Not All Who Wander Are Lost

Day Three In Dhaka: A Retroactive Itinerary.

8:30: Breakfast. Three tiny cups of coffee with hot milk (about half of my usual 20 ounce morning ritual), roasted potatoes, runny scrambled eggs. Once again I avoid the strange sausages and curries on the buffet line. Once again Henry is the last to arrive, although he looks the most conscious and coherent for it.

9:30: Travel to the Aga Khan school. George arrives in the school van to bring us to the school for a morning of lab-checking and furniture moving. He advises seatbelts, but the van has none.

10:00 – 12:00: Prep work at the school. The computer teacher slash school IT tech helps us set our laptops up on the Internet and the LAN, each of which has its own IP address and Ethernet cable – which means we cannot be on both at once, a situation none of us anticipated. Also unanticipated: there will be fifty teachers attending our workshop rather than the expected 35; at least two of the teachers will not arrive until midway through our first day; only two lab computers can be connected to the Internet. Luckily, all computers can communicate through the local network at once. Azra and I decide to use NetMeeting rather than AIM to teach chat, although without the ability to connect our students to the ‘net in groups, it looks like teaching email and forum use will have to be lecture-oriented and theory-heavy.

12:00: Travel with George back to the Hotel to pick up Patricia, who has just arrived from Kenya sans luggage.

12:30 – 5:30: Adventures with George:

Lunch at the Canadian Club, a walled-in-the-midst-of-chaos country-club haven for the 75 Canadian ex-pats who live in and around Dhaka. Burgers, fries, and perhaps the only beers in all of Dhaka in a beautiful courtyard overlooking the pool, tennis courts, and children’s play area. The two-acre oasis is essentially empty save for “Bernie,” a television-watching fellow who turns out to be the director of one of the largest shoe companies in all of Asia and Africa.
Pants shopping for Henry, who packed only shorts despite clear indication in every guidebook that shorts just “aren’t worn” in this conservative country, at an upscale and heavily-guarded men’s store not far from the hotel. Henry decides on two pairs of linen pants which we then rush to a tailor for emergency hemming. I proudly restrain myself from buying everything in the store despite the fact that these beautiful high-end clothes are just my kind of duds, and really do cost less than a quarter of what they’d cost at home.
High-end women’s clothing stores for local garb for Patricia, although Azra and I decide to do our shopping later, possibly at somewhere less artsy. George and I make fun of the clothing styles and colors while the women shop and Henry meanders – I think his ADD may be even worse than mine.
A supermarket, as hotel mini-bar water is getting pricey and fast. George buys 5 kilos of green lemons for about half a dollar; his house boy, he says, makes the best lemonade. Henry, a bottomless pit when it comes to eating, buys coke and a huge bag of roasted chick peas he later describes, after eating the entire bag over the course of an afternoon, as bland and hardly worth it. Azra buys cookies and a bag of Lays potato chips, made in America but costing about three times more than the local Stop and Shop at home. Patricia, new to the group, buys water and a few light snacks. I take pictures of weird fruit: custard apples, lumpy mangoes, sugar cane bundles and other unknowns and unfamiliars. Then I get scolded for taking pictures, which are not allowed. George, smiling, happily scolds back – if you can’t take photos, where’s the sign? – ultimately cowing the meek store employees into a vague and impotent frustration. I’m liking George more and more.
One of Bernie’s shoe stores – Patricia needs sandals, too. Shoes as cheap as clothes, relatively speaking, and much better made. Thanks, Bernie.
A mixed high-end mall of identical pearl necklace shops, art galleries, bakeries, and 80-year-old brass ship’s artifacts rescued from decommissioned British sailing vessels, now sporting a bright polished sheen. Nothing purchased; this leg of the trip being mostly a way of killing time while Henry is driven to the tailors to pick up his already-hemmed linen pants.

5:30 – 7:00 Wandering with Azra. Still unclear how, but it seems every time we walk from the hotel to the main street nearby we come out on a different block of the same main street. This time, we manage to find a mall whose second floor was teeming with tiny one-room internet cafes, all blessedly air-conditioned. The difference in speed between them is astounding – the first place we try, a brand new place with a grand opening offer too good to pass up is clean and cool, but our free 30 minute “trial” nets us barely an email message apiece; the next place down the line, however, offers a broadband connection strong enough for me to show Azra the blog, whereupon we immediately decide to incorporate them back into the workshop somehow after dropping them weeks ago out of time concerns. More sari shopping afterwards – the wedding saris are especially beautiful, although 10 thousand taka seems a bit steep for a spousal birthday present, no matter how nice Darcie might look in that deep red color.

7:00: Phone home – eventually. The phone system here is a bit inconsistent, as the lines overseas are always busy; it takes over half an hour to get Darcie on the other line for a happy birthday call. Call eminently worth it, even at 230 taka – about 4 dollars – a minute. Willow says “hi” and “bye bye!” Darcie says “I love you.” All is well with the world, if a bit teary-eyed when I hang up the phone.

8:00: Italian buffet with Azra and Henry. Finally, something familiar! Well, almost familiar: the mutton lasagna is excellent nonetheless.

9:00 – 10:30: Last-minute curriculum review with Henry and Azra. Tiredness abounds. We joke about sending Henry out for pizza while Azra and I work tomorrow night on our next-day curriculum. After three days of intense work together, pizza is funny.

11:00: Blog, looking forward to exhausted sleep.

Interlude 2: In The Cybercafe

Much happened so far today but we're in a cybercafe and don't want to spend too much time here with Azra waiting.

DID want to say Happy Birthday to Darcie because I love her very much and there's a distinct possibility that I will never figure out how the darn phones work in this country. I'll say it again and again, surely, but early and often is always the best policy, eh?

More later. Hoorah for air conditioned cybercafes!

Dhaka Details: Day 2

After an excellent breakfast of French toast and hash browns in the hotel restaurant, the three of us – Henry, Azra, and myself -- went off for a morning constitutional, nominally to find a Cybercafe for our students’ use on the fast-moving main street a couple of blocks over from the hotel, mostly just to get out of the hotel and into the sweltering air.

The neighborhood immediately surrounding the Royal Park Residence is what passes for suburbs in Dhaka: apartment buildings on each corner and the equally gated-and-guarded balconied residences along each block provide a stark contrast to the poverty on the streets themselves. Brightly colored rickshaws and drab-skirted beggars abound; each block we traveled, a single rickshaw trailed us silently, hoping for a quick twenty-taka fare from Americans too foreign, surely, to know better how little to pay.

Just past the Swiss embassy this relatively quiet suburban neighborhood ends abruptly at Kamal Ataturk Avenue, a bright and teeming strip of life dividing one suburb from another just like it. Dodging baby taxis, we crossed the avenue at an entirely functionless crosswalk in our initially fruitless search. Finally, a security guard at a local shopping center eagerly left his post to show us to the other side of the block, where two cybercafe signs faced each other across the otherwise quiet packed-dirt street.

The first café we tried, a dark wooden door marked only by a tiny paper sign, was closed, probably because Friday is traditionally a day of no work in this predominantly Muslim country. But if this morning’s experience is any indication, what passes for cybercafes in Dhaka is as much unlike an American Internet café as Henry, a bald 6-foot-tall white American with a North Carolinan accent, is unlike the average local Bangladeshi. The small room at the end of a residential apartment corridor was dark and partitioned into six or eight tiny cubicles, each surely containing a computer; we didn’t see the cubicles, but once the two men who seemed to run the place managed to find an interpreter nearby, learned that the connection speed there was 32 kb/sec, that they were open from ten to ten every day, and that internet use costs one tenth there what it does here at the hotel – about 80 cents an hour, as compared to the eight dollars-an-hour I’m working off here and now.

Henry banged his head on the low iron hole-in-the-gate on the way out of the courtyard, although he ducked in time. In his defense, the bar marking the top of such gates are only about five feet off the ground. In my own defense, I didn’t laugh as hard as I could have.

Back at the hotel, after Henry and I changed out of our drenched-through shirts we spent most of the afternoon in a small glass-walled conference room just outside Azra’s hotel room, revamping the curriculum in anticipation of the hartal the opposition party has called for next Saturday. I won’t bore you with the details; if folks are interested in the curriculum once we’re finished, I’ll post a link to it -- but working collaboratively is surprisingly enjoyable work, and Azra and I think much alike about teaching with technology.

After a nice walk in the slightly-cooler night air with Azra while Henry went off to find the hotel’s rooftop fitness room, she and I supped at the Sri Lankan buffet in the hotel restaurant, supposedly a specialty of the house. I’d say we enjoyed it, but it was a bit spicy for my tastes. The soup was good, though – a nice basic cream of tomato with a hint of garlic – and the desserts were excellent, sweet and nutty: I’d mention their names for future reference but have no idea what any of them were called or made out of. Henry joined us near the end of the meal for an interesting conversation about the history, function, and potential value and drawbacks of diversity/ethics curricula in America, a concept entirely foreign to Azra and, apparently, the entire non-western world. It’s funny what you find yourself chatting about when talking with teachers.

On my way upstairs just now we found Malik, an official at the Aga Khan office in Town only too eager to introduce us to four teachers recently arrived from Tajikistan, the first of our small band of international learners to arrive at the hotel. After the usual round of friendly handshakes and hellos the ensuing conversation, which I repeat in it’s entirety as best as I can remember, says all it needs to about the world I am only now coming to understand:

Me: Welcome! How long did it take to get here?
Them: One week.
Me (unsure I’ve understood correctly, as I have a poor ear for accents): A week?
Them: Well, there’s only one flight out of Tajikistan each week. We’ve had to go to Islamabad, and then wait in Karachi…

And I thought I was tired.

More surprises to follow tomorrow, surely; we’re back at the school to go over some technical details in the morning, and will start the workshop itself on Sunday. For now, pictures, as requested by my mother-in-law, followed by a glossary:

Today’s Glossary:

Taka: Bangladeshi dollars. At today’s exchange rate, 56 taka equal one dollar. Twenty taka is about four times what it should cost to travel the city equivalent of four blocks.

Kamal Ataturk: According to Azra, a native Pakistani, Ataturk is renowned throughout the Muslim world for having brought Turkey, where he once ruled, into modernity.

Baby Taxi: A small dark-green three-wheeled motorized vehicle for carrying passengers assumed to be the dominant source of Dhaka’s smog. Seats two and a driver.

Hartal: A general dawn-to-dusk strike, often accompanied by violent riots throughout the country, called by the opposition party on the yearly anniversary of the death of their leader’s son almost thirty years ago. Travelers are advised to stay in their hotels for the duration.

Interlude, Day 1

From last night’s email to Darcie:

Henry and Azra and I went over to the Aga Khan School this afternoon at about 2:00 to see the lab and other teaching spaces. George, the principal, is from Ontario and looks it; he’s a nice and casually well-organized guy who runs the school almost single-handedly through sheer presence, kind of a modern version of an old British colonial in his India element. The kids all wear green and khaki uniforms and say “good afternoon, sir” to him as they pass, and he knows all their names and faces; they’ll be on break for the next week while their teachers learn from us, so it was especially nice to see the place teeming with happily almost-vacationing students playing chess and soccer and making speeches on the subject of their school.

School is taught entirely in English; it’s weird to see the scholastically ubiquitous 81/2 x 11 posters advertising clubs and candy sales in such an unfamiliar environment. But it’s not much like NMH, or even Oak Grove or Academy, for that matter. The school looks like nothing I’ve seen before – everything is open on the sides to the air, so it’s more like a crumbling, slightly yellowed concrete parking lot than a school. And, as with everywhere else we’ve been so far – the airport, the hotel – the entrance to the school is gated and carefully guarded by silent men in uniforms carrying assault weapons. Even the safest neighborhoods here hire guards for their best buildings; it seems like middle-class status is marked by the same sort of staffing once endemic to the colonial mindset – personal drivers, building guards, and “assistants” abound, and the school even employs a guy to do nothing more than sit around and wait until someone needs him to make copies.

Wish I had thought to bring my camera – I hadn’t realized this would be the only time we’d see the school with kids in it. I did take a few hotel room and from-the-balcony shots a while back, though, so at least we’ve got that covered.

Over a very-late lunch in the hotel after being driven back by Ibrahim, George’s driver, through the maniac streets, the three of us began work on the curriculum we’ve been hired for, and then the others went off to nap while I tried to keep my eyes open by smoking cigarettes on the hotel room private patio. I can see an Egyptian hairless cat in the apartment across the way from there, and an occasional glimpse of a dachshund in the one above; they’re not Zellie and Jacob, but they’ll do for a reminder of what I have waiting for me at home.

The sun shone for much of today through scattered clouds, so I guess this monsoon thing is a bunch of hype. Good thing I packed the sunglasses, even if they’re currently covered with exploded DEET along with most of my books.

I’ve been up for 48 hours straight and I’m a little loopy, but no one seems to notice, so I guess that’s good.

I’m meeting Henry and Azra for supper at 8:30 (it’s seven thirty now); I’m not hungry, but I should eat before I crash out completely. But now I better go – the internet time here’s pretty expensive. Give Willow big kisses for me and think of me often; I’ll call on your birthday, but will probably be too busy between now and then for much contact.

Downloads From Dhaka

Day 1.

The flight from London to Dhaka compresses the night into a few hours of restless neck-straining sleep before the light begins to dawn a thin, shockingly bright orange strip between cloud layers. As we push down towards Zia International Airport the skies clear unexpectedly, revealing a delta not unlike the Mississippi. Only moments before we land does silt become land, only now beginning to glow with a few early risers. It is 5:30 in the morning, 7:30 the night before a half a world away back home, and Henry and I have slept perhaps three fitful hours each in the past forty.

There is but one small truck hauling suitcases back and forth from plane to baggage belt. After the first few loads bring in hard, black, mostly unclaimed suitcases (which later turn out to belong to the air hosts and hostesses), a man lifts the rubber strips hanging over the hole where the luggage emerges; he peers inside, yelling anxiously in a language I have never heard before.

It takes two hours to get out of the airport. As we leave behind the sparse, almost pre-perestroika rust and high-ceilinged halls, the heat hits us like an oven door opening. The small pick-up area is bordered by high gates, faces pressed against them six or seven deep, simply watching; inside the gates, a few privileged hotel runners pester us for dollars, of which I have none. At first impression, it’s a lot like Wonka’s factory: no one goes in the gates, and no one comes out. Except Wonka didn’t have the searing heat and dense humidity, nor the khaki-dressed men walking around with mismatched automatic rifles, that Dhaka’s airport brings us.

We find our driver, and eventually persuade him to drive us to the hotel now and come back later for Azra, our third workshop leader, who plans to arrive in another hour or three from Pakistan, her home. The ride through the streets is but a few miles, but the culture is evident and typically, shockingly third-world: lanes mean nothing, throngs teem by the roadsides and sprint among the traffic for no apparent reason. Women pass by with hundreds of pounds of roots on their heads. Shantytowns and shacks can be seen leading out on crosspaths to the pavement. A brightly decorated abandoned bus, it’s front caved in from a collision, blocks half the road.

The turn into the suburbs is a surprise, mostly because the first block in seems to be a single uncoordinated checkpoint; the driver does not stop and is not questioned by the automatic-toting men who sit casually along the street. Once in the neighborhood, the houses and apartment buildings seem empty but well-kept, shuttered behind high walls. Our hotel looms out of nowhere, and suddenly our bags are being carried inside, we’re checking in, a tray is offered with iced orange juice to sip while we hand over our passports.

The rooms – adjacent “superior singles” where our students will be staying in rooms half the size -- are large and western, air-conditioned, well-kept. The terrace outside overlooks an outdoor pool which seems too shallow for diving but long enough for laps. After locking our documents and cash in the room safes, Henry and I head downstairs for the room-inclusive breakfast buffet, an odd hybrid of the familiar (toast, scrambled eggs) and the clearly native (mutton curry, soy noodles,and chicken sausages). There is coffee, thank god, and the milk comes hot in a cream pitcher.

And now I write after unpacking and a shower while Henry sleeps and Azra surely moves towards us. We’ll meet at noon or so and begin replanning the nine day workshop now that we can see each other in person, and later this afternoon we’ll visit the school lab where we’ll be working– George, the principal, will send a driver when we call – which will surely prompt a whole new curricular redesign in the context of the space. I’m tired as all hell, but the laptop works and charges on the power supply here in the hotel; the staff seems friendly and eager to please; the hotel and all but phone calls and alcohol (if we could find any in this 90% muslim country; the mini-bar has only soda, and a non-alcoholic beer). Things look promising from here. And so the adventure begins.

Monday Mosh
(If you're new or have forgotten the rules, click here.)

After a week or two of camping and confusion, the Monday Mosh is back with a vengance!

What song did you mosh to?
Postcards From Mexico, by Girlyman. Also Rose, from the same album. Man, I love these guys.

What did you step on or bump into? (bonus points for breakage!)
Danced with the baby today rather than step on or bump into her. We did end up crushing underfoot a bunch of Shredded Wheat left over from her breakfast, though -- which surely breaks the bank, bonus-points-wise.

Why did you stop?
Two words: Poopy Diaper.

Remember to post your own Monday Mosh on your blog if you've got one, and in the comments below! Happy moshing!

...And Counting

Not doing much these days 'cept stressing about Dhaka. We did take a few hours off today to go up to Brattleboro and visit with Darcie's parents, and see her brother and his girlfriend, who were in town helping Darcie's father strip and revarnish his new boat; we went into town to see Virginia at Mocha Joes, too, but a parade for Korean War vets was impending, and she was too busy caffeinating the masses to chat. Took another few off this evening for a cookout with other faculty and their families, nominally a send-off for the Sheideggers, who are off next week for a year-long Fulbright fellowship in Turkey.

Mostly, though, I've just been sweating the small stuff. I've read the eco-friendly Lonely Planet guidebook several times, most notable for being the only guidebook on Bangladesh in the English language, and checked out Virtual Tourist on the subject of Dhaka, which mostly just confirms the LP folks. In my spare time, I worry about losing my functionality due to bad drinking water or smog (according to the Lonely Planet guidebook, one can expect burning eyes, rasping lungs, and a sore throat within a few hours after arrival in the capital city, but no one says what happens after a few days, or weeks, and it worries me). I found the web site for the Royal Park Residence, the hotel where most of the participants and co-leaders will be staying, and it seems nice, if a bit suburban -- smog notwithstanding, I prefer to be in the thick of things, I think.

And I've been sweating the technology, too. The potential for disaster is immense -- our institute subject (Teaching and Communicating with Technology) sort of begs network access, working computers, and all the trimmings; I've planned redundantly, putting all the materials I think I'll need on both CD, disk, and laptop, but we'll still need netowkr access much of the time, and the network there is supposed to be pretty iffy. Then there's data projection -- without which, we end up just talking at people for nine days, which plumb sucks and no bones about it. In about an hour I hope to finally speak to George, the principal of the school that's hosting us, to confirm whether they have a data projector for us to use; if not, I'll have to lug a bulky projector halfway around the world, since the "good ones" here at school are all installed in classroom ceilings. I would have spoken with him earlier, but I couldn't remember which way daylight savings time worked, and was afraid to call and accidentally wake him up.

Expect a good Monday Mosh tomorrow -- yeah, I know we're long overdue -- and then maybe a little something Tuesday before I leave. After that there's no guarantee I can blog, but I'll do what I can. 'til then...