Dhaka to Delhi

I'm in India! This means I made it through my summer in Bangladesh (almost -- I still have one night there on my way back to America).
I am definitely still reflecting upon my time there, and am just so grateful for the experience. All things considered it has been a wonderful and life-changing summer.
I spent the last few days wrapping up loose ends and saying my goodbyes. Leaving Ayub and Sayed was very hard and I definitely cried when I said goodbye to them. I was still crying while standing in line at the airport, and the man in line next to me turned around, raised his eyebrows and said, "you're scared of flying?"

I had a 4 hour layover in the Kolkata airport which was pretty terrible. I arrived at the international terminal and after a few wrong turns realized I needed to get to domestic one. I headed outside to look for a tram and it was completely pouring down rain and I was surrounded by men trying to get me to take a taxi. Everything was pretty crazy, and I also had not managed to get any rupees yet. Eventually I managed to get a taxi driver to drive me to the domestic terminal for a few American dollars (the first guy I talked to wanted $10.00! While at the domestic terminal (which was not even as nice as the Dhaka airport) I got eaten alive by mosquitoes and am still recovering from that today.

Arriving in Delhi was pretty surreal as it is a very nice airport, and is definitely the fanciest thing I've seen in a few months. I finally found the guy from my hotel amongst the nearly hundred of men with signs for new arrivals. We headed out to the hotel and I finally started to relax until... the driver slowly pulled off the freeway and stopped the car. I was like "WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!?!" and he in his very limited english said something about another driver coming, and I was like "I DON'T UNDERSTAND!!!" and so he called the other driver who was picking up my mom, and they put my mom on the phone and she explained how she had just arrived and the driver she was with was coming to meet us. This obviously eased my mind considerably although it was still strange being reunited with my mom on the side of the road somewhere in Delhi.

We arrived at our bed & Breakfast around 1AM completely exhausted.

Today it rained for hours and hours in the morning, flooding the road in front of the B&B leading to a very uneventful morning. Later in the day we got in touch with the travel guide that had been recommended to us and they sent a car for us. We met with them and got the rest of our trip planned out. I have a feeling it's going to be an amazing 2 weeks.

After that we went to a Hindu temple and then dinner. All in all I really love India so far.

Dining with the "enemy"

Friday night Charlie, Karen and I were invited to dinner by Khaled Yusuf who is a jute mill owner, and a member of a very well-connected family. He can only be described as the upper-upper crust. (He family literally was the landed gentry, how many people can you say that about).

He and his wife Afroza were quite possibly the most hospitable people I have ever met. They made us feel so welcome and served us an assortment of traditional Bengali dishes. I finally understand what people mean when they talk about Bangladeshi hospitality.

At one point Afroze's brother stopped by. He happened to be a garment factory owner, so Mr. Yusuf introduced Charlie and I as "the enemy". He was kidding, but the brother decided he should fill us in on the owner's perspective of things. Listening to him made me feel that I had done my homework as there was not one thing he said that I hadn't heard before. Some was, in my opinion, slightly far-fetched. He said any increase in the minimum wage was going to put nearly half of the garment factories out of business. From everything I've read that simply can't be the case. He also hinted very strongly at a conspiracy of some sorts leading to worker unrest, a theory that even industry sources view as ridiculous. He also said that every single worker at his factory is happy, and at least 9 out of 10 factories are completely compliant with every law. None of this sounded realistic.

Overall the night was great, even the conversation with the "enemy".

Later in the week they invited us (including J.R. too) to the Dhaka Club for dinner to celebrate Charlie's last night. This meant they had to take 2 separate cars to pick us up and take us across the city. The Dhaka Club is the most elite institution in the city, It was originally founded by the British colonialists but gradually has been overtaken by the Bangladeshi upper crust. Brandt describes it by saying that when you are taken there "you know you've arrived." This isn't exactly true, but was definitely a nice send off for Charlie.

Old Dhaka Take 2

Last Friday we were lucky enough to be invited by Megan (Charlie's family friend who lives here permanently) to join the tour of Old Dhaka that she was leading for the new arrivals of her NGO. Karen and JR also accompanied us.
Besides the 4 of us the group consisted of Derota (the woman we are sharing our car with, who was also put in contact with Megan through friend of a friend connections), Sarah (who I had met at Megan's previously), Nancy, and then an absolutely wonderful family from Togo, Grace, Anthony and their absolutely adorable 6 year old Jerome. Jerome is quite possibly the best kid I have ever met. If not at the top of my list then definitely in the top 5. He was fearless, outgoing, funny and extremely positive. We all joked how it would just be impossible to remain in a bad mood with him around.
You can probably imagine that a group of white, asian and black people drew A LOT of attention. At the very beginning of our tour we stood in a group listening to Megan give us an overview of what we would be doing that day and we attracted a crowd of nearly 100 people completely surrounding us, looking at us with a mix of confusion and interest.
As we walked towards the docks (where Megan had arranged for us to take a small boat in the Buriganga river) it became apparent that Jerome was attracting even more attention than I could even dream of. He was dressed in a traditional Bengali outfit that was a bright green. Everywhere he went people stared, and wanted to come up and talk to him, especially the street children. My anxiety levels were definitely on the rise as I watched him randomly talking to people and just wandering around the street in general. His parents were incredibly good-natured and have like a 1000% more laid back approached to child-rearing than I do.

After some haggling with the boat owner Megan got us 2 large gondola type boats. We climbed aboard and set sail. It was incredibly hot, and being on the water made it even hotter. We passed other pleasure seekers (so to speak) who all gaped at us. The shores of Dhaka are not the most picturesque, the river being filled with rusty boats and the shore filled with dilapidated buildings. If you squint your eyes it almost looks kind of pretty.

The boat ride lasted about 30 minutes, and we were all drenched with sweat when it ended. As we climbed onto the land the gondolier (think Venice, if Venice was a poor, third world country) rather aggressively asked us for more money. Of course.

From the boat ride we walked down a tiny market street filled with stores selling all kind of goodies from vegetables, to grains, to live chickens, to slabs of raw beef hung on a wire. The street was so narrow that we were constantly being nearly collided into by rickshaws, CNGs and mobs of people. Much gaping ensued of course. At this point Karen and I thought it would be fun to walk hand in hand with Jerome and lift him up and swing him on the count of 3. Because kids are the same the world over he of course loved this game. I have to imagine that a white girl and an asian girl lifting up an african boy and swinging him around while yelling "whoo whoo" is an event that hasn't occurred before in Old Dhaka.

While in Old Dhaka we went to the Armenian Church. It was a nice respite from the nearly intolerable heat, but as far as old churches go was not really anything to write home about. There was this really creepy street kid, who grabbed my hand, kissed it and refused to let go, then tried to get me to kiss his cheek. I wrenched my hand away and made a "no no no no" gesture and ran away. He followed us around the rest of the time, staring at me with very creepy, dead eyes. This was especially awkward for the 10 minutes we were locked behind the gates of the church waiting for the guide to let us out, and he just stood there looking at us.  (my attitude towards street children growing a little more hard-hearted).

Next we drove down Hindu street which I guess is some famous market street in Dhaka. Driving down it is one of the more ridiculous things you can attempt in this city, but some reason the driver of the van (whom we were following in our car w/ Sayed) thought because it was Friday we could do it. We drove slower than it would have taken to walk, as the street was completely jammed full with rickshaws and people. Sayed got very upset, and stressed understandably and gave the van driver an earful as we finally got through the street. My descriptions if you notice are becoming less and less detailed as I was by this point hungry and tired and just wanted to eat lunch.

We ate lunch at an Indian restaurant, which had a decent lunch buffet. It took them forever to seat us (of course) so we all entertained ourselves by taking a bunch of pictures with Jerome.

THURS @ DEPZ

Last Thursday I attended a stakeholder meeting at the Dhaka Export Processing Zone. It was similar to the one I attended in Chittagong when I first arrived (which seems like eons ago). The first 30 minutes were fairly interesting as it was David (the Solidarity Center's Country Director) last meeting (he is leaving for Cambodia Thursday, a step up in the life style department, which should tell you something about here) so much of it was very friendly between all involved. I kind of got a better sense of the relationship between the Solidarity Center and the government as it currently stands which although strained seems more friendly than I had thought. The government official in charge of DEPZ tried his best to paint a very rosy picture regarding worker's rights and wages in the EPZ zones. The weirdest part of his power point presentation was definitely the scanned thank you notes written by visiting US government officials. Things like, "Had a great time, thank you for showing us around" scrawled by the assistant to the US Trade Representative used as evidence of just how wonderful everything was here.
Once David left the meeting switched entirely to Bangla and apparently nobody felt like translating that day, so I sat there not understanding  a word of anything that was said for over an hour. It was, to put it mildly, not a fun experience. It is almost like a nightmare to be the only person in the room who can't understand what it is going on. Add this to my ever-increasing list of bizarre situations I have found myself in.

Long time no blog

I have so much to write about since my last post but I am trying to finish some work stuff up and I know once I start blogging it is going to take me awhile to get through it all, but here is a bit of a teaser:

• Mr. Dhar weasels his way into a dinner invite then is upset with our menu choice
• Another day in old Dhaka featuring a boat ride, the coolest kid i have ever met and a super creepy encounter with a teenage street kid
• an awesome concert with a Bangladeshi funk band (of sorts)
• Dinner with what can only be described as a super upper crust Bangladeshi family where the father affectionately described us as "the enemy" to his garment factory owner brother in law. Heated discussion ensued.

The Inscrutable Bangladeshis

The American Club has a library of sorts, which is filled mainly with pulp novels by Michael Crichton (not even his more famous ones), Jeffrey Archer, Ann Rule and then an odd assortment of science fiction or fantasy series (like the Amtrak series?). I've been in a reading frenzy for the past few days (I think I finally reached my fill of bad TV for the time being). Yesterday I read The Reader (highly recommended by the way) and today I am making my way through The Inscrutable Americans by Anurag Mathur about a small town Indian man named Gopal who spends a year at a University in America. It's a pretty funny book, and reading it while on the Indian subcontinent is a kind of through the looking glass experience. In many ways I can relate to exactly how he feels regarding the differences between cultures even though we are coming from the exact opposite perspective.

This passage in particular really struck a chord:

"You've forgotten your seat belt again, Gopal."
Gopal began to buckle it on. He had never understood this national mania for seat belts. In India, he thought cars didn't even have seat belts. And if a manufacturer did install them the driver would probably merely assume it was a useful device with which to strangle opposing drivers during one of their numerous fights.
Certainly there was a great merit in seat belts. But typically the Yanks had made such a fetish out of it, that it annoyed every right thinking person.

Now things are just getting weird

I realize I have done a ridiculous amount of blogging today, but the following is just too bizarre I simply can't keep it to myself.
It all started innocuously enough when I decided to switch to regular milk from Coffemate  for my morning coffee (definitely off to a dramatic start). Yesterday while I was out Mr. Dhar came by to ask (or rather tell) Ayub to make him coffee (as I have written about before, a daily occurrence). According to Ayub Mr. Dhar was rather upset by our lack of Coffeemate, as he is apparently not a fan of real milk (maybe he's lactose intolerant?) Because of this he decided to go to the Japanese family's cook and ask her for coffee. She gave him it in a portable cup. I guess he didn't want all of it because he then brought it over half-full and told Ayub he could finish it. Ayub saved it to show us when we got home.
Today Mr. Dhar again came over, and was again upset by our lack of Coffeemate. He told Ayub that he should buy it without telling us. He also asked if Ayub had finished the coffee from yesterday. Ayub told him he doesn't like coffee.

Unforgettable Story

Sunday was a day filled with extremes. In the morning I met with management and saw the "good" (kind of) side of the industry. Right after the tour of the factory was over, we headed to Gazipur, where I would hear firsthand (OK, firsthand translated) about the really disturbing and terrible side of the industry.

We were scheduled to meet with the workers that we were originally supposed to meet with on Friday. This time we had our car, so the ride there was nowhere near as terrible.

We met with 2 women. Both had been employed by Honorway a factory that had made clothing for Fruit of the Loom before it closed its doors in 2006 without giving any notice to its workers and still owing them months of salary and all the money that had been paid into retirement accounts.

Shortly after the factory shut down the younger woman found out that she was pregnant. Her husband nearly forced her to have an abortion but she refused. She was unable to pay for the medical bills and still owes Tk. 10,000. Since she could not pay for the care the people at the hospital tried to get her to give up her baby n exchange for the amount of the bill (this is a fairly common practice). She also refused this. She was out of work for a long time and had to take her other child out of school because she could not afford to pay for it. Eventually she found another job at a different garment factory  but is making less than 1/3 of what she had been making before. She is owed nearly Tk. 70,000.

The other woman was older. I originally thought she was in her 50s, but it turned out she was actually only 37. This should give you some idea of the kind of life she has led. Just from looking at her you know she has had one hell of a go round in this lifetime.  The closest image I can conjur is of that famous photograph of that Afghan girl in the red cloak, all grown up. She had that same weariness and sadness just emanating from her. She had worked for Honorway for 9 years. Her husband had left her and she was raising 2 boys and supporting her parents. She was earning a decent salary of around Tk. 7,000 when the factory closed its doors. She was also unable to find much work. Eventually she took a job as a maid earning only 1,200 a month. Her teenage sons had to quit school. One fell in with a bad crowd (and I think has become a drug addict) the younger one (16) has become a rickshaw wallah and day laborer. Her father (who is now nearly blind) had to become a day laborer. She also has very bad vision. Her family lives in a bamboo and tin shack in the outskirts of Dhaka. She had to borrow Tk. 9,000 during her period of unemployment and has only been able to pay about Tk. 500 back.  She is owed over Tk. 120,000 by the factory. As she told her story she cried a lot. I have never in my life met someone in so much inner pain, but who also still had this inner strength. It was an unforgettable experience.

The reason why they haven't been given their money is long and complicted but mainly centers around the fact that the government is ineffectual and corrupt. This has been a pet issue of the WRC and they have even gotten Fruit of the Loom to agree to pay a sizeable portion of the amount owed to the workers, but the government has not faciliated this, and the brand has not pursued it . The next step is to get the WRC affiliated Univiersites (like UM) to help put more pressure on the brand which in turn can put pressure on the government. I am learning that the only way anything ever happens here is either through pressure from foreign governments or foreign brands who in turn put pressure on the government. The channels for addressing these issues internally within Bangladesh are almost entirely ineffectual.

We gave them each Tk. 500 and thanked them for sharing their story. The older woman was overcome with emotion and gratitude. She got on her knees and kissed our feet. We had no idea what to do. Mehedi told them that we were students from America and would do our best to publicize their story. I actually think in some ways the fact that we were there and that we listened to her story and that we cared and we agreed that what had happened to her was wrong was almost more important than the money.

Over 1,700 people were employed by Honorway. We heard from just 2 people. I can imagine the rest of the stories are similarly heartbreaking. When reading accounts of this in the newspaper it is easy to skim over the words "the facory shut down without paying wages to the workers" and not fully grasp what this means. Most articles about the garment industry aren't written from the perspective of the workers anyway, the focus is nearly always on the effect the shut down and ensuing unrest will have on the bottom line for companies like Walmart or H&M.

Factory Tour

On Sunday I was fortunate enough to see the factory where the clothes that we all wear actually get made. It was to do this kind of thing that made coming here such an exciting prospect. I feel incredibly fortunate to get to see with my own eyes the things that cause so much discussion back home.

The factory we toured was one of the nicer ones. It is owned by Epic Group, and employs around 5000 workers at that factory alone. Here is a good (although definitely has a press release feel) article about the factory: http://www.just-style.com/comment/an-epic-opportunity-for-bangladeshs-garment-industry_id95318.aspx (I enjoyed the part where it called Bangladesh's weather "eclectic").  This factory also has a friendly relationship with the labour NGOs the Solidarity Center is affiliated with. This is important to remember for several reasons: 1) not all garment factories are terrible sweatshops that we read about in the paper and 2) the factories that the western buyers usually see are the nicer ones.

This factory's main buyers included Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, and Levis. We started by talking with the head manager for awhile. I felt he was being fairly honest and frank which surprised me, given that he knew the organizations we were working with. We discussed the minimum wage, and he made the point that one problem with the current minimum wage debate was that it is exclusively about the base line wage, not about take home pay. For example, his factory paid workers (at the lowest grade)  Tk. 1,700 per month (minimum wage is Tk. 1662). BUT he felt this was misleading because the factory also provided attendance and production bonuses, overtime, subsidized lunches (workers pay Tk. 3 for a daily lunch, the company pays Tk. 20), onsite healthcare and daycare. He felt that if minimum wage is increased without any consideration into the benefits received by the worker (which his company had calculated to be about Tk. 3000 per worker beyond their starting salary) that factories will simply cut these benefits. One thing I did not ask, because I got sidetracked in the discussion of all the various kinds of benefits was even with these benefits if what the workers were making was still liveable. In the end I agree that factories should have a certain amount of flexibility in how the take home wage can be paid, as long as at the end of the day the workers are receiving a total amount of X taka (X being whatever is a decent wage). The discussion goes to show that things are always more complicated than either side would have you believe.

After meeting with the manager, the head of HR gave us a tour of the factory. The factory itself was much nicer than I had anticipated. It was clean, very well-lit, air conditioned (except for one floor where they cut the fabric because the AC damages the machines used, but there were at least big fans) and modern. I was blown away by all the aspects required to run a garment factory (like a whole room where the clothes are washed before being shipped and a million other elements). Each floor was huge (some had over 1500 workers) all workimg on various stitching or cutting. The mood was also not as dour as I had expected. Were the workers bursting with happiness and joy? No but the energy felt similar to an office or call center. People weren't overjoyed to be there but were not miserable. But, one important thing to remember is that they work much longer weeks than we do. They work 11 hour days (with 1 hour for lunch) 6 days a week. And despite bonuses and overtime pay they are still making enough to barely get by, living an existence that is probably unimaginable to anyone reading this (and to the person writing it).

When the tour ended we got to spend some more time with the HR manager and I felt had another interesting and frank discussion. He thought the key to running a succesful factory (even from a purely financial viewpoint) was that the workers needed to feel loyalty to the factory. To earn their loyalty the factory needs to offer them certain bonuses, and most importantly needs to listen to them and address their grievances. He felt the underlying cause of all the unrest occurring in the garment sector was that the workers feel they have no voice and have to turn to violence in order to be heard. This was the exact same sentiment that was expressed by the president of BILS (Bangladesh Institute for Labour Studies) although the BILS guy felt that unions were the best solution to this, whereas the HR rep felt it could be done internally within the factory.

I was very grateful to hear the perspectives of factory management and think this is invaluable in forming a clear picture of the reality of the situation here. Ultimately my sympathies will always lie with the working man over management, but I am no Marxist, I realize that it is important to understand and respect the viewpoint of all those involved in the issue, and also to recognize that there is no easy solution.

Bizarre Bazaar (terrible title)

In case you haven't figured this out yet, Bangladesh is not really what you would call a tourist destination. I'm sure this is appealing to a certain demographic of "alternative tourists" who take much satisfaction in traveling off the beaten path, with Bangladesh being so far off the beaten path that the closest path is like a 1 hour plane  ride away (actually is Calcutta even on the beaten path?) While there are upsides to this (pretty much everywhere you go is "authentic" even the more "posh" areas) one downside is that it has made it rather difficult to buy typical souvenirs (or even postcards).  To try to find something Eshanthi, Karen and I decided to go to Bhangra Bazaar a market that sells more western style clothing and is supposedly slightly easier for foreigners to navigate.

We arrived around 10:30, which for bargain shoppers in the States would have meant hours of shopping already completed, but in Bangladesh means that only about 10% of the stores were even open yet. Syed talked to some of the owners and found out the shops would probably be opening in 30 minutes or so. Fortunately we were right next to Dhaka University so we got to spend some time walking around the quite beautiful and huge campus. Although definitely different than any university I've seen in the states it still had that same kind of energy found in any college. Dhaka University has been the hotbed of political protests and political violence since even before the Liberation War. On the eve of Bangladesh's victory against Pakistan, the Pakistani army rounded up a large number of professors and students and massacred them hoping to deprive the soon to be nation of any intellectual leaders. It is still often the site of massive demonstrations and clashes. We saw nothign like that though, things were entirely peaceful.

We returned to Bhangra Bazaar and nearly all the shops were finally open. This was my first experience really shopping in an actual market where prices aren't fixed and haggling is the custom. Immediately we were surrounded by "helpers" meaning people working on commission from the store owners who promise to help you find what you are looking for and negotiate a "good price." They were definitely helpful at navigating the market but their "negotiation" consisted of handing me a calculator where I would put in the number I would pay, then handing that number to the owner, who would then put in his price and this would continue until a price was agreed on. I bought numerous scarfs and quite a few shirts. It was unlike any other shopping experience I have ever had, the aggressiveness of the sellers was very irritating (some even would poke me to get my attention), and my patience was definitely tested having to sort through what seemed like an endless mountain of truly terrible clothing to find the few decent ones. In the end I am pretty proud of my negotiation skills, as afterward I showed Ayub what I had purchased and told him how much I had paid, and I had only paid on average about Tk. 50 more than a local would have for most things. Next time (wait -- there won't be a next time, who am I kidding) I would definitely do better as I would actually have a more accurate conception of what I should pay, something I was totally lacking this time. The outing ended on a very sour note unfortunately. When it came time to tip our helpers, Karen and I each gave our person Tk. 200 while Eshanthi gave hers Tk. 500. This enraged Karen's and my helper and mine kind of got in my face, intimidating me, so I gave in and gave him the Tk. 500 instead. Karen held her ground, which angered all of them and they started banging on our car window demanding more money. By this point I was extremely cranky (mainly due to being so hot and hungry a deadly combination when it comes to my temper) and was so happy to get out of there. All in all a good learning experience, but definitely not something I will be nostalgic for the next time I go to the mall back home.

I spent pretty much the rest of the day at the American Club. A bunch of us got together and just sat on the patio (with overhead fans so sitting outside was tolerable), drank lemonade and had an incredibly relaxing time. At various points throughout the day I actually forgot I was in Bangladesh (much needed but unfortunate). Later in the evening Eshanthi, Charlie, JR and David (the Scottish artist from the Sundarban trip who was leaving Dhaka Monday) got together for actual real drinks at the American Club bar. I definitely made the right decision in joining, even if only for the last 2 weeks.

Gazipur then GuitarFest

BCWS (Bangladesh Center for Worker Solidarity) has an office in Gazipur which is a suburb of Dhaka. Suburb here having a very different meaning than back home, being generally poorer and more industrial (most of the garment factories are located in the suburbs). Charlie had an interview set up with some workers who had worked in a factory that in 2006 had shut down out of the blue, while still owing all of the workers months of back wages as well as money that had been paid into a savings account. Since Friday is Said's day off we had to take a CNG (AKA an autorickshaw) all the way out there (a 45-90 minute drive depending on traffic). This alone nearly deterred me from going as the idea of sitting in a loud, extremely hot, and kind of scary CNG in actual traffic was a daunting idea. I decided I would regret not going, as it would be a good experience to see more of the city and more importantly to hear the worker's story firsthand.
After tracking down a CNG in Gulshan 2 circle Charlie called his boss Mehedi so he could explain to the driver where exactly we needed to go. The driver wanted to charge us twice what Mehedi said we should pay, so as Charlie was trying to negotiate this (while alternating talking to Mehedi and having the driver talk to Mehedi) a street kid came up to me and tried to sell me stickers. I didn't want to buy the stickers but started chatting with him, about the stuff on the stickers (guns, flowers, spiderman, totally random). At this point Mehedi suggested we try a taxi, as the CNG guy wouldn't budge on the price. I asked the little kid to show us where to go, and he took us to the Westin where there is usually an assortment of different kinds of taxis (varying dramatically in quality). After failing to get a good price from the taxi driver (a crowd of beggars had surrounded us by this point, half-heartedly asking for taka, but mainly just watching us try to haggle, very amused) we decided to go again the CNG. This time the little kid helped us negotiate and ended up getting the price down by Tk.100. I gave him a tip out of gratitude. (Have I mentioned how adorable he was?)

Luckily Friday is the lightest traffic day, so the ride there wasn't too terrible. Totally hot and stuffy, but at least we were moving nearly the entire time so this created somewhat of a breeze, The BCWS office is in a building in the middle of a huge market. Mehedi came out to meet us and brought us to the office, which was in a very old building with grey stone floors and oddly ornately designed doors. We were there for about 5 minutes chatting with some of the BCWS staff when Mehedi received a phone call telling him the workers had been in some sort of accident crossing the street (don't worry they were totally fine). I wasn't surprised. One thing I have learned the hard way here is to expect nothing to go according to plan ever. We ended up staying at the office for about 90 minutes, chatting to their staff and union organizers. I asked them some questions regarding violence in the RMG sector and about the minimum wage (there is a big debate going on about that right now) and it was pretty interesting (and depressing). The life of a garment worker is even more grim than I thought.

Mehedi arranged a taxi for us on the way back (he negotiated the price while we were still in the office, so ended up getting it for about Tk. 150 cheaper than we had paid for the CNG). The taxi was completely falling apart, I think the engine was the only thing still working the way it should. At least it stayed together long enough to get us home (with only one near collision).

Pretty much as soon as we got back to the apartment we had to leave to go meet JR and his friend Omi. Omi grew up in Bangladesh, but went to college in America and is currently in the middle of his PhD at Harvard's Kennedy School of Government. He speaks 10 languages and had devoted his life to researching genocide and other war crimes. He has been nearly everywhere in the world (including the Sudan), and has spent a lot of time at refugee camps. Totally unrelated to this, we were meeting him because a few of  his cousins are musicians (one is apparently a pretty famous Bangladeshi rock star, the others are a doctor and engineer in their real life) and their band was performing at GuitarFest, a concert featuring lots of local bands.

Going to GuitarFest was a very interesting experience. Charlie, JR and I were the only foreigners in the entire crowd. Everyone else were all middle class / upper middle class Bangladeshi teenagers / early twenty somethings. It was the first time since being here that I got to see this side of Bangladesh. One interesting thing was that almost all of the banter from the bands was in English. Further evidence that it really is the language of choice of Bangladeshi bourgeoisie. The big downside was that the large room the concert was in had no AC and very little ventilation. This meant it was ridiculously hot. It was so hot that for literally the first time since I've been here the air outside actually felt much cooler than inside. (And it was still probably at least 95 degrees and very humid). Omi's cousin's band was by far the best, the rockstar cousin was very talented, and even though it wasn't really my kind of music (way too hard rock) I still really enjoyed it.

After GuitarFest we had a late dinner at Bamboo Shoot a very decent Chinese restaurant. Karen and Ashish joined us. The food and conversation were both great, so overall it ended up being a very nice night.

Labour Court

Wednesday I spent the day with BIGUF's attorney Salem at the Labour Court. (I'm using the British spelling of "labour" because that is the actual name of the Court in all the translations).The Labour Court as the name would suggest deals only with labor (switching it up) issues. Stuff like workers who are fired without proper severance pay, or aren't paid the full amount of wages they are owned etc.
The court was fairly drab (not surprising) and very hot and stuffy (also not surprising). Initially the room was entirely filled with men (I have never felt so much the "other" in my life) but eventually two female lawyers joined. I chatted with a few different people about the state of the law here and comparisons with American labor law. One of the lawyers I spoke with is, according to Salem, the top labor lawyer in the country who has written many books about the subject. He told me that his wife had died 2 just two weeks ago, and this explained why throughout much of our conversation he seemed so incredibly sad.
Much of what was done in court was similar to my experience in the U.S. where everything is settled behind the scenes and the judge just basically gives a stamp of approval. A lot of my understanding of what happened with individual cases was hampered by the fact that while Salem's English is decent he tended to oversimplify, and not really tell me the details.Also, while he speaking to the Judge I was left completely in the dark.
One of the biggest differences was that the judge sits on a panel of 3, one permanent worker's representative and one permanent employer's representative. There are 3 different labour courts (each with jurisdiction over different parts of the city) and I sat through 2. The employer's representative was absent during both. Apparently this happens a lot, because all 3 members need to be present for some of the more important cases, and this is used often as a delaying tactic.

Better?

After my mini-breakdown yesterday I ended up having a very nice night. Ciara and Eshanthi joined us for a very good dinner. It is really helpful to talk to people here about all that I have been feeling. Each of them had a different perspective.

We started our car sharing today with a woman who is a friend of Charlie's dad who is here in Bangladesh doing research for her Masters. This means we will get to keep the car until we leave which is a huge relief.

The American Club finally approved my membership (after a month of waiting). I debated whether or not it was worth it to join for just the 2 weeks I have left, and decided I might as well. I plan on spending my entire weekend at the pool.

I was hoping to write more about my experience at the Labour Court yesterday but for some reason I am just exhausted today. Surprisingly I'm not feeling sick, just totally worn out. I think the fact that I never get a full nights sleep is finally catching up with me. For some reason the AC in my room shuts off whenever the generator kicks on. (It is the only AC in the apartment that does this.) This means that the room eventually gets so hot that it wakes me up every night at least twice. I've talked to Mr. Dhar about it, but to no avail. This isn't a surprise considering that he still hasn't had the leak in my bathroom fixed.

He came over today and he and Ayub got in a very heated discussion. They were speaking in English but I still wasn't exactly sure what it was about. I think the gist was that Ayub thinks the government is responsible for so many of the failings of this country, whereas Mr. Dhar thinks it is the fault of the people, saying "Bangladeshi people, brain no good." They also talked a bit about the beggars. Mr. Dhar had no sympathy saying it is all just a business, but Ayub had a more sympathetic perspective saying that for many of them (especially people who are disabled) have no other option but to beg on the street. They were in agreement about how terrible and crazy all people from the Middle East were. It is a bit strange how many times I have found myself being told just how terrible a certain group of people are as if it is just common knowledge.

Today while in the car in the span of 5 minutes we were approached by a man with no leg, a man missing a hand, and another man missing an arm.

Not As Tough As I Thought

I hit my low today. It kind of came out of nowhere. I had spent most of the day at the Labour Court (I'll write about that experience later). I was driving back to the office with my driver and a paralegal (who didn't speak English, so it made for a very quiet ride). We were stuck in traffic for over 90 minutes (getting there had taken under 30). As we were sitting on Gulshan Avenue a child with an adult came up to the car. This child was probably around 10. She had a very swollen head. It was probably twice the size of normal head. She also had a very large tumor growing out of her neck. The old man with her approached and knocked on my window pointing at the child. As I saw her I let out a gasp and opened the window and handed the man Tk.10. The most overwhelming sadness overcame me and I just burst into tears. Minutes later another disabled man with a spinal deformity came up to the other side of the car. I just closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face and hoped he would go away. Minutes after that a man came up to my window with a head full of live ducks that were tied up and wanted to sell me one. Again I closed my eyes and just wanted everything to disappear. I covered my face with my scarf because I am embarrassed to cry in front of people, but I couldn't make myself stop sobbing. I don't know why today, and what it was about that child that so effected me. I really thought I had become immune to this. I think what has happened is that the past few weeks when I thought I was just adjusting to all the horrors of Dhaka I was actually in a state of denial and not allowing myself to process it. Today that ended.

A Small Annoyance

One thing that really bothers me about shopping for clothes here is that the staff are sooooooooooooooo attentive. They will stand ridiculously close to me, staring at me as I look through the selection. It makes me completely uncomfortable. I guess this is standard in all Asian countries but seriously, give me a surly inattentive teenager any day over this.

It's the end of the World (Cup) as we know it and I feel fine

Of the teams that were considered to have a chance at advancing to the finals I think it would have been hard to find 2 teams that I care less about than Holland and Spain. Give me a scrappy underdog (preferably from the developing world) or even an exciting Germany or Argentina to root for, or if I can't have than then at least an obnoxious Portugal to root against. Instead I was left with 2 teams that I had barely followed at all, from countries I have never visited, nor have any sort of ties to. I couldn't even use my "root for the poorer country if all else is equal" fallback strategy. Only in retrospect did I realize that I should have been rooting for Spain as there is just something icky about the Netherlands winning in South Africa. (Thanks to Lysondra for pointing this out.) The only thing that would have been worse would have been a Netherlands v. England final.
I watched the match with Karen and Ashish and one of their co-workers Kallol (originally from Calcutta getting his MPH at Michigan) at Kallol's friend's apartment. His friend was also from India and is the country director for Save the Children. The match started at midnight and went until 3AM. I fell asleep at various points throughout. To show how little I cared, when the score was tied I rooted for whoever looked like they were going to score (in hopes it would not go into overtime) and once Spain scored, I decided to root for them to win (for the same reason). The match itself was so boring, so unskillful and so nasty. Not the best way for the World Cup to end. Apparently FIFA was upset that Nelson Mandela did not attend the closing ceremony. I mean it would have been nice if he had, but the fact that the is in ill-health, is in his 90s and recently lost his great-granddaughter in a world cup related car accident all seem like good enough reasons to not go.
On the way to the apartment Karen and Ashish picked up Charlie and me in their car. Their driver Sumon (the one who speaks no English) is also not the most attentive driver. He nearly ran over Charlie as he was trying to get in the car. I feel bad for Karen because she speaks no Bangla, so has absolutely no way to communicate with him. This made me appreciate Syed, our driver, all the more. He may be racist, and angry but at least he really likes us and is a safe driver.

Old Dhaka

Finally my social life in Dhaka has started to show some semblance of normalcy. Now normalcy is a very relative term, as "normal" in Dhaka is still quite bizarre by the standards I have used for the past 26 years, but still. Friday night I had dinner at Ciara's (the Irish girl studying the Bangladeshi transgendered community) and met 2 of her roommates who had just arrived here a week ago. Both were from California and working at the ICDDRB (quite the mouthful in casual conversation) a huge NGO / Research institution doing tons of public health stuff. They are housesitting for a well-to-do American family and so have a fabulous apartment with a great view of the city and 2 beagles. I had a really nice and normal (by any standard) time, although since it was my driver's day off (not "normal") I had to leave by 9:00 (not "normal").
Today I went to Old Dhaka with Charlie, J.R., and Karen. We met Pronoy, the Bangladeshi grad student that J.R. has used as a translator on all of his field visits to rural Bangladesh, and Pronoy's friend, Sunnan. Karen and I had originally planned to meet Eshanthi and Rosie for facials at a nice spa in Gulshan, but after getting in her car we realized that this might be the only chance either of us would have to get to Old Dhaka (which is a must see) so decided rather spontaneously to meet the boys there (they had already taken our car there). Much of this was complicated by the fact that Karen's driver spoke very limited English (like, "my name is" and "hello" was about the extent) and does not have a firm grasp on directions. (He was very nice other than that.) Eventually we were able to meet everyone at the Red Fort, an actual real tourist attraction in Dhaka (it even charges locals Tk. 10 and foreigners Tk. 100).

Most of my time there was spent taking pictures of the street children. At first 2 girls, (jasmine and pia) just wanted to be included in the group photos we were all taking. Then they wanted me to take pictures of them. Pia was a natural model and enjoyed doing both silly and serious poses , and they both got a huge kick out of it every time I showed them the picture. This attracted the attention of other children who also wanted their pictures taken. I guess all this picture taking was contagious because as I was leaving a Dad asked if his daughter could take a picture of us. (This is the second time this has happened to me, the first was at the beach in Chittagong.)

After the Red Fort we walked around Old Dhaka for a bit and then had lunch at a delicious traditional Bengali restaurant. (I had the best chicken I've had since being here, don't tell Ayub.) It also turns out that Karen and I were the first Western girls that Sunnan had ever hung out with. I really hope I represented well.

 Old Dhaka is quite possibly one of the most interesting and visually stimulating places I have ever been, and this was on a Saturday when many of the stores are closed. It is in some ways similar to an old European city in the sense that the streets are very narrow (too narrow for cars) and windy and filled with traditional shops. The difference is of course the sheer amount of people, the rickshaws, the beggars, the goats, the lack of women, the colors, the endless stares (even more so than in Gulshan).

One interesting oddity of the day (it's hard to pick one) is that now since Germany beat Argentina in the World Cup the Bangladeshis are like uber aware of Germany, and so now when they see a white person are yelling out "Germahhn!?!?" This made it even funnier to see 2 of the Germans from the Sundarbans (who are very blond, very white, very German) drive by on a rickshaw through the throngs of people. We waved, but in retrospect I really wish that I had yelled out "GERMAN!!" At the Red Fort we had also run into Ciara's roommates. Kind of strange as everyone lives in Gulshan, and I never see anyone I know on the street there.

After Old Dhaka, Karen and I headed to Rosie's apartment for dinner and brownies to celebrate (early) Eshanthi's birthday. Dinner was great, the brownies were fabulous, but the highlight of the evening was that Rosie had invited over her masseuse, Ranjan, and I got an hour long massage, which was definitely much needed. We were joined by a big group of Aussies, who all reconfirmed my view that Aussies really are the most outgoing nationality. (Not to generalize or anything of course.)

I Survive the Drive to Uttara (barely)

On the way to Uttara (a neighborhood about 30 minutes north of Gulshan) to meet Charlie's family friend, Megan, for dinner at her apartment our car was accosted by a herd of Bangladeshi school girls. (How's that for an opening sentence?)
We were stuck in traffic (of course, it is never ending in Dhaka) when a group of  about 6 young girls (dressed in what looked like school clothes, so we are not talking street children here) caught a glimpse of me through the window. They looked at each other mischievously and bolted towards the car, began banging on the window and yelling "100 taka!" over and over again. To say I was initially taken aback is quite the understatement. Next they started to make the "I'm hungry" gesture (putting your hand to your mouth repeatedly) but at this point they couldn't keep a straight face and burst into laughter.  This of course made me collapse into a fit of giggles, which in turn made them laugh even more. A few of them started to kiss my window repeatedly, I put my hand up to make them stop and they would try to kiss wherever my hand was. Another girl, trying to outdo her counterparts started licking the window. I tried to tell her to stop but it continued. The traffic eased and we slowly started moving. They tried to follow us for as long as they could keep up. As we left I realized the window was now filthy with saliva all over it. I still have no clue what that was all about it. After this experience I have to say that my sympathy goes out to Justin Bieber and the Jonas brothers. Glad America doesn't have a monopoly on weird tween and pre-tween girls.

Charlie's family friend Megan has lived in Bangladesh for 5 years off and on (mainly on) and she is a staff and volunteer coordinator for a network of Christian NGOs. She was evidence that with a good community and a grasp of the language a white girl can actually live here by herself for a significant period of time (something I had thought impossible). We were joined by Sarah and Emily, both Americans. Sarah is from Georgia who was doing a 6 month stint with an NGO that promotes multilingual education for those living in areas where Bengali is not the language (various small tribes and villages). Emily had lived in Bangladesh for 2.5 years a few years ago, is staying in Seattle (near Green Lake) and currently in the country to visit, and then to go to India to do a one month internship in Calcutta. She said after she finishes up school she wants to come back to Bangladesh permanently. My response (completely instinctual, and I hope not rude) "seriously!?!"

More News on the My Life as a Sitcom Front

If my life was a Bangladeshi sitcom (if such a thing exists) then Mr. Dhar has moved from the slightly annoying but humorous in a kind of oboxious way to the arch-nemesis category. Think of a shift from Kramer to Newman.

Initially, I was becoming more and more irritated by the requests he keeps making of Ayub. The egg sandwiches are one thing, but when he asked him to make him Chinese fried rice for dinner, I felt this was just too much. Unfortunately I am in an awkward situation since after I leave Ayub has no other job lined up (and he had been unemployed for 7 months before we hired him) so he is hoping that Mr. Dhar can refer him to the new tenants. If I stepped in and told Mr. Dhar to stop asking Ayub to make things for him it could sour the relationship between Mr. Dhar and Ayub and hurt Ayub's employment prospects. If this weren't the case I would have told Mr. Dhar a long time ago to stop with the food requests.

The relationship soured further when I returned home from work one day and Mr. Dhar handed me a bill for Tk 20,000 (nearly $300) for one month of electricity and oil (used to run the generator). We explained to him that this was included in the rent (which had been confirmed before we arrived, and when we arrived) and that we would need to talk to Azad (the Bangladeshi consultant who works for UM and set us up in the apartment). Mr. Dhar pretended like he couldn't understand me, and that he didn't know who Azad was (even though we had had quite a few conversations earlier about Azad, the main gist of which was Mr. Dhar trying to find out how much money Azad makes). After speaking with Azad, who confirmed again that he had spoken with the owner and that all utilities were included Charlie went to speak with Mr. Dhar.

Mr. Dhar showed him the bill from the UM students who had stayed in the same apartment last year. It was only Tk. 14,000. What soon became clear (upon questioning by Charlie) was that the big difference was not in the amount of electricity we had used (this summer around Tk 10,000, last summer around Tk. 9.000, which isn't surprising given that rates have gone up) but the fact that the apartment complex was now charging a flat Tk. 10,000 charge for each unit for the use of the genererator whereas last summer the surcharge was only Tk. 5,000. He  further admitted that the students had not paid any of this last year. He finally stopped insisting that we need to pay the electricity portion, but that we still owed Tk 10,000. Now, whenever we are home he comes in, and complains about how much more the generator is used this summer, ( 6 hours some days) and how expensive all this is etc. I have stopped even conversing with him about it as I am so frustrated. I honestly have a suspicion he is just trying to pocket the money.

We are also stopping our car service in a week, as it is too expensive to pay for another full month when we are only here a few more weeks. Our driver, Syed, is heartbroken. He has told Charlie, that Charlie is his best friend, and he has told me I am his sister, and that he is worried I will forget him when we go to America. He is very nice, but is honestly one of the most depressing people I have ever met. He is miserable in Bangladesh, he idealizes Europe and America, and he is filled with sorrow that he cannot provide a better life for his 4 children. My heart does go out to him. In America he would be the guy working 3 jobs so his kids could go to college, but here this just isn't possible. He sees foreigners as his only friends (as we have helped him out a bit with certain things, and his former boss an Englishman did as well). He thinks that everyone is rich in America and that people there have few problems. I have tried to explain that although it is very different, there are people in America who are very poor, and who feel that they too cannot make a better life. It is a hard conversation, made even harder by the language barrier.

In other news, I think I got the Indian visa situation taken care of. To do so I had to fill out a form requesting the birthplace and birthdate of my four grandparents. This made me realize that I had absolutely no clue where and when my father's parents were born. (Poland and NY I think...) Don't tell India (shhhhhh) but I just made up some random dates that seemed realistic. I have a feeling they will have a hard time getting this verified in the 3 days it says it takes to process the visa.  While waiting I started chatting with a Scottish woman sitting next to me. She had booked her trip to fly in and out of India, with a 2 week sojourn to Bangladesh. Unfortunately for her she didn't read the fine print on her Indian visa which requires a 2 month lapse between entering and exiting the country so they wouldn't let her back into India. I can't even imagine getting stranded in Bangladesh. This is stuff of nightmares.

Why Things Here are So Terrible

Yesterday I had a meeting with the director of the Bangladesh Institute of Labour Studies (BILS) which is a kind of think tank that works in tandem with many unions and NGOs (including the Solidarity Center and its partner organizations). As with most of my encounters here, the language is always a bit of a problem and so many of my notes include a million question marks and "I think he said..." but overall it was pretty interesting. Much of the conversation centered around the current debate about the minimum wage in the garment industry. Unlike in America, Bangladesh does not have a universal minimum wage. Instead a wage is set in each sector. In the garment industry it is currently Tk. 1662, which is about $23.00 a month. Things here are much cheaper than America (obviously) but they aren't that cheap to the point where a person can really get by on these wages. This is also the lowest (by far) in all of Asia. Much of the violence and worker unrest that has really heated up recently in the RMG (readymade garment) sector in the past few months (and actually on and off since 2006) is over wages. There are often other concerns as well, like a factory shutting down at of the blue with no notice to workers, but ultimately it comes down to the fact that the workers are not being paid enough. Even Walmart, H&M and Tesco (some of the biggest buyers) are in agreement with this and recently sent a letter to the Bangladeshi Government telling them that these low wages are unsustainable. Of course, one should take this letter with a grain of salt as these companies are clearly trying to have their cake and eat it too, because ultimately they could refuse to do business with a factory that does not pay its workers a certain wage and the whole things smacks of a P.R. stunt. Even so, the letter shows at least that pretty much everyone (government, large corporations, workers) are in agreement that this wage needs to be raised. The owners claim that a rise in wages by any amount will put them out of business, but this claim seems to far-fetched (given the amounts being considered). Workers are demanding Tk. 5000 and say this is non-negotiable. But this is Bangladesh, everything is negotiable.  In 2006, in order to quell the worker unrest the goverment sent up an indpendent minimum wage board (who took 2 years to finally fix it at the current wage). They are currently in the process of  setting a new one (that would ultimately go to the government for implementation.

While at BILS I got to speak with a permanent member of the wage board. He was also an Awami League (current party in power) official. Much of what he spoke about was how the current PM is a friend to the workers, but many of those in parliament are either factory owners or closely associated with factory owners so it is very hard to pass any worker-friendly reforms. He also said that the current violence is making it much harder for the worker's representatives on the board as it makes government officials more sympathetic to the owners.
What really complicates the entire situation is that the reason Bangladesh even has an RMG industry is because of the ridiculously low wages. Buyers take 3 things into account, 1) cost, 2) quality and 3) time. Since almost everything here is so ridiculously inefficient (including the running of the factories), and the lack of decent infrastructure, and the ill-health of most of the workers the only thing Bangladesh really has to compete is the low cost of labor. Ultimately the reason for this is that there are 150 million people living here, most of them in poverty. There is an endless supply of people willing to take these jobs especially because the garment industry mainly employs women, who (and this should come as absolutely no surprise) basically have no other option for employment beyond being a domestic worker or occasionally agriculture. In my opinion this is not where the conversation should stop. Just because earning $23.00 a month is better than nothing does not end the story. It is still not acceptable. The question is obviously what to do. the solution is not clear. Lets say that in a hypothetical dreamland consumers in the West put enough pressure on companies such as Walmart and Tesco to demand that workers who produce the garments sold in those stores are paid x wage (x = some kind of decent, living wage). In hypothetical dreamland implementing this is easy, and there is no issue with compliance or monitoring or any other problem. What happens? The factories are going to go to India, Nepal, Sri Lanka, China etc. If the question of cutting costs through the price of labor is now equalized, Bangladesh doesn't have much else to offer.
This is why this industry is so damn depressing. The workers here are screwed in ways they can't even imagine. They are ultimately paying the price for the failure of every other institution in this country, and it is just beyond tragic. Sometimes I think the owners know this, they know that the industry here is not sustainable and this is why they are so resistant to trade unions, and paying sustainable wages, because they view it as a short term way to make a whole lot of money, not as a long-term investment. Other people think they are just completely incompetent.
Either way it sucks. I also want to make it clear that the amount that is fixed by the new wage board is not going to be driving business out of Bangladesh. We are talking a much higher increase (the kind that many NGOs would like to see happen, such as the Asian Floor Wage Campaign) in order for this to occur.

As you can probably tell I have no solution. I don't think anyone does.

Sarah sails to the Sunderbans part 4

We started the morning at 5AM again, and headed back out onto the rowboat for a very similar experience as the one the morning before. The only difference was that this time we saw a monkey, and were all a lot more tired. After returning to the boat we set sail for Khulna.

It was a very relaxing day, filled with reading, talking, cards and gazing at the water.

After eating a quick dinner as we arrived in Khulna my original group had to hurry and leave on a speed boat to catch our overnight train that would be taking us back to Dhaka. As we walked through the train station and were followed by an assortment of old women and children begging for taka, we all knew that we were back in Bangladesh.

The train was slightly better than I expected and each room consisted of 2 bunk beds. We all spent a few hours playing cards. At one point we were joined by a little kid who wanted to show off his ability to count to 20 in English, and we tried to use our very limited Bangla but the conversation went nowhere. He was totally adorable, and it made me really happy to be around a little kid who could enjoy his childhood for once.

The train arrived in Dhaka at 6AM, and I was grateful that I had had pretty good nights sleep all things considered. Unfortunately we had told our driver the wrong train station (we had been confused the night before) so we had a 45 minute wait at the entrance of the station. By this time there were 5 of us left, and we drew a lot of attention. Mainly from the ever present street children and old women (who sometimes are holding babies). Every once in awhile a guard would come by and whack the kids with his stick (not too hard) and tell them to leave us alone. (This sounds completely terrible and it is, but it is hard to explain how somehow this just doesn't phase me anymore.) One of the older kids (who was about 12 or so) was clearly the ring leader and would tell the kids not to get to close to us. Occasionally another man (I never figured out who he was) would chase this boy and try to punch him in the back and the kid would laugh and run away then come back again. An old woman unsuccessful in her first attempt to get money from us came back after 10 minutes holding a little girl hoping this would work. It was all very fascinating and terrible. Finally Syed arrived and we headed back to the apartment. I was glad to be back in the comfort of the apartment, but incredibly overwhelmed about returning to one of the craziest places in the world after spending a weekend in one of the most serene.

Sarah sails to the Sundarbans part 3

I just realized that I haven't given a very good description of just where our boat was going. The Sundarban is basically a big forest that has a vast amount of rivers interspersed throughout. We were basically spending a day  sailing from the top of the Sundarbans to the bottom where the water officially becomes the Bay of Bengal (starting all the way from the Himalayans, turning into the Ganges for a bit and continuing on), anchoring for a day and exploring the wildlife, then sailing another day back to the top. This picture gives a rough idea of the contours of the land. I can't remember exactly what route the boat took, although Kubir showed me on a map. Much to my surprise we actually didn't sail down one of the major rivers, but a smaller side river. That river seemed wide enough (felt like Mississippi river width to me but I could be wrong) that I couldn't imagine how wide the really big ones must be. Towards the late afternoon of the first day we actually left the side river and began sailing down an even smaller one. As it grew darker it became slightly nerve-wracking as the visibility grew to zero, and the navigation was made possible only  by a light that the captain beamed from side to side. This made me feel like I was somehow in the Amazon on a trek to find a lost city. The fireflies lit up the forest on both sides, like an abundance of 4th of July sparklers held by invisible hands.

The crew woke us up at 5AM Saturday morning to go on an early morning rowboat / nature viewing excursion. There was no shortage of little critters like bright red and blue crabs and mudskippers (fish that actually walk on land) but a definite dearth of any of the more exciting animals. We saw an otter from about 50 feet away that quickly disappeared as we floated toward it. Finally after about 2 hours in we saw a snake. Aigar (the slightly crazy Latvian) was sitting in the on the bow of the boat yelling out things  (in his thick eastern European accent) like "can he eat me?"  It was here I realized that if somehow we were to get stranded on an island in the Sundarbans without the possibility of rescue our wacky group (with just a few tweaks) could easily constitute the cast of Lost 2.

After our nature tour we headed back to the boat for breakfast and some down time. Shortly after we headed out to the Ocean. Since the Sundarbans are one of the only homes left of the near extinct Royal Bengal Tiger we were accompanied by 2 armend guards. Oddly enough this gave me some flashbacks to my Israeli birthright trip, the only other time in my life I have been accompanied by a guy with a big gun, which was mainly for show. We trekked about 2 miles through the forest to the ocean. The sky was gray, the water was gray, the landscape was nearly entirely... yes, gray, but beautiful. Perhaps it was the German company, but I couldn't help but be reminded of the painting The Monk by the Sea by Caspar David Friedrich. We swam for awhile, played frisbee, and a bunch of the guys played an early version of the Germany v. Argentina football match that would be on later that night. (Germany won... perhaps a premonition of things to come.)

We had lunched on the boat and had a few hours to kill before once again trekking back out into the forest. We were told we were going on a mud walk, and that they would provide shoes for us so we didn't ruin ours. The shoes turned out to be very old converse hi tops in all large men sizes. At this point I had a very strong feeling that I should just stay on the boat, that trekking through the mud sounded terrible and that no good would come from this. I disregarded this instinct and headed out where the mud awaited. We went to an island near where the boat was docked. On this island were about 5 buildings (a few houses had been destroyed by the cyclone from a few years ago) and a group of men who worked for the forest department lived there. It seemed like a very lonely existence. During the winter (when the tourist season peaks) they have lots of company, but the rest of the year they have to make due with the occasional tour boat and fisherman.

The hike started out nice enough, on a slightly dilapidated foot bridge that seemed to just stretch out into the forest. It was about 3 feet above the ground, the ground meaning mud of course. Eventually more and more wood from the bridge seemed to disappear and we were walking one by one on the one concrete support beam running through the middle. Eventually the side rails also disappeared and the bridge consisted of nothing but basically an elevated balance beam. My anxiety started to kick in and I imagined myself somehow falling, breaking a leg and drowning in mud all at the same time. Luckily I made it off the bridge ok, unluckily I was no standing in ankle deep mud, and had about an hour of this ahead of me. Now I could lie and say that I eventually came to enjoy it, that it was somehow exhilarating and freeing, and that I was able to let go of my inhibitions and just enjoy the very muddy moment. Alas, this is not the case. I was miserable. I hated every second. My shoes were too big and they kept sinking completely into the mud and I had to struggle to get them out. Shortly I figured out that the quicker I walked the less likely I was to sink (also the quicker I walked the quicker this would be over). I spent nearly the entire time either walking next to Kubir, or the guide with the gun, whoever happened to be leading at that moment. Through about half of it we followed a deer trail, where we had to do all we can to avoid the seemingly endless puddles of deer urine. We also had to wade through a stream about a mid-calf deep. Now, I honestly think that if the point of this had been to actually go somewhere or see something interesting I could have lived with it. An hour trek through the mud to see a beautiful waterfall is something I can definitely get behind. What soured me to the whole thing was that on this hike the mud itself was the point. In the end, I'm glad for the experience, as it rates as one of the more bizarre moments of my life, but it is something I will never do again.

That night the crew prepared an amazing barbecue dinner, and we all ate at the top of the boat. They then brought up a television and we attempted to watch the Germany v. Argentina World Cup match. We were in the middle of nowhere so the signal was obviously not very strong. To solve this they attached the antenna to a long bamboo pole and tied it to the top of the boat. This seemed to help and we were able to see about 1 of every 3 minutes, but this included all 4 goals. The Germans were elated with the 4-0 result and the Bangladeshi crew were heartbroken. With Brazil being eliminated the night before, I just regretted that my favorite topic of conversation had also been eliminated. 

Sarah sails to the Sundarbans part 2

I awoke at 7:30 when the power to the fan over my bed was unceremoniously cut and the room began to heat up. Getting up, I decided to tour the boat a bit.The bathrooms and showers were all open air and at the back end of the boat (I'm sure there is a proper nautical word for this but I have no idea). Connecting to this was a long corridor with 5 rooms on either side (the boat holds 20 passengers). At the other end of the corridor was a large sitting room with a bright red carpet and seats built into the wall covered in black leather. There was a tree trunk in the middle that went all the way up to the roof and had a large table surrounding it. This room led to the outside deck. Below this level was the kitchen and where the crew stayed, and above was a larger deck.

J.R. and Ashish were both already up, and were talking to the 2 of the guys who had boarded the boat before us. Both were actual tourists, David, a Scottish artist visiting friends in Dhaka, and heading to India after Bangladesh, and Aigar, a Latvian man who likes to travel to crazy places (like Iran and Iraq as a tourist) and was stopping in Bangladesh on his way to see a guru in India to have his fortune told. The trip was definitely off to an interesting start. It should come as no surprise that Bangladesh does not attract the average tourist.
Kubir (our guide) told us that we would be setting sail soon and picking up the group of Germans in Mongla, a port town about 3 hours down river. Apparently they had taken a night bus from Dhaka and had to wait at the ferry for 4 hours before boarding so couldn't meet the boat at Khulna. (This seemed to confirm that taking the van was definitely the best possible choice.)

After a few hours we arrived in Mongla and dropped anchor near the shore. In the distance there were groups of day laborers building a retaining wall, and on the shore there was a group of children sliding around in the mud. Eventually nearly all the boys from the ship joined in mud festivities much to the delight of the children. One group of kids started waving to us on the boat, and yelling about Brazil. I yelled back "Argentina" and they responded with (wait for it) "Brazil" and then to change things up I yelled, "Messi" to which they retorted "Kaka" and so it went. Another group of Argentina fans joined in and waved at me enthusiastically as if I was one of their own. To add to the scene a large rusty, industrial boat was anchored about 30 feet from us. As the boys were playing in the mud, a stream of raw sewage began pouring from one of the holes on the side of the boat. We made sure to mention it to the guys as they returned to the boat. They didn't seem too shocked, as they were under no illusion as to the purity of the water, since it already had the distinct taste and smell of diesel.
The group of Germans (and an American named Will) finally joined us. They were all (I think) college students doing various summer internships in Dhaka. We again set sail.

The rest of the day was entirely and blissfully uneventful. I spent hours just looking at the passing scenery (including many fishing boats, and villages) and finally just gazing at long-lasting sunset. Spending over a month in the dirtiness, insanity that is Dhaka made me appreciate the serenity of the water like never before.

Sarah sails to the Sundarbans part 1

You may have noticed that my incessant blogging has ceased for the past week or so. Don't worry, this is not due to either a) a lack of subject matter or b) laziness but actually as the title suggests (very subtly) I  spent 3 days without Internet access on a boat in the Sundarbans. Sundarban means beautiful forest in Bengali, and it is considered to be the thing to see in Bangladesh.

After about a month of talking about going, the trip actually came together at the last minute. The group included: me, Charlie, Eshanthi, J.R., Ashish (recent UM Business School grad working as a consultant for GE), Karen (current UM Business School / Public Policy student working on same project as Ashish), Hayley (grad student from England working on her Masters in sustainable engineering and finishing up a 1 and a half month stint in Dhaka) and Arthur (Hayley's boyfriend who came to visit her here for the last few weeks of stay in Bangladesh).  We booked the boat through a tour company called Guide Tours which caters to foreigners, and has a bunch of specialized Sundarbans tours. The initial problem was that the boat leaves from Khulna which is a city about 8 hours southwest of Dhaka, at 6AM. To minimize the amount of time we would miss work we decided to take an overnight train there. Unfortunately, as we found out the day before we were to leave, there was no room on the train. Most of us were very squeamish about the idea of taking a night bus, as the driving here is terrifying, especially at night, and pretty much everyone says to avoid them at all possible. Luckily Ashish was able to arrange a private van and driver through GE (which still meant we would be driving at night, but at least meant we could wear seatbelts, and felt slightly more in control).
Unfortunately, Wed night (we were set to leave Thurs night at around 8) I got really really sick. I was up all night (I will spare the details out of both modesty and considerateness). Basically I wanted to die, and figured the thought of me traveling in a van anywhere for 8 hours sounded like one of the circles of Hell. That morning I still felt terrible, and called Guide Tours to see I could get a refund. They told me that since it was the day before I was out of luck. This was terrible news, and made me feel worse. Not only was my illness going to prevent me from spending 3 days out of Dhaka with my friends, it was gong to cost me a whole bunch of money for absolutely nothing. The entire day was spent drinking copious amounts of rehdration fluid and coconut water and resting. Around 6 I felt well enough to get up and eat some white bread. I packed, just in case and got ready. Then I wavered again and decided against it. I thought, what if this is some sort of sign? What if I'm not supposed to go? What if I have a relapse 4 hours into the van ride? Finally as the van arrived I decided that I felt well enough, that I would regret not going for the rest of my life, and that I would be entirely miserable for the whole weekend if I didn't go.

The van ride in some ways seemed designed to test my resolve. We were stuck in traffic leaving Dhaka for about 2 hours. The ride was fairly bumpy and swervy. After another few hours we arrived at the ferry and parked next to a truck full of rotting fish. Luckily at this point my nausea had mostly subsided, but still, rotting fish just has to be the absolute worst smell there is when you are already feeling a bit ill. We were told that there was an air conditioned VIP room on the ferry, and they led us upstairs. Unsure what to do we spent the first 20 minutes standing on the deck (the seats were all taken), as people gaped at us and I thought about how I just wanted to not throw up. Finally one of our drivers found us and lead us to the VIP room, which was just a big half-empty room filled with fans (no AC), tables and chairs and a smattering of Bangladeshis. I sat down and immediately tried to sleep, so I don't remember much of the rest of the ride, or even how long it was. As it ended we returned to our van (and the rotting fish) and set out on the rest of our journey.

At this point the driver (who also had a friend with him) decided that to stay awake he wanted to listen to music. The music was of course Bangla music, which isn't awful but both the voice and the instruments seem to be higher pitched than the music I am used to listening to, and this made it much harder to fall asleep, and terribly annoying.We finally arrived at the dock in the absolute middle of nowhere at 3:30 in the morning and there was no boat. I have never in my life been more unsure about what was going on, as I was at this moment. I thought maybe these guys were going to rob us and leave us stranded in the middle of nowhere (which honestly crosssed my mind multiple times that night). We managed to get a hold of Guide Tours, and they came to meet us. We said goodbye to our driver and his friend and took a row boat to the big boat we would be staying on for the next 3 days. Our guide, Kubir, introduced himself and showed us all to our rooms. The rooms were tiny (probably 6 x 4 or something close to that) and were meant for 2 people to share. Luckily, I was given my own room. Kubir told us that 2 people were already on the boat, and that 7 more would be arriving in the morning, and that we could go to sleep and have breakfast when we woke up. Although normally I have problems falling asleep in unfamiliar surroundings, I was so exhausted that this time I had absolutely no problem.