Jessica’s third Bangladesh blog: Finding a flat-ah in Dhaka

This blog entry picks up right where the last one left off: after some wonderful adventures in Tea Land, I returned to Dhaka to get down to the business of becoming an expat.

Now that's what I call a real vegetable stall!

I was staying in a cheapish hotel in the commercial district of Motijheel, which is crazy-busy and full of roundabouts, banks and six lane roads. It also hosts most of the regular street demonstrations, which I watched with waning interest from my ninth floor window. Even though my room was a bit of a rat hole, I kept going back to Hotel Pacific because the guys on reception were unfailingly cool and I felt safe. And it’s not that I had a huge range of options – often the cheaper-end hotels won’t accept solo women unless they are sure they can handle the special cargo…

I chick-bombed the room with my scarves and then cranked the clunking fan to cancel out the heat… Then I cranked the TV volume to cancel out the fan. Usual routine. And then I stared at the ceiling and stopped denying the truth: I had absolutely no idea how I would ever find my own place. Until very recently, when anyone asked about my long-term living arrangements, the only answer I could muster was that I hoped to live in a building. But with my characteristic naivety I had cheerfully assured friends and family that the situation would somehow work itself out.

The sign for Al-Addin Hospital, Ramna

Privately, I was so clueless that I didn’t even know which mode of communication to use to get the ball rolling. Presuming, of course, that I could communicate in English rather than Bangla. Should I phone or email? Who exactly did I want to contact anyway? I considered walking the streets until I found a shop called “Real Estate 4 U” or whatever.  And was there anything culturally specific about doing business that I needed to know – like, would I have to bargain for my rent?

I wanted to kick myself when I noticed the Yellow Pages on the table – I had forgotten about those. I rang “Century 21” and was sitting opposite a property representative within the hour.

But although he tried his best, in the end he couldn’t help me. After an afternoon of being chauffeured around in the AC company car, I was told that my needs were too unusual.

Firstly, I didn’t want an unfurnished four bedroom apartment, even if it was lemon yellow and beautiful.

The cables of Motijheel

Secondly, I didn’t want to live in Gulshan or its sidekick Banani.

At first this latter requirement was just a hunch I developed after reading a book written by a snobby British expat. He seemed to think it would be impossible for a foreigner to survive anywhere else in Dhaka.

But then when lots of other people started telling me to live there (my language teacher went so far as to say that I needed to live there), I knew I had to find a really good reason not to do so. I’m stubborn like that.

Fortunately (for my reasoning), Gulshan is expensive, a long way north of the newspaper office in Karwan Bazaar, and prone to muggings (of foreigners) at night. And the streets themselves look like “Bangladesh Lite” and thus are a big turn-off. You can buy Volkswagons, treadmills and Hush Puppy shoes, but it’s hard to find a quick and tasty hot meal – let alone a market.

Karwan Bazar has more romance than Venice...

My colleague at The Daily Star dislikes the area even more than I do. He said: “I feel like I’ve left my own country when I go to Gulshan.” Funnily enough, if my friend actually did want to leave Bangladesh, he would first have to pay a visit to one of Gulshan’s 22 (yes 22) embassies…

Day by day I was discovering the prevalence of the foreigner-in-Gulshan assumption. Strangers at the tea stall would say to me: “You live in Gulshan?” and CNG (auto-rickshaw) drivers would be so baffled when I asked for Karwan Bazaar that they would find an English speaking person on the street to double-check my instructions.

Time was running out. My bill at the hotel was racking up, I’d started working full-time and my sister and the Space Man were due to arrive in a fortnight. I had promised them a pad. Mr Century 21 was sending me text messages saying “Ma’am, I have an apartment in Gulshan that will meet your needs if you will pay a little more…” In other words, it didn’t meet my needs…

Until now I haven’t acknowledged the help from my colleagues at The Daily Star.

I had been shown several hotel suites in elegant Dhanmondi (all of which were too glamourous for my plastic wallet) and I had been offered lodgings in family homes. I declined this second offer because I am alternately obsessed with Al Jazeera News and silence, so I knew I would be a bad guest.

A tea break on the roof in Old Dhaka

And then, a week later, a colleague told me he knew of a two bedroom apartment in Ramna that was available until the middle of January.

I moved in.

This red brick apartment is completely fantastic and the whole complex, complete with swing-sets, is very peaceful. In the morning I wake to the sounds of birds crowing and women sweeping the path with long wispy brushes.

By my guestimation, it’s also ultra-secure (you’ve got that in writing, Dad). Apparently a government minister lives here, so it must be.  There are always a handful of security men with old school rifles at the gate and I have to poke my head out of the CNG before the vehicle is allowed to pass through.

When I walk past the five-odd security men in the morning they each nod, half-salute and say “Slamalaykum.” I’m never sure whether to nod back at one or all or none of them and the effort mysteriously causes me to trip over my feet. I can’t seem to stop it and have decided that I would be a shit soldier.

Beautiful unknown vegetables

I also can’t stop checking whether there is a freshly chopped-off goat’s head at the open-air butchers on the corner. I have to find it amongst the hanging meat slabs and entrails to know whether it has been sold that day… Mostly it’s gone by the afternoon.

I also enjoy seeing the men on my road carrying 15 chickens on their heads in large wicker baskets. I think the chickens must be sedated or something because they don’t flap their wings even though they’re in a weird situation. There are three men who carry them as they walk about 10 metres apart, and at intervals they call out something long and low – to me it sounds like the rumblings of a tenor.  I presume they must be saying “Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicken” but I like to imagine what else they might be saying, like: “Huuuuuuuugggg meeeeeee.” Once a chicken seller offered me one of his sedated chickens and then laughed really hard at his own joke.

I’m not sure what the neighbourhood thinks of this vastly inferior version of Nicole Kidman moving in.  Most people probably couldn’t care less, but when I see some of them pointing and nudging, I do wonder a little bit. They might have their own theories, just as I have my chicken-calling theories…

Pretty Women of Iran

I made this music video clip with the help of my whizz-bang editor friend Karen Rodriguez and a generous musical donation from Tiny Spark.

Jessica’s second Bangladesh blog: it’s all about the tea (and spiders)

The fairest of them all...

I’ll begin this entry with a well-known travel fact: switched-on travellers don’t arrive in small towns after midnight.  Only disorganised risk-takers do it; those who don’t mind bedding down for the night in, say, a petrol station.  After meeting such a fate in Nepal, I’d said to myself, “Never again.” 

But then, three years later, I found myself on a luckless mission to find the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse in the depths of Srimangal’s tea estates at 1am.  The experience reminded of the beginning of Alice in Wonderland, when Alice is having trouble with keys and doors and potions that make her grow too tall…

When I arrived at what I thought was the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse I saw that it had no sign, and the men guarding the gates told me it wasn’t the place I was looking for (even though it was). 

 The Tea Resort had a sign, but the guys there said it was wrong and that it was in fact the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse (it wasn’t). 

 I went to another unnamed place that looked nothing like a guesthouse, and I spoke to a man with a big pot-belly and a frog jumped on my foot. 

 I returned to the first guesthouse and was told that even if it was the right place, I couldn’t stay there because the Prime Minister was coming. 

 For some reason I took this news as the most promising development yet, and somehow managed to convince them that I’d made a booking and that it would be bad form to make me sleep under a tea bush.

A tea plucker

 Why did I persist? Because Lonely Planet describes the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse like this:

 “What better place to stay than right here in the heart of the Bangladesh tea universe.  This charming guesthouse is right opposite the research institute and has large, well-furnished rooms with thick carpets, regal green curtains, inviting bathtubs, and best of all, lovely verandas with tables and chairs where you can sit back with – what else – a cuppa and admire the beautifully maintained gardens.”

 Of course I wanted a piece of that.

 But sadly, once inside Room 3, I realised that time had not been kind to the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse. 

 The bathtub had no plug, the taps were rusted, and the water was cold.   The shower lacked a water supply.  The ‘thick’ carpets were thinner than thick and ants were crawling all over the stains. The toilet also had wet brown stains on the seat and it didn’t flush – the bathroom stank of stale septic gas.  When I used the toilet, aggressive ants crawled out of an old electrical socket and onto the floor around my feet. The bath rail fell off.  The mattress had frightening lumps.  I used a chair as a bedside table, but after checking underneath the seat, decided against it.  A thick storm cloud of spider webs had gathered.

'Heave'

 But wait, there’s more…

 In the morning I was told that I couldn’t have a key for my room because it’s shared with the adjoining room.  Two rooms, one key – go figure.

 So I cut my losses and checked into Hotel Tea Town.

 The epilogue to that little is saga is that when I was back in Dhaka I whinged about the weird vibe at the Tea Research Institute Guesthouse to my Australian friends, Robyn and Mark.  They said: “We tried to stay there but they wouldn’t let us.”

                                                          *         *         *

 One evening I was looking for Cyber World on Srimangal’s main street and a guy walked past and said: “Tourist?” and I said: “No, journalist,” and he said: “Me too.” And I was like: “NO WAY!”  And so the next morning this rather dashing Bangladeshi journalist came along with me to the Bangladesh Tea Research Institute (opposite the mucky hostel).  I interviewed the director, and a scientist gave us a tour of the tea factory.  I took photos but I’m not allowed to show you, lest you set up your own tea-making factory based on my photos…  However I can tell you that Stage Two involves sifting the dust from the tea leaves using a big vibrating machine, and Stage Seven involves a bloody great furnace blasting heat onto the tea leaves at 93 degrees Celsius.

 If you want to learn a little more about tea production in Bangladesh, make sure you pick up a copy of the January edition of Tea Talk Magazine.

 For this same article, I was on a mission to find and consume the magic tea of Srimangal.  It has seven different flavours and colours, and incredibly, they don’t mix.  You can jiggle the cup and they still don’t mix.  This beautiful brew was invented by a man called Roshem Ram Gour in 2006, and the only place in the world that you’ll find it is at the Nilkantha Tea Cabin. My new friend Russell came along and he made finding the tea cabin a whole lot easier than a guesthouse in the night.

21 layers of tea

 Over the next three days I drank five cups of the stripey stuff.  In one sitting I drank three cups because I thought it would be nice to line them all up and take pictures.  So I am well placed to tell you that the tea tastes as good as it looks.

 For someone who invented something so fun, Mr Ram Gour was a serious looking fellow who didn’t talk much.  But he did confirm the rumours that he’s been offered thousands of dollars to divulge the recipe. However he refuses to spill the beans on his secret, so the seven-layered tea will not be coming to a Waitrose store near you. 

 I became friendly with a guy called Rashed and he and I rode bicycles to Lowacherra National Park.  I wanted to see the freakily large orb spider (a.k.a. ‘banana spider’).  They can grow to the size of a human head and their poison packs a punch – when Rashed’s mother was bitten by one her whole hand blew up.  Although I saw plenty of them, my photos are rubbish because I didn’t adhere to Capa’s mantra: “If you’re pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough.”  (Anyway now we know he faked his best photo).  

 I’d also hoped to see a hoolock gibbon, but I assume they were too frightened to make an appearance. 

My favourite bug of the day

Rashed insisted on blasting Shakira out of his phone as we pitter-pattered along the trail… It didn’t bother the butterflies though.

 We also visited a Khashia tribal village.  I know it’s a big claim, but one of the young girls had the loveliest face I’ve ever seen (please refer to photo).  It was quite a surprise to discover the Khashias are Christians, though their ancestors are from the steppes of Mongolia.  We bought some of their hand-made beaded jewellery and were generously let inside their spotless homes.

 Afterwards Rashed and I paid £1.50 for a luscious swim at the Tea Resort and I lost 40 takka playing ping-pong badly.  But I couldn’t sulk over it because Srimangal had been so good to me.

 I’m going to end this blog entry with the worst joke in the world. I made it up on the bus back to Dhaka, when my brain went moudly.

 Q: What’s Srimangal like?

 A: Tea-rrific

Not the biggest specimen; just the only one I got close to

Going against the grain

Rashed with a baby in a Khashia home

Rickshaw art

Rashed, bikes and sunbeams

Beautiful Srimangal

Russell

A tailorLivin' la di vida loca at the Tea Resort

Holiday in Afghanistan

The following interview appeared on The Comment Factory’s  website in September 2009.

‘Holiday in Afghanistan’  

By Jessica Mudditt

In the winter of 2009 an Australian primary school teacher dared to visit Afghanistan as a tourist.  In this interview, Nick Buckley, 29, provides a glimpse of the other side of Afghanistan – a country still celebrating lavish weddings, and where men get drunk and watch Chuck Norris films.

This is not to say it’s a picture of calm or frivolity Nick presents – some of his experiences were downright terrifying, as he is the first to admit.  Yet in speaking about his visit as an ordinary punter, Nick allows us to gain a fuller picture of a country that is almost always discussed in military terms.

I interviewed Nick before he left and shortly after he returned.

INTERVIEW ONE: PRIOR TO DEPARTURE

Jessica: When did you first have the idea of going to Afghanistan?

Nick: It was about eight years ago, when I started reading books on the region.  I had been reading a book about India and there was something in it about the Pashtuns, Afghanistan’s major ethnic group.  And so I started reading books about them.

Jessica: How are you going to stay safe?

Nick: I’ll have to keep a fairly low profile and try to blend in.  But you never really can blend in, can you?  I’ll wear the shalwar kameez [traditional dress] I bought in Pakistan on a previous trip.  I’m also growing a beard but it’s taking longer than I hoped.  I’ve never had facial hair beyond a day and a half so I had no idea of the amount of time it takes to grow.

Jessica: Safely assuming there’s no backpacker scene, where will you stay?

Nick: I have a contact in Melbourne who worked for an NGO in Afghanistan – she put me in touch with a couple of New Zealanders she worked with.  They now have their own security company and I’ll stay with them in an apartment in Kabul.

Jessica: How safe – or rather, unsafe – is Afghanistan at the moment?

Nick: My contact brought over her laptop to show me a ‘safety map’ she made when working there in 2007.  Red means really bad, orange is getting bad, and green is relatively safe.  In 2007, the bottom half was red and the top half was green with some orange patches.  Now it’s basically red everywhere with orange in some places.

My contact told me that if I’m recognised as a Westerner by the wrong person, I’ll be taken to the nearest kidnapper and sold to the highest bidder.

Jessica: Is your girlfriend really worried about you?

Nick: No, she’s been supportive.  I’m pretty lucky to have her.  She’s fairly well travelled herself – she just came back from a four month trip through West Africa – from Morocco, all the way to Nigeria, through some fairly hairy countries.  She’s not scared of going to Afghanistan – she’d be up to it.  But the idea of travelling as a woman in that part of the world doesn’t appeal to her.

Jessica: Are there any particular dangers during winter?

Nick: During winter the Taliban put down their arms and sort of… have a holiday.  [Muted laughter]  So the risk of bombings is relatively low.  But winter is still a dangerous time to visit.  There’s a lot of banditry because there’s not a lot of food around.  So the risk of being kidnapped is very high.

Jessica: What are the costs of this trip like?

Nick: They’re fairly high.  Accommodation is very expensive, for that part of the world anyway. It’s $10 minimum per night and for anything decent, $30 upwards.  But I’ll be staying with the Kiwis and I’ll pay my share of the board.

However street food and public transport is really cheap – though public transport is a quite risky.  I’ve heard stories of bus drivers driving ‘desirable people’ to the closest kidnapper, who then sells them to the highest bidder.

Jessica: Are you scared?

Nick: No, I’m not actually.  It’s a funny thing – I was watching one of those foreign correspondent shows last week.  It was about Guatemala – which is in a similar situation to Afghanistan in terms of the banditry.  I was sitting there watching it and I found myself getting nervous.  But that was because I know nothing about Guatemala and so I felt totally vulnerable.

The reason I’m not nervous about going to Afghanistan is because I feel like I know that part of that world from previous trips and I have done loads of reading.

I feel as ready as I can be and I’m excited.

Jessica: Have fun Nick.

INTERVIEW 2: AFTER AFGHANISTAN

Jessica: So, what was it like?

Nick: It’s a fucking crazy country so it was a pretty action-packed trip.  Usually when I’m writing travel emails I have to think hard of stuff to say.  In Afghanistan I’d be on the internet for two hours because so many things happened in one day.

Jessica: Let’s start at the beginning.

Nick: The Afghan guys who picked me up from the airport told me we were going straight to a wedding.  They also told me straight-off that it was really important for me not to talk in public.  They said they had guns but would prefer to avoid a shoot-out if there was an attempted kidnapping.  Now I know this sounds pretty grim, so I hasten to add that I met a lot of foreigners there who communicate with locals on a daily basis.  These guys just didn’t want me to take any chances.

Jessica: What’s an Afghan wedding like?

Nick: The room was the size of a huge basketball court – I think there were around 1000 guests.  It was a real mixture of people – some were wearing jeans, others were in traditional dress.  It was segregated – a wooden screen divided the room.  The young kids were peeping through at the women.

Jessica: What sort of entertainment was provided?

Nick: There was a cool Afghan band with a keyboard player and a singer.  The singer was really good.  After a set he said: “Here is my SMS – vote for me on Afghan Idol!”  It was hilarious.

Jessica: Would it be correct to assume there wasn’t any alcohol?

Nick: None was served, but one of the Afghan guys I was with was absolutely smashed.  He was talking loudly and inappropriately and people were turning their heads to stare.  My friend Habib told him to pull himself together.  After that he disappeared, but before he did, he walked into a curtain – thinking it was a door – and fell over.  At 3am Habib got a call from the drunk guy saying he’d gone out the back and fallen asleep in the kitchen.  He wanted to be picked up!

Jessica: What else did you do?

Nick: I visited the infamous Kabul Zoo.  I managed to slide through for the Afghan admission price that was less than a tenth of the foreigner price!  The animals are kept in tiny concrete cages but I was told they are a vast improvement on what was in place during the civil war and Taliban days.

There was a classic sign on the bear cage depicting a caged human being taunted by animals. The meaning clearly went over the head of three young men who were hurling pieces of ice at the sleeping lions.  Afghanis are somehow the most caring and most ruthless people on earth… at the same time.

Jessica: Was it hard to maintain your energy with danger all around?

Nick: Yes and no.  I was lucky to have a really secure place in Kabul, in a good suburb.  I could relax when I was inside.  It was actually the suburb where the house in ‘The Kite Runner’ was set and the house was absolutely enormous.  There were cleaners, cooks, a gym and 24 hour electricity.  There were military checkpoints on every street corner, and two police boom gates on the tiny 100m street.

Jessica: What’s the story of the guy you stayed with?

Nick: He’s a tough guy and he’s been in the military for 20 years.  The job he has is incredibly dangerous.  He owns a company which transports important people around Afghanistan, usually in an armoured vehicle with at least three people.  The important person sits in the middle of the backseat, with two shooters on either side.  There is usually an Afghan driver, because they know the roads best, and someone monitoring the radio.

Jessica: What were the ex-pats like?

Nick: Everybody I met was there for work and few showed any interest in the culture or language.  Some spoke about the people and the situation in a derogatory way.  They seemed bitter and burnt out.

Jessica: Was there any nightlife?

Nick: I went to an ex-pat bar – now that was an experience.  The security was unbelievable.  The unmarked bar was tucked away down a quiet street with boom-gates, and to enter you had to show ID to Kalashnikov-clad guards who unlocked an armoured door.  The door led to another security checkpoint and eventually into a six metre walled bar.  This place would be an absolute goldmine for any would-be kidnappers, so it’s no surprise that security is so tight.

I also spent an evening in a charming rural mud-brick house with a friend of Habib’s.  We ate, drank vodka and watched a bad Chuck Norris action film – you know the type – when America saves the world from the bad guys. Watching it inevitably turned into a discussion about why the ‘war on terror’ has gone wrong.  Mohamed, who owned the house, said that he feels like a slave in his own country.  He complained of American soldiers barging into peoples’ homes without respecting the customs, demanding all vehicles stop and wait by the side of the road when a convoy passes, and the fact that they are generally trigger-happy.  And of course there are the careless air-strikes that result in the deaths of civilians – what the west calls “collateral damage.”

Jessica: Were there any annoyances?

Nick: I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Kabul has the worst traffic in the world.  It’s not so much the volume – though there is plenty of that – but rather the aggressive, reckless way that Afghans drive. When talking about the dangers of Afghanistan, people tend to think of suicide bombs, robbery and kidnappings, but I believe the number one danger is the traffic.

Jessica: Did you have any scrapes?

Nick: We had an accident while trying to dodge knee-deep potholes in heavy snow.  When Habib jumped out and began shouting in the middle of a roundabout, I suddenly remembered my contact’s parting words – a common kidnapping tactic is to crash into the target car.  As it turned out it was a legitimate accident, but it gave me the shivers.

Jessica: What was your scariest experience?

Nick: Landing in Kabul. I honestly thought I was going to die.  The plane was a 1972, ex-Air India 727 relic that was probably better placed in a museum than the tarmac. The plane came down on one wheel, bounced, and started to spin around.  The pilot eventually regained control but it took a kilometre to slow down.  We had to take off again to land properly and I thought we were going to run out of runway.

Jessica: Sounds pretty horrible…

Nick: Oh and there was also two earthquakes in two days.  The first had a magnitude of 5.8 and the next one was 6.  The epicentre was about 300km north of Kabul, in the Hindu Kush mountains, but they still packed enough punch to shake the house violently and many Kabulis ran onto the streets.  Considering the construction standards (or lack of) it’s hardly surprising. When the first one happened I thought a bomb had gone off.

Jessica: Did you manage to get out of Kabul?

Nick: I went on a stunning overnight trip to the decidedly dodgy city of Jalalabad, which is near the Pakistan border.  The region is extremely dangerous but as it is the ‘real Afghanistan’ I was so desperate to see, I couldn’t pass up the offer.

The mountain road to Jalalabad passes just 5km from Tora Bora, which is Osama’s last known hideout.  It is known Taliban country so I was keeping a low profile.  Before we even made it half-way we’d passed three incinerated trucks.  They had been rocketed by the Taliban.

Jessica: Sounds scary.

What were your impressions of the Afghan people?

Nick: They are amazing people, with amazing hospitality, and they put their life on the line for you.  I was welcomed with open arms.

But Afghans take an ‘inshallah’  [‘God willing’] attitude to life.  They believe it is God’s will if they die.  It is as though they are immune to danger.

Jessica: Did you blend in alright?

Nick: I walked around the bazaar buying souvenirs and nobody seemed to notice.

Jessica: How did you buy things without talking and giving yourself away?

Nick: I went with one of my Afghan friends and I let him do the talking.  I would catch his eye when I saw something I liked.  He would then nod at me, duck into the shop, barter, and come out, mumbling the amount under his breath.  If I was happy with the price, my friend would go back inside and buy it.

Jessica: Would you return to Afghanistan?

Nick: Yes.  I’d really like to see the north and visit the areas bordering Tajikistan and Pakistan.  But at the moment there’s not a lot of point to travelling because everything is so restricted.

Jessica: Would you consider a holiday in Iraq?

Nick: No.  I met an American guy who works in Iraq and was looking to extend his company in Afghanistan.  He said being in Afghanistan was like being on holiday.

Jessica: Well I’m glad that you had a nice holiday in Afghanistan.

Bangladesh – the first bit

Hello from Bangladesh

I’ve started this blog so that I can tell you the best (and worst) bits about my extended stay in Bangladesh.  After two weeks of travelling and a spot of freelancing, I’ll start a six month internship at The Daily Star, an English language daily national newspaper based in Dhaka.

Let’s get started then…

October 19: arrive Dhaka from London

Total journey time: 35 hours

Sleepy time: 3 hours

When I landed at the airport, bleary-eyed and sweating, an official pointed something at my head that looked remarkably like a gun.  It had a trigger, and he pulled it with a click.  I saw a small red light flash underneath its shaft, which meant that I didn’t have a swine flu fever and I was free to pass go.  I was the only person to have a passport stamped at the foreign counter, and I was one of two females on the flight (excluding hostesses).

I made my first venture out into chaotic Dhaka in the cloistered backseat of an auto-rickshaw.  I could peer out just enough to see, but not to be seen (pretty much).  I wasn’t ready for that just yet.  The first thing that struck me was the enterprise at intersections.  The following is a (non-comprehensive) list of items I could have purchased at a (loooooong) red light:

•    Popcorn
•    Sticker books
•    Barack Obama’s “Audacity of Hope”
•    Safety pins
•    Bananas
•    My conscience

The last item refers to how I might have felt if I’d given in to the dozens of requests from beggars, whose outstretched hands crept into the rickshaw to tap at my arm.  Many are maimed and disfigured; often they are children, or the sun-worn aged.  The old women struck me the most.  Their saris are gaping rags and their hair is so matted that a bird looking for a nest would need not make any alterations.  A couple of them had exposed breasts.  To commit such a taboo in this conservative society and not care a jot (so I assumed) made me wonder what their past had done to them.

A boy hanging out in the college at Puthia

I did give a few takka to one man who looked about forty.  I made the split decision after he swung his shoulder towards me in order to show me an arm that was long enough, but not wide enough.  A sapling may have been thicker than what he had to work with.  But on the other occasions I just sat there, my gaze averted, wondering what the driver thought of someone who could very easily give but didn’t.

A few days later I took a train to Rajshahi in western Bangladesh.  I love trains and I was excited about my first trip.  I also knew from past experiences as a solo female traveller that if there was any harrassment to be had, it would be had on the train (or bus – what is it about these ‘romantic’ settings?)

And sure enough, a Don Juan behind me struck up a conversation that almost immediately involved discerning the whereabouts of my boyfriend (he is, er, called, um David… which in the past has been mimicked back as “Um-David”).  He moved to sit beside me.

I remembered the advice of my Bible, a.k.a. Lonely Planet: “A woman who is politely assertive can ask for space and usually gets it.”

So I asked for it, and I got it.  He moved back to his seat.  A couple of women who were watching giggled.

About an hour later, he broke the reverie of my iPod miming by pushing this note through the seats:

“Dear Sister,

We are the man that is true.  We should not hate each other.  I have three sisters.  When I saw you first, I was surprised that I got another sister.

Actually, I treat you as my sister.  As up to now I did not mind, because you don’t know who am I.  But I can tell you I am honest and would like to help people.

My father is a Deputy Director.  I am MSC holder person.

So I know how to honour people.

Kajim”

I felt like a bit of a hard-arse.

It was a six hour journey, so, being me, I was starving half-way through it.  Food wallahs had kept shoving fried chicken literally onto my elbow, so naturally that was what I went for.

That evil chicken was my unravelling.  And of course it was – it was a hot day and meat goes off in the sun.  I had all that night and the following day to writhe around in bed, cursing my stupidity for biting off more than I should have chewed.  I also watched a lot of Al Jazeera reports, the Muppets Christmas Special, a documentary on the great white shark, and ‘Lil Champs’, an Indian young talent contest (awe-inspiring singing by kids who are probably too young to tie a shoelace).

Four days later, and I’ve had my first full meal.  It was mouth-wateringly good, and I was pleased with myself for abandoning the spoon in favour of my right hand, as per custom.  I had dhal, a vegetable dish , a chicken dish, steamed rice, milky tea and a two litre bottle of water.  Guess how much? Lower.  Lower. 80 pence.

The highlight of my day, though it was hard to choose...

I took the public bus to visit the villages of Puthia and Natore from Rajshahi.  I was over the moon to photograph the stunning Hindu temples, crumbling Raj-era palaces, and the friendly and interesting faces. There were no tourists and no ticket booths – in Puthia, someone found the caretaker and he unlocked the gates, temple by temple.  I signed the guestbook on his bed, in a tiny room that also contained a stove and hanging clothes.  Earlier in the day, a local boy led me to his village and a pretty older woman with betel-stained teeth lent me her daughter’s sari so that I could swim with her in a bright orange pond.  She scrubbed the sweat off me with a bar of soap and a stick of loofah.  Afterwards she brushed my hair and her daughter painted the soles of my feet a deep claret red.

So far I’ve encountered nothing but kindness and hyper-courtesy from Bangladeshis.  At first I found the staring a bit unnerving, particularly when large groups gathered to watch with fascination as I drank a cup of tea.  But I’ve realised that it’s a novelty for me to be a novelty, and that I should try to enjoy the attention while it lasts.  I feel sorry for the likes of Angelina Jolie, cos she’ll never be able to do a low-key cuppa again…

And here’s a few more pictures…

Big catch - New Market, Rajshahi

Govinda Temple, Puthia

This little boy patted all the animals that he stopped to show me

She told me this shrine honoured her father's memory

A warm reception in Puthia - that palace behind them is their college!

Hello from the Holy Man – Natore

This guy was cool - he showed me around Natore and posed obligingly for photos

There's no escaping the Ani-meister...

Having my feet painted in Puthia

Global day of support for Iranians

 

Here is a link to my photos on Demotix of the protest at the Iranian embassy in London on July 25 2009.

http://www.demotix.com/news/global-protests-iran

The slippery slope to freedom in Iran

My article about skiing in Iran was published in Spiked back in April 2009.

In the cafe at Shemshak with my instructor (right) and his brother and friend.

It was midnight in Tehran when a sexy young Swede named Viktor knocked on my door and invited me to the world’s third highest ski resort. I said ‘alrighty’ and went back to bed.

Iran has skiing? That’s the thing about visiting Iran: it abounds in surprises, most of which are pleasant. Here is one of my favourites: in the women-only section of Tehran’s metro, female hawkers sell lacy neon bras. All sizes.

Iran’s outward presentation to the world, a land of deserts, mullahs and nuclear power stations, is misleading. Yes, it looks like an Islamic Republic because of the compulsory headscarves and the mosques aplenty – but it doesn’t feel like one. Talk to a young Iranian and they’ll tell you lots of things, but they probably won’t mention Allah. Or Bush or Obama. While walking and talking with a self-declared ‘Alpine-ist’ in Tehran, I cooed at a pretty mosque and asked him the name. In a mock serious tone he replied: ‘That is Mosque Number Nine-Hundred-and-Ninety-Nine.’

Skiing was introduced to Iran by a pair of German railway engineers in 1938. Apart from the eight years when it was banned following the Islamic Revolution of 1979, it’s always been hugely popular. But like everything else in Iranian society, the sport gets tangled up in politics and religion. When Mahmoud Ahmadinejad came to power in 2005, he promised a return to Islamic revolutionary values. He therefore began issuing orders on the Islamic way to ski.

Jessica Mudditt, fourth from left, with skiers in Iran.

Under the country’s previous leader, Mohammad Khatami, women had discarded Islamic dress in favour of snow-gear, the barriers separating male and female skiers were removed, and men and women were permitted to share gondolas and ski lifts. Ahmadinejad stopped short of completely reversing all this, but he did demand that gondolas and lifts be segregated. A heavy presence of mountain police are meant to ensure that Islamic values aren’t eroded on the slopes, but as no one has thought to equip them with skis, the job of enforcement is somewhat difficult.

Needless to say, Ahmadinejad isn’t popular among skiing folk. But he doesn’t seem to be popular anywhere. In one month, I did not meet a single person who claims to support him. In Esfahan, an elderly man suggested Ahmadinejad may have made a better engineer, which I assume means he doesn’t think much of his people skills. Others described him as a ‘small man’ or a plain old ‘bad man’. The president must be growing sensitive to the negative feedback as the general elections loom, because in January 2009 he reversed his segregated gondolas and lifts policy. It was a small triumph for sport over politics and religion. If former premier and pro-reform candidate, Hossein Mousavi, beats Ahmadinejad in the contest for the presidency in June, skiers and snowboarders can look forward to more commonsense and less diktats. They might even get the pre-Revolution lifts replaced.

However, things are actually more complicated than this. When a humble president in Iran tells a mountain to jump, the mountain doesn’t necessarily ask how high. The mountains know that Iran is a theocracy, which means that Ahmadinejad – a mere civil leader – can afford to be ignored. If, on the other hand, Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khameni concerned himself with skiing, orders would be orders. And so it is that each of the three ski resorts close to Tehran react to the politico-religious decrees with their own force (or lack) of personality.

Take Dizin, the largest ski resort and the official home of Iranian skiing. It’s the cowardly giant, a mere instrument of government policy. ‘It is for government’, surmised a skier flatly – essentially meaning it is for government to regulate as it sees fit. Tochal, the smallest (but highest) resort is also regarded by many as being ‘for government’, but it’s got a bit of attitude. The gondolas were segregated, but the slopes never were.

Freedom on the slopes.

Shemshak, whose steep slopes attract Iran’s best skiers, is completely defiant. It is owned and managed by the people of Shemshak village, and they have consistently refused to follow any governmental decree on skiing. When the ban on skiing was introduced, it remained open. When Dizin’s slopes were segregated, Shemshak continued with business as usual. Women are more likely to ski or snowboard with their bare hair flying in the wind because policing, on the highest runs at least, is far less vigorous. Said one young skier: ‘[Shemshak’s management] have their own rules and the government can’t change them. They have power and they never listen to anyone.’ It is also rumoured to have a thumping night life.

Skiing in Iran is an interesting experience. As a first-timer I can’t compare the conditions with anywhere else – so I asked Viktor the Swede, who is a total die-hard, to compare Iran’s slopes with the Alps: ‘In the Alps you have to be the absolutely first one there to get the “free” runs in the morning – or you have to walk or hike to the avalanche-prone areas. In Iran you get those amazing runs just by the slopes three or four days after a dump, which is unbelievable!’ Viktor also enjoyed the fact that because of Iran’s geographical position, the sun goes up earlier and down later – so skiing days last longer. And of course it’s a whole lot cheaper than the Alps (or pretty much anywhere else) at around £25 for a day’s ski hire and lift pass.

But what made it interesting to me were the people I met. Those in the snow were by far the most outspokenly critical of their government and society. I can only speculate whether the confidence I observed is a characteristic common to the wealthy elite, or if the freedom on the slopes makes the hassles of Tehran feel a world away.

In the café at Tochal Telecabin, a girl told me that she’s gay. She assumed I was too, because I wear a ring on my thumb – this is a secret code in Iran. She asked whether being a lesbian is ‘yuck’ in my country, because in Iran, she said, ‘it is not okay’. This is an understatement: in Iran it carries the death penalty. Her face brightened when I told her about the mardi gras. Then it was her turn to reassure me; I could take off my headscarf and manteau (a loose-fitting tunic that extends to the wrists and knees). I was getting used to a bewildering variety of statements in relation to how I was supposed to dress – it all depends on who you ask.

That’s if you can ask. My inability to speak the language provided some inevitable comedy. For example, there was a bit of a hiccup when I arrived at the ski slopes with the Swede – I had failed to hire skis at the base. Sighing the sighs of the truly forlorn, I got back in the ski lift and decided to try my luck at the next station, where I saw a group of girls throwing snowballs. After disembarking, I pointed at my feet without skis and looked agitated. I was whisked off to the emergency room. We stopped along the way to collect the doctor, who was playing table-tennis. I have no idea how his ridiculous toupee stayed in place but there was no time to find out – he seemed positively cheerful that I had interrupted his match. When he realised I just needed skis he gave me his telephone number. In my diary I had noted, ‘Another Hossein’.

Young Iranians in snowgear.

I did eventually manage to get hold of a snowboard, and an instructor to boot – an energetic little man that hopped around me like a ferret. Our common vocabulary was unfortunately limited to ‘okay’ and ‘hubay’ (‘good’ in Farsi). Still, he fastened my boots and got me to my feet. I gripped his mittens as he ran down the hill next to my spiralling snowboard. But despite his best efforts, I fell on my bum a lot because I wasn’t able to ‘argkjob’ (still a mystery). We met at Dizin the following day, and this time his brother and a friend joined us in tackling the beginner’s run on skis. His friend spoke a bit of English, which I wrongly assumed would be useful. He ignored my teacher and used the best part of his energies trying to chat me up. This included playing a little joke of pretending to ‘lose the brakes’ – and oops – ramming into me. At the time I didn’t find it funny.

The next day, as I was contemplating the stiffness in my legs while standing outside Iran’s first Debenhams, I met another skier. She was 27, very pretty and working as a promoter of Lego’s educational range. As she caressed the high heels she’d bought for $50, she said: ‘This government tries to configure its people. But the young generation do what they want; they wear anything they want.’

This must have been part bravado, because the official punishment for women who fail to observe ‘modest dress’ (otherwise known as ‘hejab’) is a public flogging. Yet it is true that in Tehran, respect for such laws are slipping as fast as the carelessly knotted headscarves. The pretty young skier told me: ‘It’s really nice not to wear the headscarf while skiing. Many women have problems with the headscarf. If I had the choice I would never wear it. Never!’

For young Iranians, the ski slopes are a ‘free place’ away from prying eyes, where they can be a little bit more normal. My new companion told me that she worries about her generation because she believes they are ‘using their energy in a bad way’. She is referring to the rampant drug use amongst Iranian youth, attributing the problem to the widespread ennui that results from a lack of choices: ‘Young people go and do drugs in someone’s house. They do this because they have nowhere else to go and they’re depressed.’ She went silent, then added: ‘Because they don’t have freedom.’

Because the street was busy and noisy, we continued our conversation in her parked car. After 20 minutes, however, a policeman banged his fists on the boot of her car. ‘He wants to charge us for staying here’, she explained. My companion looked stressed so I thanked her for her time and got out. I stared at the policeman, wondering whether he’d ever known the freedom one feels whilst skiing.

Iranian Photography Now: an interview with the editor

 

 Iranian Photography Now is edited by Rose Issa, who is also an independent curator and producer of contemporary visual arts and film from the Middle East and North Africa, and Director of Beyond Art Productions.  I met with her to discuss her latest project. 

The luminous hardback took 18 months to put together.  It contains the works of 36 photographers, some very well known, such as Amirali Ghasemi, Abbas Kowsari and Parastou Forouhar, whilst others are emerging.  Around half of its contributors  currently live in Iran, and others are in the United States, Europe and Dubai.  A significant number travel back and forth.  Iranian Photography Now includes a diverse range of approaches to photography, including (but not limited to) photojournalism, montage, industrial photography and advertising.  

What links these different approaches together, says Issa, is their ability to reflect life in Iran.  In his foreward, Homi Bhabha, Professor of English and American Literature and Language and Director of the Humanities Centre, Harvard University, attests to the common overriding sense of urgency found in the works.  He says: “Photographic practice in the West – or at least in the European-American axis that has dominated the history of the medium until relatively recently – sometimes lacks this urgent quality…”

 Issa also felt the need to fill a void in the market.  She said: “There was no documentation whatsoever, despite the hype and with everybody opening galleries on Iranian photography.  I thought it was my duty to do this, so that from now on other people can produce books.”

 Despite a lack of documentation, photography has been a part of artistic practices in Iran for the last 150 years.  The Shah himself was a keen photographer and it was especially popular among the Armenian population before becoming more mainstream.  Contemporary photography, however, developed during the Iran-Iraq War of 1980-88.  Issa explained: “Villages were destroyed and people were dying.  Others wanted to document that and many photographers went to war zones.”

 Iranian Photography Now has been distributed on a small scale in Iran, and Issa would be happy for it to be translated into Farsi by an Iranian publisher.  But in Iran generally, the heavy censorship laws make it difficult to send and receive books, and is the main reason why documentation in Iran is rare.  And it necessarily restricts the access of Iranian artists to the international market.  But although Issa is very happy that works are still being lent to British institutions, she said she is not surprised that Iran closes its doors when western policies try to dictate what Iran should do.

 At any rate, Issa believes that art doesn’t depend on institutions or governments.  She said: “Whether the British or Iranians want it or not, there are always artists who want to show their work.  It depends on the goodwill and the desire of others wanting to give visibility to artists, and for artists themselves to produce good work.”

 Parastou Forouhar is undoubtedly one such artist.  An image from her series Swanrider (2004) depicts a woman floating on a lake on an enormous plastic swan, her black chador draped over her hands which are outstretched around its neck.  It is hauntingly beautiful.  Forouhar’s parents were assassinated in their Tehran apartment in 1998, an event which, she says caused: “political correctness and democratic coexistence to lose their meaning in my daily life.” 

But when I ask whether the photography in the book reflects the darkness of a country in turmoil, Issa says no. 

On the Swanrider series, Issa says: “There is nothing pessimistic in Forouhar’s artwork. It’s an expression of her grief, joy, pleasure – combined.  She is somebody who loves her country, despite the fact that the government doesn’t let her go back and commemorate her parents’ death.”

As the book’s editor, Issa sought to chose works that reflect life.  And, she says: “Life is full of love and death and dramas.  Life is rich in events.  I hope this book is rich in events. I could have gone much more abstract and selected conceptual work.  But I was always interested in showing how life is reflected in work, and vice versa.”

Issa has been working with Iranian artists for the last 15 years (or a tenth of the time that photography has been practiced in Iran), and she is well aware of the many talents that remain “unexploited and unexplored.”  By publishing Iranian Photography Now, Issa is playing her part in improving the visibility of Iranian photographers.  And her message to curators or journalists is to continue this process.  “Go and discover them,” she says.

Click here to buy Iranian Photography Now on Amazon

 

What life was like when Mousavi was Prime Minister – letters from an Iranian protester

Hi Jess

When Mousavi was the Prime Minister during the Iran-Iraq War, Khamenei [now the Supreme Leader] was president. They used to argue with each other about how the country should be run.

Mousavi was good in government back then. Although the economy was very bad, he tried his best not to put economic pressure on people so that we had everything we needed on our tables. We did not have as much inflation as we have had during Ahmadinejad’s government. This is why Mousavi has a good reputation amongst most Iranian people.

In the last 20 years Mousavi’s political views have changed. He has become more of a national politician than a religious politician. During the election Ahmadinejad tried to show this as Mousavi’s weak point, but because this is a change that the majority of people support, the people only loved Mousavi more.

Another big issue between them is Palestine.  Ahmadinejad likes helping Palestine and he thinks it’s an ideological fact that he should do it, even if the government does not have enough budget to do so. Ahmadinejad shows himself as a real supporter of the Palestinian people and by doing so he aims to gain a lot of support from the religious people of Iran and the world. But Mousavi says that we shouldn’t help Palestine if we don’t have enough budget for our own government costs. When Mousavi said this Ahmadinejad published a speech of Mousavi’s from 20 years ago, when at that time Mousavi thought like Ahmadinejad. Ahmadinejad accuses him of being a liar!! He is stupid in thinking that if some body changes their mind it means they are a liar. I don’t know how anybody can develop their mind if they are never going to change it!! This is the same idea that says we have to do whatever the prophet Mohammad did 1400 years ago.

I think the situation is very good now. People have great knowledge of opposing the government, though we need to be organised and learn correct and effective ways of opposing it. Mousavi is willing to establish a party to do classic politic activity.

As a person who sees what is going around me, I believe that Ahmadinejad could not get more than eight million votes and Mousavi should have received at least 25 million. I’m sure the real result of the election is close to these figures. 

Maybe one day the truth will come out.

Yours

Iranian protester

‘The idea that killed people in the London Underground also killed Neda’ – letters from an Iranian protestor

Hi Jess

Last night the Guardian Council confirmed the validity of election, which is just what we expected from the beginning.

 I’m wondering how Ahmadinejad can look people in the eye and how he can join any international meetings as the president of Iran.  

 Ahmadinejad and his allies believe that power only comes from God, and that it’s his representative on earth – the Supreme Leader – who can distribute the power through an election.

 So in his heart he is not ashamed.  What I say about the belief in their own power is no mere story – unfortunately it’s strongly felt and Muslim extremists share it too.

 Here in Iran the religious leaders are mainly divided into two groups.  There are those who I mentioned above, and those who think more as republicans (just a little more!).  

 This is a very complicated issue but if you can understand it you can understand all the Islamic movements of today, from the Taliban and Bin Laden, to the London Underground bombings, to the suicide bombings in Iraq, and so forth.   The idea that killed people in the London Underground also killed Neda, and would be willing to kill Mousavi.  

 I think a dictatorial regime is not as dangerous as a religious regime, because when a gun fires in the name of a dictator there is always some hesitation.  It cannot last for a long time.   But when a gun fires in the name of God there is such a strong belief behind it.  That’s why a suicide bomber easily kills himself without even getting a penny – he believes he is going straight to heaven.

 Ahmadinejad is the slave of the Supreme Leader and Mousavi would never be like that.  Everyone knows that he would challenge the Supreme leader to do what is right for the people.