Absolutely Dhakered!

It was with a certain sense of guilt that I sat down this evening to pen this blog entry dear readers. It's been pretty much a month and the only thing I can say in mitigation of my negligence is that in the interim I have moved from the warm, nourishing uterus that is Dhaka into the real world - my placement at Parbatipur, but that can wait for another blog. Before moving on to my present circumstances there are (at least) a few more things to be said about Dhaka.

Firstly, I thought I'd share what is probably my funniest picture to date. Check out these mannequins:



These are at New Market, one of several teeming shopping spots in Dhaka. It came as a great relief that buying ninja clothing and equipment wouldn't be a problem. Sadly on this occasion they were out of shuriken; fucking third world countries, you can't even get the basics!!!

Speaking of the basics, we've managed to get around the distinct lack of booze in Bangladesh, somewhat. Below, please see myself and some other volunteers relaxing at the BAGHA club. I actually don't know what the acronym stands for (I don't really care) but, suffice it to say, it is a neo-colonial enclave style jewel set amidst the fine crown of ex-patville in Gulshan, the embassy district.



Good things about the BAGHA club:

- the manager Sajid, who's really nice and buys me drinks

- the gin (and tonic)

- the presence of (some) scantily clad eye candy

Bad things about the BAGHA club:

- a sizable number of people there are tossers who click their fingers at the staff and get annoyed with colleagues of mine who happen to be black. Let me back that up, a black friend of mine, a Kenyan called Job, accidentally nudged the chair of this lady when sitting down owing to the constrained table arrangement. Her husband then had a massive go at him, completely out of proportion to the infraction. After Job had left, this geezer then apologises to me for causing the commotion. I said that I was sure my friend didn't mean to give offence and this dude retorts 'if he didn't then he didn't show it.' So, not a fan of the darkies are you chief?

- the presence of (an inordinate number of) scantily clad people who only through the most mind-bendingly hideous Orwellian contortions of the english language could ever readily be described as 'eye candy'.

- the presence of a worrying number of mature blokes who laud the city of Bangkok in the most emphatic terms, highlighting how 'If you're a guy, it's out of this world. I mean, for a girl too, but, y'know for a guy...' and 'no-one judges you, y'know, drink, do drugs, whatever, they don't judge you if you're an older guy with a younger girl...' I'm sat listening to this crap with four women volunteers who are all serious feminists and I'm thinking 'ah yes, the numerous positive points of sexual tourism...you really haven't gauged your audience on this one have you mate?"

Anyway, that's the BAGHA in a nutshell. In terms of alcohol though, we needn't stop there. Oh no. That same Job who was recently a victim of passive aggressive racism has also been a key player in allowing us to acquire illicit booze.

Following his lead, we arrived, via rickshaw, at New Market just after dusk. Walking past several brightly lit shops, Job indicated this murky enclosed alleyway underneath a sign that read, simply, 'Galaxy Club'.

'Galaxy club, where you can come to see the stars,' says Job with a confident, knowing grin. Well, we walk down what is essentially a tunnel, with stains of various hues tarnishing its already flaking whitewashed interior, until we came to a shabby, wooden door guarded by a threatening-looking man mountain of a Bangladeshi. Job greets this man cordially, and exchanges a few words of banter in Bengali, 'banglabanter' if you will, before we head inside.

Two flights of stairs up and we come to a wide club room, lit only by a huge plasma screen TV which is showing a round up of the day's sports, and neon lamps behind the bar itself. The club's male-only audience regard the TV with varying degrees of interest - they're clearly not here for the sports.

It hits me at about this point that we are, in point of fact, frequenting a speakeasy, a prohibition-era chicago style hooch parlour no less. We get the goods from a smiling man that Job seems to know well and are back out into the night in five minutes.

We've just scored...vodka.

Very strong vodka.





Mmmmmm, 75% proof: tangilicious!


well guys, I will love you and leave you - I will write again soon. Or, at least far sooner than last time.