Christmas in April (MATT)

The doctor who sits next door to me at work has “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” as the ring tone on his cell phone. As I sit in my office in the 100+ degree April heat (with LOTS of humidity and no A/C!), I can’t help but laugh every time his phone rings.

As a Muslim who speaks very little English, he has no idea what the song is about – but he sure must love the jingle!!

Marriage (MATT)

A couple of you perceptively noticed that I’m wearing a wedding band in pictures. While Valerie and I are in fact engaged, my colleagues and friends here in Dhaka believe that we’ve been married since summer 2008.

There are a couple of reasons why Valerie and I decided to buy cheap bands before I left NYC. Not only would it otherwise be completely unacceptable for the two of us to travel and stay together, but apparently – as a bachelor living alone – I’d be regularly propositioned by acquaintances looking to marry off relatives and pimps looking to hook me up for a night.

When talking about my “wife” Valerie, I often get asked the following interesting question: “Well, was it a love marriage?!” The alternative, of course, is an arranged marriage, which is still the norm in Bangladesh.

On Sunday evening I attended my first Bangladeshi wedding. Not only was it an arranged marriage, but the bride and groom never met face-to-face until AFTER the official ceremony was over and the papers were signed.

As a sign of the times though, the couple did become “friends” on Facebook shortly after becoming engaged!


In Bangladesh, there is a reverse dowry system whereby the groom has to pay the bride’s family a significant sum up front and then agree to pay even more if the couple gets a divorce. In many cases, I’ve heard that the woman’s family will demand a new refrigerator or a color tv – basic stuff for the house. (Hey, a wedding registry for parents!) Unfortunately, after the wedding has already been planned, the “negotiations” will often break down, sometimes at the last second during the ceremony itself. While this isn’t very common anymore, women in such circumstances have been known to commit suicide, knowing they’d have no hope of getting married again. As an outsider, this of course seems both silly and sad…

In the wedding I went to, the negotiations were taken care of well in advance and everything went smoothly. The groom studied at the Univ of Nebraska and has been living in Abu Dhabi for the past several years, while the bride has spent her entire life in a tiny village four hours from Dhaka. As soon as her visa is processed, she will say goodbye to her family and board a plane with this stranger (err … her husband) and head off to her new life in the Middle East. Talk about rolling the dice!!

Thinking about the matchmaking process, I’m so curious to know how many gossipy aunts were involved…

When I arrived at the ceremony, I thought (and hoped) I’d be the most random and least important person at the party. Upon arrival, however, the film crew (i.e. a guy with a fancy HD video camera and two lighting/sound technicians) spotted me coming in the door and raced across the room to film me as I entered the party. As I've experienced many times now, people often act quite strange when a (white) foreigner enters the room.

Within minutes, they had me posed up on stage (against my wishes) with the wedding party for formal pictures. That was nothing though compared to their intrigue when I sat down to have dinner. I haven’t written about this yet, but in Bangladesh you don’t use any cutlery to eat but rather use your right hand. (I specify right because the left hand is used for an entirely different purpose, but I’ll get to that at another time.) I’ve enjoyed adopting this local custom, but judging from the camera guy who hovered over my table while I ate, my technique of mashing meat and rice between my fingers must have been completely wrong!


As I walked out of the party with my half-Bangladeshi friend, I remarked at just how nervous the couple must be starting a new life together without going on a single date.

His reply, “Well, all marriages eventually result in bickering and zero sex, so who cares whether you pick the person or not!”

Cruising down the street… (MATT)

Although there are so many exciting things to see each day, I find that it’s very hard to stop and inconspicuously take a picture while walking around. (As a side story, however, people have no problem coming up to me, shoving their mobile phone in my face, and snapping a pic or two. Just this afternoon, two guys stopped me in a park so they could each have a posed picture standing next to me. What do they do with the pictures, I wonder? “Look mom, I saw a white guy today!!")

That said, I find that I can capture images without feeling strange while riding in the car. Here is a video I took a couple days ago on the way home from work. The quality is poor but the music is great! (My driver has a solid collection of CDs and I enjoy randomly picking one out each day as if I have any idea what I’m about to hear…)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6XRSqWHDVg

Free Water!! (aka “pani” in Bangla) (MATT)

I experience at least five power outages per day. Clean drinking water doesn’t just come out of the faucet. While we take commodities such as electricity and safe water for granted in the US, these are prized resources in Bangladesh.

While sitting at a traffic light behind a water truck, a great scene unfolded in front of me. It started with a single lady, who snuck up behind the truck and figured out how to get the H2O flowing. Within a matter of seconds, several others joined in behind the truck, filling up any type of container they could find – dirty cans, old bottles, even a cupped shirt.

As the light was about to change, the original lady respectfully stepped back in to close the tap. Unfortunately though, just as the truck started moving, some latecomer ran up to get his share. He didn’t get any water, but he managed to re-open the tap and thus water sprayed all over the street as the unknowing driver sped off. What a waste!


On a sadder note, this scene reminded me of a story I read a few months ago about an overturned fuel truck in Ghana. When villagers learned that gas was spraying out of the tank, they ran towards the scene – rather than away – hoping to fill their bottles with some free petrol. Over 70 people were killed/injured when a cigarette ignited a massive explosion.

Desperate people will do dangerous things without seemingly thinking twice…

shifted perspectives (VAL)

Although I know what we all really want to hear about is Matt's adventures in Bangladesh (ahem, reluctant blogger, hint hint...), someone mentioned wanting updates on my life in NYC as well, so I'll oblige.

I got back to the city a couple of days ago after a week in Dhaka. Went for a run in Central Park with my friend, and just could not get over how clean the sidewalks were on my way to the park, or how quiet the traffic noise was down 5th Ave, or how pleasant the weather was (sunny, slight breeze, zero humidity). I mentioned this to my friend, who laughed in reply, saying that quiet, clean, and arid aren't usually the top 3 adjectives that come to mind to describe Manhattan. Looking back, I remember moving to the city and finding the humidity unbearable, the constant train and traffic noise deafening, and the streets filthy with trash and dog poop. But after a week in Dhaka, NYC seems serene. How quickly our perspectives can change!

Brick worker video (MATT)

This isn't my video, but I see crazy stuff like this almost every day...

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9AUUnalkU8

Grameen pictures (MATT)

The timing of Valerie’s spring break was perfect, as it coincided with my Grameen team’s trip to the US. While I stayed in Dhaka to keep the Pfizer-Grameen research project on track (and spend time with Valerie), the rest of my new colleagues went to Washington, DC to attend the World Health Care Congress, then made a trip to NYC to visit with Hillary Clinton, their Grameen America counterparts, and my Pfizer colleagues in Midtown Manhattan.

Just before the team departed, Professor Yunus left a nice souvenir for Valerie. (It’s not every day that you get a personally addressed signed book from a Nobel Peace Prize winner…)




Here are some pictures from the team’s visit with Secretary Clinton.




While I’m at it, here is a picture with Dr. Yunus and my Pfizer colleagues when they visited Dhaka in mid-March for the project kick-off meetings.



Me, Sebastian (Pfizer), Prof. Yunus, and Sonia (Pfizer)

patriotic arrowheads (VAL)

For his commute to work, Matt has to detour around the large Bangladesh Air Force (BAF) base that is in the middle of the city on the old airport grounds. I had to laugh every time we saw the entrance, which includes this big sign:


I don't know if this is a mistranslation, or if becoming a "PATRIOTIC ARROWHEAD" is really an aspiration of Bangladeshis. Either way, it adds some entertainment to the commute.

toilet tip of the day (VAL)

When in fancy hotels catering to Europeans (like Matt & I were when we went to the Westin for drinks), be careful not to confuse the bidet faucet with the flush of a toilet, especially if leaning over the toilet to flush. You will wind up soaking yourself and the stall in toilet water. The best thing to do at this point is walk past the giggling washroom attendant, use your scarf (that you had prevoiusly been cursing for it's uselessness) to cover your drenched fatua, and go sit in the scorching sun for approximately five minutes until you are dry. Allow another hour or so for the flush of mortification to drain completely from your face.

envy or pity? (VAL)

The rickshaw is the Bangladeshi version of a taxi. It consists of a rickety old bike with an even more rickety cart attached to the back, usually decorated in bright paints, metallic buttons, and tassles, with fancy designs and portraits of Bangladeshi women (or in one case, a little towheaded boy). Lots of locals use this form of transport to go short distances, but I've also seen construction workers on the highway sitting atop their pile of beams while the rickshawallah (driver) strains to turn the pedals.

Matt and I like to take rickshaws up and down Gulshan Avenue, the main drag in the expat neighborhood. Once we're riding down the street in our little carriage, without fail every rickshawallah -- and many pedestrians -- will stare at us as we pass. I've often wondered what the other rickshawallahs are thinking as they watch our driver lug us around. On one hand, as bideshis (foreigners) we have more money to spend and tip much more lavishly than 99% of locals, so a good rickshawallah can earn half of his daily income with our one fare, which is determined beforehand by haggling. On the other hand, we are two BIG bideshis, both tall even for American standards (6'3" and 5'8") and no lightweights either (over halfway into his "third-world thirty", Matt still weighs over 200lbs.). These little rickshawallahs must be pulling at least four times their weight, and that's not counting the cart.

So the question I keep wondering is, are the stares from other rickshawallahs in envy or pity?

bathing rituals (VAL)

The first time I stepped into the master bathroom shower (and I say M.B. shower because there is a master bath, another full bathroom off of the second-biggest bedroom, a third full bath off of the entry foyer, and a hole in the ground in what is supposed to be the maid’s quarters in the back of the kitchen), I was a little grossed out. The faucet hasn’t been scrubbed in a very long time and the metal is pretty tarnished. The showerhead is from the early 80’s and disperses water unevenly. The ceiling is starting to show spots of mold. Well, I thought, I’ll have to rough it a bit in Bangladesh.

So I begin to shower, with my western toiletries and a steady – if slightly uneven – stream of piping hot water. I open the small window in the shower and peer out across the glimmering lake. At this point I notice the two little boys in the distance, one naked and one in red shorts, standing knee-deep in the water, floating algae, and debris (okay, let's be honest, trash and feces) near the edge of the lake. One has a purple plastic bucket, something he might use to build sand castles on the beach if he were born on the other side of the world. Instead, he is wearing it on his head as he splashes his brother/friend. He then uses the bucket to scoop up water and pour it over his head. He makes a scrubbing motion across his stomach and down his legs. Rinses again with the bucket and then begins using the bucket to fling water at his brother/friend in earnest now, windmilling his arm like a softball pitcher so that the scooping and flinging of water repeat fluidly. The other boy mimics the scrubbing motions, scratching at his underarms and rubbing his face. They continue to splash each other for a few minutes before crawling up the steep hill leading up the dirt road that runs along the lake.

Their bath time is over, which reminds me that so is my shower. As I watch them scampering along the road, I grab the towel off of the bar and realize that I need to reconsider my idea of “roughing it”.


(this photo isn't of the original boys I saw, but luckily this routine repeated itself quite often. I decided it'd be indecent to photograph the adults who bathe this way, so I stuck to the little boys.)

my visa (VAL)

Although I arrived at JFK several hours early, I ended up running through security to my flight because I was held up at the check-in counter. They didn't want to let me board the flight without a visa. Although the Bangladesh Consulate website says tourists can easily secure visas on arrival for up to 30 days, and Matt's various expat connections had all assured him that this is what their guests had always done, the airline agent told me their system "strongly recommended" getting a visa beforehand and thus would not allow her to print me my boarding pass. Her supervisor said he himself was Bangladeshi and would never dream of going to Dhaka without a visa. An hour, a panicked call to Matt, a bloody nose, and a fight with the airlines later, the supervisor's supervisor finally approved my boarding pass.

This, of course, made me nervous for my arrival. Visions of being trapped in the Dhaka airport haunted me as I tried to sleep on the plane. Of course I had no way of knowing what the visa on arrival process would entail...

I was one of the first from my flight to make it to the terminal in Dhaka, so I walked right up to the passport security checkpoint to ask for the visa. The agent gestures past him and into the baggage check area, and tells me to find a kiosk for Sonali Bank. With that I’m through security and staring at a row of airport service kiosks: rental cars, currency exchanges, some shady abandoned TI desks. At the Sonali Bank kiosk, a man sits slumped over in his chair, sleeping, behind a counter and a thick pane of Plexiglas. The lights are out. I knock on the glass timidly. He jumps up, runs his hands over his face, and flips on the lights. I now see that his small office is a 6’x6’ space wallpapered in free posters from old airlines and carpeted in . . . people. Yes, four men are sleeping on the floor, under thin blankets, their bodies stretching from one wall to the other. I try to keep my eyes on the teller and not on his strange office mates, who don’t even stir in the sudden light.
“I need a visa on arrival?” I ask hesitantly.
“Fifty dollars” he replies, as he gets out a carbon-papered receipt pad and begins scrawling on it.
“Do you need to see my return itinerary?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Well, do you want my passport?” I shove it under the glass.
He waves it to the side, leaving it unopened, and continues writing out the receipt. A minute later he rips off the top copy and slides it back under the glass with my passport.
“That’s it?” I ask incredulous. It takes every ounce of my sleep-deprived focus to keep my eyes off of the floor, where one of the men is starting to stir.
“Go back to security now,” he replies, “that’s it.”
So I head back to security, which I realize at this point was only because I didn’t have the brain energy to come up with my own alternative path. If I grabbed my bag off the carousel, I could have had a straight shot out of the airport and to the taxi stand. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this was the strenuous visa process that the JFK agents were concerned about.

The beauty of PB&J! (MATT)

After just over two weeks, I stepped on a scale and realized I had lost a cool 15 pounds. I knew something wasn’t right, as I had dropped two full notches in my favorite belt. Losing approximately a pound a day, I figured, I’d weigh about 40-50 lbs when I return to NYC in a few months.

A friend jokingly calls it the “Third World Thirty,” which for him meant losing 35 lbs in the first year here. As fat Americans, we’re bulked up on genetically engineered over-sized chicken breasts, which left me in a bit of a shock when I went with my colleagues the first day to the “canteen” for lunch. I had heard that the cows and chickens in Bangladesh are among the skinniest in the world, but after picking through the decrepit bundle of chicken bones that first day, I knew I had to figure something else out for lunch.

Accordingly, I’ve gone back to my elementary days and fallen in love again with PB&J sandwiches. With lots of fat and 8 grams of protein per serving, peanut butter is a good start! I usually have PB&J for lunch and an epic feast each night for dinner (at one of the restaurants near my place), which I think will help my weight bounce back a bit.

At this point, however, I think I’d be nothing more than a slap-hitting 8-hole hitter if I returned to the fast-pitch softball team at this point… Sorry fellas – I’m pretty scrawny.

Top 10 things I miss most (MATT)

In no particular order:

1. Basic confidence in the police/fire dept, hospitals, structural stability of buildings, water/air quality, etc.
2. Opening doors for myself
3. NY Sports Clubs
4. Not being stared at 100% of the time while in public (no exaggeration)
5. Wearing contacts w/o having to scrape the pollution/dust off the lenses each day
6. Taking the subway
7. Softball in Central Park
8. Going days/weeks/years (perhaps even a lifetime?) in the US w/o seeing people actually dying of hunger, whereas it's daily occurrence here
9. Having internet at work
10. March Madness (aargh!!)