A Guide to Love, Loss and Desperation

What do you get when you throw someone living in a third world country a ten day pass into hedonistic heaven (Sydney) which covers three festive events of significant magnitude - a wedding, a birthday and Christmas?

One very well-fed, well-liqoured, well-loved feeling little girl (yes I can still call myself this at the age of 28) is what.

The highlight of my return to Oz was definitely the wedding between Amy and Jono which I was privileged enough to be part of as bridesmaid. In true Lyrian style I dragged the very last guts out of the night and finally jumped (ok, sort of half scrambled, half crawled and was half pushed) into a taxi at 5am the next morning (and the taxi driver used his metre without me asking!!).

Other than the nuptials, I caught up with my nearest and dearest, and must give a shout out now to my family and friends – thank you very much for all the gifts, meals, hugs, food (mum and dad have yet to see how bare their pantry is), and time you gave me. Love youze all (oh gosh – I’m even cringing at that one).

Here is what I looked like when I turned 28 (with mum, dad and Kara, my sister

Ok – so that’s the love bit over.

Now for the loss and desperation bits.

Between Sydney and here I’ve realised I’ve left behind:

Half of my swimmers, my fancy shampoo, an ‘Easy Listening’ CD made for me, and two packets of fair trade plunger coffee. The bit which worries me the most is that I haven’t yet made it back to the gong to unpack properly so I think I could be just scratching the surface of things lost. So, now it’s time for me to put on my best pleading face and ask for people to please please please post any of these things to me when they get the chance. I will e mail around my home address soon.

And the desperation…

Tomorrow is Election Day in Bangladesh and there’s a ban on transport, a curfew, a jamming of the mobile phone network, and four foreigners arriving in Chittagong with bags full of food and other spoils (mmm basil, rosemary, thyme, olive oil, smarties, oregano...) who need to spend the following few days bringing in the New Year firmly inside the walls of my apartment while hoping the world outside is going on as peacefully as it was a few days before.

For those of you who want to follow the election excitement, I think your best bet would be BBC World website, or the local The Daily Star (www.thedailystar.net) newspaper (though it does make Rupert Murdoch’s approach to media look quite liberal and balanced in comparison). Fingers crossed there will be little written about it all as that would indicate everything is going along quite peachy.

And my last little bit of desperation – this is what could be my last cocktail for ten months looked like. They really do look pretty and tasty and indulgent even when empty, don’t they?

Credits: It would be remiss of me not to give some air time for a big 'cheers mate, I owe you one' to both Shaun and Chris who dealt with my cancelled flight and all the flow on arrangements which were required to get me from Sydney to Dhaka so masterfully. I'm one very grateful (and safe and sound) girl.

Four seasons in one day

As an Aussie girl, born and bred, there is little more soothing than waking up to the sounds of waves crashing, in a tent, with the smell of salt water still on my skin from yesterday’s swim. Call me a pessimist, but I had relegated experiences like this to the back of my mind along with things like margaritas, balsamic vinegar and strawberries. So you can imagine my joy when in my bid to escape the mass street slaughter that is Bloody Eid, I found myself here:

Watching the sunset over Cox’s Bazaar beach, apparently the ‘longest open beach in the southern hemisphere’.  

Dodging the crabs while walking out at low tide on St Marten's Island (yes, that's me in the orange) to reach our snorkeling spot 

Coconut shells - a worthy last meal? 

I am trying to ignore the ridiculousness of my month where I have gone from visiting villages talking with women in their burqas about their child’s nutrition to snorkelling in my salwar kameez for a highly amused audience of Bangladeshi’s on holidays. Not surprisingly, snorkelling fully clothed made me feel a lot like I was drowning, so is not high on my Experiences To Be Repeated list, but it was fun to do something different. 

Anyway, my beach holiday to Cox’s Bazaar and St Marten’s was so relaxing and full of food and chill out time and sun and good company that for a week it really did feel a lot like I was anywhere but in a country with a population of 153 million people, most of which are not sure where their next meal is coming from.

Space, solitude, silence and candy stripes - what more can a girl ask for?

And just to throw another spanner in the works of mind-bending realism, I am packing for Australia tonight for a whirlwind visit that will cover a wedding, my birthday and Christmas. 2 months has never before felt so long – in a good way – it feels like a very very long time ago I was sipping a skim flat white and rushing around Sydney airport trying to buy a phone charger for a phone that in 4 days time I would no longer own anyway. 

Mmmmmm.... woolworths, red wine and a mattress with springs...... Free alcohol on the plane! Plane food! (surely this is a first?) Family and friends..... Sydney, here I come. 

Abattoir Blues

Sacrificial Animals

Traders up prices on short supply

Purchase and sale of sacrificial animals have already started at different cattle markets in the city ahead of the Eid-ul-Azha but prices are high compared to the last year's prices because of low supply of cattle.

...Oh how I can't wait for 'Bloody Eid'.

Weird Fishes/Arpeggi

For those of you not very up on the blog technology (which includes me) there are things called 'gadgets' which you can put on your blog which do all sorts of things like tell you the time where I am. See the digital time on your left? - that's a 'gadget'. 

Anyway, since it's after midnight here and I uncharacteristically got a lot of sleep last night I am trying to do quiet things, and playing around on my laptop is (sort of) a good way to do this (i tunes aside). So, I decided it would be fun to find a gadget of a map and pin exactly where I am. But, instead of finding a great, clear little gadget which lets me pin Chittagong in Bangladesh, i found this:

ISS Position This gadget shows the current position of the International Space Station on a world map. --- Dies Gadget zeigt die aktuelle Position der ISS auf einer Weltkarte. --- Este gadget indica la posición corriente de la ISS en un mapa mundial. By Dirk Matussek

Now I was very, very tempted to add this gadget to my blog until I thought through the whole dodgy internet connection thing, and then the reality of how long it would take to remove once I was over the novelty and the realisation (not for the first time) that some people out there are really nerdy. 

Not that I have anything against nerds. I admit to having one or two nerdy traits of my own (e.g. "i thought that would be too labour intensive" is a serious reply I gave a friend today when discussing food preparation. On reflection, a simple 'I couldn't be bothered' would have sufficed). 

Anyway, I'm getting off topic. Thank You, Dirk, for this little distraction! I never even knew I could contemplate the question of Where Over The World Is The International Space Station Right Now?! 

See, it's true. You do learn something new every day.

Let's Take The Long Way Home

Me: There wasn’t a jam last time, I don’t know where all the traffic is coming from

Tania: Um, we’ll be right. It only took you 15 minutes last time right?

Me: Yes, but … I’m getting nervous

Tania: We still have half an hour

Me: (to myself) this doesn’t look very familiar…

Tania: Are we sure he knows where he’s going?

Me: I bloody hope so. We said train station. We said train to Chittagong. He said ‘ok’. How long have we got?

Tania: 20 minutes

Look of panic creeping onto our faces

Me: I don’t recognise where we are…….

CNG Driver [pulling over]: Number 6?

Me [adopt tone of desperation): T-R-A-I-N S-T-A-T-I-O-N????

Tania: T R A I N???

(repeat 10 times)

CNG Driver [blank look, motions to the side of the road]: er….bus?

Me [frantic]: No!!! Train!!!!! Train to Chittagong! At 11pm! In 15 minutes!!!!

Us to Passer By: Where is the train station?

Passer By: 10 kilometres away

CNG Driver: Huh?

Us: [insert loud and repetitive expletives]!!!!!

Fast forward 15 minutes spent transferring CNGs and risking life and limb ducking and weaving through the late night streets of Dhaka

Me: Quick, run, run, run, it might be late

Tania [following me as we climb over rows of men sitting on the floor in queues]: Get Out Of My Way!

Crowd of Amused (male) Onlookers: Chittagong that way! Quick!

Me: I can see the train! Tania it’s there!

Me: AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH Noooooooo - It’s leaving! It’s leaving without us!!!!!!!

Me to Dhaka friends: Um, hi, sorry to call so late, but… can we crash on your couch? We just watched the train pull away. Without us.

---------------------

How very Hollywood. Except of course if this was Hollywood I would have missed the train only for the starts to align as I met ‘the one’ on the bus the next day. And while there was a young guy who kept making ‘meaningful’ eye contact with me – I didn’t take the leap and introduce myself as I’m almost certain his only interest would have been to ‘make friendship’. Not to mention how freaky it gets when these ‘meaningful looks’ last ALL DAY.

That’s the story of Tania and I not getting on the overnight train to Chittagong. And while I would like very, very much to blame the whole incident on Bangladesh and how ridiculous it is that we got taken to the wrong side of the city in the middle of the night by a taxi driver who doesn’t even know what a train is but… I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being just a little bit worried that it was karma.

You see, after dressing up ‘specially’ for a farewell in a sari and going to the beauty parlour to get wrapped up in the 7 metres or so of material that is the silly outfit and getting my hair blow dried and putting on makeup for the first time in ages, I confess to getting a little over excited. And then someone put a red wine bottle in front of me…

Bri and I in our saris - pre festivities

It reminds me a bit of the time my (very underage) sister downed an untold amount of bourbon on an empty stomach, and then tried to call our dad on her watch to beg for extra time to sober up only to realise, belatedly, she was not Maxwell Smart.

Except, of course, that I am by no means underage and no one was coming to rescue me from my own personal hell. No. Instead I ‘came too’ on a cushion on a floor, still wrapped up in my sari, covered in no less then 200 bright red mosquito bites (have already googled early symptoms of dengue fever and I only have three of them so far), and with a hangover that rivalled even my very best pre-Bangladesh efforts.

I stopped counting the bites on this side of my foot (yes foot, not leg) at 45.

It seems, friends, this girl can no longer (?) hold her liqour. Which makes my timing of coming home for the festive season just perfect!

Food In The Belly

I sit with the sounds of a generator humming in my ears, the stench of 80% DEET insect repellent up my nose, and a stomach full of food which I am optimistically hoping my immune system will fail to recognise was unlikely to have been prepared following any of Dr Bob’s rules (peel it, cook it, boil it or forget it for the non-developing country traveller types). Dr Bob, I apologise now for breaking almost all the rules at once, but I just have no idea how to solve the food problem when hospitality is the key to many a door, and I’m a girl in need of keys.

I could now begin to regale stories of endless cups of cha (tea) complete with three (or four or five) teaspoons of sugar, or/and salt (yes, salt), and powdered milk (melanine anyone?); of ‘mishti’ which are balls of boiled cheese soaked in sugar syrup (for those of you who know my ‘spit out face’, recall mental image now); or of … well, no, you get the point. I could. But then I would sound like every other ‘other’ who is lucky enough to get invited into people’s homes and sit on their plush lounges, eat with their silver spoons, or drink coconut milk on their dirt floor, whatever the case may be. So I won’t.

Instead what I will regale you with is the stupendous discovery that I can learn to cook! And I mean, ‘look out everyone coz’ Jamie is in da house’ kind of cooking too, not your Women’s Weekly variety. (um, ignore the gangsta/Oprah accent you just adopted mentally in your head – Jamie is a pom – I apologise). Mum, Sally and Amy in particular, I know you have your doubts, but I’m serious. Take a look!

What you see there, people, is a loaf of wholemeal bread made 100% by hand.

That loaf was made from flour lugged on my back for over 7 hours + a missed train ride, and made with 3 hours of measuring, mixing, kneading, rising, kneading, rising, baking (insert super cred for developing country-like behaviour). And that’s not all folks! You should see my fruit salads! And vegetable curries! And chickpea, pumpkin and cous cous mash, and… mmmmm If I wasn’t so full of salmonella right now, I’d be licking my lips. 

[As an aside, why is pomegranite not found in everyone’s fruit bowl? Those little purple beads of juicy goodness are not only an amazing colour, but add a pep to the average apple and banana combo I’ve completely fallen for!]

See, it’s true, I’ve become a regular Donna Hay; a Neil Perry in the making; a f*%$)@#... wait, no you’re right, Gordon’s glory days are gone if those pesky tabloids are to be believed (yes, even in the Dish I know this) so I’ll skip him. The next thing I want to master is oven-baked veggie patties to go with the tinned beetroot I’ve been saving. It really is the small things.

While we’re on the topic…

One thing I simply can’t get used to is the whole eating with your hands thing. And I’m not talking about pizza, a sandwich or even a sushi roll (which I don’t eat with my hand anyway because nori stinks!) – I’m talking rice. Curry. Dahl (of the runny-soup-flavourless variety). Diced and sliced vegetables. Fish. Leg of mutton. Chilli. Everything. For anyone who thinks learning to eat with chopsticks is difficult, I challenge you to eat soup with your fingers and then get back to me.

Now, the problem I have with eating with my hands is that it’s really bloody hard to eat it at the right temperature. Oh, and the bit where it goes against everything I was ever taught about eating food from slurping and burping to playing with my food and licking my fingers. Ok, and the fact that Bangladesh puts a whole new meaning into the ‘make sure you wash your hands’ command. You'll know what I mean when you see where I ate lunch today:

Not quite Cafe Sydney, is it? And note the pond next to it. That's the water they use for cooking. Seriously.

But really, I’m most annoyed by the fact that if I try and eat it just after it’s served, it burns my fingers. If I wait for it to cool, I’ve got about a two minute window to shovel it in before it becomes a lukewarm pile of yellowy mush – cold to the touch and boring to the tastebuds.

Reality Check

Wow. I love that I’m not waxing lyrical on my blog about the ways of the world and how spun out I am that I just spent all day filming in a remote corner of Bangladesh, coaxing villagers who have never seen a movie before to relax in front of the camera:

while trying to keep the kids out of the shot who swarm me wherever I go in the hope that I’ll focus my lens their way. And let’s be frank, they’re in with a bloody good chance considering evidence like this:

So I can’t imply that it’s all their fault I’m not about to win an Oscar for Best Documentary. 

But no, no no – I’m giving all this air time to something most of the world doesn’t get enough of - including the aforementioned villagers I’m trying my best to turn into the new Brad Pitt’s of the world:

It doesn’t make me feel guilty at all. Really it doesn’t…

Anniversaries and adversaries

While I’m on the topic of elections I notice it has been twelve months since I cast my vote, along with millions of other Australians, to bring the Howard years to an end. I’d like to take this moment to say thanks Kev for saying sorry, and cheers Julia for the hard slog that has been (and will continue to be) the burying of the ironically termed Work Choices.

As an aside, it is a welcome breathe of fresh air to note a significant different in the way Australians are both viewed and received abroad. Having been overseas (in Russia) for the shameful Tampa incident, I was granted a front row seat to the international criticism of our government’s behaviour. It wasn’t pretty.

While that incident was a while ago, I have been overseas often enough between now and then (before you think I’m bragging, you should see my bank balance) to know that international attitudes to our government were wary. Not so anymore! It seems people (well, the ones who know where we are) are impressed with our ratification of the Kyoto protocol, supportive of our increased involvement in the international community, and interested to see how we harness the opportunity for an improved relationship with China, and that’s just to start with.

So, happy 1st birthday Kevin07 and Cabinet. Happy birthday.

The Times, They Are A-Changin'

Can anyone else feel the winds of change whipping through their hair (or over their shiny head, or through their flourishing mo’vember mo as the case may be)?

With Little Johnny not only ousted from the top job, but ceremoniously dumped from his own electorate too; with Helen Clarke waving goodbye from the back of her horse and carriage folding up “if it’s not broke…” placards to be trotted out at the next “I told you so” opportunity; and of course with a half-Kenyan, half-American dude with an African name - from which phonetic parallels can be drawn to the Number One Enemy Of The Free World - elected as President of the United States of America (no less), it seems the times, they are a changin’. [insert appropriate reference].

And the times may be changing here in Bangladesh also, as the country prepares to vote in the first democratic elections since the caretaker Government stepped in a few years ago. Preparing the foundations for one of the most populous (and most corrupt) countries in the world to go to a popular vote is no easy task, and Bangladeshis take their politics very seriously. This is to be expected in a relatively new nation (1972) that fought hard for their independence. But, as is also to be expected in a relatively new nation (especially in this part of the world with India, Pakistan and Burma as neighbours) there is an air of… nervousness surrounding what will happen on and post poll day.

In the mean time I watch (from a safe distance just in case anyone important is reading this… including my parents) ‘electoral exuberance’ with interest, as groups of men walk through the streets chanting/cheering/ranting/waving banners etc. So far it has all been very low key in both Chittagong and Dhaka, much to everyone’s relief, but the build up is set to continue.

The election date itself is set for December 18 (with a possible change to December 28) and I, along with everyone else, am keeping my fingers crossed (and my toes, and I’m prepared to approach random people in the street to cross their fingers too if it comes to it) for a smooth, fair and violence-free election period.

Fascination Street – or how transport can remind you that these boots were indeed made for walkin'

Being South Asia, which is very close to South East Asia, which is renowned for what could be considered questionable respect for traffic rules, it comes as no surprise that getting around provides opportunities on a daily basis for the religious to say their prayers.

And because I’m the sharing kind (especially if it’s from your plate) I’ve provided some visual aids to help convey at least in part what it’s like to get around town in ‘the dish’.

1. The Rickshaw

Yep, it’s the traditional variety where a man who weighs significantly less than me (and you too, before you judge, unless by some freak occurrence Amy Winehouse is reading this blog) pedals madly on a bike with no gears while simultaneously hauling your arse all over the place for about, oh, 20 cents a ride.

Now because nothing is as simple at it seems here, this does not mean you, as the well-cushioned passenger get to just sit back and enjoy the ride – oh no. While you sit back and watch the absurdly tight buns of the rickshaw wallah working away madly in front of you, you also get to have a mini-pilates class as you engage your core with all your strength so you don’t topple out onto the bitumen/rubble/rubbish heap/dirt. Rickshaws come with the brilliant feature of being just a little off balance, and tilt forward slightly. Admittedly this makes it much easier to get out at the end, but also makes it exceptionally easy to alight from the vehicle while it is very much in motion.

For the record, being a rickshaw wallah is pretty high on the list of Positions I Never Want To Apply For. Not even being able to decorate my very own rickshaw with spectacularly coloured rickshaw art would tempt me.

2. The CNG or Baby Taxi

First things first, CNG stands for Compressed Natural Gas, which is what these little babies are powered by. Quite an exceptional effort by a third world country to combat air pollution has been made here, and this should be noted. Now, a more appropriate acronym would be PDT or ‘Potential Death Trap’, as the natural gas bottle sits in the back of the baby taxi, ready to explode upon impact. Handy!

A few things to note about CNGs. There are no doors. The driver rides in a cage. There are no seatbelts. They make Smart Cars look like Hummers. All CNG drivers are secretly hoping to become part of the next Star Wars sequel and practice their best ‘I can dodge em better than you can’ techinques with every trip. Oh, and in Dhaka they’re probably working for a local gang too, just to spice things up.

Here is a view from the back of a CNG, note the cage around the driver, and the following pic is a view out the side of a CNG. Note the buses next to me. And panel beaters, you can stop licking your lips, you’re not Bangladeshi if you repair your dings.

above: the view from the back - yes, you can see an arm hanging on for dear life

below: out the side - CNGs are so small

my eye line is almost on par with a public bus wheel.

3. Public bus

I don't always think pictures speak louder than words (if that were the case I'd be out of a job since I'm not about to challenge Annie Liebowitz for the next Rolling Stone cover shot) I do think, in this case, they help. What they don't show, however, is how you actually catch one...

Pick which bus you need, adopt a running stance, start moving to match your pace to that of the (hopefully) slowing bus, close your eyes (optional) and jump on!

Now don't worry, this is perfectly safe as there is usually a man hanging onto the outside of the bus to help haul you in. Usually.

4. Private car

Take a look – what does it remind you of? I’m trying to decide between bumper bowling and dodgem cars, though I think I’m erring a little closer to dodgem cars if I take into account the rickshaw and CNG rides I’ve had so far where the most popular game in school seems to be ‘How Many Other Things Can I Hit Before I Tip Over’. I now think it's actually a handy thing my dirver's license was stolen in my first week or who knows what crazy ideas I would have had about hiring a car with my very own metal bumper bars attached!

5. The Best Kind

And last but not least, my preferred means of getting around town. A little too traditional perhaps, and not overly safe when all of the above are thrown in, but it does come with it's own special smellofactor that helps you feel such an intimate part of the city. Especially in the morning... (I'll leave you to ponder that one over yourselves...).

Everything in its right place

Me: I want to go to Dhaka this weekend, how should I get there?

Local friend: By overnight train or bus, whatever you prefer

Me: Oh, I prefer trains. Is it safe?

Local friend: Safe on train, yes. I think it is no problem.

Me: Ok great, I love sleeper trains! I’ll get a sleeper berth

Local friend: What? No, you can’t, you are travelling alone?

Me: Of course I am. Why can’t I get a sleeper ticket?

Local friend: because you’re a female travelling alone. Better to get a seat

Me:………a seat

Local friend: Yes, a seat. An overnight seat.

Me: ……. A seat

Local friend (big smile): Yes, a seat. It is comfortable, I think for you it is ok. A seat.

Me: And if I was a man?

Local friend: of course you would go sleeper, it is more comfortable. But for you, a seat is best

Me: ……… right. A seat it is then.

Just me and my monkey

I am back in the Gong after a couple of very long days ‘out in the field’, which is the endearing term used for visiting our projects ‘at the implementation level’, to use some jargon. As expected, ‘field work’ is loads of things. Exciting, challenging, confronting, dirty, funny, outstanding for my Bangla, and a bit like being in a zoo.

What I must say though is how damn cute kids are when they are half terrified, half consumed by curiosity for you, and you can't understand anything they say. I became great mates with these guys over the day I was at their (extremely poor) village, and much fun was had taking pics and showing them what they looked like on the digital camera screen. This is, hands down, the most fun I have had in Bangladesh so far.

As an aside - wow, I blend in well, don't I?

‘The fun in every start’ or learning the hard way that youth has not made me invincible

Almost famous!

Having been in Dhaka for all of three days, I was introduced to the local Aussie Club (yes, we’re everywhere, kind of like cockroaches but with beer bellies). I know, not even a week in a dry country and I manage to find a bar. So, after enjoying a few drinks (two actually) I notice it is nearing midnight and we’ve been told we turn into pumpkins very soon. Or actually, after dark if truth be told, but in my western way of thinking after dark translated to after midnight.

Being the Good Girl that I am, I made sure I had people to go home with, one of whom was even male (which is tricker than you realise when you’ve never had to think that way before). Feeling like confident, successful integrating ‘peeps’, Matt (the toothbrush guy), Natalie (who embodies Zen like no one I have ever met before) and I hail a rickshaw wallah, practice our broken Bangla, and bargain until we get a great deal (40 takka, or about one Aussie dollar). On we hop, and away we go…until…

Bangla Bandits in a car ever so kindly relieved me of the bag on my lap (which was not over my shoulder since I did heed at least some warnings), and possessions including every lip balm I brought with me (!!!), sunscreen, nurofen, a hair brush, and, of course, my wallet, about $30 AUD, my phone, and most annoyingly of all, my beloved camera.

Midnight soon turned into 3am as we spent over an hour in the police station (such fun! Though I did strike it lucky as the officer in charge happened to have been to Darwin and seen crocodiles being fed. Steve Irwin, mate, I owe you one). After typing up my own statement with an audience of men doing who-knows-what we made it back to the hotel where I spent the next hour or so trying to cancel my cards etc. And having another vodka. Old habits, it seems, die hard.

Fast forward another week and I make it back to the Aussie Club for a security briefing by the High Commissioner who, upon meeting me, says “Oh, so you’re Lyrian! I’ve written a report about you to Canberra”.

It hasn’t even been two weeks and I’m on first name basis with the High Commissioner. Beat that!

What goes in, must come out

And quickly sometimes! I won’t dwell too much on this point as imagination is surely much more fun. Let’s just say not even a lifetime of lactose intolerance could prepare me for this. And if you glance down to my previous post you’ll see a section called “that’s not a bean,…”. I guarantee it still ain’t a bean at the other end, either. Bangla Belly, I bow to your supremacy, and give thanks for returning control over my bodily functions once again.

Bend down, lift the lungi a little to the left and...

Since we’re on the topic, I thought I’d share a little insight into sanitation. This section is interactive, so get yourself ready.

Before coming here I read an article which said Bangladesh has the 4^th worst toilets in the world. Now, having been to China and experienced the pleasure of communal squatting over a trench with no water in sight while trying to break the Guinness Book of Records Longest Breathe Ever Held competition, I suspected I knew something about bad toilets. What I didn’t realise, however, is that the reason Bangladesh makes this list is because there aren’t really any toilets in the first place. Or at least what I now define as a toilet has broadened somewhat.

To be more explicit – men pee  (and probably poo too, judging by the smell, but this bit is sheer speculation at this stage as I’ve never let my eyes linger long enough to be certain) everywhere. And I mean everywhere. On the side of the road. On the footpath. Against a wall. Into a rubbish pile. Into the lake. On a tree. In the median strip separating one side of a busy road from the other (one of my personal favourites). Everywhere.

Take the time to think about that for a minute.

You there?

Ok, now picture what three days of rain and no drainage systems does to a city like Dhaka.

Still with me??? One more step and we’re almost there.

Now put your thongs on and walk to the office.

Welcome to Bangladesh!

Wonderful things that have happened to me

I’ve made it to The Gong (Chittagong), surviving a local flight even though I forgot to turn off my mobile phone since the flight preparation instructions are all in Bangla. [Oddly enough, once I realised this I became paranoid that something disastrous was going to happen as my old little flip top Nokia sat in my bag breaking international aeronautical protocols yet not wanting to take it out of my bag and turn it off in case everyone could see the reason they were five seconds away from plunging out of the sky before they even got their in-flight meal was because of me]. 

And I’ve seen my house, and my room, and they’re both lovely and my flat mates (Tania and Bri) are lovely and The Gong is lovely compared to Dhaka, and I think it’s no mean feat to be able to say lovely three times in a sentence let alone three times in a sentence about the same day.

Not so wonderful things that have happened to me

Bag-snatch. Bangla Belly. Enough said.

Most useful phrase I have learnt today

“Eksho takka na!” or “100 takka, no!” to the rickshaw wallah’s when they try to extort ‘bideshi’ prices, I may not be the savviest girl around, but I’m on to you!  

Chittagong one day, Paris the next!

A brief glimpse of the fashion statement I am making as I duck and weave through the streets of Chittagong. I feel just like a character from "A Passage to India", only not so colonial, and not so Indian...

Please be patient while we consider your technical difficulty. The wait should not be long

...or so says 'Grameen Phone' who are supposed to be providing me with internet access. Admittedly, my technial know how is limited at the best of times, and I am trying to set up internet access using my mobile phone as a modem, and connecting via bluetooth (cue jargon metre), so this was never going to be a smooth process but!!!

Good to know though that phone companies the world over are terrible at customer service!

Life in a glass house* or 24 hours for a melanin-challenged girl in her new home

There is something just so Christmas Eve For A Five Year Old about the first morning in a place where you’re not quite sure what you’ll be getting for breakfast. And not in the “oh I wonder if it will be bacon and eggs or cereal and toast?” kind of way. More in the “do they even eat breakfast?” kind of way.

That’s exactly where I was about…oh, 48 hours or so ago. Since then not only have I eaten breakfast (roti and chilli fried vegetables with tumeric), but I’ve had a language lesson (salamalykum to you too), bought a salwar kameez (and my oh my, you should see those draw string pants), eaten more (curry), and sweated like a marathon runner 37kms into the Beijing Games event (how very cool I feel to finally have something in common with a marathon runner). All that and it’s not even Friday.

What I have learnt in Bangladesh so far:

Oh no, it’s not raining, that’s just sweat

It is hot. Humid and hot. And strange because the sun doesn’t exist here, or at least if it does it is keeping itself very, very well hidden behind this strange brownish haze. And everywhere you look (my forehead, my back, my legs, my feet..) I’m sweating. Luckily I’m still surrounded by westerners who have gross yet comforting (for me) spheres of sweat everywhere too. Somehow, though, I think this is just the beginning.

I’m not in the lucky country anymore

Bangladesh is, hands down, the poorest country I’ve ever been to. My hotel is in the ‘nice’ part of town and unless I had someone to point out the obvious signs of this like a local KFC store, (though strangely without the slogan ‘finger lickn’ good’?!) and an ice cream shop (just to torture me, I’m sure), I would never have guessed this.
Now before you say it, I was expecting this, but somehow it’s just so hard to actually get a grip on this until you’re walking down Bangladesh’s equivalent of George St or Pitt St and you’ve got a brand new Toyota driving past on the left, while to the right there are rickshaw wallahs in thongs four sizes too big throwing their rubbish on piles being sorted through by women, children, or beggars, and you’re picking your way over a mix of dirt/concrete/rubbish footpaths while squinting in the glare reflecting off brand new apartment blocks which have A-class views of the river slums.

Every day is a fat day!

The women, when you can find them through the maze of ubiquitous men, look beautiful. The salwar kameez (long top over wide drawstring pants) and saris in bright colours are stunning, and flattering. No more muffin top or butt crack sightings on girls without friends for me!! (I know they have no friends because there is no way I would let one of my lovely friends outside the front door in anything which would cause such distress to others). And today (and tomorrow, and the next day, and…) I get to wear one too. Which is lucky indeed, considering what happens to my belly after eating.

That’s not a bean, that’s a chilli!

Speaking of eating, the food has been simply scrumptious for a fussy lactose-intolerant vegetarian. My biggest problem has been deciding between the mixed vegetable curry, dahl, eggplant, roti, naan etc etc etc… But it seems I have met my match in terms of spice. Yesterday, after greedily shoving one last ‘bean’ into my mouth, I was left coughing, spluttering, and reaching for the nearest forms of cool liquid I could find (pineapple juice, water… NO DIET COKE!!!!). That mysterious bean was the hottest thing I have ever eaten. I now consider myself forewarned.

Wonderful things that have happened to me

A fellow volunteer (cheers Matt!) gave up a precious brand spanking new toothbrush for yours truly even though in a couple of months time he could have traded it for gold, or maybe even some gin.

Not so wonderful things that have happened to me

my very lovely and sweet smelling Jean Paul Gaultier perfume leaked all through my toiletries (yes, the toothbrush too, but you’d already guessed this, hadn’t you?) and my hotel room now smells like a strange combination between the Myer perfume counter and a fifteen year old’s school jumper after a lousy yet concerted attempt to disguise the telltale signs of cigarette smoke from the closest Responsible Adult. And yes, I am pointedly ignoring the obvious cosmic universe sign that I was kidding myself when I brought it in the first place.

...and I have the flu. At least I hope it's the flu, and has nothing to do with the new mozzie bite I'm sporting on my elbow...

Most useful word/phrase I have learnt today

Apart from ‘hello’, which goes without saying, I reckon it’s going to be:
“map korun, ami beshi bangla bujhi na” – excuse me, I don’t understand Bangla
though “ami mansho khii na” – I don’t eat meat, comes in at a close second.

(*yes, this is plagiarism, but I’m hoping my favourite bands won’t mind my blatant ripping off of their songs for my blog titles considering it’s pure devotion which is leading to such behaviour. Robert, Thom, et al. I’m sorry in advance, but not sorry enough to stop).

and the countdown begins

With around 18 days to go before I board the plane (did anyone actually believe that nonchalant 'around'? Thought not) I'm well on my way to being prepared. At least I think so. I've finished up at work, moved out, bought stuff and aside from restringing my guitar, I think I'm pretty well right. So I've been using some of my new found spare time to find out 'fun facts' about where I'll soon be living.

Fun facts about Bangladesh:

Bangladesh has 3 UNESCO World Heritage listed sites:
- The Sundarbans
- Historic Mosque City of Bagerhat, and
- Ruins of the Buddhist Vihara at Paharpur

As someone who loves a good old 'brown sign', I find this very exciting indeed. (For the non-Aussie or non car trip adventurer Aussie, brown signs are used to indicate 'historical monuments' throughout Australia. 'Historical Monument' appears to be loosley applied, however, and can be found marking anything from a telegraph pole in the middle of the desert, or indeed every telegraph pole in the middle of the desert, to something as grand as Australia's first parliament house. 10 points for lack of discrimination to whoever it is who puts these signs up, I say).

Bangladesh has the 4th worst toilets in the world

Yes, a fun fact for anyone preparing for 12 months of dysentry. I can't wait.

It is knocked out of medal contention by China, India and Indonesia though, so I at least have that to be grateful for.

Bangladesh is one of the most corrupt countries in the world

According to the Transparency Index and the Forbes list of corrupt countries. Which should make working there a piece of cake!

There a loads and loads of people in a little, little place

The population of Bangladesh (approx 153m) is squeezed into a country the size of Wales, or the size of New York State, or two thirds the size of Victoria. And just so you're really, really thinking about this, Bangladesh is the 7th most populous country in the world. So, basically, I'm preparing to live out my dream of being in a Radiohead song and discover what it's like to be 'packed like sardines in a crushed tin box', in 30+ degree heat, without deodorant.

And whilst I could spend all day finding other fun facts, I've just looked outside my window and can sense a Sydney scorcher coming on. Is that the beach I hear???

Where in the world is Bangladesh?

I've recently received the much awaited e mail with the magic words, 'Welcome to the Australian Youth Ambassador for Development Program' from AusAID. This means you will be able to find me here from the 20th of October:



To find out exactly what I'll be doing you can read the position description for my role as the Regional communications assistant for CARE Bangladesh

This blog will track my adventures, so if you're the kind of person who subscribes to these things, there is a subscription button somewhere on the right. I hope to update it regularly... starting with my pre-departure preparations...

Bangladesh, here I come!

Becoming a good boy scout

I should land in Bangladesh on October 21. By my calculations, that gives me an alarmingly reducing number of days to transfer my life and I over to another country. Not being renowned as the most organised kid on the block, this task is, I admit, slightly intimidating.

Here's an example of my 'to do' list, in no particular order, obviously:
- get jabbed, no (preventable) nasties for me
- get my mail redirected to... somewhere (thanks m&d)
- move out of my lovely pink house and store my stuff (see above)
- buy stuff (oh how I do love shopping says I, wiping the sarcasm from my chin)
- learn Bengali, which should be easy as pie, since it looks something like this:

- finish up at work
- sort out the money stuff, and the official stuff, and what to pack
- learn how to use this blog, etc, etc, etc...

The grand people at AusAID are making the task much easier by supplying loads of information which has the dual effect of making me:
a) very excited, and
b) slightly shell shocked.

I assume this is a healthy response, and I feel much better knowing we have a swiss army knife in the house. I've been assured they do it all...