On leaving...

On Friday I headed back with the sun on the longest day of my life, starting with the sunrise in Dubai, ending, with my head hitting a pillow in San Francisco after a brief stop in New York.

Oddly enough I ended my trip in the exact reverse order I started it in: cab from the airport, Nolan’s fire escape, Zeki’s bar, food at the pizza place, and a greyhound bus back into SLO. It was extremely surreal. I just walked into Nolan’s place around 10 PM on Saturday night and sat in the dark for about 15 minutes listening to somebody play Weezer’s blue album through the wall and trying to figure out if I just went to Bangladesh or not. Say it ain't so indeed...

I’m clearly very sad to leave. Honestly, I really didn’t anticipate that being my sentiment heading back this direction. I sort of thought I’d be happy to come back, as if the trip would rejuvenate my appreciation for California. It is true that I am going to be happy to see some friends and chat over a cold beer that doesn’t require a trip to a supper dodgy joint, but I really felt that I could have stayed for much longer.

So then, was the trip was a good one? Yeah. Absolutely. It’s a little early to say, but I can probably claim life changing. It most defiantly altered my perspective and helped me define what I really want to do with my life. Most importantly, I learned a lot about myself figuring out my way around Bangladesh.

Would I do it again? Without a doubt. In fact, I’d love to go back to the subcontinent sometime in the relatively near future. Would I try to divide my time between an internship and shooting photos? Nope, one or the other. The internship ended up winning out most of the time.

My last two days in Dhaka were rather stressful wrapping up work, so I didn’t get to say goodbye to everyone that I wanted to. If your one of those people, I apologize. As I was saying, I really like Bangladesh (Bangladesh khub shundor). I have a distinct feeling that it won’t be my last time there.

Transitions seem to come at once as I guess my time in San Luis Obispo is probably coming to an end as well. I’m looking forward to graduating in December and moving on to more things like this in the future. I really hope (sorry mom and dad) that this is the start of some major geographical transitions.

Anyways, if anyone would like to get together for that beer or coffee please let me know. I loaded up on a few more fun classes (Espanol / African history) so Jack may be twiddling his paws by his lonesome. I should have more time then I did with last year’s ridiculous unit load, however, so I’m looking forward to seeing more of you still in SLO.

Anyways, here’s a narrative I over wrote and never got around to publishing about the last two weeks…

Hope to see you all soon,

Keith

P.S. I'm sitting in uptown right now waiting for my first class to start at 8. I only mention this because I just noticed the dude that usually sits in Linneas's and writes down his dreams is hanging out right behind me doing just that. Deep breath ... exhale... awwww slo.

Two Weeks

I was lying on my side, my head cradled in my arm. A small desk, concrete floor, and red curtains were the room’s most notable attributes faintly lit by the yellow candlelight flickering against the wall from a slight breeze blowing through the window. The sun having retreated 30 minutes earlier, left the sky in it’s last throws of grey. Faint music was tempered by the sound of a million crickets somewhere in the night. In the distance a woman was arguing with her daughter, their faint rambling voices complementing the moan of a cow across the street.

Like a moth approaching light, the night watchman entered the doorway. He was a short, quiet man with a limp in his mid 60’s whom made a rather ritual experience out of his profession. As he approached the doorway his face faintly light up with the candlelight. I acknowledged his presence and quietly placed my head back down on my arm. We both knew that we had already exhausted our common vocabulary. As he recessed back into the darkness, new and old experiences competed for my attention:

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I had left Dhaka following an eventful beginning to the week. After Sunday’s nationwide strike, Monday’s torrential downpour, and Tuesday’s political opposition rally I become anxious to return to the villages. For some reason, I had always looked to the city and country fondly, as the extremes of commotion and relaxation. Dhaka, however, is like a Thelonious Monk solo, just as complex and difficult to fully appreciate.

A glass of port and a jazz record watching the stars move across the sky…

My exhaustion was really my own fault, with the trip to Cox’s Bazaar and the difficulties in Dhaka finally catching up to me. I aggravated this on Tuesday when I decided that covering the political rally would be more productive then Grameen Bank’s head office. It didn't occur to me at first, but after about an hour of relatively peaceful demonstration I noticed that most of the photojournalists were wearing motorcycle helmets. When the exchange ceased to be about ideas and became more about bricks, tear gas, clubs, and fires, I found out why.

The quiet California summer....

The next morning I made my way to the bus station: rather dingy scenes flush with lepers, cripples, and children beggars with the rare combination of all three. The children, being eerily accustomed to the lifestyle, were always the most difficult to see. From here, I hopped the early bus out of Dhaka, crossing over a large bridge 3 hours later. My destination was a rural town devoid of most Bengali maps.

A lesson that places are never as important as people…

After my arrival and a brief lunch, I rode off to a group training session in a rendition of a rickshaw fondly referred to as a van. As we walked on the high roads separating the rice paddy, we came to a village with children playing mud football under the shadows of a mobile phone tower that provided the only discernable landmark among the endless fields. Poverty was so prevalent here. But you wouldn’t know it from their faces.

The world through a child’s eyes…

Save the occasional close call with a bus and the crackling of a rickshaw chain in the distance, village highways are generally silent. We waited for a few moments till a man showed up with a small motorcycle to carry us back towards the main town. Using as much sense as possible, we managed to fit three grown men onto a 150cc bike and rode weaving in and out of the rickshaws as the headlight bounced of a sea of insects, forming a tangible beam pointing the way.

My last trip to the desert…

For the most part, my final village trip went well. I tried the whole thing without the interpreter. It was frustrating at times, but it really forced me to get down some basic Bengali. Furthermore, while it’s true I escaped Dhaka, the rain followed me. I guess that’s what you get for visiting during monsoon season though. Thankfully it let up my final afternoon, allowing one of the staff to bring me out to a Grameen fisheries project on a large lake.

Family and Friends...

Friday morning found me heading for Dhaka on a bus whose driver was braving another rainstorm along with his own ambition. I was only there for a quick turnaround on my way to the English tea estates in Sreemengal with Paul. After a quick lunch in the POSH section of Dhaka we made our way back north on what ended up being a beautiful afternoon. At a bus stop we made our way to the roof and braced along the luggage rack (clearly, the best way to see the Bangladesh countryside). We spent the better part of the next morning trying to rent a couple of motorcycles or a car so we could tour the countryside. After some difficulty, we finally succeeded in obtaining one small 2-stroke motorcycle that had seen better days.

Of all things, Colin’s scooter…

Sreemengal turned out to be one of the highlights on this experience. On that motorcycle, despite our confidence being shaken by the headlight falling off within the first hour, we decided that India was defiantly within reach. We careened down the sandy back roads and dodgy border towns toward East India stopping along the way to ask for directions in broken Bengali and English. I didn’t have my passport and I was pretty sure this border wasn’t equipped to admit foreigners, but we thought we’d at least see it. We were correct, and upon arriving at the border we were told that it was closed and we’d be shot if we tried to go any further. As blindly optimistic as I’ve become, I make no claims of being bullet proof. We did gaze upon a section of India not many foreigners see though, afterwards doing our best to limp the tired bike back through the tea estates in the dark by drafting a TATA truck and praying the bike didn’t die for the 200th time.

Motorcycle diaries…

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All these memories swirled around as I slowly lifted my head back up to watch the bugs encircling my candle. Hours had passed and sleep would arrive soon. Through the window I watched the moon and stars compete with the clouds for earth's attention. Darkness always comes so quickly here.

All that you have...

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Oh my mama told me
Cause she say she learned the hard way
Say she wanna spare the children
She say dont give or sell your soul away
cause all that you have is your soul
Dont be tempted by the shiny apple
Dont you eat of a bitter fruit
Hunger only for a taste of justice
Hunger only for a world of truth
cause all that you have is your soul

I was a pretty young girl once
I had dreams I had high hopes
I married a man he stole my heart away
He gave his love but what a high price I paid
And all that you have is your soul

Why was I such a young fool
Thought Id make history
Making babies was the best I could do
Thought Id made something that could be mine forever
Found out the hard way one can’t possess another
And all that you have is your soul

I thought, thought that I could find a way
To beat the system
To make a deal and have no debts to pay
Id take it all take it all Id run away
Me for myself first class and first rate
But all that you have is your soul

Here I am waiting for a better day
A second chance
A little luck to come my way
A hope to dream a hope that I can sleep again
And wake in the world with a clear conscience and clean hands
cause all that you have is your soul

All that you have
All that you have
All that you have
Is your soul

- Tracy Chapman
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Why do I put this up? Well, beyond it being a phenomenal song that sparks memories of all night design projects, I think it has a message to ponder on many different levels. Also, I think it fits really well into something I’ve been thinking about lately.

While I was on a train coming south from Bangladesh’s Sylhet division in the north, I asked my English friend Paul what he meant by a comment he made about "beautiful poverty" (I beleive it has since evolved into a blog, which is in my links if you'd like to read it.) Truthfully, the idea of their being such a thing as beautiful poverty is somewhat counter intuitive, especially to someone who wants to be involved in socioeconomic development. Yet when riding around on a motorcycle through the rice paddies of northern Bangladesh or rumbling south on the train watching the sunset over farmers shacks, it becomes quite apparent that it does exist. If you can imagine fields for as far as the eye can see subdivided into small plots that are worked by hand with only the chimneys of brick manufacturing quarries on the horizon, your starting to get the picture. In case that doesn’t work, here’s one:



I had been thinking about the topic from a different angle, asking what poverty was to begin with. Truthfully, the question has been on my mind since the first time I was in the Dubai airport talking to an Australian investment banker. He, despite being on his way back to Australia to close a deal after a Ferrari binge in Dubai, was quite unsatisfied with his life as if having everything he wanted wasn’t enough. Conversely, exactly one week later I was sitting on the balcony of some family’s flat in the mirpur section of Dhaka listening to a guy tell me how satisfied he was with his job, his family, and his friends.

There are, of course, concrete elements such as food security and access to health services. My point, however, is the rather obvious idea that there is a disconnection between socioeconomic success and poverty within oneself.

I used to read this quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson almost every day and it’s since come to make up part of my evolving definition of success:

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To Have Succeeded

To laugh often and love much:
To win respect of intelligent people
And the affection of children;
To earn the approbation of honest critics
And endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To give one's self;
To leave the world a little better,
Whether by a healthy child,
A garden patch,
Or redeemed social condition;
To have played and laughed with enthusiasm
And sung with exultation;
To know even one life has breathed easier
Because you have lived...
This is to have succeeded.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

So then, to reiterate, it is completely possible to be poor and successful or rich and destitute depending on how you live your life. For me it's just another way of saying that you’ll never be satisfied if you’re looking for satisfaction in something or someone. I realize this is an elementary topic but it's really what one ponders on long train rides as your watching mosquitos hit your laptop screen.

Note to self: print out the begining of the above paragraph and repeat it over and over the next time you’re driving through OC, remembering that you wrote it.

I’m a firm believer in extending Newton's third law to oversimplify many facets of life. Therefore, I shall start to conclude my ramblings with the rather obvious point that if there is such a thing as beautiful poverty, then certainly there must be such a thing as ugly prosperity. Instead of continuing with a juxtaposition of my experience in North America and Bangladesh that is sure to come off rather pompous and offensive, I will instead tie this into my experience here by saying that although poor in terms of GDP, Bangladesh is, in my opinion, extrordinarily wealthy in terms of the general warmth of it’s people.

Pictures

I realized that i lag for someone who actually likes photography. In my own defense, the internet is the problem. Also, I'd actually rather be shooting then uploading. Once I get back to Dhaka and find a place to hook my computer into for about 2 days, i'll try to upload some more. In the meantime I put a few more on my website. It doesn't work well with firefox, so if your using that try a different one. Also, if you want a better image click on the 'see full size' link. I'm off to Inani beach...then Dhaka.

Hope all is well,

Keith

Invisible War

I arrived from Dubai on saturday morning a little earlier then expected. Turns out I can't hang with food from POSH malls in the middle east, but food and water from the streets of Bangladesh is no problem.

I've been staying out in some rural villages in Bangladesh for the last few days. It's really been a great experience, much better then Dhaka. Everyone continues to be friendly;the scenery is much nicer. I finally felt like I was in Asia as I was passing the endless rice paddies along the hills of Chitagong.

I'm not sure if i've really made it clear or not, but this entire trip has been amazingly humbling. I can't tell you how amazed I am with the warmth of the people in this region. Because of this, ive been trying to stay with them as much as possible. The depth of conversations I've been having about the human experience is amazing. Take heart in the fact that there is someone on the other side of the world who is exactly like you - who loves, breaths, and bleeds the same as you.

I've spent the last few days interviewing a branch/area office of grameen as well as NGO's in Chokaria, which is located in the south eastern part of bangladesh. In every interview, no matter how insignificant, i've been ending with a really open broad question "what's next for bangladesh". It seems to be so out the norm that people are actually prone to answer. The political situation has come up a great deal. Bangladesh has been "hyjacked" by political bickering to the point that people have lost faith in the system. The title of this blog actually came from an interview with a well respected man in Chokaria. Corruption and buracraitc b.s., essentially, is the invisible war Bengali's are fighting.

I'm not exactly sure when it happened. I think it occured as I was passing a rural town while my bus driver was playing chicken with his collegues and the other 2 ton trucks on the highway. Bangladesh, I decided, is like a fast car spinning it's wheels.It has all this comerce going on with microcredit. It has a great deal of attention with massive NGO pressence. It has an amazing workforce. Yet, Bangladesh is loosing traction relative to many asian counterparts due to the fact that many of it's leaders don't care about the people as much as themselves.

On another note, I'm really suprised that you can just walk into any international organization and be seated with tea and cookies while you wait for an interview. Both Brac and Transperency International have been this way. It's quite fantastic.

I visited a BRAC school today. I really hate to sound overly dramatic, but it honestly broke my heart. The children are so wonderful, so attentive, so sincere. They all want to get good grades because they think this is the only education oportunity that they'll get. The teacher is payed 800 - 815 taka per month which, at the exchange rate it's under 12 dollars per month for 9 months out of the year. Thankfully, all the childrens supplies are free. They sit on the ground and write on little chalk boards. They recitd their abc's and did some bengali dances for me. English, Bengali, Math, Social Science, and Religion are taught (whatever religion the child happens to be).

Today, I am in Cox's Bazzar, which is a sort of vacation spot for bengalis. It's really nice actualy, the longest sandy beach in the world. I'm shooting for Moheshkhali island tommrow. If i get super ambitious, I might try for St. Martin's Island.

Hope all is well,

Keith