Cox's Bazaar Training

About a week after Dad left, my project team at Concern Universal Bangladesh organised 5 days of training for partner organisations.  The training was part of the climate change and disaster risk reduction capacity building project, and comprised a few different sessions, one on proposal writing, one on learning and evaluation, and other on principles and philosophy of Community Managed Disaster Risk Reduction (some info here).Myself and my colleague Kanika developed the proposal writing module, but this largely got delivered by our unit head Hamid.  Most of the participants were founders/executive directors of their organisations, which ranged from tiny to medium/large size, similarly there was a vast difference of experience in the room which was challenging from the trainer's perspective. 

Everyday after the session would end the participants would generally change into board shorts (for the males, the females didnt have this option and remained in sari's generally) and hit the beach, seemingly becoming teenagers again and running up and down taking hundreds of photographs.  After all, we were in Cox' Bazaar, THE premiere tourist destination in Bangladesh, which seemed to mean vast amounts of fairly dubious looking hotels, billboards and stalls selling shells and other nick-nacks, not to mention the highest concentration of hawaiian shirts in the country.  But it quickly became apparent the real reason that people flocked here - the stunning beach, 125 km continuous kilometres of gently sloping sand.  Around twilight the golden light spilled over the water, which through reflections covered the whole place with luminous honey.  Being from Australia I am fairly spoilt with easy beach access, but for most of the Bangladeshis it was their only access to the dreamy space where ocean meets sky.  Interestingly enough I didn't see a single western foreigner during the week I was here, which seemed to indicate the efforts the government was putting into tourism marketing. 

I did get sick with some sort of virus bacteria, alongside a few others... there was a fairly uninspiring day when everyone else went off gallivanting to another more isolated beach and the infirm held close to their hotel rooms and even closer to their toilets and/or handkerchiefs.  Another incident occurred when three of the participants got stuck in a lift... an hour later they were freed, but a brawl almost ensured when angry participants clashed with hotel staff who had seemingly done little to free their friends. 

The trip ended with a looong overnight bus trip back to Dhaka (complete with the obligatory engine failure around breakfast time).  As we crawled back to the capital, and as I felt my sense of space shrinking to matched the crowded streets, I was able to fully appreciated the magical sense of space that Cox's Bazaar had, and the feeling of being around so many people were able to suspend their difficult lives for a few precious days to kick loose in the sand and run around like children. 

Dad's Visit

My dad visited me over the period September 6-10th, arriving on midnight of the same day I returned from Sri Lanka.  It was lovely to see him, and even more interesting in this different context - previously  I have been the one being led around by him in Thailand or China to hear his dispersion of wisdom... now there was an inversion and I found myself offering key insights about Bengali culture and opportune moments... how the circle repeats itself.  It's also interesting how when you show a visitor around for the first time in foreign place that you now call 'home', it casts a new kind of curious light on the surroundings which had now become common-place and invisible in the process of getting to know place.  It's a certain kind of unknowing.

Sri Lanka

Sri Lanka.  The opportunity to visit came through an invitation to some youth climate change  workshops that the Sri Lankan Youth Climate Action Network (SLYCAN) had sent out. I had little idea about the workshops, but life is all about throwing oneself into new possibilities so I jumped at the chance..

I had one night in Dhaka after returning from Nepal before setting out for Sri Lanka.  Apart from the ritualistic sorting and repacking of dirty/clean clothes,  I was filled with a curiosity of what lay ahead.  A whole new country… Buddhist religion… years of civil war… string hoppers… I was curious about everything, and these musings almost got the better of me at the airport, where I dreamily left my passport behind on a shop counter after purchasing a ‘vegetable roll’.  Twenty minutes before my flight I was frantically searching as were airport security when it was found in safe keeping at the ‘vegetable roll’ establishment.  

After touching down in Colombo I caught a smooth 2hr taxi ride to 'Raveli Beach Resort' where some of the youth deligates were staying.  There I had the doubly novel experience of having a beer with an Indian, Jayasimha, who was not only vegetarian but was doing a presentation about the large impact meat consumption has on climate change for the Humane Society International (beer and vegetarians are rarely sighted in Bangladesh).  This is an issue close to my heart (and stomach).  I also met Vositha, a Sri Lankan activist who was finishing her legal studies and was the powerhouse behind the workshops and SLYCAN, running on few funds and even fewer hours of sleep. 

The next day we attended a journalists' workshop and I delivered a brief presentation on the Community Managed Disaster Risk Reduction (CMDRR) project that I am working on in Bangladesh. It was my first presentation on it, and I tried the hardest to believe all the words I was saying - conceptually my belief was there, but practically I had little exposure yet to the  CMDRR approach in action. Post workshop myself and Jayasimha were dazzled by slick brand shopping mall... where sunglasses in glass cabinets were selling for hundred of dollars, next to countless shelves of designer clothing... the silent mantra around us was to fall in love with the Image, and consume its material counterpart, the Product. It was a bit depressing to be reminded again of the pulling power of unfettered consumption, so the only remedy was some ice-cream consumption followed by a beautiful sunset dinner at the classic Galle Face Hotel, overlooking the lazy ocean rubbing up against the shore.  

The next morning I had some time to relax and spend by myself - precious time in a packed schedule of people people people.  Wandering along the beach and in the hotel I discovered some interesting facts about the way romance is negotiated here.  Like in Bangladesh, public displays of affection are seldom seen (though perhaps slightly more common here), and on the beach the canoodling is usually done behind a massive umbrella, or a rocky outcrop.  Meanwhile, at the hotel something else was going on... series of couples were presenting themselves to reception to then disappear for just a few hours. Later the hotel manager explained to me that the beach umbrellas were for people who 'could not afford to stay in my hotel'.  Aside from the lovers, the beach had considerable slum areas which were my first realisation of the poverty residing outside of the fancy hotels and shopping malls in downtown Colombo.

There were some more workshops over the next few days covering a range of broadly climate related issues.  I presented two - one on the crucial need for creativity in addressing climate change, the other on photography and social change.  An inspiring mix of young people attended the talks, and it was refreshing to speak about bold new worlds being created rather than dwelling always on the critique of the current.  I was particularly inspired by the two sisters behind the events - Vositha and Vishakha Wijenayake.  Polar opposites in personality, they somehow brought the events together, with particularly Vositha's persistence with getting things across the line.  Despite some disorganisation and some attendance issues - that is common when everything needs be done at the last minute with not enough people -the workshops themselves radiated a quiet authenticity and carved out a modest series of spaces for immodest ideas to be discussed and new worlds advanced.  I hope that the SLYCAN network was emboldened by the workshops and will organise more!


Socially too it was lovely to focus on quality, not quantity.  Spending time with the two sisters, and their friend Kaveesha, over cool drinks on quiet beaches, amongst the sway of palm trees and the nocturnal sighs of the ocean, was a beautiful relief to big dinners of Australian volunteers in dusty Dhaka.

There was a final, painful episode of the adventure that should be chronicled.  On the last day I was leaving for Kandy, a stunning town nestled in the forests above Colombo.  Running for the train, I slipped and fell on the railway tracks and ripped my right toenail.  Eheu! Bleeding and hobbling, I made it to the train brandishing my ticket (it was actually for the urging of someone on the platform that I needed a ticket which made me dash across the tracks in the first place), and tried to nonchalantly cover up the pooling blood.  This train lasted an hour, I then transferred to another train, this time for 3 hours.  I really tried to concentrate on the beautiful scenery passing by and not the growing pain in my foot.  However a very generous woman (who turned out to be a nurse) spotted my injury and insisted on taking me to the hospital in Kandy... which turned out to be overfull, so after visiting three private clinics, we found one that could take me in.  They prodded the toenail which was hanging on by about 8-12mm of flesh... meekly I said that we'd known each other for a long time and that could I keep the toenail... no it needed to come off apparently... I suggested that anesthetic would be a good practice, they said yes, they could provide it but its extra time and money, and by way of concluding the decision making they pulled off the nail then and there.  Words cannot really describe the pain, which was extended through forcible scrubbing of the exposed raw nail bed.  Bandaged up, I hobbled off finally to my actual destination - the temple of the Holy Tooth Relic (Sri Dalada Maligawa), which is said to have housed a tooth of the Buddha.  My mind was on toenails (or lack of them) instead of teeth, but it was nonetheless an interesting temple to explore.

When I arrived back in Colombo, Vositha, Vishakha and Kaveesha took me under their wing like the hobbling, bleeding bird that I was and treated me to lovely last dinner on the beach (on the way my contact lens blew out of my right eye into the sri lankan night yielding an otherworldly half-glow to my vision).    As the plane took off at early next morning (there was not a chance to sleep in between unfortunately), I could not help feeling grateful for the chance to visit this peaceful place, which seems like a little pocket outside of time.

Nepal

Leaving the no-place of the airport on 16th August, my colleague Kanika asked me whether I had noticed some differences between Kathmandu and Dhaka.  Once I opened my mouth in reply, surprisingly the observations poured out.  Firstly the diversity of the faces that we passed by – they ranged from south Asian, to east Asian to central Asian, in wide ranging palettes.  Secondary there were women everywhere!  I think I had acclimatized to the 70/30 to 80/20 ratio that you see on the streets here in Dhaka, and now this had been thoroughly overturned.  Moreover, there were women zooming by on motorbikes! Driving them rather than sitting side-saddle behind a man.  Crazyness!  Thirdly, as my eye scanned the roads and horizon, I became aware that my gazes was going up AND down through space – there was actually depth to the landscape!  (Dhaka shares with Melbourne the consistency of a flat plain).  Here valleys opened up between buildings and statues glinted on hilltops.  A fourth difference was actually seeing Western tourists – suddenly they appeared in the streets and out of the shops, walking turtles with their oversized backpacks and brand new hiking shoes.  In Dhaka the foreigners are generally NGO workers who flit between their office, their apartment, and the expat club in cars with tinted windows.  There’s not a backpack to be seen.

The first week was for work, with the five-strong Concern Universal team splitting into two, I was lucky enough to go on the scenic venture to Makwanpur, around 7 hours winding drive from Kathmandu.  Deep, lush vistas opened up around our packed little vessel as it wound it’s way around hilltops and through valleys.  The clouds which hung heavy at our level eventually opened up, and unpaved roads turned to slush. At one point I was introduced to an anti-bog technique of weighing down the car as much as possible when climbing the hills.  This involved various random people jumping in our car, hanging off the sides etc, which surprising worked to get us up the hill in bouts of terror and laughter. 

The Makwanpur District itself was beautiful, with a low-lying, unassuming river offering a peaceful expanse alongside paddy fields and the humble settlements of the town.  The next day there was a sharing meeting that brought together various local NGOs and government around the key issue of Disaster Risk Reduction and climate change.  It was good to see many young people attending (even if I couldn’t understand the Nepali).  I was a bit disappointed to see the lack of participation in the meeting but this is all part of the learning of how things are run over here.  Over the next few days we visited various schools and an NGO that had been implementing a DRR education project there - encompassing infrastructural changes (earthquake sensitive buildings etc) as well as community empowerment (local student and community clubs for sharing stories and co-learning). See report here.

Back in Kathmandu we visited an NGO that had an interesting arrangement between an community organic cooperative assisting to fund the local school which had an environmental curriculum. See report here.  There was a National level sharing meeting with many interesting speakers on climate change and disaster risk reduction, which drew many audience questions and responses.  It’s so hard to know the impact of these events, the extent of how far the ripples go out.  I hoped for the best.

The work trip ended after a week, and I was able to find myself again, which was a bit of a relief (I was the only one who didn’t speak Bangla or Nepali…).  Some of the Nepal AYADs had a spare room and were generous enough to let me stay in it over the next few days where I explored Kathmandu.  Sharmila, a generous model-turned-university-lecturer, showed me around her university, which included a visit to the fine art faculty where I was over-joyed to see actual art being created by a range of long haired characters which reminded me of studies at my art school.  They were very different to the paintings that you tended to see in the Thamel tourist area (such as 'Himalayan range', 'Woman in tribal dress carrying water jug', 'Himalayan range with water jug woman' etc).  

Despite a growing cold (a present I think some of my departing colleagues bequeathed to me), I managed to briefly escape Kathmandu and made it to Bhaktapur, an hour’s drive away with a beautiful old town centre crowded with dilapidated, beautiful temples and maze-like cobble-stoned alleys.  Groups of women would look down on me and other foreigners from their ancient wooden shuttered windows; a wave would return a smile.  I spent a delightful afternoon playing with children whilst sheltering in a shrine from the rain.  Another few elastic hours were spent talking with curious locals who invited me back to there home – two teenage daughter shared a room which was divided into their two choosen disciplines of science and management, with the textbooks piled high on either side.   Eventually though, it all had to come to an end, and on 29^th August I flew out and back home to… Dhaka.

Ten Things I Love About Dhaka

The Fabric
I realised in a few of these blog posts I've focused on some pretty 'heavy' topics, and may be giving the wrong impression of how I experience Bangladesh.  Of course, all the poverty, massive inequality, and entanglements with personal guilt and agency are always present, informing all the threads of life here.  But these are inter-woven with another strand - that of wonderment and life-vitality.  There is just so much vibrancy out on display here; a stranger-flaneur-interloper such as myself has the privilege of seeing and experiencing things that would otherwise be shut up indoors back home.  Of course, the very real factors of poverty, over-crowdedness, and inequality contribute to this situation - however  I do not wish to dwell on this here. Together these two threads weave a heady fabric for the naive visitor.

Unraveling a thread
Not long after I arrived I started collecting small, random experiences and sights that I came across during my walking around Dhaka.  Here are some of them (in no particular order).

- Watching with awe as a predatory kite circled the sky effortlessly over the water, riding the air with the mastery of an animal angel

- Pouring much anticipated cereal into a bowl and adding milk only to find scores of tiny ants float to the surface - but bursting out laughing at the sheer tenacity and veracity of life over here, then feeling Bangladesh sliding ever so slowly under my skin

- A mangy street dog's eyes following me and the moment opening up as he began to wag his tail

- Coming to the rooftop and sharing the expansive twilight sky with a handful of other people lounging around on their rooftops, chatting, laughing, and watching the world go by

- Crossing the busy Kamal Attaturk road in the middle of the upmarket Banani area one morning on the way to work, and finding a group of large, docile cows crazing next to the police checkpoint; an old man caressed the flank on one as he milked he, standing on an ancient wooden stool

- Watching the storm roll through from my bedroom, the cooling air rushing through the stuffy room carrying in the wet scent of the city

- Walking past a women in a bright red-orange sari sitting on the ground slowly sculpting a new rounded cooking stove from rich brown clay

- The warm rains pimpling the dreamy green Banani lake

- Picking up a seemingly dead beetle on my spartan balcony which started to revive and as I tossing it down towards the garden to the south it spread blue-green wings and took off in a determined line through the air

- A small boy leading a blind man with a cane across the road near the lake.  A spirited conversation between the two, the man's smile


I hope that some of the photographs below can give you a sense of this melody of life.

Air Conditioning, Bowls of Water, and a Long Hose

All of the above objects were combined in unexpected ways last night.  I had got back at around 10:30pm from a Bangladeshi play (which told the heroic/tragic story of the murdered Bangladeshi Christian-Indigenous leader Alfred Soren).

My room was predictably sticking hot and I turned on the ancient air con unit, which grumbled to a start.  I had left the room and was just about to pop into the shower when I saw a flash of light and flames erupt from the geriatric unit.  Clad only in a towel, I ran around the house looking for a water receptacle - the best I could find was getting a setup involving plastic tub to transport the water to the room and a small ceramic bowl,  to dowse the fire in discrete upward throwing motions.  The flames were resilient though, and kept growing despite my heroic actions.  In between bailings I called the building manager Kamrul who eventually came with a more advanced piece of fire-fighting equipment - a thin black hose which he proceeded to attach the bathroom faucet.  By this time by some stroke of divine luck my repeated bailings seemed to have extinguished the visible fire, and Kamrul used the hose to soak the whole thing down thoroughly for good measure.  The sweet smell of incinerated plastic and melted electrical components lingered in the air in some kind of fragrant mocking way. 

Together with a supportive housemate Carla (who brought me some iced ribena after the ordeal), I requested over email that other Australian volunteers should be advised of the fire risks and adequate mitigation measures taken etc etc.  This is being currently taken care of, and hopefully the net outcome of the incident may be positive in reducing future fires, and risk to other volunteers.

However standing out on my balcony in the balmy July Dhaka night, I looked down on the shacks clustered around the building site next door.  It's estimated that between 25-30% of the Dhaka population live in slums, which are at continual risk of being set alight by faulty or unattended cooking stoves.  Standing on that balcony, feeling lucky to be unscathed,  I had the backing of the Australian Government to mitigate my risks, as well as my own relative affluence in this country.  But who was looking after the risks of the people who were down below?  It reminded me again how culturally, economically, and geographically relative the perception of 'risk' is.