Students in Literacy “Red Zone”

Charleston County, South Carolina has a growing literacy problem. Recent test scores have shown that at North Charleston High School 46% of incoming 9th grade students read at a fourth-grade level or below.

In the Charleston County School District 23% of all incoming 9th grade students read at a fourth-grade level or below. The literacy problem often extends to learning other school subjects such as math and science due to students not being able to read textbooks, which are written for student’s actual grade level.

This problem also extends into the community where one in seven adults in the surrounding Charleston Counties read at an eighth-grade level or below. These adults are functionally illiterate. According to the Trident Literacy Association, up to 20,000 tri-county adults have less than a ninth-grade education.

These adults are often unable to read a newspaper article, fill out a job application, or follow instructions on prescription drug labels.

Now that the problem has been highlighted, school officials are pledging to work to focus more attention on literacy. School stimulus money will be allocated to teach reading and writing. The districts are looking to hire reading specialists who will teach older students without demoralizing them. Simply re-taking English classes is not enough, special attention is needed to help these students.

The Village

FARIDPUR, BANGLADESH – This is not Dhaka.

Although Dhaka and Faridpur both have streets, people, goats (yes, even in Dhaka) and electricity, these collections of people cannot to be compared.

So far, all of Bangladesh I have known is Dhaka and Cox’s Bazar. Here, we visit the village of Faridpur.

Let’s step out of the van: I must walk through a gaggle of young school children wearing almost-uniforms of blue that spared no time gathering around the van.

Schoolchildren gather around a van to see who the visitors are.

Most certainly, they have all seen an automobile before; however, not only do the narrow country roads not lend themselves to motor vehicle travel, but most cars have no business out here where the road ends.

The children look on and form a crowd as we walk from the van’s parking spot among some trees to a friend’s house. Whispered chattering is sustained until a native shoos the children away.

We walk among houses until we reach the home where  we will take lunch.

This home, like most in the village, is built of wooden posts set on a raised concrete floor. Corrugated galvanized steel, riddled with rust holes on some panels, sheathe the house from the elements (mostly rain); the humid warm air waltzes right through the open windows and door.

It’s almost a surprise that clothes left outside here can dry, but the air brought in from the consistent breeze is fresh and has no trouble doing its half of the laundry.

A refreshing, clean-smelling breeze comes in off the fields and runs through the village.

Yes, the city has colorful garment-laden buildings, but to see those rainbows, one must crane his neck and look through a ubiquitous haze of dust and pollution whose presence is easily confirmed during the day by itchy eyes or at night by the glare of headlights.

The electricity is down when we arrive; the hosts spin by hand foot-diameter woven fan blades to circulate air. Eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark; the porch shelters the windows and door from the sunlight.

We are served, in separate glasses, fresh water and coconut juice (in this context, “fresh” would mean “we just pumped the water from the well and picked the coconut from the tree”).

There is no running water in the village.

Of course, “fresh” for lunch (some more on this later) most likely means”that chicken was clucking 4 hours ago.” 

The layout is simple: there are two beds against the far right wall, several cabinets next to each other on the wall in front, a table and bureau on the left wall, and a kitchen-looking table shares the wall with the windows and door.

We go for a walk. A young boy with a walking stick helps guide:

A boy with a walking stick accompanies us for our walk through Faridpur, a rural village in Bangladesh.

This is the first glimpse of how people in the village live. And also how they age:

We encounter an old man along the dirt road.

We continue on…

Trails run through the village.

into a banana field…

Bananas ripen on a tree.

where people work the crop.

A woman looks after the banana field.

On the walk back to the village from the banana field, a crowd of boys joins us.

A small crowd of boys join us for the walk.

After eating lunch of chicken, rice, vegetables, and bread, we go back outside; now the hosts will eat. Several more kids come over to see who the visitors are.

Village Boy

Village Girl

It is now 5 p.m. Knowing that a three hour journey is in front of us, we thank our hosts and depart.

We arrive in Dhaka when it is dark and can clearly see from the headlights of oncoming traffic a haze in the air; the peaceful clean village was a wonderful respite from city life.

Swami Vivekananda

MIRONJILLA, DHAKA – The children of this poverty-stricken sweeper colony are educated by Dhaka University college students in a yellow three-story concrete building.

 

A young girl who lives in Mironjilla, Dhaka, Bangladesh, is getting a basic education at the Vivekanando School. The school is run by students at Dhaka University.

Although the school, which is named after Swami Vivekananda, usually operates at night, after the children have finished their jobs of cleaning the streets, today is special: there is an art and a jump rope competition.

 

A young boy pauses in the stairwell at the Vivekenando School in Mironjilla, Dhaka, Bangladesh.

“They are so poor. The clean Dhaka,” says Mohit, one of the volunteers who teaches there.

However, this is not an all work and no play environment. These kids know how to jump rope. Even during a 90 degree day, jump ropes — and jump roping children — abound on the street in front of the school.

 

A student of the Vivekanando School leans briefly against a bamboo post supporting an awning at a shop. Behind him, the school hosts a jump rope competition.

 

Kids playing outside vye to be the first one in the picture. Several of them are enjoying suckers that were given out today.

Not all of the students jump rope today. Some stay inside, either to draw, watch the jump roping, or allow a quick snapshot.

 

Two friends at the school pose for a portrait.

Today was much fun and game for the students, who also were visited by guests from Dhaka University, Bangladesh, and Winona State University, Winona, Minn., America (this author included).

At the end of the day, as with any other day, they go back to their homes, which, although conveniently located near the school, are still in the slums.

Their lesson for today: education is best path for them to advance to greater things.

A girl who lives in the Mironjilla colony stands outside her abode.

 

A Bazar Week

COX’S BAZAR, BANGLADESH – At least 113 people are dead in the aftermath of cyclone Aila as it tore through southern Bangladesh earlier this week.

I spent about 24 hours of the past weekend in (and almost the same amount of time traveling to and from) Cox’s Bazar in southeast Bangladesh. A six hour train ride to Chittagong and four hour van ride from there to Cox’s Bazar certainly was long, but the warm salty sea water washed away the stresses and aches of travel.

The return trip, which started Saturday, allowed plenty of time to avoid the cyclone.

Cox’s Bazar is known best for its almost 80-mile long white beach, which many Bangladeshis claim to be the longest in the world (it is in the top five). They are also none too happy to ask for a vote: it’s in the running for the new seven wonders.

(Let’s not forget that some arbitrary person decided there should be seven new wonders, which were originally “revealed” in 2007 (you guess the date). I think any such revelation that requires Jennifer Lopez and backup dancers reeks of synthesized media hype… not to mention that voting is simply done by email.)

However, shedding the potential glamor that might be gained if it were to become recognized as one of the new seven wonders, we end up at the city itself and, successively, at the shops and beach.

A woman begs for money outside shops in Cox's Bazar, Bangaldesh. The businessman has nothing for her.

This is not to say that the beach or country lack glamour, but many western travelers may be surprised to find that the “cover up” ideology prevalent throughout this and many Muslim countries is not lost at the beach: men wade into the ocean still wearing jeans and button down shirts and women their sharis.

The stray tourist who refuses to participate, for example, the woman wearing short shorts and a bikini top who walked by when I was at the beach, is no doubt given “the look.”

But aside from the ocean-going apparel, there are plenty of vendors on the beach as there are in the city, e.g., Dhaka. The difference (convenience? curse?) is that they are mobile.

Whereas city vendors primarily park on the sidewalk or street all day, the beach vendors carry their coconuts, bananas and baskets of shells to the potential customer.

The most interesting setup that I saw was a vendor with sea shells from small (2 inches) to large (8 inches), a can of red paint, and a mysterious container of liquid.

After transcribing your writing on a piece of cardboard to the shell (using the red paint), the vendor, using a film canister, repeatedly bathes the painted area in the liquid.

The liquid, an acid bath, reacts with the shell and not the paint in a sizzle of smoke; it leaves the painted area as a raised surface against the eaten-away rest of the shell that can be clearly seen in light.

The vendor wears no gloves while working his magic on the shells; a bucket of water he has brought with him suffices as a quick neutralizer to the pain he must feel when the acid creeps on his hands.

Two etched shells, one eight inch and one two inch, cost 200 taka (less than three dollars). 

Next post, keep an eye for more photos — cameras do not appreciate sand.

A Hindu Wedding

DHAKA, BANGALDESH – A wedding here is almost festival-calibre.

Earlier this evening, I had the fortune to attend a Hindu wedding about 20 minutes by CNG (information/hazards). I was greeted by loud local music and a bride and groom wearing colors more vibrant than at any of the 20+ American weddings I have seen.

 

The bride gives a happy glance to her new husband during a Hindu wedding ceremony. Red and white (in Bangla: lal and shudda), prominent colors on the bride, symbolize fertility and purity, respectively.

The ceremony was held at the most well-known temple in Bangladesh, Dhakeshwari. The reception hall (on the temple grounds), where we were, has a small dining facility on the 4th floor. A table seating 20 was set up in a room barely large enough for it.

Each place setting had an upside down plate and a glass; placed strategically along the table were plate-sized bowl-deep dishes.

The meal starts by filling the glass, then pouring water from it, over your right hand (to clean it) into your plate, washing your plate, then dumping the water from your plate to the dish in the center.

Small plates of chicken, fish and vegetable were brought out and served. Then the large plate was flooded with rice.

I was the only westerner at the table; I was offered a spoon. However, it seemed somehow wrong to attend a religious wedding here and intentionally forego a part of the experience: I dove in and ate with my hand.

The saying goes that the third time’s the charm, and I see no reason this scenario does not adhere. I was a little rough the first time I ate with my hands (at Arban): rice somehow ended up covering the table and my lap.

Several days later, I practiced eating fork-free again, but in the privacy of my room. The mess I generated here was pleasantly less.

Keeping in harmony with the third time being the charm, I can say I was certainly more adept at eating with my hand at the wedding, although it still feels a little odd.

Perhaps the events immediately after the meal is where I was the crazy American, way more so than when I was eating. From what I gathered, you go see the bride to say hello and give well wishes. I was pulled by several people through the crowd surrounding her to the front.

She placed her hands together, fingers out straight, and brought her fingertips to her chin.

I mirrored her, then gave a gentle bow and smiled.

Soooo, good luck?

Over the course of the almost endless not-even-a-minute that I stood there, I did that four times. I briefly mentioned why I was there  (at the wedding), here (in Bangladesh), and that this was my first Hindu wedding (invariably, one of the first three or four of the classic 20 questions that any Bangladeshi you meet asks you is “Is this your first time in Bangladesh?” I though it appropriate to apply that to the wedding.)

How’d they build that?

DHAKA, BANGLADESH – I have the luck of an at-least-17-story tall building being constructed across the street from me.

In a previous post, I briefly mentioned that construction here involves neither Deeres nor Caterpillars. I saw yesterday my first piece of motorized construction machinery: a gas-powered cement mixer. From what I can tell, cement is mixed most of the time with a shovel in a small metal container about half the size of a 55 gallon drum.

Although this is fine, it overlooks two things: where the cement mix comes from and how it is put into place.

In the case of the smaller construction (3 stories) right outside my window, it is brought up by hand in bags that look about 40 or 60 pounds. Earlier today, someone brought several bags up, one at a time and balanced on his head. He would tear the string from one end of the bag and dump the powder to the floor.

However, once they get get the cement mix to where it will be consumed, the rest is easy: just add water then pour into cement forms, like the ones being installed by the men in this photograph:

 

Workers place forms into which they will pour concrete for a new building in Dhaka, Bangladesh.

However, this photograph is zoomed in to reveal details like how they support the floors, the forms for the columns, and some of the rebar. Let’s zoom out a bit; I’ve taken a series of photographs and stitched them together here. This image reveals a bit more about the scale in which the men above are working:

A new building in Dhaka, Bangladesh, is being constructed. At 17 stories (and counting), the workers have a nice view.

Perhaps most striking, side from the jagged nature of this photo stitch, is how high up these workers are. I’ve got 17 stories and counting; the protrusions that are seen from the top of the building suggest more levels will be added. If this is the case, hopefully we can watch the progress over the next several weeks. 

These men also do not appear to be wearing any safety equipment — forget hardhats (what would fall on them when they are that high up?), I mean harnesses. Seventeen stories is a long way down, but they work without preventative measures. It looks like they just need to be careful.

A quick catch-up

DHAKA, BANGALDESH – A small fight broke out along Kakrail Road in the Kakrail division in Dhaka today.

On a short walk today with a friend to the post office, we saw a large crowd of high school-aged students gathered a block away from where I am staying. Although some language barriers exist, I am told that  information about the Higher Secondary Certificate was posted today. Students were congregated to gather that information.

The fight was just starting as we walked back towards my apartment past a noisy group of about 10 students walking the opposite direction (toward, for example, the post office, where I just came from).

Not more than 7 metres (yards) later, the yelling became louder and aggravation could be heard in the voices. Fists started flying; crowds gathered.

People from both directions of the sidewalk streamed to watch. Those that kept some distance found a view by standing on flatbed rickshaws, several of which happened to be parked very near.

A gate guard for a local business wanted nothing to do with it; he promptly shut the gates to keep the fight outside.  A street guard having contrary sentiments joined in — not to fight per se, but to break it up — although his short stature, older age, and frail build left me to rhetorically question his decision going against a group of charged youth.

We stayed around to watch for another 15 seconds before the local I was with suggested we leave. As interesting as it would have been to see the results, leaving was probably the best decision: a six foot two inch white male stands out readily in a crowd of Bangladesh natives, who are invariably shorter and darker-skinned.

The HSC is an exam that all students graduating high school take in May. Results are usually posted in September. Those of the 600,000 who take the exam that pass can then apply to a university, e.g., the University of Dhaka (stay tuned for a post on this gorgeous university). After passing the university’s entrance exam, they are effectively admitted to the university.

Students who fail the HSC have to option to retake it, but because it’s only offered in May, they must wait about nine months from finding out their results to take it again. All students, regardless of their pass/fail status on the HSC, must wait a year between high school and university.

It’s raining, it’s pouring

DHAKA, BANGLADESH – The storm started about an hour ago. The sky went from overcast but bright to cloudy and ominous. As if the sky were exhaling a humid breath on a cold day, the air became palpable with rain.

Of course, the gentle start was a mere fleeting moment that led to a downpour even rickshaw drivers decided to forego.

During a thunderstorm in Dhaka, rickshaw drivers abandon their craft for refuge from the pouring rain. Rickshaws are colorful tricycles with a perch for passengers. (click picture for full-size stitched image)

It did not take long for the bright colors of drying laundry that usually adorn the sides of apartment buildings to be retracted in a flutter to the dry indoors, much as the spores of coral disappear as a diver passes near.

From my balcony, I can saw a woman several floors below and in the building left of me stand with her arm through the grates on her balcony, a white coffee cup in hand, trying to catch the rain as it came down. Another woman was next to her with both arms outstretched, palms upward.

On the roof of the building to my right, a man with a short white beard wearing only a light foot-length cloth stood in the rain for several minutes, absorbing the refreshing feeling of natural water.

A man wearing only a waist-to-foot length cloth absorbs some fresh rain from a rooftop in Kakrail, Dhaka, Bangladesh. A storm passed over the city about 1:30 p.m. today.

Back on my balcony, I squeegeed water that collected on the floor into the nearby drain hole using my foot. As the water cleaned the floor, it became dark as it washed dirt away. I bet the water will be dark again if it rains in a couple of days.

The rain let up after about twenty minutes, but the wind was still strong. I had to place two shoes to hold my interior room door open; the wind has already slammed it shut once.

The temperature has dropped considerably and the air smells and looks fresher, but even though this city moves in part because of anywhere between 88,700 and 600,000 foot-powered rickshaws, the rest of the 10 million residents’ and visitors’ use of natural gas- and diesel-powered vehicles to get around will likely leave a new gentle layer of dirt over the next few days.

A Muslim Morning

DHAKA, BANGLADESH — I have been consistently waking up pre-dawn since my arrival here. Although it seems like I awaken an hour later each day, it is currently 4:34 a.m. local time; Tuesday morning was quite early.

About ten minutes ago, the call to prayer started. With an 83% Muslim population, it should be no surprise that loudspeakers are found throughout the city to draw the attention of call to prayer to Muslims and non-Muslims alike. It sounded like the bulk of the prayer lasted six or seven minutes; occasional shorter (20 to 30 second long) vocals could be heard every five minutes; the last one was at 4:43.

This was the pre-dawn prayer; subsequent ones will be made at noon, in the afternoon, at sunset and in the evening

Vendors walk between dense traffic to sell popcorn and booklets with pictures of different types of animals to passengers and drivers.

Rising this early lends itself to seeing the other face of the city. Although traffic — buses, cars, motorcycles, CNG’s (three-wheeled compressed-natural-gas-powered vehicles), and above all else, rickshaws — is dense during the daytime, it all but diminishes during night hours.

It’s currently 5:05 a.m. Over the past three minutes, I counted three rickshaws, one bus, one truck, two bicycles and three pedestrians walking on the road I can see from the balcony. I will post later a before and after shot of the street. The difference is like day and night.

Making sanitary napkins in Dhaka

DHAKA, BANGLADESH — Today, I made a sanitary napkin.

I had lunch with Md. Kamal Uddin, the CEO of Arban, an NGO that aims to help the poor by funding and organising schools and construction projects. After eating (rice, lentils, and vegetables — yes, I used my hands, no silverware), an Arban driver took us to a housing project and then to Mirpur, a slum in Dhaka.

As sanitation — more aptly lack of it — is problematic in the slums, a project Arban has recently undertaken is helping with feminine hygiene. Instead of women using rags or anything else they may find, Arban employs people to hand-craft sanitary napkins.

It goes something like this: sit on the floor in a small room on top of the roof. A window lets natural light in. Pull apart cotton in an effort to fluff it, place it into a sheet of cotton about 8″x8″, roll it over several times, place that into some netting (like what the tree farm puts around Christmas trees), then sew little doubled-over cotton loops (they resemble a hair band) to that assembly, one on each end. Sterilize, place ten into a package, seal, and sell.

Price: 25 taka/package (69 taka/US Dollar)

Packages made per day: 17

Population of Dhaka: 15 million

Boy In the Rain

You should follow the link above to get an idea of where Mirpur is. Do not be fooled by the few streets that appear on the map; this is not a sparse acre-size-lot-per-single-family-house suburbia. Rather, it is a dense jungle of concrete and brick structures that generally rise 4 to 7 stories, and single-level homes with rusty tin roofs. The streets are dirt. The buildings are from manual labor; there are no Caterpillars or John Deeres here.

A man carries a bamboo post used in the construction of poured-concrete buildings.