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!

India Developed

The previous weekend the Diplomat, Son and I made a 4-day visit to my Inlaws in Chennai, India. We thought we had been rather clever—since tickets from Dhaka to Chennai were quite pricey, we decided to buy tickets on two different airlines. From Dhaka we’d fly to Calcutta on the wings of the impressive Bangladeshi GMG Airlines, and from there board an IndiGo flight to Chennai. Not so much.
I have learned one thing in Bangladesh—NOTHING ever goes as planned. EVER. EVER. EVER. As we were sitting happily in our office on Tuesday of last week, a day before our trip, a good friend called to complain that HIS GMG flight to Calcutta was cancelled for no reason at all. Somewhat panicked, we decided to call them just to make sure our flight on the following day was OK. Um, not so much. GMG brightly informed us that yes, indeed, they have cancelled their afternoon flight on October 5^th, but we are more than welcome to fly that same morning at 6 am. No, thank you, we said nicely and then yelled some more asking them what in the world we were supposed to do now. We asked to be given back half of our money and be put on another flight by another company (there ain’t many airlines flying out of Dhaka, mind you and buying a ticket in the last moment would prove to be a rather costly affair). The boss sales manager came on the phone and nicely told us that we needed to email them the request rather than communicate on the phone. Livid and foaming, we hung up and sent the email. Soon afterwards, we received an utmost polite email telling us that in today’s competitive world, GMG prides itself on good customer service since they understand its importance. Therefore, they WILL refund to us half of our ticket price. Um, I hate to say it, but that’s kind of mandatory, good service or not. GMG, however, were clearly very proud of their “exceptional” service. Naturally, no word was mentioned of them reimbursing the extra $300 we had to pay out of pocket to buy tickets on another airline because of their stupidity. In their defense (they said), they did send the Diplomat a text message mentioning the cancelled flight. His phone was at home. I admit we were forewarned by friends about GMG. One never listens….And by the way, two weeks later, no money has found its way back into our account.

Good times were had in Chennai. I am lucky that three of my best friends from A-100 were stationed there and happened to be around to party with us. It was truly magical to be all the way across the world and see good friends and eat some great Armenian BBQ (long story). For those visiting Chennai and asking for a truly great, romantic dinner experience, I remain forever impressed by The Park—a gorgeous boutique hotel with fabulous rooftop restaurant by the pool overlooking the entire city, and the Raintree Hotel—another fabulous rooftop restaurant with exquisite fusion cuisine. I was also introduced to Café Amethyst touted as the best expensive café in Chennai. It features a gorgeous colonial style two-storey house, which houses pleasant white wicker chairs and tables on the large wrap-around porch and an astonishing menu, which included even a Salas Nicoise. The garden is large and resembles a small jungle of local trees and flowers.

I also remain largely unimpressed by the Taj, supposedly the best hotel in Chennai. The Diplomat and I were out for one last night on the town before leaving the next day, and decided to treat ourselves to the Taj for dinner since it is the top of the posh there. The Diplomat dressed in his (one and only) $200 Hugo Boss shirt, fancy loafers and dark blue elegant shorts and I was wearing a Nicole Miller dress and 4-inch heels. We arrived in smashing style at the Taj, were promptly frisked by the paranoid hotel security and then even faster refused seating in the Italian restaurant in the hotel since we appeared too casual to them. Rather miffed, we spoke our minds to the manager on duty, an exquisitely-sareed young lady, who told us there was absolutely nothing she could do and then inexplicably followed us all the way up to our car to tell us again the same.

I was immensely impressed by Chennai. I was there just over two and a half years ago and the difference in everything could be measured in lightning years. The old decrepit buses are gone and new ones with electronic info streaming at the front are now zooming through the city. Traffic is nothing to speak of; shopping is excellent from multi-storey malls to small boutiques; young women and men zip around the city on scooters and motorbikes, wearing western clothing and texting incessantly their zillion friends on Facebook. The streets are clean (well, relatively speaking), new infrastructure is being built with phenomenal speed, the restaurants are excellent, it even makes its own cars. In short—I now get what the deal about India is. I can safely say that India is on the path of something absolutely remarkable, which will soon leave any other fast developing country breathing its dust from behind.

Regrettably albeit understandably, India has also become rather paranoid about security. Its airports have turned into unpleasant endless points of searches and frisks, and the border immigration agents go out of their way to be unpleasant. Son gave two security guards the sweat of their life when he suddenly bolted from the security lineup in Calcutta, waiving his tattered teddy bear victoriously up in the air and screaming delightedly, "You can't catch me" at them as they were chasing him with stern determination. We pretended he wasn't ours.

In other Dhaka news, the Diplomat and I attended the annual Glitter Ball last Friday. The event deserves it own post, including some ludicrous pictures of expats behaving like crazy people. More on that-later.

Sick...AGAIN!

So, I am sick AGAIN. I don't remember ever being sick so many times in such a short period of time in my life before. I was given the vague diagnosis of "tonsilitis" when in fact it was mostly my stomach. As a result, I have now spent 2 days sleeping. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

This past weekend I fulfilled my dream of buying fancy plates and other "crokery" - Bangladesh has a rapidly developing ceramics industry and produces positively gorgeous plate sets for export. All the spoils and products with defects are for sale on the local market for, well, rather cheap and if you dig really deep and really carefully, you can actually get almost no defects in the plates you buy. From the get-go, I was pretty determined to acquire some fancyware to use for my beloved dinner parties. Thing is, we live in the diplomatic enclave of Dhaka, and the prices of most good here as, well, for diplomats. So, on Friday morning, the Diplomat and I walked boldly in the first store of Shinepukur ceramics and I immediately fell in love with a nice, gaudy set. Enthusiastically, we asked for the price, and were told 11,800 Taka (about $160) for a set for 6 people. The owner sternly said, "fixed price" and a minute later said he'll give us a 25% discount as first customers for the day. Still quite the steep price, I decided to take the shopping party rogue and took us to the New Market, a place where one can buy anything China, India and Bangladesh produce in the space of a large Manhattan apartment., including fly swatters, silk sarees, plastic toys, fantastically ugly large fluffy pillows in fluorescent green and pink, cheap jewelry and some wonderful plates at 1/3 of the price.
I spotted the set I wanted immediately in one of the million minuscule stalls and let the Diplomat negotiate the price. The poor owner never knew what was about to hit him. He quoted us the highly decent price of 5,100taka ($67), and then it went down like this:
Owner (in OK English): Sir, very good price, Sir, very good set, EXPORT QUALITY! For you Sir, great price I give.
Diplomat (in OK bangla): See look here, I buy 3 set and I know other who want plates so if I like I tell many you give me card no defects, then we good wife needs good plates, she boss home we have many party good plate needed. wYou have 3 can you do? Also, soup bowl.
Owner: Oh Sir, yes, we have many, no problem sir, we give. Great price, great quality I personally check for you. What else you want?
Me (whispering): I want soup bowls and two platters, but how much is it??
Diplomat (whispering back at me): Shhhhhh...
Me: But, why not ask...
Diplomat: We want other things, here is everything., How much?
Owner (typing something in a pre-war looking calculator): hm, uma, 34,500 Taka.
Me: say, what?
Diplomat: WHAT? Let me see that.
Owner hands over piece of paper and ancient calculator when Diplomat whips out his Android indignantly and fiddles with it for 5 mins when he comes up with 24,500 only. Then he gets up even more indignantly, explains that he feels terribly cheated, he cannot believe anyone else here and is leaving.
Owner: Sorry, sir, just a small mistake, I sorry.
D: I don;t know whom to believe here anymore, you are trying to cheat me, I am not buying anything here, this is the end of my trust.
O: Oh, sorry, what I can do?
D: OK, here is the deal, I will pay ONLY 17,000 and not a taka more.
O: Oh my God, I am ruined, my children will have nothing to eat. No, sir.
D: OK , I am leaving, I can't trust anyone here.
O: OK,  22,000 final offer as first customer.
D: 19,000 and this is my last one, Here is my card, call me if you decide to take my offer.
O: No, Sir, can't do that. This is less than my buying price.
D: Too bad (starts to walk away, me in horror that we have pushed too hard).
O: (beaming) OK, ok, 20,000 all yours and I will check every plate myself.
D: Deal.
Me: Sigh and smile and pull out a wad of cash.
So, all in all, we got a gorgeous full dining set for 18 people, including some serverware for a grand total of $266. The next day all plates arrived home and not a single defect on any piece. Go New Market!

Driving on the wrong side, a radio appearance and one heck of a birthday party

Driving in South Asia is horrendous. It is not just the traffic, it is the rickshaws and the sheer mass of bodies, whether human or fauna, present on the streets. Dhaka, however, lifts the bar of atrocious driving to new unattainable levels and one needs a heck of a lot of nerve and machismo or a driver to survive here. Much to everyone’s dismay, I happily contributed to the mayhem this weekend. On Saturday night, I needed to go play tennis at 9 pm, and the Diplomat (who has by now ventured to drive the car several times) was going to be home watching Son while our fearless driver had the day off. We decided to try me out as a mad Dhaka driver on our way to our weekly Saturday American Club swimming pool bonanza. The Diplomat bravely climbed into the passenger seat and I could hear him take irregular sharp breaths of air while I began to navigate our awesome Toyota Corolla. For those blissfully uninitiated—Dhaka traffic flows on the left, just like in England, which presented me with several problems the moment I got on the street:
1. The shift stick is on the left and I kept banging my right hand on the door handle every time I needed to change the gear
2. The turn signals are on the right ride of the wheel while the windshield wipers are on the left, as a result of which I kept washing the windshield instead of indicating my erratic turns
3. There seemed to be a whole lot more car on my left side than there used to be—to be more precise, the entire passenger side.

So, while I finally got used to using my left hand to shift gears and stopped wiping the windshield madly every minute, it turned out to be much more difficult to judge the distance between the left side of the car and the things outside of it. The Diplomat immediately pointed out to me that I am dangerously close to the curb/rickshaws/several chickens running in front of a mosque/three policemen/tea wallah/2 loitering men/a dirty palm tree, which I indignantly and adamantly denied as nonsense. Few minutes later I (now) admit to hearing something of a slight bump on the back of the car. It turned out to be a rickety rickshaw, which SOMEHOW was way too close to my bumper. After the Diplomat asked me whether I heard that, I testily said no and he prudently decided to keep quiet. Few moments later we were about to turn into the Club’s street when to my horror I realized that while I was anxiously waiting to make a right turn, I was about to lunge smack in the middle of a peacefully parked rickshaw on the side of the road. I stopped within a hair of it and its panicked owner ran for his life to move it. The Diplomat kept on staring in the distance and said nothing, as he was itching to say, “I told you so.” I stopped in front of the Club, the Diplomat exhaled deeply, shifted the gear in Park with his right hand (I am sure by habit of his right-hand driving days) and we all got out and spent 3 happy hours at the pool. As we were packing to go back, I realized that the car keys were missing. Frantically, we accused the poor child of tossing them into the pool and I went in to look for them while the Diplomat decided to go to the car to see if I left them in the door. I honestly professed to not remembering locking the car. For a good reason—turns out, when the Diplomat shifted the gear in Park mechanically, I also forgot that I was the one driving and simply exited the car thus leaving it running and certainly not locking it. Mercifully, one of the guards noticed the lonely running car, turned it off, locked it and kept the keys. They all must think I am barking mad by now.

I am happy to report that later that evening I drove myself to the Club again without any incidents. Even if I was driving 20 miles per hour and with my knuckles white from clutching the wheel in fear. I also almost did not get lost at all.

This week also saw me speak on Radio Today, a rather popular Dhaka radio station, where I was discussing the end of the diversity visa program in Bangladesh and how wonderful it is to study in the U.S. In all honesty, I was so nervous at the beginning that I prattled most of my useful info in the first three minutes with a speed that will make any good speech therapist seriously concerned. The rest was fine--I did not manage to offend anyone or say anything particularly stupid or obtuse. Go me! I love my job!!!

On Thursday night I also celebrated my birthday with a lot of friends at the so-called BAGHA Club. BAGHA club is British but not to be mistaken with the British Club. Rather, it was started as an anti-establishment of sorts and currently offers a lovely outdoors/indoors British pub atmosphere with an excellent jukebox and reasonably priced drinks. True to its ethnic roots, the scotch there is cheaper than the wine. Not that I am protesting, of course. Once we got hold of the jukebox and started blasting Led Zeppeling, Creedence and Elvis into the dark hot Dhaka night and mixing it with copious amounts of scotch, the party really started going. We got home around 2 am. Again.

The midlife point

And so this past week marked a significant milestone of my life for I have just turned 35. I celebrated in quite some style! I slept in till 10 am, when I was awoken by the call of the Apache, impersonated by Son who had drawn me an elaborate picture including a dragon, a few squishy circles and something that looked like a train with the words Love underneath it. Turns out it was actually drawn by the Diplomat--an easy mistake given that their drawing skills are on more or less the same level.

Then I went shopping with Mrs. Hawaiian in one of the good local department stores called Aarong where I acquired some excellent clothing. I capped midday with an exquisite meal worth $3 at Best Fried Chicken, which is Dhaka's chain version of KFC. It is the BEST darn chicken I have ever had. Diarrhea be damned! Service was also outstanding--I had a guy stand next to me, holding a stack of paper napkins and handing me one every time I put down a bare chicken bone with the happiest smile I have even seen. In deep contrast, that same night the Diplomat and I went to an spectacularly expensive dinner at the only French restaurant in town. The food was absolutely gourmet and the delights kept coming. I do feel that the surprise effect was a bit marred by the fact that the Maitre 'D came up to the table and in loud whisper, right in front of me, asked the Diplomat what my name was (they apparently knew it was my birthday). Few minutes later, the entire staff showed up with the most ridiculously fabulous cake I have ever eaten and sang enthusiastically, loudly and drastically off-tune "Happy Birthday" to me. I do think they were quite proud of themselves. And as much as I hate being sang to in restaurants, I must admit I loved it. We capped the night with a few drinks at the one of the British clubs and if I remember correctly even went out to a friend's house to toast HIS birthday. Now, THAT is what I call a night on Dhaka town. And my official celebration is not until this week!

Our beloved last HHE arrived this weekend and I have finally recovered the last of my shoes, Son's train table and my fancy glass tupperware (now that I think of it, I think some of it is missing?!?). You cannot believe how deprived one feels without their glass tupperware. So now, we have all of our possessions together. As a result, the house is literally overpowered by Son's myriad of planes, trains and automobiles--since we have moved a few times and stored luggage several times in the past year, plus the visit to grandma, he kept accumulating new possessions everywhere and now everything has been brought together to one monstrous result. I suppose I could open a shop.

Also, my days of breezy, smelly rickshaw rides are over--we are now proud owners of a very exciting Toyota Corolla and have hired a wonderful driver whose patience with traffic and my late night tennis lessons is infinite. I miss the rickshaws, despite the fact that the ride back from the American Club to home passed by a place where they were most certainly either burning trash or collected sewage. Or both. Then again, it might be my spoiled palate since right next to the area there are plenty of street coffee stalls where one can always see men standing and sipping obscenely sweet coffee and tea. Dhaka IS a place of contrasts.

Phuket v. the Bacteria From Dhaka 0:1

So, the Diplomat and I decided to use the few gratuitous vacation days marking the end of the Ramadan for Eid combined with Labor Day and take Son for a nice family vacation to the sunny, lovely beaches of Thailand. I was so excited and told so many people about it that I suppose I jinxed the whole trip.

For starters, when we arrived at Dhaka airport for our 3 am flight, we were told by the rather cryptic Bangkok Air employees that the flight has been delayed...by 2 hours...or like 4..or they are not sure. Given that it was in the middle of the night, and we had few cranky kids with us (we were accompanied by our sprightly friends the Hawaiians and their two children), after extricating promises from the airline to call us when they know something, we decided to go home and sleep some more. The moment the car entered the Hawaiians' house, we got the call to be back in an hour. After some improper language, much racket and few mini pancakes, we settled Son back in bed, took a powerful 45 min nap, woke up and frenetically drove back to the airport. To wait another 2 hours there. Finally, the airline got its act together (they were mostly waiting for people they had previously told to go home) and we flew to magical Thailand.
Upon arriving in the hotel in Phuket at 4 pm (rather than 10 am), we made a mad dash to the ocean and swam and jumped in the waves for two blissful hours. Then ate a massive dinner, ordered 3 different cocktails and finished the night late with scotch on the balcony reading the latest Dan Brown while the exhausted Son and Diplomat snored rhythmically inside the room. I went to bed happy and content even though I did have a quite an upset stomach. I woke up 2 hours later, running massive fever and having the chills. I immediately took some pills and went back to bed hoping it was all a bad dream. It was not. It was The Bacteria From Dhaka who had apparently decided that it really liked it there in Phuket!
Remember that food poisoning I got the previous week? Well, folks, apparently it was a bacteria infection from unclean food and it was pleasantly dormant in my stomach for a week. Sadly, it decided to come out and play in Phuket. I spent the day downing pills to keep the fever down and in the late afternoon meekly went to the beach to see just exactly what I was missing. It was this:

                                                                      

And this:

I mustered some energy to go to dinner and then felt sick again. The next morning I felt so nauseous that I decided to go to the hotel nurse who took one look at me and sent me to the local hospital. Well, the hospital was spectacular! Clean, modern, competent. After 6 hrs of IV drip and antibiotics I was as a good as new. I spent the next day and a half on the beach, burning like a roasted turkey and eating rice and bananas for my tender stomach. By the last day in Phuket, I was feeling great just in time to fly home.
But from what I had seen, Phuket is fantastic. I can now safely say that I have irrevocably, hopelessly and forever fallen in love with Thailand. I will be back!!!

In other great news:
Our car arrived!!! Finally!!! A piece of advice to FSOs who decided to utilize the "Japanese car program"--it will take forever for the damn vehicle to come. NOT worth the hassle. I will have some more to say on the subject later.
Dhaka looks a WHOLE more liveable with a personal car. We will be celebrating the 3rd birthday of Son this weekend. I cannot believe my little monkey is 3 already.

First food poisoning, first home massage, first boat trip, bye-bye Mom

Well, I can safely say that I am all Iftar-ed out. Last week, on Tuesday, the Embassy hosted a representational Iftar dinner for young professionals at a local rather posh restaurant called the enigmatic "The 8." A day later, all of the attendees from the American Embassy were wiped out with violent food poisoning. Neither I nor the Diplomat were spared. I'd like to proudly point out that while most officers started dropping out early in the day, I managed to keep it together until precisely 4:30 pm, when my body simply pointed out that technically it was the end of the work day, so it was alslo shutting down for the weekend. An hour later, I was lying curled up in a rather unseemly fetal position on the lazy-boy in our living room (yes, a lazy-boy, that's right! The State Department furniture is class all the way, baby!) attempting to receive my HHE.
Now, you must understand that receiving the HHE is like Christmas and three birthdays taken together for the foreign service officer. If the UAB was like manna with your essentials, the arrival of the HHE (the stuff that comes on a ship and allows up to 7,500lbs of your belongings) deserves opening a bottle of champagne you found in it, unwrapping some of your real wine glasses and dancing pachanga in the midst of the dusty disfigured, slightly wet boxes containing your life. Instead, I was trying to breathe, wrapped in a blanket in the 100 degree humidity because I was convulsing in fever while the energetic movers kept asking me pesky questions about the contents of the boxes. Three hours later, the fever was suddenly over while I felt like three Bangladeshi buses had run over me for the next 2 days. And if you knew those buses, you'd know that they have people pouring out of the windows as well as camping on the roof, so I think you get the idea.
Regardless, the next day I took Son for a playdate to the American Club and decided to have a beer for lunch as I was feeling much better and I thought I deserved it. Wrong choice.

This past week I also had the immense pleasure to have a beautician come to my house and do my manicure and pedicure for 2 gorgeous hours. Total cost: $9. Elated, I asked her to come back for a body scrub and a massage. When she arrived, she authoritatively told me that I also need a facial (which sent me running for the mirror in concern), and then spent the next 2 hours with her assistant on my bedroom floor doing some serious magic. Total cost: $25. Bangladesh definitely has its perks! Next time--head oil massage (I am told). Not sure yet how I feel about it--last time I did that was in India and it was a harrowing experience which I will share with you one day.

Finally, this last week I also had my first boat trip here. It lasted quite a few hours on one of the tributaries to the Bravnaputra river, and we had the pleasure of complete peace and quiet, greenery and gorgeous scenery. And then we stopped at a pottery village, where we observed the process of making pots and the village life, while we were keenly observed back by 376 children and their grandparents. On the way back to the boat, a woman shouted out to me (I was the last one walking) in Bangla apparently mocking me in front of her friends, "Where is your husband??" To which I in turn answered in crystal clear Bangla, "At home with the baby" (which was the truth) to everybody's utter amusement. Bengali women do have a sense of humor.

The weather here has been improving slowly. The humidity has decreased by AT LEAST 3 %. And it has not rained for a good week or so. Good times are a-coming!!!
Sadly, however, my Mom left tonight to go back to Bulgaria--we enjoyed her stay with us quite a lot and will miss her badly. We wish her a safe flight as she tries to sleep on her way to Sofia via Karachi and Istanbul. Go Turkish Airlines!