I learned something today about Bangladeshi culture. It does not matter how old you are, apparently you can still receive lectures that make you feel like you are in the 3rd grade. Today, I witnessed my potential ‘hires’ for the survey seriously dressed down for 20 minutes about the virtues of timeliness. Only 5 of them were late. So why did the rest have to suffer? And why did the late ones have to stand up and be publicly shamed? Apparently, this is the way to start off a training program, build morale and other good management techniques. Mind you, most of these guys have masters’ degrees, and we are all about the same age.
It was, needless to say, a little awkward to stand up and introduce myself after that ‘introduction’ to the project. I was certainly amused to hear that my introduction was: “This is Nurali Sha-ha. She looks like us, but she is not Bangladeshi. She is from America, but her mother and father are from India. But she was born in America. She does not speak Bangla, but she can understand it. She is here for her PhD research.” Clearly, the order of operations is important.
Several more times during the day, being on time was emphasized. The first tea break was 30 minutes. Anyone who was late was noted down. After the tea, we talked about how you can’t treat people from the villages like hicks and talk down to them. You must address them as apna, not tumi.
Is this something that has to be taught? Amazing. The things that did not get a lot of space in my training protocol. But when in Dhaka, …
Oh. But the best moment occurred when we started to talk about the consent form. The trainer asked these men, randomly, to stand up and start reading out loud. When we got to the third sentence, a man was called on who had worked for them before, so he was pretty confident he was going to be hired as a supervisor. But, he was not paying attention, so he started reading in the wrong place. Not good. I mean – I was scared. No one was allowed to help him find his place. He had to stand there and sweat for a while…(and 30 Bangladeshi, no deodorant wearing men in 1 room…sweat…ugh!) I’m not sure what happened to him after that, but he did not show up for the final session of the day.
It is no wonder that we have to worry that instead of actually conducting interviews, people may sit under a tree or in a tea shop and fill out the surveys. They are too scared of getting actual data, which might contain uncertainties!
Perhaps you already know all of this. But to my new @$$, it was a lesson. All I can say is – it is a good thing that in this country, one is not worried about such things as equal opportunity hiring, wrongful dismissal and unemployment compensation.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Pregnancy, Hungarians and Lungis
You want stories? Well, I shall not fail you. Not so soon.
I'm staying in a nice neighborhood, and since this is the subcontinent, we are lucky enough to have someone who comes 3 days a week to clean and do laundry. This is good, since I'm not sure that any clothes I handwash would actually get clean. Well, Irene immediately took to me. Luckily, she speaks some hindi, so we can communicate. She's my age, but has a 12 year old and a 3 year old. She's a petite woman (well, in the US we'd call it petite. Here it is normal, and a sign of childhood malnutrition leading to stunting. But, those are technicalities.)
Irene has told me all about her life, so I learned that her handsome husband (her words, not mine) is a tailor. One of my outfits was not fitting well, so I asked her if he could let it out. We had a strange conversation about how her figure is not the same since her children. But, based upon some previous conversations, I said - but that's ok. You have a baby. And she said - you mean the 3 year old?. And I said, um, no...how many months until you will have your baby? And she said - You think that there is a baby in my stomach?
Uh. Um. yes? isn't there?
Oh no. I can't get my figure back since my children.
THE WOMAN LOOKS 6 MONTHS PREGNANT.
I've learned long ago not to ask heavier women if they are expecting. But never thought that someone who looks thin, is young, and has a large pot belly would be an issue. :)
****************-----------------------***********************
Generally, we lose power once a day. There is a generator, but only certain plugs or lights work when the generator comes on. None of these are in my room. At least it is one less sense that can be overloaded, since there is constant honking and strange smells at all hours.
It's a conservative place. Friday is the day off, and the streets are quiet! This week, Thursday is also a national holiday - Language Martyr Day. Any time I leave the apartment, I need to wear a Salwar Kameez (Shalwar in local lingo). The only time I didn't was when my sole destination was the American club to get a drink. I can't wear the top with jeans. I can't wear it without a dupata (orna, in local lingo). In fact, you can't even wear the dupata any way except over both shoulders, covering your chest.
Because, clearly, we cannot tempt men. They must, at most, see only the arms of a woman. And not even her shoulders (no sleeveless Shalwars either). And, any hint of having breasts must be hidden, so it looks like a mono-boob. But, do they have to follow the same standard? Are they in kurtas, or bedsheets like in the middle east or afghanistan? No. They get to run around town in a lungi. That, is, essentially a wrap around skirt, which can be short or long, depending on your mood, and can be pulled between the legs for greater mobility and a thong like effect which is highly unnecessary. I'll do my best to provide photos. Double standards irk me.
Well...I take that back. Let me tell you about the underground market for products important to the 'bideshi' (foreigner). In this Muslim country, those products include alcohol and bacon. Since it is still a poor country with a limited diet, it also includes cheese, bread, and spaghetti sauce.
For the booze, the options are to become a member of one of the clubs. The American Club, the British Club, etc. Or, have friends who are members, and go as a guest. In order to become a member, you can't just show a passport and some dollars. You have to be sponsored by a "First Tier" member...someone who is directly employed by the US Govt. I haven't made any "First Tier" contacts yet.
But, you don't always want to drink in a club. You want a beer or glass of wine at home. If you forgot to pack it in your suitcase, or have run out and don't have a trip to India or Thailand scheduled soon, options are limited. Until recently, there was the 'blue gate'. Someone in the know must take you to the blue gate. You knock, and are let in, where you wander back towards the building, past an unkempt yard. As you get up to the door, a Burmese woman asks you what you need, goes back into the apartment, and produces it for you. Word on the street is that the blue gate doesn't open anymore.
And as for the bacon (or sausage, ham, pork chops, pepperoni...) one must go to the German Butcher. This is another unmarked private residence, only open between 9:30 and 12, and 3-6. I went with Becky to the German Butcher yesterday. She wanted to get some good bread and some chicken.
I learned that The German Butcher is not German at all. He is an older Hungarian man, married to a Korean, who has lived in Bangladesh for the last 15 or so years. He makes his own sausage, grinds his own beef, and they bake fresh multigrain bread as well. So, I asked where he gets the pork for the sausage. Apparently, he raises boars or something. And, the chickens will come to you any way you want - defeathered for one thing; but even as boneless chicken breasts! What a luxury. And, he doesn't believe in bird flu. So, he still sells chicken. ;)
*************-------------------****************
Before coming, I had asked Becky what I should bring for them. She only had 2 requests. Cheese and Coffee.
The only coffee here is nescafe. So, her need for real coffee is understandable. Yesterday, we saw a 1 quart size tin of Maxwell House for $8. A new import. And as for cheese...it is slowly making its way into the grocery stores frequented by the 'bideshi'. Most Bangladeshi's don't go to a grocery store. Everything they need can be bought at street markets or small shops. But the cheese that does arrive here...well... I've learned that the American food companies and grocery stores really have stooped to a new low.
When they realize that they are overstocked and the expiry date is about to come, where do you think the food goes. Not the trash. No no. It goes overseas. The cheese that you can buy "fresh" from the store has expired in December. And it is exorbitant.
Eish!
I guess I'll just eat some rice.
I'm staying in a nice neighborhood, and since this is the subcontinent, we are lucky enough to have someone who comes 3 days a week to clean and do laundry. This is good, since I'm not sure that any clothes I handwash would actually get clean. Well, Irene immediately took to me. Luckily, she speaks some hindi, so we can communicate. She's my age, but has a 12 year old and a 3 year old. She's a petite woman (well, in the US we'd call it petite. Here it is normal, and a sign of childhood malnutrition leading to stunting. But, those are technicalities.)
Irene has told me all about her life, so I learned that her handsome husband (her words, not mine) is a tailor. One of my outfits was not fitting well, so I asked her if he could let it out. We had a strange conversation about how her figure is not the same since her children. But, based upon some previous conversations, I said - but that's ok. You have a baby. And she said - you mean the 3 year old?. And I said, um, no...how many months until you will have your baby? And she said - You think that there is a baby in my stomach?
Uh. Um. yes? isn't there?
Oh no. I can't get my figure back since my children.
THE WOMAN LOOKS 6 MONTHS PREGNANT.
I've learned long ago not to ask heavier women if they are expecting. But never thought that someone who looks thin, is young, and has a large pot belly would be an issue. :)
****************-----------------------***********************
Generally, we lose power once a day. There is a generator, but only certain plugs or lights work when the generator comes on. None of these are in my room. At least it is one less sense that can be overloaded, since there is constant honking and strange smells at all hours.
It's a conservative place. Friday is the day off, and the streets are quiet! This week, Thursday is also a national holiday - Language Martyr Day. Any time I leave the apartment, I need to wear a Salwar Kameez (Shalwar in local lingo). The only time I didn't was when my sole destination was the American club to get a drink. I can't wear the top with jeans. I can't wear it without a dupata (orna, in local lingo). In fact, you can't even wear the dupata any way except over both shoulders, covering your chest.
Because, clearly, we cannot tempt men. They must, at most, see only the arms of a woman. And not even her shoulders (no sleeveless Shalwars either). And, any hint of having breasts must be hidden, so it looks like a mono-boob. But, do they have to follow the same standard? Are they in kurtas, or bedsheets like in the middle east or afghanistan? No. They get to run around town in a lungi. That, is, essentially a wrap around skirt, which can be short or long, depending on your mood, and can be pulled between the legs for greater mobility and a thong like effect which is highly unnecessary. I'll do my best to provide photos. Double standards irk me.
Well...I take that back. Let me tell you about the underground market for products important to the 'bideshi' (foreigner). In this Muslim country, those products include alcohol and bacon. Since it is still a poor country with a limited diet, it also includes cheese, bread, and spaghetti sauce.
For the booze, the options are to become a member of one of the clubs. The American Club, the British Club, etc. Or, have friends who are members, and go as a guest. In order to become a member, you can't just show a passport and some dollars. You have to be sponsored by a "First Tier" member...someone who is directly employed by the US Govt. I haven't made any "First Tier" contacts yet.
But, you don't always want to drink in a club. You want a beer or glass of wine at home. If you forgot to pack it in your suitcase, or have run out and don't have a trip to India or Thailand scheduled soon, options are limited. Until recently, there was the 'blue gate'. Someone in the know must take you to the blue gate. You knock, and are let in, where you wander back towards the building, past an unkempt yard. As you get up to the door, a Burmese woman asks you what you need, goes back into the apartment, and produces it for you. Word on the street is that the blue gate doesn't open anymore.
And as for the bacon (or sausage, ham, pork chops, pepperoni...) one must go to the German Butcher. This is another unmarked private residence, only open between 9:30 and 12, and 3-6. I went with Becky to the German Butcher yesterday. She wanted to get some good bread and some chicken.
I learned that The German Butcher is not German at all. He is an older Hungarian man, married to a Korean, who has lived in Bangladesh for the last 15 or so years. He makes his own sausage, grinds his own beef, and they bake fresh multigrain bread as well. So, I asked where he gets the pork for the sausage. Apparently, he raises boars or something. And, the chickens will come to you any way you want - defeathered for one thing; but even as boneless chicken breasts! What a luxury. And, he doesn't believe in bird flu. So, he still sells chicken. ;)
*************-------------------****************
Before coming, I had asked Becky what I should bring for them. She only had 2 requests. Cheese and Coffee.
The only coffee here is nescafe. So, her need for real coffee is understandable. Yesterday, we saw a 1 quart size tin of Maxwell House for $8. A new import. And as for cheese...it is slowly making its way into the grocery stores frequented by the 'bideshi'. Most Bangladeshi's don't go to a grocery store. Everything they need can be bought at street markets or small shops. But the cheese that does arrive here...well... I've learned that the American food companies and grocery stores really have stooped to a new low.
When they realize that they are overstocked and the expiry date is about to come, where do you think the food goes. Not the trash. No no. It goes overseas. The cheese that you can buy "fresh" from the store has expired in December. And it is exorbitant.
Eish!
I guess I'll just eat some rice.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
In the world's most densly populated country
After a lovely 24 hour journey (and by lovely, I mean fairly miserable), I arrived in the world's most densly populated country. My home until I get my data for that blasted dissertation. Things so far have been good. A bit strange at times, as all new places are, but I am living in a really nice apartment, courtesy of the generosity of Becky (Day) Merrill and her husband Scott.
But, let's get to the juicy stuff right away. Why bother with pleasantries? Let me tell you about the most darkly comic response to "How are you" I have EVER received.
I was picked up at the airport by Shajahan. He is the project manager for the research study I am working with. He is a distinguished older guy. And although there are 150 million people in this country, I have learnt that it is actually quite small, and everyone knows each other. So, Shajahan is a man of connections.
Being the polite girl that I am, I asked him how he was.
His reply: "I am facing the worst crisis of my life."
My response: "[long, pregnant pause] Oh. Um. Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
The rest of the conversation went something like this.
Does it have to do with your family?
Yes.
Is everyone's health ok?
Yes. It is my son. He is so stupid. He has ruined my reputation and my family's name.
Um. What did he do?
He is trapped by a bad girl.
A bad girl?
Yes. She has trapped him and now her family says we must pay. They want me to pay 20 lakh taka (2 million taka - $30,000)
Oh. [another pregnant pause] What happened?
He is so stupid. He got into love with her. I am ruined. Where do I come up with the money?
Um. Is there a baby?
What?
I mean...he is in love with her. Is the problem that there is a baby involved?
No.
Oh. Where is your son now?
He is in hiding.
Hmm.
At this point, I was at a complete loss. So, I told him that I was sorry, and thanked him for coming to get me. He said he was on the phone the whole time he was waiting for me, trying to get this sorted out.
But, my curiousity was certainly piqued. After a bit of investigation, and some cross-referencing, this is the situation.
Shajahan rented his house (or part of his house) to this family. His son fell in love with their daughter. Then, Shajahan finds out that the father is a very big international smuggler. He tells his son that he cannot be with this girl. But, it turns out that the two are married. The son is in hiding because he cannot divorce her.
But, the Bollywood aspect of this fiasco does not end here. The smuggler has "documents" indicating the marriage, and the Bangladeshi version of a pre-nup, that says that if they get divorced, the daughter gets 20 lakh taka. Shajahan can't run away from the problem and tell his son to solve it, because it does not work that way in this culture. And, to make matters worse, he cannot go to the police or other authorities, because the smuggler has them in his pocket. And, the daughter was 'delivered' to Shajahan's house recently, and tore at her clothes. So now, they have trumped up an accusation that she is being mis-treated. I was told that Shajahan may have to sell his house. I was also assured that this is a very rare situation.
You think?
But, let's get to the juicy stuff right away. Why bother with pleasantries? Let me tell you about the most darkly comic response to "How are you" I have EVER received.
I was picked up at the airport by Shajahan. He is the project manager for the research study I am working with. He is a distinguished older guy. And although there are 150 million people in this country, I have learnt that it is actually quite small, and everyone knows each other. So, Shajahan is a man of connections.
Being the polite girl that I am, I asked him how he was.
His reply: "I am facing the worst crisis of my life."
My response: "[long, pregnant pause] Oh. Um. Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
The rest of the conversation went something like this.
Does it have to do with your family?
Yes.
Is everyone's health ok?
Yes. It is my son. He is so stupid. He has ruined my reputation and my family's name.
Um. What did he do?
He is trapped by a bad girl.
A bad girl?
Yes. She has trapped him and now her family says we must pay. They want me to pay 20 lakh taka (2 million taka - $30,000)
Oh. [another pregnant pause] What happened?
He is so stupid. He got into love with her. I am ruined. Where do I come up with the money?
Um. Is there a baby?
What?
I mean...he is in love with her. Is the problem that there is a baby involved?
No.
Oh. Where is your son now?
He is in hiding.
Hmm.
At this point, I was at a complete loss. So, I told him that I was sorry, and thanked him for coming to get me. He said he was on the phone the whole time he was waiting for me, trying to get this sorted out.
But, my curiousity was certainly piqued. After a bit of investigation, and some cross-referencing, this is the situation.
Shajahan rented his house (or part of his house) to this family. His son fell in love with their daughter. Then, Shajahan finds out that the father is a very big international smuggler. He tells his son that he cannot be with this girl. But, it turns out that the two are married. The son is in hiding because he cannot divorce her.
But, the Bollywood aspect of this fiasco does not end here. The smuggler has "documents" indicating the marriage, and the Bangladeshi version of a pre-nup, that says that if they get divorced, the daughter gets 20 lakh taka. Shajahan can't run away from the problem and tell his son to solve it, because it does not work that way in this culture. And, to make matters worse, he cannot go to the police or other authorities, because the smuggler has them in his pocket. And, the daughter was 'delivered' to Shajahan's house recently, and tore at her clothes. So now, they have trumped up an accusation that she is being mis-treated. I was told that Shajahan may have to sell his house. I was also assured that this is a very rare situation.
You think?
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