Settling into the Subcontinent
It’s Friday. This means that the electricity in the district in which I’m working and living, Bijoynagar, is all but reliable; most of the electrical current has been shifted to the residential neighbourhoods nearby. Most families are at home during this Muslim holiday, despite the sights and sounds outside which indicate simply another hectic day in Dhaka. The wax candle on the desk in my hotel room seems to be an obvious sign that blackouts are a common occurrence, so the visitor should take each one in stride. Not a problem, that is, until my battery runs out.
As a non-Muslim and less than discrete foreigner in Bangladesh I have to find ways to entertain myself each Friday. Coincidentally, however, the way I’ve spent my morning seems to be similar to the ways in which your average Bangladeshi would...with a few obvious exceptions. I took a long stroll through Rama Park, a large tract of quiet greenery nearby, saying hello to almost everyone who walked by. Bano ache (I’m doing well) and Amar desh Canada (I’m from Canada) were the most common Bangla phrases coming out of my mouth. I was accompanied by my newfound friend Fazul, the young man who seems to have been assigned the duty of being my personal aid outside the office. Our conversations are anything but complex; his English isn’t very strong at all, nor is my Bangla, so it seems that we’ve reached an unspoken agreement to teach each other our separate languages as we go along.
Everyone, (that is, every man, as the women don’t speak to you without being prompted in public) I came across was genuinely excited to meet me, to know where I was from or simply to shake my hand and say good-morning or welcome to Bangladesh. The exceptions with regards to the women, however, were the obviously poor mothers with their small babies in their hands asking for baksheesh, to which I had to say nai nai, as well as the little girls who were selling small trinkets such as bracelets or flower necklaces for only “two taka.” If I wasn’t addressed directly with a few words (Hi brother; where are you from?; good morning; baksheesh?; rickshaw?), one’s interest and/or fascination was displayed through a constant gaze. I wasn’t sure how I’d react to the staring I had heard much about while researching the country that will be my home for the next six months; fortunately, I’m finding it neither intimidating nor disconcerting. Rickshaw wallahs will turn their heads immediately after spotting my two meter frame rising up above the crowds or the reflection of the sun off my ridiculously white skin. I don’t think I caused any traffic accidents but I was certainly the reason behind a few collisions between awe-struck little boys.
With Fazul’s help I was able to find a reasonably priced grocery store in the middle of the closest market. It’s much cheaper than the ‘Daily Needs’ shop at the commercial complex a few minutes away which we visited yesterday and also sells water in bulk quantities instead of simply by the bottle. I picked up twelve litres of bottled water for 96 taka, or about two Canadian dollars. We continued through the market and picked up four bananas for 10 taka (20 cents) and six traditional Indian sweets, curly like a hurricane from above and cooked on an element on the side of the road, for 15 taka. The exchange between the candy maker and I precipitated a crowd of ten to fifteen curious onlookers who were all ‘shushed’ away by the man as he came to remove the steaming hot candy from the pan and into my bag.
This afternoon I’m planning on taking a taxi up to Gulshan, the neighbourhood in Dhaka comprised primarily of embassies and high commissions, to try and find the Canadian Club. It’s a social and recreational centre for Canadian expats in Bangladesh and is duplicated many times over by other such clubs for British, American, Australian citizens to name only a few. It has started to rain again, as Fazul predicted an hour ago based on the consistency of the air and the dark hue of the clouds, so I’m not sure if it’s the right time to explore a new part of town on my own. I’ll have to re-evaluate after lunch.
[After lunch]
I’ve made it to the Canadian Club. The baby-taxi ride resembled a Playland or La Ronde attraction more than it did a conventional taxi. While a ride in a taxi in Montreal or Vancouver might get your heart rate up, such a trip in Dhaka might make a grown man cry. But I didn’t…thankfully, and the result was 60 taka ($1.50 CAD) for fifteen minutes of fun. To my surprise it dropped me off only three buildings away from the Canadian High Commissioner’s residence which is only another block away from the Canadian Club, a large complex sitting behind a twenty meter long, two and a half meter high concrete wall. We’re completely shut off from the outside world in here. There’s an outdoor pool, two tennis courts, a children’s playground, a well-stocked bar, dining area, gigantic lounge, a pool table and a library full of DVD movies and Canadian magazines. I feel as though I can finally relax. As for actual Canadians, however, there are only two kids in the pool, maybe the High Commissioner’s children, playing with another boy who might be the son of the Korean or Chinese Ambassador. I’d love to take a dip in the pool but I’m already stretching my non-member privileges by sitting here on one of their comfortable couches, drinking their water and using their electricity (which I currently lack at my hotel back in Bijoynagar). The 2200 taka per month (~$50 CAD) membership fee will probably be well worth it; I’ll be visiting the High Commission to get the letter required for membership this week.
The differences between my current neighbourhood and Gulshan/Baridhara, the diplomatic neighbourhoods, are quite striking and go beyond simple aesthetics. For instance, a staff member who had given me a tour of the Canadian Club was rather surprised when I told him where I’m currently living. Apparently there was a bombing in the neighbouring district on August 21st…so I told him I’ll keep my head down. Likely story. Every diplomatic compound in Gulshan has its own set of guards and is complimented by its own two to three meter high wall and wrought-iron gate. The commercial district is closer to those found in Singapore; smooth marble shopping centres, luxury car dealerships and billboards advertising western-oriented products. There’s none of that down in Bijoynagar, nor any foreigners to speak of…except for myself.
Does this bother me? I thought it would - and that I would feel isolated and apprehensive about taking a step outside on my own – but instead I feel quite comfortable being as identifiable as a single cloud in a vast blue sky. It will also be much cheaper and leagues more convenient than living up in Gulshan or even Dhanmondi, both requiring a lengthy taxi or rickshaw ride and a daily commute through the traffic jams that are so characteristically Dhaka. Most importantly, however, it looks as though I’ll be living in the new guesthouse being constructed on the 16th floor of 27 Bijoynagar. Mr. Chowdhury, the BIHR’s Secretary-General whom I finally met yesterday afternoon at a party he held in my honour with all of the forty some-odd staff from the office (cashews and boiled water for everyone!), tells me that the guest house will be completed by the end of next week and that I can live there for the entirety of my stay if I like. It will have its own cooking facilities and washroom, though I’m not sure whether it will have two private bedrooms or not. Ahh…the perks of arriving first! Either way, checking out Dhanmondi wouldn’t be a bad idea.
This might illustrate the actual size of the operation they’ve set up and which has been expanding ever since its inception in 1992. The Bangladesh Centre for the Rehabilitation of Trauma Victims (BCRT) is recognized by the NGO Bureau and is responsible for the physical, economic and psychological rehabilitation of torture victims who number in the thousands each year. They occupy the 2nd, 9th, 13th and now the 16th floors, while the Bangladesh Institute of Human Rights (BIHR) operates primarily out of the 9th floor through Mr. Chowdhury’s office. It’s officially an independent umbrella organization that has more flexibility in terms of its operating space, free from certain regulations imposed by the NGO Bureau. I’m still not certain of the specifics but I think things will become clearer over the next few weeks. Combined, the BCRT and BIHR are composed of physiotherapists, psychologists and accountants (one as far as I know), lawyers, students and human rights activists (many of whom identify themselves and others by their professions, for example, “That’s Mr. So and So, Human Rights Activist.”) They’re a highly-educated, motivated and captivatingly friendly group of men and women who will be a pleasure to work with.
I think it’s time to head back to my hotel, but not before stopping by that shopping centre I passed on the way here that may offer some non-rice based snacks to fill my hunger gap. I hope I have enough taka to make it back home.
Oh, it turns out I was right: one of the kids chilling out at the Club was the son of the Deputy Commissioner. Too bad I can only report that he was only drinking Gatorade, not beer or liquor from the bar, as the five of them watched WWF Wrestling on the digital TV.
As a non-Muslim and less than discrete foreigner in Bangladesh I have to find ways to entertain myself each Friday. Coincidentally, however, the way I’ve spent my morning seems to be similar to the ways in which your average Bangladeshi would...with a few obvious exceptions. I took a long stroll through Rama Park, a large tract of quiet greenery nearby, saying hello to almost everyone who walked by. Bano ache (I’m doing well) and Amar desh Canada (I’m from Canada) were the most common Bangla phrases coming out of my mouth. I was accompanied by my newfound friend Fazul, the young man who seems to have been assigned the duty of being my personal aid outside the office. Our conversations are anything but complex; his English isn’t very strong at all, nor is my Bangla, so it seems that we’ve reached an unspoken agreement to teach each other our separate languages as we go along.
Everyone, (that is, every man, as the women don’t speak to you without being prompted in public) I came across was genuinely excited to meet me, to know where I was from or simply to shake my hand and say good-morning or welcome to Bangladesh. The exceptions with regards to the women, however, were the obviously poor mothers with their small babies in their hands asking for baksheesh, to which I had to say nai nai, as well as the little girls who were selling small trinkets such as bracelets or flower necklaces for only “two taka.” If I wasn’t addressed directly with a few words (Hi brother; where are you from?; good morning; baksheesh?; rickshaw?), one’s interest and/or fascination was displayed through a constant gaze. I wasn’t sure how I’d react to the staring I had heard much about while researching the country that will be my home for the next six months; fortunately, I’m finding it neither intimidating nor disconcerting. Rickshaw wallahs will turn their heads immediately after spotting my two meter frame rising up above the crowds or the reflection of the sun off my ridiculously white skin. I don’t think I caused any traffic accidents but I was certainly the reason behind a few collisions between awe-struck little boys.
With Fazul’s help I was able to find a reasonably priced grocery store in the middle of the closest market. It’s much cheaper than the ‘Daily Needs’ shop at the commercial complex a few minutes away which we visited yesterday and also sells water in bulk quantities instead of simply by the bottle. I picked up twelve litres of bottled water for 96 taka, or about two Canadian dollars. We continued through the market and picked up four bananas for 10 taka (20 cents) and six traditional Indian sweets, curly like a hurricane from above and cooked on an element on the side of the road, for 15 taka. The exchange between the candy maker and I precipitated a crowd of ten to fifteen curious onlookers who were all ‘shushed’ away by the man as he came to remove the steaming hot candy from the pan and into my bag.
This afternoon I’m planning on taking a taxi up to Gulshan, the neighbourhood in Dhaka comprised primarily of embassies and high commissions, to try and find the Canadian Club. It’s a social and recreational centre for Canadian expats in Bangladesh and is duplicated many times over by other such clubs for British, American, Australian citizens to name only a few. It has started to rain again, as Fazul predicted an hour ago based on the consistency of the air and the dark hue of the clouds, so I’m not sure if it’s the right time to explore a new part of town on my own. I’ll have to re-evaluate after lunch.
[After lunch]
I’ve made it to the Canadian Club. The baby-taxi ride resembled a Playland or La Ronde attraction more than it did a conventional taxi. While a ride in a taxi in Montreal or Vancouver might get your heart rate up, such a trip in Dhaka might make a grown man cry. But I didn’t…thankfully, and the result was 60 taka ($1.50 CAD) for fifteen minutes of fun. To my surprise it dropped me off only three buildings away from the Canadian High Commissioner’s residence which is only another block away from the Canadian Club, a large complex sitting behind a twenty meter long, two and a half meter high concrete wall. We’re completely shut off from the outside world in here. There’s an outdoor pool, two tennis courts, a children’s playground, a well-stocked bar, dining area, gigantic lounge, a pool table and a library full of DVD movies and Canadian magazines. I feel as though I can finally relax. As for actual Canadians, however, there are only two kids in the pool, maybe the High Commissioner’s children, playing with another boy who might be the son of the Korean or Chinese Ambassador. I’d love to take a dip in the pool but I’m already stretching my non-member privileges by sitting here on one of their comfortable couches, drinking their water and using their electricity (which I currently lack at my hotel back in Bijoynagar). The 2200 taka per month (~$50 CAD) membership fee will probably be well worth it; I’ll be visiting the High Commission to get the letter required for membership this week.
The differences between my current neighbourhood and Gulshan/Baridhara, the diplomatic neighbourhoods, are quite striking and go beyond simple aesthetics. For instance, a staff member who had given me a tour of the Canadian Club was rather surprised when I told him where I’m currently living. Apparently there was a bombing in the neighbouring district on August 21st…so I told him I’ll keep my head down. Likely story. Every diplomatic compound in Gulshan has its own set of guards and is complimented by its own two to three meter high wall and wrought-iron gate. The commercial district is closer to those found in Singapore; smooth marble shopping centres, luxury car dealerships and billboards advertising western-oriented products. There’s none of that down in Bijoynagar, nor any foreigners to speak of…except for myself.
Does this bother me? I thought it would - and that I would feel isolated and apprehensive about taking a step outside on my own – but instead I feel quite comfortable being as identifiable as a single cloud in a vast blue sky. It will also be much cheaper and leagues more convenient than living up in Gulshan or even Dhanmondi, both requiring a lengthy taxi or rickshaw ride and a daily commute through the traffic jams that are so characteristically Dhaka. Most importantly, however, it looks as though I’ll be living in the new guesthouse being constructed on the 16th floor of 27 Bijoynagar. Mr. Chowdhury, the BIHR’s Secretary-General whom I finally met yesterday afternoon at a party he held in my honour with all of the forty some-odd staff from the office (cashews and boiled water for everyone!), tells me that the guest house will be completed by the end of next week and that I can live there for the entirety of my stay if I like. It will have its own cooking facilities and washroom, though I’m not sure whether it will have two private bedrooms or not. Ahh…the perks of arriving first! Either way, checking out Dhanmondi wouldn’t be a bad idea.
This might illustrate the actual size of the operation they’ve set up and which has been expanding ever since its inception in 1992. The Bangladesh Centre for the Rehabilitation of Trauma Victims (BCRT) is recognized by the NGO Bureau and is responsible for the physical, economic and psychological rehabilitation of torture victims who number in the thousands each year. They occupy the 2nd, 9th, 13th and now the 16th floors, while the Bangladesh Institute of Human Rights (BIHR) operates primarily out of the 9th floor through Mr. Chowdhury’s office. It’s officially an independent umbrella organization that has more flexibility in terms of its operating space, free from certain regulations imposed by the NGO Bureau. I’m still not certain of the specifics but I think things will become clearer over the next few weeks. Combined, the BCRT and BIHR are composed of physiotherapists, psychologists and accountants (one as far as I know), lawyers, students and human rights activists (many of whom identify themselves and others by their professions, for example, “That’s Mr. So and So, Human Rights Activist.”) They’re a highly-educated, motivated and captivatingly friendly group of men and women who will be a pleasure to work with.
I think it’s time to head back to my hotel, but not before stopping by that shopping centre I passed on the way here that may offer some non-rice based snacks to fill my hunger gap. I hope I have enough taka to make it back home.
Oh, it turns out I was right: one of the kids chilling out at the Club was the son of the Deputy Commissioner. Too bad I can only report that he was only drinking Gatorade, not beer or liquor from the bar, as the five of them watched WWF Wrestling on the digital TV.
posted by Per at 12:00 p.m.
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