Food

I’ve been ill the past week. After getting food poisoning, I lost my appetite and started to have only one or two meals a day, sometimes a meal being a piece of toast or half a piece of toast. Food quality is something I have always taken for granted. By food quality I don’t mean fine cuisine but food that will stay in my body. My hands turned slightly yellow after a week, so I started to eat again, and now I think I’m fine.

Picture This

I’m afraid that after I leave, Bangladesh will remain forever in my head as a shifting mosaic of images.

Living here is a constant visual assault, like when your taxi drives by an old woman sitting on the street with her hand outstretched as a busy man walks past. Typical old woman beggar; I’ve seen dozens of her. But this one, her mouth is gaping open in a silent sob. It’s silent because I’m in a taxi and I can’t hear her but for years I’ll wonder, if I had been walking on the street instead, how would her voice have sounded?

Like the overweight woman wearing a sari with exposed stomach rolls pushing a man in a wheelbarrow. A few days ago I saw them, presumably a couple; the man was peeing into the side of the street while she held onto the wheelbarrow. He either lost a leg or has a disease but he can’t walk, and so she pushes him along the street everyday. She does it either out of love or obligation.

Like Mohammed from Kutupalong refugee camp walking along Cox’s Bazar with his sandals in his hand. It was after our expensive lunch at Mermaid Cafe and he left his beef half eaten since he wasn’t used to the taste. Walking with Mohammed along the beach and knowing that unlike most things in this world, the ocean was something both of us understood and appreciated.

No matter how well I document Bangladesh, it is the vivid images I have of people that will replay in my mind, blurring and mixing together over time. I’m usually sad to think of my memories collapsing into glimpses of events. I think that it means I’m losing my grip of what really happened. But actually these visual memories are ones I want to be colored by present emotions, motivations, and biases. Unlike with my journals, I don’t want to keep a dusty relic of my time to read to my grandchildren someday; I want a living, breathing account that changes as I change because I don’t want to just leave Bangladesh in the past.

“Good-bye is always the hardest,” Hasan, one of the boys from Kutupalong said to me, “Ah, I am so bad, at saying good-bye.”

Tough Love on Dhaka Streets

I flagged down a tuk-tuk and not one, but two young men pulled up: mid-twenties, glistening tans, sandaled feet.

Two drivers, one customer.

Here’s demand and supply at work. Supply exceeds demand, so as a customer, I have the upper hand.

“MIRPUR ECT… DOSH TAKA?” I said, setting my own price first. (Mirpur-1 for ten Taka.)

I see nervous glances and tension between the two young drivers. Ten Taka is an acceptable price, but not as high as they would normally try to charge a foreigner. But then again, there’s competition, and the loaded foreigner can take the other driver if her price isn’t met by one.

It all takes about a second.

“Ten Taka?” I press, having eye contact with one, who doesn’t react, and then I look at the other, who nods.

Decision made, and I walk towards my newfound suitor, thinking score, I found a cheap date.

It’s all fair game when it comes to love or business.

Too bad within seconds my tuk-tuk driver got into a heated argument with a bus driver and nearly got us smashed on the street. Someone banged on the tuk-tuk and I screamed. My driver swerved onto the side of the street and gave me an apologetic look. I glared at him but decided to stay quiet because I’m stuck with him for the next few minutes.

And then a few seconds later, the tuk-tuk driver nearly crashed into another tuk-tuk and I screamed again.

“Maybe I should have paid a higher price for the other driver…” I thought, holding onto the inside of the tuk-tuk.

Burmese Refugee Camp

We got on a bus to Kutupalong, the Burmese refugee camp. It was the most claustrophobic bus I’ve ever been on with literally a few inches of space in front of your face before the next seat. The bus ride took two hours. I put a scarf around my hair and a Bangladeshi woman sitting down next to me smiled and said something to me I didn’t understand, but I was glad I somewhat passed for a Bangladeshi. Trust me, in this country, you want to fit in, not stand out.

Once we arrived at the camp, little kids came up to us and spoke in really good English. A taller boy was named Hasan and a shorter boy was named Mohammed. They warned us we may not be allowed inside the camp without a visitor’s pass but they would help us as much as they could.

Just as we were warned, we were stopped by a security guard. We explained to him, though he could barely understand, that we were students unaffiliated with any media or research and visiting purely for personal interest.

He took us to a fairly large but modest private house with a tin-roof and a Land Cruiser parked outside with “UNHCR” painted on it. He called out deferentially to “Sir” and a man stepped outside. He was a Bangladesh civil servant named AFM Fazle Rabbi who had been stationed at the camp for thirteen months.

We explained all over again that we had come to the refugee camp for personal reasons and we wanted to simply walk around, talk to people, and we were not going to use any of this information for media purposes, but he explained that we had to get official permission from the Dhaka city council. We said that we only had a few days left in Cox’s Bazar. We must have looked really dejected because at the end, he relented to letting us interview a refugee in his office.

The camp was founded in 1992. There are currently between 9,586 (officla number) and 14,000 (number stated by Rabbi) refugees currently living in the camp. Over sixty percent are below 18. The birth rate is very high. There is officially no economy inside the camp but refugees get food and non-food rations such as palm, rice, soap, cloths, and kerosene. They receive no vegetables, no meat, and no fish (how do they survive?). They must receive permission to leave the camp and only for the reasons of visiting relatives outside the camp, going to the hospital, or visiting relatives in jail. They grow small gardens next to their house and rear poultry as side activities.

Though the refugees have no permission to work outside, two thousand do illegally. There are 400,000 living illegally outside in the Chittagong Hill Tracts causing strife with indigenous tribes and other areas of Bangladesh.

The problem is that these refugees are not gaining any human capital while they live in the camps. The boys we met were sufficient at English and purely self-taught. They also worked at a computer training center that Microsoft had helped set up in the community, learning Microsoft Word, Powerpoint, and Excel. But developed countries are still not taking in these refugees in large numbers.

There are three ways to deal with refugees, according to Rabbi:
1) Repatriation (not possible because of persecution in Myanmar)
2) Integration (difficult because of Bangladesh’s high population density)
3) Resettlement in a third country (out of eight developed countries that used to accept these refugees, only the USA does now, and only about 60-70 families per year)

The International Office of Migration works with the UNHCR in choosing refugee families with top priority in leaving based on the criterion of vulnerability (social or medical), being efficient and skilled, knowledge of English.

“Why don’t they choose young people who still have a chance at making a new life in a developed country?” I asked.

We were interviewing the taller boy, Hasan Sharif, who was obviously bright and so eager to move to a new country. He said earlier that his ambition was “to be a computer master” and learn “how to develop his society.” He was a Burmese refugee that had been born in Bangladesh.

“What do you consider your society?” we asked him, “Myanmar or Bangladesh?”

“I was born in Bangladesh but my home country is Myanmar,” he said.

We ended the interview and left since it was prayer time for Mr. Rabbi, but as we were walking on the road, the smaller boy Mohammed came and whispered if we wanted to see the refugee camp from the outside, from a different route.

“Yeah, we want to,” we said.

So though we had no express government permission, we technically didn’t break any rules, and we saw the refugee camp from within a foot around its border. There was no fence so for all purposes, we did visit the camp. Children ran around us as we walked past the straw huts and we walked into an unofficial part of the camp.

It was a new level of poor conditions. The whole place was built on a mud hill. People lived en masse in run-down huts and there was barely any economy within the camp. Things looked in one word, static. Children had weird marks on their faces.

We were escorted back out by our two young unofficial tour guides, who took us to the bus stop. Mohammed, the younger one, kept asking us to visit the computer lab so he can get our pictures, but he ended up hopping onto our bus and heading to Cox’s Bazar with us.

We bought him lunch at Mermaid Cafe, which ended up being the most ostentatious place in Cox’s Bazar, one of those places in Bangladesh that relish in being expensive just so they can look legitimate to foreign tourists that expect to burn money on a vacation. Mohammed didn’t like the food. It was a little awkward simply being there, spending 800 Taka (about $12) on our lunches when his family probably could live off of that money for months.

That was my one regret of today. By trying to do something good for a kid, I’m not sure whether we were being generous or insulting. He was the most authoritative and cool little kid though. He almost acted like a hot shot, calling out to the waiters, insisting on counting out the cash, walking around with a strut.

We paid for lunch and walked along Cox’s Bazar, mostly in silence. The three of us were so different. I wished that one day I could meet up with this little kid and talk about the old days it used to be hard for him and his family, but I’m not sure that can ever happen.

I walked him to the bus stop and he apologetically told me he needed money for the bus ride back. I said sure, how much?

“50 Taka,” he said.

I was sure it only cost 30 Taka, if he even had to pay to get on the bus. But I gave him fifty anyway, deciding to trust him and besides, does it matter to me, and is it wrong of him to skim money off of me when it’s so little to me and so much for him?

I don’t really know.

Recovery

Today I remained in a nauseated state for almost the entire day but I walked out onto the Cox’s Bazar beach, shoes in hand. I was approached by about twenty people, all wanting to sell me their jewelry or coffee or horse-riding services or other things. Even though I was still somewhat sick, it was nice to walk on a beach. I probably looked like a pasty zombie the entire day in my oversized t-shirt and pajamas and baggy eyes. I couldn’t eat anything but a few bites of toast but I tried to force down some food.

But now I feel a lot better and I’m really glad because tomorrow I have plans to visit a Burmese refugee camp and a Buddhist temple if there’s time.

I want to try this restaurant on the beach called Mermaid Cafe as well. This Bangladeshi guy today talked to me on the beach and gave me some solid advertisement on this place. He looked about my age and his name was Aman.

I asked Aman how to get to Mermaid Cafe.

“Do you have time now? I can take you by CNG,” he said, “Very close. Only a few minutes.”

“I can’t go now because I feel too sick,” I said.

“Oh. OH, are you the wife of the World Food Program president?” he asked.

“Huh?” I said, “No, no! I’m not married.”

“Wait, are you Australian?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Okay, shori,” he said, “But let me know when you want to go to Mermaid Cafe. I can take.”

I’m thankful for a quick recovery. Now I’m going to go eat and watch Hangover.

Cox’s Bazar

I spent fifteen hours traveling by train and bus with a friend to Cox’s Bazar yesterday, the longest natural beach in the world. It’s touted as one of the modern wonders of the world but as I’m reminded again and again, in Bangladesh, it’s best to keep your expectations low, if not barely there.

We checked into Hotel Mishuk at 9 PM. The hotel stated price is 1350 Taka ($20) but two Bengali coordinators were there and the hotel manager quickly marked it down to 650 Taka ($9-10). The bellboy took us into our room and showed us the “sea view” with a proud flourish. Except you couldn’t see the sea.

“Where’s the sea?” we asked, laughing at the whole thing.

“This, sea view!” the bell boy said, pointing to the view, mainly a construction site next door, presumably blocking the view of the sea a few kilometers away.

My friend and I went out afterward to a Bengali restaurant and ate rice, fish, daal, and vegetables. Oh my goodness, my stomach still hates the sound of that.

I got food poisoning and I threw up violently three times that night.

I oddly felt glad to vomit. I wanted to get rid of what was toxic for me and my body – if only it were that simple all the time. But it was such a low point. The entire time, I thought about my mother and how she used to sit next to me and massage my hands when I feel sick. She and all of the people I care about are halfway around the world and so far removed from me, while my body is seemingly rejecting everything about this place, from its food to its damp, probably unwashed bedsheets and its muggy air.

I left Dhaka for Cox’s Bazar yesterday for a brief change in scenery and mood. Maybe I should find my way to the sea today. I remember waking up in Grand Prince yesterday in cold, air-conditioned air and gasping in bug spray. My throat was sore and I felt so frustrated with these people in Bangladesh, that first of all they had endless cockroaches in a four-star hotel and its restaurant, and their solution was to spray fumes in our room that bothered the inhabitants more than the insects that just show up again the next day.

Today I woke up in Hotel Mishuk, totally without appetite and sweaty with fever. I tried to get up for breakfast but I just fell asleep again, over and over, until I finally got up a few hours later.

The other day I met up with Bijoyeta, the freelance journalist who had gone on assignment to the Chittagong Hill Tracts with the award-winning Bengali photographer. I immediately noticed something between those two during dinner, when he took pictures of her or stared at her, and it was confirmed later when she grabbed his arm. I think love just happens when you’re in new places.

Anyway, I’m going to end this entry because I’m not in a great mood and maybe it’s best to keep these sort of entries short and to the point. Living alone in a third-world country is a daily trial, and I hope that at least at the end, I’ll have gained and given something worthwhile.

Protests

Security update from ISOS:

Bangladesh: Avoid vicinity of nationwide opposition protests on 20 June

The main opposition Bangladesh National Party (BNP) has called for demonstrations across the country on 20 June and a dawn to dusk general
strike on 27 June in protest at what it perceives as the politicisation of the judiciary. The country’s main Islamist party Jamaat e Islami has announced its support for the forthcoming industrial action. The events have also been organised to protest against several other issues, including inflation, attacks on journalists and alleged government sanctioned restrictions on media freedom, disproportionate supply of electricity and water and purported corruption among government officials. In addition, the BNP is calling for the dissolution of the Election Commission, cancellation of treaties with India and the organisation of fresh parliamentary elections.
The nationwide protests are expected to be well attended, particularly in the capital Dhaka, where they are likely to focus on important government buildings. Precedents indicate the potential for clashes between BNP activists and supporters of the ruling Awami League (AL), as well as between protesters and the police; picketers have been known to disrupt traffic and force the closure of shops and local businesses in the past. The security forces may employ robust crowd control measures to disperse any disruptive gatherings; personnel in the vicinity of such rallies are unlikely to be targeted, but will risk exposure to incidental violence in the event of any unrest.

The Philosopher Cabbie

Sunday night I had dinner with interns and our Bangladeshi friends. There were some awkward moments. It’s kind of like when we had dinner earlier this month and all the interns were telling stories about hookup culture but quickly changed the topic once our Bangladesh friend joined us.

Awkward moments:

1. Asking the Bengalis if they use their right hand for food and left hand for the bathroom, how exactly is the left hand used?

**Disclaimer: In the past month, the interns and Bangladeshis have all been hanging out so much that we talk about all sorts of things whether they’re crude, sensitive, embarrassing, personal, and sometimes amongst friends it’s easy to forget that there are still topics that might be uncomfortable.

2. A Bangladeshi asking one of the interns if she “still blogs,” meaning that he’s read it and has read the bits with him featured in it.

I think the concept of privacy differs in the West and here. Westerners regard privacy as a natural right while people in Bangladesh have literally very little space to demand privacy. I can’t tell you how many times on the street someone has taken a picture or video of me, like I’m either a celebrity or a zoo animal. It’s extremely irritating and I always move away or cover my head with a scarf but people here don’t think of it as rude.

But yeah, blogs are a different story. Since they’re public on the Internet it would be self-contradictory to demand privacy.

The funny thing about Westerners is they stalk the hell out of each other too but the next day they pretend to not know a thing. I guess it’s like a common courtesy.

3. Talking about beggars and whether we should give. An intern gave his opinion on why we shouldn’t give to beggars. The entire time I looked at this Bangladeshi girl who looked tired of this topic and slightly bitter. I would be a little annoyed too. For interns, we get to stay in Bangladesh for two months as observers of the culture and their conditions here. We can get into philosophical debates about whether we should give to beggars or not and think deeply about these topics during our stay here, but for Bangladeshis, this is their homeland for life, not just a summer.

Today I woke up with the lovely sight of a cockroach crawling on a wall. I picked up a shoe and tried to kill it and failed. It fell towards my suitcase and I flipped out and dragged my open suitcase across the room, bumping into furniture. Great start to a morning.

Then I went down to the lobby to get money and accidentally ripped two one hundred dollar bills while opening an envelope.

I needed to go to the Indian embassy so the hotel staff called an AC cab. Usually I would take a CNG (it would cost about $2 for a 45-minute ride) but I was in a bad mood and it was scorching hot. But the AC cab driver tried to charge 850 Taka for the whole trip, which is like $12. Ridiculous.

I said no, I’ll just take a CNG, but the hotel staff insisted I take the AC cab for some reason (maybe because they called it already and didn’t want to get shit from the cab driver).

The cab driver offered 250 Taka per hour next. About $3-4.

I said no, I’ll pay 200 Taka per hour or take a CNG.

The cab driver agreed and I finally got in. I could have gotten a CNG for 150 Taka but 70 cents is really not worth it for me to choose a CNG over an air-conditioned cab that is guaranteed to take me back to the hotel too.

In the cab, the driver and I started chatting and I said, “Since I’m a foreigner here, I’m always ripped off. People like you always try to charge five times more to me since I’m not Bangladeshi.” (I was in a really bad mood.)

“Why, of course,” he replied, “When people get money, they always try to get more.”

Then he changed his tone, like Bangladeshis tend to do in this bipolar way. “But you know, I hate money, what is money, you make it then you use it!”

“Yeah…” I said, while thinking skeptically, if you hate money so much, why’d you try to rip me off earlier.

Now my roommate and I are going to meet our journalist friend who just came back from the Chittagong Hill Tracts, the most dangerous part of Bangladesh. I’m excited to hear about her incognito trip and I have to collect her Indian contacts for my trip to India sometime in the future.

Cockroaches and Last Two Days

Cockroaches have moved in en masse.

It’s both sad and funny hearing your roommate screech in the shower, knowing it’s because a cockroach is in there with her. Before that, I was brushing my teeth, eyeing the massive cockroach on the toilet and muttering, “Fuck, fuck… FUCK…”

Now my roommate is spraying an aerosol spray on it, happily yelling, “It’s dying!”

Breakfast now.

Chat with Brother

“So yeah, I’ve been biking to school for five weeks now, trying to reduce my carbon footprint.”

It’s sort of hilarious how serious he is.