Sylvia's Journal

It’s a birthday present I never want to have again: I sat through about 14 power point presentations while trying to suppress what was probably an allergic reaction to the pollen that is visible on the pond. A nice waiter who saw me run out of the conference room repeatedly, red in the face, half choking, took pity on me. He asked my permission to make me a local brew that would take care of my problem: black tea with sugar, ginger strips and 4 cardamom pods. I had two glasses and from then on I called him doctor Kalam which got many giggles from the other waiters. It sort of worked and calmed down my irritated throat, besides tasting very nice.

I discovered several people who fondly remembered this and that MSH colleague and I could fill them in on as much as 5 years or more of missed history. I also found a compatriot (from the motherland) who is a psychiatrist working on the hidden and mostly unexplored issue of mental health in Bangladesh. Our last speaker of the day enlightened us further on the complexity of trying to scale up mental health care in this society. Just seeing the many dimensions laid out was good to produce a mild level of stress in anyone called to do something about it. The plan is to train village doctors according to an algorithm that is described in the book ‘Where there is no psychiatrist.’ If this was posed as a question the answer would be ‘everywhere’ since there are practically none outside Dhaka, and only very few inside.

We are secluded from the world in the conference center, far from the maddening Dhaka crowds and in the presence of lovely singing birds (most of the day but especially in the early morning) and trees full of screeching bats (at dusk), a pond from where some of our food comes from (we are told you can keep what you catch but you have to do it with your hands) and a pavilion jutting out into/over the pond as I remember from movies about the good old days of British India.

There is also an internet center with 10 seats and excruciatingly slow and old computers, but then again, it is more than I expected and we are connected after all. Just no pictures for now. I will add these later – they would overtax the system and my patience.

The trip from Dubai to Dhaka was a cinch after having already covered the distance between Boston and Dubai. I travelled surrounded by a large family of Bangladeshis returning from a shopping trip in Dubai. If you live in this part of the world and you have money, apparently that is where you go. The family occupied about a quarter of all the business class seats and included several fat little boys – the kind I remember from Lebanon – little princes I don’t find all that adorable but they make their moms smile no matter how obnoxious they are. At Dhaka airport the family was met by an official with an official looking tag on a lanyard around his neck. I assumed they were either related to the Emirates station manager or it was a quid pro quo for a Biman Airlines official. It was a happy crowd that walked away with the gentleman, holding hands and swinging their large and full shopping bags.

I was met before immigration by a man with two stripe epaulets who looked like an airline pilot holding a sign that said BRAC conference rather than my name. He did not speak any English of significance and so I followed him silently. He did take me right past the long line of people waiting to get their passport stamped, straight to the front of the line marked ‘crew.’ That got me into Bangladesh in no time. It was then I realized I had forgotten to tell my Bangla friends I was coming. To remedy this and to get me set up for a work related phone call tomorrow night I got myself a simcard from the money I had leftover from my last trip here, some 9 years ago, 500 Taka, which was still good money after all those years.

I met Anna who also came from the US for the conference. We will be roommates. Anna lives in DC but is a doctoral student at Harvard School of Public Health and presenting on her thesis which is about contracting for health services. We were driven to the conference center, about one hour out of Dhaka. By the time we got on the road it was 9 PM and dark and, supposedly, after rush hour (though rush enough for me).

The trip to the conference center was a little scary with most cars driving on the wrong side, which is the ride side here (left) but some driving on the wrong side for Bangladesh which would be the right side for me – I tried not to look too much at the oncoming traffic, especially when the headlights seemed to be coming straight at us. That, not bombs in hotels, is the true occupational hazard for my line of work. The driver of our little minibus was expert at swinging out of the way, sometimes off the pavement, to avoid the headlights that did not swerve back at the last minute. I gave him a heartfelt ‘donabad’ when we arrived at the center in one piece.
We were received at the center like long lost cousins, with several short men swarming around us handing us our nametags, a conference back and getting us to our rooms, then dinner. The dorms we are sleeping in are laid out around two low pools connected by a little bridge. I hope the water is treated to repel mosquitoes. I am in that part of the world and was stung already at the airport. I am glad I remembered the malaria prophylaxis although I forgot the mosquito repellent.

Our room is sparse and functional with a small desk with two chairs, two cubbyholes for our clothes and two narrow twin beds. I am back in economy class. We will be here for four nights and four days, of which this first one is a special one, my 57th birthday, on which I find myself alive and well.