Project Alo: Lighting Up The Slum

The Idea: Bottle Lights

Liter of Light was the first to implement bottle lights on a wide scale.  The idea took root quickly in the Philippines slums, and tipped over to other countries.  It was genius: take a n 2-Liter Coke bottle, fill it with water and a little bleach, install it in a tin or aluminum roof and poof: you have a 50W solar light bulb during daytime, rain or shine.  Homes that previously had no light would now be able to go about their daily activities much easier.  It seemed to make the most sense in densely packed slums, which had less access to open space and daylight.  Rural villages by comparison afforded more space under the sun for people to work and study.

On a mass scale, bottle lights have the added function of recycling and reusing thousands upon thousands of Coke bottles.  There are opportunities in the supply chain, sourcing materials from in-kind donors as well as foundations and corporate partners, in conjunction with recycling programs.  The climate conditions in Bangladesh are better even than the Philippines, due to stronger and more prolonged sunlight.  With the rapid urbanization across Bangladesh, there is a large and growing number of people that would benefit from this simple and cheap technology.  

But all that may (or may not) come in time.  What I was focused on was completing a successful pilot project—to get it right for one small community—before any thoughts of scaling.

Groundwork

I shared my ideas for Dia Bari slum with changemakers I knew to see who might be interested in helping.  Carole found links to two organizations in Bangladesh who were already on the bottle light scene.  One had tried in June during rainy season, and failed miserably on its one and only installation; not only did the bottle not provide enough light, but it had started leaking.  They paid for a new tin roof, dismantled the project, and redirected donor funds elsewhere.  I was duly warned.

The second organization, CHANGE (www.change.org.bd), is a youth based organization that had succeeded in installing bottle lights with good press coverage.  I had been interviewing a young social entrepreneur named Anjali, who called CHANGE to set up a meeting.  The founder and president, named Sajid, is also a student, research assistant, and member of the national fencing team.  He heard about Liter of Light in January of 2012, and started exploring the feasibility of doing the same thing in Bangladesh.  He made a few adjustments to the model used in the Philippines, substituting materials found locally.   After three months, he and his team installed the first bottle.  Sajid did not have the resources to achieve the same scale as elsewhere, but he did produce studies on the feedback of the slum dwellers, and won social entrepreneurship awards that provided funding.  CHANGE championed the cause in the media, and taught students how to build their own bottle lights.  Through these initiatives, CHANGE became a Global Partner of Liter of Light.

As an environmental research student, Sajid saw the bottle lights from an energy perspective.  He installed them in a slum where there was already electricity stolen from the grid.  The intention was for slum dwellers to use less power during the day, saving energy and lightening the load on the rest of the grid.  But slum dwellers pay a lump sum for electricity regardless of how much they use, and there was little incentive to abandon their existing light bulbs for a bottle light.  The only exception was during load shedding times, where the electricity was temporarily turned off for everyone to conserve energy.  

Effectively, they did not see the need for bottle lights.  Moreover having it installed in their roof made them feel poorer.  Thus there was a lot of social resistance from the slum dwellers.  CHANGE conducted awareness campaigns to convince the community of otherwise, with varying degrees of success.  All in all, CHANGE was able to install 30-32 bottles in 2 areas in its one year of existence.  Crucially, the bottles installed were structurally sound, and did not leak in during monsoon season.

My approach was from a different angle.  I wanted to help the people in the slums where there was no stolen electricity and thus little options.  The reasoning was that they'd be quicker to adopt the bottle lights, and not feel poorer. 

We thanked Sajid for his time and arranged to go see CHANGE's existing pilot project in the Mirpur slum of Baunia.  A few weeks passed as we coordinated schedules, and in the meantime I researched how to build a bottle light from scratch, and planned the method of attack with my team.  The problems generally fell into two categories: 

1) Engineering quality lights

2) Gaining acceptance among the people

The first problem was more pressing; in no way were we going to install leaky lights and make the situation worse.  I wasn't about to go playing handyman on someone's roof and ruin it.  Sajid told us of another amateur project that failed, an alumni organization that installed 70 lights in 7 days.  They too had quality issues because they used 1.5L bottles and cheap glue.  Smaller bottles meant less light and cheap glue meant leakage.  

Feroz wanted to buy some materials and start experimenting ourselves, but this seemed too rudimentary, and neither of us were particularly good with our hands.  The other issue was how to test for leakage.  Even if it worked on an experimental shack, I couldn't guarantee that the lights wouldn't leak in 6 months.

I finally settled on the simplest solution, which was to use Sajid's existing team to put in the lights for me.  Sajid's friend Mahmud from the national fencing team is an electrician, and had installed the first bottle lights for CHANGE.  With electrical wiring around the slum roofs, the job had to be done professionally, and CHANGE paid him for his efforts.  He had the equipment and the experience, and knew where to buy the materials.  I could invite him to help me do the same, and also hire an assistant from the slum who could help out and be locally accountable for maintenance.  Anjali called it the Plug and Play. 

Baunia

Feroz came along to meet Sajid and Mahmun, who brought us to Baunia slum to see the lights they'd already installed.  The first house we inspected was quite large by slum standards, with a high ceiling and two rooms.  One room had a bottle light installed that provided decent illumination, enough that no other light was needed.  They still used an electrical bulb in the second room, which had no bottle light.  We checked four houses in total, and all the lights worked fine.  Other than a few collected cobwebs, they were in good order.  In another room, someone was sleeping in the light from the bottle: a reminder that once installed, it couldn't be turned off. 

There was actually demand for 50 more lights in Baunia, as the idea caught on with the community.  This was encouraging for the longer term dissemination of the concept.  Sajid was looking for funding sources from various organizations to help with the financing.  

Back to Dia Bari

The next day I returned to Dia Bari slum with Feroz, exactly five weeks after my first memorable visit with the HK team.  Last time had been winter, but by now the hot weather had set in, reflected in the numerous kids running around sporting freshly shaved heads. 

Nahid convinced Joshim, one of the original drivers that went in with us the first time, to tag along.  He knew exactly where our slum was located, and could also help build rapport with the community by reminding them of our last visit.  At Carole's suggestion, I developed dozens of pictures that the HK group had taken of everyone, and handed them out as a gesture of goodwill.  Grownups and children alike loved seeing themselves in photo form, and I watched the faces light up as they recognized themselves in a picture.  Of course, this also led to chaos as children and mothers fought to see the pictures and claim their own.     

Feroz and Joshim explained our intentions to install bottle lights, and the idea was well-received.  Through Feroz as interpreter, I told Sunni's mother that we were inspired to do this because we saw Sunni studying hard, and wanted to help her achieve her dreams.  We collected over 20 orders from the community, and promised to return the next day to begin work.

First Light

I met Feroz and Mahmun early in the morning, with the latter coming prepared with ladder, toolbox and a bag of ready-filled bottles.  The modified recipe used bleach instead of chlorine, but it achieved the same effect.  After buying some glue, we rickshawed over to Dia Bari.  

There wasn't a crowd when we got there, and more importantly, only a few kids were around.  Though it was a Saturday, many were still at school.  We set up in front of Sunni's house and got to work.  Mahmun needed an assistant, who we hired for the day from the slum.  I helped Mahmun install the first light, because I wanted to get hands on to know how it was done.  Initially it was slow going, because the tin was softer than Mahmun was used to working with.  But we quickly adjusted, slipping in extra wooden beams under the roof for support.  

The light was up and ready by the time Sunni came home.  Feroz interviewed her mother, who wiped tears from her eyes as she spoke about how this light would help her children.  Sunni was less emotional and maintained her calm composure, quietly thanking me with a smile.   

We put in four lights that first day.  The twenty-odd orders we had collected were down to nine because many of the people had misunderstood the first sales pitch.  They thought we were providing lights that could be used at night, not during the daytime.  Other problems arose that we hadn't considered, mainly involving the role of the landlord.  We needed to get permission from the landowners, who potentially could charge the tenants more rent after light installation.  After some discussion, it was clear that this problem was outside the scope of our work, and we continued on.

The third light we installed was in the home of an old lady.  When I went in to check on the setup, she was openly shedding tears of joy.  Her story was melancholy: her only daughter was now married and living with her husband, leaving the poor mother on her own.  Long lines were etched into her face, the expression moulded by long years of worry and hard living.  Living in this slum with no one to care for her, she considered this light the most beautiful thing in the world.  She dried her eyes and placed her hand on my head, brushing my hair back while blessing me in Bengali.  It was an emotional moment and I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.  

Mahmun's assistant had a 12-year old son named Akash.  He'd been feeling sick all morning, but by afternoon had recovered enough to invite me to see his house.  It turns out that young Akash was an inventor, taking the skills he acquired from technical college and applying it to the small workbench in his home.  It was a boon that his house was one of the few in the slum to have electricity.  He showed us a rechargeable battery light that he built from parts found in the garbage.  This amazed us, and I gave his father some money to buy the tools he needed to build more lights—new batteries, an electricity meter and a soldering iron.

Changing Direction

When we went back the next day, we were greeted with bad news.  Of the outstanding orders, we could only put in three more bottle lights.  The other houses had three layers of tin roofing instead of one, which made installation impossible.

There were also no additional orders, the reason time and again being that people wanted lights for the nighttime, not during the day.  We couldn't well force our solution onto them, and so Mahmun went to work on the last three orders while I went to see how Akash was doing.

  

The boy inventor had built two more lights, one using a CD as a backboard.  He'd already sold one for 70 taka.  This was a low price because all the parts were second-hand, but it was encouraging that he built and sold the light proactively.

We made some suggestions on modifying his designs, and gave him money for a prototype.  By the next day, Akash had completed two more prototypes.  He claimed that once he had the materials, it only took 5-10 minutes to construct one light.

We decided to subsidize the cost of the lights instead of donating them outright (like we did with the bottle lights).  If we approached this as a social business, it ensured that only the people who needed the product would pay for it.  The light cost 200 taka to make, excluding Akash's wages.  He marketed the lights for 100 taka each, and we would subsidize 150 taka, thereby earning him a profit of 50 taka for his efforts.  It wasn't a huge sum by any means, but not bad for a 12-year old for 5-10 minutes of work.  If we made the lights any more expensive, then we couldn't compete with the cheap 'Chinese lights' on the market.

I went with Akash around the entire slum to show off his prototype light and collect orders; by the end of the day we had 20 interested households.  Of course, we'd learned by now that minds could change quickly.  There were also some new problems to solve, mainly around how to recharge the lights.  The landlord was already hounding Akash's family for more rent due to higher electricity usage, so it would be difficult to use Akash's home as a universal charging station.

Production

The following day I went to Akash and gave him funds for the first 15 lights.  The money had been provided by Chris and Inga, our German friends who had previously volunteered with the blanket distribution.  They visited Dia Bari the same day Akash showed us his original built-from-trash prototype light, and wanted to contribute to the cause.

It took Akash longer than expected to deliver on the orders, in part because he was constantly experimenting and making improvements to the designs.  The casing for the battery was also made from scratch out of wood, which took time.  His father helped to build the lights, and it looked to be a father-son bonding experience.

After a few days (and with some extra tools) Akash and his father had built and sold 14 lights.  Of the 5 lights already installed, the feedback from our customers was positive and encouraging.

Quality Testing

I skipped a day in the slum due to a rare episode of Dhaka rain, which provided an opportunity to check if our bottle lights passed the crucial leakage test.  None of them had leaked, which was fantastic news.  The ground of the slum was still wet with mud, transforming it into a quagmire.  I couldn't imagine how bad the conditions would be during the monsoon season.

Akash had further improved on the designs, and Sajid brought a light meter to measure the luminance of the various models.  Our battery lights fared well, though not producing as many lux as a normal bulb.  By the naked eye, we could see the dramatic difference the lights made within the complete darkness of the surrounding slum.  

Lessons:

We started out implementing a tried and true solution, in what I thought would be a cut and paste situation.  The bottle lights ended up costing more to install, but were provided free for the people.  Though we were confident in the solution, empirical testing proved otherwise.  We ended up selling lower cost “Akash lights” to four times the number of households.  

People in general tend to be resistant to change, and overcoming that inertia may take years.  There were suggestions of awareness campaigns and educating the locals, who may accept the idea in time.  But this also assumes that the people don't know what they want.  Once we had a solution that met the actual need of the community (Akash’s night lights) the people adopted it immediately.  It was a stark lesson in listening to the market and adjusting accordingly.  

Not to say that bottle lights is a bad idea; perhaps it is a matter of sequencing, and once people's priority of nighttime lighting is taken care of, they can focus on the next problem.  For example, to save battery time on their night light they may choose to install a bottle light.

Once again I dove into this project headfirst, driven by the need to execute and finish before my Bangladeshi visa expired.  As it turned out, there are many things that can't be rushed, and no matter how much discussion we had after each phase, in the end we could only wait to see what the next day brought, and react accordingly.

The bottle light initiative in Dia Bari brought mixed results.  Seven installations is hardly something to brag about, but at least quality-wise, the lights didn't leak.  As the plastic Coke bottles faltered, a homegrown solution arose to address the true needs of the people.  That seed was Akash, who just needed an opportunity and a little water to bear fruit.  Given the proper funding, guidance and technical advice, he and his father built 30 lights with different designs and sold them all in less than a week. 

Empowering Akash was an unforeseen result of Project Alo.  His ingenuity and hard work allowed him to earn extra money for his family, something that he is happy about.  I hope also that the experience will widen his horizons about what is possible if he continues to apply himself.

All in all, we were able to provide light of some form to about half of the households in Dia Bari.  Not bad for a start, but it fell short of my aims to light up the whole community.  I did however overachieve my original goal of helping Sunni, by providing her house with two lights.  This way she can study at any time.

The actual budget of the project is laughingly small in the grand scheme of things.  I could’ve easily paid for the whole thing out of my own pocket, but the surplus donations from Blanket Drop and contributions from Chris and Inga were enough to cover all costs. 

Time was the commodity we didn’t have, and even if given a few more days we would’ve made the solution more elegant and complete.  There were still design adjustments that needed to be made to Akash’s models, specifically in making the lights easier to recharge.  We made the proper recommendations, but I couldn’t personally oversee the project anymore.  My visa was expiring and I needed to leave the country.

With Sunni and Akash

The Slum Kids

Every day I was in Dia Bari I was surrounded by the children.  All the youthful energy that had surrounded the HK study group during our first visit was now directed solely at me.  They pulled at my clothes and jumped on my back, held my hands and smacked me when I wasn't looking.  This often slowed down and hindered my passage through the slum, though when it came time to work, the kids did back up and watched from a respectful distance.  I did make sure to make room for playtime with them each day, and even played cricket with them, next to the pool of garbage.  It remains the only time I ever played cricket.  

There was a steady barrage of children and parents alike asking for their picture to be taken.  Some of the older girls caught on that I was taking only one picture of each person, so they kept finding new toddlers for me to snap, conveniently standing in the frame to get more shots in.  I for my part continued developing the photos to hand out, so that everyone could have their own.  I also brought treats for everyone: one day it would be pears, another it would be cookies.  Distribution of anything remained a gong show, but I got somewhat used to it by the end.

These kids had defined our first visit.  Their energy and enthusiasm were contagious, and had left us welling up with joy.  Through Project Alo I was able to experience this for an extra week, and it made everything worthwhile.  Ultimately it was the kids that I wanted to help, whether they understood it or not.

Bhai

My Bengali brother was the Grameen guide for our study group, a jovial fellow by the name of Nahid, known to his friends as Shovon (meaning "handsome"). He was responsible for co-ordinating our group from the Bangladesh side, and served as our interlocutor with other Grameen departments, as well as purveyor of Bangladesh culture. From our first proper chill session after dinner on Christmas Eve, it was clear that Nahid and I understood each other on a common wavelength.  

The Bangali term for brother is spelled bhai, but is pronounced differently depending on context. 'Vhai' is commonly used in everyday conversation, to address the rickshaw driver or the tea stall man. 'Phai' is reserved for a man who you respect and whose philosophy of life you agree with, a true brother based on mutual admiration and loyalty. However you say it, Nahid has been my bhai since day one.  

We saw each other nearly every day I was in Bangladesh, and had hundreds of cups of tea together. Nahid has taken care of me like family, and with him I shared just about every idea I've ever had. Through our conversations, I've been able to absorb what I could about Bangladesh and everything in it. By the end, I must've asked him ten thousands questions. He's always been more than happy to oblige, and if he didn't know the answer, he immediately found out. Once focused on a task, he has a never-say-die mentality and will not rest until he completes it. Needless to say he was my number one translator.  

Feeling it his 'holiest duty' to make sure my time in his country was comfortable, he helped me in every way that he could. For the first few weeks, he refused to allow me to pay for anything. Even when I tried to circumvent him, the local vendor refused my money. Being a host is an honor for Bangladeshi people, and they perform the role graciously. It was only after Nahid was broke and waiting on the next paycheck that the wall cracked and he grudgingly let me treat him. With his position in Yunus Centre and the great relationships he built in all of Grameen, he opened doors for me that I hadn't even known existed. It's a fact that, had I chosen to stay in Bangladesh, I would be completely hooked up.

Nahid was an active youth with accomplishments in acting and singing, standing out by representing the national under-19's cricket team. He attended Dhaka University (itself a huge achievement in Bangladesh), where active turned to activism, placing him in the frontline of anti-establishment protests.  

He started his career in telecom and real estate before combining both experiences to work at Grameen Telecom Trust. He then got handpicked by Professor Yunus to be his protocol officer, arranging the big cheese's international schedule and visas. I surmise that Nahid was chosen specifically for his tenacity and resourcefulness, essential when dealing with embassies and consulates. (Of course, if he considers the task unimportant, he will forget about it, repeatedly. It was rather amusing.)

In addition to various duties, last year he assumed the task of guiding the international researchers, students and VIP visitors that come to study and intern with Grameen. Of all the countries he's hosted, he says that our HK group was the most memorable. And of course, he's never made a friend like me (his words). He was excited to show me his hometown of Jessore, 8 hours west of Dhaka. He invited me into his family home, and when I turned up extremely sick, his friends and family took good care of me. I hit it off especially with his cousin (also named Nahid, nicknamed Razon) and his best friend Ifty.

Under the jolly surface there was a somberness to Nahid, due to the tragic loss of his mother at a young age. But you could never tell, and he has a great relationship with everybody, with numerous bhais and friends in various circles. One friend adopted him as her little brother and even named the main character (Shovon) in her novel after him. He's a natural connector, and very persuasive. When he speaks in Bengali, I can see many more shades to his personality than when he is speaking in English. It was most interesting to watch him politicking, and in Dhaka, a conversation about politics can pop up anywhere.

He introduced most of his social circle, even new associates to me, and for the most part was a good judge of character. One gentleman named Mahmun was absolutely amazed to be talking to me, and told me that I might forget him but that he'll never forget me. It was the first time he'd spoken to anyone that looked like me before, and it was one of the greatest moments of his life. It was strange that I was blowing his mind by just chilling, but well, I didn't forget him either.

Whenever he was happy, Nahid would break out into song…usually of the Bangali folk variety, but also John Denver at times. It turned life into a Bollywood movie for me. At first it was intriguing, and after a while I got used it and didn't even pay much attention. For his part, he stopped caring or asking if I minded, and would belt out notes at the top of his lungs. One time while Bob Marley was playing, Nahid started singing on top of the song. At first I was annoyed that anyone would do such a thing, but when I listened awhile it actually complemented and harmonized with the music, and became a treat for the ears. I never thought I'd be happy with someone singing over Bob. If ever I wanted Shovon to stop singing (a rare occurrence) I'd just ask him a question.

Interspersed among the musical numbers were solemn poetry recitings (in Bangali), replete with changes in demeanor and vocal inflection. The people worship their poets and love their poetry, Nahid being no different. There is a poetic tinge to his thought and speech, evident even in his English. He's produced quotes that I've often referenced, such as "my religion is my religion", and "the barking dog rarely bites." 

The real culture shock came when I realized how much Bangladeshis love rain. Whereas sunshine makes me happy, rain is associated with melancholy emotions. Not here. The more the better, and people can be found (I've been told) dancing and playing amidst the showers, singing while soaking. Nahid likes to go trekking and even swimming in heavy rain. I'll have to see it myself sometime.

I think what made it fun was that we could both act like kids. Any boredom would lead to some new game being invented. It all started with cards, because we didn't have a common game we could play (their dominant game is call bridge). So I set up a 'basket' using a paper fruit bag, and we threw the cards at it, aiming from five or six feet away. He'd take the black cards and I took the red. We made a complete mess at first and completely failed. But after you sink one, you get hooked. After some practice, technique began to develop and it made for an interesting, competitive game. We've successfully introduced the game to new players. Picking up the cards not so fun.

I went to Bangladesh to seek Dr. Yunus, but it was Nahid that was destined to be my brother.

Six Months On The Road...

It's been six months now since I left Hong Kong, though it certainly feels a lot longer.  I've heard that life is defined not by the number of years you live, but by the number of moments that take your breath away.  In that sense I feel like I've lived years, so much has happened.  Time is a completely different animal on the road.

I haven't been able to update nearly as much as I would like.  This is partly due to lack of reliable Internet access, as well as travel fatigue.  But the memories have been forged, and some of the words have taken shape.  It seemed appropriate at this six-month juncture to reflect a bit on all that's happened.

I'm now in Nairobi, Kenya, after a journey that has led me through 9 countries and 30 destinations.  Each country has had its unique charm, each profoundly affecting me in a different way.  There were periods of intense focus where everyday was concentrated on working for the poor, followed by lulls of relaxation and adventure chasing.  The presence of the invisible hand in my life continues to be apparent; long delays or obstacles that frustrated me ended up leading to chance meetings and once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that I couldn't have planned in my most lucid moments.  Approaching each new country brought a question mark of uncertainty, and a natural anxiety of the unknown and the risks.  Yet it continues to surprise me how fast I can adapt to striking new environments and people.  So much so that by the time I leave, I leave a part of myself behind.  Only to turn and face the journey ahead once more.

There are many things to be grateful for, which have become more apparent over time.  Firstly, the time of my departure couldn't have been more fortuitous given the path I took, because I've navigated through the world while avoiding the rainy season of every country I've traveled.    The Mekong river was a calm and invitingly placid flow when we took the slowboat, not the violent surging waters that engulf lives and threaten livelihoods.  Similarly the lowlands of Bangladesh were dry and arable, not yet flooding and disastrous.  The rains either followed in my wake or stopped before my arrival, ensuring the sun followed me wherever I went.  Either that or I was following the sun; there certainly has been a healthy amount of sun-worship, as I catalogue every sunrise and sunset I see.  2013 has so far been a year of sunsets, and still I am in awe every time I see one.  By the time I got rained on in Ethiopia, it was a refreshingly new sensation.  I relished in it, not being able to remember the last time it rained.   It just so happened that I left Ethiopia right before the onset of the wet season, arriving in Kenya just after the long rains had subsided.

Another huge blessing has been my health, which has held up through the constant changes in climate, elevation, sanitation and food.  My stomach's fortitude has been tested and prevailed to date (touch wood).  'Delhi belly' was a condition I accepted as an eventuality, but in the end I eluded it.  The horror stories about food in India leading to long-term intestinal inflammation and even suffocation are proof that my safe passage is no small victory.  Similarly, fellow travelers had shared their terrible experiences with typhoid and malaria (sometimes both at the same time), and again I've been lucky enough to avoid these.  Though I've been bitten by countless mosquitoes, the multitude of vaccines I was injected with has served me well. 

My travels have allowed me to make lifelong friends, in countries where before I knew no one.  I met my personal hero and role model, who not only did not disappoint, but imparted words of wisdom that I carry to this day.  I experienced God through multiple world religions, and been blessed by each.  I lived in huts on the beach and in a hippy commune.  I've seen the wild animals of the savannah.  But most of all, I've witnessed the conditions of the rural and urban poor, sharing laughter with the children and breaking bread with the people.  I've met those wonderful individuals who are working towards a better future for the poor, and I've been inspired by their attitudes and actions. My understanding of the problems has deepened; the same problems keep recurring in different countries, giving hope that if we can solve them for one place, we have a good chance of replicating the solution everywhere.  

Inevitably there are long stretches on the road where I am on my own.  Being alone has not equated to loneliness, but instead has afforded me plenty of time for introspection.  I've grappled with many an inner conflict about the appropriate thoughts and actions to adopt, as they apply to situations where traditional logic fails.  Sometimes there are answers, sometimes only debate.

Through it all, every day is a reminder of how wonderful the world is.  Life is still a dream.

Into The Slums

First Foray

Nothing really prepared me for what I'd experience in the Dia Bari slum.

The first sight that greeted us was an open area filled with garbage.  It wasn't a landfill, less of a mountain and more like a small lake of trash and filth.  As a group of foreigners we attracted a lot of attention before we even stepped into the slum, curious faces surrounding and following us as we made our way in.  Care packages had been prepared with muffins, fruits and snacks, but we held off on handing them out just yet.  

Led by Nahid and escorted by our drivers, we ducked into a narrow corridor, to do our first interview.  This block was lined on both sides with corrugated tin sheet, and had 12 rooms housing 60-80 people.  We spoke with a wrinkled lady holding her infant granddaughter.  Three generations of the family lived in one room, with one bed and scattered belongings.  They didn't own it, but rented through a manager from a landlord they never met.  The family uprooted to here from the village, because they had no land and thus the conditions were even worse.  At least here in the city the husband could work as a rickshaw driver or sell vegetables for money.  As bad as things seemed to us, they were unquestionably better than the old rural life these people escaped from.  Children went to school, but were expected to leave early in their teens to start earning for the family. 

With a cloud of flies buzzing around my head, I ducked into her home for a quick inspection and a picture.  There was no light inside, so it was flash, snap and go.  Cooking was done either outside the doorway or at the end of the block.  No electricity or running water.  There was however a communal low commode, a makeshift cover over a hole with little in the way of privacy.  Toddlers and shawled women wandered out to stare at us.

Halfway through our interview I thought of the bottle lights.  When we directed our questioning to their sources of light, one woman brought out a simple kerosene lamp that produced a large flame and thick, oily smoke.  They used these and candles at night, nothing during the day.  I started to tell Nahid to translate the idea of bottle lights to her, but it seemed too complicated for the moment.  After that though I started paying a lot more attention to the roofs around me.

The next house we stopped at was surrounded by a low stone wall, forming a small yard around it and the adjacent unit.  All the other kids had been playing and running around us outside, while this young girl sat on her ankles at the end of the bed, studying.  Sunlight angled through the doorway just enough so she could read, but the rest of the house was unlit.  Her name was Sunni, just like our Sunnie, endearing her to our group even more.  She was studying hard to pursue her dream of one day working for the government.   

We finished our interviews and started handing out goodies.  That's when the kids around us erupted, making it impossible to walk through some of the single file alleys.  We were happy to take pictures of them, visit their houses, hold their hands and give them props.  Some of the kids spoke rudimentary English, but the moment transcended the need for language.  Looking at the ladies in our group, I couldn't help but think of Lady Diana in the villages.  The infectious energy warmed us all on that cold winter day.  I myself got caught up in the moment and started yelling with the kids, and became a simple matter of rocking the crowd.  We told them we loved them, and to stay in school.  The kids followed us all the way out of the slum onto the streets, and waved at us through the car windows until we pulled away.

I knew I'd be back.

The Stark Contrast

My second slum experience was not as magical as the first, though very educational.

Carole and I went with BRAC to visit their operations in the nearby slums of Korail, the largest in Dhaka.  BRAC is the largest NGO in the world, and has been instrumental to the development of Bangladesh in many ways.  We got a sample of their work as we walked through the massive slums, home to some 300,000 inhabitants.  Sitting in on a microfinance group meeting was an interesting contrast to Grameen Bank's in the village, though the mechanics were similar.  Close by was a section of the slum that had been forcibly demolished by the government using bulldozers and arson.  We then went to a workshop at the maternity and child health clinic, where I learned of an injectable contraception that women prefer so as to hide it from their husbands.  Finally we visited a BRAC-run school with very well disciplined students.  Most of them wanted to be doctors.   

Everything was smoothly run, and the slum itself was in relatively good shape.  Like Dia Bari it was a dirty, corrugated tin jungle, but the similarities ended there.  In this labyrinth, avenues were lined with shops and markets, everything from food to telecoms and even barbershops.  There were drainage systems, and the electricity stolen from the grid powered the TV's in many shops.  It was a bustling neighborhood, and a far sight different from what I'd come to expect in a slum.  

It was plain to see that even within slums there is a huge difference in quality of life.  It seemed that BRAC was taking care of Korail quite well, and especially through microfinance families were working their way out of the poverty cycle, buying land in the village areas for retirement.  

I kept thinking about Dia Bari, and Sunni's sad smile.