another memorable experience to write home about.

You’ll never believe this...

The mould is gone.

Hallelujah.

And by golly, can she roll a chapatti!

My friend Jo came to stay last weekend. She’s the first person who’s ever come to stay just for the sake of it. It was my first chance to entertain – ie cook up a storm– since arriving here.

As I got the Saturday morning tunes cranking on my laptop, I began the early preparations. The menu included three dishes Janine and I learnt to make during our trip to India (samosas, stuffed paranthas and chapattis) as well as a baba ganouj of sorts. Smelling the onions cooking and the incense burning and listening to the feel-good music made me feel like I was back at Juliett St preparing for a party. Aahhh.

It was a lovely and relaxing day of cooking and bathroom cleaning. Anju was of course wonderfully interested in the exotic menu and cooking methods. She was especially perplexed by the eggplant sitting directly on the gas burner, skin blackening more and more by the second. I couldn’t work out how to say, “It gives it a nice smoky flavour” in Bangla, so she was left wondering about that.

When the time came to make the chapattis I was very careful to do it exactly how Ruchi did it in India – roll the dough into a ball, then roll once with the rolling pin, pick up, turn, roll, pick up, turn roll, until you have a nice, even circle. Anju watched patiently as I meticulously ironed out any uneven bits. In then end, I managed to get something that looked a bit like a squircle (half square/half circle).

Time began to tick away a little too quickly, and so I asked Anju to roll out the rest of the chapattis while I started on the samosa cases.

What I saw at this moment has given me yet another huge dose of respect for Anju. Admittedly, she does this every morning, but when it came time to rolling the dough into a circle, she rolled back and forth with the rolling pin, putting just enough pressure on the right end of the pin so that the chapatti turned ITSELF and within about ten seconds, she had the most perfect looking chapatti I’ve ever seen.

I’m sure she was quietly having a chuckle to herself as she watched my pathetic attempt. But she said nothing, and with that, she once again showed what a fabulous woman she is.

Tribute to Anju

I'd just like to acknowledge what a champion Anju (my cook and general helper) is.

Not only does she have to put up with fussy Mr Hussain yelling at her all the time; cooking for sometimes over 100 people on her own; killing, gutting and cutting up chickens and getting up really early every morning (amongst other things, not the least being putting up with me, the pathetic westerner, and my weird and occasionally whinging ways), but she handles all this with the most beautiful and positive attitude and ALWAYS with a smile. She is an absolute trooper.

One example was this morning, when I woke up and began my usual routine of filling a saucepan with cold water and putting it on the stove to heat up for my morning bucket bath, and realised that there was no gas in my cylinder. I was already running late for work and as the minutes ticked by, I became more and more horrified at the impending possibility of not being able to have my morning coffee.

I called out to Anju in the hope that she could save me from this terrible ordeal and heat up some water for me on Mr Hussain’s stove. I went back into my room to send my other saviour, Nizam, a text message to tell him I needed a new gas cylinder. A couple of minutes later, I looked out my window, only to find Anju happily stoking a FIRE using dried palm fronds, with my saucepan sitting atop an interesting arrangement of bricks. Apparently Mr Hussain’s gas cylinder had run out too. Whatever it takes, this girl will do it with a smile. And, to prove just how tough she is, once the water was boiling, she picked up a couple of leaves to use as “oven mits” and walked the 20 metres to my bathroom to pour it into the bucket.

The new gas cylinder was easier to organise than I thought – it was literally delivered about 10 minutes after I’d messaged Nizam. And Anju, who had gone to all that trouble with the fire, was still smiling when she realised that all her hard work had been for nothing. She even swept the corner, behind where the old cylinder was, before the new one was put in.

The Call to Prayer

As The Call rings out over Bangladesh, something tells me that the Imam from Naora Mosque must be off sick. The usual guy is normally fairly dull, calling the local Muslims to the mosque in an almost lacklustre fashion. His Allah-o-akbars tend to blend in to each other, although he is able to hold at least some sort of tune, so I manage to feel a sense of warmth and community when I hear it.

The substitute Imam does the exact opposite – he calls with so much gusto that even I feel inspired to go to the mosque, and he is terribly out of tune. An awful combination and, to add insult to injury, his call to prayer sounds as if someone has put a microphone up to the mouth of a dying cat.

Ki Khobor?

One of my co-workers has a habit of asking me questions beginning with the words: “What is the news of...?” whenever he sees me. The subject tends to differ, but it is often either, “What is the news of Jack?” or “What is the news of your family?” Fair enough.

But today, he said, “What is the news of your body?”

Yet another bug (or something) I have to deal with...

Animal/Bug
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

Sounding like a fighter plane, the animal/bug hovered outside my window for a few seconds before it actually made its way through the curtains and into my room, while I watched and listened in absolute horror. It was some sort of pre-historic beetle that’s too big for fly spray and too scary to hit with my shoe. I managed to take a couple of close-up photos of it before I locked it in my bathroom and hoped to God it flew out the window. It did, thankfully and is so far yet to resurface.

And, to my utter horror, I was woken suddenly at 3am this morning by a sensation of something running across my legs. Startled, I jumped up, struggled out of my mosquito net and turned on the light. It was a mouse. The first mouse to ever invade my living (and, unfortunately, sleeping) space.

When I look on the bright side, the only thing I can come up with is that at least it wasn’t crawling over my face.

Oh the joys of working in a rural setting

I arrived at the office this morning to find a rather sizeable fish being cut up on the balcony. The floor and Jabada, the cook, were largely covered in blood and guts (although some morsels of the latter were being saved for the stock).

There were people standing around to watch the action.

As I gazed out over the pond and paddy fields below me, I wondered where else in the world you could go to the office and instead of making yourself a morning coffee, you can see a fish being butchered before logging onto your computer.

The Pen Register

In the past 7 months at work, I’ve lost approximately 7 pens. As pens tend to do, they have disappeared one by one, through no fault of my own. They have obviously just grown legs and walked away. And they have obviously done this one too many times according to Alam our accountant/stationery manager. Because today I was asked for the first time to “sign here” on the BACE-CFDP Stock Register. One pen!? Come on! It’s not as if I asked him for a spare calculator or one of those business card flipping devices or anything.

Very Busy

November is a very busy time of year. My boss has been warning me for the last month that he will be absolutely flat out this month.

As I write this, he and I are in the office alone. He is sitting just over there. And he is fast asleep in his chair.

Flat out.

The RAB is your friend or “Team Bangladesh”

They’re dressed in black from head to toe. They sport bandanas, sunglasses, 10-hole black army boots and casually sling fancy-looking modern artillery over their shoulders. They are usually under 30 and a good percentage of them are quite cute.

They are on the streets to keep the peace and bring justice to those who deserve it (or don’t?).

They will not hesitate to commandeer a vehicle on the street if necessary (including at 4am when two helpless foreigners need a cab home after an overnight bus trip and the only one available has a passenger in it).

They are above the law.

They are the Rapid Action Battalion.

Here is a recount of my interrogation by one member of RAB (with absolutely stunning eyes, I might add: “Yes officer! Anything you say, officer!) while travelling in a CNG last week, during Dhaka’s “red alert” week of security for the SAARC Summit:

RAB Officer: Excuse me, your country?
Me: Australia.
RAB Officer: Australia? Do you have a mother and a father?
Me: Yes.
RAB Officer: How many brothers and sisters do you have?
Me: 2 brothers. I am the only sister.
RAB Officer: Oh! You are very lucky. What are you doing in Bangladesh?
Me: I am working for an NGO.
RAB Officer: Oh. Where do you live?
Me: Chandpur.
RAB Officer: Chandpur? Are you married?
Me: No.
RAB Officer: Are you carrying any bombs or pistols?
Me: No.
RAB Officer: OK. Have a nice day. God be with you.

Amar Shit Lage

Today was the last day that I will have a shower in my house until the temperature starts to rise again. I will now be resorting to bucket baths warmed up with boiled water. This morning the water was so cold I could hardly stand under it, although I no doubt have little resistance to anything cold at the moment, after seven months of stifling heat.

I just love the face that “shit” means “cold” in Bangla. I have a little chuckle every time someone asks me if I feel “shit”. I like to reply with something like, “Oh, I feel INCREDIBLY shit. I’ve never felt more shit in my life!”, simply to take advantage of the situation.

PS – I also love how people are really willing the winter to come. I’d say it’s about 26 degrees today and I’ve seen 4 people wearing scarves! Raju has been wearing a skivvy for the last 4 days. No shit.

Nitty Gritty

I hate finding rocks in my dhal. It happens on a regular basis.

Oh, the joys of living in a tactless society

1. Raju – a moral dilemma

Me: I wore a sari the other day.
Raju: Oh, you would have been beautiful. Do you know, Tangail saris are the best ones you can get.
Me: Really? Does your wife have any?
Raju: Oh, yes. When I went to Dinajpur, I bought her five Tangail saris.
Me: Oh, beautiful.
Raju: No, she is not beautiful.
Me: WHAT?? How can you say that?
Raju: She is not beautiful, because her skin is very black.
Me: Raju! You can’t say that! Of course she’s beautiful.
Raju: No, she isn’t. But she has a very open mind, so I like my wife very much. I don’t care what she looks like. I like her mind.

Is he living on a higher or a lower level than the rest of us?


2. Nizam – I thought you were my friend!
Text message. Received 20:54, 23 October 2005:

“Don’t sleep so much. U r getting too fat day by day.”

It’s a good thing I’m also getting thicker skin day by day.


3. Shahin – Evangelical Muslim

Shahin: You should become a Muslim.
Me: Why?
Shahin: If you become a Muslim, you can go to heaven.
Me: My religion has heaven too.
Shahin: Yes, but our heaven is very different.
Me: What’s your heaven like?
Shahin: Our heaven is a very beautiful and peaceful place. You will be very happy there.
Me: My heaven is like that too – they could even be the same place!
Shahin: No, ours is very beautiful. If you become Muslim, it will be very good