I love TV. Everyone who knows me knows that. Especially Channel 10 (with Channels 7&9 coming in a close second and third of course). Neighbours! Big Brother! That AYAD documentary...
Yes, an AYAD documentary! Screening on Channel 10 (Australia) this Sunday August 30 at 3pm.
Find out more, before sitting down on the couch with a glass of wine to toast those out there who can't toast.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
These days...
a cucumber farm in Cox's Bazaar
Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Damn, that girl screams 'glamour'!
Yes, glamour glamour glamour is what this job is all about. I got to play out one of my favourite Beatles songs recently (have a guess) by taking Sally with me out 'into the field' to research stories. In three days we covered: a women's group in a slum:
A community project to rebuild a road and overcome waterlogging so kiddies could attend school even during monsoon
An income generating project combining environmental protection in a forest-protecting cucumber farm
And met with a local government chairman to discuss strengthening local governance through grass-roots participation.
Not being one to waste an opportunity, I appointed Sally as photographer on the trip, which is where these pics all come from. Seeing my job through her eyes was invaluable. I once again was able to recall how I felt the first time I walked through a slum, felt the excitement of women eager to tell me all about their small business selling spices, of men proud to be sending their children to school on the back of increased family incomes, and of children showing off through their singing and dancing.
Just as invaluable was experiencing her reaction to the not-so-fun stuff. The long days, the travel, the dodgy accommodation and poor facilities, the exposure to people teetering on the edges of the poverty line, barely able to scrape together enough food and resources for their everyday lives.
While I might be nervous about how I'm going to find the transition back into life back home (what, you mean I can't wear Birkenstocks and bright green pyjamas to work?!), it has also made me appreciate, once again, just how much I've loved my job here.
Cool, huh?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Chasing Pavements
From one kind of ordinary week straight into another, I'm back in Chittagong and relieved to know I can still have a laugh at the complicated, bureaucratic, time-consuming and sometimes straight out absurd South Asian ways yet.
With a long weekend looming and no concrete plans to celebrate it, Sal and I decided a weekend away could be just the thing. Our criteria centred on proximity and cost - it had to be close and it had to be cheap. The word spread that there were cheap flights going to both Kuala Lumpur and ... Kolkata (because I loved it so much last time). Of course, fate being what it is, the prices for flights to KL skyrocketed by the time I got my planning-averse self into action, and Kolkata became the only viable escape.
And so begins the tale. Step one, search for flights on the net. A couple of hours in, things look good and we've got two tickets from Dhaka to Kolkata booked and paid for, all online. Next, getting me back to Chittagong. The flight which I can see online for some reason won't let me pay for it, even though this is the very same site I used not more than five minutes ago to book my ticket out. It's 4:30pm - time for Plan B, visiting local airline offices before they close.
A happier rickshaw ride from another day
This involves rickshawing it into town from my office, finding the poorly signposted building, climbing the stairs, promising Sally an ice block, and finding out that the prices advertised on the website are a myth, and I can't afford to fly with this particular Bangladeshi carrier. Right - next airline office it is. I check with this airline who I should try next and am directed to an office 10 minutes downtown. After battling the beggars and crossing the main intersection on foot in peak hour we make it to the office only to be told it's not there anymore. In fact, it's in a hotel right back where we were. Excellent.
It starts to dawn on me that maybe flying back to Bangladesh might not be possible since the prices for available seats are out of my budget. My mind starts ticking over the possibilities and, depressingly, I look up the street to the bus stands. I know buses are well within my price range, if not my time range, so off we go to investigate. Across the road and up the street we hurry, dodging traffic and rickshaw wallahs eager for our business.
The first company I try goes from Dhaka to Kolkata and back. Great! I get directed to the next counter only to be told, however, that while they do indeed make the journey, they unfortunately can't sell me a ticket from Chittagong because there is no electronic booking system. Thanks for telling me that in the first place. Next bus company it is. This time the news is better - I can have a ticket, but only if I'm prepared to travel for over 18 hours to get from Kolkata to Chittagong. Hmmm. I'm only going for two nights. It's a 45 minute flight... Time to try and find that other airline office.
By now Sal and I are drenched in sweat - it's hot out there, even though it's after 5pm. Too sweaty to contemplate the walk, we rickshaw the short distance to the other hotel. Up the stairs, around the corner and... no airline office. Right, back down to the street it is. I look around, appear confused and soon enough men on the street point us to a nearby building. Off we go, up to level three and ... no airline office. Right, back down to the street it is. I look around, appear confused and soon enough men on the street point us to a nearby building. Off we go, up to level three but... no airline office. Right, back down to the street it is.
After repeating this process twice more, we finally find the office we're after, and it's air conditioned. Better still, they fly from Kolkata to Chittagong at a competitive price, saving me what would no doubt be a temper-testing bus journey. They also take credit card! It's all happening. I've said yes, I'm pulling out my card, I'm almost there when the man asks for my passport. Of course I don't have my passport on me - this is Bangladesh! "No problem, we're open til' 7pm", says the helpful man at the counter. Right, back down to the street it is.
Stopping quickly for the promised ice block, we walk back to my place so I can grab my passport, then head back to the airline office. This time it all goes smoothly, me with ticket in hand, and everyone is all smiles until I turn to Sal and say, "We need to get ourselves to Dhaka now - and the overnight train is the most time effective option." Knowing that Sal was near breaking point, I'd sort of failed to bring this up before, hoping she'd break under the pressure and just follow. To her credit, she did, so off we went.
CNGs - relative luxury
Trying to buy train tickets is, of course, a whole other saga in itself. After catching a CNG to another part of town, we make it into the station by holding our breaths for five minutes (because we've clearly chosen the public urinal route), and find ourselves facing what can only be described as a mass of men in some form of chaotic order that is completely incomprehensible to my orderly, western mind.
Always eager to help, men are soon pointing us to Counter 10. Off we go. Except the people lining up for Counter 10 point us in the direction of counter 2. Off we go. Except the people there tell us that line is only for men, and we need to go to counter 3. At counter 3, though, I make it to the front only to be told I need to go to counter 1. By now I'm laughing at the ridiculousness, but notice that Sal most definitely is not.
At counter 1 it finally seems like we're in the right place, though I'm not at all certain until I've actually got two overnight train tickets to Dhaka in my hand. Sure, they aren't sleeper tickets like we wanted, but they're tickets, and they're in air conditioning, and the two tickets are side by side, and that's all good news. I'm all smiles. Time to get a CNG home. Looking over at Sal I ask for a time check - 6:30pm. "Ah, just in time for dinner," I say. "That's not bad at all".
With a long weekend looming and no concrete plans to celebrate it, Sal and I decided a weekend away could be just the thing. Our criteria centred on proximity and cost - it had to be close and it had to be cheap. The word spread that there were cheap flights going to both Kuala Lumpur and ... Kolkata (because I loved it so much last time). Of course, fate being what it is, the prices for flights to KL skyrocketed by the time I got my planning-averse self into action, and Kolkata became the only viable escape.
And so begins the tale. Step one, search for flights on the net. A couple of hours in, things look good and we've got two tickets from Dhaka to Kolkata booked and paid for, all online. Next, getting me back to Chittagong. The flight which I can see online for some reason won't let me pay for it, even though this is the very same site I used not more than five minutes ago to book my ticket out. It's 4:30pm - time for Plan B, visiting local airline offices before they close.
This involves rickshawing it into town from my office, finding the poorly signposted building, climbing the stairs, promising Sally an ice block, and finding out that the prices advertised on the website are a myth, and I can't afford to fly with this particular Bangladeshi carrier. Right - next airline office it is. I check with this airline who I should try next and am directed to an office 10 minutes downtown. After battling the beggars and crossing the main intersection on foot in peak hour we make it to the office only to be told it's not there anymore. In fact, it's in a hotel right back where we were. Excellent.
It starts to dawn on me that maybe flying back to Bangladesh might not be possible since the prices for available seats are out of my budget. My mind starts ticking over the possibilities and, depressingly, I look up the street to the bus stands. I know buses are well within my price range, if not my time range, so off we go to investigate. Across the road and up the street we hurry, dodging traffic and rickshaw wallahs eager for our business.
The first company I try goes from Dhaka to Kolkata and back. Great! I get directed to the next counter only to be told, however, that while they do indeed make the journey, they unfortunately can't sell me a ticket from Chittagong because there is no electronic booking system. Thanks for telling me that in the first place. Next bus company it is. This time the news is better - I can have a ticket, but only if I'm prepared to travel for over 18 hours to get from Kolkata to Chittagong. Hmmm. I'm only going for two nights. It's a 45 minute flight... Time to try and find that other airline office.
By now Sal and I are drenched in sweat - it's hot out there, even though it's after 5pm. Too sweaty to contemplate the walk, we rickshaw the short distance to the other hotel. Up the stairs, around the corner and... no airline office. Right, back down to the street it is. I look around, appear confused and soon enough men on the street point us to a nearby building. Off we go, up to level three and ... no airline office. Right, back down to the street it is. I look around, appear confused and soon enough men on the street point us to a nearby building. Off we go, up to level three but... no airline office. Right, back down to the street it is.
After repeating this process twice more, we finally find the office we're after, and it's air conditioned. Better still, they fly from Kolkata to Chittagong at a competitive price, saving me what would no doubt be a temper-testing bus journey. They also take credit card! It's all happening. I've said yes, I'm pulling out my card, I'm almost there when the man asks for my passport. Of course I don't have my passport on me - this is Bangladesh! "No problem, we're open til' 7pm", says the helpful man at the counter. Right, back down to the street it is.
Stopping quickly for the promised ice block, we walk back to my place so I can grab my passport, then head back to the airline office. This time it all goes smoothly, me with ticket in hand, and everyone is all smiles until I turn to Sal and say, "We need to get ourselves to Dhaka now - and the overnight train is the most time effective option." Knowing that Sal was near breaking point, I'd sort of failed to bring this up before, hoping she'd break under the pressure and just follow. To her credit, she did, so off we went.
Trying to buy train tickets is, of course, a whole other saga in itself. After catching a CNG to another part of town, we make it into the station by holding our breaths for five minutes (because we've clearly chosen the public urinal route), and find ourselves facing what can only be described as a mass of men in some form of chaotic order that is completely incomprehensible to my orderly, western mind.
Always eager to help, men are soon pointing us to Counter 10. Off we go. Except the people lining up for Counter 10 point us in the direction of counter 2. Off we go. Except the people there tell us that line is only for men, and we need to go to counter 3. At counter 3, though, I make it to the front only to be told I need to go to counter 1. By now I'm laughing at the ridiculousness, but notice that Sal most definitely is not.
At counter 1 it finally seems like we're in the right place, though I'm not at all certain until I've actually got two overnight train tickets to Dhaka in my hand. Sure, they aren't sleeper tickets like we wanted, but they're tickets, and they're in air conditioning, and the two tickets are side by side, and that's all good news. I'm all smiles. Time to get a CNG home. Looking over at Sal I ask for a time check - 6:30pm. "Ah, just in time for dinner," I say. "That's not bad at all".
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Let's take the long way home
I’ve had what can only be classified as an ordinary week. I’ve worked from an office with views and air conditioning, drank real coffee with skim milk, eaten Japanese, Korean, Italian, Australian and Bangladeshi. I’ve had red wine, been to great parties, worn a dress and makeup, had broadband Internet access, and watched some TV. I even used a washing machine – it has been that ordinary.
After a week of living the high life in the capital city, I’m about to go back to Chittagong, which, while hardly the wilderness, certainly lacks the perks of a true ex-pat lifestyle. Having been one in the past to criticise ex-pats for all their lazy ways – with their drivers and cars and high wages and access to good food and drink and all the mod cons, speaking none of the local language while everyone around them is living off the cost of their morning toast for a week – I need to eat a bit of humble pie.
Truth is, the only way I could live here beyond my AYAD role would be if I found a position in the capital which offered access to all these wonderfully excessive things without the hassle of a treacherous 15 hour return bus journey squashed into a weekend to get them. Oh, and an International salary; I’m soon to be broke.
I feel like I have reached the point where I’ve lived outside my own culture, and the things that make me feel comfortable, for long enough, and now I want back in. I want familiar food and familiar faces and book shops and a supermarket that stocks sun-dried tomatoes and soy milk and cereal all in the one place and to go to the movies and the gym and let my cat curl up on my lap and walk the Bondi to Bronte coastline before brunch.
I’m thankful these feelings have come at the right time – with only 8 weeks of work to go I’m starting to plan for my departure and the next few months which will see me go from Dhaka to Sydney via Nepal, India, Egypt, Turkey, London, Amsterdam and Paris (purse permitting).
Until then I’ve got a sleight of visitors coming who I am sharing the Best of the Desh with. What better way to start to say goodbye?
After a week of living the high life in the capital city, I’m about to go back to Chittagong, which, while hardly the wilderness, certainly lacks the perks of a true ex-pat lifestyle. Having been one in the past to criticise ex-pats for all their lazy ways – with their drivers and cars and high wages and access to good food and drink and all the mod cons, speaking none of the local language while everyone around them is living off the cost of their morning toast for a week – I need to eat a bit of humble pie.
Truth is, the only way I could live here beyond my AYAD role would be if I found a position in the capital which offered access to all these wonderfully excessive things without the hassle of a treacherous 15 hour return bus journey squashed into a weekend to get them. Oh, and an International salary; I’m soon to be broke.
I feel like I have reached the point where I’ve lived outside my own culture, and the things that make me feel comfortable, for long enough, and now I want back in. I want familiar food and familiar faces and book shops and a supermarket that stocks sun-dried tomatoes and soy milk and cereal all in the one place and to go to the movies and the gym and let my cat curl up on my lap and walk the Bondi to Bronte coastline before brunch.
I’m thankful these feelings have come at the right time – with only 8 weeks of work to go I’m starting to plan for my departure and the next few months which will see me go from Dhaka to Sydney via Nepal, India, Egypt, Turkey, London, Amsterdam and Paris (purse permitting).
Until then I’ve got a sleight of visitors coming who I am sharing the Best of the Desh with. What better way to start to say goodbye?
Monday, August 3, 2009
That joke isn't funny anymore
Can anyone else see what is wrong with this picture, or is it just me?
'I'll have one white virgin thanks'
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