Sanitation? It’s in the bag!

I spent much of 2009 working on an urban sanitation study in Bangladesh. Here is a post I wrote for another blog about the innovative approach we were trying out.

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The World Health Organization estimates that over 2.5 billion people lack access to improved sanitation. That’s over 1/3 of the earth’s population. One more time: that’s over 1/3 of the earth’s population. (And you can probably guess which part of the earth we are talking about.)

If that’s not a massive problem, I don’t know what is.

Lack of sanitation is a concern for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s just unpleasant not to have a clean, safe place to go to the toilet. But dignity aside for a moment, the crux of the problem is that poor sanitation causes disease and death. With no proper toilet (and by toilet, I don’t mean Western water-guzzling throne, but just a safe, sanitary way to do your business) to go to, people are forced to use makeshift latrines or, even worse, defecate in the open; something 1.2 billion people (think: four times the population of the United States) have no choice about.

While some of us may enjoy taking a %#&$ in the woods from time to time, the problem with persistent open defecation and unsanitary latrines, especially in densely populated areas, is that they fill the environment with dangerous bacteria. If faecal bacteria don’t get on your hands or into your water source, insects will get to it and bring all that dangerous bacteria into your home, often right onto your food. Faecal-oral contamination can cause a number of diseases (fun stuff like typhoid and cholera), the most common of which is diarrhea. Diarrhea, in addition to being very unpleasant, as most of us know, is one of the leading causes of death to children under five. In fact, diarrhea causes more deaths among children than the immunization-preventable diseases measles, tuberculosis, tetanus, diphtheria, polio and whooping cough combined! Not to mention more deaths than malaria or HIV/AIDS (more, in fact, than both combined).

Each year, almost 2 million children die of diarrhea. Or, if you like smaller numbers, over 4,500 children a day. And it’s not just children who die. Some four to six million people of all ages die each year from diarrhea.

When it comes to poverty, preventing disease and death are at the top of the list. And yet, sanitation isn’t. Is it simply because we don’t like ‘toilet talk’? Because we can’t say ‘poo’ without blushing? That seems absurdly prude of us, and yet what other reason could there be to ignore such a massive problem? It’s total, excuse the pun, crap.

Fortunately, there are brave people out there openly talking about poo and trying to come up with innovative ways to address the world’s sanitation crisis. One of those people is a poople.

Anders Wilhelmson is an architect who puzzled over the question of whether we can realistically build toilets for the 2.5 billion people who don’t have access to improved sanitation? His answer – a realistic one I would argue given the progress we are making – was ‘No’. And so he began to think outside the box. Or, in this case, inside the bag.

Wilhelmson founded Peepoople, a company that is tackling the magnitude of the sanitation crisis in the developing world with its own innovative and practical approach: the Peepoo.

Technically speaking, the Peepoo is a non-infrastructure based sanitation technology. Practically speaking, it’s a bag. But not just any bag. While its main function is pretty self-explanatory, the Peepoo does a lot more than its name lets on. The Peepoo:

• Is biodegradable.
• Provides a sanitary way to go to the toilet.
• Contains urea that quickly kills the bacteria that cause disease.
• Prevents faecal contamination of the environment.
• Saves water as it doesn’t require flushing
• Can be used anywhere the user wishes to use it.
• Turns ‘waste’ into valuable fertilizer.

Now, I know what you are probably thinking. And no, my vision of a perfect world is not one where 1/3 of the population goes to the toilet in a bag, regardless of it’s catchy name. But the world is far from perfect and in certain contexts Peepoos are a better solution than traditional, infrastructure-based latrines. Emergencies are perhaps the most obvious situation in which Peepoos would be invaluable. The current post-earthquake situation in Haiti is a good example where there is a critical lack of sanitation facilities, which could be temporarily solved by Peepoos.

But Peepoos can also be applied to other longer-term situations. Consider urban slums, where:

• Populations are dense and land is scarce, meaning that there is not always room to build toilets.
• Residents often do not own the land they live on and therefore may not have a) the right to build a toilet or b) the inclination to risk investing in a toilet when they could be evicted at any moment.
• Toilets may, in some cases, create opportunities for influential people to exercise control over access or to extort money from users.
• ‘Community toilets’ are - more often than not – unsuccessful, as people generally don’t enjoy cleaning up after one another or performing maintenance activities.
• Women in many parts of the developing world are - for social, cultural or religious reasons - not able to access public toilets during the daytime. And unfortunately, in many places, if they venture out to do so at night, they risk violent or sexual attacks.
• Infrastructure is expensive to build and maintain. One latrine can only serve a limited number of people, and lasts a limited amount of time before it is full and must be emptied or covered over and reconstructed elsewhere.
• Traditional latrines require water for flushing, which is often scarce in poorly serviced slums.
• Traditional latrines do not make use of human excreta, which is a source of valuable fertilizer for agriculture or subsistence farming.

Peepoos have been tested in urban slums in Kenya and Bangladesh. Both trials were very successful and users were keen to be able to use Peepoos regularly. It will be a while before that happens: Peepoople are still working hard to get Peepoos into the market and out to those who need them.

Having worked in developing countries on a myriad of projects attempting to tackle poverty, and having witnessed the sanitation situation of some of the world’s poorest people, I firmly believe that we won’t be successful in addressing poverty until we face up to the overwhelming lack of sanitation worldwide. If it takes a flimsy bag with a funny name to do that, so be it.

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You'll find more photos of the trial of Peepoo bags in Bangladesh here.

Khoda haphez, Bangladesh

Tonight, 2 years and 7 months after arriving, I leave Bangladesh with no idea if or when I might return. And yet, it somehow doesn't feel like goodbye. Neither my heart nor my head are convinced that I won't be back. I really feel like Bangladesh is now somehow a part of me and that I couldn't possibly live out the rest of my life without returning to this place that has captured my heart over the last few years.

There is so much to process about my time here and my feelings about leaving, and yet there is so much to do when leaving that I've had no time to process. The coming days, weeks and months will surely be full of thoughts about life in and after le Bang.

I would imagine that this will give me lots to write about. So if you are still patient enough to be checking the ol' blog from time to time, hopefully you'll be rewarded with some reflections or memories of all the things that happened that I never found time to write about.

Last night at 2am I was awoken by a rainstorm. Perhaps a monsoon. It's about the time for them to take over the skies. I got out of bed to look out the window at the sheets of gray drops and the wind shaking the tall palms, the fruit-bearing mangoes, the red krishna churas. I can't quite explain why, but it was like the perfect goodbye; not because I dislike the rain, but because I have come to love it so much. In a bittersweet way, it reassured me that it is time to leave, to let go of that which I love here, at least for a while.

Bangladesh,

Onek dhonnobad
Bhalo takhun
Abar dekha hobe

The face(s) of poverty

Those of you who know me or read this blog, will know that I don’t spend an awful lot of time dwelling on the bleakness of poverty. I do my best to reduce it through my work and my life here, and I certainly think a lot about it, but I rarely give poverty a face by elaborating its most real (and bitter) features.

Truthfully, this is partly because I often fail to see them. Poverty is harder to recognize than you might think, especially when its troops here have such incredibly big smiles on their faces. It’s also hard to see because it’s not so straightforward. No one thing makes someone poor, and sometimes those who may seem the poorest actually enjoy a better quality of life than people with a higher income. For instance, when I go to the village and see tidy mud huts surrounded by lush green rice paddies and people eating mangoes off the trees, I find it hard to be concerned with whether or not they earn more or less than $1 a day. Urban poverty, on the other hand, I find much darker and more discouraging, even though the urban poor often enjoy greater access to resources and opportunities (as scarce as they may be) than the rural poor…

What you see is not always what you get, and it’s not possible (or at least not recommendable) to judge either on how they appear. Poverty can be determined not only by your income but by by your access to services, your ability to make decisions for yourself, your level of security, your place in society… It can be very deceiving and it would take a lifetime here to truly understand.

The other thing about poverty is that it’s easy to tune out. In fact, to some extent, it’s ‘necessary’. If I didn’t numb myself to a certain degree while living here, I may never leave my house. And so whole years can go by in which poverty is just a puzzle, a technical issue to be solved during office hours.

But every once in a while that shell breaks. Or at least mine does. The first time it broke was after more than one and a half years in Bangladesh. I was in Jamalpur visiting Village Savings and Loan Associations and in one of the villages I went to I met a boy name Shomel. He became the first person to make me cry for Bangladesh because he was both the sweetest and sickest boy I had met. I saw death approaching for the first time and seemed both unjust and unwarranted...


The next time I cried was for Hena. I was traveling for work when I found out from my flat mate that she had been beaten by her husband (again) and had temporarily left home. I think its probably clear by now how much I love Hena, and so I’m sure it’s no surprise that I spent the 1.5 hour bus ride between Jessore and Khulna weeping for my inability to take her out of the terrible reality she faces every day, with that incredible smile of hers.


Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was investigating the sanitation situation in the slums of Mymensingh in preparation for the study we are carrying out at the moment (that will have to wait for another blog) and I met Ayronessa, an elderly woman living in a bamboo and plastic shack next to the Brahmaputra river. When I meet poor people who are young or middle aged, I have some hope that things might change for them; but there is no hope for elderly people here. They just don’t have any options, or anywhere to turn (which is why people pump out babies with as much enthusiasm as we invest in RRSPs). Ayronessa came and sat next to me and held my hand while she explained that she was alone, that her only daughter had died, and that she had no income and thus no means of sustaining herself. She also happened to have the most incredible clear green eyes; they pierced straight through whatever remained of my shell and left me in tears.


And last week, I met Abdul Aziz, in his small bamboo and tin house in the village outside of Mymensingh where he lives with his wife. They had no kids, and thus no ‘pension’. He was so weak he could not leave his bed, and so I sat next to him while he held my hand, not knowing who I was because he could not see. Old age was most likely the main reason for Abdul Aziz’s weak, emaciated state, but he also had not eaten for a number of days. As he asked me to pray for his death, he explained that the pain he was suffering was mostly the pain of hunger.


I contemplated the absence of a social and legal system that would allow the elderly to live out their lives in a dignified way (an aside: Abdul had actually been given a Vulnerable Group Feeding card by the government, but was required to travel 6km to collect the cash benefits he could use to feed himself... an impossible not to mention costly endeavor for a man in his state), and then did the only thing I could think of: bought him enough rice, dhal and cooking oil for a week. It felt ineffective, inadequate and unsustainable, which it was. But at the same time, I needed to make a gesture that would reconnect me with poverty on a personal level. I needed to reclaim the humanity that is so easily misplaced when approaching poverty from a professional perspective. I never want addressing poverty to be just a job, and yet when I spend all day dealing with poverty it’s easy to want to ignore the rest of the time.

For the last week, I’ve spent a lot of time translating what I spend into how much food it would buy for Abdul Aziz. That new sari I bought for Bengali New Year: 1 week. My upcoming trip to Malaysia: 2 years… I tell myself, and so do those around me, that I don’t have to be so hard on myself. That at some point I have to let myself live my life without always thinking about how it relates to those less fortunate than me. I instinctively agree, and pack my bags for a mental holiday from poverty. But I recently dared to ask myself why it is that I think I deserve this? Why is it that I feel I have the right to escape from the reality that I’m not doing as much as I could to help people, that there are people suffering all around me and that their poverty is incomprehensibly yet undeniably correlated with my wealth? They don’t get to take a mental break from thinking about their poverty, so why should I…? I still haven’t figured out how to balance these opposing forces. Clearly it is difficult if not impossible to live the life I know if I constantly doubt the incredible privileges I was born with… And I’m clearly not ready to give up the life I know… So maybe the answer, for the moment, is just to think about it more. To take fewer mental holidays and choose to face more often the astounding levels of poverty that I am fortunate enough not to have to experience. And, clearly, part of the answer is also to do more, to help more often, to get in the habit of addressing poverty in whatever way seems most appropriate, to make it seem like less of a sacrifice, or even a privelege, and more of a daily routine. Perhaps then it will become easier to face and to change the vast inequalities of the world I live in…

Fortunately, the pretext that brought me to Abdul Aziz’s house was a much cheerier one: I was in my colleague Azad’s father’s village to see the school and clinic he is building for his community. Our walk around his village was a bit like a tour of the destitute: sick children, women abandoned by their husbands, people with no food to eat… And yet, the silver lining was that they had Azad, a person who is totally dedicated to improving the well being of everyone in his village, who takes no mental holidays from poverty, who owns only two pairs of pants because he knows full well where that money can go and what it can achieve. Most importantly, Azad has a vision for his village, and it doesn’t involve TVs, cars and exorbitant wealth. He is one of the few people I have met in Bangladesh, and in the developing world in general, who has a vision for his country that does not look like some version of North America or Europe. He believes in figuring out what is best for Bangladesh and in his mind that involves leveraging the country’s incredible agricultural potential and in educating its human resources. He believes so strongly in these two things that he is both building a school and planning to return to his village in the next few years to become a farmer and prove that it can be done in a way that can create happy, healthy villages that are more than places of poverty and sources of urban migration.


It was a long day in this beautiful, hospitable, and very poor country. But then days like the one I spent in Azad's village remind me what life is really all about. So I’m thankful, both for the reminder and for having enough to eat.

Motorcycle Diaries

I’m fairly certain I didn’t actually ask Mikey if I could come along for the ride; if I recall, I simply informed him that the back of his motorcycle would be occupied, by me. What can I say in my defense? Simply that he had just told me he was heading up to Sylhet for the long weekend on his motorbike and in the excitement that created there was no time for manners! Fortunately, he seemed to welcome the idea of some company and greeted me with a smile and a (perfectly sized!) helmet early on Thursday morning.

There are few places that you will find me happier than on the back of a motorcycle. I can’t help but surrender myself to the feel of the wind rushing past and the sensation of the road underfoot. I’ve only actually driven a motorbike once and unfortunately it didn’t end happily ever after: the exhaust pipe and I didn’t agree on a few things, namely how to treat my right ankle. But I’ve accepted my defeat graciously and decided that the back is much better anyway – there you get all the pleasure and none of the responsibility for dodging buses that careen down the highway straight at you, keeping the bike upright during endless traffic jams, or fording streams. We’ll get to that.

The journey got off to a bit of a slow start. On the early morning streets of Independence Day Dhaka, we made it to the south end of the city in no time. But unfortunately, getting through the 1 km stretch over the Sitalakhya River bridge and onto the Dhaka-Sylhet highway was a 90 minute affair. Fortunately, I was on cloud nine just being on the back seat of the bike, so I happily chatted with passing popcorn-wallahs and neighbouring cars and failed to remember how miserable I was supposed to be.

Eventually, we got onto the highway and I began to feel the world streaming past me in that way it only does when on a motorcycle. It was a strange day, weather-wise – overcast and muggy – but somehow that made it all feel more…real.

There was a significant amount of bus-dodging involved and I sympathized with Mikey, who I realized was actually working while I sat taking everything in. Eventually, however, we pulled off the main highway onto the old Dhaka-Sylhet highway and began weaving our way down the smooth, windy road than threads through idyllic tea plantations. According to Mikey, technically speaking it’s a biker’s paradise. I wouldn’t know, but it felt pretty heavenly from where I sat.

We weren’t in heaven long before we pulled off the highway on a smaller road, and then a smaller road still, until pretty soon we were driving down a dirt path in the middle of nowhere. Well, that’s not quite true; there’s no such thing as the middle of nowhere in Bangladesh. In a country this populated, you can’t go long without passing someone, and we did ride past a few astonished faces. It’s always entertaining to observe yourself being observed here; to approach people engaged in their own business, see them spot you, watch them freeze like deer in the headlights, follow the drop of their jaw, see their eyes glaze over with what can seem like disapproval but is simply astonishment, and then feel the heads follow you as you go past and disappear into the distance.

I was just settling into the bumpy rhythm of the dirt track when we were forced to a halt by a bridge that looked like it wouldn’t support the weight of a cat named Ginger, not to mention an Enfield named Lynn. Our other option was the aforementioned stream. I left that decision in Mikey’s capable hands and prayed for once that I wouldn’t be sitting on the back for either.

He opted for the river – a wise choice I found later as I made my way delicately and with much difficulty over the dilapidated bridge. I then watched from the safe, dry shore as Mikey prepared himself for the plunge. It’s beyond me how someone can manage to drive a motorcycle straight into a body of water, no matter how shallow, but he did it and emerged on the other side with wet shoes and a big grin.


When we eventually made it to the Taraf Hill Eco Cottage I was glad to find a clean, comfortable room in a pleasant rural setting. We set off for a walk in the Rema Kalenga Forest Reserve that we had come to see while there was still daylight, and enjoyed a lovely wander through the trees, dipping our feet into cool streams, enjoying the sounds of nature and even spotting one jungle fowl. On the way back we stopped at a few Tripura villages, where we were greeted friendly people of Tibetan-Burmese decent. Visits to the villages of Bangladesh’s ethnic minorities are always a welcome taste of diversity.


We had grandiose and deluded ideas of getting up early the next day to walk through the forest in the early morning, when it is at its best. Fortunately, one of the year’s first rains gave us permission to stay in bed and listen to it drum on the tin roof until a more decent hour came along. Eventually, however, we did go for a walk through more beautiful sections of forest to the villages of the O-rang people. I sometimes find it hard not to envy the beautiful simplicity of village life here, even when I know all the people I envy want only to have exactly what I have. But these villages, dancing to the tune of wooden cow bells, were so serene it did make me consider adding a mud house of my own to their charming collection, many of which were decorate with turmeric-coloured paint and some of which even had design sculpted into the mud walls. My fantasy came to an end however when I asked one of the shy children if they went to school and their tired looking mother piped in “What school? There is no school here…” When reality comes crashing down around me in Bangladesh, it always lands with a bang.


Eventually we dragged ourselves away, declining our guide's offer of a mid-morning rice wine break in the next village, and got back on the road. The drive between Rema Kalenga and Srimongal was spectacular – my favourite stretch of road all weekend, without a doubt. The scenery went from rice paddies, to dense jungle, to tea gardens, to Hindu villages of tea pickers, all within an hour and a half. Mikey, however, wasn’t quite as fond of the route as I was; at one point in the thick of an incredible stretch of jungle, I leaned forward to shout through the wind “THIS IS INCREDIBLE!” His response was to inform me that he hadn’t taken his eyes off the dirt track in front of him for 10 minutes and that I should enjoy it on his behalf. I think that’s when I decided once and for all that I quite like the back seat and won’t be rushing off for driving lessons anytime soon.

Srimongal was the driest I have ever seen it, but still stunning. Tea plantations are such an unusual and pleasant landscape: calm, orderly, peaceful. We headed straight out to another Eco Cottage where Mikey had some Danish friends staying before we went into town to a room of our own at the simple but adequate Tea Town Hotel; no Hilton, but it was about the only room left in Srimongal, so I wasn’t about to complain. We went for a quick lunch at a local Chines (yes, I spelled that correctly) Bangla restaurant, had a much-needed rest and then went out exploring again on Lynn. Mikey wanted to track some cycling routes on his amazing i-do-everything-including-GPS phone and for once I actually got to be of some use by snapping photos of the things we zipped past to link to the GPS data.


After a lovely ride we made it back just in time for sunset G&Ts by the stream with Mikey’s Danish friends. When we ran out of T, we dipped into the other supplies we had managed to muster up, and ended up inventing what shall be known from now on as the Srimongal Special: grape juice (preferably with eyeball-like peeled grapes inside), Sprite and Gin. Worth trying, although it probably tastes better when you can take pride in simply having found something as exotic as grape juice in a place where the nearest Tonic is at least 150km away.

The next day we had to head straight back to Dhaka in time for my Mom’s arrival back from Bhutan. The plain old highway lacked the zing of the more adventurous trails we had blazed the previous days, but once again just being on the back of a motorcycle, out in the surprisingly chilly morning air, feeling my weight rock back and forth with the every curve of the bike, was an immense pleasure.

It was painful to drag myself away from the bike when we eventually got back to Dhaka. If it hadn’t been for the prospect of a shower to remove the thick layer of grime that had collected on every exposed part of my body, I may just have stayed there forever. You’d be alright with that, wouldn’t you Mikey?

Potty Perfection

After six months, I finally made it back to Rangamati to check up on The Potty Project. I was a bit nervous as we headed towards the little island where four EcoSan Toilets now stood among the assortment of wobbly of structures seemingly overflowing into the lake. I was reminded of the first time I laid eyes on the island and how it had appeared to me like something out of a cartoon: a little patch of dirt sprouting tin-roofed houses like weeds; a kind of urban chia-pet.

I have long since accepted the fact that the outcome of my efforts might not be all that I dreamed of. But I haven't quite been able to swallow the idea that it might not be all that everyone who supported me dreamed of. And I had two of them in the boat with me: my Mom and Mikes (referred to by everyone here as "Aunty").

So yes, I was nervous. But also excited. This is what taking the development plunge is all about. Trying something, throwing your self into it, believing you can make a difference, drying some poo and and seeing what happens.

I hopped off our boat onto the sandy shore to find two men from the village building a new boat. Further up the shore, people were sewing fishing nets together and working on many of the other things that make daily life in their fishing community possible.I couldn't help but smile when we strolled up to the first potty. It's bright white paint still shone, and it stood solid and square, like a symbol of sanitary hope. 'Didi', the woman who I had met on my very first visit to Jele Para, came out to greet us and was delighted to see me there with my companions. We checked out the toilet, which was very clean, and asked the family how they felt about it. Everyone was delighted, although when asked why, their reasons were often related to how 'sundor' (beautiful) the toilet was, as opposed to the long list of environmental, economic, social and health benefits it was bringing them. But these benefits can take some time to become visible to people, so as long as they are using the toilet and enjoying it, I'm happy.

My roommate, Libby, was also with us and she decided to give it a try. She was duly impressed, particularly with the fact that, in contrast to most latrines, they don't smell. Another benefit to add to the list.

The other three toilets were equally well maintained and the families using them were equally satisfied. More importantly, everyone seemed to be using them correctly. One family has even started growing vegetables, using diluted urine as fertilizer, and were very pleased with the results.

It was truly heart warming to be there, seeing the smiling faces of all of the people that were benefiting from clean, safe, fertilizer-producing toilets. But it was even more heart warming to see how excited my Mom, Mikes and Libby were to see them. They were asking all kinds of questions and were visibly enthusiastic about the solution that they had been a part of (or were about to become a part of - Libby is now hoping to build composting toilets in an orphanage that she is supporting). It made me realize that the one of the challenges to gathering support to fight poverty in far flung corners of the world is that people really need to experience it for themselves. I had written my blog and sent personalized cards to everyone who donated to the Project, with photos of the toilets they had financed and the families who now owned them, but I hadn't been able to generate the level of genuine excitement that the potties and the people themselves were able to do inside of 5 minutes.

Roland, Mikey, Sid, Cruz, Pepe, Laura, Michal, Steve, Ale, Mike, Michelle, Stephane, Spencer, Jen and Granny, I really wish I could bring you all there to see what you have accomplished.

We also visited the other two toilets in Vedvedi, a Chakma community on the mainland. The first toilet we visited had been funded by my Granny, my Mom and myself. It was really special to be there with my Mom and see how proud she was of her contribution. And the second toilet had been supported in part by Mikes, who was also delighted to see where her contribution had ended up. Both the toilets were clean and their owners were very happy with them. Curiously, there had been some problems along the way because the Chakma community do not traditionally lock doors; as a result, one of the two was being regularly (mis)used by neighbours. Call me crazy, but I find this hilarious, and encouraging on many levels.

I ended our Potty Tour in high spirits. I am often conflicted, in my work and my own life, with trying to figure what it means to help. Obviously, it is about a lot more than just giving, but giving is a necessary and complicated part of it. Bangladesh, as well as many other developing countries, is flooded with NGOs, development projects and aid money. It's all there for a good reason, but I sometimes wonder whether what we do is making people more or less capable to move forward on their own. But I felt pretty good about providing these six families with something that will make their lives healthier and happier, and that will provide them with both food security and income that will make their lives better in every way.

My update wouldn't be complete without recognizing the work of SPACE and YPSA, the two NGOs that have implemented the Project on my behalf. Azahar,

the director of SPACE, has not only worked tirelessly to ensure that our six little potties on the other side of the country have flourished, but he has also been a wonderful friend and supporter. He had all of us over for dinner when my Mom and Mikes arrived, his wife presented them with touching (albeit unusual) gifts, he or

ganized our bus tickets to Rangamati for us and even arranged for us to stay at the YPSA office guest house when we couldn't find a hotel (we happened to go to Rangamati over Mother Language Day, one of the busiest holidays of the year). He also - unbeknownst to me - sent Parvez, one of his staff, to Rangamati to accompany us on our Potty Tour. He travelled 8 hours by night bus there and 8 hours by night bus back, the same day. And the staff of the YPSA office in Rangamati visit the toilets regularly to make sure everything is running smoothly. I feel really lucky that the potties are in such good hands. So thank you SPACE, thank you YPSA, and thank you to everyone who made the Potty Project possible through your financial contributions and your moral support.

Yellow is the New Green?

When we got back from Rangamati, someone had forwarded Mikes an article from the NY Times entitled "Yellow is the New Green". It is written by Rose George, whose book "The Big Necessity: The unmentionable world of human waste and why it matters" was given to me by a friend for Christmas, and which I am reading now (out of interest and also because I am now doing some more work on composting sanitation solutions at work). In the article, she talks about a urine diversion toilet (the same model used in the Potty Project) that she visited in China. It seems composting (and biogas) toilets are becoming quite popular in the developing world, which I am delighted to see. I just hope we'll catch on one day!

Red Zones. Blue Zones. And a Green Zone.

Except in Valentine's Day cards, red is a universally ominous colour. Let's face it, it's the colour of blood. It's vocabulary is limited to expressions like: Uh-oh... Stop! Wrong. Do not enter. Danger! Trouble seems to follow it wherever it goes: into ambulance lights, stop signs, communist flags, referee's cards, illness-inducing tides... So, I figured I was justified in assuming that the red used to colour-in patches of Bangladesh's uniquely shaped map was not indicating that the weather was fine in those areas or that watermelons had come into season in Dhaka, Chittagong, Sylhet, Rajashi, Jessore and Shatkhira, respectively. These last two districts make an open-faced sandwich out of Khulna, a place I needed to be in approximately 6 hours.

I admit, I have been in a lot of bizarre situations in Bangladesh, and this was definitely one for the list. I was in a sort of hole-in-the-wall cum bus ticket office in- ...well, come to think of it, I have no idea. In a traffic circle somewhere in between Ishwardi and Kushtia. I was 6 hours into what was quickly becoming a journey to nowhere, listening to the TV spit out grave sounding statements that matched the grave looking map in which the two districts that were the bread under my destination were painted red. Red of Uh-oh. Red of Wrong. Red of Danger. The rest of the country, in contrast, was a delightfully royal blue.

I was in the company of my Mom and her lifelong friend, Mikes, who is on her first visit to Bangladesh. While I was frantically assessing the situation in my mind - the time, the various transportation options (and lack there of), the non-existent phone network and, of course, the blaring red patches - they seemed quite relaxed. Perhaps they were considerately trying not to add to my stress load by appearing calm, or perhaps they are both colour blind.

Fortunately, we were not alone. We were the company of around 10 Bangladeshi men, few of whom knew each other, but all of whom had banded together in a familiar and relaxed way that I have only ever seen among Bangladeshis. Strangers here talk to each other as if they'd known each other their whole lives. It's quite endearing, and a nice contrast to the rest of the time they spend shouting at each other.

We had all been brought together by the stoppage of our Dhaka-Khulna train. So accustomed am I, it seems, to the pace of things here that the train was stopped for a good hour before I even bothered to ask if anything was the matter (in my defense, the train had done nothing BUT stop since we left Dhaka and in 5 hours we had traveled only 150 km). Yes, something was the matter. The train had been stopped due to BDR-related unrest (read: mutiny) some 20km down the tracks. This dreaded news was delivered to me by a fellow passenger in a casual tone more often reserved for comments about the weather.

My flat mate had already sent me a menacing message to say the 'uprisings are spreading', so I suppose I wasn't totally shocked to find out that this is what had marooned us indefinitely in our current location (the magnificent Ishwardi Railway Station). We got off the train and hung out on the platform for a while, stretching our legs, drinking a coconut, making use of decent and stationary toilet facilities, buying towels from wandering salesmen and entertaining the crowds. Eventually, my Western ability to worry about things kicked in and I began to consult people as to what we should do. It wasn't so much that I minded being marooned in a train station in the middle of nowhere, but that we had booked a three-day tour of the Sundarbans and the boat was leaving that night! From Khulna! Which, thanks to the roundabout route of our high velocity train, was now actually further away than it had been when we left Dhaka that morning at 6:45am.

The Sundarbans is undoubtedly the most important (and some would argue 'only', although it wouldn't be me) tourist destination in Bangladesh. In 28 months, I had somehow been incapable of finding my way into its 6,000 sq. km of UNESCO World Heritage mangrove forest. And now, on the brink of my one and possibly only opportunity to do so, I had Bangladeshis trying to console me in their charmingly evasive way by ensuring me that everything was okay because there was a hotel we could sleep at in Ishwardi (and if that didn't work out, half the train had offered to have us as guests in their house). The fact that I was hell-bent on getting to Khulna by 10pm seemed only to amuse them.

After an hour or so of hanging about, I instantly retracted every complaint and criticism I have ever made about Bangla (as my teacher Pulok could attest, I complain quite a bit - it is a pretty frustrating language at times) and became eternally grateful that I understood enough to decipher that people around me were hatching escape plans. We had been told that buses were not running (the phone network was shut down, so information was hard to come by) but one young guy had gone on a reconnaissance mission and come back with a plan to get to Jessore. I was torn between waiting to see if the train ever got going, or risking it in the world beyond the station walls... Eventually we decided that we wanted in.

And so in we were. Along with the 10 or so other Bangladeshi men who had also decided to leave the train on its tracks and try their luck on the road, we grabbed our bags and headed out in search of a tempo, a small, lawnmower-like truck, that could take us to.. well, wherever it is we were going. I had no idea.

That was when we rolled up to the bus-ticket office with its TV and its map of Bangladesh that was in the processing of being crimsoned. That was when I was frantic, Mom and Mikes were looking cool as cucumbers (not literally, it was stinking hot and everything with sweat glands was working overtime) and our traveling companions were discussing how to infiltrate the red zone. For a people that love to yell at each other, there was a surprisingly calm demeanor to their exchanges. Exchanges that I was not included in, not (I don't think) because they thought me incapable in any way, but because the Hospitality Handbook of Bangladesh requires that locals take care of everything for bideshis, while the bideshis sit and drink tea. So I sat, and observed, and wondered how mutiny, red zones and serious transport complications could merit not one raised voice...

At first we were told there would be a bus to Khulna. Then it was that there would be a bus to Jessore, and from there we could find a bus to Khulna. Then it was that there was no bus at all. At this point, I had decided we should just go to Kushtia, the nearest major town. I knew the Mayor and some other municipal officials there from my work visit, and if we got stranded there at least I knew there was somewhere we could stay.

Just then, a Jessore-bound bus rolled up and most of our team decided to squeeze in. Our choices were: squeeze into a bus that had people sitting on the roof and others hanging out the window, or take the slowest tempo in the world. We opted for the roomier of the two and hopped in with only one escort: Mister Muslim Man, or MMM as Mikes had dubbed him.
3-M and I had gotten off to a dubious start. Our relationship began with furtive glances exchanged across the aisle of the train, broken occasionally by passing waiters in white jackets serving tea in china cups, young boys flogging peanuts and other snacks and a parade of beggars. 3-M's looks felt heavy with disdain, and I imagined him to be the typically condescending Muslim man that was offended by my heathen ways (I was, after all, wearing jeans with my sleeveless -gasp!- kameez and orna). And then, the most miraculous thing happened: I asked him something, and he broke out into the most glorious smile. A 400watter on the room-lighting scale.

And so, after a very slow ride through some tobacco fields, we found ourselves in Kushtia being led by our smiling 3-M to a Khulna-bound bus. By this time, I was almost convinced that the trip must have been canceled and that we needn't bother going all the way to Khulna. But I couldn't phone the tour company to find out, as apparently landlines were shut down as well. So getting on the bus seemed like the only logical option. We were told it would take 4 hours to get to Khulna. It took 5, and what we were not told about those hours was that they would be the bumpiest and noisiest of our lives. That's what you get on a public bus in Bangladesh - a good eye opener into what travel is like for most people here.

We rolled into Khulna at 10pm to find out that the tour was still on, but that the boat was having engine trouble. The comedy of errors continued for the next three days, but any complaints I had were inevitably muffled by absolutely beautiful experiences in what truly is one of the world's most extraordinary eco-systems.

The Sundarbans is home to many incredible plants and animals, including the Royal Bengal Tiger. Seeing as my room was plastered with pictures of tigers when I was a little girl and my first school report ever was on tigers, I was just a wee bit excited at the prospect of sighting what I consider to be the most beautiful animal on earth. Unfortunately, the tigers kept to themselves, but it was neat just knowing that they were out there somewhere in the incredible green zone we had finally made it to.

Equally elusive was a foray into the thick of the forest by way of small canals. On the first day we were promised 'mangroves so close we could touch them'. On the second day, after a failed attempt at a mangrove-touching exploration at low tide, which left us examining mud-skippers for 30 minutes while we tried to get ourselves unstuck, we were promised a trip into the 'dense jungle' the next morning. On the third day, we were promised nothing. 'Dense jungle' had mysteriously disappeared from the lips of our guide. I was disappointed, to say the least, but I mustn’t complain. I did get to swim in the Bay of Bengal and lie around on a deserted beach in a bikini, which, in a country where exposing my shoulders makes me feel criminally rebellious was quite a fantastic event.

We are back in Dhaka now, and the city has returned to it's normal, royal blue state. I was, however, saddened to find out that a relative of one of my close colleagues was a victim of the violence. It was a tough reminder that Bangladesh's occasional brushes with violence are not as far removed from me as I would sometimes like to think.

Chobi Mela

Bangladesh isn’t famous for much. Well, not much that a country would want to be famous for anyway. Corruption, floods, poverty and overpopulation? Yeah, no thanks. But, over the last nine years, a group of passionate, dedicated people have been working hard to make Bangladesh famous for something else: photographs.


Chobi Mela (literally ‘Photo Festival’) was founded by Shahidul Alam, a man who has been cultivating photography in Bangladesh for decades through his gallery and media agency, Drik, and his South Asian school of photography, Pathshala. Chobi Mela I took place in 2000 – it was the first international festival of photography in Asia (even as I write it that seems an impossible truth). Over the years, the event and its organizers have faced significant political hurdles in their pursuit of a dialogue around photography and the festivals’ various themes: differences, exclusion, resistance, boundaries and, this year, freedom. That Chobi Mela V is taking place as I write is a testament to a lot of blood, sweat and tears and an unfaltering belief in the value of and potential for photography in a country like Bangladesh.

Chobi Mela V opened on January 30th. I was there with a friend who had been volunteering with Drik to organize the event. Together with dozens of international photographers and even more Bangladeshi photographers, we danced down the street outside the National Museum to the beat of a marching band. Digital SLRs clicked away from the inside out, and mobile phone cameras did the same from the outside in, in an act of mutual curiosity.

Once inside the museum’s auditorium, a young Bangladeshi man in front of me turned around to dutifully ask me what country I was from. His next question? “Do you know who the chief guest is?” I’ll never quite understand the fixation they have here with chief guests (not to be confused with special guests or honorary guests). When the chief guest finally arrived, he waved his finger with great excitement and turned around to inform me “That is the chief guest!” She was Mahasweta Devi, a renowned Bengali author and advocate. Together with Shahidul Alam and a panel of special guests from around the world, they opened the festival with remarkably short (for South Asian standards) but poignant speeches about photography and freedom.

After a tour of the exhibit downstairs on the life of Nelson Mandela, we headed over to the Goethe Institute for the kick off to a week of presentations and discussion. There, there was there one very special guest indeed. He was dressed in an unassuming (read: dull) blue sweater, and wore glasses that gave away his age even more than the colour of his hair graying hair. He was sitting alone at a table, in a land far, far away, and yet he was talking to us there in the room. His name is Noam Chomsky. The Noam Chomsky. He had been brought to us from MIT by the wonders of modern technology to expound, right before our very eager eyes and ears, incredible theoretical arguments, supported by multiple contemporary and historical examples, which he rattled off with the ease of someone reciting what they ate for breakfast. He answered questions on the notion of freedom, his role as a thorn in the side of the US, and the relationship between the US and India, always with wit, humour and an astounding breadth of knowledge. What I wouldn’t give to be smart like that!

That night, all those of us who had come out to celebrate photography, freedom and Bangladesh, partied till dawn (long after dawn, as a matter of fact). We spent the night on a ‘launch’, a boxy metal boat that usually crams itself with passengers heading south to Barisal or Mongla. The open area down below, normally crowded with blanketed bodies settling in for a long journey, was set up with chairs and a huge buffet. Upstairs, mats had been laid out for all 300 of us to sit and enjoy after-dinner performances by incredible Bangladeshi and Nepali bands. It didn’t take long for the dancing to start, which here means that it didn’t take long for the floor to fill with young men shaking their shoulders, wiggling their hips and even taking off their shirts.

At 5:30am, exhausted from trying to keep up with the Bollywood Boys, I went up to a double cabin that my friend had been given the key to and joined her for a few hours of shuteye. Many others curled up under blankets and slept on what had been the dance floor moments earlier. We woke up at 7 to an orange sun rising over the misty river (and to some terrible music being pumped into our cabin, which make us giggle in that desperate kind of way) and spent the next four hours gazing out at the brick factories and river life that we were floating past.


I met some incredible people that night, people who became friends for life. I listened to amazing music, took part in ridiculous dancing and saw some incredible sights. As if my life here weren’t privileged enough…

Interestingly, that weekend Bangladesh's other moderately famous event, Biswa Ijtema, was taking place. Okay, it's a lot more famous. It involves a few million Muslims that congregate north of Dhaka for the second largest Muslim gathering in the world after the Hajj. This is photo from The Daily Star of people getting home after the third day of prayer.


The daily grind has made it difficult to take in as many Chobi Mela events and exhibits (over sixty!) as I would have liked. I did get down to the National Gallery last week, the venue with the most chobis under one roof. There were some stunning photos, but those of Bangladesh impressed me the most as the subject matter is close to my heart; there was a breathtaking series on the ship breakers in Chittagong and another on gypsy snake charmers that was fascinating.

From there I walked to the Asiatic Gallery of Fine Arts, passing the famous Curzon Hall of Dhaka University on the way. At the last second, a wave of inspiration came over me and I swerved right and ducked through the gate to check it out. The grounds were beautiful and the architecture enchanting. There were huge red and yellow dhalias growing, a perfectly still pukur (pond) reflecting its surroundings, and campaign posters from a recent election strung up between trees. The air was thick with smog, sunset and history, and every breathe felt like a taste of the past. There was only one thing missing...women.

Near the entrance to the Asiatic Society stand the remnants of a moghal-era building. It was lit up under a sky that was not yet dark and looked incredibly elegant in its defiant stance between two more modern structures. The exhibits inside, part of the National Geographic All Roads film project, were equally impressive. One of the featured, young photographers, Khaled Hasan, a Bangladeshi, had done a series of photos on the 'rock scavengers' in Jafflong, near the north eastern Indian border. It is one of his incredible photos that represents Chobi Mela and the theme of freedom this year.

In search of a CNG to take me onto my next engagement - a birthday party for my friend Azahar's daughter, Oishy - I walked by a young boy with a chain of marigolds around his head, his arms stretching wide as he plucked more orange blossoms off the threads on which they had been strung for decorative purposes; he was feeding them to a pair of ponies that pull one of Dhaka's few horse-drawn carriages. I then passed by a tiny doorway that opened onto a labyrinth of ramshackle dwellings; a young boy was peeking out into the world beyond his walls. These living photographs were a fitting end to an evening of photographic appreciation.

Today, I went down to Old Dhaka, back to Shankaribazaar, to see an exhibit on the (dying) jute industry in Bangladesh. On my way, I stumbled across a stretch of narrow lane that had been converted into a space for Hindu celebration and prayer. A ceiling and walls of colourful shamiana (tenting) made the street unrecognizable. There was a group of men playing music and a large audience seated on bamboo mats lining the pavement. I wandered on and found the exhibit in an incredible, austere outdoor space between two buildings. What a feeling, to be admiring such impressive photographs, outdoors, sandwiched between two walls whose windows overflowed with laundry, next to one of Dhaka's most lively, colourful streets...

Over a steaming hot 'pitha' (rice cake with jaggery and coconut) on my way out, I tried to imagine the day when photography will be the first thing that comes to people's minds when they hear someone say 'Bangladesh'. I can feel it coming, although not soon enough.

Badhon

Badhon is a very special boy. Recently, he turned four and blew out a corresponding number of flickering candles on an enormous chocolate birthday cake. All of his family members were there with him, and over 100 neighbours and friends attended his party that night. Each one of them wound their way through the narrow streets of the bazaar next to his house and climbed up five flights of stairs to the unfinished rooftop that had been closed in with a colourful shamiana (tent) lined with twinkly lights. They all took turns sitting at clothed tables to partake in a veritable feast in his honour.

I was there that night. I took part in the celebrations and, most importantly, I met Badhon. He was wearing a handsome gold kurta pajama, sitting in his grandmother’s lap. She was holding his head.

Badhon is the son of Shumon, our office driver. He works long hours, but wears a smile from early in the morning late into the night. Shumon personally invited every one at our office to Badhon’s birthday party two weeks in advance. I was surprised, to say the least, that he was making such a big affair of it in a country where most people don’t even know when they were born, let alone what a birthday is.

As I looked down on Badhon, saw his grandmother’s leathery hand tenderly holding his head, and looked into his eyes for the first time, I realized instantly just how special Badhon is. It was not simply because he was clearly disabled, but because he was clearly the most well loved child I have met in Bangladesh.

Badhon couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on me; I’m not actually sure if he had any idea what was going on. But I put a finger in his small hand and he clenched it tightly for a little while.

Shumon then came and carried his limp son over to the decadent cake that awaited him. Together with his wife, Baby, a Muslim who converted to Christianity to marry the man she loved, they held their son and blew out his four candles together. Then, in the tradition of Bangladeshis who do celebrate birthdays, they all fed each other a mouthful of cake.

If Shumon were not the man he is, Badhon would be hidden away on his birthday as well as every other day of the year. In fact Badhon might have been abandoned, or perhaps his mother abandoned for committing the crime of giving birth to a boy whose spine did not develop properly. And yet there he was, in his father’s arms, surrounded by people giving him the love and respect that his society denies so many like him.

I went home full of meat and cake and a renewed faith in the power of love.

(The photo I framed and gave Shumon and his wife to thank them for the wonderful party)