Bangladesh Surf Club

Beautiful Video of Bangladesh and a new surf club --> HERE

These images of Bangladesh that I wish I could capture.

Boksheesh: The Case of "Forward Asking"

“Apu, ar rong ashe?” Do you have another color?

I spent a decent amount of money buying small gifts from America to give the women at the training center. Each little gift consisted of a tube of flavoured lip gloss and sparkly post earrings, for 27 women. I bought several flavours and colors, each wrapped and distributed randomly. I decided to do this at the end of the day, knowing what would come..

“Apu, my sari is pink, do you have more pink ones?"

“Didi, I want the red lipstick! She got red, why didn’t I?”

"Can I have more for my sisters?"

The same thing happened when I gave out pictures: one is upset because she only received four when another girl received five, or another doesn’t like the dress she is wearing in a photo and wants a new one. Now, it’s not lie that I have more money, but printing out over a one hundred photos each time (five photos for 20 women), it adds up. How could they, when receiving a generous and spontaneous gift, ask for something more or different?

This also comes up from security guards, rickshaw-wallahs, door men, and other service people. For normal service, nothing out of the ordinary, people ask for boksheesh, a tip. At a bakery, the door man twice asked me for boksheesh. I thought, I've opened the door myself, and are able to continuing do so, you don't need a tip. Even my Bangladeshi roommate find it frustrating to see our security guard ask us for an additional tip for doing his normal job. Why are they so forward? Isn’t a tip something you voluntarily give based on someone’s satisfactory service?

There is no real custom of tipping here. It’s not really common, to give an average waiter an approximate tip of 15%. It is common, however, in Islamic morals, for rich people to share their income with less fortunate people. Remember the five pillars of Islam—one being to give alms? Possibly out of this, a culture of forward asking arose; forward enough to border begging. Of the people on a street at a given time, it feels like 1 out of 15 is a ‘professional’ beggar, especially lining mosques after prayer. They live on the street with their jobs to approach your car or pull on your leg for sympathetic pocket change.

With it being so common, and with so many people and so little money—you have to be unashamed and put yourself out there. Without this bold attitude, surviving, let along crawling out of poverty, might be impossible. When it comes to giving, how often and how much, I supposed Allah will judge you for that.

STUCK Part II: Drowning in boiling water

Work at the training center is going well. My girls are used to me sitting with them, watching over their shoulder, taking notes. There hasn’t been any emergencies since Shona’s accident, gratefully, so days go by with ease.

Shona hasn’t been in to the center since her accident, and didn’t attend her certificate ceremony. Tuesday morning, I ask the girls how she is doing.

“Oh, Shona is better, but her daughter is hurt—a pot of boiling rice water fell on her.”

Minutes later, I’m back on a rickshaw with one other girl and a staff worker, heading to Shona’s house. Driving through the morning fog, we are back at the same slum. I feel less jerks bouncing around the roughly paved roads, going with the flow of the devastating surroundings. As we climb through the entrance of the cluster of homes where she lives, the curious crowd of 20 people follows.

Shona begins to cry as we enter the small one-room, dirt floor hut that she calls a home. Sitting on her bed with her feet flat under her, her little daughter sits on her left hip, donned in a ski cap and wrapped in a shawl. The first and last time I met this beautiful, long-lashed baby girl, she looked at me and crawled into my lap as if we were old friends. Many children stare at me in wonder, and my auntie’s nephew cries every time he sees me. But this little one isn’t afraid or intensely curious of my eyes or skin, and just relaxes.

Now I see her, sitting on her mother who holds the baby’s right arm out and away from the shawl. Her neck is covered in round, tender bubbles where her skin boiled from the water, down her shoulder. On her arm is 6-inch burn, her skin yellow and shiny. Dried blood surrounds her wrist and elbow. Biting back my own tears, I wipe away Shona’s as her pressed her daughter’s head into her breast.

We chat with her a bit, looking at the medicines the doctor gave her and allow her to vent to us. With the door crowded, the staff worker shoos them away to give them some space and privacy (not a common habit in Bangladesh.) One little girl stayed, hanging around the door, inching closer over the visit until she was sitting on my knee.

I gave Shona a small Christmas gift, as I did with the rest of the girls, and she wore her new earrings right away. As I hugged her to leave, I slipped her some more taka. With neighbors still watching, I didn’t want to be obvious. And I couldn’t help but look to the skies and say, “She just healed herself, and now her daughter is in pain. All their money is being spent on medicines because of accidents. She can't work because she's taking care of her baby, and her husband's a deadbeat. How can this happen twice to the same family in one month?”

It was an easier visit than the first, I suppose the misery is becoming routine to me too. Bouncing back in the rickshaw, holding the other woman’s hand, I wondered if it was harmful or helpful to become numb to grief out of survival. I arrived at the center with no answer.

Supporting a Cause: The Case of Organ-Grinding Charities

I love Barbara Ehrenreich: "Slap On a Pink Ribbon and Call It a Day"

What I love about her article is discussing how easy it can be to get people to follow you on a cause. Non-profit marketing are like advertisements: just buy into what we're showing you. No one asks whether or not the Dove shampoo destroys forests in Indonesia for it's chemicals (which it does, by the way) because "their ads are for real women!" And no one is asking whether or not a charity organization is actually doing good, sustainable work, because "my aunt had breast cancer, I want to support the cause." Please, I encourage you to support your aunt's disease, but we need to be asking better questions, as Ehrenreich said. Our support is meaningless if the organization is not doing real good work.

I've been looking at a multitude of development organizations here in Bangladesh. Something similar that has been gnawing at me is how organizations 'pimp out' their constitutes. In order to get money from donors or gain support from the international community, charities or NGO/FBOs show off 'good cases.' In Dhaka, organizations touring the slums take foreigners with their digital cameras, photograph smiling slum kids, show them the shitholes they live in--and leave. It's all a performance, to shock the money out of you. Where does that money go, and how much actually reaches the ground? The worst is for victims of sexual violence: "Look at her--she was raped by her uncle then sold to a brothel in Bombay. But we saved her, sheltered her and now she has a sewing machine to start a business! Now donate us money to do this for the next girl..."

This woman is humiliated as you are now privy to her saddest secret, and was she ever asked if she wants to sew? To me, it seems as if they are treated as stage monkeys, paraded around on a street, dancing to the organ: a way to get your attention and make money.

I place some blame on donors, both corporate and individuals alike, who are fickle and impatient as hell. Change, especially on the grassroots level, takes years; therefore investments and donations should be promised for years. Most grants don't cover for more than 3 years. So, charities wind up develop program budgets based around what donors want to see and not always what the constitutes need.

Just because you have a pocket of money and are full of good intentions doesn't mean that real change will happen. Development work takes a strong critical eye, uninterrupted efforts and extensive knowledge in local culture. It takes good training. I am even seeing that my work for one year is not enough time.

STUCK: between a rock and a hard place--or a car and a rickshaw..

I arrived at the center today to hear that Shona* was home sick. I imagined a cold or cramps. The story unfolds that a few days earlier she went to the market and was smashed in between a rickshaw and a CNG, penetrating her stomach.

With one other girl from the center Lila*, myself and three aid workers head to Shona’s house. Weaving through the cool morning on a rickshaw, one aid worker Rahim* shares Shona’s story. Her parents are not around and she is married to a man who “is not bad, but not good.” She was a sex worker for a few years when she had no other livelihood available. Finding the organization, she has been working for them doing crafts and making a steady income. Her husband doesn’t work and relies on Shona to support him and their two year-old daughter. The other aid workers gush about Shona, saying that she never argues with the other girls and always helps them when they need it. I see it in her: she is a complete doll. She and I have dance sessions to entertain everyone at the center. It’s uncommon for a Bangla woman to laugh as loud as she does, and I mirror it with my own.

It starts getting quiet as we get farther away from city’s business center and the sun stronger as the buildings shrink from 5 stories to at most 2 levels. The roads increasingly dirtier, bumpier, at parts non-existent or slanted from earthquakes. Getting off the rickshaw in an alley that can fit only three persons, Lila leads us through the garbage filled ditches rotting in the sun. A constant cloud of flies swarm around my feet as we step into a cluster of tin homes, each perhaps three times the size of my clothes closet on Long Island. Seeing aid workers and a bideshi (foreigner), adults and children start popping out of everywhere to follow us. Shona’s name is whispered amongst the indistinct Bangla around me when we enter her home.

She was lying on a bed lined with a plastic table cloth with one sheet covering her. The bed took up one third of the entire house (one room) with tin walls and ceiling. Her husband stood in the corner, watching us pile in with the curious entourage behind us. The rest of the room had one chair and shelves with clothes, pots and plastic bags with personal belongings.

Shona was moaning in pain, holding her stomach. Seeing us, she began to cry and grasped onto my arm, mumbling in Bangla. I covered her forehead with kisses. She lifted up her sheet and revealed the wound. I looked away, I couldn’t see it. Her daughter came around the corner with the biggest eyes and sweetest cheeks, happily placing herself in my lap as she watched her mother breath heavy. Bangla was thrown around the tiny hut too fast for me to understand. Just as I felt that I was going to hit someone if I wasn’t informed as to what was happening, Rahim finally explained: the doctor saw her for a few minutes, gave her 2-weeks worth of antibiotics cost 1000tk and Shona’s husband took out a loan of 500tk to pay for the visit but now have no money to pay for food. That’s about 20 dollars. I handled the money situation but I was so concerned about what she was feeling now. Ambulances don’t really exist, no car or even bicycle could make it to her slum door: so she must walk with this pain to the street, get on a rickshaw and bounce her way through the slum then through traffic to the hospital.

What else can we do, I keep pestering. A stretcher to the street and I'll get a taxi? Can we bring a doctor to her? I was met with nothing but blank stares. Nothing else could be done.

Rahim told me that Shona’s husband was going to take her to the hospital. Tomorrow we will see the outcome.

But that’s all I can do right now. I don’t know what else to do. Recalling the monring, it reads like any other humanitarian documentary covering a similar story. That’s what is so sad: there are so many stories like this: continuously and daily, too common that it’s cliché. But I cannot bellow loud enough or clearly enunciate how though it is prevalent, it is still continuously harrowing and crippling for them. Shona may not have experienced life outside of permanent devastation, but that doesn’t mean that she is ignorant that it should be better.

* Names have been changed.

Finding a Diamond in the Rough: The Case of 'Absolut' Beauty

Who would have thought that I found myself at the birthday of a woman who rented out a floor of the Regency Hotel for a party with 250 of her closest friends?

Well, I certainly didn’t expect it when I showed up in jeans and a T-shirt, and all the women were in beautiful cocktail dresses. It never occurred to me to bring a knee length dress to a country where there are still recent accounts of acid thrown on women who disobey husbands. But low and behold – there is some good fashion here! I also didn’t think that I would be handed a shot of tequila in Bangladesh – but what’dja know…

My good friend Sayaka invited me to her friend Nadia’s party. Everyone I met over the next few hours were from all over the world: Morocco, Turkey, Britain, India – and plenty of Bangladeshis who have lived abroad. And apparently there was a famous Bangladeshi singer there (forgetting her name) that I sat in the booth with as we drank champagne bought by the son of a Turkish ambassador.

Not to assume that any of these people were ignorant elites; but I will say that it is entirely possible to never see the torment and destitution of Bangladesh if you tint your BMW windows dark enough. If there is a middle class here, it is miniscule and hidden – but the upper class is too ostentatious to not be noticed. I’ve personally been struggling with the reality of this nation because I walk on the street, passing slow enough to see the desolation, the un-organization and the systematic corruption. Now I found myself screened from it all behind frosted bottles of Absolut and green strobe lights.

To a point, I can’t blame anyone for wanting to hide from it. I do myself when I wear my thick coat of armor on the street: chin up high, not glancing down at the deformed beggars or up at the pestering rickshaws. If I do, I’ll find myself buried under endless levels of misery. But, deep down, I know hiding is not what I value. This article by travel author Allison Cross aptly illustrates my view.

But there I was, 3am tipsy in a fancy hotel – and truthfully grateful for the escape: grateful to not be at home for another night reading about systematic violence against women and the brutal lives of trafficked victims. I’m drained, jaded, and numb, but I felt the beat of the woofer under my skin and that’s all I wanted right then. The people I was surrounded by felt the same: one friend just returned from vacation, wondering why she was back in this ‘hellhole,’ a man who hasn’t seen his three-year old daughter in 10 months, another man who couldn’t name one good thing about this country and an eclectic mix of people avoiding reality.

But, there was a diamond in the rough, and I received a beautiful dose of optimism..

After some crazy dancing, I sat next to a Brit named Marc. I knew he was visiting his sister, a friend of Sayaka’s. After revealing he had been in Dhaka for three days, I asked him what he thought of Bangladesh. His face lit up with excitement, “Oh it’s so wonderful! I was expecting insane poverty and devastation, I was expecting to cry. But instead, all I’ve seen is the amazing ability of people to adapt and smile through adversity. They live in squalor, everything’s a mess, but they live just like you and I do!” He was stumbling over his words – one could blame the potency of the alcohol, but I could feel it was the intensity of his feelings: “Maybe this is condescending, maybe I’m just naïve, but I’m just so surprised and happy at how beautiful everyone is, how strong they are, and how they just make their lives work. I love our species, we really are wonderful! I mean, if London or New York was destroyed right now, yeah it would be devastating, but we’d adapt, wouldn’t we?”

Immediately I thought: “I don’t know what frightens me more, the power that crushes us, or our endless ability to endure it.” (G.D. Roberts, Shantaram). But Marc wasn’t frightened, and neither was I. For once I’ve said, “Every day I saw the pain of these girls, struggling to overcome their violent past. And every day, I saw their endless ability to continue to dance, to smile, and to love.”

Amidst the superficiality, I found some grace. And that’s what it’s about: our view on the world is a choice, an active choice to nominate optimism as the winner. And where would any sports team or famous actress be without their fans? We need to be a fan of reality, of our race, of this world. This man reminded me of this in a place least expected. Beauty is everywhere but you can’t find it or believe in it if you hide – or even walk to fast with your chin up.

Development In(-)Action: North Bengal Part II

“They hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their children’s grades read aloud to the entire village…”

Last Saturday my friend Maude was gracious enough to let me tag along to watch her work with her NGO.  We hop on the back of her friend’s motorbike that takes us to the river.  Maude turns to me and said, “Today we are going to a char to do interviews.”  We climb onto this long wooden boat with a motor, bamboo roof and wicker mats to sit on.

“Oh, by the way, the trip is almost two hours.”

Staff from the NGO climb into the boat; one is able to speak English, Maude’s translator from the NGO.  They all play card games or nap the whole trip, while Maude and I speak with the translator about Bengal politics and finance.  At one point, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, so we head to the top of the boat.  Quietly we pray that the bamboo will hold us and the three other staff members sitting on the roof under umbrellas.  No worries – it did.  And how refreshing: cool breeze, clean air, no noise or staring.  Laying up there, I could breathe.

We drop off other staff members at different chars and we ended up at Sidai.  The reason for Maude’s visit was to interview teachers and students about a ‘student-friend’ program the NGO started.  A student from the school must tutor a child who doesn’t have the chance to go to school.  Tutoring them enough should bring them up to speed to join school the following year.  Maude needed to see how effective this initiative was by talking to teachers, students and the principal.

As we get off the boat, we must walk through mud barefoot, into shallow, murky water that almost reached my knees.   The bottom the river was super slippery with mud and I kept slippin’ and slidin’ all over.  We get on land, albeit not dry, but solid was all I could ask for.  Walking through this little forest of skinny trees, the ground became less muddy the farther we got from the river.

Then the parade of children began to grow behind us the closer we became to the village.  A couple, a few, several, a dozen, a few dozen…  The children at least keep a safe distance from you.  When we walk through, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea, opening in front and closing behind.  But it’s a sea of little black and dusty faces.

“What is your name?” they ask.  After my response, in their little accented voices, ‘Amanda’ is echoed back a few hundred times.  Maude is speaking with the different staff about the project for the day, while I try to play with the children.  ‘Try’ being the operative word because it’s so hot I can barely breathe.  Plus, I don’t want to drink water in front of a crowd of people who 1) can’t keep their eyes off of me and 2) are fasting.  Ramadan rules my life.

Maude invites me to sit in on her interview with a teacher about the “student-friend” program.  A vital part of interviewing is having a good translator: who understands what you are trying to accomplish, and does not have anything invested in the project.  Maude’s translator was sweet, but because he works for the NGO, he often answered the questions himself without asking the interviewee.  At one point, a question was asked to the principal who responded, “jani na” – I don’t know.  The translator turned to Maude and answered the question himself.  Maude knew enough Bangla to know the response was “I don’t know.”  She said to me, “How am I supposed to help them improve the program if they won’t tell me the truth about how it works?  If they don’t know an answer or are frustrated with something, I need to know so we can fix it.”

Bangladesh is one of, if not the, center of development.  There is a mammoth amount of foreign aid pouring into the country as well as development projects and programs.  The biggest NGO in the world is Bangladeshi: BRAC.  And from my experience, Bangladeshis are very nationalistic, very proud of their culture and country, regardless of its shortcomings (like poverty and corruption).  I found that talking to Bangladeshis here, they only share what they love about Bangladesh, rarely what they dislike.  Other countries I’ve been to like India, Japan, Italy; the citizens will give a well-rounded view of their country – the pluses and minuses.  But as a foreigner here, I am only lectured on the golden qualities of Bangladesh.

I wonder if this overwhelming pride is shared with me because most people assume (rightly so) that I, a foreigner, am here working on a development project.  So many foreigners are coming in to discuss all the problems and things wrong with Bangladesh, trying to ‘fix’ her: from labor rights to how they should kill their chickens.  Constantly they are put on the defense about their culture (especially their religion) attempting to shed a good light to people who often see the dark side.  Their patriotism is reasonable.

But from a development perspective, NGOs seek the terrible stories in order to develop.  The reality and truth must be shared, no matter how embarrassing or tragic it is.  For Maude, it was vital for her to hear the reality of the program: what worked and what didn’t.  Money is hard to come by for NGOs and it’s better to know that it’s being spent on effective, positive and well-liked projects than a project that is dispensable.  Tough choices have to be made.  She also understood that it is difficult to come to a char for the first time demanding answers.  It’s intimidating.  As someone working to create change, you have to know the people, have them trust you – so you can trust them that they will give helpful, truthful responses.

It’s slow, which is frustrating because funders want results – fast.  Destruction is easy, development is slow.

Later, we had the chance to sit in on a parent-teacher conference.  And by parent-teacher conference, I mean a conference with most of the parents and all of the students, and a few of the teachers.  The leaders of the NGO read all grades aloud to everyone.  Everyone clapped for the students who received 100s across the board.  One NGO leader turned to me a few times when some boys were called, saying “There goes the next President Obama!”  I know it was said in pride of the student, certainly, of course - but no girl was remarked as being the ‘next Hilary Clinton’ or even their own Prime Minister, Sheikh Hasina.  Girls are still devalued, but that's my next entry...

The student who failed and were lowered in rank – they hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their child’s shortcomings said aloud to the entire village.  The leaders of the NGO end with: “You should pay more attention to your child and their school activities.”

I sat there in the heat, burning at this NGO.  I don’t think competition is ever a good way to teach children.  Instead of competing with other students in the village, the child should work and be pushed to the best of his abilities.  Unfortunately, it is about 99% sure that these children aren’t going to grow up to be the next Prime Minister, or even a political leader.  They live in a village surrounded by water with little electricity and a school that just arrived three years ago.  It’s not negative -- it’s reality.  Instead of them competing for first rank and grades, they should just be learning to improve their quality of life by reading and writing.  The first place to start is by not announcing grades aloud, because both the children and parents were humiliated in front of their friends and neighbors.  One-on-one meetings are much more effective: the teacher, who knows the student, can talk to the parents about their child’s progress: both positives and negatives; not a NGO leader who stops by a few times a month.

Also, the NGO was telling parents, “pay more attention to your children.”  Let’s think about this: do you honestly think that the parents, after sitting in a hot room for two hours, half of them embarrassed that their child did poorly, will actually go home to ask their children about their day, because some man told them to in a lecture?

One-on-one meetings again are effective, because the teacher can sit down with the parents and find out how their home situation is.  Maybe little Ahmed is sleeping in class and failing because his father lost his job so little Ahmed works after school while his parents scramble to find work at night, leaving little Ahmed to watch two other siblings because his mother can’t afford birth control.  A large meeting could not discover this – you must be one-on-one with a person to understand their needs, the reason for their needs and the capacity they have to do something about it, and what role you can play.

I can’t blame the NGO for these shortcomings.  Too often do development programs fail not because they were ineffective, or they had bad leadership – but because funding is lacking.  A lack of funding leads to a lack of capacity so unfortunately, it might not be feasible for this NGO to perform one-on-one meetings because they can't afford to pay overtime to the staff that might be overworked.

What's shameful: I hear that because there is not much structure here in Bangladesh and no follow-up or registration, some NGOs exist for profit with a façade of charity.  Maude told me that one NGO built a well right next to another well in one village just to state on their Annual Report that they ‘provided a new clean well for a village up north.’  It was a façade to boast for funding, but utterly useless to the village who already had a well.

It’s a tricky business, which is unpromising because so much good could be accomplished with development research and studies -- it shouldn’t have to be a business. 

The Greatest Acting Feat

She touches me, splintering the armor

That keeps me strong.

The little ones follow me, standing by my side

As if we are friends.

He stands there, painfully staring at me

As I stare into detached space.

They say, don’t give money,

It will circle into criminal pockets.

They say, don’t give food,

Creating dependence is ineffective.

They say, look away,

Act indifferent to detach yourself.

This dogma is preached from the community,

Built into a towering effigy of casual words;

Harsh stature, made of unmoving stone.

They say, maph korun -- forgive me.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, brother, as you sit on a scooter, legless, 

Rolling between cars with a sandal laced through your fingers.

 

Forgive me!

Forgive me, nana, in your beaten leather skin,

With a wrist that cannot rotate towards prayer or alms.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, dada, with your white beard and taqiyah,

Grasping your bamboo walking stick, and your breath in hope.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, sister, breast revealed in a holey sari,

With your exposed child listening to your heart beat faster.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, my children, as you call me ‘a beautiful madam,’

And shake your heads, placing your fingers to your mouth,

Masterfully in unison, as a row of puppets.

Forgive me, for I know not if this is right

-- it is what I’m told.

Upsetting Conundrums: First Day Part III

While we head back to the school for lunch, we ran into a student of Susan’s.  Susan stops her to ask if she is taking another class.  The girl responds, sure, then says, “Oh no, I’m heading back to the UK this Saturday.”  Susan responds, “Well, you must pay for your classes.”  The girl responds she did; Susan corrects her by saying that she only paid the registration fee.  The girl promises to come tomorrow.  As we walk away, Susan vents saying, “No offense, but this happens a lot with foreigners.  They leave without paying.  It is very hard to get a hold of you because your life here is temporary.”  That pissed me off, that foreigners are giving this reputation.

Back at the school, myself, the principal and the five English teachers ate lunch – a typical Bengali lunch: bhat, dal, aloo, dim (rice, dal – a lentil soup to pour over rice, potato, egg).  It was delicious and perfect.  I listened to them all talking in Bangla, excited for when I can understand and converse with them.  I think spending this extra time with Bangladeshis will be advantageous to my language skills.

After lunch, I left and bought three new salwar kameezes: bright purple and yellow (a mix of my mother and grandmother J ), a baby blue and white that needs tailoring, and a tourquiose and navy.  There are so many colors and styles to wear!  As I walk down the muddy streets (thank God for Tevas), each rickshaw driver stops to see if I need a ride.  After I’m done, I go to a stand to buy mangoes and oranges.  About 7 beggars approach me: women with disfigured faces and bodies carrying sleeping, naked babies, old Muslim men in wheelchairs, little children either half dressed or wearing grimy clothes too big for their underfed bodies.  I give the change of my fruit to the man in the wheelchair because he was the closest then I bolted into a nearby rickshaw.

First off, if you have seen Slumdog Millionaire, they did an accurate portrayl of begging cartels.  A handful of men will take children and the destitute from off the street and send them out to beg.  Whatever they make, they hand over to the men in power.  This was told to me in India and Bangladesh by locals.  But, how do you know? “You just ignore it.”   I ignore it.  Me, who was well fed during lunch, who heads back to her nice little apartment, arms full of shopping and grocery bags.  But, there’s a line from my favourite poem: “Never feeling more greedy than when handing dollars to the needy” (“Dive” by Andrea Gibson). Giving them 10tk (14 cents) feels more greedy because I just spent 3300tk ($50) on pretty little outfits.

It’s an upsetting conundrum, that’s all I can say.