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. 

War of the Roaches (Part 2) – war is declared

The cockroach mounted Mark in the early hours on the morning, perhaps mistaking his pale flesh for some mushti, a traditional Bengali sweet. Mark however, first noticed it crawling half way up his body, the cockroach’s little feet stroking his body like the brushes of a jazz drummer. Sitting bolt upright he flung the little monster half way across room into my hair, which I then knocked to floor after some frantic brushing. The cockroach scampered to safety and the rest of the night was spent by both of us interpreting each sound and movement as the impending arrival of a horde of cockroaches. As far we understood it, they had violated the uneasy truce we had; no longer would we tolerate each us others presence provided left well alone. It was war.

War of the Roaches (Part 1): a scream in the night

I awoke in the dead of night to the piercing sound of a high-pitched scream. It kicked me from my deep slumber instantaneously. What horror had come to visit? What foul entity, be it natural or supernatural, had come to torment me, perhaps to take my very life? I sprang to the light switch, never lacking in courage, so I could better confront the evil. The fluorescent glow revealed a twirling mass on Mark’s bed. I saw what I thought were too hands furiously beating the bed clothes, and the same shrill cry echoing about the bedchamber. I moved to my back foot, my courage faltering at the sight on the unholy terror. Gradually the whirling mass began to take a recognisable form. It was my friend Mark, his face anguished and tear stained and his hands still tearing at his sheets. At last I could make sense of the scream: COCKROOOAAAACH!

Singapore Slim

We are about 2 weeks into Ramadan, the holy month where Muslims fast throughout the day to purify themselves and train their minds and bodies to be good and just in the coming year. As atheists and Christians we are not expected to participate in the fasting, but living in a predominately Muslim country there are still implications on our diet. As a matter of courtesy we do not eat or drink in front of our hosts during the day.

The cafeteria where we eat most of our meals is still open, but offers a limited selection of food (even more limited than rice and curry). Now breakfast and lunch is bought in the local supermarket, Agora, and taken in our room. We’re eating a lot of fruit and drinking a lot of water, supplemented with bread and biscuits. This partially self-imposed diet has been nicknamed the Singapore Slim for reasons that I’m not entirely sure of.

The Singapore slim is a powerful weight loss diet, since in effect it involves only eating one meal a day. I’m planning to market it along similar lines to the Atkins diet. I think there’s some money to be made here. To achieve your weight loss dreams all you need to do is move to an Islamic country during Ramadan and live according to the customs of your surroundings. It is simple to use: there’s no point counting, no calculations – just dramatic weight loss that would make a supermodel convulse with envy.

Why I’m here

I suppose I should say a little about why I’m here. Ad-Din Hospital is a not for profit institution just outside of central Dhaka. The hospital provides high quality healthcare at a low price, far lower than anything else comparable in Dhaka. It does so through the excellent work and dedication of its staff and the generousity of Sheikh Mohiuddin, its Chief Executive, who regularly invests capital in the hospital.

The hospital originally started life a Save the Children nutrition centre in the 1970s. In the late 90s, as a result of changes in funding, it was no longer financially possible for Save the Children to run the nutrition centre which over the years had grown into a women and children’s hospital. At this point they entered into an agreement with the Ad-Din, who provided they met certain conditions, would be given the hospital. One of those conditions was regular inspection by a British based team. In 2005 they recommended that the hospital would benefit from the professional eye of a healthcare management consultant. Among his recommendations – hang on, where getting there – was that an NHS management trainee or two should go to Ad-Din in order to support the organisation in its development. And that, is where I come in.

Pants

I travelled light to Bangladesh, taking only those items I thought were essential (which as a molly-coddled westerner still included an mp3 player, laptop and several tins of Heinz baked beans). As such, the time quickly came when I needed to brave my first Bangladeshi shopping trip. Among other things, I needed a new towel, some shorts and underwear.

Just a few minutes from my hospital I discovered a men’s clothing store called Westec. It was a marble and stained black wood affair, something that has pretensions above itself and wouldn’t look out of place on the shabby end of Oxford Street. I wandered about the shelves picking up a towel and browsed the shirts and jeans. In the furthermost corner of the shop I spotted the boxer shorts, 195 taka (about £1.30) for three. Jackpot! Mark recommended that I buy a size bigger than normal, the average Bangladeshi being much slimmer than the average European, so I picked up a packet marked large and hurried to the counter to pay for my purchases.

It was only on returning to my room that I discovered the horror of what I had done. The boxer shorts were in fact briefs, or rather some kind of brief/knicker (brifkers? kniefs?) genetic crossbreed. They were too big to be knickers and yet there was no place to put your genitals. It was as if they were designed by and for eunuchs or castrati. Nonetheless, these facts didn’t dawn on me until much later; I was busy gagging at the colour of the brifkers. The pattern was thin stripe in the most lurid colours imaginable, pinks and peaches mingled with purples, reds and oranges looking like a fading bruise. Perhaps the eunuch who designed these monstrosities was really seeking revenge on mankind?

I’m a limited writer at the best of times, but so you can truly appreciate these pants please cross your heart and look below.

 

The only question remains did I wear them? On that topic I keep a pensive silence much like a shell shocked soldier returning home from the war.