River cruise

I’d often heard about The Boat Consortium, in the two years that we’ve been here.

Here is what the Bradt Travel Guide says about them. “Long-term residents in Bangladesh may eventually bump into someone who has membership in “The Boat Consortium”, a group of expatriates who have purchased and refurbished 3 vessels explicitly for taking leisurely cruises around the city. Generally these kinds of events will be by invitation only and involve significant quantities of alcohol.”

Well, I’ve now had the privilege of receiving one invitation, and I can confirm that all information above is accurate to the last detail.

One of my friends, whose extraordinary organizational skills and zest for life I already mentioned when I recounted our trip to Barisal on the occasion of International Woman’s Day, happens to belong to the Boat Consortium, and she brought together a group of sixteen ladies, the other night. We were to meet at 4 Pm, in order to reach Bashundara, where the boat is moored at the moment (the water being high after the monsoon), as early as possible. Night falls around 6.30 PM, here. And each of us was to bring something to munch on, or to drink.

I had no idea what to expect, and was pleasantly surprised when I saw the colorful boat waiting for us.

The upper deck is protected from the sun, and the floor entirely covered with large mattresses. One after the other, we walked the plank with the help of one of our boat men holding a long bamboo pole, hopped on board, took our shoes off and climbed the ladder. Our captain started the boat, and off we went !

Anyone who knows Bangladesh will tell you the country is best seen from a boat. Once on the river, you forget the ever-present filth, chaos, and pollution of Dhaka. You even forget the depressing statistics about over-population. Traffic and concrete give way to water, luxuriant vegetation, and the tranquil, peaceful feeling one experiences floating slowly down a river. It’s pure magic.

Of course, the occasional sign sticking out of the water reminds you that this piece of land has been claimed and soon, the water from which it emerges will disappear, and ugly buildings will be erected.

As you can see in the picture on the right, the ground is basically sand : it makes you wonder how these buildings will fare in the long term…

But we were there to have fun, and already, bags and coolers were being unzipped. Soon, plastic containers crowded the middle of the deck, along with bottles of wine and beer cans.

One of us had brought a Mean Martini cocktail that put us all in a great mood, and our host, never short of ideas, launched a game to break the ice and help the few newcomers to Dhaka get to know everyone. We each were to say a few facts about one of our friends. Easier said than done, in some cases, but it worked (along with the Mean Martini). Soon, everyone was mingling.

Here is the Mean Martini, complete with the olive, if you please

We spent the following three hours eating diverse delicacies, from Indian Chats to fresh spring rolls, chicken satay, baba ganoush, quiche and even some fantastic homemade cheese cup cakes.

Occasionally, we’d float past another boat, and exchange joyous greetings. One of them had Bollywood music blaring, and young people dancing on the deck.

And so, slowly, the gorgeous scenery lost its verdant colors, and the day faded and turned into night.

At some point (don’t ask me when) our captain turned the boat around. Lamps glowing in the dark, we continued to glide on the water, until we reached the point where the cars were waiting for us.

We were home by 9.30 PM, well fed, some of us more than a little tipsy, and ready to do it again very soon. Thank you, D.

Home leave madness, or how expatriation can affect long-lasting friendships, if you don’t pay attention.

I’m referring to the friends I made in grade school. Friends I’m now old enough to have known two-thirds of my life. Friends who are practically family. Often, their own families have come to matter a lot to me, too, as we’ll see.

Each year, our suitcases from our Christmas holidays barely unpacked, I start fretting about home leave. I dread the logistical nightmare almost as much as I look forward to our summer pilgrimage. The mere task of deciding where to be, at what time, requires superior planning skills, or in the case of average people like me, enormous amounts of time and energy. Most expat families learn to juggle and cram as much as they possibly can into these weeks : visits to parents, siblings, cousins, and friends, visits to doctors (it takes us an entire week to do the medical round, each year) and frantic shopping for shoes, clothes, sport and school supplies (where but in France can you find notebooks with the five lines, for proper cursive writing?), medicines, skin care products for Mom and hair care products for my girls curly locks, a few food staples we could live without, of course, but the joy of being able to sample them at home, once in a while, is worth the head-splitting task of working out the best way to pack them and remain within the stringent airlines’ weight limits – things like real moutarde de Dijon, Acacia honey that our girls love above all other flavors, a little foie gras, the ubiquitous saucisson no French person worth their salt will be found traveling without, etc.

As if this weren’t complicated enough, imagine what it’s like for families like ours, with members scattered all over Europe and the Americas. And this is just family. Some years, we end up continent hopping and visiting up to 5 countries, and that’s not counting the layovers. Each year, we try to see as many of our family members and friends as we possibly can. And each year, we inevitably miss a few. Try to explain to them why we did not drive the extra hundred miles to see them, too. How come we did not make that extra effort? We get tired, is how and why. When we finally drop our bags in our house in France, often up to two weeks after we left our duty station, we just don’t want to go anywhere for as long as we can. We want to stay put. Because we just travelled thousands of miles. Because our port of embarkation is not a city in France, or even in Europe, it’s in Bangladesh (or India, or wherever), and it took 14, 16, 18 long hours just to reach Paris. And then we had to hop on a train for two hours. And in between, we camped out for a few days, here and there, before we drove almost three hours to finally reach the gate of our house. Most of our friends understand that. They visit us. But once in a while, we get the odd grumpy comment about having to drive so many kilometers to come and see us. And some friends, well, we don’t see for years.

One of these very close friends, who over the years drove hundreds of kilometers to see us many times, lost her mother, three weeks ago. I was in France, but she didn’t call me. She was angry at me for not having made the effort to go and visit her, yet again. We had spoken over the phone, but our conversation was cut short, and I didn’t call back (I’m not very good with phone, I must say. I’d much rather see people, or write.) And so, I feel the loss of her mother, whom I always liked a lot. And I feel the sadness of having lost an opportunity to be there for my friend at a painful time. And I also feel torn, and guilty, for not trying harder. Of course, I apologized. I also promised I will drive the extra miles to go and see her, next year. And I will. Luckily, she’s not the type of person to hold a grudge (unlike me). I know we’re fine. But it all made me think about the importance of not taking anyone for granted. It’s true for all relationships, but the concept seems to stretch and take on a larger meaning in the expatriate context. When you live close enough (in my world, that’s a couple of hours plane ride), it’s easy to make up for such failing. When you’re on the other side of the world, well, it becomes more complicated. I must always remember that.

Paris and Padlocks…

Recently, I read this article in the New York Times complaining about the small locks that have started appearing on some bridges in Paris. Coincidentally, I was myself in Paris, a couple of weeks ago, and my reaction to this new phenomenon was quite different.

I first noticed the lines of padlocks on the Pont des Arts, as the bus took us to the Musée d’Orsay. I couldn’t figure out what they were, and wondered briefly if maybe it was some Modern Art exhibit. Then, as we came out of the Musée d’Orsay, we decided to cross to the other side of the Seine river. We went up the steps of the Passerelle Léopold Sédar Sanghor, and there they were again, thousands of padlock attached to the metal railings.

The author of the article is so annoyed about them, she titled her piece “An Affront to Love, French Style.” An affront, really? I’m French (maybe not the “Frenchest” of  French people, but nevertheless born and raised in Paris, with a French father, a French passport, and the first 24 years of my life lived in that country), and I happened to think it was a cute, rather endearing thing to do. Some people complain, apparently, about the preservation of our architectural heritage. I’m not sure how the architectural heritage is desecrated, here. The Passerelle Leopold Sédar Sanghor is not even an old footpath : the original Pont de Solférino built under Napoleon III was destroyed and rebuilt first in the Sixties, and then in the Nineties. Not exactly old. As for the Passerelle or Pont des Arts, well, art and love go well together, don’t they? One of the comments at the bottom of the article’s online version mentions that young people used to make love on that small footpath, at night. Different times, different customs ? Besides, the city administration already had the bridges cleaned of all those locks, once – they can do it again whenever it becomes too much.

According to the author of the article, “Walking on those bridges has become almost insufferable for” Parisians. Bah ! Parisians certainly love to grumble and complain – All French people do, it’s a national passe-temps. Still, “insufferable?”

Finally, using this as an excuse to wax philosophical, and give us a lesson about how French people have lived and understood love since the Sixteenth Century, no less ? N’importe quoi, as we say in Molière’s language ! I’d bet some of those locks don’t belong to lovers, but simply to tourists who wanted to leave a little souvenir back in the beautiful city of Paris. And I’d also bet that some of those padlocks belong to lovers who happen to be French. If the red one in the picture below is any indication, it also takes some preparation. I don’t know many people who walk around with a padlock bearing a heart, two names, and a date…

Whether in Rome, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or numerous other places around the world, people throw coins in fountains and make a wish. The love locks or wish locks have their own diverse history, it seems, and whether the tradition started in Taiwan, in Serbia before the Second World War, or in Uruguay, it certainly touches hearts on some level. It’s a basic human need for symbols that transcends cultures and borders. Like carving hearts and names on a tree bark. If I’m to choose, I’d rather see lines of padlocks on a metal railing.

Jet Lag through the ages – well, mine.

I’m Back in Dhaka, after a 2-month summer holiday that’s taken me to France, to the Dominican Republic, and back to Bangladesh by way of Paris, where we stopped for a few days in hopes of alleviating the effects of jet lag. Fat chance. I have not been able to fall asleep at night since we landed, three days ago, and at 4 am, this morning, my confused, exhausted mind began crafting this post.

In my twenties, when I first travelled far enough to cross a few time zones, Jet Lag had a delicious, exotic quality. It meant that I had become a globe trotter. I was young, full of energy, and even as someone who’s always needed a lot of sleep, skipping a night was not worth even a passing thought.

At 30, I moved to New York City, and for a few years, I went back and forth between France and the US. Jet Lag was still exciting, still something I could negotiate without pain, but I did start to notice some patterns. It was easier to travel from France back to the US than it was to fly the other way, for instance. Going West simply meant that I’d wake up very early for a few days. Going East, well, it would take me a day or two to adjust.

In my late thirties, I became a mother. Oh boy! From one day to the other, sleep became a mirage, something elusive that you desperately long for. During the first few months, until our daughter slept at least five hours through the night, I basically stumbled about life – the perfect Zombie Mama. Taking my baby daughter to France for three weeks when she was only two months old did not help her to settle into a sleeping routine, of course. And then, we moved from New York City to Nigeria. Thankfully, our little one quickly developed the rare ability of adjusting her sleep to the needs of our schedule. Did we go to bed at 10 or 11 PM for some reason? She’d conveniently sleep until 10 or 11 AM the following morning. Not always. But all things considered, pretty often.

Then, came our second daughter, born in New York City, between our appointment in Nigeria and our new posting in India. The first few weeks in the US were slightly easier than the beginnings with our first baby because my mother, who’d come to help, this time, took the 5 AM shift. Still, when the little one turned six weeks old and we had to fly to Hyderabad, ten time zones away, the combination of postpartum hormones, accumulated fatigue, and the usual stresses linked with moving meant that I cried the entire day. I cried as I showered, and frantically packed suitcases. I cried behind my sunglasses as the taxi took us to the airport. I cried some more when we were checking in, and I had to rush to the toilet because  my periods had chosen that moment to return. I was still crying in the plane as it took off, and I continued to cry until we were way over the Atlantic ocean. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t want to go to India. I just didn’t want to leave Brooklyn, not right then. We landed in Hyderabad around midnight, local time, exhausted beyond words, but proud that both our daughters, the 4-year-old, and the 6 weeks old, had behaved impeccably throughout the whole journey. We crashed in our hotel room, and I remember that our baby was sleeping on the bed, beside me. When I woke up, six hours had passed, and the baby was still sleeping! She’d just slept through her first night. I always attributed this little miracle to the fact that we had changed time zone and day had turned into night. A good consequence of Jet Lag.

Well, I’d entered my forties, by then, and our second daughter turned out to be quite different from her sister. She does not need a lot of sleep, and she’s not very good with Jet Lag. She’s now eight years old, and she’s spent the last three nights wide awake, and determined not to be left alone. She keeps barging into our bedroom, declaring that she has nothing to do. When it is 3 AM, and all you wish is to melt into Morpheus’ slippery embrace, having such an imperious little person around is pretty hard on your frazzled nerves. Fortunately, school started again, this morning, and she had to get up at 7 AM. I’m counting on sheer exhaustion to take care of her Jet Lag – and hopefully, mine, too. But as I prepare to exit my forties, I hereby declare that Jet Lag is no longer fun or exotic. It is a pain.

Second and last morning in Agoiljhora, Bangladesh.

We woke up early, the following morning, feeling refreshed, and determined to make the most of the few hours left before we had to return to Dhaka. We had breakfast at the Tarango compound, and Mrs. Kohinoor Yeasmin, Chief Executive Officer and very much the soul and king pin of the NGO for some 20 years, showed us an illustrated book they have created as a model for their women workers. She proudly reported that they’ve sold the model to a couple of neighboring countries (Pakistan and Nepal, I think, but don’t quote me on that, as I’m not entirely sure.)

Then came a first series of heartfelt and reciprocal thank you and good byes, and we left for one of the nearby villages to visit some of the women who work for the NGO.

I would have loved to be able to amble along these bucolic paths a while longer, and maybe cycle around. It was so quiet, so peaceful and beautiful. As we walked, Sheenagh Day, the director of Maison Bengal, a fair trade company who buys products from Tarango to sell them across the UK, told us the stories of some of the women in that community, and how their life had been transformed after they started working for the NGO. She mentioned one lady who’d brought us some delicious fried cookies, the day before. Pashful is very tall, with strong features, and Sheenagh had never seen her smile. Then, one day, she came to her, looking radiant, and said: “With the money I’ve made, I was able to buy land. My family will never go hungry again.” Not only that, but she put her children through school, and now, her older daughter is studying Political Science at Dhaka University. You can find her story in more detail if you follow this link to one of the Tarango web pages. It is quite inspiring.

We stopped at the compound of an old lady who’d created new models with jute, out of her own volition and inspiration. She didn’t smile, either. Kept a stern face until the very end, when we were taking pictures and we asked if she would smile, and she did – hesitantly, as if she wasn’t quite sure this was the right thing to do. Smile or not, not a word said, whether in English or in Bangla, was lost to her.

Her sheep (above, on the left) was quite successful, but she’d also made this great boat made of jute that we decided to give to Dawn, who’d worked so hard to make this adventure a reality – as a souvenir. If you look closely, you’ll see little ladies inside the boat.

This lady, on the other hand, who seems to be a leader in the community, and one of the boat race winners, the day before, was all smiles. She’d hurt her hand a bit (I think it got caught between two boats), but it didn’t matter, she repeated. “I’m really, really happy.”

We would have liked to stay longer, but we had a two-hour ride to Barisal, where we’d be catching our plane – and not just any plane – and so, we said our good byes, exchanged many hugs, took more pictures, and climbed back into our little van.

Back soon for the last leg of our journey. I did mention that it was an intense 48 hours, didn’t I?

I am Woman !

News flash ! We actually have a picture of our group singing on stage (Merci, Christine). Still no film, but then, pictures have the great advantage of being mute. So here we go ! Can you feel the conviction, the enthusiasm?

And we continue to celebrate Women in Barisal, Bangladesh

After a delicious lunch, we went to play. Well, yes, why not? Paddling was hard work, so a little recreation was in order. The game was of the blind-folded variety, and our goal was to break a clay pot propped up on the grass, roughly eight meters away.

Yes, I missed the pot, but it would seem that I landed as close as anyone else was able to, because I won the first prize. Yeah! And I’m glad to report that women fared much, much better at this game than men did.

The game was followed by a cultural show, back under the larger tent erected along the river, with very pretty dances…

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Next, our group, otherwise known as “Game For Anything if Slightly Deranged Bideshi Women,” climbed onto the stage to perform a song that none of us (save two) had ever heard before. We’d started rehearsing it on the deck of the Rocket Boat, the night before…

Our friend, whose idea it was to sing this particular song, knew the lyrics by heart and we copied them on scraps of paper, and shared them. That was easy enough. The real challenge was getting the tune right, as we had no music, no wi-fi on the boat to access You Tube or iTunes, and our leader, a beloved member of our community blessed with superior organizational skills – as the king pin of the whole trip, she pulled no stops to make things happen, even when it seemed impossible – a great sense of humor, and a knack for coming up with original, if somewhat wacky ideas, will not hold it against me if I whisper, in tiny font, that the Singing Fairy went on strike the day she was expected to work her magic at her cradle. No matter. Sing we would, and sing we did. A cappella. And what we may have lacked in musicality, we more than made up with enthusiasm and conviction.

Luckily, there’s no known record of our performance : we were all too busy bellowing our feminist message on the stage to think about filming it for posterity.  Then again, I only have to consider the very large public…,

… and the number of cell phones around, to get this vision of generations of villagers glued to a tiny screen, laughing uproariously. Or it could become a punishment of choice : if you don’t do your chores, you’ll have to watch these crazy ladies singing ten times…

OK, and what song am I talking about, you wonder? Here it is.

Great message, right ? Sadly, it is still relevant, some forty years after it was first created – and not only in Bangladesh – just watch the US Republican Presidential Primary. But I digress…

Back in our little village, the lowering sun was casting an orange glow on the water…

… and we were exhausted – the overnight journey on the boat, if reasonably comfortable, had not allowed for much rest.

We went to our little guest house, and indulged in a water bucket shower (and a stiff gin and tonic) before we returned to the Tarango compound. The party was not over, and after a lovely dinner, there was more music and dance, and we all showed our moves for a little while. Until fatigue took over. It had been a LOOOONG day, and one we will not forget any time soon.

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