How I Lived in Bangladesh

Let us be honest – this was NOT a love at first sight. And frankly, definitely not at second glance either. It was, however, a love affair after all, and one to remember for life. As many of you know, I have just left Bangladesh after a brief 2-year stint and after some reflection, am ready to pontificate and extrapolate on my life there.

Bangladesh is not an easy place to live but it has probably some of the best people in the world. The country hits you at the airport – by smell, at first; then by color; by everyone staring at you while you are at the passport control line and later on, at the luggage belt, which typically takes about an hour before a single bag appears (yours comes last, for sure). But if you smile wearily at the border police officer who reviews your passport and wish him a good day, he will immediately bust out in an enormous smile and wish you the same. This is how the entire country is – Bangladeshis are the friendliest, most welcoming and helpful people I have ever met in my life. If you need help on the street, everyone in plain sight (and their multiple relatives 5 minutes after he calls them) will come immediately to help you. They will help even if they do not know how or have the slightest clue what they are doing. The point is – they are ready and willing. If you meet a new person and chat him or her up, within less than 5 minutes they will get your phone number and within less than a week will invite you over their house. There, you will meet their good friends, each of whom will talk to you, truly interested in what you have to say; they will listen to you, ask you a million questions about you, your family, your job, your life and in return, share the same. Then, they will invite you to their own, and before you know it, you will know half of Dhaka. And these will not be casual, one-time visits or acquaintances. These turn into beautiful friendships with people on whom you can rely for everything. Everything.

I miss Bangladesh viscerally. I miss it every single day. Naturally, above all, I miss my many friends there. But I also miss so many other things. I miss the simplicity of life. I miss the mess on the streets. I miss the restaurants that are so few that I know all of them and I know I am guaranteed to meet a friend wherever I end up for dinner. I miss my colleagues. I miss playing tennis at the clubs (I do NOT miss the clubs though). I miss speaking Bangla. I miss dohi fushka. I miss wearing sarees. I miss the fashion shows and the garish makeup I’d wear. I miss everyone smiling. I miss the staring! I miss the heat!! I simply miss Bangladesh.

Yes, I had a love affair with Bangladesh and just like any other relationships, ours had many ups and downs. That means simply that our affair is enduring and will continue evolving. I know I will be back there again, it is simply a matter of time. For the time being, all our lovely friends must come over and visit me. As of a week ago, I have now officially returned home. It is good to be back for I have missed you too, my lovely United State of America!

Are You Too Old For The Foreign Service?

I have been asked this question so many times now, that I thought it deserved its own carefully thought out post. Here it goes:

Q: Are you over 58.5?

A: No.

You are Ok. Go apply.

Phew. That took a load off.

What? It's not thoughtful enough for you? Sheesh...Ok, fine, here it goes in unnecessary detail.

According to the State Department, "Career candidate appointments to the Foreign Service shall be made before the candidate's 60th birthday. The maximum age for appointment is based on the requirement that all career candidates shall be able to: (a) complete at least two full tours of duty abroad, exclusive of orientation and training; (b) complete the requisite eligibility period for tenure consideration, and (c) complete the requisite eligibility period to receive retirement benefits before reaching the mandatory retirement age of 65. (Note: one needs a minimum of 5 years of service in order to have retirement benefits.) Thus, new hires must be no older than 59 years and 364 days on the day of entry into service." Now, we all know how long it takes to get into the Foreign Service (if you don't, go to my particularly poignant posts on the application process here) - let's say conservatively it is about 1.5 years, assuming you get in from the first try and your security clearance process lasts about 6 months, and you get off the waiting list pretty much right away. That is a LOT of "if" and "but." But let's say that you are awesome and the administration is feeling perky and benevolent. So, drink some vodka, do some math, blow your nose and come to the conclusion that if you are over 58.5 when you first down and stare at the antiquated computers in the FSOT testing room, chances that you will make it are rather minimal. Not because you are not awesome and could not go from a junior officer to Ambassador in 5 years. I bet you could with bells on. The problem is that we get pensioned at 65. I think it is nice. It gives me a good excuse to stop working, jump on a seniors' cruise in the Caribbean and dance fragile and contained salsa till 11 pm with equally fragile folk, to the singular consternation of a less nimble, sedentary Diplomat. Some complain. I guess they are not into senior salsa.

I suppose the real question is what is realistically an upper age to enter the service. I think that the entrance process is sufficiently emotionally grueling and physiologically damaging to your liver that if you are ready to torture yourself with it, that you need to ask yourself how many tours you want out of it. As the regulation states, you need to be able to serve at least two tours. Each of your first 2 entry tours should last 2 years (unless you decide that the best way to entertain yourself at this precious age is to go to Afghanistan or, say, Yemen, which are 1 year tours). For at least one of them, you will need to learn language, which will be anywhere from 6 to 12 months in general. You will also go through the rather fascinating A-100 training, which is another useful 6 weeks of your life. So, that means - 4 years of in-country service, plus 8 mos of language and professional training, plus another 2 months of other training, plus 2-3 months of home leave, random classes and not knowing what is happening to you. Ok, I have had some wine now, so I am too confused to count. I hope for your sake you do that. If you want to serve longer...figure it out.

Besides the practical consideration of the Department regulations, I honestly do not know how much your age plays in during the exams. It sure brings in a lot of varied experience (unless, of course, you have been herding cows all of your life in Montana, which is not all THAT varied, I suppose; but then again, I have never herded anything but Son and the Diplomat at the airport, so what do I know), which is valued highly, I think. For your own sake, it might help if you are sprightly. At least in spirit. Or mind. Or in something. I always feel sprightly is a great thing to be.

I have known people in the Service who have entered at the gentle and impressionable ages of 22 and of 57. In fact, I have had several of them in my own class (huge shout-out to my man in Manila!). They are all loving it. At least they have said so. I trust them. So go on, my dear middle-aged, nervous reader - apply! The Foreign Service wants you!

Iftars, Goodbyes, Anniversary, Packing, Shopping, Madness

Just when I thought that our lives cannot be anymore frenetic and exhausting, it happened. This is what is happening in our lives right about now:

1. Ramadan is back! I cannot believe that we managed to be here through another Ramadan – typically it is in August and since we already have been here for 2 years, it only makes sense to see it twice. Just for us, the special of the decade, Ramadan this year fell in July. And you should know by now, fasting during Ramadan ends every night with an Iftar, a typical meal of water, dates and sweets, followed by massive quantities of food in the houses of those blessed to be able to afford that. You’d think that fasting during Ramadan is a great opportunity for the pious rotund revelers to shed a pound or ten since they do not eat or drink a thing until sunset. Apparently, however, people struggle not to GAIN weight during this time of fast. As an obsessive dieter, I am painfully aware that any period of starvation will lead to a counterproductive stuffing of my face later on. Imagine then the hapless Western diplomat or guest, who has been eating pretty finely all day and then has to face the cornucopia of an Iftar dinner. If fasting people gain weight then, what’s left to us gluttons who do not fast? So, yes, my waistline shudders at the thought of Ramadan given the crazy amount of Iftar invitations we receive.
2. Add to this the many lovely goodbye parties, receptions and dinners our friends are hosting for us lately. Saying “no” is not an option as we want to see everyone before we leave. But after the 10^th party, especially if you keep seeing some of the same guests, it is starting to get a little awkward as we keep saying goodbye to them over and over again. I feel like people are secretly thinking, “Leave already, damn it!”
3. Then add to that our packing this past week. Even though the good people from the State Department pay for packers and movers who come and pack everything for you, including the Embassy furniture (yup, it happened, even though I had been warned about it and told the movers many times what NOT to pack – there was some unpacking today before they took all 128 boxes away), it is still exhausting as you prance about the house and realize that there are clothes/thing that you/your husband have not worn/used/remembered since your wedding and they probably need to go NOW. Naturally, it is a good question why they got packed to Bangladesh in the first time, but suffice it to say that I was not the one supervising our prior packout, so…At any rate, I got rid of a heap of old clothes this week, which makes me so darn happy. I am even giving up 4 pairs of shoes!!! Which, in truth, had to happen – you’d be curious to know that out of our 6 traveling suitcases, one is completely and solely filled with high heeled shoes. Yup, 20 kg of shoes. I am not saying that is ALL of my shoes. I am just saying that is all the shoes I am taking with me to Washington. The rest will travel directly to Rio de Janeiro to await me anxiously in the spring. I simply ran out of space.
4. I am also trying to complete all of the clothes that I am having tailored here. As you can imagine, tailors here are obscenely cheap and have helped me augment my already massive closet considerably. So, I am frantically trying to complete everything to be able to stuff it in my boxes as the suitcases are already full. Same goes for framing pictures, buying gifts, selecting mementos and the like. Naturally, it does not help when all the boxes are packed and sealed to receive a decorative anvil as a goodbye gift, which inevitably happens. So, a piece of advice for all my fellow Foreign Service packers out there – if you are packing a few days before you leave post, ask the movers to leave you a box for collateral damage. That would include the above-mentioned anvil, dresses late from the tailor, two precious wooden kitchen spoons which Son apparently has been playing with somewhat unusually quietly in the most remote room of the house while the movers were around, a favorite glass Tupperware, which has been lying around the back of the fridge with something unidentifiable in it for what appears to be several months, and other similar domestic treasures. Then ask the moving company to pick the box up the day before you leave.
5. And amidst the madness, the Diplomat and I celebrated our 10^th wedding anniversary. Yup, it has been a while that have been doing this marriage thing. And it has been eventful, folks. We definitely were not bored all those years. Whether it was looking for jobs, scraping through law school, suffering through business school, facing layoffs, having a baby, traveling like mad people, buying or selling apartments, moving overseas and then some more, life together has been entertaining and never, ever boring. It does help that the Diplomat is rather easy on the eyes.

We have about 10 days left in this lovely land of Bangladesh, which translates itself into 24 more iftars, and 21 more goodbye dinners. It also means that I will definitely need an aisle seat on my way out of here as my behind will have expanded by probably 30 solid pounds by then. 

How to Fly with Babies

The Diplomat and I recently traveled with Son on a little vacation to Hua Hin in Thailand in search of calm waters, clean air and good food. On the way, in the same plane there happened to be a family with a new baby, and, since we are such lucky bastards, there was one more on the way back. Both yelled their heads off and the parents were making it even worse by trying to entertain them. Now, in general, I do not mind babies on a plane – I have had one and I know what it is like. In reality, most of baby crying actually isn’t as loud as the poor parents think – I think the frustration and embarrassment of your screaming progeny augments your perception of the noise and you are convinced that even the pilot is ready to flush your dear child out of the toilet. Since I was sitting right behind them, however, the babies were practically splitting my ears.   

There are a couple of pieces of advice I would like to offer to those parents who are about to embark on a plane journey with a small child in an effort to make their and our journey more tolerable. Son has been on planes since he was 2 months old, and I think I have sufficient wisdom to share. Just like us, babies’ tiny ears get plugged during the ascension of the plane after takeoff. For them, that is distressing and often painful. That is why most babies who are awake during that time scream their tiny butts off. In those cases, PLEASE, do not try to bounce the unfortunate child up and down like a basketball, do not shove pens or expensive jewelry in its hands to distract him, or try to interest him in the emergency procedures cards. That will only make the child even more awake and irritated. Ears would either pop open or never even get plugged in the first place if your baby is swallowing something during takeoff. If you are breastfeeding, takeoff is your golden opportunity to nurse to achieve 2 major objectives:

1.       Help its ears stay unplugged as it swallows milk

2.       Puts him or her to sleep (especially if this is an evening flight) so that by the time the plane evens out and the pretty ladies with the food and drinks come around, your tiny cargo is ready to be put in the bassinet (if you are flying international and there is such thing), or would simply snooze the rest of the trip snuggled nicely in your arms (preferably in your husband’s arms, actually, so that you can ingest some much needed libation).

If you don’t breastfeed, simply have a bottle ready with nice, warm milk or whatever it is that you are feeding it. I have never had a problem asking the airhostesses to give me some warm water to mix with the prepared formula.

Do NOT do any of these:

1.       Give your baby a 5 hour nap before you get on the plane – that would only guarantee much bouncing in your or your neighbors laps, delighted (or not so much) yelps and generally the need to entertain the little beast while you are trying to maintain a low profile and eat your tiny airplane dinner.

2.       Try to distract and bounce the child, toss him around and give him noisy entertainment. Rather, try your best to make them sleep. The hum of the plane is magical – if you calm your hyper child sufficiently, it would actually doze off quite fast. Everyone will love you.

3.       Give the kid candy or anything with a lot of carbs – the resulting energy rush will cause your baby to be twice as vocal and bouncy, and your seat neighbors twice as murderous.

In all honestly, I find flying with babies a much easier task than, say, flying with toddlers. Son has been trained to sleep on the plane the moment we takeoff or right after the food has been eaten (he delights in eating airplane food, apparently he thinks it is some kind of a special treat bestowed upon him). But as he grows older, there are more demands to go pee, have some more water, draw for 5 more minutes, see a movie, walk down the aisle to see the pretty ladies in the service area, ask to scratch his back, tell him a story, drink milk, pee again, hug and ask for a blanket, complain that the seat is not comfy, then drink some more water and finally settle down to sleep. A baby can make no such demands – it drinks milk and conks out. Beautiful.  

Father’s Day Dhaka Style

It has been quite a while since I last wrote but lately our social life has reached new, previously unimagined heights and we tend to go out 5 nights a week. Much has happened in the past few weeks, but the Father’s Day experience I had in store for the Diplomat certainly takes the cake.

A few ladies from the Embassy and I set out to plan an unforgettable day for our great husbands/ wonderful fathers of our children. After conspiring for a few weeks, none of them suspected what was in store and only knew to free the entire day for the “celebration.” So, there we were, on a bright and promisingly absurdly hot Dhaka morning, 6 hapless husbands and all of our kids went to one of our apartments for a lavish home-made breakfast catered by us, devoted wives. There were Bloody Marys and Mimosas, famous personal recipes, home-baked cinnamon rolls, sausages and similar delicacies. The men stood there, all coffee cups in hand, happy, chatting, with the vague notion that something seriously devious was about to happen to them. Starting them gently, we announced that they will first have to go to the American School where they will play some games with their beloved children. We all trooped over to the school, and made the dads play a few silly games with them in the quickly rising heat.

Once the games were over, we announced the next task – they were all to put on specially made shirts reading “Dhaka Daddy Day” and their names, along with a fetching lungi (the local checkered skirt contraption worn by men in South Asia, which has some serious art to tying and wearing it). Nonplussed, the profusely sweating dads changed into their new duds (the lungi tying took some effort and eventually most of them looked like they had tied their mother’s kitchen tablecloth around their waists) and went into the street for their first challenge of the day. They were to split in couples and drive a rickshaw from the school to the field in front of the embassy where local kids gather daily in the blistering heat to play cricket. There they would be taught cricket by a pro and would have to ask the kids to play with them. I watched in delight as the Diplomat and a friend hopped onto a rickshaw, the amused rickshaw driver sitting in the back beaming like a Cheshire cat (obviously thinking that foreign men are lunatics to pay HIM to drive his rickshaw), and three seconds later to crash into another rickshaw, its owner not amused at all. Later on it transpired that driving a rickshaw is one tough business – one of the teams managed to crash their vehicle once and then run into a tree promptly thereafter. Minor injuries were sustained.

Somehow the teams crawled up to the make-shift cricket field where the son of one of the national team players along with one of his friends (who apparently came more to stare at the white boys struggle than to do anything practical) taught the burning diplomats how to whack a ball with a cricket bat. While we had provided the boys with child-sized bats from the local store, I gave the Diplomat his own cricket bat – an unfortunate gift of mine for our 5^th (wooden) anniversary, which until last week was still in its plastic wrapper. Apparently, the bat was a hit (literally) and all guys used it productively playing in the 110-degree heat. After that, texting them clues, we sent them to have lunch at a local Mexican restaurant. To our defense, we had graciously provided them with a cooler full of beer in the support car which followed them around town.

After a solid 2-hour lunch, the brave dads embarked on their last adventure – the treasure hunt. Split into 2 teams, they had to do the following things:

1.       Get a shave/haircut in a street barber shop

2.       Buy a prayer cap

3.       Get a jackfruit, open it up and eat a few of the seeds (let’s just say that a jackfruit is a VERY acquired taste and to me it smells like baby puke; oddly, the Diplomats loves the damned fruit monstrosity and stores it in our fridge).

4.       Buy a “delay spray” from a hidden sex shop in the main shopping area in the diplomatic zone. Now, I feel this last one deserves a bit of an elucidation. We had heard that such a shop exists in the area, but that it was part of a normal grocery shop, where you need to go and ask twice about the “shower supplies.” Two of the wives set out to confirm this the prior week. They entered the store, walked up to the counter and brightly asked about the shower supplies. Graciously, the men behind began pulling various lovely shower supplies like loofas and colorful soaps off the shelves and offering them to our ladies. Again, they mentioned, with a knowing look, “THE shower supplies.” At that point, more men gathered behind, and all began speaking animatedly in Bangla, repeatedly drawing a box in the air with their hands and in general gesticulating wildly. Then they waved off the girls to a different part of town, saying they got nothing. The ladies gathered that whatever treasures there were at the store, they were all inside a box hidden somewhere there and there was no way in hell that these men were ever going to admit that to them. At that point, however, the girls noticed the various bottles behind the counter, among which were the “delay spray” and some other hilarious, non-effective medications for activities of the bedroom sort. We all thought that telling the guys what to get but not what it looks like would be great as they would have to actually explain it somehow to the storekeeper. We are proud to say that both teams successfully procured a bottle each.

Around 5 pm both teams finally made it to our apartment, where they were immediately treated with home-brewed beer (courtesy of the Diplomat and me) and massages, while we ladies spruced up a lovely dinner and the kids were all locked up in our bedroom watching a movie. It was universally acknowledged that this was one unique day, fun was had by all (I actually managed to squeeze in a manicure in the afternoon while Son slept and the Diplomat was sweating it out, getting a shave in the market) and it was an affair to remember. I gear the guys are reciprocating for Mother’s Day, but alas, I won’t be here for these festivities.

Because folks – guess what – the time has come for the Diplomat and me to leave this lovely land in a month…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Real Bangladesh – Should I Be Scared?

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

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

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

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

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