Cars, ferries, boats, rickshaws and a pair of red snakeskin rain boots

So, I just went on my very first fraud investigation trip. I spent a few interesting, to say the least, days in the south of Bangladesh delving deep into remote villages to try and found out whether our venerable visa applicants have been truthful with some of their more outrageous claims at the visa window. Yup, we do that, it is in the job description. You won’t believe the kind of things people would have you believe in order to get that coveted immigrant visa to the U.S.

After a lovely 7 hour car ride from Dhaka, during which I mostly slept in the roomy Embassy SUV, we stopped to bust some fraud in what was supposed to be a village “right off the road.” Two and half hours later into the deep river jungle, after crossing one river on a ferryboat with the SUV, and then another one without it, on a small boat (the ferry on that river crashed last year and there hasn’t been a new one since then), then trekking some more in the blistering heat we finally found our village. I had the honor of an 80-year old man insisting on carrying a massive black umbrella over my head through the tall grass as we were marching towards the village and he would not let go for all the gold in the world. Bangladeshi people ARE the nicest, mot hospitable people in the whole wide world. Even as we are having a rather unpleasant conversation regarding immigration fraud, they still beam in your face and try to force feed you some tea and bananas, while a variety of children insist that you sit on the only chair in the house.

The next day we were back hard at work through the maze of rivers and canals of the area we were casing. The big SUV navigated the dilapidated village roads for a while and when we finally came to a tiny bridge, the driver gave up. My Bangladeshi colleague and I set out on foot, in the hopes of finding SOME mode of transportation for the next 5 kms towards the village we needed. No such vehicle appeared. Instead, at every intersection where we stopped for directions, we attracted a massive crowd, portions of which would then follow us from a distance until our next stop, when it would exchange for a new crowd. With such retinue in tow it was a bit tough to arrive unannounced and inconspicuous. Actually, if all TV channels would have announced our arrival, probably less people would have known about it compared to the efficacy of the village grapevine. And then it began raining and did not stop for the next 2 days.

To the utter delight of the village male youth, I donned a pair of bright red, snakeskin-immitation rain boots and continued to prance through the mud without a care in the world. I was also sporting my favorite old pair of jeans, fashionably torn at the knees. At one point, as I was getting back into the car, a crowd of about 50 fascinated men ranging in age from 5 to 75 stood to stare at me taking off my boots as if they were observing a rare monkey dance the rumba. After some back and forth with the crowd, it became clear that I speak Bangla, which caused a complete adoring furor. At the very front was an old man, white beard to his knees, his snow-white robe and cap indicating that he was a devout Muslim. After staring some in complete silence, he suddenly asked me, clearly puzzled, why were my pans so old and torn??? I told him it was fashion. Judging from his expression, he thought that I was a lunatic. Then again, sometimes when I watch the catwalk and some of the top fashion houses’ shows, I feel the same way about their designers as well. So, I suppose grandpa had a point.

At another point during the trip, the car was left helpless behind some other impassable bridge, and we realized that out destination was about 12 kms ahead. While I welcome the occasional physical exercise, plus I possess a healthy dedication to my job, this was a little too far even for me. We decided to hire a “cab” – a mechanized version of the rickshaw, which runs on natural gas, allows for the transportation of about 2 passengers in the back (even though I have seen as many as 6), looks and is as beaten down as an old Russian Moskvich and allows you to feel every single tiny stone and hole on the road you are on. Try 12 km on that contraption. You come out and you don’t feel your ass at all. The only thing worse than that is knowing that you have to climb back on that and travel another 12 kms back to your comfortable SUV. Did I mention that it was raining all the time?

Other than that, Bangladesh is beautiful. The rice fields bloom in gorgeous golden yellow, and the only thing that spoils the idyllic scene in the fields are the children who are working there rather than going to school. The ferries are a hoot and one can buy a variety of useful things while traveling on them, among which are lychees, children’s coloring books, towels, popcorn, bananas, tupperware; in addition, you can also have your shoes polished. Bangladeshis are most hard-working, exceptionally genial and disturbingly curious. As we were passing by a village, we stumbled upon a wedding procession – the groom was on a boat with a million of his relatives on his way to pick up the bride. Everyone got overly excited as I stopped by to take pictures from a bridge above and pulled the poor groom out from the crowd so that I can have a better view. In the midst of this, a curious relative shouted towards me, “Where is YOUR husband?” which was neither here, nor there. I have heard this question before and it always gives me great delight to answer, “At home, minding the children” which invariably manages to produce confusion and consternation in the asker. This time was no different and the groom was left to ponder this curious state of family affairs as he sailed towards his bride.

The return trip to Dhaka was memorable, mostly because the capital was besieged by a strike (called “hartal”), which meant that the Embassy security would not allow us to enter the city until the hartal was lifted at 6 p.m. There was absolutely no other Embassy-approved way of coming back and the idea was that we would stay back for one more day. Usually, that would be swell and dandy (hello, one more day of per diem!). Except for the tinsiest inconvenience that I was supposed to fly that very same night to the particularly attractive country of Thailand for a few days of sunning myself next to a large swimming pool, while the Diplomat diligently brings me tall drinks with unknown but exciting content. After some maniacal brainstorming, we managed to come back to the outskirts of the city where we waited out the end of the hartal, and then the driver bravely weaved his way through the traffic-jammed city and delivered me to the Dhaka airport in time to see Son’s beaming face, ready to check-in. "MAMAAAAAA, I HAVE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!" Why, my dear Son, I have missed you so much too!

The Real Bangladesh – Should I Be Scared?

Some time ago I wrote pensively and incisively about the shocking difference in the reality on the Bangladeshi streets and the one at the ubiquitous Dhaka fancy parties. What I mean by that is that everywhere in the streets you will see (if and when) women clad in conservative clothing, often with hijabs or full burka. Granted, there ain’t all that many women on the streets in Dhaka – it is about 1:10 ratio of women to the hordes of men who roam all over with seemingly little more to do than walk, talk, stare and pee in the gutter. At the same time, if you attend a fashionable dance party filled with Dhaka's young ones, you would not believe that you are in fact in Bangladesh. 

So, yesterday was a funny day. In the afternoon, I decided to take Son for his haircut since I hadn’t seen his eyes for over a week now (the kid sports an Ashton Kutcher-like awesome hairstyle). It was also a good opportunity to ride his bike on the Dhaka streets (the salon is a block away) rather than between the kitchen and my bedroom, which is decidedly not amusing for me. So, Son perched precariously on his bike and we braved the dugout street and a half to the salon – I have to say, 3 meters later and I regretted it. We would have been better off with a lunar rover given the horrendous landscape of my street. At any rate, we made it to the salon, and all of us collectively endured the haircut – at some point, 2 women were holding Son down, one was cutting and 3 others were staring (I think staring is Bangladesh’s national sport), while I was nervously sipping tea. Once done, Son hopped on the bike (he was VERY nervous about parking it outside and tried for a while to bring it inside the salon to my horror) and we headed back home. We stopped to stare at some construction site much to Son’s delight – lately, after the Savar tragedy, he acquired the morbid predilection that all construction in Dhaka will collapse. As we were standing there, a small skinny man in a wife-beater and the typical Bangladeshi male skirt on came up to me. Next to him was a younger man, similarly dressed. They were walking deliberately slowly, almost with a nonchalant swagger. They stopped next to me and the older man said the following to me:

“M’am, this Bangladesh.” I nodded, I thought he wanted to chat about “my country” and pinch Son’s cheeks, like everyone else. I smiled. He was so not amused. Instead, he said to me, in a calm, almost imperceptibly menacing tone, “You must control your dress when you here” and pointed out to my short, above-the-knees summer dress while staring calmly into my shocked eyes. His buddy kept looking at me expressionless. Then they slowly moved away and continued their unhurried, deliberate walk. I stood there for some time, unable to move, petrified, not sure what had just happened. Perhaps I became complacent. Perhaps I have been too comfortable here and have lost touch perspective of where I really am? Whatever the answer is, the fact was that I was scared. For the first time.  In Bangladesh. The place I had started calling “my lovely Bangladesh.” And that made me sad.

That same night I went to a very sought after party at the Radisson hotel, organized by a notorious party company in Bangladesh. If my street critic had been there, he might have had some serious religious palpitations. The party had many young and privileged kids who were drinking, smoking and doing some other things decidedly un-religious things. Some of the attire of the ladies (although I do fear it is a bit of a stretch to call them “ladies”) would have sent an Amsterdam night trade professional packing in view of the scantily-clad competition.

Who is the real Bangladesh? I guess it’s both – those people who warn against the evil of short skirts and demand a blasphemy law, torching everything in their way and refusing women journalists to cover their rallies, and those folks who cannot wait to don a Western dress late at night and to have a drink or two while dancing to the sounds of the latest Bangkok DJ. Clearly, both sides are the extremes of Bangladeshi society but they exemplify the profound conflict that this rapidly developing country is now facing as illustrated by the violent recent events. I remain an impassionate bystander.

The Trash Mafia and Doris the Ugly Stepsister

I kept hearing about the rickshaw mafia in Dhaka, but never really believed it much. Supposedly, all the rickshaws in Dhaka are under the tight management of a few rickshaw lords who take in their daily money from the skinny wallahs. To tell you the truth, I am not exactly sure what they would take from them since the hapless wallahs seem to make somewhere around nothing to 50 cents a day. It must be tough to be a rickshaw lord and to maintain a lavish lifestyle in this business. But it does exist. In fact, couple of years ago, in a generous move some USAID-related organization decided on an awesome project and gave away 10 rickshaws to poor people to help them earn a living. Would you know it, overnight the rickshaws were gone as the livid rickshaw mafia did not find it amusing that someone was messing up with the business, USAID be damned.

And now, I have an entire trash mafia drama on my hands (and nose) that can easily rival the New Jersey mafia’s trash collection business. As you might know, the New Jersey mafiosos traditionally own garbage businesses, which is super useful when you want to dispose of bodies. At least that’s what you learn from HBO and Toni Soprano (man, that was a good show!). For the past two weeks, the trash from our 4 trash cans in the open ground-floor garage had not been emptied. Besides the obvious festering and incubation of critters, the piling garbage also looks rather unsightly and as of today – smells putridly. Initially, I thought it hasn’t been collected because of the massive random dugouts on our street (fyi, we are told that while it took less than 2 weeks to dig the holes for the pipes and then to cover them up, it apparently will take 5 months to remove the tall mounds of soil and stones covering our street and making it look like a moon surface and then PERHAPS the street will be paved again). Today, I learned that our garbage collector vendor (read, a REALLY skinny guy with a beaten-up old rickshaw cart who collected our garbage) has been threatened over the past few weeks and apparently was beaten down this morning while trying to collect the trash. Apparently, he is the victim of an extortion scheme and his rickshaw trash wagon (!) was taken away from him. So, much like in NJ – do NOT mess with the trash mafia in Dhaka.

This week the Diplomat was gallivanting in NYC celebrating 10 years of his business school graduation while I slogged away at home. OK, I did not slog that much – I admit to going out almost every night of the week after putting Son to sleep. As a matter of fact, on Friday night I did my favorite thing in Dhaka – I MC-ed another fabulous fashion show at the Radisson Hotel. Now, if you are a regular reader, you’ll recall that I love doing those fashion shows and one of my favorite parts is the hair and makeup before the show. I just love saying to people who call me on a show day, “oh, I can’t talk now, I am going into hair and makeup!” Now,as I have said before, makeup is a whole different beast in Bangladesh. It is a vastly lucrative business here, especially during wedding season where unsuspecting but welcoming brides get so much cosmetics slathered on their face, neck and arms that they are typically unrecognizable by their relatives. In fact, during a recent wedding I did not realize the person next to me was the bride (whom I know pesonally) and so I asked her how she was related to the family...Awkward...

My makeup usually is no exception. I have a running joke with myself how much the artist will botch up my face. I have learned by now what NOT to allow them to do – create raccoon black eyes (looks particularly hideous on white skin), put superdark eye shadow that makes me look like a mass murdered from a zombie movie, or give me bright-red lipstick which makes me look like an ageing Liz Taylor. On Friday, I warned my makeup artist against all of these pitfalls. I saw her choose great colors, put a lot of good attention to the right places and gave her a menacing look when she reached for the black eyeshadow. I thought it was going great. The offensive touch came right out of left field and was completely unexpected. I noticed that she was spending an inordinate amount of time on my eyebrows – you know, after you have painted the whole face thickly with foundation, you have to repaint some stuff hidden underneath, like the eyebrows. I get that. What I wasn’t prepared for were the two giant eyebrows painted on my face that did not even start on the same level. Combined with my huge painted lips, I was an uncanny replica of the ugly stepsister Doris from Shrek. OK, I did not have the poignant mole. I probably should have, for completeness sake.

So, for my next show, I think I will cool it off with the makeup. Despite everyone’s assurances that one needs embellished makeup when they are on the stage because of the bright lights and what have you, I really do not think anyone needs to be exposed to eyebrows like that. They were so thick and long that I think even some folks in Nepal saw them that night from their balconies.

The Diplomat is coming back tomorrow morning. He asked me on the phone what I would like from NYC and gallantly offered to get me a bottle of perform from the airport duty free. Yup, nothing says “I thought about you while I was in NY and wanted to get you something special” like a duty free perfume. I declined. I am afraid I wasn’t particularly gracious about it though.

A day in the life of a Foreign Service Officer

Some time ago someone asked me to describe a day of my life as a Foreign Service Officer. The idea being that clearly our lives are riveting behind those high Embassy walls. They are, I assure you! With the risk of millions deciding to take the FSOT immediately upon reading this, here it goes.

I wake up at 7 am in my excellent paid-for apartment with zero daylight, poorly built windows which allow any given amount of noise and dust to creep in all the time and cause constant allergic outbreaks for the Diplomat and sore throat for me. The Diplomat is typically already out, playing tennis at the American Club since 6 am. Some people are weird like that. While I try to pretend that I can actually sleep until 7.15 am, Son arrives and throws himself on top of me screaming, “MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA” gleefully. In the face of so much love and demand, I rise. Cranky, slow, half-asleep, eyes pretty much shut, I debate whether to make him breakfast like a decent mother would do or to go about my own business and let the nanny do that once she comes in at 7.45 am. My bad-mommyness prevails and I go to brush my teeth instead. While I rinse my teeth with the wonderful Bangladeshi arsenic-laid water, I start to feel bad and go into Son’s room and choose his clothes for the day. I dare him to come and get dressed in my bedroom to see who will win and get dressed first. Son is all about winning these days, so that is a priceless method. While I get dressed, he chases me around the room trying to smack my butt while I pretend to be angry. Ahh, nothing beats quality mother-son time in the morning.

At 7.45 am our lovely housekeeper waltzes in, fresh as a cucumber, and soon Son is being spoon-fed his breakfast while I am not watching. Then when I walk by and grumble about it, she hastily pretends to scold him and makes him eat by himself while I am still around. It is a battle I have long lost. The Diplomat then comes back, and tries to convince me that he will only be 10 mins and so I should wait for him to go to the office together. As a result 25 mins later, I stand in the corridor, looking and feeing exceedingly irritated. Finally, he is ready and as we close the door on the way out, Son starts screaming that he hasn’t said good-bye and rushes to us. Because we are already running late, we plant superficial kisses on him, while he plants a really nice oily post-breakfast one on my clean dress. I leave in consternation.

A dusty 5-minute drive later through the diplomatic zone, we enjoy sights like endless construction, a stray cat, 4 men peeing in the gutter, women raising massive clouds of choking dust in the air while doing something that might be mistaken for sweeping the streets, and a bunch of construction workers in various stages of nakedness washing their teeth and bodies with water sprouting from a rubber hose whose origin is better left unknown. I know that in some more colorful posts in Africa, officers play bingo on the way to the office – checking off chickens, goats, peeing men and similar fauna. If we get stuck in the traffic which collects literally a block away from the Embassy, we leave the car and walk. My high-heeled shoes are never amused. The heaps of rickshaw-wallahs and general random bystanders, however, are. At least someone is.

We flash our Embassy IDs and enter the compound at the entrance where all visa applicants line up. We are stared at intensely by the hundred or so people gathered there. Awkward. We stare back for good measure which creates confusion. We then go inside our awesome consular section, where we are greeted with a blast of freezing A/C air and the chatter of our local staff doing intake from the visa applicants. I happily greet my colleagues and plant my butt on my particularly non-ergonomic chair, ready to face an awesome day of issuing visas. At various points during those first 30 mins at work, we all procure coffee, tea, soda, fatty breakfasts and finally settle down to some incredible admin work before the visa interviews begin. ADMIN WORK. Man, if there ever was good entertainment that is IT. OK, I am lying.

Finally, it is TIME and we all head to the interviewing windows. This is my favorite part and has single-handedly allowed me to get to know Bangladeshis as a nation and as individuals. I recommended consular work to everyone – it gives you the opportunity to talk to people every day, to learn their culture, norms and styles, and to speak the language on a wonderful street/village level. At 12.30, we take a brief but satisfying lunch break in the Embassy cafeteria, where we get to meet our equally erudite colleagues from the other sections and exchange playful, intellectual banter about world affairs – you know, diplomat stuff. OK, I am lying again. Typically we discuss our latest diarrhea issues, internet and electricity outages, the outrageously dugout diplomatic zone by the water company, trashy shows that we watch on Hulu, various sporting results from college basketball or football games no one gets to watch now, or how cheap we managed to buy this or that. After this refreshing interlude, I rush to the interviewing window invigorated and ready for some more. OK, not invigorated. More like struggling not to fall asleep after eating a huge mound of overly buttered rice and some other fried substance that went with it. Once we are done interviewing, we go to our desks to work on “projects” and for some more fantastic admin work. If I am lucky, I can go to a student outreach event, or give women-empowerment talk to high schoolers, or even write a well-researched, pivotal, thought-provoking and policy-setting cable that will be read by at least 7 people in the entire Department of State. OK, maybe 4 on a slow day.

On some days, I go to teach English to the Embassy drivers and cleaning staff. If you ever get an opportunity like this in your Mission, I strongly urge you to do it – few things are more rewarding than teaching eager students for free and learning bits and pieces of their lives. On others, I will run to the Commissary to replenish our wine supplies. I generally do not shop there for groceries even though I consider the place quite well stocked. I always feel like I am cheating on an exam if I do that – in other words, if I am told to live in Bangladesh, I should try to live off the local markets. Unfortunately, as ambitious as that sounds, it is also kinda impossible so I do break down and buy really nice American stuff from the Commissary (think Italian pork sausage!). But I draw the line at milk and bread. I just can’t bring myself to buy a box of funny-tasting milk for $5 or eat bread that has been frozen for who knows how long and tastes just as papery as the local stuff but is 3 times more expensive.

Finally, I am on my way home. Since the A/C in my car is broken again, I would have to navigate the dusty  dugout streets of the dip zone in the late afternoon 110-degree humid heat with my windows rolled down. My driver, bless his heart, knows not to talk to me as I relax in the back and swear audibly at the incompetence of the other drivers. Somehow we navigate the massive holes dug out practically by hand by hundreds of workers carrying out some insane modernizing project of the water company. Again, I remain amazed at the extent of manual labor – not only are the massive gaping holes dug out by hand (imagine three men holding a huge metal poke pointed at the asphalt of the street, while a forth one is pounding it with a heavy hammer – slowly, the street covering is broken down and torn apart by hand; you can’t believe it until you actually watch it), but they are also later on filled by hand, one jute basket of soil at a time.

I come home, ringing the bell madly because I want to hear the scrambling feet of Son who lets out a real Apache shriek and jumps into my open arms. It is tough to perform this in 5 inch heels but fun to try every day. My housekeeper flashes her usual 24-carat smile and ensures me that Son has been “reel gut boy too-day, madam!” and then continues on to give me a full account on his eating for the day – key information given that Son looks like a mosquito and wears pants 2 sizes smaller for his age. After these pleasantries, she promises to come back in 3 hours to babysit while the Diplomat and I go on to yet another party or event. Yup, this day has only just began.

Wine, sheep and lakes - Fabulous New Zealand

After Sydney, we flew to the magical quiet lands of New Zealand. Lovers of the wine, we chose the South Island (of Marlborough wine country fame) and booked ourselves into the cutest orchard farm ever in the pretty winery-infested town of Blenheim. Once upon a time a winery, the Ryland Estate is now purely a fruit producing farm, which also offers accommodations in a fabulous refurbished barn. The owners were amazing, giving us fruit and veggies every day (peaches, PEACHES!!! PEARS!! people, I have forgotten what THOSE were like), and entertaining Son on the tractor every afternoon while I pranced around in ungraceful poses attempting rudimentary Pilates on the lawn in front of the barn. They observed me in quiet amusement and then turned on the sprinklers on me.

The estate was smack dab in the middle of all the local wineries, which meant, of course, that we spent our days wine tasting, then stopping for lunch at some winery for a sumptuous feast of locally produced organic stuff like cheeses, venison salami and lamb skewers. Naturally, life without tennis is simply no life for the Diplomat, so even before we had reached New Zealand he had already found the local tennis clubs. What's more, we even found the local social hour and so we found ourselves playing tennis on the afternoons. Son found similarly bored children to play with at the tennis courts and to occasionally rush onto the court right when I was about to yield my finishing blow to the opponent (a 75-year old woman with disturbing agility) to tell me he would like to bring some stones home. We also made a trip to the green lip mussels capital of the world - Havelock (yup, we had mussels and they were spectacular) -  and drove through the drop-dead gorgeous Queen Charlotte Drive to Picton, a 35 km scenic drive over the Marlborough Sounds.

I am officially hooked on Savignon Blancs and Pinot Noirs. If you are planning a trip out there, you simply MUST stay either in a vineyard (several places there offer accommodations) or at Ryland like we did. There is nothing like waking up in the crisp, cool morning, frying some locally produced bacon and fresh eggs from the neighbors, gulping those down with french pressed coffee and jumping on the road to taste some wine next door. We unreasonably bought a bottle every time we tasted somewhere, which meant that we had to go home and drink it since we could bring back to Dhaka only so much. We tried some of the Blenheim vineries' best: Cloudy Bay, Giesen, Wairau River, Allan Scott (whose delicious wine I am drinking as I am writing this!!!), Nautilus, Herzog, Rock Ferry, and No 1 (for some real authentic French methode traditionelle  sparkling goodness). They were all amazing, don't have a favorite. Go there and drink. And if you are wondering what Son was doing while we were gallivanting through the vineyards, here you go:

The child loves to draw, God bless him. In the remaining time he was just running around the beautiful vineyards, screaming with delight. Thank goodness that he is dead cute, so people around us thought he was adorable rather than annoying and almost no one gave us dirty looks for bringing a kid into the tasting rooms.  

From delightful Blenheim, we took an overnight roadtrip to Queenstown. New Zealand is PACKED with sheep, PACKED!! Everywhere you go on the road, you will see the idyllic sight of a trillion cute sheared (must be the season) sheep, gleefully nibbling on grass and bleating contentedly. The view gets diversified from time to time with large, happy cows munching grass as well. And finally, you will get a glimpse of quite a few deer farms, which could be quite striking for city people like us.

Deer farm

On the way to Queenstown we stopped to gaze thoughtfully at the picturesque Lake Tekapo, surrounded by hordes of backpackers and motel signs aimed for backpackers. New Zealand is a backpacker country. Not sure why, nothing (especially NOT its prices) screams "backpacker" to me. And yet there they are, with ginormous backpacks on their backs, and added smaller versions hanging from their fronts, two shopping bags of stuff hanging from each hand. And then they hitchhike. I have to be honest, unless I am driving a cargo plane, I simply cannot see how I could give a lift to such loaded mules. But it must work or otherwise they won't be there, I suppose. I am sure there is some sort of dubious romanticism about traveling that way, but boy, watching them, I was so glad that I was a grown up, let me tell ya.

Queenstown was a delight. Truly touristy (there was even a Louis Vuitton store on the main street), it was nevertheless beautiful, unassuming, unpretentious, filled with restaurants and sheep wool stores. First order of business for the Diplomat was to check the local tennis club, hoping for some real grass courts. Courts there were and quite pretty too, but sadly there were no partners to play with. With a broken heart, the Diplomat led Son to the nearby lake where Son fed the ducks to his heart's content (an elderly Chinese lady had brought a large loaf of bread, which she happily shared with Son). And then when there was no more bread, the ducks tried to eat Son, which was met with shrieks and horror and frantic running around the park. The child had no fear though - the next day he pestered me so much that I gave up and went to buy bread to feed the damn birds again. This time we went to the pier, and also go some olives and a small bottle of bubbly and  shared the bread with the residing ducks and seagulls. Some ducks decided to take a particularly direct approach to the bread and went under the table where we were sitting. From there, they took to biting the Diplomat's legs poignantly to get his attention after sensing his lack of interest in the entire feeding affair. He was not amused.

New Zealand was fantastic. While the Diplomat found it boring at times (the man would love nothing better than to sit at home every night after a 5-hour tennis game and then watch some more tennis on TV but found NZ lacking in action...really?), I thought it was the perfect detox to our insane hectic lives in Dhaka. I definitely have something to show for it now - entire 6 lbs more on my waist, behind and thighs. I have to say - wine, lamb and bread every day is not a diet for runway models!

About Sydney

I am happy to report that we are currently on our second Rest and Recuperation trip, richly deserved by both the Diplomat and me since in the past one month we have both worked our little governmental tails off. As I have previously writtent, Rest and Recuperation, or R&R as it is lovingly known throughout the Foreign Service, is a wonderful perk given by the State Department to foreign service officers serving in more challenging posts. In short, State will pay for the plane tickets for your family to go either to the U.S. or to a designated R&R spot for your post (that spot varies - for most of South and East Asia, the spot is Sydney; for most of South America- Maimi; for Africa- London or Paris; you get the idea). If you serve in Afhganistan, you get 3 R&Rs in one year. In Bangladesh, we get 1 per year. In Paris you get zilch because guess what - you already ARE on a freaking R&R!

We chose to go to Sydney and from there to New Zealand where we are currently ruining our health by eating stupid quantities of lamb, mussels and helping those down with generous quantities of fantastic local wine. I really liked Sydney – to be perfectly honest, I always thought that the city had 3 skyscrapers and the rest was bush around it. People would wear fleece and Birkenstocks, carry fannie packs, drink beer and be jolly all the time. Turns out - not to so much. At all.

Sydney is a VERY modern city. Like, VERY. Downtown has plenty of shiny skyscrapers, luxury brands’ boutiques, a fast and efficient transportation system, gazillion restaurants, coffeeshops, cafes, bistros, and American fast food chains! All businessmen wear blue shirts. In fact, I am pretty much convinced that there must be an Australian law about appropriate male business attire in the city, (although I DID see one guy who was wearing a pale pink shirt, but he clearly looked very uncomfortable and ostracized – it must have been laundry day in his house). All women are VERY fit, and dressed particularly well, along with a steady stream of solid high heels. I felt my old New Yorker again!

Sydey is also wonderful for kids. They have amazing parks for children. Son spent a morning in the Darling Harbor in an amazing park filled with climbing and sliding contraptions, as well as a hundren water-based toys like mini dams, fountains, and other impossible to describe physics projects that was delighting the screaming, wet kids in the heat. We were not prepared for this, so Son was reduced to running around the playground in his Thomas underwear to preserve his pants and shirt from soaking. He insisted on taking his underwear off as well. As proud as I was of his free spirit, I had enough brains to insist on keeping the undies on. As a result, once we managed to extricate him from there, we had to take the wet undies off, put on his shorts on a naked butt, and hang the undies to dry on the camera bag. As a result, they delightfully flapped in the warm Sydney air as we walked around exploring the city. So, I really liked Sydney.

Sydney is also obscenely expensive. We couldn't comprehend it – a cup of coffee was an incredible $5 (US and Australian dollars are roughly the same value), a glass of beer $9. I know I have lived in Bangladesh for the past 18 months and that has thrown off my pricing guide somewhat, but even in New York’s little pretentious Soho coffeehouses coffee wouldn't be that pricey. A normal dinner for 2.5 people, including a bottle of wine, in a normal, non-fancy place would amount to a solid $120-50. Since the Diplomat was sporting an especially unforgiving and homely South Indian afro, I sent him to get himself a haircut – I figured modern Sydney would be a good place to give him a nice refreshing look. There were two barbershops below our hotel, which advertised $10 cuts. Sadly, they only offered 2 styles – the Pensioner and the Crew cut. So, the Diplomat walked around and found himself a nice simple salon. $55 later (???) and he came back with very little hair, combed in an entirely wrong direction, with a wad of hair on top, arranged in some semi-confused pouf a la Gangnam style. We were definitely taken aback by the cost of living in Australia until our local friends explained to us that salaries in Ozzie-land were commensurately high. Eh, more power to them.

Sydney officials are also exceptionally rude. So much for my delusion that everyone there was happy and friendly, and “G’day mate”-ing everyone else. On day 2, exhausted from the spectacular walking regime I had imposed on my troops, we decided to take a local bus to see the Opera House. We tried to buy bus tickets before getting on the bus, and for a solid 30 minutes were sent on a wild goose chase into the train terminal, where an elderly gentleman with hearing issues offered us a $44 bus ticket each. Horrified, we ran away. Fed up with the search for the elusive bus tickets, I suggested that we get on the bus, hope we can buy them on board and pretend that we are stupid tourists if we couldn’t. The opera was literally 3 stops away anyway. Not so fast. We climbed stealthily (or so we thought) through the back door of the bus and sat down, beaming. Immediately, all heads turned to us like we had tails coming from our pants or something. No one said a word and then the driver slowly looked back and yelled in incomprehensible Ozzie accent something about the back door and that I should go to him immediately. I surmised that I should, and walked to the front like a school girl called into the principal’s office. Once there, he gave us a rude tongue-lashing on the subject of the impropriety of getting on the bus from the back door (“NEVER get in from the back door, NEVER, you hear me?? Never!!”) and yelled at us to get out of the bus immediately and go buy ourselves some tickets from a convenience store. I have rarely felt so humiliated in my adult life.

Similarly, on our last day there, we happily went to the Qantas counter at Sydney airport to check-in for our flight to New Zealand. Giddy with excitement, despite the 6 am hour, I approached the counter and prepared to hand in our passports to the clerk. Suddenly, he barked at me, “Where are your boarding passes????”” Huh?? I thought we get boarding passes AT check-in, NOT before that. WTF? I meekly responded that I did not have them. He demanded an itinerary. I did not have that either, I was a real transgressor. Forgive me, but nowadays airlines elsewhere in the world (well, except for India) never ask for printed materials as they can retrieve your info at the touch of a button. Not Mr. Ticket Police here. He began hissing at me that I MUST have a printed ticket or itinerary and demanded that I tell him when we were coming back from New Zealand. He became even more agitated since we were flying into Christchurch and then coming back from Queenstown. I began fearing he might go into apoplectic shock soon – he began typing furiously something on his computer and within 2.3 seconds naturally found us and our entire itinerary. He announced that fact to us loudly, and then scowled that he was under NO obligation to do that for us and that he cannot be expected to have time to do that for everyone since he is very busy with other passengers. There wasn’t a soul behind us…What cracked me up the most, I think, is his serious concern that since we have no printed itinerary, we clearly were plotting to abscond and probably work illegally on mussels’ fishing ships or something like that. Nevermind our American diplomatic passports or anything. Always be vigilant for those potential illegal immigrants to New Zealand. Eventually, he did issue us the boarding passes but he did look like he was undergoing an enema in the process.

New Zealanders, on the other hand, are lovely people.

The CODEL and a Party Philosophy

The last weeks have been so hectic that I can hardly believe it has only been 2 weeks since I last wrote. In fact, it got a little too much even for me and I fell sick and missed tennis tonight. Sigh. Part of the craziness is clearly self-inflicted. For the past 2 weeks, I MC-ed 2 fashion shows, one Mardi Gras party of 175, went to 4 receptions (one with Dr. Yunus of Grameen Bank fame!), squeezed in some private dinners, worked an American Chamber of Commerce in Dhaka trade show (with all of its welcome dinners, welcome receptions, and good-bye dinners), met a CODEL, even double-booked a few nights (which I dearly regretted afterwards). After one such double-booked night about 10 days ago, which involved an Australian National Day and a lavish appreciation dinner with an endless stream of cheap white wine, I pretty much quit drinking for a week.

Now, my uninitiated friends always remark that all I do is go to parties, wear pretty dresses and have fun. They have no appreciation for the seriousness of my job and mission. People, receptions are work! Think about it. As the witty Jerome K. Jerome once wisely remarked, trying to convince people to do something on an empty stomach is a rather laborious and bothersome proposition. However, give them a good steak and a solid glass of red wine, and they become like a putty in your hands, for “[h]ow good one feels when one is full -- how satisfied with ourselves and with the world!”* Therein lays the secret of the good reception, in my humble opinion. 

Say you need someone to agree to give you something they’re not so hot on giving. Try to convince them on an empty stomach. You’ll get a polite nod and “Let’s see what we can do” which is usually nothing. Let’s suppose now that you take that person to a reception, feed them a bunch of random finger foods, which are usually awesome (if only because receptions are usually right after work and everyone is starving), and add to that a couple of neat two glasses of champagne. Now you are facing a much happier, content person who is perfectly disposed to give you anything you ever wanted. And then you ask. So see – work! Twist my arm.

Another kind of glamorous work that we Foreign Service officers do is serve our country by hosting scores of venerable Congressional members, those faithful representatives of our beloved nation. The Congressional delegation that arrives at post – an event lovingly called a “CODEL” – sends shivers down the spine of every entry-level officer, whether from excitement or fear, no one dares to admit. A CODEL visit, or any other VIP visitor from the US for that matter, is like making a cake for the first time ever. You have read the recipe, it all looks straightforward, you start doing it and realize somewhere down the road that it is much more involved; you run for more supplies; call in the neighbors for support; call a bunch of people including your mama on the phone; watch a video or two online for instructions and eventually end up buying new appliances for next time.

Same with the VIP visit. It starts off innocently enough with a simple request for a visit from the U.S., describing what seems like an easy and straightforward agenda. A week later, 10 more people have been added to the CODEL, which have added their own staffers (aaaaah, the staffers – WHAT a venerable bunch, eh?). The agenda has tripled, and so have the resources you have mobilized. Next thing you know, you are roping in more and more hapless first and second-tour officers who have been blinded by the glitz of the VIP and gladly accept the glamorous tasks given to them. Like – be responsible for the VIP luggage. Or take their spouses carpet shopping. Or stand-by during an event in case anyone needs water. Or babysit the press at some obscure event. Or spend 3 whole days going to potential sites of interest to the visitors, like orphanages or factories, preparing an elaborate welcome program for them, only to learn a day later that the visit has been dropped off the program. Or procuring a piano for some event and carrying it to the event and then carrying it back (yup, that happened). The “luckier” ones get to be note-takers at important meetings with local politicians. Which also means, of course, that the moment the meeting is over (usually 10 pm), they have to run back to the Embassy and fervently write a meaningful cable about it all night long, to be cleared by 8 people in the next 2 days, and in the end they won’t even recognize the damned cable.

Oh yes, working a CODEL is glam. I worked one last week. It was fabulous. I was “baggage and passports.” You can only fantasize about the amazing things I had to do. I’ll tell you one thing though – if the CODEL happens to come on a Mil plane, rather than fly commercial, that means that as “luggage and passports” you get to walk on the tarmac. The plane security guys (cryptically called “ravens”) may even let you on the plane to see it inside where the pilot will give you a tour! That is some plane, ladies and gentleman! I also got to meet a couple of the security guys who worked with the CODEL and they were wonderful. All in all, a VIP visit is a circus but is also quite entertaining; you meet some really nice and cool people; you get to see how policy and diplomacy are shaped in action; and you definitely begin dreaming about being important and flying on a mil plane. Plus, you rack a whole bunch of overtime. Can’t wait for my next one.

*Jerome K Jerome, Three Men in a Boat