You Never Give Me Your Money

What does an aid worker do when restricted to the house by a gun battle – stranded with no form of communication as the phones and internet go down, and with a bag packed, waiting for word that it’s ok to jump on a bus and head into the capital? No tv, no flat mates, no radio, no work? Go on, ask. Ask me. Really, I’m so starved for conversation that I’m simply bursting through my skin to tell you. Go on, go on, ask!

This little aid worker has been taking full advantage of the (unwanted) downtime to do something that is usually reserved for rainy weekends in winter, or summer holidays in exotic locations by the water, or for stolen weekends away in front of the fire, good glass of red on the coffee table. I’ve been reading voraciously. In fact, it’s 12:24pm right now, and I’m still sitting in my pyjamas, even though I’ve been up since 3:30am (because what you want when you’ve got all the time in the world to sleep without an ounce of guilt is insomnia).

As I read the last page of Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone on Wall St (or Pitt St Sydney, come to think of it. Yes Macq Bank, I’m looking at you, kid) has taken the time out to give the book a cursory glance. Because as I read of Emma’s new curtains and lace and carpets and seat covers and flat screen tv and new car and i-pod touch, all purchased with thin air lent to her by the local GE Finance rep, with demand notices being stuffed into drawers for another time, it got me to thinking. How could Flaubert, whose novel about that most scandalously immoral woman was first published in 1857, predict the current global financial crisis?

How could he write about it so clearly, and with such sage advice for readers so long ago, long before Bank West’s offer of 0% interest on balance transfers for 6 months, or RAMS ‘No Deposit’ Home Loans, or BMW Finance’s lower than sea level car loans before there were such things as credit cards or cars or first home buyer’s grants?

Even more baffling than Flaubert’s crystal ball qualities, however, is the complete reckless stupidity of our modern day experts (financial institutions, banks, governments, economists, et al please stand up) who continued to ignore the basic principle that if you borrow something from someone, they are quite within their rights to want it back.

What also became glaringly obvious as I shook my head at Emma’s next Must Have purchase, however, is that I couldn’t quite put all the blame on the conniving Monsieur Lheureux (a modern day Harvey Norman providing both the goods and the credit with one flick of the feather) who so tidily helped Emma and her unenviable husband Charles into their well-woven mess of debt. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I tried the way anyone who can bang on about corporate greed with wearying predictability would try. And while I came really really close to shouting at the scoundrel as he schemed to whisk away the Bovary’s Aussie Dream from right underneath them by ‘refinancing’ their spiraling debts, I couldn’t help but shake that voice in my head which kept saying: Oh Emma, STEP AWAY FROM THE LACE! Yes, step back, one foot after the other, put your head up, turn on your heel and exit stage left. You CAN’T AFFORD IT!!! Predictably she didn’t listen. But neither did we, did we Flaubert?

The Ship Song, continued

Not to be outdone by the eventful journey there, the trip back proved just as jam-packed full of memorable moments, though not quite of the Hallmark Card variety. I rose early ready to depart at ‘8am sharp!’ as instructed. We were returning to the mainland not on speedboats, but on a local fishing boat. This development made me quite happy as I figured there was no way a fishing boat would be able to match the speedboat in terms of alarming acceleration. I had also been assured there would be enough water at this time of morning for us to launch directly into the water, meaning we could avoid a rerun of the ‘heave ho’ action. This also made me happy. In fact, I was feeling quite chipper – leaving the island, not getting a speedboat, and arriving home to meet the weekend seemed like fantastic developments to me. My mood was not even dulled by a ridiculous CNG trip across rice paddy fields which had me riding in an awkward position with my foot twisted up and over our luggage to the point where all the circulation to that leg was cut off. Hey, what’s a dose of pins and needles if it meant I was getting off the island?

After unfolding myself, returning my foot to its rightful place from underneath my chin and stomping around until sensation returned, I looked out for this fishing boat so full of promise. Sure enough – there it was, in all its wooden glory. And I mean all its glory. The whole lot, there for the eye to see because THERE WAS NO WATER.



Which prompted my to enquire in mildly emotive tones how exactly we were going to get off the island:

Me: There’s not enough water to float the boat, how are we going to get off the island?
Colleague: We will wait, maybe half an hour, water will come
Me: [pointedly looking at the fifty or so people and their luggage] But I don't think there will ever be enough water to float this boat...
Colleague: Yes, they say the water will come soon, and the boat will float. Me: Do you believe them?
Colleague: Maybe

Hmmm. Not really a satisfactory conversation, was it? As for the half hour wait – I was deeply suspicious this was half an hour in Bangla time, which could mean anything from ten minutes to two hours, give or take. Thankfully I’d had the forethought to pack my book in my handbag, so while I read about how depressed Madame Bovary was with her surroundings, I was able to laugh along with genuine empathy. [Especially considering my surroundings included huge piles of foul smelling bamboo cages covered in dried chicken shit and feathers – how comforting in a country affected by the avian bird flu crisis]. Reading also helped to distract me from the rickshaw wallahs who were running around madly trying to find someone who hadn’t yet spotted the pale bookwork who can read standing up. Talk about talent.

An hour later Emma had already found a husband and fallen pregnant, but the only thing the boat had managed to do was sink a little bit further into the mud. Right, time to exert some pressure and start a ‘solution-oriented’ conversation, I thought.

Me: There’s still no water. How are we going to get to Chittagong?
Colleague: Mmm, yes, the water didn’t come
Me: No, it didn’t. So what can we do?
Colleague: It depends on the moon
Me: The water is tidal, I understand. But what can we do now?
Colleague: I will find out
Me: Oh, you haven’t asked already?
Colleague: No, the water should be here…[Wanders off to speak to someone]
Colleague: We have a solution. We can get a smaller boat downstream, is that ok?
Me: Yes! Let’s go.
Colleague: There’s only one problem. You have to walk through the mud to get on board. Is that ok?
Me: [momentary hesitation as I saw myself covered head to toe in mud] Ah, sure, no problem. Let’s go.

So off we all toddle and I take off my shoes and roll up my jeans while the boatload of people laugh and point at how white my legs are. With a bit of slip sliding and the assistance of people on board who hauled me up and onto the boat, I set about the mission of washing enough of the mud off so I could restore my modesty and roll my jeans back down. Soon I was joined by my female colleague, and we shared the rinsing water together while managing not to slip. While juggling bag and orna and sunglasses and gripping onto things I looked up just in time to see my male colleague… being carried onto the boat. Yep, carried. He didn’t even have to take off his shoes! The cheeky bugger had organised for some local men to carry him on while we were distracted cleaning ourselves up. Of course, he’s a man, he’s far too important to get his feet dirty [Will refrain from the essay itching to rush down through my fingertips and assume my utter contempt for this behaviour is obvious].

While trying to pick my chin up off the boat deck I found a place to perch in preparation for what was turning out to be quite the return journey. The process was made a lot easier by my (culturally insensitive) amusement at the very serious looking man carrying a “Mr Incredible” cartoon character bag as his briefcase. Yeah, you take what you can get in this town.



After sorting ourselves out, strategically placing luggage in the right spots to evenly spread out the weight (or rather throwing all the bags in a big pile in the safest part of the boat while making people perch precariously on the boat’s edge) we started floating gently down stream.

As we continued floating downstream I was starting to relax only to notice we were heading directly towards two other fishing boats in the kind of way that encouraged mental images of splintered wood. Sure enough, rather than slowing down and moving the boats around so that we all fit, we just ploughed right on into the side of one, as you do. What ensued was a five minute argument between the respective captains, each predictably declaring the other to be at fault. While listening to the oh so constructive yelling match I got to thinking about how wrong Australian’s are to link our national identity to an attitude of ‘she’ll be right mate.’ We ain’t got nothin’ on Bangladeshi’s, who even in the face of what appears (to me) to be obvious defeat, will carry on in the vein hope that the boat right in our path will somehow miraculously take on ghost like qualities and we’ll pass right on through the middle of it with nigh but a cool chill on our arms [btw, has anyone actually watched Ghost lately? The scene where Demi and Whoopi get all physical is really kinda weird…]

Now, if you’re starting to think this story will never end, you’re at about the same point I was as we headed finally out to open water. I cheered myself up though with the knowledge that the trip over the water took 20 minutes in the speedboat, so I figured in about an hour I would be back on the mainland, and just that bit closer to my first shower in three days. How optimistic of me.

As one hour turned into two hours, and the loud drone of the engine blocked out my ability to do anything but wince at the impressive headache parked firmly behind my eyes, I started to get agitated. I squirmed in my squished seat, I covered and uncovered my ears, I cleaned my sunglasses, I slipped my shoes on and off, and I took to checking my watch for ever more depressing time updates at thirty second intervals. In short, I was beginning to act like a frustrated five year old child who has been told to sit quietly while the adults enjoy all the interminably boring things adults do that exclude you.

After two hours and forty five minutes, and right at about the point where I was in danger of progressing from a frustrated five year old to an utterly pissed off and badly sun burnt twenty eight year old woman with a notoriously sharp tongue (who was desperately wishing for a speedboat), we finally made it back on dry land. Even better, we made it into a vehicle with air conditioning without any wait whatsoever. And even better than all of that, we stopped at the side of the road and bought bananas. But, perhaps best of all was the conversation my colleagues had about me in the car:

Colleague 1: Ah Lyrian, she is just excellent isn’t she?
Colleague 2: Yes, yes, a very fine woman, so relaxed
Coleague 1: Yes! Nothing is a problem, everything is ok, she’s so calm
Colleague 2: And so strong! Yes, Lyrian, the excellent woman of steel…
Me: Um, thanks. Really, it was nothing.

The Ship Song

Colleague: We want to go to the field, and you have to come, but you are a bideshi (foreigner)

Me: Ah, yes, I am, is that a problem?

Colleague: I don’t know, what do you think? Do you think it is a problem?

Me: [quizzical tone] why would it be a problem this time? It wasn’t last week, or the week before that, or…

Colleague: Because this field needs a boat. Maybe it is not comfortable for you?

Me: Oh, right, a boat. [relieved] No, no, that’s no problem. I have been on a boat before. It’s ok.

Colleague: [beaming] Excellent! You are a strong girl!

Pause

What about a speed boat? Is that a problem?

Me: Speed boat? No. No problem. I have no problem going on a speed boat. So, no problem then, we can go to the field.

……

Before I knew it I found myself sitting in a tin shack on a plastic chair doing what I do a lot of in Bangladesh. Waiting. Bangladeshi’s, it seems, have an extreme aversion to planning that leaves even me, someone well renowned for my distaste for planning, packing, and preparation in general, astounded. A consequence of this relaxed approach to field trips means we turned up at the boat harbour just in time to see the last tickets on the next speed boat being sold.

At first this was no issue for me. I was content enough taking happy snaps of the absurdity of a sea port with no water complete with a huge tug boat surreally sticking out of the sand looking like a beached environmental hazard waiting to happen. 

Um, water? 

The 'Eternal Mariner' - looking far less 'mariner' than it's name indicated

While not photographing the next Exxon Valdez, I busied myself by trying to sound out the pamphlets stuck on the tin walls, much to the amusement of the crowd that had inevitably started to gather. “U-un- uni-unio-union. U-up-upc-upco-upcom-upcomi-upcomin-upcoming. E-el-ele-elec-elect-electi-election-elections…” Yes, fascinating stuff. For all my boasting, my language skills hover somewhere around that of a clever 14month old. Eventually enough time passed and we were being motioned outside.  

Colleague: Ok, it is time to endure many hardship on the journey Lyrian,

What? What hardship? Nothing in the words ‘speed boat’ says ‘hardship’ to me unless you add the alarming verb ‘to sink’, which I had no intention of doing.

Me: What hardships?

Colleague: Oh it will be rough and there will be lots of mud and a long walk and it will be very tougher for you I think

Me: (Looking down at my overnight bag on wheels which is awkward as hell to carry) How far do we have to walk?

Colleague: I’m not sure, but it will be tough. You are so strong!

Me: (wary smile) …Yes…

Hangin' out by the 'sea'

And with that we were off, me trailing my bag feebly behind me, trying to keep it from toppling over on the uneven concrete blocks we were walking over that soon turned into separate concrete blocks which turned into rocks rendering the wheels on my bag completely useless. One glance across the expanse of mud as far as the eye could see very quickly told me this was one trip for which a backpack would have been necessary. Key piece of missing information #1. (And yes, I felt every inch the stupid, precious white tourist that I looked).

Key piece of missing information #2. No water at the ship port means somehow getting out across the muddy river bed to where the water actually is. At a guess I’d say it was about 1.5kms out. That’s 1.5kms of knee deep mud. As I processed this information, I could feel myself tense up at the prospect of tying my shoes to my bag, rolling up my jeans and hoisting everything onto my shoulders to wade out across the expanse. I casually asked my colleague how we were going to get to the speed boat. I was fairly confident that no middle class Bangladeshi would willingly get themselves dirty or walk even half a kilometre let alone wade out through 2kms of knee-deep mud, and hey presto, before she had time to answer I noticed we were heading towards a wooden fishing boat that was waiting at the point where the dry mud became wet mud.  Which was great, as far as I was concerned, except for the slight issue of the missing water. In my world the two go hand in hand.

Not in Bangladesh they don’t! No, no! As is the case everywhere in Bangladesh, if you’ve got the money there is always someone willing to do your dirty work for you. Without further ado my colleagues and I climbed into the fishing boat, careful to avoid the sticky mud, and made ourselves comfortable while nine men spread themselves around the outside of the boat and…pushed. Yep, they pushed us the whole two kilometres out across the mud, right past the monstrous boat, and down to the lapping waves.

Being a child of television, I began scripting an episode of The Biggest Loser, complete with the Red Team swearing loudly at the Blue team as they inched ever so slowly along, the sun beating down their backs, multiplying the sweat running down their faces and dripping down into the squelching mud swallowing their feet.  Cringe worthy, I know, but I assure you it was much more amusing for me than calculating the daily wages of my ‘pushers’. Being ‘heave’ho’d’ over a muddy expanse rates pretty high on the I Feel Like A Slave Labour Supporting Scum Bag Right Now metre.

"Push!," I say, "Push! Push!"

But, back to the task at hand. The speed boat. That would be the speed boat which was quite obviously not at the water’s edge. So, again we wait. And we wait. We wait for half an hour, sitting in the fishing boat in the mud, while every Bangladeshi around with a phone took turns to take happy snaps of me as I took happy snaps of the absurd situation, the big tug looming in the background.

 After half an hour, the speedboat turned up and we transferred over to our new transport. A quick scan of the situation brought on more waves of anxiety as I noted the condition of the speedboat, and the distinct absence of a life jacket. Cue that pesky voiceover in my head which comes in the concerning mix of my father and Morgan Freeman, Shawshank Redemption style, every time I ask a foolish question, “Well, Lyrian, what do you think you should do?”  The answer, of course, is admit defeat, turn around, hitch up my pants and head back trailing off mumbled excuses to my colleagues “I’ll see you next week, have a good trip. Turns out I don’t much like speedboats after all…”. But no, no, no.

By now my heart rate is accelerating noticeably. I started picturing our capsized boat spilling people and their packages out both sides, me desperately trying to swim away from everyone else to avoid being dragged down to the bottom. I know from The Titanic that my best hope was trying to hang on to something that floats. Lucky for me I didn’t have to worry about the cold, or trying to accommodate anyone else which gave me an instant edge over Kate and Leo.  Quite obviously though, this was not very helpful for my heart rate. It didn’t help to the point that I text messaged my sister with the three songs I want played at my funeral (sorry Kara, that must have been fun!). It’s safe to say I was acutely aware of my mortality.

Before I had the chance to take back my previous assurances that a boat would be no problem, we were off. We were off so fast that I was left in no doubt of the ‘speed’ part of the term ‘speedboat’. The driver was quite calm, though, so I took my cues from him and sat back, practising the deep breathing techniques I learnt in pilates, being generally thankful for the sunglasses hiding the fear in my eyes while channelling all the Easy Rider ‘it’s all cool’ nonchalance I could muster.

My calm speedboat driver, complete with ear warmers

Twenty minutes later we cruised into shore and I was left wondering what all the fuss was about. We’d made it, unscathed, and I even had a nice dose of sunburn to show for it. The next step was repeating the heave-ho action, only this time the action was all uphill. [What genius! This would make a much better episode!]. While the distance was about the same, it took double the amount of time and double the amount of uber-fit, muscly, tiny little men to push our lazy, precious arses all the way up.

By about 1pm we were back on dry land and I was eager to get to our hotel, dump my foolishly packed luggage, and find out what it was we’d come to see. Ha! Hotel? To (sort of) quote, 'Tell her she’s dreamin!'. 

My room in Zaman’s Guest House 

Oh how I love sleeping in other people’s unlaundered sheets! Especially given the conversations my family have had in the past concerning hotel bedlinen which involves blue lights and unsightly stains of, well, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about [CSI, I totally blame you for this]. I do a quick memory scan to see what I think I’ve packed and am relieved to recall packing both my sleep sheet and mosquito net. And Rid. And my head torch, which was looking like the best thing ever since I'd just been told the island had no electricity (!!), just the odd generator here and there. 

Cue missing piece of information #3. No electricity? Now that's all fine and well when I'm pretending to be Indiana Jones in the middle of Katherine Gorge National Park, but not when I'm on a work trip. Not when I brought my laptop to work on. Not when it gets dark at 6pm and not light again until 6am and there are bugs everywhere in my room and I'm all alone and... Oh grow up, I told myself, you love this stuff. You can even picture yourself right now, Anne Frank style, typing it up in your, er, blog one day for people to stumble across in the future when this is all done and dusted and Bangladesh is a first world nation leading the way in Best Practice Environmentalism... or something. [Did I just compare myself to a Anne Fank? Hmmm, one reality check to be delivered straight to Chittagong, please. As soon as possible...]

After coming to terms with the reality that I was stuck sleeping in this shithole (apologies, but sometimes crass language is called for) for the next two nights, it was time to deal with the next issue. The 16 year old boy who was now in my room demanding my phone number while picking up my things including my pyjamas and toiletries.  By now I’m starting to realise this is all actually one big elaborate joke to see just how far I could be pushed – right? Because really, it’s not actually possible that I’m being bullied and intimidated by a 16 year old boy on an island with no electricity in a filthy hotel room with no windowpanes or flyscreens in the height of mosquito season, am I? This is not me, I’m not afraid of a boy who can’t even grow chin fluff yet, am I? Am I?

Yes, actually, it turns out I am.  Especially this 16 year old boy with the smooth chin and the KEY TO MY ROOM! And while I would like to turn this bit into a funny anecdote that I could guffaw over, I can’t just yet because the only thing I feel now (and at the time too) is infuriated at how screwed up the power dynamics were. Thankfully my colleague stepped up to the plate and made it clear, in no uncertain terms I, and my room, were completely off limits. This didn’t stop me from sleeping with a fork (yep, I’m so tough) and with my overnight bag up against the door so I could hear if anyone got any funny ideas. Which, thankfully, they didn’t.

If by now you’re thinking it’s the time in the story where you need some happy stuff to come back into the picture to keep you interested, then it’s your time in the sun. Yay for the good bits – yay for there even being any good bits! It was certainly more than I expected, kind of like when you get a box of nondescript dodgy chocolates and just as you’re about to give up nibbling a corner of every one to try and find a good one, your teeth come in contact with a nut hidden inside, and all you’d been searching for was a nut, and now, finally, after persevering through fifteen or twenty or maybe thirty other disappointing pieces of choc… [No, really, I’m totally coping with not eating chocolate. I barely even notice it].

But yes, the good bits, and they were really good. Basically, the work side of things was brilliant. I got to meet a feisty group of women who are taking matters into their own hands, tackling domestic abuse head on, building roads so their children could keep going to school during the monsoon, saving money in a collective bank account, and attending literacy and numeracy lessons every week just to list a few of their exciting achievements.

Literacy poster in the village

As if that wasn’t enough, the next day I got to meet the best early childhood teacher I’ve ever meet, and sit amongst a group of children who loved coming to school. I got to watch this group of 3 to 5 year olds eagerly jump up to sing songs about brushing their teeth and washing their hands and then sit amongst their parents and hear how much the village now valued education with four children from this preschool going on to graduate in the top of their classes once they progressed to primary school.

I had so much fun there, in fact, that as I sat on the back of the motorbike, sans helmet (though my driver was sporting a rather dashing red one), slipping and sliding on the dirt and muddy roads, wind rushing through my hair and making my orna wave behind me, I was too busy smiling to even consider what would happen if the driver was to lose control. I didn’t even start to panic when he kept taking his eyes off the road so he could turn ask me such crucial questions as “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”, or “What is your subject?” or “Where is your husband?” Nor did my mood dampen when he asked if I would prefer to sit side saddle ‘for your modesty’ (on a motorbike, without a helmet, that is slip sliding all over the place – I think not, buddy). In fact, I was still smiling as we sailed back into town and I got dropped off back at my dirty digs for the night. 

And just like that I was listening to the first call to prayer at 5:30am, waiting for the sun to rise, before packing up and preparing for the journey back... To be continued...

Dirt in the ground

I keep getting off the bed and going to the bathroom to walk through the remnants of my shower. The moment where the soles of my feet are wet with water cooled from the tiles cannot last long enough. The trick is to try and get back onto the bed while my feet are still wet. I have developed a beggars way of walking, tipping my soles inwards to each other, walking on the outside of my feet, to try. It barely works. 

The next step is squeezing out some moisturiser onto the top of one foot so I can use the other to rub it in, but not too much. I can't bring myself to touch my feet. Not even my toes. The cream feels cool for the smallest time. I didn’t bring any actual moisturiser with me, and have resorted to using my face sunscreen with aloe vera and other nourishing goodness. I know this is too expensive to continue, and make promises to search for moisturiser tomorrow. Even telling myself I will try the market first, before admitting defeat and heading to the only supermarket in town which charges prices that should make me faint.

As the water dries and sunscreen soaks in, I can picture the cracks forming again along the backs of my heels and even underfoot. I have taken to showering twice a day here. Once in the morning to shock myself into leaving the house and it’s ceiling fans; then again at night. I am not sure if I want people to know about the night-time ones. All I can picture as I scrub are the scores of hands from the street kids which have covered more parts of me than any man in recent times. I note their filthy fingers each time, and I can almost see the excrement under their nails, the worm eggs, the lice in their hair. Their cries of “Aunty! Aunty!” fall on deaf ears with me as I walk on, humiliated at their insistence and my inability to shake them off. As if I need another reason to stand out in this town in my western trousers and blonde hair curling up with humidity. Irony my new shade of blush.

The market vendors, at least, reserve smiles for me in the quiet times when I wander in laden with little bags all fighting for a finger. I take pity on the man with small carrots and also buy three handfuls of green chillies for twenty cents that I don’t need. His English is worse than the others, but between our broken words we get there, and he can see in my eyes that I need him. His skin has darkened from the sun, and it is hard to tell if he is sixteen or thirty six. With my chillies and coriander and undergrown carrots I turn away from the fishmongers with their day old fish; eyes almost sunken in to the stage where my mother would say “not those ones”.

I walk through the scales and bloody water, trying to pretend I am tall and Not To Be Messed With as I make my way back out onto the street, waiting my turn to play chicken with the rickshaw drivers and bullies in cars. I have learnt to match my cadence to the age and strength of the rickshaw wallah coming my way. I don’t give them business if I can help it, there is so little to do in this town as it is and walking keeps me busy. Three steps per pause in traffic, twenty one steps and I’ve made it to the other side. I’ll make it in eighteen by the time I leave, I think, as I watch the wheels roll perfectly close to my toes, no room for error, no space left unfilled.

I have planned dinner right down to the shredded ginger and diced garlic. Coriander for garnish, and tomato for a bit of colour since my carrots are more like camouflage. I didn’t do well on the tomatoes and only bought three, pretending to no one that I care about a dollar this way or that. As I dice and I slice I scan my memory banks for recipes I have never read, hoping a stroke of luck will come through my hands and into my bowl. I nod and smile and gush at the end result as I battle with my posh chopsticks with shell detail to pick up the carrot pieces all slimy with soy sauce and noodles. It sounds so much better than it is, like so much else. My vegetable scraps complete with bug-munched cabbage leaves make it into the bin with the knowledge they are someone else’s now. Again the guilt and my dry feet; it’s time for that shower.

 

Learnalilgivinanlovin

Procrastination, that old thief of time, persists and as my digestive tract heads into what feels like round ten of an unfairly matched super-heavyweight boxing match I am staring at my computer screen willing myself to work. Obviously I have failed. Frustratingly, even though my To Do list is both long and filled with interesting projects, I just can’t muster enough concentration to actually do anything useful today. It strikes me as quite fortunate that I’m not likely to ever do anything really important like run a country; the thought of standing up in parliament and saying “Ah, we won’t be signing the Universal Declaration Against Scented Dunny Paper today, I was far too preoccupied with procrastination last night to read it. Apologies everyone” is about as appealing as scented dunny paper itself.

Instead of merely counting down the minutes until I can go home where I can begin the busy business of procrastinating all over again, I’ve decided to share three Somewhat Surprising Things I’ve Learned Lately.

Number one: The orna is the most useful piece of clothing ever invented.

While it’s primary purpose as the third piece of a salwaar kameez (the pyjamas I wear every day) is to convince the world there are no such thing as boobs, the orna’s real value lies in all the other things it does so much better. In the past week I’ve used my orna: to cover my nose and avoid smelling sewage, as a pillow case in a hotel that believes washing linen is optional, to keep my hair out of my vomit, to ward off goosebumps, and as a shield against sunburn. In ode to the orna I’m already planning a feature film where the damsel saves herself from distress using only an orna – a modern day Bondess, she’ll stun everyone with her stylish solutions and the sale of ornas everywhere will take the world by storm, solving the economic crisis as the credits roll.

Number two: Just as what goes up must come down, what goes in must come out

However what comes out doesn’t necessarily correlate to what goes in in the first place. This goes against all the things I learned in elementary physics, but given that I didn’t exactly pay attention in physics, it is possible I missed some Newtonian law or other that can be applied to explain the phenomenon of Bangla Belly. Whatever the reason for it, though, my body seems to have developed the impressive ability to purge things I’ve never even eaten, at quite an alarming rate.

Number three: Squat toilets were invented by someone very, very smart.

As I practiced the art of multitasking on the weekend by simultaneously managing to: stay squatting upright and offer my bum as a blood bank for the local mosquitoes while holding my breath and praying to all the gods I’ve ever heard of (just to make sure I’ve covered all my bases) – I also took the time to sing the praises of the squat toilet. An invention which means no part of my skin has to come in contact with my surroundings when I’m in a particularly unsavoury public toilet is so wonderful I find it difficult to understand why the western world has rejected this obvious stroke of genius.

While I'm on the topic, I can’t understand why we humans - as the most intelligent life forms on planet Earth who have made it possible for me to text message my sister as she crosses the Nullarbor while I’m emerging from a cave on the other side of the Equator – have not mastered the art of going to the toilet without making a mess. I mean, it’s not like we don’t get enough practice. We go every single day, usually more than once. How hard can it be to learn to get it in the hole? Really?

While these three things may not be as surprising to you as they were to me, what is less surprising (given the recurrent theme throughout this post) is my inability to concentrate considering my body has spent much of the past fortnight forcefully rejecting every nutrient I dare to consume and even the ones I only contemplate consuming but never actually do.

No really, you should come to Bangladesh – solid stools were so 2008 anyway.

Little miss pipe dream

Begging will be uprooted forever
Thu, Feb 5th, 2009 12:49 pm BdST

Dhaka, Feb 5 (bdnews24.com)
Vagrancy and begging will forever be rooted out from Bangladesh within the next five years...
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I nearly spat peppermint tea all over my computer screen when I saw this headline. Ten points for optimism, but it is full of even more folly than Bob Hawke's (in)famous pledge that, "...by 1990 no Australian child will be living in poverty."

Realistic goals against which progress can be measured would be much more inspiring than statements so obviously void of any semblance of reality.

I was hoping you'd say that

Learning a language is a bloody hard thing to do. I should know, I’ve had a crack at it before, and only partially succeeded. Now I am back in the position of grappling ineptly with words that feel foreign and furry on my tongue, and sound about as intelligible as a teething toddler.

While I cause momentary fits of hilarity amongst my colleagues by testing out my best colloquialisms, “hey, how you doin’?”, I make secret pledges to myself to be a better student and actually study some of the Bangla grammar books that lie around the house so I can stun them one day with my syntactical mastery.

Of course we both know the pledges are empty, but I have a remarkably well-practiced ability to deceive myself even when I’m not really deceiving myself. This could have once been seen as a quality to be laughed at in the self-deprecating way we Aussies take such a shine to if only George Dubya hadn’t proved so proficient at it.

In any case, it’s not all doom and gloom because I seem to have crossed a bridge in the language barrier without even trying. While on the bus to Chittagong from Dhaka once again, I caught myself crinkling my brow in annoyance as the passenger beside me explained painstakingly that he was half way, and we’d stopped for food, and he wasn’t sure what time the bus would arrive, but it would probably be after five.

And then the passenger across the aisle had the exact same conversation two minutes later, as did the guy in front of him, which was incredibly annoying when I was trying to decide if I agreed with Clive James’ point that you have to at least consider that the use of nuclear weapons to bring World War II to a sudden close may have been worth it (considered and rejected). What, wait a minute… what?

Eureka! I thought, I’ve finally cracked it! The equivalent in learning a language of breaking the sound barrier on land, I believe, is that moment when you can’t help but overhear other people’s mundane conversations despite your very best efforts not to.

Since that enlightening bus journey I’ve listened in to the people downstairs discuss the beans that needed washing before dinner; heard my neighbour in the next apartment organise a holiday; and laughed as a CNG wallah tried to coax me into his cab by explaining that his CNG was simply beautiful and cleaned just for me that very morning!

Frustratingly this sudden ‘giant leap’ for Lyrian has not translated into an increase in my oral vocabulary; it appears I can only understand the words that other people say but can’t actually say them myself. When that happens I will be able to write another post heralding Stage Two in the journey towards counting Bangla as a language I have ‘conversational command’ of on my CV.

In the mean time, I’ve asked my brother to send me industrial strength earplugs.