80/20

I first met Mr Babu somewhere between the warm glow and the hangover. That was why it seemed normal that he was sat in the hospital at 2am with no reason for being there, his small sidekick next to him, white robe draped about his waist and shoulder. We exchanged a few words in broken English that seemed to make sense – the normality guaranteed by the alcohol again – and I wandered off to bed.

 

He called the next day, tracing Mark and me to our room by quizzing the cleaners and security guards. Mr Babu is a self-proclaimed spiritual man and university student. His grandfather was a spiritual man – as far I understand it a mystic who could confer blessings from Allah. He made a great deal of money doing this and the family became very influential in Mogh Bazaar. If you need his help you can find him in Mr Babu’s front room, buried under a large, ornate tent somewhere between the coffee table and the fire, although you may have to fight your way through the crowd that worship and bang drums there late into the night. Mr Babu still talks to his grandfather – asks him for advice – just like he talks to me, even though he is a long time dead. Should I marry this woman? Should I vote for the Awami League? Should I have the final slice of pizza?

 

Now that we’ve met him, we are Mr Babu’s best friends. As best friends do, he calls at unusual hours in person and over the phone and as often as possible. His six sisters do the same; we are part of the family. If we choose to ignore his knock he assumes that we are in some kind of trouble. His hammering becomes more persistent, perhaps trying to wake us from the diabetic comas he imagines that we’ve fallen into.

 

He called a few days, while we were on our way home from a day trip:

 

‘Mr Rorie, I miss you. I miss you, Mr Rorie. I miss you very much, Mr Rorie. I miss you 80% Mr Rorie, and I miss Mr Mark 20%.’

 

‘Thank you Babu. Goodnight.’

 

 

NTA

NTA means not to be answered. Use it in place of a pest’s name in your mobile. Do not pick up the phone. Do not even think about it. Leave it alone. Let it ring on the dresser. Hide it under a pillow. Leave the room until it stops.

 

There are many NTAs in this world, but my favourite is an acquaintance a friend made in Sylhet. Let’s call him Noddy. A few days ago he sent this little gem by text:

 

‘Hello “MATT”

 

How are you? I am well. I hope you are well.

 

Next news, I call your mobile: no: but you not receive, why? You are my FRIEND. I all time missed you. I and you journey to MADOAB KUNDO. Photo album I and you, big size one copy want.

 

I wish you every success in life.

 

FOR GET ME NOT.’

 

Before I translate this heartfelt missive, here’s a little background. Noddy is a tour guide based in Sylhet, a city in north Bangladesh. He took a friend of mine to a famous waterfall spending little more than an afternoon with him. Now, the translation:

 

‘Hello “MATT” If that is your name!

 

How are you? I am well. I hope you are well. I’m getting on very well without you.

 

Next news, I call your mobile: no: but you not receive, why? Are you ignoring me? You are my FRIEND. Guilt trip. I all time missed you. I am a needy black hole of love. I and you journey to MADOAB KUNDO. Don’t you remember the good times we had together? Photo album I and you, big size one copy want. Without this, I’m not serious. The other stalkers will laugh at me.

 

I wish you every success in life. Weep!

 

FOR GET ME NOT. And now I end it all. Goodbye.’

 

21-11-2006 – Finger Mouse

 

‘Oh shit, she stuck her finger in my palm!’

 

‘What?’

 

‘She stuck her finger in my palm when we shook hands man!’

 

‘Yeah, so what?’

 

‘That means she wants to fuck me.’

 

When Mark told me this I didn’t believe him. Not the finger part, but what it means. Apparently, it’s the universal sign for I want to shag you. I didn’t believe him, but other people assure me it’s true too and recent events have convinced me it means something – something funny. A few days later we where in Old Dhaka trying to sneak into the Pink Palace, a large mansion on the river, to take some photos. We didn’t get very far and as we sat forlornly around the gate a throng formed. The crowds in Old Dhaka are so much more intense – bigger, more persistent in their attention and altogether weirder and more unsavoury. We picked ourselves up, answered the usual questions about our names and country and shook a few hands. A little man, thin and oily looking like a weasel covered in grease, held out his hand. I took it, and… no, the finger and a loving look. Perhaps it’s called the Pink Palace for another reason?

Smile!

A sincere smile invokes the entire face. It starts at the mouth, where the edges of the lips curl up and the cheeks rise, and ends with the eyes, which crease and shine. A genuine grin comes more from the eyes than anywhere else. They beam. A true Bengali smile follows this pattern only to an extreme. The edge of the lips look as if they are trying to leap off the face, the cheeks form little hills, and the eyes shine in their now deeply crinkled recesses. It’s easy to get one of these smiles in Dhaka; I manage it every time I speak Bengali.

FORGET ME NOT

NTA means not to be answered. Use it in place of a pest’s name in your mobile. Do not pick up the phone. Do not even think about it. Leave it alone. Let it ring on the dresser. Hide it under a pillow. Leave the room until it stops. There are many NTAs in this world, but my favourite is an acquaintance a friend made in Sylhet. Let’s call him Noddy. A few days ago he sent this little gem by text: ‘Hello “MATT”  How are you? I am well. I hope you are well. Next news, I call your mobile: no: but you not receive, why? You are my FRIEND. I all time missed you. I and you journey to MADOAB KUNDO. Photo album I and you, big size one copy want.  I wish you every success in life.  FOR GET ME NOT.’ Before I translate this heartfelt missive, here’s a little background. Noddy is a tour guide based in Sylhet, a city in north Bangladesh. He took a friend of mine to a famous waterfall spending little more than an afternoon with him. Now, the translation: ‘Hello “MATT” If that is your name! How are you? I am well. I hope you are well. I’m getting on very well without you. Next news, I call your mobile: no: but you not receive, why? Are you ignoring me? You are my FRIEND. Guilt trip. I all time missed you. I am a needy black hole of love. I and you journey to MADOAB KUNDO. Don’t you remember the good times we had together? Photo album I and you, big size one copy want. Without this, I’m not serious. The other stalkers will laugh at me. I wish you every success in life. Weep! FOR GET ME NOT. And now I end it all. Goodbye.’ 

A day in the canteen – a guest entry by Mark Hindmarsh

So I thought for the guest blog entry that I would try to explain to you the comedy that is having a meal here in the

Ad-Din
Hospital canteen. The first thing to understand is that Rorie and I (being the revered guests that we are) are allowed to sit at one of the special doctors tables. These are like any other table, with the exception that they are raised about 10 cms from the floor level on a little platform. In a hospital that has scarce resources I always find it funny that they thought to build in this architectural feature, so those that are deemed superior in society would be able to survey those minions beneath them from a higher level while dining. 

As we approach the table, 3 or 4 of the canteen girls (who are aged 13 to about 20) flock over to see how they can see to our every culinary need. Once seated, we go though more or less the exact same conversation with them every evening. What follows is a classic example of the conversation (translated into English from Bangla for those of you who aren’t yet fluent) 

Canteen Girls: Peace be with youNHS Boys: Peace be with youCanteen Girls: How are you? Good?NHS Boys: Yes we are fine, how are you? Canteen Girls: Good. What do you want?NHS Boys: Rice, Chicken, Vegetables, Dahl. Do you have bread?Canteen Girls: Er, bread no. 

The girls will then invariably potter off to get the requested food. The thing you need to understand and that makes this conversation so stupid is that the canteen only ever serves rice, chicken, vegetables and dahl and never has bread in the evening plus, quite frankly, we only ever get what there is available anyway. What do you imagine this is, some sort of restaurant? 

Anyway, while this conversation is going on, it’s not uncommon to see the security guard from the front gate stride into the canteen, lift up a man hole cover (which being such a hygienic hospital sits in the middle of the canteen floor) and immediately report his findings via walkie talkie back to his superior. We genuinely have no idea why this happens and why it should be the responsibility of security to ensure quality drainage is even more of a mystery. If we do find out we’ll report it to the world. 

Before the girls return with our main meal it is not uncommon for us to be presented with one of my favourite Bangla delicacies, “sweet fat fried in fat” (SFFF). It is exactly that, a lump of dough, heavily sweetened, fried in oil, moulded so that it is shaped rather like a small pastie. I’ve tried explaining the girls that sweet follow savouries, but alas, to date with no avail. Rorie, being the generous chap that he is, often passes on his SFFF to his companion here for a double helping. For the record, yes it is absolutely rank tasting. 

Then the main food arrives. Cold of course, as the natives prefer to eat only with their hands, and they wouldn’t want those delicate mits burnt now would they. Now believe me, 2 months of cold rice and scrappy chicken meat is starting to wear a little thin. The meal is soon over, generally as I don’t finish it, and it is time to move on to tea. That’ll be a simple process….. 

Again I blame the natives for this. They love sugar out here. I don’t necessarily mean sweet things, but actually putting loads of sugar in various dishes that you wouol think didn’t require it. So, although I know Bangladesh has some of the worlds finest teas, it’s basically impossible to ever taste them as they are masked by excessive amounts of sugar, oh and condensed milk (did I forget to mention that?). Now, we’ve learnt how to ask in Bangla for tea with no milk and sugar, but this invariably results in laughter from the girls, or a blunt rebuff as the batch of tea waiting already has sugar in it. Who wouldn’t want loads of sugar in their tea anyway?

The pied piper of Dhaka

Have you ever seen a movie star walking a tiger down

Oxford Street

? The crowd’s reaction is easy to imagine: stunned silence, open mouths and eyes that unblinkingly track this most unusual of sights. A westerner in
Bangladesh produces a similar reaction. Everyone stares at you. There is no conception of privacy or personal space, but in a small city bursting with 14 million people that is hardly aspiring. They gawk at you because you are white and maybe the most interesting thing they’ve seen that day. The looks are never intimidating or malicious, just agog, stunned, puzzled. If they can recover from their incredulity, then expect questions. ‘What is your country?’ comes first, followed quickly by ‘What is your name?’ or ‘Married?’. Since everyone knows these stock phrases, and everyone is curious, expect to be asked a dozen times a day, more if you venture out. 

A conversation in back broken Bangla with a rickshaw wallah will attract a crowd at an exponential rate. At first only one Bengali will join in, the boldest, keen to help you make yourself understood though he knows no more English than the wallah. He will be joined by another and then a few a more, and as the crowd grows the more courage people have to join in. Finally understood, you make your way on the back of the rickshaw while the crowd remains trying to comprehend what it has just witnessed. There are days when I feel like a novelty attraction, perhaps a dancing bear or a monkey that does tricks. 

The celebrity status I enjoy is often irritating, but it does have its advantages. Often beggars are so stunned to see a white man that they forget to entreat me for money. A few hundred yards down the street I see their faces morph from bewilderment to the despair of missed opportunity. ‘Damn, there goes a white guy and I forget to hit him for some cash!’ 

Of all the attention I receive as a foreigner in
Bangladesh, the reaction of children is most entertaining. On sight their eyes and mouths widen into full moons, totally entranced by a man so pale the light reflects off of him. They tug their parent’s sleeves: ‘Father, what is wrong with that man? He is so pale, like a ghost. Is he dying?’. If I encounter group of kids in the street, then they follow for a few hundred yards, a long drawn out tail of inquisitive faces, starting with the oldest and ending with the youngest, falling over his feet to keep up.

A puzzle solved

For the past month I have been woken by the cry of ‘Aaaaahhhh Muuuughi’ and today I have finally deciphered this strange noise. ‘Aaaaahhh Muuuuggghi’ is the cry of the chicken man. He walks about the city with a large wicker basket on his head, about a metre in diameter, stocked full of live chickens. Aaaaahhh Muuuuuughi’ is in fact mughi which is bangla for chicken. The scrawny birds sit in his basket, docile and bewildered. They look as if they know their fate and have given up hope.

Ghost Town – bands won’t play no more

This Eid, the Muslim equivalent of Christmas, about 5 million people left
Dhaka to celebrate in their home villages. With over a third of the city’s residents away the city has been transformed. People walk freely along the street, traffic flows smoothly and the perpetual smog that hangs in the air has dissipated. The peace and quiet should have continued throughout the week, but it was violently interrupted by nationwide hartals (strikes) and riots. To date 24 men are dead and over 2000 are injured. Shops have been looted, political activists beaten, buses trashed and trains derailed.  

The cause of all this destruction is the forthcoming elections in January.
Bangladesh is unusual in that power passes to a caretaker government for 3 months at election time. The two main political parties have been unable to agree on this interim government. The main candidate has strong links to the Bangladesh National Party (BNP) and is thus unacceptable to the opposition Awami League (AL). The tension is likely to continue for a few more days, so for the time being I’m laying low like so many of the people in
Dhaka.

War of the Roaches (Part 4): V day

The carnage was immense and I knew from the moment I opened the bathroom floor that victory was ours. A carpet of cockroaches stretched from the door to the drain, a crunchy shagpile of exo-skeletons, legs pointing upwards. They had returned enmasse in the middle of the night to finally drive us out of our minds, but they hadn’t reckoned on our defenses. The spray did all the damage. They didn’t even get as far as the vegas roach trap or the greased bed legs. The stronger ones, almost inevitably the larger ones, made it to the door. The weaker ones gave up almost immediately. I like to think that the smarter ones turned back, but I’ll never be sure.

Since the massacre, they haven’t bothered us. We hear the odd scratching, hurriedly turn on the light, but I think these murmerings are in our heads and no more than the scars of war, of which there are many. The spray we used has had a dramatic affect on Mark. He sits next to me now as I write, hairless from head to toe, shaking and shivering. He doesn’t speak to me much now, but when he tries to form a few words, drool spilling down his chin, I take him to mean the price was worth it. We now live in the sun, free from the shadow of darkness.

War of the Roaches (Part 3) – battle plans

The day after the cockroaches had declared war on us be re-enacting Pearl Harbour on Mark’s naked torso we convened a war council. The decision was unanimous. It was war and we would not rest until our enemy was defeated and a true peace had been won. Our plan of battle was to fight on three fronts: the bed, the bedroom and the bathroom. Calling on the heir to Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, Wikipedia, we researched the cockroach’s weaknesses. The Vegas Roach trap would be a key line in our attack. Consisting of glass jar filled with an inch of used coffee grounds and placed against a wall, the roach trap works by attracting its prey into the jar where, the glass walls being too smooth for the cockroaches crampon like legs to get purchase on, they wait to be removed. Our second line of attack consisted of a jumbo sized can of cockroach spray, the kind that is probably illegal in England because it causes birth defects or cancer. (Note to self: persuade Mark to visit the doctor. His dramatic hair loss is worrying.) We doused the key areas of our room, paying extra attention to the bathroom drain. Our final preparation was to cover the legs of our beds in a thin layer of Vaseline, making them cockroach proof. Satisfied and exhausted from our elaborate efforts, Mark and I reclined in the off white mist of the insect repellent, laughing manically at our cunning and the affects of the killer spray.