I hope she dances better than she welds!

A note about welding in Bangladesh.

As some of you may have gleaned from my blog posts, or general accurate stereotypes of South Asia that you might have heard, this region is not known for it's safety precautions. I would normally make some comment about how perhaps in the United States we are too obsessed with safety precautions. I recently heard that despite Bangladesh's horrendous traffic patterns, the US still has more fatal accidents (citation needed, obviously). However, when it comes to safety precautions for welding, less isn't more.

Maybe it's because of the state of Bangladesh's economy, or maybe it's because the buildings are not built to last, and constantly need repair work, or maybe it's because Bangladesh doesn't compartmentalize and hide away the grittier elements of life the way we do in the US, but not a day passes by when I don't see someone welding something. When I drive down the streets a flash of white light catches my eye as we pass men working on the side of the road. When we take a trip to the ship breaking yard, the smell of hot metal permeates the entire scene and many welders can be spotted. Right now, as I sit on my balcony, a hissing sound draws my attention to the building across the way where a man is welding on the roof.

I'm definitely no expert on welding, but it's my impression that serious safety issues are involved in the practice. The hot flames and metal can lead to serious burns while the bright light can lead to permanent eye damage. In the United States, I believe people wear protective gear on their body, arms, hands, head, eyes, and feet. In Bangladesh most or all of this is disregarded. No doubt there is slim to no availability of this protective gear, or where it does exist it's too expensive for most projects.

The man who is working on the building near mine is in sandals, and a t-shirt and is squatting down peering at the area he is welding. With his left hand he sometimes lifts an eye guard to his face while he does the welding with his right hand, but sometimes he neglects to do this. He has no gloves on.

I wish I knew more about the economics and philosophy of Bangladesh. While of course in the USA we also talk about people being 'expendable' in certain jobs, there's a general attitude that human life itself isn't quite as expendable. If it comes down to either a job being done and a life lost, or a life saved and the job never being done, we usually choose the latter. Maybe we could assert that this solution, which obviously isn't really a solution at all, is the reason why we outsource and globalize. The life of a citizen in the US isn't expendable, but the life of an illegal immigrant in Southern California, or of a factory worker in Bangladesh is one we have less of a problem labeling as expendable.

There's no doubt that working at the ship breaking yards is dangerous. Not only are workers there working literally up to their knees in toxic waste, but they are also engaging in completely dangerous activities. Despite the danger and the cost to the environment, Bangladesh's economy relies on ship breaking. A few lives lost benefits thousands, perhaps millions, in theory. But is it worth it? I heard a figure recently that once a person starts going through trash in Bangladesh (to pick out valuable things and sell them- like paper, metal, bottles, etc.), they have 15 years left in their life. Do we just say, it's a rough job, but somebody's got to do it? I want to know what the cost would be to make these jobs more safe. How much less money would Bangladesh make if they ensured the safety of all of their ship breaking workers?

I think it's safe to say that condoning the safety and methods of these jobs is essentially classist, but at what point will we admit that ignoring this global classism is also wrong?

The Joys of Power Outages

I remember when I was little on a few occasions during big wind storms in the Alaskan spring, with a sudden flicker the lights in our house would go out, and our world would plunge into darkness. Nothing was more exciting than rummaging through the drawers in the dining room and pulling out every candle and candlestick holder we could find until our house was filled with that soft glow and that waxy spice smell of candles burning. Maybe I have always been a little bit of a romantic, but for some reason I loved it when the power went out. Even today I feel like the proper thing to do by candlelight is to read an old dusty codex with a clay mug of cider nearby. However, I may also attribute some of these romantic notions to the infrequency of power outages in Alaska while I was growing up.

In Bangladesh, the power goes out probably 5 times a day. I haven't kept track, but several times a day the light cuts out, the UPS starts beeping from my dining room, and I wait patiently for the generator to kick in. Somewhere from a few seconds to a few minutes later a churchurchurchur starts from six floors below my apartment, the unmistakable smell of gasoline wafts in through the window, and the lights come back on. This has become such a normal part of the day that I hardly blink an eye when it happens. However, as you can imagine, for certain activities, constant light is absolutely necessary. Cooking is one of these activities. If I'm chopping vegetables, I can simply pause and wait until the lights come back on. However, if I'm making french fries, popping pop corn, or any number of other cookng activities, (probably equally as unhealthy as french fry and popcorn making) the risk of burning whatever I'm working on is infuriating. On a few occasions the risk of burning myself is also in the forefront of my mind.

It's amazing to think of all the things I've taken for granted for so many years of my life. A nearly constant and unwavering supply of electricity is definitely on that list.

Traffic Jam from Hell

Last night I dropped Dan off at the airport for his first leg on his journey back to the USA, and on my way back found myself in one of the worst traffic jams I have ever seen. This was a traffic jam of epic proportions, which provided me with wonderful opportunities to people watch, practice reading Bangla signs, and breathe in fumes (three of my favorite things to do in Bangladesh). I know it's probably not usual to find respite in a traffic jam, but it offered my mind the perfect opportunity to fall back into Bangladesh and avoid turning the CNG around and getting on the plane with Dan. Ironically, if I had done this, I would have ended up in Dhaka faster than I ended up back at my apartment.

The drive, which usually lasts 45 minutes, took a good 2 hours (a good portion of which time we spent on the opposite side of the road, driving against traffic) to return me to the intersection near my apartment. At first, things seemed to be normal- the streets were full of cars, busses, trucks, CNGs, rickshaws, cows, and goats, all moving in their own individual directions, but moving nonetheless. However, it was only after about ten minutes of driving time that my friendly CNG driver and I found ourselves stopped, engine off, between a flatbed truck and a crowded bus with a flaming soccer ball painted on the side. At this point my driver turned around to me, said something in Bangla and then said: Jam. We smiled knowingly at each other, and then watched what we could see of the scene around us.

What's amazing about Bangladeshi traffic is that it's not "bumper to bumper" like we say in the US. On one side of the road there is an innumerable amount of lanes. If there are three huge trucks side to side, there are three lanes. If there is one truck and 6 rickshaws and two motorcycles, then there are 9 lanes. The number of lanes is fluid, based on the mode of transportation around you. Also, as traffic moves in one "lane", rickshaws, CNGs, and other small vehicles will angle themselves perpendicular to the "flow" of traffic in an attempt to edge their way into the mobile lane. They also do this maneuver when they're trying to get better views of if and when the traffic will move, and if they're trying to get out of the way of a truck's exhaust pipe. Luckily for me I had a great driver and I only once or twice was caught in stopped traffic, sitting next to a huge truck's pipe blowing exhaust right into my face (in these instances I leaned out the other side of the CNG and gasped for a breath of air and then pushed my dupatha into my face to offer some relief).

I've heard that in general the rest of the world doesn't do lines as well as North Americans. In the US if someone cuts in line it's grounds for an 'excuse me, please... there's a line', or if you're in NY, it's possible grounds for a public display of your dominant attitude. There's little to no indication that I've seen that Bangladeshi's have any inclination towards this kind of mentality towards lines. If you're at the grocery store trying to check out, someone may feel like they have fewer items than you, so they simply push ahead of you and put their stuff on the counter (often with your stuff, so you then have to specify what is yours and what is theirs). Even at the orderly airports lines are fluid and flexible. Traffic is no exception. The vehicle behind you, be it a rickshaw, CNG, or car, will feel no qualm with nudging you forward, just to let you know that they're there. This results in any number of touches and bumps- what we would call fender benders in the US- but no hard feelings! At one point when my CNG was blocking the way for a bus to go by in the opposite direction (whoops, our bad), the driver of the bus took a huge scrub brush, leaned out the window, and gave one hard THWACK on the roof of our CNG. My driver then yelled forward to the CNGs and rickshaws in front of him and, aided by a man trying to cross the street, everyone moved, was moved, or was pushed forward the several inches it took so that the bus could pass.

I loved sitting in traffic last night. The exhaust was brutal, and I came home feeling like smoked salmon of a particularly nasty variety, but it was great. If I wasn't stuck between two busses, the views were fabulous. The markets were opening along the edges of the streets and I could watch women out buying fish, vegetables, and fruits. The vendors had lit candles and stuck them into their products so that people could see better (what better way to show what you're selling!). At any give point on my side of the median would be a truck, a bus with a hundred people in it, several CNGs and rickshaws, and then me in my CNG, able still to reach out and pick a cauliflower out of a vendor's basket if I wanted (makes you really realize what kind of pollution those veggies are exposed to, right?).

There were only several times when driving on the wrong side of the road almost resulted in serious accidents (when people crossing the road wouldn't look towards us, assuming all traffic would be going in the "correct" direction, and would step out into the road). When we finally got to GEC moore near my apartment the driver got out and immediately turned down someone looking for a ride. I think he and I were both really exhausted. I ended paying him waaaay more than normal, but he kept me alive and entertained.

Mother Language Day

Happy International Mother Language Day! In celebration, the country of Bangladesh has made it impossible to think, let alone speak.

International Mother Language day is a pretty big deal in Bangladesh, so I understand... but STILL! it is soooo loud!

Chittagong Sounds

Dan and I live on the sixth floor, but that doesn't really remove us from the many sounds of the city below. Each day, five times a day, our entire apartment fills with the call to prayer. Whenever there are pujas going on at the hindu temple down the road our apartment fills with the sounds of bells and songs. The *tring tring* of bicycle rickshaws and the surprisingly melodious truck horns can be heard 20 hours a day. During the day we hear goats bleating and cows mooing. At night we hear dogs fighting. Today while taking a nap I was awoken for a moment by a parade passing by. Just now an unfamiliar noise came through the window into the living room where Dan was blogging, looking up words on his online dictionary, and I was drawing. I asked, 'what is that?' and Dan asked, 'is it human or animal?'. I guess we'll never know.

Eid-al-Adha

EID MUBARAK!

This weekend is Eid-al-Adha. The holiday is based around the story of Ibrahim and his son (either Ishmael or Ishak), or Abraham and Isaac as many Christians know them (an interesting point is that in Islam it's apparently not specified that it's Ishak, unlike in Christianity where it is definitely Isaac).

For those of my friends who may be a little rusty on their sunday school stories, very briefly- Abraham was told by god to go into the wilderness and sacrifice his son. He has his son carry the wood for the burnt offering, and he carried the knife. The son asked, 'where's the sheep' and Abraham told him, 'god will provide it'. Then they got to this clearing and Abraham somehow manages to tie up his son and put him on the altar. Just as he was about to lower the knife to sacrifice his son, an angel came and told him that he has proved that he is god fearing, and pointed out that there's a ram nearby that he can sacrifice instead.

The story in Islam is a little different, but the basic points are all the same. So, to commemorate this story, Muslims have the holiday Eid-al-Adha, which basically means festival of sacrifice. We had heard a lot about the festival, but weren't totally sure what to expect. I knew that a lot of animals were sacrificed, and that there would be a lot of blood, but nothing quite prepared me for what I saw yesterday.

I should start out by saying that in the last week or so in Chittagong I saw many many decorated cows. I saw cows with flowers around their necks, cows with funny hats, and cows that were actually entirely covered in hot pink or silver glitter. I also saw some goats and sheep, but they were less decorated.

Yesterday morning Dan and I woke up to an early call to prayer when it was still dark. I lay in bed with my eyes closed and I almost felt like I was in India. I could hear cows on the streets below, and dogs barking. There was no traffic (which is quite unusual for port-city Chittagong), and there was bollywood dance music blaring from somewhere in the distance. Dan and I got out of bed when the sun was coming up and were greeted by a new prayer over the loud speakers from the mosques near our apartment: 'Allah akbar allah akbar allah akbar Eid Mubarak Eid Mubarak Eid Mubarak!' I had read the night before that this prayer preceded the sacrifice, so Dan and I hurriedly got dressed (me in my most conservative salwar-kameez with my head covered), and ran out the door. We walked over to Panchlaish (the other AUW apartment) where we met Denise. The only people we saw out on the streets were men walking towards the mosques. People were bundled up because the weather has cooled down a bit, and mist was still lingering along the slanted Chittagonian streets.

Denise told us that she knew of a residential area near Panchlaish. We headed off and were quickly in streets surrounded by many cows, goats, and the occasional sheep. Families were out photographing their huge cows and bathing them. They took care to heat up water, add soap, and wash the bulls head to toe. The animals were also given water to drink, it seemed. Soon the streets were all covered with water, as if it had rained, when really it's been dry for weeks.

A cow about to be bathed

A woman and her baby, with their family's cow

A decorated cow, watching me

A large cow and a Bengali man

Sheep and cows. A typical street scene.

A cow and bricks

A huge cow

A goat with a flower lei

A cow staring me down

We spent several hours, I think, wandering around the winding streets of this one residential area. We met up with a group of young women who eagerly chatted with us in our limited Bangla. One girl, named Pakhi, decided that it was her duty to be our personal tour-guide, and spent much of the next hour or so hunting out the largest cows in the neighborhood and taking us to them. We were quickly surrounded by a pack of children, and were somehow just as much of a spectacle as the cows themselves.

A cow and the posse of people following us around

What is interesting is that the value of the cow isn't measured in its usefulness as a worker, or give or milk or life. It is simply the largest cows. As a result there is a tendency to fatten up the cows with uria or steroids, until the meat is actually not healthy to eat. There also seemed to be some politics involved, as the neighbors all gathered on the streets to check out each other's cows, and show off their own. As we wandered to one huge cow to photograph it, someone else would clearly get a little jealous and pull us over to his cow. As a result we saw a lot of cows, and spent a lot of time demonstratively admiring each and every one.

A stubborn cow refusing to go where they wanted him. I think they won out in the end.

Sorry, Cow.

Dan with some big cows!

Pakhi, who made herself our personal tour guide.

Eventually we wandered by a mosque, which was filled to the brim with men and a sermon was going on. A few minutes later we heard the call to prayer start, and suddenly the street was filled with men sprinting and being taken by rickshaws, in an attempt to get to the mosque in time. The sacrifice cannot be done if it is not preceded by a prayer, and it was clear that everyone was trying to get to the mosque before the prayer was over. We wandered by the mosque again and noticed that this time it was so full that people were actually praying in the streets!

Men Running to the mosque:

We continued to wander around, but pretty quickly after this we found ourselves in the middle of the sacrifice itself. The streets that had so recently been filled with living cows, goats, and sheep, now served as the altars for the sacrifices of these animals.

I don't want to get too explicit and graphic for those of you who might not want to see or hear about it. So you might not want to read on, or look at the following pictures if you're a little weak-stomached. I had originally intended to do a "read more" button on Blogger, but I can't figure out how to do it. sorry.

Since coming home yesterday, I have done a little research on halal methods of killing animals, and it, for the most part, confirms what I saw yesterday. The entire method is done in such a way that there is less blood in the body (because blood is not halal), so that the animal does not suffer, and so that the meat is kept clean and undamaged. Despite how disturbing this whole event was to see in a lot of ways, the idea is that it is the most humane way to kill animals. Of course, like anything, this is a controversy. Some of the information I found online said that some people say that since it takes up to two minutes for the animal to die it should be considered inhumane. I read this and balked because yesterday we saw cows bleeding to death for upwards of twenty minutes.

Cows on the street bleeding to death

Cow on the street bleeding to death, and a man preparing to skin the cow.

Dan photographing dead goats, with a cow being skinned in the background

The way the sacrifice works is that a group of men work together to tie the cow's legs together and push it over onto its side. I don't want to get too sentimental, but there is something automatically disturbing about watching or hearing a cow fall over. It's such an unnatural sound that it alone is notable from yesterday's events.

Once the cow is on its back, it is killed. It seemed like there would be one man per area of street doing the actually slitting of the throat. He wore a white kurta and white taqiyah on his head. It's my theory that since the animal has to be killed in a very specific way in order to be halal, someone who is an expert in this does it for all of the families to insure that no one accidentally kills the animal in a haraam (forbidden) way. Therefore, this man had a lot of work to do.

The man who did the actual killing, going from one animal to the next. If you enlarge this you can see there is a lot of blood on his right arm. Dan watched from the sidelines.

One family would work to secure their cow on its back, with its throat pulled taught and its head thrust back against the street pavement. This man would then rush over and in a few swift motions almost entirely sever the animal's head from its body. The head is still attached by the spine, because it is important that the spine is not cut through. The idea behind this method is twofold. One, it is considered more humane because the animal will no longer have blood going to its brain and will thus black out, and it will not have to feel the pain of having its spine severed. Two, it's important that the animal's body is rid of the extra blood, as blood is haraam in Islam.

Cow bleeding to death in the sunlight

A cow dying and streaking the hilly street with its blood.

This, you may imagine, was a little hard to watch. Once a cow was dead I didn't feel squeamish about the families skinning it, or cutting it up (although I didn't see much of the cutting up). It was only the part where the animal goes from alive to dead that was upsetting to me. My breaking point came when a cow in front of us was cut and its jugular started spurting blood four feet in the air- in our direction. We quickly backed away, but found ourselves backing into a cow that was on the ground, bleeding out, kicking, and trying to breathe. I suddenly felt very trapped, and decided I wanted to go home. Denise and I ventured back through the maze of blood stained streets and dying cows, but Dan stayed until the cows were completely disassembled, and the streets were washed mostly clean. While there he received some dozen invitations from friendly families who wanted to share their feast with him (unfortunately those feasts happen at 2 in the morning!)

Denise retreating down the blood stained road

Sweet families keeping us company

An adorable boy up early and bundled up for the day's events.

At one point a man who spoke English asked us if we were enjoying the sight. We politely said, 'yes, it's very interesting,' but then asked if it was okay to be there and watch. He replied by saying that it was definitely okay, and we were free to have some of the meat later on. We were constantly being smiled at by passers by, and were surrounded by women (who would not have to do any of the work until later when they would have to cut up the meat and cook the feast).

All of the meat is cut up and divided into thirds. One third stays with the family. One third is given to relatives. One third is given to those in need. The skin is also used for leather. Later in the day Dan and I saw the only wasted part of the animal, the guts, being pulled out of the trash piles by stray dogs. Literally everything was used in some way by something.

I do feel like such an American city girl right now. I am used to buying meat pre-packaged, wrapped up in cellophane, and weighed- the inedible parts disposed of long before I arrived. I'm not saying that's better. A part of me feels like if you're going to eat meat, you should be able to face the fact that you're taking an animal's life, and that that action is probably going to be disturbing in some way no matter what. I think my sister may have said once that she would never eat an animal that she couldn't kill herself, and I admire her for that.

I wrote once before about the transparency that you find in everything in Bangladesh. Before, I was writing in the context of buying spices at a little shop, and the men tasted each spice until they found cinnamon for me. Again today, I'm thinking about transparency. I know how these cows were killed, and what they went through. I saw the face of the man who killed them. I know that man spent time before hand, praying to god and appreciating the life he was about to take. This is so vastly different from the US where when you buy ground beef you're probably eating meat from 15 different cows from 3 different countries and 6 different states. The cows were probably killed in an assembly line style, broken legged and shot through with electricity until they were stunned to death. This is clearly not any better than what I saw yesterday in Bangladesh. I had to somehow admire the little boys playing, the way children do, as their fathers and brothers killed animals in the street in front of them. Death is a part of life that people do not, or cannot, shy away from here.

I don't want to get into a rant about how in the US I am more willing to eat meat because I am distanced from the animal, and how that is like people being able to kill humans with guns when they wouldn't be able to do it with their own hands (although there's something to be said there, I think). I do just want to say that it was an incredible experience- emotionally provocative as well as thought provoking. I think once is enough and I wouldn't go out of my way to see this same event again, but I can definitely say I learned a lot, and came out of the day with a lot to think about. I feel like I have gone 24 years without completely knowing what it means to be an omnivore.

Sarah in the Fish Market

The other day we went out in search of decorated cows for Eid, but instead wandered into an awesome market place. At first we were surrounded by fruit and vegetable vendors (and I bought about 12 feet of sugar cane), but the streets grew more and more narrow. As the streets narrowed we were suddenly treated to the pungent odor of dried fish. Ahead of us the stalls all changed from fruits (and flies) to dried fish (and flies). We met intersection after intersection as the small winding lanes came together around us and stalls of dried fish sprawled out in every direction. The vendors were friendly and excited that we had somehow found our way into their section of the market. We continued on and were delighted to suddenly smell, behind the dried fish, the smell of Christmas- cinnamon, cloves, ginger, cardamom... we turned left and the path narrowed to a one man walk way framed on each side by spice vendors. The smell was overpowering and wonderful- chili, turmeric, onion powder, coriander powder, fenugreek, cumin, cumin powder, black pepper, cardamom, cinnamon sticks, cinnamon powder, cloves... it was wonderful. We trudged on, treating our noses to the smells from around us, but soon found that we were in a fresh fish market. Stall after stall sold the same types of fresh fish on ice. Only after a few minutes did we realize that the buckets full of fish actually had live fish in them. Sometimes the fish were barely in an inch of water. I wonder if this has to do with halal food, since fish that die in water are not halal.

As we passed by one such stand of fresh and live fish, the vendor motioned us over, and tried to hand Sarah a fish. This is what happened:

More Crows at the Call To Prayer

As promised, here's a better video of the crows during the sunset call to prayer. This was taken yesterday by dan. These crows are crazy.

Halloween in Bandarban

A few weeks ago Dan and I teamed up with Polly and Denise and ventured out to the Chittagong Hill Tracts for a weekend getaway. The Hill Tracts are considered the most "remote" area of Bangladesh. The people who live there are generally not considered "Bengali", but are local tribes that have been in the area for a long time. Whereas I feel like most people in Bangladesh look like they're from South Asia, the people in the Hill Tracts look more like they're from South East Asia, so maybe the area could be considered as sort of a junction between South and South East Asia. Beyond looks, there are some other interesting differentiators between the people in most of Bangladesh and the people in the Hill Tracts. For example, although most people in Bangladesh are Muslim, in the Hill Tracts Buddhism and animism are widely practiced. Additionally, in most of Bangladesh it seems that women have to dress extremely conservatively- sometimes wearing the burka, or simply just covering from head to foot, or at least neck to foot. However, in the Hill Tracts, many women wore sarong-like fabric wrapped around their bodies, with bare chests covered in dozens of beaded necklaces.

I'm not totally great on the history, but I know that there are a lot of politics that have been caught up in the region, which have caused the area to be highly scrutinized by the military and government authority in Bangladesh. As a result, before we left Chittagong we had to register with the government and tell them that us four foreigners were planning on going, and when we got there we had to sign in, and before we left we had to tell them we were leaving. I think there's technically a rule that you must have a military escort with you at all times, but we just threw that out the window and hiked around on our own.

We arrived at night after a grueling winding three hour van ride, directed by an aspiring Bengali race car driver (I'm sure). I'll spare you all the car-sick details, but it's safe to say that by the time we got there I definitely needed some recovery time. We were greeted with a delicious dinner and then shown to our rooms. We had two rooms in the same bungalow. There were two options where we were staying- concrete, or tribal. We went for tribal. The bungalow was entirely made out of bamboo (except for the bathroom, which was concrete). It was really amazing- built with bamboo supports and then covered with woven bamboo so you could walk around in it easily.

Dan taking some photos in our Bamboo bungalow in Bandarban the morning after we arrived

Dan and I crawled under our purple mosquito netting, turned off the lights, and were in outer space. Lights from the pathway outside streamed in through the holes in the bamboo weave and shot stars all over our room. They were coming from the walls, ceiling, and floor, and were scattered on every surface, including our mosquito netting. It was definitely like sleeping in the Milky Way, or at least a planetarium!

The next day I woke up to find that I had been mistaken the night before- our bungalow, which I thought was on somewhat even ground, was actually on a hill. This meant that during the day you could see through the bamboo weave and see that you were walking over nothing!

Morning light streaming in through the floor of our bungalow

I went out onto the balcony and we were in a cloud. I couldn't see more than a few yards out into the day. It was such a dreamy change from what I wake up to in Chittagong. There were only the occasional scattered jungle sounds and the thick green leaves popping up from the fog surrounding us.

Morning view in a cloud

A few hours later the fog had lifted and we were greeted with this view of the valley below us.

Our bungalow in the morning after we went and grabbed some breakfast

After grabbing some breakfast we decided to go out for a hike. We were told that the best way to get to town was actually to hike down to the river and catch a boat. One of the helpful people at our resort drew us a map. Some of the landmarks on the map were "banana aria" (I think that's Banana area), "large mango tree" and "small water passing". We knew we were in for a good walk if the landmarks included all natural features.

We were pointed in the right direction and off we went. Whatever we were expecting in terms of a path was definitely a lot more than what we encountered. At times we had to ask ourselves- is this the path, or is this a goat trail? because we encountered several goats wandering about. But true to the map, we found ourselves pretty soon in a banana aria.

Dan and Denise in the banana aria

Banana leaves in the banana aria

Denise making her way down out of the banana aria

The next landmark was a large mango tree. When I was in India there was a mango tree right outside of my apartment, so it was up to me to recognize our next landmark. I started to doubt myself, or our friend's map, when after quite awhile we hadn't found what I was looking for. Then suddenly the banana trees cleared and we found ourselves face to face with a Huge mango tree. I wish I had a picture.

After the mango tree we had to find what looked like a small river. Now, if someone in the US draws you a map in which you follow a small river, you might assume that the path goes along next to the river. This is not the case in Bangladesh. We spent a minute or two looking for the path along the stream, but then realized that the stream was the path. Again, in the US this wouldn't be too problematic because the stream would be filled with pebbles or stones that you could gain traction on. But, in Bangladesh there isn't much more than just highly plastic silt. Polly ended up taking one for the team as she attempted to get down into the stream, slipped on the silty bank, and slid down on her side. Although our trip down the stream was really only a few hundred feet (at most), it took us quite awhile because we were being so careful not to slip. At times we grabbed bamboo and tried to push against the banks with it to gain some leverage against the near lack of friction in the stream-bed. At one point Polly grabbed some vines hanging from the jungle above us and just slid down the stream, Tarzan style. We basically all managed to somehow stay pretty dry, which was impressive considering!

Dan and Denise slowly and carefully making their way down the slippery stream bed

Polly looking thrilled to finally be at the end of the stream-trail.

Now how to get up this embankment?

Dan and Denise working their way down another steep slippery slope later on in the hike

Dan in a second banana aria, taking a moment to take it all in

After we emerged from the jungle, we were face to face with a wide slow shallow river. We were told that it wouldn't be difficult to find a boat to take us to town, and that the journey on the boat would be about 250 taka and would take about 1 and a half hours. We walked out into a field where a man was chopping away with a machete. We saw him and told him where we wanted to go. He stood up, yelled across the river, and a man on the other side climbed into a shallow wooden boat and started pushing across the river using a large stick. After minimal negotiation (we were in no position to negotiate, really), we carefully climbed into the boat, and off we went. I didn't take many photos while in the boat because I simply wanted to just take it all in. If you want to see some really amazingly beautiful photos of the life by the river in Bandarban (which you should), definitely check out Dan's blog entry about it. For now, here are a few photos that I took:

Cows grazing by the slow river

Polly taking with our helpful farmer

Dan emerging from the jungle

Women working by the river

Our boat driver, pushing us away from the riverbank

The entire journey down the river was one of the most amazing things I've ever done. We simply sat in this carved out wooden boat and watched a fascinating world roll by us. We saw many women washing clothes, washing themselves, and washing pots and pans at the water's edge. We saw men working- throwing fishing nets into the river, looking for gas, building bamboo rafts, and transporting goods. We saw dozens of children playing- climbing up onto the cliffs and jumping in, swimming with their friends and families, chasing after our boat, and even one kid rolling around in mud until he was filthy and then flipping into the river. It was a beautiful, hot, and amazing ride.

We got to the town of Bandarban, or "mox's bazar" (I'm not really sure if this is the true name, or the part of the town we were dropped off in). We were totally exhausted from sitting on the boat, and immediately grabbed some food to eat. At one point when we were wandering around trying to find a place to eat and I got kind of tired. I sat down on the sidewalk in front of a closed jewelry shop, and Denise and Polly went on to look down the street for a restaurant. Dan and I sat there for about five minutes, but then decided we could venture off after Polly and Denise. Now, this is a small town, so we figured we could probably just walk in the direction they went in and find them pretty quickly. Unfortunately for Dan and me we immediately lost their scent. We walked down the street but pretty quickly came to a big intersection. Not knowing what to do we stood there for awhile hoping that Polly and Denise would magically emerge. In a moment of desperation I turned to a man selling nuts on the side of the street, pointed to Dan and me, and then gestured 'two', implying, 'have you seen two other white people around here?'. The man pointed down the street and off we went. We did this every hundred feet or so, and at every intersection, until we eventually found Denise and Polly, who had been doing the same thing looking for us. It was basically like following a trail of white-people breadcrumbs.

The town was pretty laid back. There were a few people out selling things, but for the most part it was fairly quite in the heat of the afternoon. After eating we decided to walk out to the Buddhist temple that was outside of town. The walk took quite awhile, but went through some beautiful countryside. We were greeted by a monk in a rickshaw, who quickly and gladly descended and walked the remaining length of the journey with us. Dan and I quickly fell behind because we kept stopping to take in the scenery, take photos, or hang out with little children (that last one was mostly Dan).

A cow outside of town

The river

A cow in a boat, and a calf watching curiously

Men selling vegetables in front of the mosque.

Thread for sale. I bought blue, pink, and green.

Rickshaw in the shade

Dan trying to catch up after no doubt taking some amazing photos of children

A wood-working store front

Some chickens

Polly and Denise shopping in Bandarban at night

There's a lot of Che paraphernalia in Bangladesh.

Denise and a cow, taking a stroll through town at night.

The golden pagoda off in the distance

At the golden pagoda, with the sunset and moon in the background.

The monks' dog.

When we arrived at the golden pagoda, we were free to wander around and look at everything. The pagoda was up on a hill and looked out over the whole valley around us. We got there right at dusk, which was an amazing and calm time to arrive. I spent a lot of time walking around the pagoda, looking at all of the different statues and gongs and carvings. I wish I knew more about Buddhism though, because there were a few really interesting paintings and carvings that were clearly related to a story that I was unfamiliar with.

After a few hours at the pagoda we took some rickshaws back to town. It was halloween eve and I managed to look up just in time to see a giant fruit bat fly in-front of the moon.

The next day we decided we should stick around our hotel a little bit, take some hikes in the area, and head back to Chittagong before it was too late in the day. Little did we know that we were about to hike up up up up up and become so sweaty. Denise had the brilliant idea of wearing the sweaty clothes from the day before, and we all wisely followed suit.

Denise and Polly and Tiger Hill in the background. That's where we're hiking!

Denise, Polly, and some local children passing each other

on the "brick road" that we were following.

A small bungalow off the path

Dan looking probably much more optimistic than he was feeling about hiking up that hill.

Little flowers

And then things got steep...

...and our brick road deteriorated

...but the little flowers remained.

The view from the top. If you enlarge this you can see the golden pagoda in the distance.

Another view from the top

Denise showing the hard work she just went through

A very sweaty me

A very sweaty Dan.

A very tired Polly

Green! Blue! Clouds!

Polly and the vista.

A wandering goat at the top of Tiger Hill

A snack shop at the top of Tiger Hill. These shops are actually incredibly common all over Bangladesh. Want chips? You probably won't have to go more than 50 yards without being able to find them in one of these little shops.

Denise on the swing-set at the top of Tiger Hill

The next step in our journey was to hike down to this village.

Little white and yellow flowers on the way down

The final steps down to the village. After getting there we didn't take any photos.

The village was really small- just a few dozen families probably. The huts were made out of bamboo, mostly. A few men sat around, but mostly I saw women and children in the village. One woman came out and sat and talked with us for awhile. She spoke a little Bangla, and we spoke a little Bangla, but that was the extent of our ability to communicate. Some women were fanning their babies who slept in cribs hanging from the rafters of their porches. An old woman sat and watched us from the stoop of her bungalow as we tried to identify the grain that was spread out to dry in the sun. The woman was wearing a sarong tied around herself, had dozens of beads around her neck, had spikes going through the top part of her ears and the bottom of her ears had been stretched to fit in a thick stud, she had at least a dozen silver bracelets on, and a nose piercing. Like I said, we didn't take any photos, but here's an example of the adornment I'm referring to.

We had some candy, which we gave to the children in the village. I felt bad coming into the village and not having anything to contribute, and then giving candy to children with distended stomaches. I felt especially bad when the children then unwrapped the candies, popped them in their mouths, and then dropped the plastic wrappers on the ground. At least Denise went and picked them up.

The village was surrounded by some farms, which I'm guessing is the village's main export and source of income. We had also been told that this was a particularly impoverished community. We didn't stay long, feeling like we had nothing to offer these people, and like they knew we had nothing to offer them, and we started the trek back up to our hotel.

bungalow in a farm

Some yellow flowers

Back to the main road where we could catch a break in the shade and have some water!