How to Take Over a Country

It probably is not making the news at home – indeed it doesn’t even make BBC World’s Asia Today news programme (though Mumbai’s wedding of the century is everywhere), but in the small corner of Bangladesh, the caretaker government is trying to send into exile the two former prime ministers, Sheikh Hasina and Khaleda Zia. It is quite an incredible turn in events. Six months ago Zia was prime minister of the eight largest (if flawed) democracy in the world, and Hasina the leader of a vigorous opposition aiming to recover power in January. By tomorrow, Zia will be removed from the country or face arrest, and Hasina, currently in the UK at the end of a month long private tour of the US and UK has been told she cannot return, and the government has told all airlines not to carry her as a passenger.

On one hand it is very exciting to see how quickly political situations can change; and most Bangladeshis are watching with some glee as these women and their offspring and co-corruptees are arrested, charged and humiliated. Some of the accusations are incredible, for example Hasina demanding a 3 crore donation (£300,000) to the Awami League from a power plant company so that a contract would not be cancelled. Many others have been arrested for hoarding corrugated iron in their houses that had been donated for relief housing to the poor. Bangladesh has no iron ore deposits and so gets almost all (80%) its steel from ship breaking. Any one that has some iron can make a great deal of money by selling it to smelters, even if that does mean that poor people affected by cyclones or flooding continue to be without shelter.

However, as much as seeing the political establishment collapse and once arrogant and dismissive characters pleading and protesting their innocence or lack of knowledge, it has to be a worrying trend. Firstly, whilst the caretaker government has severely attacked the political class, it has not gone after the bureaucrats and military figures who have also been involved in corruption. Secondly, as we move into the fourth month of the State of Emergency, more and more powers are going to the military backed government. It is now illegal to meet political inside or outside, to protest, to march, to write against the caretaker administration, and you can be arrested without warrant at anytime for any reason with no prospect of trial because the government suspects you of something. Some events are very distasteful. The director of Uttaran, a VSOB governance partner was arrested on the 27th January and detained without trail because a local former MP made a submission to the local police station. The reason? Uttaran have been working to counter the affect of shrimp farmers pushing the poor out of fishing grounds. The local MP was also head of a big shrimp-fishing cartel in the area.

As time has gone on, the President (a BNP stooge by all accounts) and now also the chief advisor have been increasingly quiet, whilst the head of the army has become more and more vocal. He has contradicted government statements on the role of religion in a Bangladeshi democracy, and has made dramatic statements about who he will arrest. It is felt that the army is behind the moves to remove Hasina and Zia.

The concern now is what happens next? Nobel Peace Prize winner Professor Yunus has gone very quiet and seems content to travel the globe and getting free dinners as he talks up microcredit, rather than launching a party. Perhaps with the top brass gone the AL and BNP can be reinvigorated in a new, open democracy, but the other possibility is that the army steps in and takes effective control similar to Musharraf in Pakistan. The problem here is that if Bangladesh goes once more down the road of military dictatorship, the only viable opposition will be the Muslim fundamentalists, which are growing in the south-east of the country. Last time round, it was Zia and Hasina that brought down Ershad’s 9 year rule. Yet with their dynasties gone, there is no real civilian power that can counter the power of the army; as in Pakistan is facing now, Muslim power would seem the only resistance.

Therefore, it seems that rather than offering vocal support for the caretaker government’s actions, the British and American and other Western governments would be better demanding that Zia and Hasina face legal proceedings in Bangladesh, and that democracy is effectively restored. Not only is this the most likely way to keep Muslim fundamentalism marginalised (a major foreign policy concern of these countries), it also rings true with the objectives of supporting and promoting democracy. Despite the appalling things that Hasina and Zia have done, and the smiles their visible distress is causing, these will probably be short lived. They should face their accusations, not be kicked out. Their rapid fall from grace is fascinating, however, and the quiet ways in which freedoms and rights wash away should be a lesson to those in freer, more democratic countries to protect fiercely what they have.

Kolkata

I have finally left Bangladesh after almost seven months of Muslims, mosques and mosquitoes. I was quite desperate to get a chance to see somewhere new, and get a monetary break from the hugely oppressive Dhaka noise and air, and so Tim, Georgia and I made a quick dash to Kolkata, former capital of the British Raj and Bengal’s eternal city, for a change of scene. We have been reduced to going to Indian cities for some peace and quiet, clean air and relaxed ways of life, which for those that have seen Mumbai, Delhi or Kolkata should be an indication of just how miserable a place Dhaka is.

Despite being part of Bengal for somewhere around 600 years, and having only had sixty years and 250 kilometres of separation, the differences between Kolkata and Dhaka/Bangladesh are probably more than between Armstrong’s home town and the moon. The Indians have developed some wonderful innovations that Bangladeshis would do well to emulate. For example, they have underground sewage systems, rather than open ditches in the street. Taxi drivers put the meter on without asking, instead of tell you its broken and they need lots of baksheesh (Dhaka has more broken meters than any other city). Taxis also queue at innovative taxi ranks, where the passenger can approach the lead taxi and ask for a journey, rather than being attacked by rickshaws, CNGs and anything else that will carry you. Once inside, the horn is merely a decoration, used only when necessary, and not a substitute for a battering ram, whilst traffic lights are obeyed and all cars stick to their traffic lanes. In fact, they even have traffic lanes painted on the street! Finally, a driver will actually know where he is going, rather than say that he does and then proceed to drive about the city asking locals for directions.

The trappings of civilisation do not stop there. Kolkata is resplendent with trees, an endangered species in Dhaka, and has wide open maidens stretching through the heart of the city offering citizens a place to play cricket or walk or sit. In Dhaka, this would become a rubbish dump. The few cows that do walk the city streets are big, well fed and healthy looking. No one asks you why you have come to Kolkata – its obvious – a huge contrast with the constant enquiry of Bangladeshis as to why on Earth you want to come to their country.

Our journey to this ‘sub-continent Paris’ began near midnight in the heart of Dhaka, with the usual waiting and waiting for a bus, in fearful anticipation as to how much the real thing would vary against the beautiful picture on the ticket, and then the rush for a seat and contortionist impressions as anyone over 5’6’’ tries to sit down. Typically, some very old, very loud and very annoying film or music is played, and with another budding Schumacher at the wheel a new death-defying (usually) journey in Bangladesh begins. Our bus was not too bad and so I managed some sleep.

At some time around 6 am we arrived at Benapole, a small border town and the main land crossing into India from the Desh. It is a dump of a place (and that is saying a lot for somewhere in Bangladesh), and exists solely as a place for people crossing the border to spend three hours. The bus stopped on the edge of the town, where we all packed on to rickshaws provided by the company and were driven the 2 kilometres to the border post. Last September this may have seemed absurd, but the idea that the bus stops away from the border despite there being a perfectly good road, and that all travellers descend on a fleet of rickshaw vans is no longer odd: indeed, I’d be surprised if such things didn’t happen.

As a hot Indian sun began to rise over our shoulders, we passed lines and lines of Indian goods carriers packed with aubergines, bananas, rocks and all sorts else, lined up and waiting for the border to open. Most Indian-Bangladeshi trade passes through this border, brought by truck drivers that spend hours traversing Bengal. They also bring HIV with them: Benapole is the main route of the virus in this part of the subcontinent, and truck drivers are a major target group for HIV/AIDS programmes.

After buying an exit pass, getting our passports stamped, getting customs clearance, doing it all again because Georgia did not buy an exit pass, queuing to enter India, getting embarkation cards, watching Tim convince the Indian guards his passport was a fake (apparently they put him off signing his card which is why his signature deviated so much from the passport one) and getting some expensive parathas, we were able to board the Kolkata bus on the Indian side, which conveniently had driven all the way to the border crossing. After just 3 hours of a reasonably sensible driving and much less beeping we arrived in the centre of Kolkata.

This city is entirely a British creation. Before the establishment of a trading post by the East India Company in 1690, there was nothing but a few villages here. Over the years the city grew as the East India Company managed to win more trading concessions in deals with the Mughals of central north India and the Nawabs of Bengal. Due to problems in these empires, and fighting amongst different Indian factions trade was threatened, so the EIC built Fort William on the river and cleared the maidens for protection to lay the basics of the city. People flocked there as it offered protection, and the city grew and grew. It became the centre of trade in the subcontinent, and many people (Portuguese, Armenian, Danish, French, Indian, Turkish and British) became filthy rich. Indian princes seemed happy to be bought off in contracts for trading rights for the EIC and its Dutch, Danish, Portuguese and French rivals, and it was only as late as the failed Sepoy revolt in 1857 that they finally realised how much more they were missing out on and the British government took full control.

British power and wealth oozes out of every street and rushes through the air. The wide roads are lined with huge classical style buildings, or mixed with Victorian era warehouses and the memorials to a past Empire. The Victoria Memorial, which we saw on the last day, would put to shame anything that Mussolini, Hitler or Stalin could have created. Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe or Lincoln’s memorial are nothing compared to this hulk of marble towering above the maiden. Do not forget that all of these others had to build their memorials in their capital cities – Queen Victoria’s is thousands of miles of way on the edge of the subcontinent.

We saw the marble palace – a decaying Raj era house full of Italian marble statues, Rubens paintings and rosewood carvings 8 feet high. It screams its historical wealth at you as you enter inside. We were able to eat real bacon, and Chinese cooked by Chinese people, and full fried breakfasts. Tim and I made a trip out to the botanical gardens and saw what could be the strangest tree in existence. The Great Banyan Tree covers 14,400 square metres in area, and the full canopy is 450 metres in circumference. It is a big, big tree. But what makes it more remarkable is the proproots that support the weight of the branches. The branches of the tree spread outwards and are periodically supported by perfectly vertical roots that plunge 10 or 20 metres towards the ground before they enter the earth. It is truly bizarre to behold, especially as it has no trunk (this was removed in 1925) and is over 240 years old. The roots look like pillars supporting the branches, creating the impression of a forest from what is still only one tree.

We also paid a visit to the Motherhouse, Mother Teresa’s mission and now gravesite. It was interesting to see, but there is not much on display other than her tomb (which is in her office) and her last sandals, passport, pen, plate etc. Christianity is quite prevailing in the city, with major churches and St Paul’s Cathedral therein, and hearing bells at sunset instead of minaret calls is a much more familiar and more harmonious sound – bells always ring true, whereas some Imams definitely cannot sing. And of course, we could sit out at night and have a beer.
Sadly, our three days was quickly up and we took a GMG flight (‘first class all the way’) back to Dhaka. The plane was really two vacuum cleaners hooked up with wings, and despite aspirations to be an airline, we had instead tray tables that did not say up, seats held together with duct tape, no cooling at all and a shaky trip. Landing in Dhaka, back into the grime, dust, manic streets, heat and noise was not pleasant. Nor is the requirement to register at the police special branch every time we leave or arrive in the country, a painful two hour trip. Luckily I have a six month India visa, and so can make many more trips over.

Mob Justice

I haven’t written on here for a while, and this is for a number of reasons. I worked for a week in the VSO office helping with the strategic plan review, which was very interesting and more challenging than some of my placement work, and I have added to my collection of tropical illnesses with giardia, a parasite that has seen me lose a fair bit of weight, be sick and generally feel rrrubbish. Then mum and dad came out to visit and that took a lot of time!

On top of all this, however, I also have now witnessed the darker underside of Bangladesh right in the heart of the area that I live. The poor and destitute do not get much attention or recognition anyway, but the viciousness of the beating that I saw on my walk back home was startling.

I was crossing the green by our flat a couple of weeks ago and heard some shouting down the road. I looked to see a group of people dragging a body along the grass. At first I thought that there had been some sort of accident, but as the crowd began beating the formless shape on the ground with cricket stumps and bats, its was clear that something else was the problem. This group, of between 20 and sometimes 50 people (passers-by seemed to just join in for a bit of mob justice on their way home from work) kept up the repeated beating and dragging across the green. The force with which they were hitting the person in their midst was phenomenonal, bringing the stumps down from way above their heads on his feet, shins and back, and then garnishing this with swift, hard kicks to the back and stomach.

Though sickenly compelling to watch, I decided to go back to my flat and collected some water and my first aid kit, and went to see some other volunteers to ask whether they thought I should get involved. I decided that it would be better to at least try to say something, so having walked back out to the green I went over to the group to try to find out what the problem was.

Luckily, even when they are administering retribution, Bengalis seem deferential to authority (which comes with being a bedeshi) and they stopped their work to let me through. Covered in dust and bleeding from his head, shins, feet and eyes was a kid of about 14 or 15, surrounded by standing, towering middle class Bangladeshis. He had no shoes, and was wearing two old rags made grey by years of washing in filthy water and living in this grimy city. I was the only person who was at his eye level, crouching opposite him as he squatted with his hands bound crudely behind him.

I asked what the problem was and the group said that this kid’s friend had stolen a mobile phone from one of them and got away, and they wanted to know where he had taken it, so where beating the answer out of the alleged accomplice. I asked why they did not go to the police, but they told me that police had given him back saying it was their problem: in this way they were given license to exact their own justice. I was told they would carry on until he revealed where the phone had been taken, assuming he knew.

They would not let me give him water or clean up his face and legs, and said that (now the beating seemed to be over) they had called the police and the doctor. I am pretty certain the first was the only one coming, and the way the police will treat kids like this it is unlikely that he made it through the night without more beatings, if he even made it through at all.

The whole thing was very upsetting, especially the absolute righteousness with which these people delivered their mob punishment. There is no care for the poor or marginalised in Bangladesh at all: no one is asking why these kids are on the street and why they are forced to steal and beg. It’s a very vicious society for those at the bottom.

Driving with Dignity

I have spent the last few weeks working on a project with my organisation looking at the social status and dignity of rickshaw pullers. I’ve been surprisingly busy, and hence have not managed to update this for a while. But perhaps this can be a little insight into the work we are doing.

Rickshaws are ubiquitous in Bangladesh: they crowd the roads pulling two or three passengers, fridges, plastic flowers, food (alive and dead) and anything else that can be crammed on the small plastic covered seats. Rickshaws are found all over south and south-east Asia, in many different forms, but it is in Bangladesh that they really go overboard. New rickshaws are covered in garish decorations, streamers, bells and paintings of mosques, lilies, actors, tigers and futuristic cities. They then fill the cities and villages, being the main mode of transport – 57% of all journeys in Bangladesh are on a rickshaw. Rickshaw pulling represents 6% of national GDP, 14 million people (10% of the total population) rely on it directly or indirectly for their livelihoods, and there are 800,000 pullers in Dhaka alone. It is at the economic, cultural and social heart of Bangladesh.

However, rickshaw pullers have some of the lowest social status going. No one wants to be a rickshaw puller: they are beaten by the police, cheated by passengers, abused by other road users, robbed, insulted and generally ignored. There is a real dichotomy between their cultural and economic importance and their social status and public attitudes towards them. So we have devised a small advocacy project designed to target social attitudes towards rickshaw pullers and directly empower pullers to access policy makers and the public in general to demand their rights – that to dignified, respected work.

To do this we have worked with ten pullers who live in garages across the slums of the city. Rickshaw pullers do not own their rickshaws but rent them from local mahajan (strong men) at about 50 Taka a day. The garages are owned by the mahajan, and consist of a small bamboo scaffold with a platform on top, on which the pullers sleep. Often these stick out over swamps or are next to filth-filled pools. In general, conditions are miserable. However, most people in Bangladesh do not know how the pullers live.

Our project has been to take case studies with the different pullers, and match this with photographs of them, their work and lives, and to exhibit this at an exhibition attended by diplomats, development workers and so on. In addition, we have asked pullers to take their own photographs to reflect their ideas of dignity and their social status, which we also plan to exhibit. The pullers will go to the exhibition and talk to visitors. This gives them access to a space that they normally cannot enter, and dialogue with people that never talk to them.

We are also producing (funding pending) a photograph book giving the photographs, case studies, some articles on rickshaw pullers and a brief history to try to expand the scope of the work and to widen the impact.

The exhibition will (hopefully) be held in Dhaka in May, and the book also be produced by that time.

The advantage for my placement is that I can use this as a method of teaching participatory research methods, project planning, dealing with donors, getting funding proposals completed, media and communications strategies, writing newspaper articles and academic journal articles. It should help meet a great many of my objectives for my job and will expose my organisation to the wider development community in Bangladesh.

There should be a tangible impact on the rickshaw pullers we work with as well, as they will actually get a voice to use, whereas normally they are kept silent. Some of their stories are incredible, and when they are all finished we will but them up on a website. One man is 75 and has pulled a rickshaw for 40 years. He spent 5 years in prison for participation in a murder, though he says he did not do it. Another is 12 a year old boy. Yet another has had five rickshaws stolen for him and been beaten by the police. There are some tragic and some funny tales that have come out, and with a bit of luck it will greatly change perceptions of rickshaw pullers, or at least their own perceptions of themselves.

And when the book is ready, you can all buy one.

Bangladeshi Food

Another cultural information to offer some insight into what the average Bangladeshi meal consists of. Few things can get between a Bangladeshi and his food – the multiple breakfasts of the Hobbits have nothing on hungry Bengalis that can put away kilograms of rice a day. This outline is for the traditional meal, not the one that half of Bangladeshis have, that being rice twice a day with a bit of fish or veg if they are lucky. The poverty is such that rice is the sole foodstuff for most people.

Breakfast will be a little curried papaya and potato, served up with chapatis (a flatbread), bananas, and an omelette cooked with lots of katcha morich (green chillies). Cha (tea) is a necessary accompaniment, usually incredibly sweet.

Breakfast is taken at sometime between 8 or 9, and almost always exclusively cooked by female household members. Some people I’ve met have genuinely said that they have not had breakfast because their sister did not get up in time: the ability to stick some bread in a toaster is seemingly beyond them.

At about 11, it is tradition to eat again, taking sweet cha (brewed with cinnamon, cloves, milk and bay leaves) with a shingara (a pastry stuffed with potato, chickpeas, peanuts and lentils) and a samosa. In the small restaurants and shacks, piles of shingaras and samosas can be seen growing each morning. They are usually gone by midday.

Lunch is a liberally timed affair. At work I’ve sometimes managed to get them to eat it at 12.30; occasionally it has been as late as 4.30! That day I was pretty furious, and pretty hungry. A huge bowl of rice will appear, and people will fill their plates with the same amount that before I came to Bangladesh I would have served to four people. On top of this is piled a vegetable curry, or a meat/fish dish. It’s all mashed in together with the hand and then scooped up and stuff down the throat. Once the plate is empty, it starts again with more rice and a dahl, a watery soup of lentils and onions and chillies. On the side is usually a plate of lemon and cucumber slices and green chillies. Most Bengalis will eat these chillies raw. I have been training myself to eat them and can now eat a small one or half a big one before it gets too unbearable. Behind the heat there is an incredible flavour: it’s worth trying.

Lunch will sometimes include a very solid mashed potato, a tomato chutney, fish balls, aubergine balls, tomato, coriander and chilli salad or an egg dish.

In the afternoon the fast food places start again and people will eat dahlpuri, a pastry style savoury snack stuffed with lentils or potato, or some onion bahjis, or chanachur, and addictive Bombay Mix style snack.

Dinner can be between 8 and 11, and is either a repeat of lunch, or will be a kebab. Chicken or beef is well cooked over open coals and eaten with a riata (onion, cucumber and yoghurt) and ruti (naan bread). The local kebab place here does a huge chicken kebab, garlic nan and a coke for 110 Taka (about a £1), and is brilliant. I try to go once a week.

The RAB

I’ve mentioned the RAB briefly before, but these guys really deserve further elaboration. They are only three years old, but already have notched up an impressive 1000 or so extrajudicial killings plus innumerable torturing and beatings. Not only that, they have a penchant for smuggling, corruption and general poor behaviour not befitting their status as Bangladesh’s elite policing force. However, they are immensely cool.

The Rapid Action Battalion was originally to be named the Rapid Action Team, a sort of superhero style naming of a police force (‘who you gonna call’…etc). Wisely they decided that calling out the RAT would not generate the same level of respect and fear, and opted for the more military sounding name. The RAB has a lot of attractions for its members: they get to participate in the best policing events (no directing traffic for them), they get better pay, they get respect and fearful looks from the public, and they get almost blanket judicial impunity.

However, without a doubt, their biggest perk is their uniform. The RAB are the coolest paramilitary/policing unit in the world. Firstly, there are the standard issue black army boots, often highly polished. Tucked into these are black combat trousers, kept up with a utility belt and buckle of which Batman would be proud. Above this is a black shirt, with a RAB silver badge and red lapel badges: some also wear a waistcoat with ‘RAB’ in bright yellow on the back. Black mittens with the fingers cut of is pretty standard, especially in winter, as is an enormous gun (or two) slung nonchalantly across the shoulder or aimed lazily at a passer by.

So far, pretty normal for a militarised police force. But what makes the RAB different is their head gear. They must wear black bandannas, of the sort with a flap hanging down the back of the head and over the neck. It looks like a bunch of rappers coming out Harlem. They also almost universally wear wrap-around sunglasses (black, or course). In all, they look like some bizarre cross between Italian police men, a 1980s US rap group and Bengalis. They never cease to be entertaining (unless they are ‘crossfiring’ you – a euphemism for killing you and getting away with it), and are rarely not posing. My local RAB hang about the corner of the field, sitting on 1970s style white motorbikes, at all times of the day (I think even when they are off duty). Others cruise (and they really do) about the city on bikes or in pick-ups, generally loving the fact that they are RAB.

If you ever have trouble, you just need to find a RAB and you know that the perpetrator will get crossfired if you need or desire it. I was sorely tempted when 12 eight-year-old street kids mugged me last weekend. A friend – Kathy – had secured some boursin for me from her visiting boyfriend and so I went to the only bakery I know that makes baguettes and spent a whole 40 Taka on one. This makes it a very expensive piece of bread. I had previously been pestered by some kids, and managed to strike a deal that I would take a photo of them in exchange for them buggering off and pursuing a bedeshi who actually had money. Yet a few minutes later, this time laden down with this prized baguette, they were back, surrounded me and grabbed my arms and were generally being annoying, until one little hand slipped into the bag and broke of most of the baguette and disappeared with shrieks of glee down the road, pursued by former comrades and now would be usurpers of the bread.

It is at times like this – when you feel violated, vulnerable and afraid of going out at night carrying expensive bread – that a quick call to the RAB, a whispered request and a promise of new sunglasses beckons satisfying revenge. I can hear the crossfire now…

I should point out that in seriousness, the problems the street kids face are multiple and terrible, and that the reality is that a little bread is the least we can do. The major problem is twofold. Firstly, as volunteers it is genuinely difficult to spare money from our allowance to make such gestures. If some people do this, all bedeshis become a target, which could endanger some people (unlikely, but possible). Secondly, most of the kids that are begging are being run by some local strongman (a real life Fagin – Dickens would have relished Dhaka), and money given goes to these people, not the children that collect it. The British High Commission makes contributions to charities working with street children, and some VSO partners are also involved in this. This is the better way to address the issue: ultimately if kids do not generate donations they would not be needed and could get to school instead (which in Bangladesh is more than a feasible alternative, at least up to the age of 11).

Bangladesh's Chief Rugby Advisor

I managed to acquire a new role yesterday as the chief coach, adviser and pundit to the nascent Bangladesh Rugby Association. A couple of days ago they advertised in a newspaper that the inaugural matches were being launched. Despite five months here I still naively thought that these would be properly organised teams playing real rugby. How wrong I was.

I turned up at the venue to see the Paltan maiden, a bit of dirt occasionally interrupted with grass, and decorated with glass, litter and stray dogs. However, someone had diligently marked out white lines and flags, with rickety posts in place and what must be the only four post protectors on the subcontinent.

I managed to find some of the organisers, one of whom kept asking me of the rules (and later turned out to be the referee!), and after spending 15 minutes stressing that ‘no I was not a professional player and I had not played at the world cup’ to numerous attendees, I saw the teams arrive. To a man they were all five foot six, with a frame more associated with a half-starved jockey than a rugby player. The four teams all had kit however, so there is a little bit of money around this.

The matches started and were incredibly funny. Firstly, the referee blew up for anything resembling a tackle, immediately awarding a penalty. Sometimes scrums would take place, usually for the cameras, with no real reason and certainly not for knock-ons which seem to be within the rules in Bangladesh. Whilst this was all going on I was continuously questioned by different journalists – why are you here, what do you think of the ground, what is the best type of pitch to play on, are these players good, which world cup did you play in – and so on. One of them was asking about the Haka, saying he had seen half of it but got too scared and turned the TV off! Bengalis are a sensitive lot.

I then turned from audience to TV pundit, and was asked first by Channel One (the main private channel) what I though of the game, and the possibilities of rugby in Bangladesh. I then worked my way down the touchline offering Austin Healey-style soundbites to all the crews. I know some people saw my interview on Channel One last night. This morning’s Bangla daily has a quote with the story, saying ‘a non-professional rugby player from England’ and that I think ‘clay or grass that is at one inch high is the best surface’. I am pretty certain that I said clay was not ideal and that I had no idea what length the best grass should be.

However, I may now have secured a coaching role as the referee wants help to know the rules, and the teams all need a lot of work. They seemed quite keen to have this so I will see if I can work out a way of doing it. But unfortunately there will still not be much chance of a game in the near future.

Weddings, Spring and Yunus' Brother

The last couple of weeks have offered some new insights into the strange social worlds of Bangladesh. I’ve been to a Hindu wedding, I’ve had dinner with Professor Yunus’s brother and seen a wet spring festival. On top of all that, I had to chase a stalker away from VSO.

To start with Yunus: last Thursday I went to dinner at the penthouse, very gay pad of Hero, another volunteer’s NGO’s chairman. This was the same guy that tried to recruit me for the Banglalink mobile phone company TV advert (I was too young for the role). He lives in an incredibly smart apartment, with cushions all over the floor, and flowers and art and uplighters, right in the middle of wealthy central Dhaka. His mother and sisters crowd into the rest of the flat that is not his ‘pad’. A few famous Bangladeshi singers, actors and dancers were there, as well as some people from Britain over to visit. We were all chatting, or looking stunned at a room I had only seen in a Dulux paint catalogue before now, when the next guest arrived.

Bangladesh is a thankfully a place where two types of people get idolised and admired. The first are cricket players, Brazilian footballers and Beckham, and the second are intellectuals. Hence Professor Md. Yunus – 2006 Nobel Peace Prize Winner – has been consistently lauded in Bangladesh since October, when he received this award. He has his own trademarks: slightly long grey hair, a wide, toothy grin and long colourful; waistcoats worn over white Punjabis. Having met the collection of people at this party, this final guest arrived, decked out in the same garb and wearing the same ridiculous smile. Though I would not normally be particularly impressed by ‘celebrity’, it was a little bit a of shock, and it took a moment before someone pointed out this was Yunus’ brother. This was after someone had whispered ‘bugger me, its Yunus’, a little loudly.

The brother is clearly not Nobel potential, spending a long part of the evening watching television. It was like one of those people hired to be at a party as a look-a-like, and a disappointing one at that.

The wedding took place a couple of days earlier, being that of Pullak’s sister. Pullak was one of our language teachers, and also one Bangladesh’s most depressed men. He often would moan about his low wage and how little money he had, which made the lavish 3 lakhs (300,000 Taka or 2,500 pounds) spent on this event seem very out of character. The wedding was a Hindu one, held in a community centre in some subcentre of Dhaka. Only myself and Mikey (a Canadian volunteer) went along, though all VSO people had been invited. This also proved to be a bizarre experience.

Firstly, the hall was sparsely decorated, with lots of tables set out for dinner and two pagoda style seats as the only ornaments besides intrusive fluorescent lighting. Before eating, the groom arrived, looking about as miserable as you possible could on your wedding day. It is custom for Hindus to be solemn on the day, but this was taking it to Shakespearean levels of misery: he scowled his way into the hall and slumped onto the pagoda before sitting there like some sulking teenager as people took pictures and videos. Nothing, however, gets between a Bengali and his/her stomach, and with the appearance of the first plate of food the groom was abandoned to his solemnity as people dashed to spaces on the tables.

Over three sittings, people stuffed as much fried hilsha fish, chicken tandori, goat curry and pilau rice down their throats as possible, before moving on to the sweet orange rice and sweetmeat. And then they left: within ten minutes of each sitting finishing, most had left. For some, the bride had not even arrived! Even when it is a wedding, they come, eat, and go.

The bride did eventually arrive and went upstairs to the mezzanine floor where the second pagoda was sitting, and sat down, at which point some older women began a sort of wailing that sounded similar to a Sioux Indian war cry, but here was to help prepare the bride for the marriage. She also looked pretty miserable, but we were told that they had not met before and so I could sympathise a little. The dowry gifts offered were mainly toiletries and tissue, so if she was hoping for an Ipod she would have been disappointed.

Anyway, it now being 11.15 and the ceremony still not materialising, we excused ourselves from the remaining 40 or so guests (of about 250 who originally arrived). The ceremony apparently took place at about 12.30: with probably three guests left.

Finally, last Tuesday was the first day of spring, at which normally conservative Muslims throw their reservations out the window and done bright orange or yellow saris, marigold flowers and Punjabis and welcome the Hindu god of love and spring. It being spring it also brought the first rains of the year, finally opening up a blue sky other months of dusty, pollution smothered grey. It is a welcome change.

Bangladesh comes together, the flat falls apart

It seems that the state of emergency is going to be in place for some time, possible up to a year, and maybe even beyond that. As someone said to me a couple of days ago: ‘the people are not used to obeying the law, but now they must and it takes getting used to’. Whether that is suitable justification for maintaining the army-backed administration or not is a highly debatable subject amongst Dhakians at the moment.

The impact is clearly noticeable, however. I have had yet another experience with the Army, once more not of my own doing. It is almost as though they are following me about. I was at the Stadium Market yesterday with some of my colleagues, trying to find disposable cameras for a project. Underneath Bangabhaban National Stadium are crowded hundreds of small shops and stalls selling anything from batteries to mobile phones, MP3 players to impressively large fridges. Why the national stadium is also the biggest electronics market in the country is not explained, but on a Bangladeshi scale this is not even that odd, and certainly not surprising.

The search for cameras proved fruitless, so we settled for a 500 Taka point and shoot. As we were buying it a huge cry went up from somewhere, and suddenly half the store owners and workers were throwing goods into boxes and slamming down shutters. The guy we were buying from snatched the 500 Taka as his 7 year old staff were pulling shutters, and what had been a typically sedate day suddenly burst into panic. Within seconds the shop was shut and padlocked and the owners had melted into the crowd. The only sound was the crashing of steel doors and the shouting of owners at their boys. The sirens competing with the prayer call for soundspace hinted at what the fuss was about: these usurers (at least of bedeshis) had not been struck by a sudden devout moment, but rather did not want the Army to investigate whether they had any smuggled goods. I think the Army, however, would have an easier job looking for genuine products. It would certainly be quicker.

Not every business is on the list, and so we went into one that was still open to buy film and batteries. It was here that, having handed over a 500 Taka note that the Army turned up. Shopkeepers never have change for a 500 Taka and so send off one of their boys to find change from a neighbour. So I watched my 500 Taka (or rather, VSO’s 500 Taka) disappear and two Army soldiers arrive in its place. Dressed in full kit – helmets, camouflage, rifles – and began poking around the shop, clearing everyone out. The shouting and crashing coming from other parts of bowels of the stadium suggested that those shops not lucky enough to be frequented by a bedeshi at the moment of the Army’s arrival were getting a kicking, mostly of their stock but often to themselves. I was left in the shop, trapped between two (small, but armed) soldiers and all the stock that they wanted to pull off the shelves and ‘investigate’. But I could not leave as I was waiting for my 380 Taka change to arrive. It was rather awkward, having explained why I was not leaving, especially as the boy took ages. Yet because this was for work I needed a receipt, and maintained the farce by asking for one, and the soldiers and I watched the owner writing out the voucher as though this was a totally normal event on a normal day. Like those scenes in Westerns when the fighting in a saloon stops for a moment, I am sure that as I turned the corner, normal practice resumed and the rest of the voucher book ended smashed on the floor along with the other stock.

The law is being enforced on building regulations as well, and thousands of small shacks and shanty houses across the country are being bulldozed. As usual, it is the poor that get affected by this, not the rich. A hut selling cha (tea) is a nuisance for middle class professionals, but it is a lifeblood for the operator. More formal establishments are hit, however. The restaurant that sells what must be the best shinghara and samosa in Dhaka has been closed, the roof ripped off and all the tables, pots and staff removed. The site only had permission for residential, not a café, but until now this was not enforced.

On one hand this sort of action is very good, because the lack of governance and accountability in Bangladesh is startling (the title of most corrupt country in the world since records began does not do it justice, nor does losing the title to Chad this year reflect an improvement: its just that Chad has got much, much worse). The government does need to start to take action to enforce regulations and accountability. However, the vast majority of infringements are made by the urban poor. It is they that squat on government land, and who set up stalls in the street. At the zoo, workers have established their own squat in the grounds. Their injustice is pretty stark: the animals’ conditions are much better than their keepers’. The answer has to be to legitimise illegal squats, accept the reality of the urban poor, and serve them .Of course, with this comes responsibilities, like meeting electricity and water connections to which legal buildings are entitled. And where will the money come from to pay for 6 million water connections in Dhaka? Certainly not from the pockets of the richest who are the real infringers of the law.

Hope has been raised though as 15 former ministers were arrested a few days ago, into investigations of their extreme wealth, and the best friend of the immediate past Prime Minister’s son is on the run. He is worth $85 million, allegedly embezzled. From nothing to this wealth in 5 weeks and his flight to India suggests that the allegations are pretty strong.

Whilst the army-backed government is starting to sort out Bangladesh, for good or for bad, our flat is falling apart. Yesterday the entire light fitting in the kitchen crashed to the floor, leaving live wires floating above our heads and a completely dark kitchen. Also, the cockroaches are back, with at least 15 dead in the last day or two. One was about four inches long, absolutely huge. Our fridge is still has its fever, going from glacial ice sheet to tropical sea but failing to just be a cold fridge and freezer. I still have not decided if I prefer frozen tomatoes or soggy bread.

Ashura

After some lapses in interest following the State of Emergency declaration last month, Bangladesh got back to its religiously zealous best on Tuesday with the occasion of the Ashura festival. This was a national holiday so I went up to Mohammadpur to take a look.

Ashura is the 10th morum – a ten day period of morning and reflection - and seemingly the most eventful day in Islamic history. It is the day on which Adam was forgiven for letting Eve get out of control, the day that Nuho (Noah) landed his ark, the day that Yunus (Jonah) got out of the whale, the day that Yusuf (Joseph) had his accusations in Egypt rescinded and also significant days for Musa (Moses) and Isa (Jesus). It happens to be the day that the world was created, and also the day on which it will be destroyed.

For the Shia (a minority in Bangladesh), it is also the day that commemorates the death of Iman Hossain. He was killed at Kaballa (now in Iraq) in battle by Shema, a soldier of Yazid’s army. Yazid had taken power to be the Caliph corruptly, and Hossain had gone to war to challenge this. So all in all its an important day.

In Mohammadpur there is an area known as Geneva Camp. This a slum in which the Bihari live. The Bihari are an ethnic group from Pakistan who speak Urdu, not Bengali, and are Shia Muslims. They are technically ‘stranded Pakistanis’, a legacy of the 1971 split. They do not have any state, as they are not considered Bangladeshi and Pakistan will not take them in. They exist a non-existent state, excluded from the meagre offerings that the Bangladeshi government does give to its poorer citizens, and religiously, ethnically and linguistically marginalised. Geneva Camp is a pitiful place, a tiny world of dark streets and darker houses. It has all the elements of some Dickensian nightmare, hiding within its walls the smell and sight of human misery, and the sorts of disabilities and afflictions not seen in Europe in a hundred years.

But on the day of Ashura, they can take to the streets waving Pakistani and Turkish flags, drumming fast beats and carrying small shrines. Iman Hossain was killed by a sword, so to feel the pain some of the more committed attendees flail themselves with knives attached to the end of a chain. Others breathe fire into the air, and many tie green or red bandanas to their heads emblazoned with verses from the Qu’ran. The whole spectacle is really colourful, noisy and messy: children are given scented water to through about, and seemed mainly to through it at us, leaving us pretty wet. Horses are decorated to look like warrior steeds, whilst other people carry huge feathered contraptions with knives sticking out that they make spin round in the middle of the crowd. The game is duck or get stabbed. Not realising there were real knives on it, someone encouraged by to duck as it came spinning out of control towards where I was standing.

The whole festival went on all day, but a few hours in the streets is more than enough and so we wandered away via the Zia monument, where water and money better spent elsewhere was being wasted on a fountain light show. But it is as close to peace and quiet that can be found in Dhaka.

The next evening (Wednesday) I went along to a cultural event being run by another volunteer’s NGO. This organisation represents Males who have Sex with Males (MSM) – which is reported to be 70% of the male population – and the dances were aimed to express the problems they face, including drug culture, in society. This is not just homosexuals, and many who engage in such activity would be horrified if they were thought to be that. It is partly related to sexual repression of Bangladeshi society and the simple unavailability of women, or so the NGO line goes.

The dancing itself was incredible, especially the professionals who were really very good, and mixed traditional tampla dances with more modern sounds in colourful costumes. It certainly made a real change to see something very different here, even if it seems that any attempt to make not doing drugs look cool fails anywhere in the world: I’m not sure a man dressed in a pink and yellow sari that dances about the problems he has after injecting heroin will make kids stop taking it. But perhaps I would be wrong.

This week I’ll be starting a rickshaw advocacy project, which should hopefully work well and will further my NGO’s aims, and then I’ll be running a session on how to write a CV, particularly focusing on what should not be on them. So work could pick up a bit now.

Still No Word

The State of Emergency is still in place and we are still waiting for an announcement from the (new) interim Government about its aims and intentions regarding the election. In ten days, no statements have been made and speculation has been rife. At the same time, the human rights of people are being continually retracted. The police and army now have the right to arrest anyone at any time for any reason; they also may enter any building at any time for any reason without a warrant and effect arrests therein. The private televisions are banned from playing any news coverage expect that supplied by the state media. Newspapers are not permitted to question the actions of the interim government: those that fail to self-censor will face significant problems.

However, despite these punitive measures (done in the name of democracy, in the best American traditions), many have welcomed them, including Mohammed Yunus, the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize Winner and all round Bangladeshi hero, who seems to support the idea that an army-backed, extra-constitutional government is a good idea. The problem is that the politicians and the parties have been so corrupt and so manipulative, that such a view gets a great deal of support and is hard to dispute.

Bangladesh has descended into a ridiculous mess from which there seems to be no real solution. Either we will see truly open and fair elections, maybe in April or May, or there will be a prolonged suspension of democracy and a de facto military takeover. It should be noted that former military leader HM Ershad, deposed in 1990, has just avoided a prison sentence for corruption activities and has a new party that is growing in strength. Perhaps him, or someone like him, will make the breakthrough.

For us, however, the city is reasonably normal (inasmuch as this city has a state of normality). I am about to start a photographic project as part of our livelihoods programmes, looking at the relationships between rickshaw pullers and society at large. Our main argument is that rickshaws should not be banned but conditions of work must change. There should be a book out of it, and you can all buy a copy.

Dhaka remains a city in which it is hard to find entertainment, but a VSO badminton tournament has proved to be a major draw. Unfortunately, my partner Marufa (a VSOB programme co-ordinator) and I have played two and lost two. We are hoping to avoid the wooden spoon from our last two games. Badminton is about as energetic as most Bengalis get, although the cricket season has just started and there are Dhaka league matches played outside our flat, so a few more of them are running.

Finally, I spent an evening with Michelle’s Dad who was here visiting and met some of his family in Dhaka, who live in a quite amazing house in the plush parts of Ramna Park. The Chief Justice and other luminaries all share the street, so it’s a bit like living in Temple or Lincoln’s Inn or some other barrister locality: not typical Bangladesh. It was good to get some contacts here though, and some home cooked Bengali food.

Bangladesh in State of Emergency

The President of Bangladesh last night declared a State of Emergency and then resigned as Chief Advisor to the interim government. He is still the President of Bangladesh however, and in this capacity has suspended the constitution, and the election scheduled for the 22nd January. As a result, non-State television is banned from showing current affairs or political programmes, whilst newspapers have been warned not to criticise decisions made by the President.

In addition, 9 of the 10 advisors that make up the interim government have also resigned, and a curfew was instigated with no end date, running from 11 pm until 5 am each day. This leaves us house bound from 10 pm, and restricts our movement considerably.

This move will have satisfied the Awami League opposition who were demanding these things, but now makes the election very unlikely by January 25th, the constitutional deadline for it to take place. This will make the BNP (the former government) unhappy and they are likely to head to the streets from Sunday instead. There are also expected to be blockades of Dhaka from Sunday and hartels next week. Hartels are essentially political strikes that are often (or usually) violent.

As a result, Bangladesh is in a political limbo: 5000 people are detained without trial until the election takes place, the police and army have the right of arrest for any reason at any time of any person, the consitutition is suspended, with the legal, freedom of press and freedom of movement sections particularly affected, and there is no election date. We are waiting until tomorrow to see what will be the outcome.

At least we are safe at the moment, and the violence is just to the north of where I am living, not in our patch. We are on a day alert for evacuation if it does get worse for us, but foreigners are not a target, we just need to keep our heads down.

The saddest thing is that this will continue to hamper any progress that the country could make, and the whole episode could be a wider BNP strategy to ensure that they can still win. There are no moves on the voters role and other issues, so it is what this space.

Dont listen to the BBC reports though, they are a little sensationalist and not the full picture. And there is no need to worry about us if anyone is.

Political Violence

The political situation has deteriorated here once again, and I hear that it is even making the BBC at home, which is rare. From reading the Guardian and Independent websites, and some BBC pages, it is clear that the main focus is on militant Islam and whether this situation will allow some force to take hold. Extreme Islam, however, does not have a great foothold here. The political impasse will not create a power vacuum to be filled by such people, but is rather a battle for control of this political space. Two great blocks of wealth, capital and other interests in Bangladesh are struggling for power and using the common people as their means to do. But the benefit for those at the bottom will be minimal: the parties do not even publish manifestos. No one knows what they stand for.

Currently, however, on the streets the tension is clear and can be stingingly felt. Mentioning the Awami League or the BNP, or their leaders Sheik Hassina and Kaleda Zia will bring furious argument from anyone. The AL has decided to boycott the election on January 22nd saying that it will not be free and fair. This is probably true: the President was a BNP nominee from the last Parliament, and throughout that time the Electoral Commission (EC) in charge of producing an election was filled with BNP stooges to ensure that the BNP can win, even though they are widely expected to lose a fair election. The evidence for this is amazing: the voters list produced by the EC has 10 million more names that there are people in Bangladesh!

However, on the other hand, there is a constitutional requirement to hold the election by January 25th, which is 90 days since the handover of power to the caretaker government. If this is not done, then the interim Government will have infringed the constitution and broken the law. What this means is that with the AL demand for a new date or no election, and the BNP ensuring its voter list is used, both parties are forcing the constitution to be infringed and undermining the functioning of the State.

What this is means on the streets is at times stunning. 60,000 troops have been deployed in and around Dhaka to ensure that violence is minimal, but in the areas north of my flat there have been major riots (which are those shown on the television). The police and army have been given special powers of arrest which allow them to arrest anyone at anytime for any reason without a warrant, and to detain them without charge until 25th January. This legal brutality is incredible, and already over 5,000 people from Dhaka have alone have been detained and will not be able to vote. Inevitably, they are the poorer, less powerful members of society. It’s the sort of measure of which John Reid would be immensely proud.

For me, it is rather fascinating. The army occupied the small green outside my flat for the last three days (they got extremely angry when I asked if I could take a photo, see above); three trucks with 40 or so soldiers crowding around this small space. With another blockade on (possibly until the election day itself), there have been protests. On the road by my office, a major place for rallies, a group of AL supporters threw bricks at a police van, out of which about 10 police men jumped and began a lati (large solid stick) charge, and fired rubber bullets in the air which flew over our office. Some garment factories have been burnt to the ground, and five small bombs went off. Also, stashes of explosives have been found.

The British High Commission security advice is typically useless, saying stay in Gulshan and Baridhara, both of which are an hour from where we live and work. It is expected that on the day of the election itself it will be very violent indeed, with perhaps 100s of deaths. A similar situation in 1996 left 160 dead in Dhaka, and a government that lasted 13 days before having to call a new election.

But to other matters, and two useful bits of info on life here that may add some context to what is like. Firstly, we only have cold water, and with the current ‘coldwave’ (as the Bengalis call it), these showers have become too miserable. So we are now heating water on a stove and then use a jug to wash from a big bowl. It is practically medieval, certainly time consuming, but more pleasant than a freezing shower.

The second is that I barely use a knife and fork anymore. All Bengali meals are eaten by hand, mixing the curries and dhals into rice for a few minutes before stuffing it into your mouth in balls forming in the hand. When I do get back, there will be a Brick Lane curry Bengali-style for you all to practice.

Sundarbans Trip

All new years are supposed to start with a bang, and with nearly been shot twice in the space of four hours, I almost ensured that 2006 ended in suitably dramatic style. That I can write this now should be reassurance enough that despite the best efforts of myself and the Bangladesh Rifles, I avoided becoming another cross-fire statistic. And the reason for this dancing with death? A trip to the Sundarbans for New Year that tested Bangladesh’s infrastructure to its absolute limits.

The Sundarbans are a huge littoral mangrove forest that run along the south-east coast of the country and then on into India. They are the largest in the world of this type and a World Heritage Site. They serve a vital purpose in dampening some of the storms that ravage Bangladesh, the trees and channels dissipating huge amounts of wave and wind energy that would otherwise wash away the villages further north. The Sundarbans are home to the Royal Bengal Tiger (critically endangered with only 250-350 estimated to still live in Bangladesh), crocodiles, kites, eagles and other raptors, snakes and otters, dolphins and deer and thousands of other species and animals. As the remotest and most untouched part of Bangladesh, it offers a refuge not just to animals, but to ex-pats weary of life in Dhaka.

Hence I departed on a 5 day trip to the forest with Tim and Georgia and some older volunteers as well as Kathy, a new arrival from the UK and Monique, Canadian. Given that it was also Eid-ul-Azru (where cows are slaughtered in the streets as sacrifice to Allah), the roads and rail were jampacked with people trying to get back to their village for the festival. All this meant that either I had to leave on boxing day or get a flight, so the latter was risked. Biman and CMG, Bangladesh’s two airlines, are notoriously dangerous carriers, but given the general disregard for life here it seemed little less risk than a trip on the buses.

We waited at the tiny domestic terminal at Zia airport as our flight was continually delayed, finding other things to entertain us. Whilst reading, I suddenly had a genuine shock when a gun barrel fell into sight, hovering between the pages of the book and my chin. More than a little alarmed that a loaded automatic weapon was pointed directly at my chest, I looked up to find a splendidly regaled policeman/paramilitary looking directly at me and asking me ‘which country are you from?’ I of course hastily replied that it was England, wondering what they thought I had done. Then he asked me what my name was, and suddenly it became a little clearer that he was just engaging the continuous, draining small talk that all Bangladeshis seem desperate to thrust upon any bedeshi. A little more relaxed, I still made sure that the barrel (which was not more than 4 inches from my chest) was pushed away. I suggested that when he wishes to talk to people in the future, a gesture other than a suddenly putting his gun close to vital organs would probably engender more fruitful and relaxed conversation.

More waiting eventually provided a plane that was only 5 hours late, and we boarded a tiny twin engine propeller box that struggled to get of the ground and seemed poised on giving up at any moment. The straining of the engine as we made our ascent was awful, the landing violent, and the cockroaches also travelling with us an unnecessary addition to the cabin. On landing in Jessore 40 minutes later I was able to achieve my second ‘near-shot’ experience of the morning, when I decided that this dishevelled plane was worthy of a photograph. But having not seen the ‘no photography’ sign, forgetting that this was an airport, and not hearing (apparently) shouting from the terminal, it was only the intervention of another volunteer to push down a gun a paramilitary guy was raising that may have prevented me not making the trip. So there is a lesson here: don’t EVER take photos at airports…

Another two hours on a bus and transfer to a minibus and we were able to cross the ladder from the quayside to the boat that would take us down and through the Sundarbans. Khulna as a city has little if anything to recommend it, but to get out on the open water was great, and as the night fell we sailed down the river towards the Bay of Bengal. The boat had five small ½ person cabins that we had to share as a two: Tim and I were able to top and tail and somehow squeeze around the curve of the bow to get some sleep. Resplendent in orange, pink and green, our tutti-frutti ship sailed into the sunset, stopping only for us to see a small cultural show by an NGO where a phot song was performed. In essence this is a song with a general theme (this one was something like logging and foreigners are evil) where different scenes are unravelled from a long scroll as people dance about. It is supposed to be educational, but not speaking enough Bangla, the sounds had to suffice as entertainment.

The next day saw us collect two forestry guards to ward of the pirates that ply the small waterways and tributaries of the forests, and then enter the forest. The sky was almost white due the brightness, and the water a muddy brown with the sun sprinkled across the ripples. The mangroves were a hundred different greens and yellows, with deep reflections in the water. And the only other people were the few fishermen in their wide, flat bottom boats who would wave from the river banks.

We spent two 6 am trips slipping among the thin channels in the depths of the forest trying to see a tiger (we did see some huge paw prints), but had to settle for a 3 metre crocodile, egrets, eagles, rhesus monkeys and wild boar. The wildlife was falling out of the place, there was so much: otters and mudskippers, kingfishers and woodpeckers and almost anything else one can imagine. In the early mornings thin mist rises up off the water as the sun begins to burn off the overnight cold, and it leaves a mystical air across the water, like the smoke effects on stage. And when the sun hits the fierce yellows and reds spring from the trees and waters to give a cold glow across the forest. The quietness – save for the soft slap-slap of the small boat paddles – is deep and wide.

The food on the boat was constant and brilliant, including Sundarbans honey, a great local delicacy, and had enough wine and whiskey to make a new year on the water. The moon was full and stunningly bright, but with so much water about we could still not see much further than 25 metres, and so do not know how many people were being forced to listen to the bagpipes CD playing at full volume: Auld Lang Ayne and Scotland the Brave blasting across the water and disturbing all else around. The next morning we found that one speaker was directly positioned under a guard’s bed. He did not get much sleep.

Our trip back to Dhaka was almost as eventful, as we took the Rocket. Do not be deceived by this name: its pace has more in common with Stevenson’s 19th century version than a Saturn V, but in 30 hours we got to Dhaka. The Rocket is an old paddle steamer built in 1928 and with wooden decks and promenades just like the Titanic. Our cabins were musty and varnished, with only slightly stained sheets and completely indifferent waiters to bring bad tea and worse coffee. But it was fantastic. A little jazz from an ipod added to the roaring twenties feel of the boat. Later, with Robert Johnson’s delta blues, only the type of boats rushing out of our way could remind us this was not the Mississippi in the 1890s. Of course, as is Bangladesh’s way, it also had its steerage section, where the poor crammed into wet, noisy spaces between the spinning paddles and the steam engine. A second class area had a small shop selling stale cake and out of date Bombay Mix, where those with a little more money could cram on to the wooden floors with a little more space and a little less noise.

We got to visit the bridge (these sorts of privileges are afforded just be being a bedeshi) and saw the old wheel and bells, as well as the gigantic foglight. It is about the only colonial relic in Bangladesh (except for some abandoned steam trains in eastern jungles), and worth every penny to travel on.

Christmas in Bangladesh

Christmas with the minaret towers blasting out Islamic prayer is a rather unique experience, as is the dust, heat and procession of cows dressed in flowers and hats ready for the Eid slaughter. All good Christmas stories start with Christmas Eve, and this one will be no different.

The build up to Christmas Eve is very different. There is no sense that Christmas is just about the corner – I could only hear Slade in my own room – but to engender some of the spirit, I had a small Christmas party at my NGO, and brought some Christmas pudding that they all could try. Most of the people there brought their wives and kids and also some samosas and home-baked cakes and I was able to tell a little about Christmas and how we celebrate it. The pudding went down well, though the kids ate only the ice cream and then stuffed their faces with samosas. But at least they tried a small bit: one even spat it out on the floor. I didn’t think it was that bad.

I managed to escape sometime around 6.30 and rushed back to our flat to collect the Muppets Christmas Carol (still highly recommended for those that have never seen it) before going to a Filipino Christmas Party at another VSO flat. There are probably more Filipinos than any other nationality here, and they celebrate Christmas on the 24th. So we had fish curries, noodles, cakes and all sorts whilst some others murdered songs on a kareoke machine. But by nine it was time to move out, a little full on rice wine, to midnight mass.

Bangladesh is a unique place where midnight takes place at 10 pm. Ten is the cut off after which you are likely to be mugged and attacked (one volunteer was mugged later that evening at knife point), so things are moved forward. In 2004, eight churches were bombed by fundamentalists of one creed or another, and so the churches have been guarded by the RAB (the special police force whose particular speciality is extrajudicial killings – see Human Rights Watch’s latest report). Tim and I rushed (in as much as this is possible in Dhaka traffic) up to Banani Catholic Church and met Georgia and her mum for the mass. And this was an experience not to be missed.

Firstly, remember that this is supposed to be a catholic church, or al that follows will not seem strange and wondrous. The opening ‘hymn’ – to which two priests brought in a plastic doll called Jesus and laid at the alter – was Johnny Mathiers ‘When a Child was Born’. This stupendous start was bettered when the next hymn appeared: Boney M singing their Christmas song, which I do not know the name of but has the video of them all in big Eskimo suits.

Already we had some level of sacrilege, but this was further compounded by the addition of evangelical tones. Through out we had to have open hands praying, alleluia refrains, Silent Night in millions of languages and other things not befitting Catholic services. There was no fire and brimstone, going to hell and general misery, but this horrendous fusion of the worst of all churches. One of the priests would not have looked out of place on Craggy Island. But once we had finished our singing of pop songs and one carol, we could leave and struggled back to our flat, where I finished watching the Muppets, for a more Christmasy feeling than the church.

Christmas morning in the bright, dusty sun was more than a little strange, with calls to prayer darting around and life for most being no different. Tim and I dashed up to the Mohammadpur Market to get new potatoes, carrots, beans, spinage, cauliflower and peas, and then topped this up with bombay mix, pringles, pistachios, milk and all else needed for a full blown dinner. By 12 or so we were able to start peeling vegetables for 15 people and then try to get the little electric oven that had appeared in the induction flat to roast potatoes and garlic. We had five ready roasted chickens to enable us to eat meat that was not boiled or fried or stewed, and then spent the next three hours laying out mountains of veg, grapes and oranges, dates and nuts, Christmas cake and pudding and mince pies. We also had chocolate and fruit pastels, jelly babies and After Eights so that by 4 I felt pretty sick (and I think most did). The assault of rich and sugary foods after the relative austerity of cooking here sent stomachs into freefall, but it was certainly worth it, even if I am now on antibiotics for dysentery.

We had a pirated copy of Casino Royal to for the early evening, and then finished off the wine, brandy, rice wine and some cheese specially arrived from England (you can’t get it here) and let the evening pass, interrupted only by more calls to prayer: if only we could get hold of the mike and play Wizzard through it.
Boxing day and Christmas was definitely over, though most Bangladeshi’s hadn’t noticed it had passed. We stumbled about Gulshan trying to buy a plane ticket for our Sundarbans trip, and whilst I got this, Tim decided that it would be a prudent time to learn to ride a rickshaw. We are pretty sure that the bloke sitting in his car that suffered the collision Tim engineered was not expecting to see a rickshawala being driven by a bedeshi, and this may have been enough to prevent him leaping out and adding a gash to Tim of the same length and depth as the scratch embedded in his paint work. It turns out that rickshaws are wider than you’d think, and worthy of more respect when being driven by the inexperienced. We got out of there as quickly as possible, and discovered the British High Commission Club is a lot cheaper than our own and has better bacon.

And this summarised quite adequately Christmas in Bangladesh, a hot, dusty and noisy one, but with a certain level of charm and a lot of fun.

Photos of the Rioting

I've finally been able to shrink photos and get them online. These show the rioting and protests over the last few weeks...

Police at Russel Square, near my office

Barricades against an Awami League Demo

Burning police car close to my office

Protesters on Pantha Path

Some photos

Finlay Tea Estate, Srimangal

Padma River, Rajshahi (Ganges in India)

Hindu Street, Dhaka

Tea Estate Worker, Srimangal

Putschka Perpared on the Street