The NEW Bidlist, EERs and a few good parties

And so, the time has come for a new bid list – something we have been expecting with joy and no little amount of trepidation. We got the list last Friday and have been obsessing over it pretty much for the better part of each day, and a good chunk of each night as well. While the list has nice cushy European posts (over which we salivate), the Diplomat and I have had to face the tandem reality – we can only bid on places with at least 2 positions in them. One of which has to be management (the Diplomat is management-coned). And the country should have good afterschool care.  And we wouldn’t need more than 34 weeks of training (obscure FSI rules). And the timing should work. Which certainly narrows it down. To about 3 positions, give or take. Sigh.

The bid list is a nerve racking, harrowing experience. Tandem or not, it causes intermittent and subtle irritation on the FS marriage front for weeks as one of you seems to think that Ouagadougou is just a wonderful career opportunity only to be stared down icily by the other one of you in disagreement. Apply this dynamic to 70% of the bid list and you get the idea of the atmosphere in the bidding home. Of course, both you and your dedicated spouse wholeheartedly agree that no matter what you end up doing in Paris, that is by large a rather pleasant post to serve in. Sadly, this opinion is shared by about 96% of the other bidders so you are painfully aware that your chances to go to that ONE available Paris position are pretty slim. And so it goes.

To add more stress to the moment, we are swiftly approaching the one-year anniversary of our arrival at post, which in the Foreign Service means one and only one unnecessarily unnerving thing – we are about to face our Employee Evaluation Report, infamously known as The EER. Each FSO gets evaluated annually by their direct supervisor and one who is above that supervisor. Each writes a page of informative narrative about your awesomeness (or not) during the past year, and then you add your own page about yourself in what is aptly termed “the suicide box”  - the text literally goes into a text box on the page and has the potential to kill your career should you say something truly stupid in it (which people have apparently done). Once the masterpiece is done, it is off to the promotions boards and other decision-makers and people in the know who make all kinds of interesting decisions about you and your career. The whole thing lasts about a month. And then we do it again next year. Good times!

On a more positive note, our social life in Dhaka has reached new, impossible heights. On May 30, our Embassy hosted our annual July 4^th party. Yes, I know the 4^th of July is on July 4^th, which was more than a month off at that point. But really, what is a month among friends, eh? The reality is that most people from the diplomatic corps and the Bangladesh government tend to leave the city in July, which would make for a very sparsely attended Independence Day party. And so we move it to accommodate our guests. The party was a hoot and a big success. One thing future eager FSOs should know – when you go to similar events at other Embassies, it’s a fabulous party to enjoy. When you are the host, it is a fabulous party where you work. Everyone gets assigned a task. I got the honor of saying goodbye to guests from 7.45 pm till 8.30 pm. So, I spent some quality time chatting up exhausted guests waiting for their limos in the 110 degree humidity. One thing was for sure – they all seemed to have had a great time!

Other parties in the last 2 weeks included an underground club with live music, a reception in honor of the new New Zealand ambassador, a Girls’ Night in, several goodbye parties (‘tis the transfer season), a rather happening Marines’ dance party, a birthday party for one of Son’s girlfriends (which I attended with just the tinsiest bit of a hangover following the previously mentioned Marines’ party), a fabulous rooftop expats party, and an exclusive dinner with two young and upcoming painters in a restaurant that was apparently open only for the four of us that night. My feet hurt.

How I went to jail. Twice!

One of the less delightful aspects of my job is to visit American citizens who for one reason or another happened to land in the local jails. To be honest, the American Embassy provides mostly moral support and lends a sympathetic ear (well, in this case, MY ear) to the raves and rants of our fellow citizens behind the less than hospitable bars of the host country. We generously give them a list of lawyers in case they don’t already have one such expensive accessory and subsequently monitor first the trial to ensure fairness and then their condition in the prison to make sure they are treated reasonably well. For folks who have been in reason for some time, we are supposed to visit at least a month. For jail freshmen, we need to visit immediately.

And so it happened that on a bright, stuffy, painfully hot and muggy day I was supposed to visit a long-term prisoner fella’ of ours who is behind bars for murder. It also just so happened that we got news that a brand new, wide-eyed American had also found his way into prison the previous week. Not one to waste governmental money for extra gas, I decided to combine both trips and spend some quality time at Dhaka Central Jail. It was going to be my first trip and my palms were getting sweaty from the excitement. Or from the excessive muggy heat, who knows. There was, however, a large fly in the ointment, as an old economics teacher of mine, one infamous Padma Desai, would say. The large hairy fly was the fact that we needed to get permission from the Bangladesh government to visit our new jailbird. The road to permission is laden with traps like dip notes, notes verbale, gazillion phone calls to ministers, vice-ministers, petit administrators, prison chiefs, inspectors, a few second and third secretaries, several angry emails and 2 non-working fax machines. To make a long story short, a week into the process, we seemed deceptively close to getting the coveted permission (you’d think we wanted to shoot vodka with the head imam instead of going on a prison visit) but not really getting it.

Since we had to visit our prisoner N1 anyway (we have a long standing permission to visit him), we decided to go and hope that somehow while we were on our way, the permission for prisoner N2 will magically materialize. It took us only 1 hour to get there – the Central Jail is in old Dhaka, a place that is rather challenging to navigate given that its streets were designed to let through a few cows and a goat, not a Chevy SUV, 5678 rickshaws and 357,834 pedestrians in addition to the goats. We arrived at prison just as a bunch of particularly grisly prisoners, shackled in contraptions circa 1910 were climbing morosely into a large prehistoric blue bus. I could not stop conjuring scenes from “Oh Brother, Where Art Though?” Even though I had tried to dress conservatively for the day (I wore pants, a first for me in this climate), I was an instant hit in the square in front of the jail. Everyone in the vicinity either glued themselves to the windows or stopped in the street and openly stared. Inasmuch as I wanted to appear strong yet graceful, my appearance was definitely marred by the fact that I was carrying a massive (and heavy) duffel bag filled with books and newspapers for Mr. Prisoner, clutching a very uncomfortable folder under my left arm and my purse under the other (I was paranoid someone will snatch it from me). In addition, my blond curly hair was rapidly turning into a massive cloud of frizzy mess on top of my head, effectively making me look like a frantic sweaty administrative sheep. I marched on, determined, towards the prison gate which for some odd reason was only 5 ft tall and necessitated me to bend over and go inside in an even less graceful manner. I am afraid I made a rather comical entrance and did not impress the ail Superintendent one bit. Which was bad because I badly needed to impress him - as you can imagine, the permission to see our prisoner had not arrived and he flatly refused to let us see him.

Instead, we waited for about 2 hours to meet with our other prisoner. We were seated politely in an outdoors area, in front of a massive fan, on playfully tasteful wicker furniture and served prison-baked cookies. Needless to say, I was also intensely stared at for every minute of those 2 hours by every policemen, detective, passing prisoner and random loiterer inside (there seemed to be so many). In the meantime, the jail superintendent came by to release some prisoners – he’d call their names, look into a ginormous red book, ask them secure self-identifying questions like “what’s your mother’s name,” joke about their crime and then let them go. We eventually saw our prisoner, gave him a bunch of books, chatted with him for 20 mins and left. No amount of pleading and cajoling would make him allow us the other guy.

Of course, we finally got the permission 10 mins after we came back to the Embassy that same day. Which meant that on the following day my senior local staff and I found ourselves once again prison bound. We were well on our way when the driver took a wrong turn. Suddenly we were in an impossible myriad of streets, no names or any other distinctive signs, surrounded by rickshaws and a sea of people peddling (or buying) any imaginable item in the world. None of the above were moved, literally, by the presence of the large white Embassy SUV. In fact, it seemed sometimes that rickshaws climbed on top of the massive armored vehicle. We went places where no car has ever been, I am sure. Even the goats were amused by our presence there.

Two and half hours later, we spilled out of the banged up vehicle in front of prison to the utter delight of the yesterday’s gawkers. Once back inside, the superintendent poured over the permission to see our guy and seemingly enthusiastically ordered someone to get the guy prepped. Then he set out to his usual business of releasing skinny frightened criminals, one of which said that he was either 12, 13 or 14 years old?! To add to the performance, two neat and serene detectives in killer ties joined the party – I think they were supposed to watch the released and pick some of them for testifying. Unless I was one of the potential witnesses, I don’t think they saw much since both of them bore unblinking eyes into me while I pretended to understand everything that was going on. About 1.5 hrs later, a policeman came to double check on the name of the AMCIT prisoner – we confirmed, He disappeared. Another one appeared from nowhere with a tray of cookies placed gracefully on plates engraved in cursive with “Dhaka Central Jail” on them. Someone out there actually thought about hosting guests in prison and ordered them plates. Hospitality is the word! At that precise moment, the policeman came back and told us, “Um, the American was released 2 days ago…” and then left hurriedly, almost skipping on his way out, possibly incinerated by the look I gave him. I made sure I glared sufficiently at everyone around me, got up with the look of a very hurt pride (I did feel rather stupid at that moment since we had raised such hell in order to see that guy) and walked away, slicking my high heels on the stone prison floor as hard as I could. Positively good times.

In other news, the Diplomat just came from a memorable weekend away in Chiang Mai, Thailand, where he went off to feel manly with another 5 of his Embassy buddies. They all came back in one piece and their wildest stories include dancing with each other until 3 am, riding mopeds on the highway to sightsee, playing indecent amounts of tennis and drinking duty-free vodka in the early afternoon. Wild times.

Laos, Secretary Clinton and the Latino Ball

So, I was going to devote my next post entirely to Laos and how fabulous it is, but then some other rather exciting things happened in the meantime and so all Laos gets is 2 sentences. There it goes: Laos is fantastic – calm, clean, excellent cuisine, still largely unspoiled by tourists, wonderful smiling people. While Vientiane was a tad underwhelming (couple of fabulous Wats notwithstanding), Luang Prabang delivered and how – gorgeous multiple Wats, excellent restaurants perched on the river, elephant rides and water baths, monkey jumping from a rope into a crystal blue mountain waterfall, and cooler air. Yes, we loved Luang Prabang, it was a great end to a fabulous trip. On the way back on the wings of Bangkok Air, we had a 6 hour layover in Bangkok, which we used to snag a dinner at HardRock Café downtown. Don’t judge, people, don't you judge! After 10 months in South Asia, one craves a smidgeon of home food and atmosphere, even if the local food is amazing.

As we were dining peacefully in HardRock on some potato skins and massive beer, I all of a sudden read in the news that my boss, Secretary Clinton, is coming to town. As Elmo would say - Oh boy!! This was my first time experiencing a major Washington visit at an embassy and let me tell you – it was an eye opener on some many different levels! At the State Department, we have funny abbreviations like POTUS (President of the United States), FLOTUS (???) (First Lady), S for Secretary, CODEL for a congressional delegation, and so on. Oh yeah, we have a great sense of humor in DOS! So, S’s visit to Bangladesh was for only 22 hours and she wanted to meet the Prime Minister, the Foreign Minister, the opposition leader, the civil society leaders, the youth and the embassy community. In 22 hours, people - the lady is amazing! Phew! And we had to make it happen with less than a week to prep. You have no idea what this entails until you become part of the circus.

First, an advance team comes from Washington – apart from the security detail, the sniffing dogs, a bunch of other guys whose function still remains a mystery to me, there are also several foreign service officers who come in advance and help plan the dance with the embassy. Apart from serving overseas, our career also brings us back to serve in the U.S. There are generally 2 types of jobs – analytical (say, desk officer for a country or some other functional position, like human rights for Africa) and the action – packed “7^th” floor job. The 7^th floor in the Department of State is where S office and her immediate staff preside. To work there is, to say the least, rather prestigious. Among some of the support roles for the 7^th floor are the Operations Center (provides 24 hours communications and crisis management support to all of us) and the so-called “Line” (S’s travel team, of which the advance team is a part). I have never seen such an efficient, fast and furious machine unfold itself within such a short period of time. Every day we had countdown meetings, where Secretary Clinton’s every step was planned literally in 1-minute increments. Roles were being assigned, more and more people roped in every hour or so and by the end, most warm bodies in the Embassy had some function in the visit, even if they were to supervise luggage or sell candy in the hotel operations room. I got to babysit the local press for some of the meetings. Which was cool because it meant that I will get to see S at least 2 times if not more, while some of the worker bees on the visit never even got to see her. After all was said and done, the Secretary left swiftly and somehow magically all the staff and equipment disappeared within the next 24 hours like they have never even set foot in Dhaka. One day, when I grow up, I want to work “on the line”!

The visit required both me and the Diplomat to work all weekend. One of my meetings was at the American Club, which meant that on a hot Friday afternoon I had to go there, fully clad in a suit while the poolside was filled with happy screaming kids and parents, gleefully jumping in and out of the cool water. Son was at home with his babysitter. All weekend long. I came home at 11 pm that night and had to leave at 6 am the next morning. I didn’t see him most of the weekend, which made me feel incredibly guilty – it is so easy to feel like you are a bad mom. But the truth is, this happens. It happens in almost every job - there are late nights, overnight trips, moments and hours when you just want to be alone and not be engaged 100% with your child. And so it is ok. It happens much less for those working in consular positions, but if you are a public diplomacy, political, econ or even management officer, late nights and weekends are par for the course – whether it is a gallery opening for Cultural Affairs, or a pesky late night cable for Political after a long and possibly fruitless meeting with some governmental official, or preparing for yet another CODEL (congressional delegation) for Management. Being a Foreign Service officer is a fabulous job but it comes with its own baggage. I still want to work on the line. And be a FSO. I LOVE my job!

And now here is my stupid moment of the S visit. Secretary Clinton had breakfast at the ambassador’s house along with two of the most prominent Bangladeshi civil society leaders. I was managing the press at the event which was staying in a side room, facing the guest bathroom. When it was about time for her to leave, she apparently went to the restroom (which I did not notice). At the same time, I decided to lean on the door of the press holding room and see if I can hear whether the meeting nearing its end. At that precise moment, the Secretary came out of the restroom, looked at me, smiled widely and said, “Thank you!” (for the great logistical support, I suppose). I was so surprised to see her so close face to face that the only thing I could blurt out was another, “Umm, thank you!” Literally 30 seconds later much more intellectual and engaging things to say came to my mind, like “It was great having you here, Mdm. Secretary!” or “We are so excited to have you here!” or even “Your hair sure looks nice today! (it did).” Instead, I just stood there smiling inanely – she nodded politely and left. Sigh….

The following Friday we all let loose at the Latino Ball. You should see the Diplomat and me dancing – it is a vision…Suffice it to say that he not a natural born dancer, while I am quite deft at the dance floor. One thing I’ll say – the poor man at least obliges me. So, when we dance, most of my time is spent hissing in his ears his moves while he tries to decipher what in the world he is supposed to be doing. The result is potentially comical. But at least we are on the dance floor! Some husbands won’t even make it to the Ball. Shame on them! Dance, husbands, dance!

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.