April 14 was the Bangla new year - called the Pohela Boishak (or the first day of the Boishak month). Rather than ringing it in at midnight, or celebrating with parties, the local tradition is to greet the rising sun with songs. So, many thousands of people gather together to sing at 5:30 am. I did not make it then. But, I did participate in the festivities later in the day. It is important to wear red and white, and to show your national pride. This is done with the "onusthan". Offices, schools, and all kinds of groups put together cultural programs.
I went to one such program at a school. It was cute, - small children singing and dancing and such...but often, the over eager (and probably repressed) mothers took over - hogging the mic for all of the songs, and, as seen below, even getting up on the stage uninvited. This shocking video, taken by yours truly, shows the modern dance teacher at this school, giving a performance as a promotion for his new classes. The person sitting next to me thought the performance was beautiful.
This is also my first You Tube post, and it is very exciting to be so technological!
For more stories about the cultural divide, you'll have to buy me a beer and ask for entertainment.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
which title should i choose?
There could be so many different titles for this post. I just don't know how to encapsulate all of my adventures into 1. For example, I could call it:
They killed a chicken for me
or
The men have all the fun
or even something more serious, like
Seeing the link between US consumerism and hungry villagers
Maybe I'll settle on a pun.
Remember the C&C Music Factory?
I have been on a pilgramage of sorts - In the last 10 days, I have gone and spent time with every one of my interview teams. Me and my nalgene are tromping through dusty fields in the west, through rice paddies in the east, and have seen the Bangladesh-India border on both sides - West Bengal/Bihar and Tripura/Meghalaya. I've crossed the Ganges, Padma, Meghna, and Jamuna rivers, although I have yet to go on a boat. And, knock on wood, I've survived all of these kilometers of travel on roads that have certainly increased my blood pressure. In fact, I think that instead of warning travelers to Bangladesh about malaria (which the CDC does, but which is not, in fact, a big problem here), they should caution travelers with heart conditions from coming, for risk of heart attack when your car is overtaking a slow moving truck, who is not in his lane because an even slower cycle rickshaw is near the shoulder, and you face 2 buses barrelling directly at you - one trying to overtake the other while rounding a curve, all on a road that is barely 2 lanes wide (1 each way.)
Forget the east africans - I bet that if Bangladesh tried, it could find the next olympic marathoner. Imagine the inherent heart and lung strength of a man who makes his living pedaling a cycle (laden with all sorts of nonsense) on the polluted streets of Dhaka while facing all of these much larger vehicles trying to run you off the road. I guess the only problem is, they aren't used to hills. Human rights concerns certainly wouldn't be a barrier.
I saw a hill 2 days ago. I stopped and took a picture of it. Mostly because the driver got so excited, I felt I had to. A land so flat, a hill is something to photograph. hmmmm....
Some of you have, no doubt seen a chicken go from yard to table. I had 1 opportunity in the past, but I remained blissfully oblivious, or otherwise amused. But as I was staying in the house of a random woman whom I had just met, and her various landlords and other renters, I observed such a delight. The only think about this chicken was that it arrived to the house with its neck already broken. But, everything else was intact - feathers; beak; feet. There is one kitchen implement that is required in Bangladesh. It is a large curved knife, like a sickel or a machete, with a tripod like base that you set on the ground, and stablize with your foot. Then, with the curved blade pointing towards your eye, you may proceed to dice an onion, scale a fish, or, in this case, prepare a chicken.
It wasn't the blood that bothered me. Or the sawing required to get the wings off, followed by the violent ripping of the skin/feathers from the body. It actually came off in one piece, which is kind of cool. I was ok with seeing the innards,and relieved to see that they went into the garbage pile. Not much else did.
Just a few days before, my roommates and I were sharing gross and wierd food stories. Scott talked about how he had to draw the line at the chicken feet, ceremoniously presented to him one meal. Becky talked about the children fighting over the chicken head, then ripping off the beak to expose the brain, and slurping it out. Imagine my horror when both the feet (declawed, luckily) and the head went into the pot of chicken parts. Was I, as honored guest, going to be presented with these treats? Thankfully not, and I demured when given the option of trying my hostess' favorite dish of greens and the head of the Hilsa fish.
My first stay in a Muslim country has been another eye opener. Sometimes coworkers ask me what I do for fun. I have to bite back a sharp retort, since there is not much I have found. Mostly, they watch tv, gossip, and go shopping if they have extra money. In the villages, life is much more difficult. Women rarely go anywhere. They don't shop. Not because there are financial troubles. Those exist, of course, but here all groceries and other daily necessities are primarily purchased by men. So gossiping with your PTA friend about your neighbor's risque clothes in bread aisle is not an option. That and the fact that the only thing in the last sentance which exists in Bangladesh is gossip.
My travels put me in the company of men, however. Men get to eat out. It's nothing special food wise, but it does mean getting to eat beef when the rest of your family eats it only once a year. Or eating parotha's when you never buy white flour for home use. They can gab over the daily cups of tea, or wander around the streets of the local bazar after dark. They can spend their hard won money on cigarettes and bidis, which women do not consume, or have some tasty fried snacks. They can shop for new clothes, which I have observed they buy with more frequency for themselves and their sons than for their wives, mothers and daughters. But most importantly, they can spend money on their hair.
In my research observations, I have found that men spend between 500 and 3000 taka per year on sprucing and primping. This is, by comparison, roughly what is spent per year on school expenses for their kids. There are 2 cultural reasons for this irony that I have been able to determine. The first is that women never cut their hair. The second is that the men, even the more devout ones with beards, must be shaved. This ritual is done in the "Shaelon" (spelled, to my great amusement, as Saloon), and involves a straight blade, and some kind of facial like action. The shaving is usually done weekly, with a haircut every 3-4 weeks for the younger guys, and maybe every month to 2 months for the older ones. More opportunities for social interaction. Not to mention the trips to the mosque, the group bathing I have observed (ie - many men bathing in the pond at the same time) and the games of cricket that take place in every open space, that the girls do not participate in. Basically, it appears that fun for a girl stops at the age of 8. I find it truly distressing.
People are hungry. My target research group are poor and rural. They engage in agriculture for a living, on their own land (rarely), on rented land, as day laborers or in another form of employment that requires physical labor, such as a cycle rickshaw driver. The have to eat, to acquire, if nothing extra, replacement calories for daily expenditure. Rice, then, is consumed 3 times a day...and since there isn't much else with the rice, because these other products, such as meat, vegetables and fish are costly, a family of 4 can eat 2 kg of rice per day. You have to eat a lot of rice to get 2000 calories. Just think - that is 1 pound per person per day, and if you throw 2 kids into the picture, then it is more like 1.5 pounds per adult per day.
In my visits to their homes, and in discussions with my interviewers, I find that they are agitated. Sometimes, they cry. Other times, they yell. Always, they ask me for money. The military government is providing 2 staple goods, rice and cooking oil, at subsidized rates if one goes to the distribution points and stands in line for hours in the heat. The price of both has doubled in the last year. The economist in me tends to reflect on this, and the activist to get angry. There is, in my opinion, a fairly robust link between their tears and our SUVs.
In response to price increases throughout South and South-east Asia, governments have banned exports of rice. This helps to keep the prices lower in India, Vietnam and China, but puts a severe supply crunch on Bangladesh, which does not produce enough to meet population needs. It is also before the harvest season, so even those who farm rice are buying it now, having run through their stores from the previous harvest. For your $1/day family, rice prices of 75 cents per kg are crippling.
There is also the issue of planting more valuable commodities, such as soyabean and corn. Land conversions are occuring worldwide, including the US as I read in an article today. The US govt, which pays farmers not to plant, is also encouraging the production of corn based ethanol. If food is converted to car fuel, then clearly the price of grain will rise. Why do we need corn based ethanol as a response to global warming and climate change? Why can we not instead invest money in sustainable fuels, hydrogen, or synthetics? What about cow farts? Do the lavish contributions of oil companies to political campaigns play a role? Is it because the folks on K Street who work for the auto companies are paid much better than those who work for the global poor?
In a valiant attempt at chivalry, my interviewers insisted that I sit the other evening, as I came out of the clinic where I was staying to see where they were, and if they were ready for dinner. The electricity was out, so the street was a good place to be, as it was cooler than the inside, and many of the shop keepers had lamps or lights. I tried to say that I was fine. They suggested that I sit in the car. I tried to say that it wasn't necessary. They suggested that I go upstairs. I asked about dinner. Then one of them gave up their chair for me, but did not let me sit in it right away, near where the conversation was occuring. That might be unseemly. He moved it to a dark alcove, away from everyone else. So I sat. Alone. In the dark.
When I write my book, I think that I will title it:
Things that make you go hmmmm
They killed a chicken for me
or
The men have all the fun
or even something more serious, like
Seeing the link between US consumerism and hungry villagers
Maybe I'll settle on a pun.
Remember the C&C Music Factory?
I have been on a pilgramage of sorts - In the last 10 days, I have gone and spent time with every one of my interview teams. Me and my nalgene are tromping through dusty fields in the west, through rice paddies in the east, and have seen the Bangladesh-India border on both sides - West Bengal/Bihar and Tripura/Meghalaya. I've crossed the Ganges, Padma, Meghna, and Jamuna rivers, although I have yet to go on a boat. And, knock on wood, I've survived all of these kilometers of travel on roads that have certainly increased my blood pressure. In fact, I think that instead of warning travelers to Bangladesh about malaria (which the CDC does, but which is not, in fact, a big problem here), they should caution travelers with heart conditions from coming, for risk of heart attack when your car is overtaking a slow moving truck, who is not in his lane because an even slower cycle rickshaw is near the shoulder, and you face 2 buses barrelling directly at you - one trying to overtake the other while rounding a curve, all on a road that is barely 2 lanes wide (1 each way.)
Forget the east africans - I bet that if Bangladesh tried, it could find the next olympic marathoner. Imagine the inherent heart and lung strength of a man who makes his living pedaling a cycle (laden with all sorts of nonsense) on the polluted streets of Dhaka while facing all of these much larger vehicles trying to run you off the road. I guess the only problem is, they aren't used to hills. Human rights concerns certainly wouldn't be a barrier.
I saw a hill 2 days ago. I stopped and took a picture of it. Mostly because the driver got so excited, I felt I had to. A land so flat, a hill is something to photograph. hmmmm....
Some of you have, no doubt seen a chicken go from yard to table. I had 1 opportunity in the past, but I remained blissfully oblivious, or otherwise amused. But as I was staying in the house of a random woman whom I had just met, and her various landlords and other renters, I observed such a delight. The only think about this chicken was that it arrived to the house with its neck already broken. But, everything else was intact - feathers; beak; feet. There is one kitchen implement that is required in Bangladesh. It is a large curved knife, like a sickel or a machete, with a tripod like base that you set on the ground, and stablize with your foot. Then, with the curved blade pointing towards your eye, you may proceed to dice an onion, scale a fish, or, in this case, prepare a chicken.
It wasn't the blood that bothered me. Or the sawing required to get the wings off, followed by the violent ripping of the skin/feathers from the body. It actually came off in one piece, which is kind of cool. I was ok with seeing the innards,and relieved to see that they went into the garbage pile. Not much else did.
Just a few days before, my roommates and I were sharing gross and wierd food stories. Scott talked about how he had to draw the line at the chicken feet, ceremoniously presented to him one meal. Becky talked about the children fighting over the chicken head, then ripping off the beak to expose the brain, and slurping it out. Imagine my horror when both the feet (declawed, luckily) and the head went into the pot of chicken parts. Was I, as honored guest, going to be presented with these treats? Thankfully not, and I demured when given the option of trying my hostess' favorite dish of greens and the head of the Hilsa fish.
My first stay in a Muslim country has been another eye opener. Sometimes coworkers ask me what I do for fun. I have to bite back a sharp retort, since there is not much I have found. Mostly, they watch tv, gossip, and go shopping if they have extra money. In the villages, life is much more difficult. Women rarely go anywhere. They don't shop. Not because there are financial troubles. Those exist, of course, but here all groceries and other daily necessities are primarily purchased by men. So gossiping with your PTA friend about your neighbor's risque clothes in bread aisle is not an option. That and the fact that the only thing in the last sentance which exists in Bangladesh is gossip.
My travels put me in the company of men, however. Men get to eat out. It's nothing special food wise, but it does mean getting to eat beef when the rest of your family eats it only once a year. Or eating parotha's when you never buy white flour for home use. They can gab over the daily cups of tea, or wander around the streets of the local bazar after dark. They can spend their hard won money on cigarettes and bidis, which women do not consume, or have some tasty fried snacks. They can shop for new clothes, which I have observed they buy with more frequency for themselves and their sons than for their wives, mothers and daughters. But most importantly, they can spend money on their hair.
In my research observations, I have found that men spend between 500 and 3000 taka per year on sprucing and primping. This is, by comparison, roughly what is spent per year on school expenses for their kids. There are 2 cultural reasons for this irony that I have been able to determine. The first is that women never cut their hair. The second is that the men, even the more devout ones with beards, must be shaved. This ritual is done in the "Shaelon" (spelled, to my great amusement, as Saloon), and involves a straight blade, and some kind of facial like action. The shaving is usually done weekly, with a haircut every 3-4 weeks for the younger guys, and maybe every month to 2 months for the older ones. More opportunities for social interaction. Not to mention the trips to the mosque, the group bathing I have observed (ie - many men bathing in the pond at the same time) and the games of cricket that take place in every open space, that the girls do not participate in. Basically, it appears that fun for a girl stops at the age of 8. I find it truly distressing.
People are hungry. My target research group are poor and rural. They engage in agriculture for a living, on their own land (rarely), on rented land, as day laborers or in another form of employment that requires physical labor, such as a cycle rickshaw driver. The have to eat, to acquire, if nothing extra, replacement calories for daily expenditure. Rice, then, is consumed 3 times a day...and since there isn't much else with the rice, because these other products, such as meat, vegetables and fish are costly, a family of 4 can eat 2 kg of rice per day. You have to eat a lot of rice to get 2000 calories. Just think - that is 1 pound per person per day, and if you throw 2 kids into the picture, then it is more like 1.5 pounds per adult per day.
In my visits to their homes, and in discussions with my interviewers, I find that they are agitated. Sometimes, they cry. Other times, they yell. Always, they ask me for money. The military government is providing 2 staple goods, rice and cooking oil, at subsidized rates if one goes to the distribution points and stands in line for hours in the heat. The price of both has doubled in the last year. The economist in me tends to reflect on this, and the activist to get angry. There is, in my opinion, a fairly robust link between their tears and our SUVs.
In response to price increases throughout South and South-east Asia, governments have banned exports of rice. This helps to keep the prices lower in India, Vietnam and China, but puts a severe supply crunch on Bangladesh, which does not produce enough to meet population needs. It is also before the harvest season, so even those who farm rice are buying it now, having run through their stores from the previous harvest. For your $1/day family, rice prices of 75 cents per kg are crippling.
There is also the issue of planting more valuable commodities, such as soyabean and corn. Land conversions are occuring worldwide, including the US as I read in an article today. The US govt, which pays farmers not to plant, is also encouraging the production of corn based ethanol. If food is converted to car fuel, then clearly the price of grain will rise. Why do we need corn based ethanol as a response to global warming and climate change? Why can we not instead invest money in sustainable fuels, hydrogen, or synthetics? What about cow farts? Do the lavish contributions of oil companies to political campaigns play a role? Is it because the folks on K Street who work for the auto companies are paid much better than those who work for the global poor?
In a valiant attempt at chivalry, my interviewers insisted that I sit the other evening, as I came out of the clinic where I was staying to see where they were, and if they were ready for dinner. The electricity was out, so the street was a good place to be, as it was cooler than the inside, and many of the shop keepers had lamps or lights. I tried to say that I was fine. They suggested that I sit in the car. I tried to say that it wasn't necessary. They suggested that I go upstairs. I asked about dinner. Then one of them gave up their chair for me, but did not let me sit in it right away, near where the conversation was occuring. That might be unseemly. He moved it to a dark alcove, away from everyone else. So I sat. Alone. In the dark.
When I write my book, I think that I will title it:
Things that make you go hmmmm
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