Goodbye 2011!

There are just few hours left of 2011 here in Bangladesh. We are dressed up, hair coiffed, makeup applied, perfumed and ready to taken on the city of Dhaka tonight. And so, while we wait for Son's babysitter to show up, I cannot help but reflect on what has been probably the craziest year in my life.
We learned Bengali, packed up our lives and moved to the other side of the world, Son changed schools seemingly a thousand times, we traveled to India, Thailand and Malasysia, learned to live with unbelievable humidity, attended a party or two, got bitten by a monkey and killed a zillion pesky mosquitoes.
Our lives are so different from what they used to be back home. We ourselves have changed to other, I daresay, better people and Son has certainly grown up like a mushroom. Looking back, we ask ourselves the question: would we do it all over again had we known everything we now know? The answer is unequivocal "yes."
And so goodbye year 2011. It has been a real true pleasure to know you!

How I Bought a Skinny Christmas Tree and the Night Habits of Son

Christmas has surprised me this year. It sort of crept up on me here because of the warm weather and the fact that there is not a single Christmas propaganda in the entire city of Dhaka. Not one! Not a single plastic Santa or glowing Christmas tree in the streets. Odd.

Before coming to post I thought importantly to myself that I have never used a fake tree in my life and was not about to. I was all about being natural, you know, because I am THAT cool. Let me tell you—two weeks of watching my friends’ happily glowing large, beautifully plastic Christmas trees in Dhaka and I was frantically searching Amazon.com for a fake awesomeness to call my own. Sadly, there wasn’t enough time for delivery. I was facing Christmas without a tree and while some of you cynics out there might think that this isn’t such a big deal (just like I did), it actually is. OK?? Rather distraught, I started asking around the diplomatic enclave whether anyone had a spare one (you’d be shocked to see the kind of multiple crap that expats collect over the years because you just never know when you will need an extra nativity scene or a ritual Indian hat or extra large peacock feathers). And then suddenly I saw in a nursery nearby my house several fairly large (5 ft or so) potted (sort of) pine trees. A bit anemic, they still could hold up a few ornaments and would give the house the sorely needed Christmas look. Triumphantly, I bought the scrawny tree and this past weekend decorated it with Son and the Diplomat. Actually, it was more like me decorating while singing loudly and unconvincingly a potpourri of Christmas songs while the Diplomat sat there trying not to look bored and Son ran around trying to break as many ornaments as possible. He broke only 3. And then I broke 2. While cleaning the mess, I broke a third one for good measure. Merry Christmas!

Speaking of Son, I have to complain of his recent night habits. Some time ago Son began to come into our bed in the early morning hours. It was just a few minutes before getting up so he served as a really cute and loveable alarm clock. Then he started coming in a bit earlier, say 5 am. He’d quietly get into bed with us, somehow make his way into the middle, and then spread his (seemingly) million legs and arms around and snore loudly. Between the foot in my ribcage, fingers in my ear and the 5 am morning call to prayer from our particularly loud and not so musical neighboring muezzin, I was beginning to lose some serious amount of sleep. Thusly, I decided to nip the friendly 5 am visits in the bud. So, the following night, when I woke up at 4 am to find him there, I quietly hugged him and carried him back to his bed. He never even woke up. I then went to the restroom and quickly went back into our bed only to discover with a start a certain asleep, snoring child is in there AGAIN! How and when he managed to find his way back so fast is a mystery to me. Not one to be easily deterred, I promptly carried him back to his own room and went back to bed. Somehow, I fell asleep. At 5 am, the dutiful muezzin called all faithful to prayer and me to wake up. I turned around to try and find a better sleeping position and found myself almost nose to nose with none other than a fast asleep obstinate child. Once more I carried the tiny stowaway to his bedroom (momma is way more obstinate than him). Needless to say, when I finally got up at 7 am, I found him right back there next to me. He opened his eyes with a wide grin and said, “Mama, I love you much!” I capitulated. And before any of you decide to berate me for not wanting my child in my own bed—I do, I really DO. But I just can’t sleep with him in there. And I do have to get up in the morning and actually go to work. So there.

With the holidays, the party season has really reached a crescendo here. I cannot even count how many dinner and afternoon parties and receptions we have attended for the past 2 weeks. Not that I am complaining but I do admit that both the Diplomat and I, after coming back from yet another bash last night, simply passed out in bed at 9.30pm. Not even Son coming to our bed at 5 am (blasted obstinate child!) could manage to wake me up.

During this past one week winter has finally arrived in Bangladesh. The temperature has dropped to 5-10C and we are actually freezing at home. The Diplomat has taken on sleeping in a particularly objectionable old brown sweater and white socks. While some women can certainly find that attractive, I have found that I am not gracious enough to accept the look with joy. It was indeed rather shocking to observe how fast the weather went from 25 to 5 degrees, it was truly a matter of 2 days. I write now, sitting on my governmentally-provided, neutral beige plush couch, dressed in PJs, fuzzy white slippers and wrapped in a fleece blanket while my nose is so frozen that if I tap it, it might break off. I never thought I’d say this in Dhaka, but I do wish we had heating.

Winter in Bangladesh - scarves and mosquitoss

So, winter has descended upon us here in Bangladesh. For weeks, my driver has been warning me grimly how horribly cold it would get in Dhaka. So, in excited anticipation (yes, after months of wet 100F and above, you TOO will be excited about cold weather), I pulled out the sweaters and arranged them in neat piles in our closets. And then I sat down and waited, day by day, for the severe cold that comes here. And then it got down to a pleasant 85 degrees and half of Bangladesh started wearing scarves. Thick, pashmina, colorful scarves. My driver, for example, wears one obsessively, tightly wrapped around his neck. I am not sure what exactly it does for him-whether he thinks it blocks the harmful chilly 85 degree air or he is missing the feeling of constant sweating from the sweltering summer. The door guards wear parkas and hats and I feel rather stupid walking past them in a backless summer dress. The rickshaw wallahs wrap yards of fabric around their heads and today I saw a guy with red ear muffs.

With winter came along also a famous Bangladeshi visitor--the hungry mosquito. They are everywhere--at home, in front of your home, in the office, in the car, around the car, in your nose or buzzing in your ears, often tangled in your hair, all over your exposed feet and defenseless child. The biggest swarms seem to be, inexplicably, in front of the apartment doors. Coming home has become a challenge worthy of Super Mario, where I would slowly come to the door, flail my arms bravely and try to kill as many as I possibly can, earning a coin each time I do. It doesn't help that I have a nice, cheap plastic autumn wreath on my door, which has been chosen (with delight, I am sure) as a favorite mosquito hangout spot. When I shake the damn wreath, about a million precocious and irritated mosquitoes fall out of it and start buzzing around me in irritation. Then I crack the door open and dash quickly inside at which point Son comes out of nowhere, screaming in delight upon seeing mama and then opening the front door wide open, probably to see if there is some other part of me left out there. In silent dismay I watch the pesky tiny neighbors come in for a visit in droves. Sure, we do try to keep them at bay with various contraptions - in front of the entrance door, I keep a slow burning coil, which sends a thin veil of scented smoke around the door. As a result, the entire building staircase smells like a Buddhist temple but it DOES help keep at least some percentage away. Inside, we have plug-in lamps that use heated scented oil. The oil is really effective--we have not had a mosquito in our bedroom or in Son's room for a long time. The downside is that it smells like a truly cheap perfume, the kind that they used to make back in the Soviet Union days and so it always reminds me vaguely of discos and teenage dating. Finally, to my utmost distaste, we finally armed ourselves with an electric tennis racket - the contraption allows you to electrocute (to the tune of an awful cracking, frying sound and smell) a flying by mosquito. So far, I have managed to electrocute one little buzzer but I can tell you, it is not a job for the faint of heart!
The most irritating part of them is that one mosquito tends to bite many times around the same spot - I'd rather the damn insect man up and bite once but show some quality work. These bites usually go away in a couple of hours but while they last, you will scratch your skin like a rabid dog. Not to mention that we are all morbidly afraid that we will catch Dengue fever, carried ever so graciously by the mosquitoes.
This is the season for Christmas parties, and boy, everyone has got some serious Christmas spirit. Starting tomorrow, we will be visiting Christmas parties every day, and on Thursday alone, we will go to 4, yes, 4 of them. I LOVE it!

New York in Asia and the Biting Monkey

Last weekend the Diplomat, Son and I flew to Kuala Lumpur for a brief, three-day weekend away. I am happy to say that the trip started well and it just kept getting better! For some reason, we got upgraded to Business Class. Now, honestly, was Business Class all that it is cracked up to be? OH YES, YES, YES! From the warm, fragrant hand towels, the lamb satee, the champagne, the service, the blankets, the reclining chairs, the lounge, everything was just fantastic. How can we go back to coach now???

Kuala Lumpur is truly what everyone kept telling me it is—a giant luxury shopping mall. There are designer shopping malls everywhere, all of which showcase some rather ludicrous prices compared to the United States. And for that precise reason, we did not buy anything, but certainly enjoyed eating all the fabulous international food. To me, Kuala Lumpur was like an Asian version of New York City. Not too polished or sterile like Singapore, or too ethnic and hippie like Bangkok, it stands somewhere in the middle. It houses many different cultures and all that comes with those—restaurants, shops, colors, places of worship, people. Speaking of which, two days in a row we tried to go and see the famed Mosjid Jamek (the Jamek Mosque). Firstly, we were not admitted as it was too late. The next day we came in too early (the afternoon Friday prayer had just ended and a seemingly endless stream of people was pouring outside). Finally, we arrived for a third time right on the dot, and thankfully were let in. I was given a fetching hijab and a sprawling, billowing dress to cover myself and allowed to walk around and take some pictures. The mosque has a beautiful, tranquil space for payer and contemplation, as well as some web browsing, as we learned. At least two of the revelers inside were surfing the net on the laptops! Talk about progress...

Then, while waiting for Son to go “poopy” (as Son loudly announced in the deafening silence of the mosque area) along with the Diplomat, a rather loquacious mosque worker chatted me only to realize with obvious horror that I was a Christian and my husband—Hindu. He told me that there is still hope for me, and gave me a heavy pamphlet on Mohammad to read on the plane. That seemed to cheer his up considerably.

As I said, KL reminded me of NYC very much also because of its night scene. The Diplomat and I were fortunate to discover the Sky Bar at the top of the Trader’s Hotel, which offered impeccable drinks, mesmerizing views of the brightly-lit Petronas Towers and excellent music. The bar is located around the pool area on the top of the hotel so the venue is even more dramatic. Not surprisingly, we managed to run into two Americans there-a NJ native working in Hong Kong (there for the weekend) and a U.S. Marine from Dubai (there for the weekend) who had just gotten married to a Palestinian girl. Let’s just say that it was a good party.

The following day, we went to see the Batu Caves, famous for the Hindu temple built in and around them. While the temple itself was a rather, shall we say – touristy affair, right next to it was the real cave which offered a 45 min trip inside the complete darkness. Not ones to miss the cool stuff, we quickly headed over. Now, to reach the temple/cave area, one must climb almost 300 steep steps. Son ran up them with the ease of a monkey, which is ironic given that the steps were full of local monkeys. Let’s just say that it is terrible what tourists can do to the local fauna. The monkeys were constantly looking for food, generously given by the unaware and delighted tourists—peanuts, sugar, even bottled water (?!). Rather amused, I began taking pictures, while Son was pottering around my legs. All of a sudden I heard a burst of crying from below—Son was screaming and crying and the Diplomat, who was a few steps away, was frantically yelling that a monkey had bitten him. Indeed, it had and he had the bite marks to prove it. To add insult to injury, the biting monkey and a giggling friend were already moving quickly away, each one carrying one of Son’s cars which he had dutifully clutched in his hands up to that moment. Apparently, while I was taking pictures, the monkeys approached Son and being like children themselves, tried to pry the cars away from his hands. As Son was refusing to give them away, one of the monkeys bit the child and then both ran away. My first instinct (sorry!) was to grab one of the cars from the monkey’s hands and try to get it back. So, there we were—a mid-sized, not-joking, rather strong monkey and a sweating, short-skirted female American diplomat tugging a bright red car while a crowd of cheering people and monkeys stood on the sidelines and watched. I won. I am not proud of it. I am just saying. Sadly, the second car (a firetruck) was lost irretrievably to a much larger and faster monkey, who perched himself on a high fence and proceeded to chew the Chinese toy with enviable assiduity and perseverance. Thankfully, the State Department had given Son a series of rabbies and tetanus shots, so the monkey bite was not dangerous. But Son has surely developed a whole new level of appreciation of monkeys. So did I. Otherwise, the cave tour wa great - we learned a whole bunch of vastly unnecessary information on cave spiders, centipedes and cockroaches.

We left KL with heavy hearts and stomachs.

The Contraband Wine and Marine Ball Dhaka 2011

We shared our desire for some wine and beer with the resort staff and they happily told us that there is a place in downtown Sylhet where we can procure the goods. They did not tell us what kind of a place it was but asked us to bring our diplomatic passports so we assumed it was the local equivalent of the diplomatic warehouses in Dhaka. In those places, you enter a highly guarded world of alcohol imported from all over the world at ridiculously cheap duty-free prices. So, we hired a car from the resort and on the second day of our trip dashed off to the downtown. Mind you, this was a day before Eid began and the town was a madhouse consisting of gazillion vendors of clothing of every size, gender and variety humanity has ever invented, cattle of every size, cooked food, raw food, fried road-side snacks, live chickens, dead chickens, eggs, mysterious looking giant leafy possibly edible plants, exotic fruits, huge hanging bunches of grapes, plastic knick-knacks, flowers for the cattle, rickety rickshaws, cars and people, people everywhere. We inched for about 45 mins and then suddenly took an abrupt left turn into a dark large gate where we overheard the driver mentioning to the armed uniformed guards that we were British. The Diplomat and I looked at each other quizzically, and I told him that we needed to hone our accents immediately. We entered into a smallish dark parking lot in front of a neat, foreign-looking building. The driver told us to go inside and then sped away to the farthest and darkest corner of the parking lot. Increasingly puzzled, we entered what turned out to be a small foyer with two silent Bangladeshi men in impeccable white shirts and creased black pants. All four of us stood there for about a minute in complete silence. Awkwaaaaaard. After shuffling my feet uneasily for a while, I finally asked whether they needed us to show them some sort of ID.

Guard 1: No. (Silence)
Me: Ummmm, hm. Well, ok. (Looking uncomfortably and scratching myself thoughtfully)
Diplomat: Soooooooooooo, do you have wine here?
Guard 1: Yes.
D: Do you have white?
G: Yes.
D: Do you have red?
G: Yes.

It went on like this for some time, the guard never volunteering more than a laconic answer to the point. We started feeling quite funny about the whole business, and told them firmly that we wanted three bottles of white wine and one bottle of (some obscure) scotch. They quoted us some obscene amounts for the purchase (over a $100) and after gasping for a few seconds, we decided to pay, if not for anything else, then at least for the adventure. And then Diplomat asked brightly if he could pay by credit card. He does things like that. The guards gave him a long, strained look, either trying to suppress a loud giggle or the urge to smack him, and then one of them icily responded, “We don’t have the facility for that, Sir.” The Diplomat handed over the cash and we were told to go wait in the car “for the parcel.” No one ever said who these people were and we still had no idea where in the heck we were, but we humbly complied. The Diplomat and I went back to the van, our driver was nowhere to be seen, so we proceeded to chat happily while energetically swatting away the hordes of mosquitoes and ferociously scratching our severely bitten legs. Suddenly, we saw our portly driver running madly back to the car like the booze police was after him, slamming the doors of the van shut, and then he jumped in the driver seat and sped away with all his might. The Diplomat and I looked at each other in horror, me breathlessly asking whether there is a police raid on this place or perhaps whether the gate guards will toss us the “parcel” as we pass by. Just as we were about to leave the place, I yelled at the driver, “Where is the package?” He jumped on the breaks, almost killing us in the process, and then turned around and asked me whether we had it already. It turned out that he went to the bathroom who knows where, and upon coming back, saw us sitting there and assumed we were done and in a hurry to go drinking. So, we went back and soon the parcel arrived—inside where two bottles of RED wine, one white and one scotch which was completely different from what we originally discussed (but no means better, of course). In the end it turned out that the place was a private club, whose guards and waiters were selling booze under the table for a hefty profit. Needless to say, the wine was absolutely awful but after a few glasses even the scotch tasted just fine.

Earlier that day, we drove all the way up to the Indian border in the town of Jaflong. From there, we took a brief boat-ride in a miniscule boat to the point where the Indian border is. The border itself is marked by two large stones and lone border policeman, who was spending his time pleasantly in the sun sitting on one of the border stones and cleaning his foot nails with a large stick. In the meantime, in the river there were quite a few boatmen from both sides of the border (read, Bangladeshis and Indians) who were apparently fighting energetically and not letting the Indians cross into Bengali territory. The reasons for that remain murky. At the same time, a bunch of women on the Indian side were doing massive loads of laundry and sending plenty of soapy water into Bangla-land. So, we did the touristy thing and stood with one leg in Bangladesh and another in India. Very powerful stuff.

The following night we met a group of nurses from a Cleft-palate foundation (Children’s Surgery International) who came to relax for a day at the resort after working tirelessly in Bangladesh. I loved seeing fellow Americans and swapping stories from their missions abroad in exchange for some of our contraband wine. I think they are an amazing group of ladies and apparently they will be coming back again next year for more good deeds. They were accompanied by a Bangladeshi American who now lives in the United States and helps out with the foundation work. He happened to be also a sophisticated photographer and I admired his tripod for a while after soliciting advice on the subject (I have been pining for one for some time, never too sure what to buy). Well, folks, I can only tell you that on the next day, as they were leaving, he came to the Diplomat and gave him the tripod—he said that he could not stand to see a fellow photographer without one and he could always get another one in the U.S. So, yes, I love my job because it gives me to opportunity to see the world and meet the most extraordinary ordinary people.

What else? Ah yes, we celebrated our annual Marine Corps Ball last weekend. The Diplomat decided to have a tuxedo made for him as it is rather inexpensive to do so in Dhaka and it seems that one can always use a tuxedo in life. True to form, although the tuxedo could have been done about a month before the Ball given when we first went in for measurements, the Diplomat actually picked it up 3 hours before the Ball started.

He was certainly not the only one to make his tuxedo in Ferdous Tailors in Dhaka. Amusingly, about 25% of the Ball guests wore identical tuxedos. This was our first Marine Ball and all was going fantastic, including the video tribute which showed scenes from all kinds of wars as well as September 11, 2001 at which point I and a whole bunch of other women in heavy make-up were sobbing uncontrollably. The food was outstanding and the company excellent. And then the DJ hit the dance floor. All I can say is that the man loooooooved the late 70s and early 80s. From time to time some poor soul would approach him and ask for something new-er, which he played obligingly, the crowd would pile up happily and dance and then the moment the good song was over, the DJ would kill it with the Macarena, Rhythm Is  Dancer or some other definitive crowd-pleaser. Good company and party notwithstanding, we left at 1.

Sylhet, Eid-alAdha and the contraband alcohol - Part 1

Where do I even begin? There is so much to tell that I will break this post into parts and you will be forced to come back to read if you want to know how the Diplomat and I went to the tea gardens of Sylhet, drank obscene quantities of dreadfully strong local tea, obtained what appeared to be contraband alcohol, stepped into India for a few minutes, and never got a single food order right. So, I begin.

My Inlaws have been visiting us for the past 2 weeks and so we decided to go on a short family vacation to the beautiful Nazimgarh Resort, located in the midst of tea garden country surrounding Sylhet, the third largest Bangladeshi town. We were joined by our good friend Mr. Hawaiian and his two kids (Mrs. Hawaiian, for those who remember, is currently in the U.S. since she just had another baby—Congratulations!). The idea was to leave town before the onset of Eid-Al-Adha. Not for the faint of heart, the second Eid festival celebrated by the Muslim population of the world involves ritual sacrifice of domestic animals (qurbani) and commands sharing of the meat, among many other things. The reason we had decided to leave was that in Dhaka, the slaughtering tend to occur right in the streets, including in the diplomatic enclaves where a lot of wealthy Bangladeshi citizens happily live. We were told that as a result, the morning of Eid we will be woken up by the plaintive screech of dying animals and for 2 days blood will flow freely in all directions. Slightly unnerved at the thought, we decided to spend Eid elsewhere.

We started rather auspiciously. Our flight was almost not delayed (what’s 20 minutes between friends??) and then after we walked on the tarmac to climb into the toy propeller airplane operated by Regent Air, the pilot excitedly welcomed us onboard and immediately launched into a brief but poignant prayer extolling Allah several times. Given the size and the look of the airplane, I thought praying was indeed prudent. 45 minutes later, we landed safely if somewhat jumpily in Sylhet. We collected the luggage and went outside where a driver welcomed us to a miniscule looking SUV.  A sort of a circus scene ensued: All of us five adults and three children kept running around the car, several small suitcases in tow, trying to figure out how to cram ourselves inside. The serene unperturbed driver, who never uttered a word, was hastily trying to jam all suitcases in the non-existent luggage space of the SUV (the bulk taken up by a massive propane gas tank).

Naturally, soon a small crowd of delighted local loiterers who were simply hanging out at the tiny airport with nothing better to do for the day, kept closing in on us literally breathing down our necks. To enhance the effect of the mayhem, two tenacious beggars (an impossibly skinny woman with a billowing saree and an old man with a giant beard) somehow managed to penetrate the circle of loitering onlookers, and to my utter shock practically climbed into the car and began asking for alms. Not a second late, a police-looking man started yelling at them from the top of his lungs, possibly trying to scare them away and frightening me to no end in the process. Having reached the end of my patience and sweating profusely in the gentle November sun, I took matters in my own hands, stuffed my languid family into the van and yelled to the driver to go.

We drove past several lively animal markets selling livestock destined to perish the following day--the cows and goats definitely looked unimpressed. I was. The experience has left me with the longing to acquire a small goat. What could be better than coming home from a long day of work and be greeted by a friendly bleeting, followed by a set of small hooves lovingly placed on my chest. I suspect, however, that Fat Cat would not be amused. There goes that dream. 20 mins later we arrived in the serenity of Nazimgarh Resrots where we were met with a round of complimentary impossibly sweet orange-colored liquid by some of the most polite people in this world.

  

The resort is quite beautiful and the rooms are very well appointed. The surrounding nature is gorgeous and since we are now in November, the weather has become wonderfully balmy—lower 80s during the day and high 60s in the evening. We wisely chose to get “luxury” rooms (meaning, those with terraces) and I highly recommend to everyone going there to do the same. There is something magical about waking up in the morning and sitting on the terrace, overlooking a vast green space, listening to the birds, inhaling the pleasant non-humid, non-hot air and drinking strong tea (or whatever else strikes your fancy at that time of the day).

At which point Son would appear on the terrace as well, having taken off his nightly diaper and pajamas and thus stark naked, and would stand proudly there welcoming the morning in its (and his own) glory. He would not get dressed for all the candy in the world. Good times.

The restaurant offers a good variety of continental as well as Asian food, all very well prepared. The problem was the service. All waiters spoke some English or made it look like they did, which was unfortunate because we kept ordering in English (or in the case of the Diplomat, in confusing Bangla). Let’s just say that a lot was lost in translation. The most common confusion involved us wondering aloud what food to order (and making the mistake to ask the waiters for advice) while they frantically wrote everything down and as a result would habitually come back with way more food than we intended to order. The children refused to eat much else beyond pizza and spaghetti and meatballs (God bless the Italians) and so the percentage of those two dishes consumed annually in Sylhet proper just went up by 500%.

The resort also boasts a really nice swimming pool. Ok, not swimming, just pool. Surrounded by lush greenery, it was the appointed place to hang out in the afternoon for all of us, and while the kids kept soaking in the rather cold water, we would consume even more tea and read our books and rest our weary diplomatic bones.

The one thing that the resort does NOT boast is alcohol. Which was a pity. I did have a nagging suspicion that would be the case, so I meticulously prepared 2 bottles of wine and some stronger beverages to come with us from Dhaka. Naturally, we promptly forgot them. So, on the first evening of our stay at Nazimgarh, as we lamented how nice it would have been to have a sip of this and that while chatting the night away and swatting at the swarming resilient mosquitoes, we decided to ask whether there is any hidden stash of any fermented liquid in the resort. We were told a polite no, BUT if we wanted to, the staff would be happy to tell us where we could get some wine and beer in Sylhet city. Rather intrigued, we declared out interest and decided to rent a car the following afternoon and go procure. And procure we did—what I now strongly suspect is contraband wine and scotch. But for more on that—tune in this weekend!

It’s Halloween in Dhaka!

And people take it seriously. Maybe because it is a way to reconnect with home, or maybe because it is yet another reason to party, but both expats and local embassy staff have embraced the holiday and the amount of parties, carnivals and trick-or-treat events for children are mind-boggling. Two weeks ago was the pre-cursor of it all by the name of the Glitter Ball, organized by the Australians. It is possibly the most infamous expat party in Dhaka and is in essence a giant costume party held at the Radisson Hotel. It sells out in 17 minutes once tickets become available (they are sold in tables rather than individually) and then the tickets start getting traded around with more secrecy and fervor than the Google IPO. Each table chooses a theme (which this year ranged from Australian road signs to a bunch of Amy Whinehouses to a beach party to Arabian Nights) and then coordinates their costumes. We were lucky to snag tickets the morning OF the ball and yours truly went as a devil and the Diplomat—as an office zombie—since we landed on the monsters’ table. How appropriate.

Then, in the past week, there have been 3 trick-or-treat events for kids, which Son attended with a vengeance in his old devil costume because I am a bad mommy and could not get my act together to have a new one made for him (which is what all good mommies here do apparently). On top of that, the costume clearly was not very appropriate for Dhaka as it was made of wonderful plastic-y fleece material, which was perfect in the cold October weather of Washington, DC but not for the 85+ degrees of Dhaka. Son sweated profusely yet bravely and as a result our house is heavy with the sugary loot. Yesterday, our Embassy hosted a trick-or-treating event and all of us were encouraged to dress up to work. I wore my witch hat with matty silver hair, which I forgot to take off while talking to a couple of puzzled and somewhat horrified visa applicants.

So, as you can see, we are doing swell in Dhaka. Last weekend, I finally hosted my first dinner here, using my new plates. I admit that it was excruciatingly difficult to prepare half of the dishes because there either aren’t such ingredients here or I do not know where to find others. A lot of American missions overseas have a great place called The Commissary, which is connected to the Embassy and sells a lot of goods that you can find in the good ol’ U.S. In Dhaka, we are blessed with an exceptionally good one even if somewhat expensive. For example, yesterday I bought a box of Tide detergent, and you’d think I was buying gold dust as it cost in excess of $20. To be fair, I shop there extremely rarely and mostly for alcohol, which it stores in abundance and variety. I prefer to shop in the local supermarkets where I buy locally produced goods, and I would encourage anyone going to live overseas to do the same. It will save you a bundle. 

Son has now acquired the habit of coming to our bedroom early in the morning, standing next to my side of the bed and staring at me until I wake up. Who knows how long he stands there, but I can tell you that there is something rather startling about waking up and seeing in the dim morning light (without your glasses on) a creature of some kind standing by your side, wild hair sticking in all directions, whispering in monotone, “maamaaaaaa…………..maaaamaaaaa……….maaaammaaaaaa.” He then climbs into our bed, and rather than snuggling with us like they say in the books that children do, he begins twirling up and down the bed like a cheerleader’s baton, coming in and out of the sheets and sticking his feet in all of our soft body parts. I continue to obstinately try to sleep, but then he takes on licking my face and biting my feet. So, with a deep sigh and filled with love, I get up. Good morning, Dhaka!