The Mongoose Strikes at Midday...

And we're back! Ready to continue our adventure. Because of the exciting nature of the rest of the day, tradition as everyone knows, dictates that I must begin with "There I was...!" Or more appropriately, there we were. Let me back up a moment or two and then we will pick up where we left off.

There we were. We were in the boat heading towards shore. It was clear that we had a top of the line tour guide. He didn't miss a thing and as the boat neared the shore he exclaimed with excitement, "Look! Dead dog floating in water!" Really, our experience just wouldn't have been the same had we missed that. 

Now, safely up on the main road, we followed our guide down a crowded street. I feel bad for continuing to call him simply "our guide". I did ask him at one point what his name was but as often happens I just ended up staring blankly at him as he spat out an incomprehensibly complicated 43 letter name. Glassy eyed, I said thank you, and moved on. I will continue to call him "our guide".

Within minutes he turned into a narrow passageway lined with shops. The buildings were impossibly close. I looked up between the tall corroding towers noting that there was maybe only ten feet between them. Looking at the cables and wires strung wildly back and forth between the buildings like some deranged game of cats cradle, I noticed old clothes, shoes, food and garbage laying across the wiry jumble. Clearly garbage disposal here consisted of opening a window and tossing whatever you didn't want out of it.

Just as I was getting really claustrophobic wandering through the tight alleys, the guide turned right and led us into an open area. Clearly, it was only open because a building had been torn down; or fallen down. Either was a possibility. 

To our right, several children were gathering around a man sitting cross legged in the rubble with three small wooden boxes. The boxes had once been brightly painted, but now the paint was faded and worn. Curious about the ruckus, we turned towards the small crowd and heard someone say something about a Cobra. Really? Because that's just too cliche'. You know the scene; the guy in the Lungi and a turban wielding a flute and luring a cobra out of a basket? Okay, so our guy didn't have a flute and it was a box, not a basket, and he wasn't wearing a turban, but still, I thought that was only in movies. 

The crowd was growing. Our guide egged the man on, encouraging him to open the box. Of course, the man demurred with an abundance of, well, insincerity, because we all know that this is what he was there for to begin with.

Finally with great flare, he opened the box and reaching in, flung the Cobra out on the the rocks in front of him. The Cobra curled with half his body rising up, his hood flared out menacingly. He really was an impressive sight. The crowd gasped and leapt back a step. The man grabbed another box and flung yet another snake out of it. No hood, so I don't know what variety he was. Then, in order to really get the show going, the man reached for a third box and opening it, revealed a mongoose inside. 

Pretty dramatic right? I let myself just smile and enjoy the scene because, what the heck! I was standing in Bangladesh, next to the Ganges river, watching a Cobra and a Mongoose getting ready to go at it. You have to appreciate the exotic coolness of the scene.

Now, here is where it goes from dramatic to pretty freakin' funny. I may have already mentioned that the heat index that day was 116. We were in a sheltered area with no ventilation, which I'm pretty sure ran that heat index up to somewhere in the 300's. 

As the crowd waited with baited breath for the battle to commence, it became clear that the animals hearts weren't really in it. If you watch animals closely enough you can tell what they are saying; you just have to pay attention. It may have been the heat, but as I stood there, I could clearly hear the Cobra say, as he turned to face the Mongoose, "Oh, hey Raj, How's it going? Really hot today, don't you think? Honestly I'm too tired to fight. Do we have to do this?" The Mongoose looked back at the Cobra sympathetically and replied "I know, right? But you know the drill. This guys not gonna let up until we make him look good, so why don't you strike at me and then I'll do sort of a hissing kind of thing back at you". The crowd always loves that. As I listened to their inner dialog I also noticed that the Mongoose was actually tied to the box.

With that,  the Cobra rose a little higher into the air and struck out half heartedly towards the Mongoose, who as discussed, bared his teeth and made a little hissing sound. The handler was getting frustrated and practically shoved the Cobra down the mongooses throat. The other snake had gone back to sleep. The two realized they were going to have to up their game and finally made a couple of passes at each other. The crowd was sufficiently pleased. People cheered. I thought the Cobra looked like it needed a nap. The handler was given a nice tip and we moved on. So, maybe not dramatic, but still people, come on, a Cobra and Mongoose fighting! It's a little cool, right?

There was more wandering. For some reason the guide decided to take us through a sweat shop garment factory on like the 87th floor of a building. Okay, it may have been the fourth floor, but I was tired. Frankly, the factory was more depressing than the floating dog had been and we left hastily. More wandering and then we were back at the waterfront.

We walked through an empty yard sort of area where random ship parts lay scattered in the dirt as though a child giant had been playing with them and left them there, forgetting to pick up his toys. There were huge propellers and anchors and chains. The guide showed us how the new propellers were made. It was pretty interesting and a great photo op. 

Next he headed towards a huge rusty yellow, orange and white ship. We were a little perplexed about what his intention was until he pointed to a "plank" that ran diagonally next to the side of the ship. It was about 14 inches wide by 40 ft long. It was around 30 ft up to the first deck so you can imagine the angle that the board climbed at. Pretty much vertical. There was more confusion. Surely he didn't mean for us to climb that?? Was he crazy! Had he never heard of liability?? I don't think there is a tour company in all of America that would have let us climb that board! Again he pointed at the plank vigorously and yelled "chop, chop!!" I stared at the plank, oddly calm and that, "Oh, so this is how I'm going to die".

I don't know what possessed me; most likely stupidity. Maybe it was all the young people in the tour. Maybe I had to prove myself or something, but I'm going with stupidity. Before I had even thought it through I was shimmying up the plank. I refuse to call it a ladder. It was a plank. Each time I stepped forward the plank would bow and wobble. I clung to it like a baby monkey clings to its mother. There were guys in our group who looked like they knew 50 different ways to kill you with a spoon but I bet at that particular moment they were thinking, Oh crap! The old lady went, now we HAVE to go! Derek has confirmed that this was pretty much what he was thinking. 

Finally, trembly step by trembly step I made it to the top. Our guide had gone up ahead of me and was still yelling "chop, chop!" Once I was standing safely on the deck, I looked down the side of the ship at the plank and nearly fell over. Oh dear...the ground looked disturbingly far away. As the rest of the group started their ascent, I stepped back away from the edge of the ship and had a sudden, disheartening realization. I had a flash back to my childhood and belatedly remembered that I was that kid who could always climb up a tree easily enough, but could never get back down! This was not going to go well.

I chose to not think about the trip back down for the moment and moved to the other side of the ship. There were more steps. I was hot, tired and out of breath. The guide yelled chop chop again and I wheeled around. Looking him straight in the eye I growled through clenched teeth, "There is no more chop chop! There won't be anymore chop chop for at least ten minutes! He backed off.

I will admit, it was a pretty spectacular view of the harbor. I took my ten minutes to cool down and get my heart to stop racing but there was no delaying the inevitable. It was time to go back down the plank. By now, a ghoulish group of locals had gathered at the base of the board and were gleefully taking bets on which of us would plummet to our deaths first. I'm just speculating here, but I'm pretty sure that's what they were doing.

It's true what they say about never looking down. It's the only reason I'm sitting here typing this today. The hardest part was just getting back on to the board. After that, my eyes never left the spot I was placing my foot next. The men were cheering...I think; or heckling. My foot finally made contact with the ground. If the docks hadn't been so repulsively filthy I would have kissed it. 

The locals looked a little disappointed when the last of us hit solid ground unscathed, but we were all pretty relieved. On an odd note, there were four men standing on a board that was tied off over the side of the boat. They each had hammers and were banging repeatedly on the side of the ship for no apparent reason. Derek suggested that they were up there laughing saying "hey just keep banging on the side! The foreigners won't know what to think!" I am quite certain that as we went around the end of the ship and were out of sight, they threw back their heads in a fit of raucous laughter.

So, those are the interesting bits. We made our way back to the river and climbed into our boat to head over to the other shore. Our guide pointed out what appeared to be a derelict ship. Blue paint covered copious rust and it looked like no one had set foot on it in decades. We were a little surprised to discover that it was, in fact, a hotel. All it took to get a room was 100 taka a night (about a buck and a half). We decided to pass.

We continued on our journey through the streets of Old Dhaka and made our way to The Pink Palace. Built two hundred years ago during the British occupation, it is in fact a large bright pink palace which was unfortunately closed for lunch. It was about this time that we all started to feel the effects of the torrid heat so the decision was made to stop for a bit and have lunch. We ate at a great place called Blue Berry. I say great primarily because it was air conditioned, but fortunately the food was good as well. An hour later, reinvigorated, we headed back to the Pink Palace only to discover that it was still closed. 

The day continued with a tour down Hindu street, but that will have to wait until Pt. 3.

Where Teenage mutant Ninja's Really Come From

Our weekend actually started out a week ago. Let me clarify. Last week I noticed an email that had been forwarded to us, from a women that was here visiting Dhaka and was hoping to get a group together for a tour. Tours in Dhaka are sort of a self help experience. You need to fill x number of slots. If you don't, you still have to pay for a minimum number of people. So our intrepid heroine, set out to find other willing participants. The destination was Old Dhaka City.

A group was gathered and we agreed on a meeting place. There were eight of us in all. A fascinating array of Americas all in Dhaka for various reasons. I could tell you what each of them does, but then I'd have to k..well, you get the idea.  For the most part we had never met before, which made it all the more interesting and we set off eager for the adventure.

Friday morning traffic was reasonably light for Dhaka and we made good time heading across town. We parked at a small park and setting foot to pavement, began our adventure!

The weather was brutal, but the guide was used to the weather and wasting no time getting started, he took off like an Olympic sprinter. I did a quick assessment of each of the six individuals that we were with. 20's to 30's. Fit. Athletic....we were screwed. I was determined not to be the pantie waste senior citizen grandma that slowed up the group. I was secretly hoping that one of them would go down first in the blistering heat.

We seemed to be in an awfully hurry as we raced through the streets. Every time I lifted my camera for a shot Derek would grab my elbow and hustle me forward.

Just as my frustration began to bubble to the surface, I realized that we were heading to the waterfront! Now I was willing to hurry. This was awesome, I love water! We were about to stand on the banks of the Ganges! Once we got there, I realized as I stared down into the thick black muck, that calling this particular section of the Buriganga (Old Ganges), a river, might be an overstatement. It was more accurately, a 25-50 ft deep boiling cesspool of toxic waste and garbage that boats floated on. Well, some sank, but the rest floated.

Cuz there should always be a goat. Just sayin'...

Derek shooting some locals...er...photographing some locals.

The Ganges (or Buragangas) river

In the spirit of edifying your learning experience, I am going to include the following paragraph from wikepedia about the Burigana. Please do not attempt to eat while you read it. It reads as follows:

"...the Buriganga river is afflicted by the noisome problem of pollution. The chemical waste of mills and factories, household waste, medical waste, sewage, dead animals, plastics, and oil are some of the Buriganga's pollutants. The city of Dhaka discharges about 4,500 tons of solid waste every day and most of it is released into the Buriganga.[citation needed] According to the Department of the Environment (DoE), 22,000 litres (5,800 US gal) of toxic waste are released into the river by the tanneries every day"...Yum!

Needless to say, anything still alive in it probably has twelve eyes and four mouths and will one day climb out from the depths and destroy the city in an epic battle.

Still, it was exciting seeing all the boats and activity. A group of men were egging us on asking us to take their picture. I can never figure out why they like this so much since they will never get to see the picture, so I pulled out a small Polaroid camera that I carry with me and took a shot. I showed them how to hold on to it and wait for the picture to appear and enjoyed their expressions of disbelief as they saw their faces emerge from the white sheet.

I was trying to get an interesting shot of something or other when Derek took my elbow (ruining my shot) and said "come on! You're holding everyone up"! I looked up confused.  You mean I was keeping them from standing on the bank? To my surprise, I was suddenly being pushed into one of the long, canoe like wooden boats that shuttles back and forth across the river. Oddly enough, there had not been any mention of a boat. The next thing I knew we were each perched precariously along the edge of the boat, (the actually edge, not seats) heading out to the middle of the river.

A great group of people

This is the edge that we were sitting on.

Once on the river we encountered a melee of activity. It was like a Beatles video with no music. Men in Lungi's (Lungi's are like a Bangladeshi kilt for men) sat in boats, holding large black umbrella's to keep the sun off. One man held his umbrella in his hand and worked the boats oars with his foot. Woman sat on the banks of the river hand washing plastic garbage bags, then laying them out to drive. I was beyond horrified as we looked past the drying bags to see half a dozen young boys swimming in the water! Surely this was a recipe for disaster! The sweet, playful boys only possible fate after swimming in such toxic H2O was a future as a mutant super-villain!

Off to the left dozens of sheets hung on lines, floating in the breeze as they dried. It was oddly beautiful. Our guide explained to us that this was the laundry for the hotels. Yes, my friends, you too can stay in a hotel in Dhaka and sleep on the finest sheets, beaten clean in a river so polluted that it cannot sustain life!

It got even better when we passed more sheets line drying over on the right bank and were informed that these were the linens for a local hospital. Yup, hand sterilized in toxic waste.

At one point, we pulled up along the bank to see a number of people sifting through huge wicker baskets of something that shined and shimmered in the heat like mounds of broken glass. It turned out to be all manner of plastics, being crushed and broken down to sell to China for recycling. It was oddly beautiful looking, all laid out among the stones in neat groups. The guide told us about the process as men and children alike clustered to where we had put ashore. They chattered excitedly, star struck by the sight of a boat full of Americans.

The guide mentioned that they all loved candy so Derek immediately reached into his magic back pack and with all the flair of a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat, produced a large handful of Atomic Fireballs and lemon-heads! The kids were so excited they looked like they might faint. Derek achieved immediate rock star status! Children and grown men clustered around him as he passed his candy around. At last, a place a grown man could give candy to children and not seem like a perv! We clamored back into the boat, happy to have made their day.

We traveled a bit further and finally turned across the river and headed for the other side. On the far bank, a man in a lungi stood on his boat, thoroughly lathering his body. He scrubbed away, getting sparkly clean, undoubtedly preparing for a hot date later on. Though we didn't stick around long enough to see it, one can only assume that he then rinsed off with, you guessed it, the mutant creating water from the river.

Stretched along the bank, were dozens of half round...things...lining the river. The guide explained that most of the peopled lived on their boats and these were covers that they put over them at night, or in inclement weather. It was a life I could barely envision. More amazing and unfamiliar sights and then we were pulling up on the far side of the river.

We each clamoured out of the boat and headed up the bank to the road. I couldn't decide which was worse, the stench from the fetid river water, or the myriad of stomach turning smells coming from the banks of the river, but looking up the bank to the road and seeing the whole scene wavering back and forth in the increasingly hot and humid liquid air I suspected there would be some great adventures today.

And that is where I will leave this tale for tonight, because it is too long and too exciting to manage all at once. Stay tuned for more tales from Dhaka in a day or so.

A Very Fair Trade

If I take a brutally honest look at myself I would tell you that I may or may not have rolled my eyes on more than one occasion at signs announcing fair trade. I’m old. I didn’t grow up with this stuff. Walking through the pristine isles of Whole Foods, the scent of Lavender and Patchouli filling my senses, it’s easy to look at hand woven scarves declaring they are “Fair Trade” and think “Oh yeah? Fair to whom?”

I won’t lie, it just seemed like another gen x ploy to guilt us in to spending more money. Until today. Today Derek and I went on a shopping trip sponsored by the embassy. We really didn’t have a clear picture of what the trip would be about, but it had the work ‘shopping’ in it, so I was in and, well…Derek just humors me a lot.

At 8:30 this morning, a group of about 25 of us clambered into a comfy air conditioned bus and spent an hour navigating our way through the congested Dhaka traffic. Eventually, we arrived at a weathered looking building and were greeted warmly by a woman who has worked for a company called Tarango since 1994. The first thing I noticed about her was her intense enthusiasm for Tarango’s mission. After climbing four flights of stairs we were shown to a medium sized room where I was surprised to find, we would be seeing a presentation on Tarango.

Like any large impoverished country, Dhaka has a huge population of women who have been left victims of domestic violence, or abandoned by husbands, widowed, or otherwise left with little or no resources or options. It is Tarango’s mission to rescue these women through empowerment. They are taught skills and given a purpose and a sense of dignity where there was none before. A Priest from Germany was the initial founder of the organization back in the 1970’s when Bangladesh first became its own nation.  

Within the brick and concrete rooms, women of all ages are taught weaving and sewing and other production skills. Their workshops are clean and cool and they are treated with respect. I was touched, as our guide showed us the facility, by the pride radiating from her face as she told us that every item except things like zippers and snaps was handmade. All of the fabrics are woven by the women. Purses and bags stitched together, baskets woven, all by these women. Daycare and shelter are provided. 

At the beginning of our tour, the entire organization was explained with a power point presentation; as the presentation finished a group of beautiful young girls entered the room in black and red outfits. They looked to be anywhere from 12 to 20. 

My heart and throat both tightened as it was explained that each of these girls was divorced, widowed, or simply a victim of domestic violence. Most had children of their own. Even the very young ones. A girl was brought forward and asked to turn to the side. Our guide lifted her kameez to relieve that her side was a solid mass or scarring. Her husband’s family had killed her husband and set fire to her, burning over 80% of her body.

The girls danced for us. It was a beautiful, empowering song and you could see the smiles on the girls’ faces as they danced to words of courage and self-respect.

At the end of the presentation we were shown several stark concrete work rooms and then a simple sales room. Beautiful woven jute baskets and woven handbags lined the walls. Bags of all shapes and sizes made from old cement bags were stacked high. The girls themselves took our purchases. 

all hand woven textiles

After spending some time there, we were led to another building and shown the daycare facility. Once again, it was the women themselves who tended to the children. In situations where it is not in the children’s best interest to stay with their mother, boarding school is provided.

Bicycle bag

these are made from actual cement powder bags

A jute basket that I did NOT buy for Chumleigh, but try telling him that.

woven wallet

hand woven orno (scarves)

It will be hard for some of you to see the pictures and believe me when I say this is a good life for these women. You have not seen the factories and sweat shops that I have seen. Or maybe you have. I was shocked to hear our guide proudly announce that the women make 300 taka a day. That’s about $3.85. A day. I was more shocked to hear that in the garment factories they often make 20 taka a day. There are no paid vacations, no benefits, no medical, but at Tarango there are. There is even profit sharing.

I felt ashamed as I thought of what I had pictured before. In my mind’s eye, I had seen a corporation finding a way to charge more for items made in a country where everything was cheap. I may have shed a few tears as I looked at the individual faces of these beautiful young women. A girl looked up at me shyly and I smiled at her. Her face split into a huge smile filled with warmth.

After a sumptuous lunch of local foods provided for their VIP guests, it was time to leave. I think we were all a little extra generous in our purchases for having met these child/women.

Our next stop was a company called Basha. Basha is run by a lovely American woman named Robin who came here on a Mennonite mission and couldn’t bear to leave. Basha is a rescue for girls who have been forced into prostitution and want a way out.

There isn’t a time or a culture in the history of…well…history that hasn’t dealt with prostitution. It has always been here, but for these girls, in this place, an answer to their prayers is being provided. It’s a simple plan. Women in Bangladesh often make blankets out of their old Sari’s. Sari’s are beautiful. Turn one into a blanket and suddenly you have a beautiful blanket. It’s that simple. The complicated part is rescuing these women. 

There is a lot of human trafficking here. Young girls from outlying villages are told that they have secured a job in Dhaka or Chittagong, but when they arrive, they are raped. Accordingly to some Muslim culture, once a girl has had sex, she is unclean, unworthy. They become cast offs and often have no recourse but to turn to prostitution. Some are just sold into prostitution outright.

At Basha the girls are trained to hand sew these beautiful blankets, throws, pillow covers and bed runners. They are currently being sold across the U.S. in stores like Pottery Barn and other upscale stores. In an effort to help educate buyers to the real life women behind the products, each Basha blanket has a tag in one corner with the name of the girl who made the blanket. You can go to their website and read that girls bio. 

I am pleased to tell you that this is not a scam. I have seen these girls. They are real. They are beautiful and Basha is helping them and their children.

So, our day did not go exactly as we had anticipated. A little shopping outing had turned into so much more. I will never look at a fair trade sign again and think, “Fair to whom?” I know who it is fair to because I have met them and they have changed my thinking forever.

To Learn more about Tarango and Basha you can go to their websites at:

http://www.tarango-bd.org/

http://bashaboutique.com/