‘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!