The Baksheesh, the Hacking and the Hectic Weekends

There are two things that are driving me insane in Bangladesh. The first is the Baksheesh. We call it “tipping” in the Western world, but it is so much more than that. Baksheesh is a way of life, a matter of pride, a beautiful (or frustrating) end of a task. Baksheesh follows no rules and depends on social status and the moment. May I say that I HATE Baksheesh?! Baksheesh permeates every single sphere, nook and cranny of Bangladeshi life. Examples:

1.       We arrive at the Dhaka airport, giddy with excitement on our way to Thailand. Right before going inside to check in, we are stopped by a couple of uniformed policemen who politely direct us to pick up two departure forms from a standalone kiosk, which reads, “Passenger help.” Which we do. And then the guys at the kiosk ask us to pay baksheesh. Confused, we pay the 100 taka (say, $1.50) , pick up the forms and go inside. 5 minutes later, at the check-in counter, the Bangkok Air crew happily hands us the same forms, perfectly free. @#$%???

2.       I hire a rickshaw wallah to transport a bunch of really large plants from a friend’s house (the friend is moving and our rooftop can use the extra foliage). We bargain and I decide to hire two wallahs given the amount of huge plants. When he arrives at the apartment, however, he decides that he can take on all flowerpots and we agree to pay him the price for two wallahs as originally agreed. Sometime later, he finally makes is back to my building. Along with my driver, he spends some time bringing the plants to the roof. Finally finished, he just stands there, looking at me quizzically. You’d think that when I bargained the original price, it included the lifting and all. Apparently not. I gave him 300. He pointed out that one of the flowerpots was empty when he picked it up and he planted an entire plant there for us for free (why he would do that remains a mystery to me). Even though the extra plant appeared to be free, it also appeared that the wallah was waiting for some more baksheesh. With grim resign, I pull out more money from my wallet.

3.       I bought a treadmill this past weekend (YES, oh YES – and I even ran on it for like 10 minutes already!!). We bargained hard and the owner of the store proudly told me delivery would be free. I was won over and bought the contraption. Delivery would be the same day. Several hours later, the treadmill arrived, carried up the stairs (not sure why, we have an elevator) by two burly guys. They gingerly carried it inside the apartment (again, not sure why, it has wheels which I did point out to them) and then stood there, in the middle of my bedroom, not moving. I motioned them to come outside, into the corridor, which they reluctantly did. We stood there, staring at each other for some time, and then one of them flat out asked me for baksheesh. I sighed deeply (I only had large notes), went to my wallet and pulled out the money. Their eyes lit up (whoever had heard of giving back change for a tip), they snatched the cash and literally ran out of the apartment lest I find a smaller bill.

So, yes, I HATE baksheesh. It is not so much the money itself. It is the constant expectation and bother of it – at the market, when the little boys pester you forever to carry your groceries; at the street intersection, where the street guard won’t let your rickshaw cross the road into the diplomatic zone (“rules, madam!”) unless you give baksheesh; at every single parking lot, where inevitably some loiterer will “help” you to park (which actually translates into him banging on the hood of the car repeatedly, not clear what that means really); leaving a supermarket, surrounded by an endless sea of small children, screaming for baksheesh. Which is why one always has to carry small change here.

My second biggest pet peeve here is what seems to be Bangladeshi men’s favorite pass time – hacking loudly and then spitting with gusto on the ground. Words cannot describe how disgusting it is. The sounds of it happening fill the air of Dhaka any time of the day. Just when you thought the entire huge restless city is finally asleep at 1 am, and you have rested your weary head on the pillow, enjoying the quiet night, one sounds suddenly rips through the peace – the guard downstairs gives it his best and hacks and spits like he is competing in the Olympics.

In other news, our lives remain impossibly hectic. Every single weekend, the Diplomat and I decide solemnly that THIS weekend, we will relax and just hang around. And then we plunge into a wild mix of shopping, errands, friends, dinners, travel, tennis and by the time Saturday night rolls in, we are more exhausted than ever. This one was worse, since it was a three-day weekend. I have been sick for some days now with Dhakaitis (a flu-like malaise with no particular name or reason, which is weakening and painful and refuses to go away), and so I truly needed to relax. Therefore, on Friday morning, without fail and true to form, I dragged the Diplomat and Son out of home and took them to the fresh market, the meat market, the supermarket, the shoe store and who knows what else. After a brief nap in which we all partook, we went to the American Club to play a round of tennis and meet a couple of good friends for a brief chat. The tennis round went for over an hour, and the brief chat turned into several drinks with some appetizers. By the time we made it home, it was already 7.30pm. We tossed the exhausted Son into bed, and once the nanny came to babysit, went out on a date to a great Indian restaurant. At 11 pm, one goat biryani and a bottle of red wine later, utterly exhausted, we dragged ourselves home and swore to take it easy on Saturday.

Which is why we got up early the next morning (not that Son left us any other option) and immediately went downtown to buy me a treadmill. The negotiations made me feel really hungry, and in anticipation of the hundreds of burned calories, I decided to stop by for lunch at Pizza Hut, one of the very few American chain restaurants in town. The pizza was outstanding! The remainder of the afternoon was spent pottering about, and then I left to play tennis and have dinner and drinks with my tennis partners. Not sure what and how it happened, but I got home at almost 11pm. The hectic weekend finally caught up with me, and I spent half of Martin Luther King’s day sleeping – since Son’s daycare does not celebrate the holiday, he had to go to school, while mommy slept till 11 am, went for lunch to a friend’s house and came back for a few hours of manicure/pedicure/massage/hot oil hair mask. The evening was topped by an excellent dinner at the International Club of Dhaka.

Next weekend however – utter relaxation!!!!

Raising The Multilingual Child

It is a VERY difficult job. I have been doing it now for 3.5 years and I can tell you I have had better and more interesting tasks in the meantime. The one thing you need to know is that if you truly want your child to learn a second language at home, you have to pursue it with the persistence of a rabid dog.

Learning multiple languages by children is a fact of life in the Foreign Service. On one hand, a lot of the spouses as well as Foreign Service Officers themselves were originally born in a different country and speak a different native language from English. On the other, by virtue of living overseas, the child inevitably picks up the local language to some extent. Sadly, there is precious little material on the market about how to deal with the bombardment of foreign languages and make the most of it. So, I have had to wing it mostly.

This is how I fight the good fight. Born in Bulgaria, I speak fluent Bulgarian and it has been really important for me that Son learns the language. That way, he will be able to speak to my family during the obligatory summer visits there, as well as be able to charm the pretty Bulgarian girls whenever the need arises. Moreover, speaking Bulgarian will always be a way for him to know and remember some of his roots - a must in his future gypsy, world-roaming life. I began speaking Bulgarian to Son since the day he was born. While he was spending his cute little baby days exclusively at home with me, he slowly began speaking baby Bulgarian to me. He understood everything I said, and formed some rudimentary words. Watching Elmo in English on a daily basis was NOT helping on that front, but who can resist the furry animal with the annoyingly high pitched voice? Plus, watching Elmo on the potty while we were potty-training was a life-saver, so I let it pass.

The problem began once Son started daycare when he was a little over 1 year old. Miraculously, he began blabbing in English quite fast and, while he still understood every word I said to him in Bulgarian, he would moo his response back to me in English. Unfazed, I persisted. Fast forward a year later. The obstinate child flat out would NOT speak Bulgarian. And I would NOT speak English back. I just kept going at it. Whenever we sat down to read books, I'd translate them into Bulgarian (I did some remarkable renditions of Dr.Seuss in rhyme which I ought to copyright!). Whenever we watched Elmo, I'd make him explain to me what was going on in Bulgarian.

I taught him the numbers in Bulgarian and constantly made him count everything around us. The poor child must have counted to 10 a trillion times. I asked my mom to send me CDs with children songs and we played them so often at home that I can honestly tell you I detest all of them with passion. But singing along develops vocabulary like nothing else would (I admit to learning some real bad English from obsessing over the Beatles) and it really expanded his lexicon. Finally, if you can procure videos in the native language, preferably with captivating cartoons, that is also a great language tool.

But the best tool in the fight for the native language is immersion in Grandma's summer camp. When Son was almost 3, right before we moved to Dhaka, if you recall we decided to leave him with my Mom in Sofia while we settle in here. That did miracles. A month later, she delivered a perfectly bilingual child, who expressed himself quite well in short Bulgarian sentences along with slightly longer, better English ones.

As time progressed though, we noticed that his word order remains hopelessly English. For example, in English we say, "I want it!" (a phrase repeated by Son about 1,243,345 times a day). In Bulgarian, the phrase is "I it want". As you can guess by now, Son uses the English word order, which sounds like this , "Аз искам го!" Um, yeah. And no matter how many times I correct him (which is EVERY single time he speaks like this), he doesn't change it.

The second problem we noticed was that he often constructs sentences using both languages. Sometimes it is because he doesn't know the word in the other, and sometimes - just because. It sounds like this, "Mama, аз искам pomegranate, молааа!" I always plead ignorance of English (clearly an obvious and horrible lie since a minute later I'd lapse into a long tirade in English to the Diplomat) and tell him to repeat it back all in Bulgarian. I have to say that most times I am successful and he does repeat it back in Bulgarian (in a terrible word order, of course).

Son attends the French school in Dhaka, which has, of course, added a third language to the mix. Sadly, it is one which neither of us two speak, so at times I have the horrible suspicion that when angry with us, Son swears quietly at us in flowery French. I swear I distinctly overheard him say  "Merde!" the other day when I refused to add chocolate chips to his supertasty chicken. French has further complicated matters. Yesterday, we had the following exchange:
Me (sternly): Who has spilled red paint on this governmentally-issued couch?
Son: Аз съм Dinosaur! (I am a Dinosaur!)
Me (in Bulgarian, highly irritated, in high pitched voice): Who has spilled the red paint!!!!!???
Son: Мама, аз много обичкам те! (Momma, I you very much love!)
Me (further aggravated): I said, who has spil
Son (interrupting impertinently): MOI! (Me in French)
Me (speechless)
Son (leaves haughtily)
Me (scrubbing red paint off for 45 mins, swearing in Bulgarian)



The point of all this is: if you want your child to learn another language, whether it is your native tongue or some other, you have to give it your 1000%. You have to be persistent and absolutely consistent and always, ALWAYS speak that language with your child. Start as early as possible and keep talking. Read books, sing songs, tell stories, yell, scold and soothe in it. Your child has to know this is the language he or she will speak at home (if both you and your spouse speak it) or with you only. Refuse to understand when he or she speak English back to you. Correct and expand vocabulary as often as you can without getting annoying. Son's Bulgarian may not be of the highest literary quality, but he does speak it. Once he grows up old enough to be able to read and write in it, he will read books and self-correct, hopefully. For now, I remain optimistic.

To Kill a Mosquito...

I agree it is not a noble deed. But one simply must. Because now, with the advent of winter, it has become a real pest in Dhaka. You know how birds in the North tend to migrate to the South in the winter in search of warm lands? Well, it seems to me that the world population of mosquitoes has by now evacuated to Bangladesh and despite the large rate of attrition (courtesy of the multiple ways we try to annihilate them here) their hordes are impenetrable.

At this point, my house is equipped with several contraptions to ward them off.
1) Besides my front door, I have a small clay pot with a stinky burning coil (think incense of a sort), which chases them away. It is truly a must since they tend to flock there and greet me cheerfully when I come back from work. I literally have to wave off a swarm of mosquitoes in order to open my door. The coil reduces the swarm by 50%. I think.
2) Inside each room, there are electric oil plugins which supposedly chase the mosquitoes away from that area. It either simply does not work or the local mosquitoes have disturbingly mutated, but just yesterday I observed a rather large specimen perched peacefully on top of the oil plugin, honing his sting or whatever it is that mosquitoes do in their spare time.
3) I bought an electrical zapper racket. I am NOT proud of it, and I had sworn never to do it since the thought of frying mosquitoes was repulsive to me. Not anymore. I go on a death quest every evening, grim determination on my face and even keep score. The tend to come in from the bathroom canals, so I start there. I close the door and viciously chase the lonely one or two mosquitoes there. YOU will never understand the joy that one can feel upon hearing the electricity crackling while zapping the insects until you have stood there, in the middle of the bathroom, your legs bearing no less than 36 (36, people!!!) bite marks and you have just caught the culprits.

So, yeah, it is war of the worlds here!

We rang in the New Year Eve with some excellent partying. We started with a lovely pre-party at the house of a new Brazilian friend, downed a couple of glasses of champagne and left for the next stop--a party at the Dhaka Club. The Dhaka Club is the meeting place of the "Who's Who" in Dhaka--politicians, Ready-Made Garments' moguls, real estate fiends, more politicians, and more rich Bangladeshis doing "business." While the average age of the 1500 guests was possibly 50, I can tell you everyone was there to party. Our fabulous gracious host kept telling us excitedly that he cannot wait to "boogie" and so left us wondering what we were indeed in for. Turns out, the band was excellent and the dance floor was packed to the brim the entire time. We "boogied" all the way from ABBA, to Boney M, to Michael Jackson (OMG, the things I saw a man with only one leg to Moonwalker, I will NEVER forget!) to Rihanna and Tina Turner.  The food, of course, was exquisite.

Exhausted and incredibly excited, we decided to move on to the next venue--the American Club-- where there were in fact two parties. The main one, organized by the Club itself, took place over most of the grounds and looked gorgeous. Over 500 fairly inebriated people were swaying to the same "boogie" tunes that we heard in the Dhaka Club. The second one, a private, smalled event, was organized by a couple of close friends and featured some awesome alternative music and seriously expensive premium alcohol. I made the tactical mistake to buy one, light up my New Year's Eve cigar and sit outside to smoke it while gazing lovingly into the Diplomat's eyes. 15 minutes and 63 mosquito bites later, we decided to call it a night. I suppose the mosquitoes were also celebrating that night. I just would like to think that I was considered "premium bar" myself. It sure looked like it. The Diplomat, who thought he was safely covered from head to toe in clothing, was bitten on his pinkie finger just to prove a point.

And so the new year begins. We already went to work today, and it was busier than ever. Hello 2012.

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.