 December, 2006
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LOVER OF LEAVING
Viet Nam!
Gypsy Meye
The legend goes that it was a
dragon, not platetectonics that
carved out Ha Long Bay |
I cannot properly explain how viscerally Vietnam struck me. I was immediately felled. Our taxi ride from the airport to the capital city of Hanoi took about 45 minutes, and I think I took a photo every 45 seconds.
The motorcyclists, the red flags, the tall narrow finicky beautiful French architected buildings, but with their multi coloured paint jobs and tasseled pointy Asian roofs, the pho, the wok hats, the rice paddies, the carved wood furniture, the bustle, the ancient gnarled trees, the women selling hot French bread at every intersection, the leaf-lined avenues, the pedal rickshaws, the horns, the bicycles, the museums, the lakes, the crammed corner shops, the fresh spring rolls, the heat, the rain, the limestone cliffs, the green green water, the seafood, the sea, the sky.
I narrowly escaped death several times on the way to the water puppet theatre in Hanoi. The city traffic is insane. I ran, screaming, between the dashing daredevil rickshawallahs and motorcyclists. Part of the problem is that the sidewalks are so often choked with street stalls and stores spilling over and parked motorcycles, that one is forced into the street. And there are no traffic lights. Or at least none in the old quarter that anyone pays attention to.
But this is the thing - Andrew Pham had the right idea when he hit Vietnam on 2 wheels (read his gorgeous lyrical book, Catfish and Mandala). Not that I had the courage to rent a bicycle and brave the streets myself, not after 24 hours of observing Hanoi hustle. But speeding around on the back of a motorcycle through ... brilliant. I took a moto-taxi from the Vietnam Museum of Ethnology, 9km from the city centre, and I had a total blast. My only regret was that I had my bag all zipped up and strapped in, and we were weaving in and out of traffic so closely that I couldn’t take any photos (probably a good thing as my driver didn’t need me fidgeting while he made his insane turns through traffic).
The Ethnology Museum was fabulous. I had no idea that Vietnam had 54 different ethnic minorities spanning 5 separate language families, each with their own gorgeously distinct dress, traditions, skills, art, music, agriculture, architecture, and so on. I learned how batik is made by the Hmong (with a copper pen filled with wax), the way the Black Thai mark social hierarchies (through rooftop and window ornamentation), and which US president is a model for one of the funeral statues of the matrilineal Giarai people (GW).
But the best was the museum’s outdoor exhibit. There are 5 beautiful houses on the museum grounds along a lovely winding maze like garden path. Each of them has been built in the tradition of a different minority and is beautifully and authentically executed and explained. For example, one of the (most spectacular) houses is the communal house of the Bahnar. It is built on stilts 19 metres high, uses all original material faithfully (rattan and bamboo), and 42 villagers from Kon Rbang village in Kontum Town came to construct it in Hanoi in 2003.
Of course, true to my ribald ways, all I could think of (other than taking photos) while wandering around by myself is what perfect make out spaces these lovely, empty, bamboo scented, precise, and delicately built houses would make.
My hotel room in Hanoi was on the seventh floor of an Old Quarter hotel and had the most stunning 180 degree view of Hanoi from its massive balcony. I sat on this balcony on my last day in Hanoi and wrote until the sky suddenly turned black and started to pour. So I went inside, locked up the heavy carved wood doors (the furniture here is so beautifully wrought and ornate), and continued writing on the bed while the rain rushed down. Later, when it seemed to be clearing, I thought I’d take a walk outside and get some lunch. I jumped off the bed, into a full inch of water! Some egghead had decided to build our balcony without any drainage, and somehow I had not noticed my room slowly flooding over the course of an hour! Luckily, I had not left anything on the floor. My camera had been sitting on the ground the entire night, right next to my battery charger, but I had put them both on the table earlier that morning - phew!
My magnificent 2 day side trip from Hanoi involved heading due east several hours to the Gulf of Tonkin to check the mystical Halong Bay. Halong means the dragon’s descent to the sea. Legend has it that a flaming dragon came roaring out of the mountains, gouging out the earth with his tail, and when he dove into the sea, the rifts and valleys in his wake filled up leaving only the high land above water.
Our ancient wooden boat creaked and drifted though hundreds and hundreds of tiny islands in Halong Bay, for more than four hours, on the way to Cat Ba Island. It had been raining just before, and so the islands and our vision were clouded with a blue grey mist. I spent most of my time on the top deck of the boat, listening to music, taking photographs, playing spades, and lounging under the wide wet sky.
I love when something (like a four hour boat ride) takes so much time, you can’t help but pay attention. You must notice that only the clouds in the Northern sky are flecked with gold. That Royskopp and Primal Scream are the perfect operatic trancy soundtrack for when you are salty, sticky, and seawindblown. And that imagining yourself magic is as easy as opening your eyes to the blue.
HELL HATH NO FURY
Why don’t you
try it, mister?
Mashida R Haider
We thought it was easy
to get things done and
still look so good
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I have been made, by dint of fate, a de facto housewife. When we decided to move to an apartment of our own (calling our little flat an apartment is a bit grandiose, but we like it) it was with enthusiasm and great brouhaha that I took on ‘housekeeping duties’. So when I was talking to a colleague at work (you know how we women are, always gabbing instead of working) about the pros and cons of using Draino (pro: it does the complete draino to your pipes, con: if the pipes are plastic, they’ll melt, and the hissing sound will frighten the life out of you, and you will believe in Stephen King’s It), a colleague, a male, unmarried, colleague asked: What’s the big deal? What is it that you housewives do?
I sputtered and went slightly batty on him. In my rage, my mind went completely blank and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. It’s true, I have it easy. I have help in the house, and bless them, they take on plenty of responsibilities, still charmed as they are with my naivety and the fact that every single person I know seems to gyp me. So I don’t have to cook, or clean, I can just come home from work, and at most do grocery shopping and sort out the bills and make sure that the husband’s shirts are back from the laundry (he, who thinks worn shirts magically go from the floor to the closet, clean and crisp, but I am too harsh—he cooks).
But I am the exception. Being a housewife is like having a job where you have to play so many roles that it’s constant multi-tasking (and again, men have that excuse, they can’t multi task). From waking the children, and its really hard waking children, I know, because I have a young brother and in the mornings he was hellspawn to wake up, to cleaning up, to fixing lunch (and other people’s food is always better), to picking them from school, to teaching them, to cleaning, and dusting and organising (oh! so much organising!) it’s a full day, for housewives. Really, if they were to get paid for the job that they do, our GDP fly off the charts. And yet, they are blamed for nagging, and laughed at for taking time off to go to the beauty parlour (no woman on earth should be apologetic for that, it’s the only respite from the dark side) and for watching soaps. Really, when your mind is always cluttered with thoughts, what better way than soaps? And, all of these are stereotypes, because some of the housewives I know are among the most intelligent and best read people I know.
And this is the city people we are talking about. I don’t even need to explain the role of the rural woman, that of the manager of both the house and the business. And on top of that, they have skills that we only dare to dream about, and on top of that, they are in such tight places, having to deal with the utter absurdity of patriarchy. Village women, they are made of sterner, finer stuff altogether.
I crib about it, but I do enjoy it. I like picking out vegetables and eliminating those that I don’t like, like potol and mishtikumra, from my life, I like being in control, I like buying curtains, and I like being ‘queen of my castle’. I don’t even mind getting down and dirty with it when push comes to shove, and I have started developing that authoritarian tone in my voice that belies how young I look, and so haha, double the amusement. And yes, all those times I laughed at my mother and mother-in-law about the obsession of getting back ice cream boxes that went out to relatives, have come back to haunt me, because I work myself up into a frenzy when my containers go missing. So kudos to those women, for working, and the work that they put in their homes. And as for my colleague, well, heartfelt prayers for the lady he marries.
SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND
Brothels in Gazipur
Richard J Murphy
Would the new post-election
Gazipur look something
like Patpong?
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Asif Chowhury (26/08/06, Feedback, New Age), told us about the zoning laws in Germany that prevent schools and churches from being built too close to brothels. The reason was apparently, but Asif didn’t quite put it this way (he got it the wrong way round), that the nearby presence of churches put men off going into that part of town, so nobody visited the brothel, and takings were down. Since the brothels were all owned by the town’s dignitaries and law makers, a law preventing the churches from being situated close to brothels was enacted. It worked well; soon brothelling was the biggest money maker in the Fatherland. I understand this, Germany is such a dreary place that men will do anything to have a bit of fun, and visiting a brothel is just one pleasant way of passing the short interlude between birth and death. Asif went on to talk about the siting of such establishments as Walmart in Dhaka according to similar zoning laws.
As for churches, so for Walmart. I mean Walmart is a bit like a church, isn’t it? It’s a down market version of Harrods, as far as I can make out. Women worship going shopping, churches are usually dreary places, so are supermarkets, so it all seems to fit into Asif’s logic. I suppose there are arguments for efficiency, so you can visualise a situation in which a visit to the brothel could be combined with picking up a few necessities for the house and home.
So Mahboobal says to wife, “Ok light of my life and my only reason for living, I’m just going down to Fatma’s brothel for a bit of much needed pleasure, see you soon, have dinner ready for when I return, I’m going to be hungry.”
To which wife replies, “Ok honeybunch, have a good time, don’t work too hard and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, hee hee! Oh, by the way could you pick up a couple of light bulbs and a goat’s head on your way back? Your mum and dad are coming round for dinner tomorrow. Leave the brains in, your mother might find them useful.”
And so it goes on, a pleasant way of combining family duties with the necessities of life. Well, let’s take Asif’s idea of zoning one step further then, and say that a town, if that’s the right word, like Gazipur could benefit from this concept. Have you ever been to Gazipur? No? Then you’re a lucky person, of good taste. Gazipur is a sort of holding pen before hell, Satan built it because he couldn’t cope with the influx of sinners, and they had to be put somewhere before a cell was found for them down below. So he built Gazipur, well, half built it, the remainder is either under construction or being demolished, it’s hard to tell.
So why not make the life of these candidates for the big fire a bit merrier before the roasting, and make a bit of money on the side? Build a Walmart next to a school alongside a brothel in Gazipur! I can see this changing the whole concept of life in Bangladesh. Can you imagine a family outing from the misery of Gulshan to Gazipur?
The man of the household packs his car, bundles the children into the back, wife rolls (she’s a bit overweight, that’s why Mahboobal’s going to the brothel) into the passenger seat, and off this happy family unit goes to Fatma’s establishment, the school and Walmart for a bit of morning’s fun. Upon arrival, wife takes the kids to school, then she goes to the Walmart church and hubbie gets himself into Fatma’s as quick as he can.
This concept has started in Savar, where they have something called a theme park. I’ve never been, it looks absolutely appalling, and most unsafe. I think Asif’s idea is much better. I look forward to news that construction has started and that the project is due for completion before the next election, hartals permitting. Hey, that’s a thought, will Fatma’s be exempt from the hartal, like ambulances, on humanitarian grounds?
GREY MATTER
Now here’s a manifesto for action!
Tanim Ahmed
The garment factory owners should actually stop mincing their words and start beating up worthless workers. Like one factory owner said rather pragmatically, ‘Nothing like a good beating.’ After all there is a limit to how much these sons of the soil will tolerate having contributed so much to society and country.
There was the unrest when garment factory labourers burned down their stock and went on a rampage breaking down garment factories in May demanding a pay hike and a whole bunch of perks. It would have been reasonable if they wanted a few bucks extra. The factory owners are not vampires after all. They would gladly increase the salary from Tk 930 to a round Tk 1,000. They would even go as high as Tk 1,230. Now that should have been the wage commission’s recommendation in the first place. But they were all aghast at its attitude. In fact the members were so adverse that the permanent representative of the factory owners decided not to dignify the farcical final meeting of the commission with his presence.
Of course good sense prevailed, although not completely and the commission reviewed its ridiculous ‘three-phase wage structure’ to a one-time increase. The minimum wage was fixed at an exorbitantly high Tk 1,662.50. Even a buffet at the Sonargaon Hotel is cheaper, the factory owners might have pointed out had not their compassion for the workers restrained them. Although it came out of complete insensitivity towards the owners, they decided to accept the wages for the welfare of their employees.
Although the commission’s recommendation, as ludicrous as it was, would let them spend Tk 55 everyday, the labourers were still stubborn and inflexible. They stuck to their old demand! What is more surprising, some people seemed to favour the suggestion that workers were actually demanding not just two square meals a day, but that they be able to eat meat or fish once in a while. All that just to sit at their cushy machines and stitch all day was really pushing the envelope. Even the Lexus Harriers and Prados, and those are big cars, run for a whole day on much less. But once again the businessmen held back and tried to reason with the workers with much civility that the lowly scum hardly deserve.
But ungrateful as they were, the workers kept demanding additional perks on top of their ridiculous wage. They wanted appointment letters, a weekly holiday, festival allowance, a three-month maternity leave, timely overtime and the list went on. Why even a thoroughbred Alsatian would be content with a just a collar and two meals.
They had had just about enough, decided the factory owners. Out came their spokesman. This was time to use heavy artillery and show others how troublesome these scums were being. He had always looked out for the interest of these workers. Even at the last WTO ministerial, he had shouted for fully free market access of textiles to the United States for the sake of these 2 million workers till his jugular went soar. No more Mr Nice Guy.
People, especially those instigating the workers, must to be taught a lesson. The workers have to be told how absurd their expectations were. Nice Guy spelled it out for everyone. ‘If workers reserve the right to demonstrate and make demands, so do we reserve the right to shut down our factories,’ he said. It would mean back to being housemaids or begging on the streets for those women raising hell. Others joined him and said it was impossible to pay the workers as much as they demanded. The industry would not survive. It was simple math. There was no way the owners could pay so much in wages. They would all have to ride sedan station wagons and live in dingy four bedroom flats in Kalabagan instead of their luxury SUVs and Gulshan apartments. That would be outrageous. The entire economy would come to a stop from not being able to sell any more Xtrails or chandeliers. My god, Shoppers World would have to close down!
It would be even worse if they all closed shop as they duly warned. All their workers would have to go home to their villages to their families where they would either be beaten up every other month for dowry or trafficked to some other country.
Mr Nice Guy, being a compassionate man, has not yet considered the option of demanding compensation from the workers for causing so much trouble. But he probably should. It was the workers who burnt down goods, it was the workers who ran amok and wreaked havoc. The losses amounted to some hundreds of crores. The workers should compensate their owners before they go so far as even ask when they are going to be paid.
And while they are at it the owners should demand a few more things to stave off any further turbulence. The workday should be extended to 18 hours instead of the lenient 9 or 10, so the workers actually have no free time in which to spend money and it would also take care of the whole ‘overtime’ saga. The government should pass a law prohibiting the garment workers from getting pregnant or even married, which would take care of the maternity leave thing. And finally, the owners should have the government declare a special 60-day week, so that weekly holidays are once every two months.
After all it’s the least one could expect from the government for having done so much for the country.
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