Cambodia – Phnom Penh and Siem Riep

It has been a really long time since my last post, but the reason is that the Diplomat and I decided to take a little trip on the wild side and visit Cambodia and Laos. So, we called my Mom, bought her a ticket and dragged her to play with Son for 12 days while we gallivanted through the exotic and less traveled paths of South Asia. She happily obliged and we left for our little solo adventure filled with the usual doses of excitement and trepidation parents feel when they are leaving their fragile progeny behind.

Our first stop was Phnom Penh, where we had booked the posh Raffles Hotel Le Royal. And Le Royal it was! One of the few fine examples of French colonial architecture left in the city, the hotel is resplendent with its two outdoor swimming pools surrounded by stunning frangipani trees, extensive bar and a multitude of frisky Nordic college students ostensibly there for an obscure research assignment. Unless their goal was to research each other, I don’t think they got much done because none of them left the poolside within the 3 days we were there. The hotel houses curious relics like a champagne glass with the lipstick imprint of Jackie O.’s beloved lips – apparently, she expressed a burning desire to see Angkor Wat, and while in Cambodia, stayed in the regal hotel. The one thing that sort of spoiled the gentile atmosphere was the fact that I was sick and kept coughing my brains out. My chest was very congested so I was hacking left and right to the utter horror of the hotel staff and the Diplomat, who throughout the trip reacted every time to my maniacal coughing as if I was killing small kittens with a blunt fork. Sadly, there wasn’t much I could so cough I did. My congestion was over the day we left. Of course.

The city itself is quite cute and becoming rapidly rather touristy to accommodate the scores of western bearded backpackers in search of an exotic adventure. It still remains a calm haven compared to the happy mayhem of Bangkok, and so we spent 4 hazy, hot days dragging ourselves slowly through the cultural attractions (think a royal palace, an impressive wat and a Russian market filled with super authentic Cambodian knick-knacks), dined in the cute riverside restaurants, swam in the gorgeous hotel pool and slept to our hearts’ content. I must be honest – I did spend a considerable amount of time on this trip sleeping. I reasoned that no matter how cultural and interesting those countries were, this was still MY VACATION and, as every working parent of toddlers out there will undoubtedly understand, I needed to catch up on some sleep and relaxation. After a nice Phnom Penh soak, we climbed a scary and puny looking propeller plane and flew on the expert wings of Cambodia Angkor Air to Siem Riep. 45 minutes of Diplomat’s hyperventilating later and we arrived in the famed ancient town.

Siem Riep boasts 2 main things – copious amounts of remarkably well-preserved ancient temples (called wats) and a rather astonishingly active night life downtown. We arrived ready and excited to tackle both. After leaving our bags, we ran to the center of the city and to our utter shock discovered a scene quite like downtown French Quarter in New Orleans. There were a million restaurants and bars, loud music, horrendous live bands and excellent food and drinks, mixed with massage parlors and a bunch of water tanks filled with grisly looking kind of fish, ready to nibble on your unsuspecting feet. A sign above all of them reassured the apprehensive tourist, “No piranhas!” You don’t say – you’d think that’s presumed? While we had copious, practically indecent amounts of massages on this trip, we never succumbed to the fish exfoliation scheme – there was something rather ominous in the way all hungry fish would converge and try to jump out of the water whenever I approached the fish tank. My feet remain calloused but safe.

One thing I have to say about Cambodia – there is free wi-fi everywhere, including the airport, road shacks and hotel bathrooms. It was so ubiquitous and common that I started half-expecting it in the ruins of Angor. It was a really amazing thing, you have to admit – we would sit in a nice restaurant for dinner, I’d pull out my Android phone, dial Skype and voila, hear the screeching voice of a very pixelized version of Son from Bangladesh, who’d invariably ask about his impending gifts from our trip. I know this is a rather banal statement by now, but, really, technology is pretty shocking these days.

We spent the next 3 days cavorting around the ruins of Angkor under the blazing sun. After 2-3 hours, the Diplomat would start getting cranky and sit down more and more around the centuries-old stones, patiently waiting to be photographed from various angles as I experimented with some newly discovered settings of my camera. Soon even that patience would wear off and he’d start giving me some truly incinerating looks, which would signal the need to go back to the hotel and chill out (literally). To see the wats in relative coolness, we woke up every day at 6.30ish, and were done for the day by 12ish. Except for the day when we foolishly decided to do the tourist thing and see the sunset from a wat called Phnom Bakheng. After climbing a steep hill in the 5 pm heat for about 10 mins, we reached a somewhat underwhelming wat, popular mostly because of its good location for viewing sunsets. The line to climb on it was rather lengthy and moved at a snail’s pace – I figured that by the time it was out turn to go on the top, the sun not only would have set, but it might already be rising on the following day. Irritated, I went to ask the languid girl manning the line what the deal was and she brightly informed me that they are closing the line in 4 minutes and only those who have made it past her by then, would go up for the coveted sunset. I did the math and there was no way we could make it. Then suddenly, they started letting people up rather briskly. The languid ticket lady motioned me and the Diplomat in, and then suddenly roped off the precious ruin and said crisply to the frenzied, sweaty, sunset-loving queue behind us, “No more!” Well, we certainly were lucky on THAT one. So, we climbed the steps of the wat, expecting the sunset of our lives, romance, butterflies, music, mist, magic, anything really. What we got was a temple top filled to the brim with loud tourists and their cameras. Every which way you look, every corner you’d stick your head into, there would be a tourist with a camera. Then the wait for the sunset began. But the damn sun would just not set fast enough. After taking about 245 mediocre pictures of dusk, I picked up the utterly bored Diplomat and we decided to go back to the hotel, have a swim and go for a nice, long street food dinner. Best decision ever taken.

One unfortunate side-effect of the now-booming Angkor tourist is the incredible amount of peddlers inhabiting the various wats. The second we’d get off from our tuk-tuk (a motorized rickshaw) in front of a gorgeous ancient temple, just as we are about to be enveloped in images of past Khmer empires and transport ourselves some 1000 years ago, an incredibly persistent crowd of women would jump us, asking whether we are interested in chilled water, mangos, pineapple, coconut, beer, food, hats, guides, pins, wooden elephants, ANYTHING at all. So much for that romantic ancient feeling.

All in all, Angkor and its wats is a truly astonishing place. From Angkor Wat itself and its impressive 5 towers, to Ta Prohm where giant trees engulf the ruins and Angelina Jolie immortalized in Tomb Raider, to smaller but no less fascinating temples, it is a must see in one’s life.

On day 6 of our journey, we were ready to board the next propeller that would takes us to the less traveled roads of Laos.

The Cockroach and the Rural Development Camp

Last week I had the dubious pleasure of spending about 6 hours in a jeep through the not-so-great roads of Bangladesh on my way to the lovely town of Chandpur. Part of my job at the Embassy is to visit minor children of divorced or separated parents, one of whom lives in the good ol’ U.S. while the other one has decided to come back and live it up in Bangladesh with the small child. Should the so-called “Left Behind Parent” (whom we lovingly call the LBP) get a burning desire to learn what his or her American child is up to these days in Bangladesh, they demand that we perform a Welfare and Whereabouts visit and write a detailed report about the kid’s life and favorite foods. So, we do.

After a particularly unpleasant car ride, and a really nice visit with the child and his family in Chandpur, we turned around to go to the hotel for the night. The closest big town was Comilla and I was told that we will stay in the only hotel right outside of town. My colleagues who had stayed there in the past cryptically told me that it is in the midst of a lot of greenery and that it might be a tad on the old side but it is clean. I was warned to bring my own linen and towels. So, I think I was justified in being just a little apprehensive as we drove towards it.

And then I saw it – the sign at the gate read “Bangladesh Academy for Rural Development.” And rural development it was – it smelled like it, it sounded like it and it sure looked like it too. Apparently, the establishment is a sort of a training facility or camp for governmental employees of the rural development variety. We booked what I think were the best rooms at the Academy – mine was fairly large, with a palatial gloomy bathroom, a massive air conditioning unit, a large bed equipped with a mattress the consistency of a sturdy stone, a miniature desk, a prehistoric TV which inexplicably featured a full range of cable TV and two electric outlets. I let out a deep sigh and settled in. I spent about an hour recuperating from the drive from Dhaka, lying on the stiff bed fit for self-deprecating monks and willing myself to go have a nice, hot shower. I finally mustered some resolve, disrobed and entered the dark, slightly depressing bathroom. To my amazement, the shower head was not attached to anything but simply protruded from the bathroom ceiling. That meant that if I did not desire to wash my hair (which I did not), and did not possess an elegant solution to the problem like a plastic shower cap, I would have to shower by bending my body at 45 degrees like a truly skilled dervish, one limb at a time, in order not to wet my hair. I sighed deeply again and turned on the hot water. After about 7 minutes, I came to the mournful conclusion that there won’t be any hot water coming in the Rural Development Academy this year. Maybe next year, when there is a bit more development. But definitely not now. By then, my body had gotten either used to or numb to the cold water, so I quickly performed the exquisite bathroom dance almost avoiding wetting my hair. Somewhat refreshed and a tad frazzled, I decided to visit the canteen and have a tasty rural development dinner. I put on my (possibly a bit whimsical) Indian outfit – a fashionable Bombay top coupled with black tights – and strolled down to the canteen on campus. I think I gave a whole bunch of rural developers the fright of their lives by walking decisively into the facility, not very Bengali-looking at all, lining among the good natured public servants and ordering in crystal clear Bangla what turned out to be one very deshi dinner. The person behind the counter apparently found the whole matter rather hilarious because he could not stop giggling while handling my money and request for some poratha bread. He looked so goofy that I began fearing for his mental wellbeing.

Sufficiently fed and stared at, I took the wise decision to return to my humble abode and spend the rest of the night watching chick flicks. I was practically excited – I had a whole evening to myself and I could watch anything my soul desired without having the Diplomat roll his sophisticated eyes at me. As luck should have it, my choice of movies for night ranged from “Mortal Combat 2,” “Predators,” “Unstoppable” (about an unstoppable train threatening to kill a zillion kids during most of the movie), and some other horrendous gory movie from the 80s whose name I have buried deep into my unpleasant memories. I finally stumbled upon a good cooking show where a maniacal and angry Australian chef kept cooking everything with heaps of potent red chilies. I was quite engrossed in the show while all of a sudden my peripheral vision registered a movement to the left of the TV. A rather LARGE movement, I should say. I slowly turned my head in that direction and my eyes met the gaze of a mammoth Bengali cockroach. That @#$% thing was at least a foot long, I swear! Now, let me be clear – I AM VERY, VERY, VERY AFRAID AND DISGUSTED BY COCKROACHES! Every time I find one at home, I thank God that I am married as the Diplomat has the honor of executing and getting rid of the body of the nasty insect. But there I was, in the Rural Development camp, with a giant guest uncomfortably close and no husband in sight. Crap. The dastardly thing kept moving around minding its own business. I was about 3 meters away on my painful bed. All of a sudden, it turned around and started moving in my direction. And then the electricity went out and it became pitch black inside the room. I might have yelped in horror. No one will know for sure. I jumped on the bed and briefly contemplated climbing up the curtains. Then the electricity came back.

I noticed that the cockroach was headed back towards the trashcan and started climbing onto it. An idea hit me – I would wait until it climbed inside, then run, turn it over and trap it underneath. I felt so much better. I watched its climb with trepidation and when it finally went over the top, I made my move towards it. Then, the power went off again. This time I distinctly remember screaming – the proximity to the thing was too much to bear. I ran back and tripped over the stone mattress. The power came back a whole eternity later, and since the cockroach was still in the trashcan, I made one last desperate move, ran to it, pushed it over and trapped the roach inside. Then I slowly pushed it outside the room while the beast was wildly shuffling inside. I slammed the door closed, and spent the next 20 minutes surveying the perimeter anxiously, looking for its worried relatives to come by. No more cockroaches came in that night.
The next morning, we spent another excruciating 5 hours on the road. I cannot say that this was a fun trip.

Herding Cats or How I Went To Bangkok

Last weekend I deserted my precious progeny and his father to go to Bangkok. I have been wanting to do Lasik surgery for a long time and after being told by a Lasik specialist in Washington, DC that I am the perfect candidate for PRK procedure, I was eager to see if I qualified for the simpler, Lasik procedure. I chose a three-day weekend and decided that if I am going to Bangkok by myself, I might just as well invite a couple of girlfriends to come along to make it more fun. The plan was put into action instantly. It was rather startling to see how many married women would jump at the opportunity to go on a girl’s trip away. The trip planning started with just 4 of us and quickly ballooned to 8, with one lady dropping out in the last moment. After long and complicated room arrangements, it was decided that we will all splurge on suites at the Royal Orchid Sheraton, located gorgeously on the Chao Praya river. Fast forward a month later, and you have us at the Dhaka airport at 2 am, cheery and chirpy as larks. We all asked for “nice” seats in the utopian hope that we will be upgraded to Business class based on our looks. Instead, we were shoved in the very back, among a bunch of sweaty surly cricket players. Not sure whether that was a comment on our looks.

Unfazed, we arrived in Bangkok at 7 am, where we managed to hire a rickety old van with a roof luggage rack where all of our suitcases got tied up like sardines outside, while all 6 of us (one was arriving later that day) were stuffed like sardines inside the van. A whooping total of $20 later and we were delivered to the luxury, 5-star property somewhat disheveled and utterly exhausted. If we had wanted to make a graceful and elegant first impression, we certainly failed. The General Manager was standing by the door of the hotel and he did seem a bit unnerved at the sight of 6 middle-aged women, thoroughly wrinkled, running around untying their suitcases from the roof of an old van and chattering excessively loudly in English. I won’t go into specific details about the following four days – suffice it to say that they included copious amounts of street food, sweaty sightseeing, endless shopping, a few tigers, an elephant ride, a trip to the hospital as a result of a tiger bite, a couple of bruised egos, swimming pool with overly sweet mohitos, highlighted hair, one very expensive cigar, karaoke at 2 am, several movies, haircuts, boat rides, tuk tuks, manicures, Hard Rock café and one pouring rain. All of this while trying to coordinate 7 women without cell phones. I’d rather try herding cats next time. Needless to say, fun was had by all.

Otherwise, Dhaka has been more or less uneventful. We did have our annual Mission Get together, when our highly esteemed locally-employed staff, with enviable enthusiasm organizes a half day of festivities for everyone and their families. I must say that this year they outdid themselves. Among the highlights of the day was a so-called Fashion Show, in which I stupidly volunteered to participate. You see, I had always fancied myself walking down the catwalk and thought that it would be a hoot to do so. As it turned out, I was instead supposed to act out a popular Bengali song featuring me as an eager bride whose groom is promising her the sun, the stars and what have you. That meant that I had to learn to lip sync and move effortlessly around the stage without tripping into the yardage of wedding saree and excessive jewelry around me. I was paired with the tallest Bangladeshi local staff colleague they could find in the Embassy, who to his credit was an impeccable leader and fake groom. What made the whole thing even more hilarious was that everyone seemed tremendously concerned about the Diplomat’s reaction to the little wedding skit. All I said to him was , “This is just art, darling!”

This weekend we are going to a couple of good-bye parties of good friends. This is the one side of this life that purely sucks – you meet terrific people and then a year or two later, they leave. When they are from the US Foreign Service, there is at least a chance that we will meet again, whether at FSI or other posts somewhere down the road. With the foreign diplomats or local friends, it is pretty much guaranteed we will never cross paths again. Sad. So, last night we attended a rather swanky goodbye party for one of our own, as well as the Norwegian and the Brazilian Deputy Chief of Missions. It was a packed rooftop party, which collected an eclectic mix of various diplomats, expats and Bangladeshis. While the invite said, “dress to impress” and I certainly followed that, there were definitely some folks who apparently had not read the small print at the bottom of the invitation. Another thing that always amazes me in Dhaka is the juxtaposition between life outside these circles and the conduct and clothing of the local movers and shakers. Bangladesh is a rather conservative Muslim country where women cover themselves from head to toe, often wearing hijab or even full burka. Men pray fervently 5 times a day. To respect the local customs, we Westerners also dress conservatively when in public – long skirts or pants and shirts that cover shoulders and elbows. The scene you see at Western parties is drastically different – Bengali women dress quite risqué and behave even more, um, liberally. Men drink alcohol and enjoy the risqué ladies. One is left to wonder – who is the real Bangladeshi of today?

India, Sri Lanka and yet another maniacal weekend

So, as I mentioned last time, two weeks ago we spent 5 blissful days in Delhi, then another 4 magical days on the southern Sri Lankan coast followed by a 3 day work trip for me in Hyderabad. Writing in detail about this trip is useless. All I can say is that:

1. Delhi was absolutely beautiful. We spent considerable time in Old Delhi exploring  mosques and palaces, and more mosques and more palaces, and then the Taj Mahal.

2. OH MY GOD, the Taj Mahal!!! What stunning beauty, what grace, what detail, what massive amount of people. The palace moved me tremendously. However, I MUST admit that the effect, gravity and serenity of going inside the Taj to see the tomb of the Queen was a bit crippled by the oppressive odor of feet - we all had to take off our shoes to enter inside and I suspect a few folks out there did not maintain impeccable hygiene.

3. After visiting a few tombs, Son started asking why we were going there. Believing in honesty, I kept explaining that there was a dead uncle or an auntie in there. Little doubting Thomas that he is, he continued to question that and to try to find just exactly where that dead thing was. I am not sure he was satisfied with my answer that the uncle/auntie was deep in the ground. Ever since then, wherever we take him, even if it is a party to a friend's house, he'd inevitably ask me if there is a dead uncle or aunty in there. I suppose he is going through a "morbid" phase.

4. In Sri Lanka, we spent 5 sun-filled and disgustingly lazy days around the pool or the beach. We had rented a stunning villa along with the Diplomat's cousin, his wife and 3 year old daughter (visiting from Oregon, as well as my Inlaws and their Inlaws (or Diplomat's aunt and uncle from Washington, DC). The villa boasted a delightful chef, who spoiled us on a daily basis with incredible and versatile Sri Lankan cuisine and dreadful cheap wine. Which we drank copiously while the children ran amok all over the garden, chased and fed snacks by the grandparents. Good times were universally had by everyone.

5. Hyderabad was one delightful surprise. Turns out that it is a shopping and culinary heaven, with beautiful old fortress and mosques, and modern restaurants featuring both Eastern and Western cuisine. Hyderabad is famous for its churi or bangles. There is literally an entire long street which houses only bangle shops! I admit to spending about $40 on the damned things--they are just so pretty. I also admit to having dinner at the local Hard Rock Cafe and having the absolute best cheese burger in my entire life! Yes, you heard right - if you want a good burger, go to Hyderabad. It can be accompanied by a fresh Kingfisher beer on tap. After 12 intense days traveling in South Asia and just about ready to go back to South Asia, it felt just so damn good to have a cheeseburger, beer and a mountain of nachos with cheese and all the appropriate works. Actually, I ate so much that I felt nauseous afterwards. It was worth it.

I came back to Dhaka to face an intense week of preparations for the annual Hollywood Ball, organized by the Dhaka American Women Club, which took place this past Friday. Somehow I had found myself on the organizational committee of the Ball and by last week was neck deep in prep and last minute details. It did not help the matters that on Thursday I was in charge of a day-long team-building exercise called Consular Leadership Day, where I led a section of 50 foreign service officers, local staff and family members working for the Consular Section into several busy and somewhat physically challenging tasks and discussions. By the end of the day, I was brain dead and all I wanted to do was to curl up in a fetal position and stare at my olive green bedroom walls. Instead, I got a massage from a lady who comes to my house to perform all kinds of magic to my nails, face, hair, and body. Somewhat refreshed, I dressed up and the Diplomat and went to a restaurant opening (for those in Dhaka - The Village is DA bomb in BBQ and tandoori), follow up by a fabulous techno party at the Sonargaon Hotel, which featured Bangkok DJs and Russian dancers wearing boots, microscopic shirts and practically painted on shorts. We had a complete blast!

We got home around 3 am, and the next morning I sported a rather subdued but persistent hangover. Which was unfortunate since I had to be at the Radisson Hotel for a dress rehearsal for the Hollywood Ball at 9 am. At 12, I crawled out of the hotel, went home, fed Son and crawled further in bed where I spent 2 dreamless hours in deep slumber. Upon waking up at 4 pm, I dashed off to the hair salon, had a serious hair styling malfunction, practically broke into tears, had it fixed, dashed back home, slathered some make up on, put on an impossibly long golden dress and went off to the Ball. Needless to say, I was NOT in top form and had some serious doubts about my continued presence there once my duties were over. However, the food was excellent, I was surrounded by my best friends and the DJ for once rocked my Dhaka socks. So we stayed until 12.

Saturday was spent eating, sleeping and playing with Son. Just like the doctor ordered.

"Oh, m'am, that flight has been canceled. Why?",

said brightly the woman behind the Kingfisher airlines airport desk and looked lovingly at me in anticipation. Astonished, I asked, "Um, whatever do you mean?" It was 5 pm on a lovely Thursday afternoon and the Diplomat, Son and I were trying to get from Dhaka to Delhi via Kolkata on Kingfisher Airlines. I had just been informed that the second leg of the journey, from Kolkata do Delhi, has been permanently discontinued and have been standing there in utter disbelief at the rather unclean Dhaka airport for a few minutes. The airline hostess expressed (a rather misplaced) surprise that I had not checked whether the flight was still on before getting to the airport. Well, you will excuse me, but I am not typically used to checking whether my flight has been permanently discontinued. It is not just part of the travel routine where I come from. So, sorry lady, my fault, I did not check. To her credit, she never lost spirit and started clanking on the computer keyboard with a speed that many an American secretary with 2 inch acrylic nails will envy. Several phone calls (which included the fact that we were from the US Embassy) and endless typing later, we were told that we have been rebooked on an Air India flight from Kolkata to Delhi and will get there that same night. Elated, we promised the airline lady our cat as a gift and pranced through security. Many hours later (why does it take SO damn long to fly to any city other than Kolkata from Dhaka??), around midnight, I carried the sleeping Son into the Delhi guesthouse of YES Bank, where my father in law (FIL) currently works. The guesthouse provided us with wonderful accommodation for 5 nights, which was quite fantastic since the (decent) hotels in Delhi begin at $150 plus a night. So, thank you FIL and YES Bank!
The next morning, over a sumptuous Indian breakfast cooked by the caretaker of the guesthouse, the Diplomat decided to peruse the Indian press. To his horror, front page news was the ongoing demise of Kingfisher Airlines. Which was bad, since out travel plans were to go from Delhi to Sri Lanka where we had rented a beach house for five short days and yes, you guessed it - we were flying good ol' Kingfisher air. Not trusting the airline, the Diplomat decided to call them and make sure we are OK to go. 56 unsiccessfull attempts to call later, after 1 hour and 15 mins of waiting on the line (he endured the worst jazz music I have ever heard) he finally spoke with a representative. "Oh yes, sir both of your flights (Delhi-Chennai, Chennai-Colombo)  have been cancelled. No one contacted you to tell you that" "No, you consummate idiot, clearly NO ONE has called us. We are currently in India, without Internet and highly irritable right about now." At least, this is what I WANTED to say to him. The rep offered unhelpfully to put us on a 6 am flight out of Delhi, connecting though Chennai where the flight to Colombo would be at 11 pm...We declined with what some could perceive as an ungracious attitude. The rep then sighed and booked us on Air India flights, which would put us in Sri Lanka in the early afternoon. Oh joy. Oh happiness. Who's the man?! One hour and 45 mins later, we got our flights confirmed and celebrated by watching an hour of Zee TV (a riveting and popular Indian TV station, which hosts a smorgasbord of TV dramas and soap operas).


Exhausted, we quickly went back and collapsed in bed, awoke 3 hours later, ran back to the airport, checked in and were the last people to enter the plane that would bring us to the gorgeous land of Sri Lanka. After a brief 3 hours during which all three of us were comatosely asleep, we arrived in Colombo at 5 pm, where we met up with my Inlaws. We got into a large comfy van, piled up the luggage and began what was supposed to be a 2.5 hrs journey towards the south of the island, to the small village of Weligama, right outside of which we had rented a splendid villa with a chef. 5 hours later, having spent seemingly endless time struck in traffic, we finally stopped at the ethereal oasis of Villa Vatura. Under the glistening reflections of the large swimming pool, on the teak veranda, the chef had served a heavenly meal of traditional Sri Lankan cuisine, nicely accompanied by a horrendous cheap red wine. After dinner, the exhausted Son went to bed while I poured us a glass of smoky LaPhroaig and lit up an exquisite cigar. Oh, I knew this was the beginning of a beautiful vacation.
The next 4 days I categorically refused to perform any sightseeing or go to anything not directly associated with large bodies of water or food. Then finally, on the last night, we reluctantly climbed back into a frightening large van in the middle of the night and sped back north for a 6.30 am flight - the Diplomat and Son would fly direct back to Dhaka while I went to Hyderabad for a work conference. Once again, I passed through the fateful airport of Delhi with a 4-hour layover to spare but this time I decided to buy myself a pass into the business class lounge. I spent the next 4 hours in the quiet blissful luxury of the lounge surrounded mostly by scruffy men with large laptops and massive plastic bags of duty free alcohol. Two hours later, I landed in Hyderabad, a city that I am currently in love with.

For details on the trip itself, including a long litany on the awesomeness of Delhi and the Taj Mahal and Hyderabad, tune in next time!

Did you say party??

So, this last week was the perfect illustration of our life here. On Sunday night, we were gracious invited a small birthday dinner, which involved mutton, some ridiculous guacamole/salsa thing with baby shrimp in it, lamb, chicken, roasted potatoes and beef (I think). It was followed by a solid Chivas Regal and chocolate cake (which I did not eat—I am on a diet!!).

On Tuesday, I was randomly invited to a dinner hosted by a local politician, featuring our American Ambassador. Not knowing what exactly to expect, I donned a somewhat conservative blue cocktail dress and high heels, even put in the contacts (you should know that I use the contacts ONLY when it is important!). I arrived there, along with another colleague of mine, and entered the lavishly decorated living room of the host. In it, there were several Bangladeshi guests, a tall white guy (turned out to be UK defense attaché) and the Ambassador and his wife. There were also a couple of Bangladeshi ladies, clad in superb sarees and dazzling jewelry. One thing you should know about Bangladeshi women – they tend to wear sarees ONLY on formal occasions. Kind of like me and the contacts, I guess. Let us just say that I felt a little funny among all in my sleeveless cocktail dress. I promptly sat down on a chair, only to realize that I was sitting next to a large serving dish, featuring a small roasted lamb seated on a carpet of fragrant rice, its turned head staring at me accusatorily. In defiance, I asked for a small slice of its butt and proceeded to eat it, balancing the plate on my knees, while a tall Bangladeshi guy, the quiet strong type, sporting a cool bandana on his bald head along with an elegant dinner jacket introduced himself as a singer who loves to sing for the people of Bangladesh. I nodded frantically, mouth full of surprised lamb and shook his gentle hand. Then I was introduced to a bunch of really nice men, who all seemed to own restaurants or men’s clothing stores. After that, I began talking to a stunning young woman, who was saying how much she loved Las Vegas, a sentiment which we share. I joked that she should get married and move there soon and she laughed. I stupidly asked her, “So, what do you do now – do you go to school or work, or…” She looked at me like I had a lamb bone in my hair, and said (rather unpretentiously I might add) “Umm, I am an actress?!” “Oh, really, wow,” I responded, feeling rather dumb, “where do you act?” “In most dramas, on most channels.” OK, so I don’t watch Bengali dramas on most channels, kill me. Who knew this was Tarin Ahmed! Still, I did keep on feeling idiotic. On exiting the party with the bandana singer, my driver just stood there, mouth agape, staring at us. Turns out, Bandana man was one of the biggest music stars of the country, SI Tutul. I kept on feeling stupid until I went to bed. I still win though – his name is SI Tutul and he has invited us to his restaurant to sing for us!

On Thursday night, our Embassy hosted a representation cocktail party for all junior officers from all Embassies in Dhaka. It was held on the rooftop of what is possibly the best restaurant in Dhaka, The Belaggio. I finally met a bunch of Russian diplomats and flexed my mad Russian skills. You should see me prattle in the language after 3 glasses of champagne. I impressed AT LEAST one Third Secretary, if not also a Second one. I made it back home at about 11. I think.
Then, on Thursday night, one of the Embassy families had their annual Mardi Gras bash on a fabulous rooftop. In a fit of paternal love, we decided to bring Son to the bash, which turned out to be a great decision. Exhausted from a week of representational events, I was content to sit there and force myself not to eat the phenomenally great Cajun food (again, I am on a diet, remember??), while Son ran around like a maniacal monkey and accumulated beads and party whistles. The Diplomat, who is not exactly a party animal in general, made us leave at 8.30 pm, which was a nice thing to do as it was possible that in another 30 mins or so, I might have keeled over my chair from fatigue. Which was a shame – the music was great, the food amazing (but I was not eating it), and I was surrounded by great friends from the Embassy. But the madness had to stop. We spent the following day quietly shopping for veggies at the market and lunching at the American Club. We ended the day on a high note by making pizza, talking to Grandma on camera and watching Tarzan. It was a good week.

America Week And The Spoiled Child

This past week the Diplomat and I went down to the south of Bangladesh where the U.S. Embassy held a 3-day self-promotional bonanza in the port city of Chittagong. The trip is a complete blur to me, a phantasmagorical mix of teas, meetings, visa presentations, KFC lunches on the go, dinners with local dignitaries, talking to students, talking to local American Chambers of Commerce, talking to American citizens living in the area, fending off droves of rapturous street kids who’d follow me with wide eyes, fascinated by my knee-high business skirt, and late-night drinks at the hotel. That was the fun part. The manning of the consular booth at the fair which the Embassy and USAID set up at the local cricket stadium was decidedly unfun. Basically, it involved standing at the booth and answering the ubiquitous question, “How do I get visa/citizenship to America?” or something of that varietal over a 100 times per hour. Surrounding the booth was a sizeable and rather permanent population of kids, varying in age from 2 to 7-8, who simply could not take their eyes off our shiny coloring books featuring various American insignia, among the other promotional materials. The idea was to use the books when someone would visit our booth with a nice, thought-provoking, deep consular question and we can have fun answering while his or her child colors the Statue of Liberty with gusto, thus instilling in her the desire to visit our lovely land one day. It did not work out exactly like that. Our booth was constantly besieged by crowds of people deeply interested in the subjects of immigration and whether we were giving away pens or shapeless baseball caps. Add to that mix the scores of small children, practically living around the booth, and you get the idea of just how insane it was out there. Now and then a newcomer will try to snatch one of the damned books (we really had just a few of them), and then all the kids would joyfully and relentlessly dart and chase the unwise child all over the fair grounds, wringing the book out of her hands and then proudly brining the wrinkled trophy back to the consular booth. When we finally decided to give them all away on day 3, a mini-revolution erupted and I feared for my life for a few long seconds out there.

All in all, however, we truly enjoyed our time there. We met many fascinating people, both Bangladeshi and Americans who have lived there for many years. I was particularly impressed with the Chittagong Women’s Chamber of Commerce – it has over a 1000 members and we had the privilege of meeting some of them over tasty tea and cake! Absolutely amazing ladies!

Let me tell you also about the trip itself. We flew on the wings of Regent Air from Dhaka. The 45 min trip was completed on a remote-controlled model airplane or so it seemed at the time. You know how you walk out on the tarmac and you see a bunch of nice, large planes and you begin to wonder which one is yours, and then as the bus makes a turn around the large Saudi Air Boing, you suddenly notice a tiny propeller, awfully close to the ground and there are folks loading YOUR bags on it? And then there is that odd feeling creeping up from the bottom of your stomach, and you start thinking about your child, parents, husband and shoe collection and ask yourself certain existential questions. And then you climb in through the impossibly narrow, tiny ladder and take a nervous seat. The next 45 mins make you ask yourself many more existential questions, especially since the plane seemed to be landing in a large swamp before hitting solid runways a split second later. We came back on the train. It was worth it. No offense to Regent Air, they were very nice and served us the ever so popular chicken sandwich without crust (or any substantial filling for that matter), peanuts and a Mentos mint, along with some old-school Mirinda.

In the meantime, Son was being looked after by his courageous grandparents, the Inlaws. Upon my returning, Son was overjoyed for at least 8 minutes. After which I summoned him to the table for dinner, which he refused with indignation. The following 30 mins were filled with discipline-related conversations with the hard-headed child, who was asked to choose between sitting on the timeout chair in the bathroom, or come eat tasty delights with the family. With chin high up, he gave me a scornful look and slowly entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him demonstratively. Well, after that he was just as demonstratively sent to bed without dinner. The next day he could not wait to sit at the table. All in all, thank God for grandparents who help out with grandkids even if the price for that is steep (complete indulgence coupled with spoiling).

This Friday we also attended the SAARC Charity Ball, organized by the ladies of SAARC in Dhaka. It was a chic affair, hosting diplomats and other fabulous personas from places like the Maldives, Bhutan, India and so on. The food was to kill for! They had none less than 5 different salads – I admit my dinner consisted solely of those. Oh, I have missed salads in Bangladesh. Good times. This week we are gearing up for even more frantic times, which parties awaiting on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. If I am alive at the tail end, I will tell you all about them.