"If there is no traffic at all then the bus is much quicker than the train, which is also likely to be delayed in departing," said the unhelpful tour planner when organising the return leg of our trip to Dhaka from the Bangla-Burmese frontier town of Bandabarn. Of course, there is always traffic in Bangladesh and at least on a train you can read without getting travel sick, walk about, and take authentic photos of poor people whilst they're asleep. So we chose the train. Which the tour company forgot to book. And so we ended up on the bus anyway, but thanks for asking.
The guide book warns against it even if taking the train gives you fleas (we definitely did not have fleas prior to boarding the train), but even after all this time in the country I was naive enough to be shocked by the 10-hour journey which my sister and I endured. Firstly, my understanding of a highway is a road which is qualitatively different (multiple lanes, controlled entry and exit, properly surfaced, no rickshaws) from a country road (single lane and full of holes, bordered by one constant stretch of village, lots of rickshaws). Also, a highway implies speed. The Dhaka-Chittagong Highway is tortuously slow, and not the kind of torture that wishy-washy democratic types try to justify as a means of preventing future terrorist attacks. It is horrible torture that accompanies oppressive regimes and is invented just for punishing your enemies.
Travelogue:
12:30 - We get onto a bus, and surprisingly it is the correct departure time. I'm a little bit upset as the bus has no windows so that an old lady who is reaching up won't stop pulling my sister's arm hairs to try and get some money. Clearly the bus is not VIP, but I'm told that this bus will take us to the VIP bus. Obviously.
12:32 - My sister is little bit disturbed by the bald patch on her arm, so I start to sing the song that we always sang on long car journeys as kids. She joins in, and we create some naughty lyrics to make ourselves laugh.
12:34 - The non-VIP bus departs.
12:35 - My sister complains that the excessive use of horn by the driver is already driving her crazy. Knowingly, I don't comment on this.
13:20 - We board the VIP bus having crawled through traffic, and frankly it would have been quicker to walk. My sister is hopeful that the new driver will show greater restraint with his use of the horn.
13:22 - The VIP bus departs. My sister's hopes are dashed.
15:00 - I've spent the journey so far trying to predict when the bus will be able to change up to third gear. Finally after 1 hour 38 minutes we have generated enough straight line speed to do so, only to hit another traffic jam.
15:15 - We suddenly find a stretch of dual carriageway and get into fourth gear. I assume that it is plain sailing all the way in to Dhaka.
15:16 - Dual carriageway ends.
15:30 - I start reading my book, as getting travel sick will give me something to do.
15:40 - We're going so slowly I don't even get travel sick.
16:00 - As our original arrival time draws closer, and we still have to cross the halfway mark, they decide to put on a Bangladeshi made-for-TV film. The only functioning speaker on the whole bus is above our heads, completely deafening us. I try to follow the film, which seems to be about a detective who is going through her menopause, and inadvertently discovers and a pirate DVD operation in the village. At one point there is a gross miscarriage of justice as the best looking male actor is forced to run around the village with his shirt off and carrying two bricks as a punishment. The village is also highly strung, as the characters communicate either through shouts of joy, or anger, but none moreso than the menopausal detective. It may have also been a comedy, as some of the passengers were laughing.
18:00 - We stop for a snack. My sister is mobbed by two families who all pose for photos with her, including grandma. We ask them to stop after 5 minutes but they continue so we go back and sit on the bus.
19:30 - I finish my book.
19:45 - Now it is completely dark outside and we are constantly coming within inches of killing CNGs and rickshaws. I tell my sister about road safety in Bangladesh. We both agree that we would have no moral objection for the driver to continue should he hit someone, as otherwise we will never get home.
21:00 - I start singing again. My sister stops speaking to me. We think we are on the outskirts of Dhaka as the business by the side of the roads has definitely become more dense.
22:15 - We arrive in Dhaka, jump off the bus and endure another 30 minutes in traffic sitting in the cage of a CNG. We get to the BAGHA club for a beer and noone cares about our story as most people have already done it before. I vow to never travel on the road again in Bangladesh (to myself, as noone else is listening to me).
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Development as Distraction - Pakistan 2010: Media Observations
A piece written this week by the head of disasters in my organisation on donor fatigue. He writes:
Being able to identify with the conditions is integral to our understanding of the gravity of the situation... when people understand the human suffering caused by disasters they give their time and money generously.
Reading the comments at the bottom of the article posted by readers makes me panic slightly as I try to gauge the perception (which of course I feel is completely wrong) of other people in the UK towards the work that I personally am doing, and their mis-comprehension of a situation in countries so far from their own realities. For example, one person posted the follwing:
The real issue is that the major charities have become very big business, and that very little of your donation actually reaches someone in need. This is partly the administrative and advertising cost of raising money but mostly the fact that in recipient nations it simply dissipates into the local states corrupt pockets, often buying weapons, with the odd crumb actually reaching the needy. Everyone I know who has worked in this industry in the last 30 years has given me chapter and verse on this reality.
How depressing to be so sure of oneself about the world around you...
Another point made in the original article which I have reflected a lot on in my ever first posts is the way that the developing countries are portrayed in the media:
What I would say is that the coverage of disasters is too simplistic.
One thing that gets me is the apparent need of the media to post photos of children in distress. The Guardian ran a two piece article solely on the basis of one photo, and for their coverage of Eid posted the following photo and caption:
A Pakistani girl displaced by floods cries as she fails to get gifts given by women volunteers as they prepare to celebrate Eid. Photograph: Aaron Favila/AP
Why the need to photograph one girl crying, and not all the girls who are happy at receiving Eid gifts? Because there is no story in a smiling face in a disaster? Because effective distribution of non-food items makes for poor copy? Yes distribution is boring as the below video shows. But the fact that everything is not chaotic, manic, rushed, sad, and disastrous needs to be effectively revealed as it is as much a part of the range of experiences that occur during an emergency. Being able to demonstrate how organisations are able to respond and do their work normally, and that funds do not "simply dissipate into the local states corrupt pockets, often buying weapons, with the odd crumb actually reaching the needy" is something that needs to happen urgently. So I agree with the conclusion:
In order to lessen the pain caused by disasters we must try to learn from the ones gone by, and in order to do this we must find a new way; a new narrative to help people understand what is going on in the world around them.
Video Copyright of Doaba Foundation 2010, Pakistan
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Development as Distraction - Pakistan 2010: A work blog from the field
This is a blog I prepared for my organisation on 08/09/2010.
Its 11:30pm and we just got back to the guesthouse in Multan (South Punjab ) from meeting with the partners. I literally had to pull us out of there, capitalising on Edwin’s (from Plan Philippines ) painful arm which he sustained on the way to the airport to catch his flight to Islamabad
The drive, interest, and enthusiasm coming from everyone in the room was evident, and whilst trying to focus on the next phase of the emergency response, and the shift from recovery towards rehabilitation, we repeatedly get sidetracked: a discussion on facilitating community recovery through prioritising crop-based agriculture ends up in a history lesson in pre-colonial land rights; listing the types of livestock which should be supplied to the extreme poor descends in to an argument over the merits of the Betel Goat (which when fully mature can weigh up to 50kg!). It was only because Edwin was hardly able to sit up straight after another 13 hour day that we decided to call it quits. Also, we will be back there at 8:30 tomorrow morning…
But the message is clear: the situation on the ground here is now changing. People are leaving the camps and going back to their villages (it is predicted as many as 60% already where we are). The partner prides itself on providing us with the community’s demands (shelter: re-building houses and livelihoods: preparing for sowing next April's wheat harvest and distributing goats), and proclaims that the best kind of disaster response is one that is fully participatory. Shahnawaz, my partner, and I steal a quick glance. Whilst we don’t disagree (as the defenders of organisation's child participatory programming standard), we have spent the past 2 days mapping our 12 different funded projects with a budget totalling over $7m, and we have some very clear deliverables to achieve for which we are dependent on the partners.
It’s not just a case of shifting priorities. Edwin is concerned that if everyone is returning to their villages, we can’t just “build back better”. We have to consider DRR too. Yes, the partner is correct that this may have been a super-flood which happens once in a century, but with the effects of climate change we can’t take anything for granted. He wants to get a look at their designs for the houses that will have iron beams instead of wood, and start developing contingency plans etc. so that the communities can be ready for the next flood.
There are different stories as to why the families are going home. Qaiser attended the Child Protection cluster yesterday, where he was told that the District Education Department had cleared out all the schools which were acting as temporary shelters for IDPs ahead of the start of term on 15th September. The only problem is that the District Government forgot to relay the second half of the message to the families, that they could take shelter in other government buildings. As a result, they had nowhere to go but home. Flying in to Multan
Monday, September 6, 2010
Development as Distraction - Pakistan 2010: Getting out there
It is whilst skyping with my little brother (the one who is a streetpunk) after I had just arrived in Islamabad, and explaining to him that I'm here to assist in the flood response that I got the following response: "wow, so you are doing a nice task". At last. Some recognition from my family! Yet as usual this quickly descended into irony as he followed up my modest reply of: "its what I normally do, but this time its something that is in the news," with: "oh, so you're the new Jesus". In my face...
But its true, say that you're doing an emergency response and everyone nods understandingly, even respectfully (even people working in the garments sector). After all, they've seen the news and so have an idea of the situation you're flying out to support, and even perhaps your motivation. You can't say the same for juvenile justice reform in Tajikistan, or Early Childhood Development in Southern Bangladesh. And people who have previously done an emergency response (of course there are many in my friendship circle) simply nod knowingly, as if cancelling holidays, postponing dental treatment and generally disrupting your life and that of those close to you is something normal.
My partner is excepted from this: she was an emergency response hero for nearly three years covering the worst parts of Africa, and doing some things which were genuinely humanitarian (as opposed to sorting out internal management and planning of a disaster response). But thank God I had her to guide me through my own preparations for the trip, calmly directing me to spend a little more time in putting together my first aid kit, pack a hat to protect my bald patch from the sun, change some dollars etc. and away from agonising over book and camera selection.
But so far the only real perk of humanitarian response has been getting to glue my own Pakistani visa in to my passport. Normally it is a lengthy and expensive process which starts with a $90 letter from my own Embassy in Dhaka pointing out to the Pakistan Embassy that I am indeed British. That has to be accompanied by a long list of bank details, and normally ends with an awkwardly long wait with several other Bangladeshis for a brief interview, all suspiciously checking as to why we would wish to visit the old enemy.
Yet this time, we rocked up with a pile of documents at a desk in the airport which were not checked, those with UN-blue passports pushed to the front, and a general assault (of the righteous) occurred on the poor guy at the immigration desk. A Jordanian man was initially refused entry, and started shouted out loud that his Qatari organisation had been on the ground after only the 2nd day of flooding and had already spent $2m. The UN guys didn't look impressed as their queue-jumping was being slowed down, but he eventually got the visa. And being humanitarian workers and more in need of our beauty sleep than mere (ex-pat) mortals, we then all pushed to the front of the queue for the entry stamp.
But its true, say that you're doing an emergency response and everyone nods understandingly, even respectfully (even people working in the garments sector). After all, they've seen the news and so have an idea of the situation you're flying out to support, and even perhaps your motivation. You can't say the same for juvenile justice reform in Tajikistan, or Early Childhood Development in Southern Bangladesh. And people who have previously done an emergency response (of course there are many in my friendship circle) simply nod knowingly, as if cancelling holidays, postponing dental treatment and generally disrupting your life and that of those close to you is something normal.
My partner is excepted from this: she was an emergency response hero for nearly three years covering the worst parts of Africa, and doing some things which were genuinely humanitarian (as opposed to sorting out internal management and planning of a disaster response). But thank God I had her to guide me through my own preparations for the trip, calmly directing me to spend a little more time in putting together my first aid kit, pack a hat to protect my bald patch from the sun, change some dollars etc. and away from agonising over book and camera selection.
But so far the only real perk of humanitarian response has been getting to glue my own Pakistani visa in to my passport. Normally it is a lengthy and expensive process which starts with a $90 letter from my own Embassy in Dhaka pointing out to the Pakistan Embassy that I am indeed British. That has to be accompanied by a long list of bank details, and normally ends with an awkwardly long wait with several other Bangladeshis for a brief interview, all suspiciously checking as to why we would wish to visit the old enemy.
Yet this time, we rocked up with a pile of documents at a desk in the airport which were not checked, those with UN-blue passports pushed to the front, and a general assault (of the righteous) occurred on the poor guy at the immigration desk. A Jordanian man was initially refused entry, and started shouted out loud that his Qatari organisation had been on the ground after only the 2nd day of flooding and had already spent $2m. The UN guys didn't look impressed as their queue-jumping was being slowed down, but he eventually got the visa. And being humanitarian workers and more in need of our beauty sleep than mere (ex-pat) mortals, we then all pushed to the front of the queue for the entry stamp.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Pause and Rewind: Happy Birthday
It seems to be the right time for me to get a year older. Last week I had to pluck my first nose hair...
My favourite memory of birthdays was being able to count down during the whole month of August on school summer holiday, knowing it would end with my own birthday making me older than everyone else in my class. That was until Ben Fee at Primary School and Chappers in 6th Form revealed that they had been born only hours before me. Another birthday memory, on my 15th I think, I was given a beautiful green Peugeot bike that I still ride. On the same day I received it, I fell off it at a road junction by going over the handlebars and walked home crying and wheezing, because I thought I had caused damage to the bike that was beyond my budget to repair (also I suspect I had broken some ribs which were very, very painful).
My 18th birthday ten years ago was a disappointment. Inexperience got the better of us as it often did then, and we go so drunk on the night before at the Love Train in the Ritz, that we couldn't replicate our efforts on consecutive days at the I (heart) 80s night at Elemental. I remember that someone gave me a cigar to smoke and I posed in loads of photos with it thinking I looked cool (I did), but it tasted like shit (and cigars still do). My parents panicked at the photos of me smoking, but then they panicked at a lot of things about my life in those days.
Last year on the other hand was a birthday low point: I was in Islamabad, sat in the room of a guesthouse under a security curfew working on a project proposal which in hindsight was a good thing to do, as the project got funded and now forms the basis of a livelihoods rehabilitation community project that will support three districts in Southern Punjab that have been affected by the recent flooding. At the time, eating my birthday treat of a stale donut bought from the local Shell garage with that week's edition of Time magazine, I didn't feel so special.
And this year: 28 is a bit of a no-mans land. It doesn't feel as if the number defines me as young or old, and it instead my actions compared to those of friends, peers and ex-girlfriends. I have a job and even a career, and making pension contributions so I am certainly treading a path towards getting older. But then I'm not married (where I saw on Facebook that my ex from uni is, and thank God I didn't marry her). I don't have a mortgage and I don't even live in Europe, but I do have the most beautiful pet turtle. And suddenly my lifelong declaration that I wanted to have a kid before I'm 30 becomes mathematical (48 months - 9 months gestation- x months to conceive = oh shit...). But that could all change before 29 and that's pretty exciting. And I'm still not 30. Its not so bad being 28.
My favourite memory of birthdays was being able to count down during the whole month of August on school summer holiday, knowing it would end with my own birthday making me older than everyone else in my class. That was until Ben Fee at Primary School and Chappers in 6th Form revealed that they had been born only hours before me. Another birthday memory, on my 15th I think, I was given a beautiful green Peugeot bike that I still ride. On the same day I received it, I fell off it at a road junction by going over the handlebars and walked home crying and wheezing, because I thought I had caused damage to the bike that was beyond my budget to repair (also I suspect I had broken some ribs which were very, very painful).
My 18th birthday ten years ago was a disappointment. Inexperience got the better of us as it often did then, and we go so drunk on the night before at the Love Train in the Ritz, that we couldn't replicate our efforts on consecutive days at the I (heart) 80s night at Elemental. I remember that someone gave me a cigar to smoke and I posed in loads of photos with it thinking I looked cool (I did), but it tasted like shit (and cigars still do). My parents panicked at the photos of me smoking, but then they panicked at a lot of things about my life in those days.
Last year on the other hand was a birthday low point: I was in Islamabad, sat in the room of a guesthouse under a security curfew working on a project proposal which in hindsight was a good thing to do, as the project got funded and now forms the basis of a livelihoods rehabilitation community project that will support three districts in Southern Punjab that have been affected by the recent flooding. At the time, eating my birthday treat of a stale donut bought from the local Shell garage with that week's edition of Time magazine, I didn't feel so special.
And this year: 28 is a bit of a no-mans land. It doesn't feel as if the number defines me as young or old, and it instead my actions compared to those of friends, peers and ex-girlfriends. I have a job and even a career, and making pension contributions so I am certainly treading a path towards getting older. But then I'm not married (where I saw on Facebook that my ex from uni is, and thank God I didn't marry her). I don't have a mortgage and I don't even live in Europe, but I do have the most beautiful pet turtle. And suddenly my lifelong declaration that I wanted to have a kid before I'm 30 becomes mathematical (48 months - 9 months gestation- x months to conceive = oh shit...). But that could all change before 29 and that's pretty exciting. And I'm still not 30. Its not so bad being 28.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)