In Praise of the American Sandwich

Hello all. Reports of my demise were premature. Down, yes; out, no. I've merely been enjoying clean water and cooking oil, my own bed, having my dogs back, and all the video games I purchased for a kind word and a biscuit in Bangladesh. Oh and work, although enjoying doesn't quite encapsulate the love-hate relationship I have with work.

Things are obviously different around the Cook home. Our living room is less living room now than a McDonald's Playland in which someone has placed a comfy couch. There are no less than four separate play zones in which one can place a child to sit or stand without fear of bodily harm. There, this child can work on fine motor skills by trying to kill and eat darling zoo and/or woodland creatures. In addition, I just constructed a large fenced in region for mano-a-mano, two babys enter, one baby leaves cage matches (with adorable drawings of dancing elephants). We are doing our best to not go mad raising these kids, and most of it hinges on our boys being able to entertain themselves for at least 15 minutes a day. So far, so good.

All in all, the return home has been great. I must admit to taking much of my life for granted, and every tiny little normalcy is magic upon returning. Driving a car. Sleeping in my own bed. Eating food with confidence that you will not be vomiting within hours. Every simple familiarity is a gift. I don't think it's been said enough, so I'll say it here. The American sandwich is a thing of beauty. I'm not just talking free range chicken breast on challah with grilled onions and farmhouse cheese at Zingerman's; I'm talking subs loaded with shaved meat and honey mustard; I'm talking Soul on a Roll (barbequed brisket with slaw, or a deli reuben. Shit, I'm talkin' PB&J on white. I don't even like white bread, but I'm still talking about it. Simple. Satisfying. If it doesn't make me blow junks or bleed internally, so much the better. I got sandwiches in Bangladesh, yes. And they were good, yes. One had egg and mushrooms and was crushed and toasted within an iron over open flame, and it was delicious. At other times I rolled spicy kabob's up in Naan, and again: delicious. But damn it if we don't go to town on the sandwhich in the US. One of the Chicago Reader music critics once wrote that no matter how cool you are, right now, somewhere in America, there's a kid inventing a form of music that will totally piss you off in 20 years. I would like to add that right now, somewhere in America, there's a guy making a sandwich in his kitchen so delicious that it would totally kick your tastebuds in two. If you talk to that man, tell him to mail me one.

It's good to be home.

A few things happened in Bangladesh before we left that I haven't blogged on yet. Going into them in any detail seems very stale, but let me do my best to get them out here for my personal record of the trip. If you don't care, at least I'll remember it when I'm old and trying to explain the trip to Kamran, Kalil, and Maya.

You're Living All Over Me

The hardest thing about Bangladesh was living in the same room with my entire family. In my older age, I have learned that I am by nature an introvert who enjoys his own company and the silence that brings. So it was that being in a room with four other people all day was difficult. Why not walk into the living room, dumbass? Well, lots of reasons. The first, is air conditioning. Our room had it, the rest of house felt like the rest of Bangladesh: like bathing in hot spit that tastes faintly of turmeric.

The second was baby placement. Our bedroom had a crib, a bed, and a mattress on the floor. These are perfect spots to lay down a child such that he can sleep, play, or cry uncontrollably for five minutes to an eternity. The rest of the house is covered in hard, hard marble tile that is easy on the eye and horrible on the fontanelle. It just isn't a good place for a kid to roll around. About half-way through the trip, I started brining the crib out into the living room, but it was still one tiny crib, and I've got twins. Further, neither one really liked hanging in the crib for any longer than they could nap.

The third reason is Andre, the adorable dalmation who tried to eat my face. Here's a picture of him. Cute, eh? How cute would he be if he tried to eat your face? The first time we were in Bangladesh, Andre nearly bit off Tania's hand. We were assured that this time, Andre was mellower, and if we didn't pay him much attention, he wouldn't pay us much attention... or eat our face. And so, Andre was seemingly friendly towards me. He sniffed me, wagged his tail, and even licked me. So, I got comfortable, even started petting him. And thus, on the third time I petted him, Andre leaped up, tried to ingest my hand and claw my chest. I leap back, Salman grabbed Andre, and Maya started crying. Tania tried to comfort her, telling her Daddy is ok, and I'm trying to tell her and everyone that I'm fine. Tania then told me to show Maya my chest to prove that I'm ok, and I then realize that Andre has torn a big hole in the center of my shirt, scraped my chest and leg, and that his bite missed so narrowly that the side of my hand has the imprint of the side of his teeth. For the rest of the trip, Andre lived on the roof of the building from 6 AM until 9 PM, and we stayed in our room for the remainder. Salman loves his dog, and Andre loves Salman, but anyone else is dog food. In retrospect, my masculinity feels bruised after being mauled by a dalmation named Andre. I owe you one, Andre, and if I'm ever in Bangladesh again, I owe you paybacks.

Thus, after that, we became cloistered and I became claustrophobic. It was then, in our weakness, that the creatures came for us as we lay sleeping. I was fast asleep one night, when something walked over my head. Having seen the giant, slow-moving spiders of Bangladesh, I though "TARANTULA!" Luckily--for my masculinity--I did not scream it, but jumped up as though I had, scraping my head violently and sending it flying across the room. Tania is yelling "what, what is it?" and I see it, a humungous cockroach. Having not seen it, she says "get a tissue and kill it!"

Friends, this was not a cockroach that you kill with Kleenex or even Brawny. This was the kind of beast you take a shotgun to and pray he doesn't have friends. He was a whopper, about three inches long, and thankfully not very fast. No wonder the cats in Dubai eat roaches; these roaches are good eatin's. I had to crush him with a shoe, and I didn't sleep well for the next week.

The next plague upon us were scabies. Kamran had a bit of a rash when we got him that just proceded to get worse while we were there. It seemed to start via a lesion on his hand and chest and work its way outward. For a while, Tania and I were putting socks on his hand to keep him from sucking on the hand, but all we were left with was a soggy sock. Overtime, this plague began to cover his body, and his face broke out as well. Then Kalil got it, and then Tania and I started itching. At this point, everyone in the family got to know the joys of permethrin cream, which more or less, is like slathering your body in insecticide. This didn't stop our fantom itch, but at least it kept the cockroaches at bay.

Hi All- the news is that Keith is out and Tania is in. Thanks to all those who really enjoyed Keith's postings, but since he is getting back to work, I will be handling this blog for now. I can fully assure you I will will be neither as funny nor as articulate as my husband. Just so we are clear. However, I will be posting some basic info about the kids and will try to do so regularly.

We have been home for a week now, and this marks the twins' 6 mos bday. They have adjusted rather well to the move. We have had them in for their first check up, where they were subjected to ear irrigations, 2 shots a piece and Kalil got his very own nebulizer. The new meds, though similar, are doing their job, so I guess I won't complain about the price going from .50 to $30. I appreciate those who have indicated that the boys look healthy, and not tiny as we reported them to be. To give you an idea, they scored 0% for height and head circumference and 2 and 4% for weight. So they are tiny ( the Dr did note that the US scales skew for white babies and Asians tend to score less. By comparison, Maya was at 25% for weight and 50% for height. She is now 50% and 90%).
Miss Maya is a trooper and already went back to school- a half day for her first day back in town and full time since. She missed her friends and is happy to be back. The reason I know this is because when she got home, she rolled around the floor and shouted, " I'm home, I'm home!".
Ok, that is all for now since the boys are up again.

Home

Hello all. We returned home safely Monday night, totally exhausted but in one piece. Everyone will be slowly recovering from fatigue, the 11 hour time change, and the 40-50 degree temperature difference and I'll return to work bit by bit over the next couple weeks. I'll try and add a few bits to explain what happened in the last few weeks and some pictures, and then I'll sew this up.

Coming Home

I haven't had time to write anything lately, and I probably won't. The news is that we got our NOC and passports on Sunday, and we are scheduled to get the boys US visas today. We have a hold on a flight that leaves here Sunday the 16th and gets in to the US on Monday in the early evening (33 hr travel time due to time changes). There's a flurry of activity upon leaving, so we will most likely be busy with saying our goodbyes and celebrating the success of the trip.

Bottle Up and Explode

Things blow up here a lot. I’m not talking about terrorists with martyr vests or car bombs, stuff simply just up and explodes. Two weeks ago, we all awoke to a large “boom!” and flash of light down the road from us. Then the power went off. If I were in Lebanon, I would think “car bomb,” but I’m in Bangladesh, so instead I thought “car bomb.” Then I quickly revised this down to "pipe bomb" and then “transformer.” This is not an alien experience to me, as I’ve had a transformers blow a few times in the US. Here they blow every other Tuesday, and if it rains, which it always does, on Thursday as well. One morning, three transformers that I could hear exploded somewhere between ruti, omlette, and cha. Cyclone Reshmi had been in the Bay of Bengal for days, masquerading as a tropical depression, and it had rained here three days solid without pause. In any case, none of the transformers were ours, and we had our typical morning brown-out and went on with life. Since then, there have been various loud pops and bangs, as its seems an electrical wire will stray here, fall down there, and this tends to create loud noises of varying sorts. Much of this can be explained by poor infrastructure and the rest can be explained by a land ruled by chaos and habit. Panna Phupa told me that 30% of produced energy is lost in the system due to people pirating energy. They simply hop up on the electrical poles, attach some wiring and viola, free juice. The government owns the energy industry, and no private firms will get involved because you just can’t make money if there’s that much pirating.

This reminds me of a tale I’ve told before. When we first arrived in Bangladesh a couple years back, we stopped to get natural gas. Nearly all cars here have been converted to run on compressed natural gas, as Bangladesh has lots of it, and it burns much cleaner. So, nearly everyone has a big gas cylinder in the trunk. So, we stopped and started filling up. You could see various people milling about the station; most people are not in their cars while filling up. So, Berry Phupu turns to me and says, “usually, we get out of the car while filling up, but it’s raining.” “Why?” I ask. “Sometimes the cars explode.” Sure enough, I’m reading the newspaper here that week, and there’s a picture of a car that exploded at the filling station. For the rest of my time here, I was the guy trying to look nonchalant and unconcerned as I crept away from the car and hid behind anything that appeared to be flame retardant.

This trip has been very different from the last. One of the largest differences is that we don’t go out much. The first time we came, everyone was inviting us to dine either out or at their house. We were also constantly shuttling from Panna Phupa and Berry Phupu’s house to Boro Phupu’s house where Tania’s parents were staying. This trip has been largely different. One, the boys start working themselves into sleep around 6 PM. People know that were really tied up with the kids, so we never go out at night. Two, I haven’t been going over to Boro Phupu’s house on Fridays because I need some time to myself, and the trip is horrendous. It’s a nauseating stop-start trip through the heart of Dhaka that lasts about 45 minutes and goes something like this, repeated at 10 second intervals: break, gas, break, gas, honk. Break, break, honk. Gas, gas, break, vomit. It ends in a construction zone that you have to walk through to get to their house, holding babies, trying not to fall into a large open trench or get hit by some random 12 year old with a sledgehammer. Work crews here do not look like the work crews of home. They look like someone walked down the street asking, “anyone want to bang on sh*t?. It pays!” And four or five random guys in lungi’s (basically man skirts) take them up on this, and half of them are boys who should be working with erector sets, not installing sewer drains.

Before I get to serious adoption issues, a last note on explosions. It’s a tough commentary to make, to blend the appropriate amount of snide sarcasm, jingoism, and yet not give you an idea that people in Bangladesh are anything other than peace-loving people. People do make bombs here and set them off to make points. It happens. Typically, its one political party attacking another, rather than say, someone blowing up an American business, and these things are rare. Bangladesh is no Gaza Strip, nor is it even Pakistan. It is easy to see why Bangladesh separated from both India and Pakistan, in turn. Bangladesh is a Muslim nation, but they are a Muslim nation that is geographically separated from Pakistan by India and thus culturally more like India than Pakistan. Although religiously, Bangladesh could be thought of more like its old name “East Pakistan,” but culturally, it is more like it’s even older name “East Bengal.” Hindu’s live here in peace with Muslim’s, and Hindu holidays remain national holidays much like the Muslim ones.

Bangladesh does have an Islamist political party, Jamaat Islamia, and there are plenty of folks running around with bushy beards, wishing that we returned to how things were back when Mohammed (PBUH) was around (My two favorite things in this philosophy: one, men dying their hair and beards with henna, giving them orange hair. This seems a little vain and perhaps a little feminizing for the Prophet, but I’m obviously an outsider here and not hip to the fashions of 1st century AD Medina. And, two, brushing your teeth with some type of twig. Surely the Prophet would not object to Crest). Jamaat has largely been powerless since the country began. They are currently moving towards legitimacy by attempting to enter the elections this year. It’s unclear if they’ll be allowed, but they’ve removed certain offensive things from their party constitution that might keep one out of the election, like, say declaring that the country of Bangladesh is illegitimate. If you’re yearning for the Caliphate, perhaps elections for parliament aren’t your thing. Despite this party’s existence, I just can’t see Bangladesh approaching anything close to Sharia and Islamist rule. There are lots of reasons for this, but I would say that by and large people here are NOT yearning for the Caliphate: they’re yearning for food and shelter, money, jobs, peace, and prosperity. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Everyone here has a hustle, whether it’s selling cell phone time on a corner, popcorn on the street, or high speed internet from a corner shop in the bazaar. Actually, most people here have three hustles going on. This is the reason why microloans are so important and successful here. People here are busy carving out a better life, and it may just take a few dollars to do so. I read an interesting article about a guy here who got a microloan to farm crab here. He was initially laughed at--no one here farms crab--but he turned it into a living. The loan amount? 2000 Taka, a little less than $30. $30? I can’t decide which I want to do more, own a crab farm or get into the microloan business (My mom is already in that business, having given money to the Grameen bank recently). Poverty breeds anger, and although there’s plenty of poverty here, there is also opportunity.

This discussion is all an excuse for me to write about TV here. Most folks here get Indian TV on their cable, and trust me, you will see nary a burka. Indian TV is nearly as over-sexed as US TV. I don’t have any great examples--let’s just say that tight tops and bare midriffs are in full effect--but the funniest thing I have seen is the cheerleaders for the Indian cricket league. In one televised match I saw, these cheerleaders weren’t in the stands, inciting the crowds to pull, pull, pull for their team. They were merely in the studio, at the ready in their pig tails, mini-skirts, and pom-poms to dance, dance, dance us into a commercial break. One difference between here and there: this can’t be a respectful gig here. In the US, our cheerleaders tend to be young and fresh-faced. These looked oddly like they had been hired off the street.

Here's a link to my favorite TV commercial. It's both funny and has a great song in it. Can't wait for the follow up commercial when this guy's colon explodes about three hours later.

Adoption Update

We are progressing rapidly. We now have the NOC, and we should have the boy’s passports by Sunday. This means that we could actually leave early! I have to go down to Emirates Air and see if an early departure is possible, and then convince Tania’s parents to come back early with us. It will mean missing Tania’s cousins wedding here on the 21st. We would all love to be there for the wedding, but we would all love to be home more. The last few nights here have been particularly upsetting. Amidst all the joy over getting documents and watching the Obama victory on CNN, there have been some really challenging evenings due to fatigue, homesickness, and the dreaded demon plague of scabies. I will put up a graph here soon detailing each of our desires to be home. It waxes and wanes for most but for Maya it has been a steady climb. She used to just say she wanted to go home when tired or crying for some other reason, but she now says it constantly. It will cost us about a grand to change our tickets, and Tania says she would pay that for three extra days at home. I said I would do it for an extra week.

Pictures to follow in my next post: children, transformers, and street-walking goats.

Amongst the Unwashed

I wrote this several days ago, before several new plagues were upon us. Tania got some flu-like demon virus, and Kamran's parisitic skin plague (which may or may not be scabies) spread. Dad was in charge of running the family while Mom slept, so I've been moving cribs hither and dither to juggle babies, smearing ointment over crying babies, and trying to keep people from waking Tania up. I will update things later today after getting this posted and spending some me time today. Tania is feeling better and took the kids to her Aunt's to give me the day off. This post is only 3-4 days old but seems ancient.

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The last week featured a bunch of rough patches and strained, poor parenting from yours truly. The boys were sick for three days after immunizations and Maya was having issues that, unfortunately, could have been avoided if I had my wits. A couple nights back, we were in bed sometime after 9 PM, she was watching her DVD player, basically refusing to sleep, and being louder than I wanted her to be. After refusing to quiet down, I took her DVD player, turned it off, looked up, and got smacked in the face. There was yelling, fear, and crying. I can only say “we don’t hit in this family, ever” using the velvet vocal tones of a psychologist so many times before it gets ugly. Luckily, this was a turning point. I made a conscious refusal not to be in those sorts of confrontations anymore, and she’s made an unconscious decision not to make her Dad a terrifying, crazy, screaming freak. I put her back on her old, regular bedtime schedule of dinner, bath, story, sleep, and we have resumed our father-daughter love fest. She remains my favorite person, and I feel for her situation. She misses everything familiar to her and chafes against the new restraints.

Today, I am in a café called “Cuppa Coffee Club.” Last week, Pial and I went on a quest to find me a place to work while Maya is in school. Originally, that was supposed to be the American Club, a private, walled compound where Americans can lounge amongst the bougainvillea and drink liquor or coffee, swim, play tennis, and basketball, watch armed forces TV and generally act like bourgeois colonialists. All the place is missing is a lawn jockey and a vending machine that craps bibles and cans of mint julep. Last time we were here, I wanted to see the UM-Notre Dame game, so we went and joined. Unfortunately, they had a rule that a current member had to sponsor you in order to join. So, Tania and I went around begging people on the grounds, beseeching those to respect all that is holy: a need to eat pizza that tastes like pizza and celebrate the greatest college football rivalry of all time. Having been members, we thought joining would be simple; we could refer ourselves. However, they changed the rules, such that you now have to be sponsored by a member of the American diplomatic corp. Thus, we would have to go beg at the Embassy.

My feeling about this? F*** you. The only thing worse than an exclusive club is an exclusive club that won’t let you join. I can only guess that someone got in last time who didn’t believe in creationism, and one of the Bush appointees got pissed and made sure that if you didn’t graduate from Bob Jones University with a major in xenophobia that you wouldn’t get in. To make it worse, the apostate American Club member was probably a naturalized American, brown of skin, and fluent in Bengali. Heathen.

I can do without Starbucks coffee and the $80 membership fee. I’ll Empire-build elsewhere.

So, Pial and I went out and he took me to this place, a fancy café with an altogether different technique to keep out the riff-raff: they charge US prices for drinks. They’re doing a damn good job, too. The first time we came in, there were about four people here, most Westerners. The last two times, I’ve been the only customer. It’s been me and their staff of like five guys. Service, as you might expect is great. No one speaks much English, but they’re anxious and ready to misinterpret my every need. There’s air conditioning, internet, power plugs for laptops, fancy furniture, pleasant photography, and peace if not quiet. The only drawback is that someone here likes Euro-style dance club music, piped in via satellite. I’m much happier giving these guys my money, although it’s too bad Maya won’t get to go swimming while here.

There are now two Bengali couples in here. I just killed two mosquitos, both with an ugly splat of blood. (It is at this point that I must tell you how much I enjoyed life before Dengue Fever.) Now one of the guys is walking around with a bug zapper that looks exactly like a children’s tennis racquet. He swings it through the air, and I’m guessing anything that passes through dies a horrible death. I must have one, and I must wield it at lab meetings.

As for the adoption, it goes very well. I have a dream, a delicious dream, that tastes of tryptophan and involves a couch and the Lions losing to whomever. Our scheduled flight from here leaves on Nov 24th, and I plan, hope, and pray (inshallah) to be on that flight.

Triplets!

Nah. Just kidding. However, we don't think that Kamran and Kalil are identical. They just look a lot alike. Here are some pictures, although it's less obvious in pictures. The boys had their tetanus immunization three days ago and have been sick as dogs. Fever, irritability, diarrhea. Very unpleasant. Plus, Maya has been having her own issues with listening. I don't have the patience this require. Hence a few rough days.

Maya's preschool. It's very nice, with fun toys and projects inside and beautiful scenery outside. Maya is playing in the sandbox with Maleeha.

In a fair percentage of his photos, Kalil makes this face. This is by far the funniest one, though. Tania thought I should tell you that Kalil says "Hey you." However, it sounds more like "hey-000."

Maya comforts her brother. Kamran, I think.

There’s been good news and bad news on the adoption front. The good news is that we are now the legal guardians of Kamran and Kalil. On Monday, we went down to the family courts in Old Dhaka. I find it interesting here that power and importance here don’t necessarily equate to nice offices; the judges chambers were in a small building with a tin roof and a thatch ceiling and ages old, horribly worn furniture. It was like having a court proceding in a garage. Tania met with the judge, ensured her that the boys would remain Muslim, as they were by birth, and that was that. The next steps with the Bangladesh government are to get the No Objection Certificate (NOC) that allows them to leave the country with us and then their Bangladeshi passport. Once that’s done, we will apply for their US Visa. We hope that the NOC and the passport can be done in three weeks and the Visa in one. If so, we’re home by Thanskgiving (!!).

The bad news is just the size of the boys. I looked on a height and weight chart for them online, and they are very, very small. Like 5th percentile small on height and weight. I also looked at their discharge slips from the hospital, and it shows that they were premature. How much premature we don’t know. They went for immunizations today, and the pediatrician confirmed that they were underweight, and prescribed a vitamin supplement. If you looked at Kamran, you wouldn’t judge him unhealthy, but his height brings his weight way down. Kalil looks skinny, though. So, hopefully they’ll grow well from here on out, but these boys may just be very, very short. They are definitely behind where Maya was, but she was an Stewie-esque uber-genius, already plotting world domination at 3-months, so who knows.

Luckily, we brought a crate of formula, so hopefully that will help them catch up. The milk powder madness continues here and is of greater importance here than in the US. Fresh milk is not the norm here due to refrigeration issues; most people get their milk from powder. So, the government and one major university here have been testing the milk powders for melamine. That sounds good, but the two parties don’t agree. The Gov. says the powder is fine; the U. says many brands have melamine. Because the Gov. here is normally deemed corrupt and bribable, Tania’s uncle Panna doesn’t believe them. Meanwhile, Nestle and other baby formula makers are running ads in the papers to proclaim their milk safe. The boys had a combination of breast milk and Nestle’s Lactogen. They are now on Costco’s version of Lipil, and we can only hope that doesn’t have some Chinese poison in it of any sort.

Everyone else is doing well. Tania’s eye infection has cleared up, and Maya is in good health and enjoying her preschool here. It's quite nice. It allows her to most of the things she loves (swings, sandbox, slides, and painting) and keeps her away from TV for a short period in the day. She’s been watching a lot of They Might Be Giants, Here Comes the ABCs, though, which I fully support.

I’ll post new pictures soon. Pray for a safe, speedy return.

First Week Observations

Before leaving for the trip, I thought the best comparison for my experience was going to be H.I. McDonough in Raising Arizona, tortured by the Arizona quintuplets. In reality, the experience has been more Reznik in the Machinist. My first four nights in Bangladesh were mostly spent with my mind racing or staring at the ceiling with absolutely no desire to sleep. Things probably would have been easier if it had just been Tania and I in the room, but if you’re feeling anxious, and there are three kids in the room tossing, turning, coughing, and crying then you have no chance of sleep. Some nights, I could squeeze out two hours of sleep, some none. As a consequence, I spent my days feeling sick and didn’t eat much. Hence, the skeletal Reznik. The problem was the Mefloquine. Looking at info online, about 4% of people have anxiety problems on it, and I am one. It also seems to halt any adjustment to time change. I never ceased to be alert at night and groggy during the day here. The problem is that it’s a weekly tablet with a long half-life, so it’s going to fade slowly. I didn’t take my does this Wed and slept pretty well last night. However, it’s 3 AM and here I am again.

Last time in Bangladesh, we took malarone for malaria resistance but found that it caused/enhanced GI problems. Malarone lit says that it’s not supposed to cause GI problems unless taken in massive doses, but I’m guessing those lab studies were done for a relatively short term, with normal food, and a low bacterial load in the food. Taking it for several weeks with spicy food full of fun, new organisms was problematic. The problem was slight until we got food poisoning, and then it became unbearable nag. Our GI tract just couldn’t recover fully while on the stuff. Hence the mefloquine this time. In any case, last time we were here, people asked us why we were taking it and told us that there was very little malaria in Dhaka, which made us more comfortable in not taking it. There is much to say, positive and negative, about travel clinics and the western view of Bangladesh and India. One thing that unfortunate but without a good solution is that they prescribe based on country. So, if I'm in Dhaka, and concrete city of 15 million, I get the same advice as if I was going to the Sunderban, a jungle filled river delta. I will have to play this by ear and do the unfortunate calculus of balancing sleep and anti-malarials. One should not forget that there are plenty of bugs to catch out here (Tania is currently winning a battle against an ugly infection in her eye), and if my immune system is compromised fighting one specific one, that’s not a good plan. Once I’m sleeping through the night, I’ll reassess.

Enough about me.

The boys are doing well overall. Kamran, the older and larger, has proven to be a very low maintainance baby. He cries very little and does so only when he really, really needs food or changing. He seems very content. He’s a sleep warrior, and when he dreams, he’s a Viking. When Kalil dreams, unfortunately, he’s Joe Cocker. Kalil’s a bit twitchy and nervous. If I could hazard a guess, I think that either through necessity or design, his biological mother kept him close at all times. Very close. At the teat close. He is not happy if he is not pressed up against you, and cries when put down. We do our best to swaddle, but he is facing a lot of crying therapy when we return home. He will have to toughen up. I already had a moment when I was feeding Kamran, Kalil started crying, and after failing to verbally comfort him (something that works ok with Kamran), I just let him cry until Kamran and I were completely done. Tania sleeps with him in bed as a consequence, while Kamran is in the crib.

Maya and I sleep on the floor on a mattress, with the bed on one side, and the crib on the other. Last night, I twice caught Maya crawling under the bed and had to drag her back out. All in all, she is doing very well and being a good big sister. She has adjusted to the time change well, is eating well, and is behaving well for the most part. She misses her home, her dogs, her friends, and her time in the park, but this hasn’t caused too many problems. We’ve been meaning to get her to the American Club to do some swimming and play but it hasn’t worked out well for transportation/sleep/twins reasons. One Monday, most likely, she will enroll in a preschool here where Tania’s Aunt Berry works. I think this will help her and us. We can focus on the twins and sleep a bit more, she can get some exercise and interaction with kids. She may even learn some Bangla.

(Tonight we ate at Bangladeshi Fried Chicken, and she actually ate a drumstick, which was great. She usually won’t eat any meat unless its pureed and mixed in something. This is a testament to BFC, which is spicy and good. I think its run by a guy who worked at KFC in the US and came back here and did his Bangla version.)

I hesitate to say this as well, but a few good things. One, our court date to receive legal guardianship of the boys is Sunday. If this gets done on Sunday, it is possible that we will be home by Thanksgiving. Highly possible. I think that would be great. I enjoy seeing everyone here, but I like being home more than anything in the world. Two, we haven’t had any major GI problems. Some of this is just not eating out, some may be that we’re adjusting better this time around, and some may be taking mefloquine rather than malarone. Three, they had a really nice birthday party for me last night. Great food (the chicken tikka and the beef kabobs were the best, great with naan). I would post a picture of the two cakes but it’s on Salman’s camera. It said “Happy Birthday to Keith, with ‘Desi Love.” They were blueberry cakes with cheesecake layers, purchased by Pial, Tania’s cousin. Very yummy.

We Have the Boys!

Too much to do to write now. Here's a few pics. I'll write soon when we renew our acquaintance with sleep.

Dubai

I wrote this a few days ago but wasn't able to post.

We spent the last couple days in transit or wandering, fatigued, around Dubai. We didn’t get out much there, but managed to have a couple meals. I didn’t learn too much about the way people live in Dubai, but I did learn that it’s much more embarrassing when your daughter has a tantrum on the streets of a foreign city than it is at home. Oh, and I enjoy date milk. Not all was negative. We all slept about 12 hours the first night there and had our one real meal of the day around 4 in an Indo-Chinese restaurant named “Stand View.” For whatever reason, everyone who went in that place ordered hamburgers. The Indian Chinese was good, but I’m left wondering how good those hamburgers were. Maya spent the meal playing with two girls (Haya and Hala) from a nice Muslim, Northern Sudanese couple and their kids. I’m very shoe and foot conscious when I am in Muslim nations because their views on these things are so far from the Western view (don’t show the bottoms of your feet to people as not to insult them, the shoe is a dirty, dirty thing). Thus, I found it very surprising that this family allowed their kids to eat their whole meals while sitting on the tables, shoes and all. In any case, Maya built a lasting peace and understanding between our nations. Darfur was not discussed.


(One other thing I saw there that I had never seen before: a cat eating a cockroach. Dubai is devoid of the animal life that you find on the street here in Dhaka but does appear to have a fair number of wild kittens).

Our airport experience coming into Dhaka was not so great. I’ll do my best to relay this story while remaining culturally sensitive. Dubai has a lot of itinerant workers. Whereas the US may have Mexican immigrants who come to work in agriculture or meat packing, Dubai appears to have a great number of Bangladeshi’s. So, when we arrived at our gate, just about 95% of the people there were 20-40 year old men, all of which a little rough around the edges. Men who had spent too long in the company of men alone and thus lost a bit of their civility. At the gate, Tania went to use the bathroom, and I sat there with Maya. Tania hadn’t been feeling so well and had been feeling nauseated. A few minutes go by and then I hear someone yelling; I look over toward the bathrooms and Tania is full out yelling at an Emirates Air staffer. There were men in the women’s bathroom smoking; when Tania went in they didn’t leave or apologize for being there. They made her wait for a stall. The flight was mostly sedate but with incidents of the same: people unwilling to follow regulations, smoking in the bathrooms, mad scrums to the door, etc. We later learned that a large number of men on the flight (all the men wearing white pyjama) had been deported from Dubai for overstaying their visas. When we got off our flight, all the men gathered around, as their belongings were sent down the baggage turnstile. All their belongings were bunched together and wrapped in one very large sheet. It was like a giant hobo bindle.

Arriving in Bangladesh this evening allowed us to exhale. The care we get here is immeasurable. At the airport, we were greeted by Tania’s Berry Phupu (Aunt) and Panna Phupa (Uncle) and cousin Salman. They were accompanied by several airline officials who did everything for us: they took our documents, had them checked, and we never saw a single line. The most I had to do was point out our luggage, and no one here let me lift a single thing. It’s very nice. We went back to their house, had a nice dinner, and went to bed. It’s hot and exceedingly humid but what is new. I just have to get used to sweating. Maya doesn’t seem to care, which is a relief.

Well, I’m up late because I had a mefloquine fueled dream. Mefloquine, our anti-malarial drug of choice for this trip, has “vivid dreams” as one of its side effects. My dream this evening was of thousands and thousands of strands of different colors and in some cases, flavors (some tasted of mango). What disturbed me about these strands is that they seemed to present some sort of choice for me, some fate perhaps, and all were associated with some probability. Probability of what? Who knows. My problem was that I was trying to solve these strands, pull them apart, make some sense of them and then choose a direction. Hence, I am awake at 5 AM. Tomorrow is a lax day. We get the boys on Saturday.

Three Days and Counting

Our living room is a mess. Three suitcases are splayed out across the floor with numerous mounds all over the floor and furniture. It looks like a Mormon family vacation just threw up in our living room. Clothes and toys and gifts and all things baby. A pile of stuff we’re not going to take. A pile of stuff we may take, if a pack mule is allowed on international flights. An octogenarian’s worth of pills to ameliorate a wee fraction of Bangladesh’s deadly diseases. One suitcase--the gigantic one--full of nothing more than gifts. Stuff you can't get in Bangladesh like Pop Rocks and bright orange customized Nike soccer cleats. One medium suitcase for the Kamran and Kalil’s stuff, nearly half-full of formula (I would like to send a giant shout out to the Chinese government for their latest practical joke. Europeans took over the world with gunpower and syphilis, you will do it with mercury and melamine). The last suitcase falls to Tania, Maya, and me: a mere three changes of clothes for two months.

Tania has done the vast majority of organization, but still I am exhausted. Every day has been a crazed rush to put things in place at work and do a few things of value here at home. I have succeeded in parts, failed in others. The only thing I have slowed down for is Maya. I’m very excited about the boys, but I will miss the one on one time with her. I gave her the thumbs up yesterday; she gave me the thumbs up back, touched her thumb to mine and said “team.” Let’s hope this attitude holds.

Time to relax. Three days until our flight. Next post, I hope, will be on what meds we’ll be taking while in Bangladesh and how they may or may not keep our colons from exploding. We will be taking so much Peptobismal, that we will all turn pink and smell forever of minty freshness.

There Will Be Blood

In Bangladesh, it is customary to sacrifice a goat (or cow if you're crazy rich) to bless your child's birth. (For a reference on this custom, I suggest the Bible. Look for a guy named Abraham) Last time I was there, I wanted to do it all: I wanted to eat everything, see the country, go to masjid, discover the joys of cricket (until I learned a match lasted 5 days), catch an exotic disease, everything. So, when it was time to bless my child, I wanted to truly experience it, not run up into my room and hide until the goat curry hit the table.

So, the Imam from the local masjid came over to Tania's Boro Phupu's house (her eldest aunt) with two guys. He eyed me suspiciously, and Tania's cousin introduced me as an "American Muslim." He seemed to dislike my name until given my Muslim name, at which point we were cool. He then blesses the goat, and they sacrifice it. The two guys then butcher this thing in about five minutes and divide up the meat into thirds. Not roughly thirds; exactly thirds: they bring a seriously old-school, Biblical era scale. One third goes to the family, one third goes to the community, and one third goes to the poor. I'm not fully clear on what happened to the skull, but I think it was included in the calculations. If you've ever folded up a letter to mail, you'll know that its particularly difficult to divide something into thirds, particularly if there's a skull involved.

That night, Tania's family ate goat.

This brings to mind a good family story. When Tania's younger sister Sonia was little, she attended the sacrifice of a cow with Tania's older brother Latif. At the point of sacrifice, Latif pushed Sonia into the cow. She didn't eat beef for five years after. What brought her back to beef? A Burger King commercial. She is an avid burger eater to this day.

So, we were over at Tania's parents this past weekend, discussing the adoption of the twins, and started discussing the sacrifice for this adoption. Tania's mother smiled and said, "you do know that you have to sacrifice four goats this time, right?"

Uh, no. What? I don't get it. It was one last time, so I can see two, but four?

Yes, four, she explained. It's two goats per boy (having been a boy, I can see how they would require extra blessing).

So I guess that's what we'll do. Latif, by the way, is going to sponsor one of the goats. If any else wants to buy a goat, let me know. This time, Tania's mother is organizing a big meal at the orphanage for the kids and staff with all that meat plus some additional food. I think that's a great idea. I don't think I'll attend the sacrifice this time, but I would love to watch those kids eat. I don't eat goat.

That Was Last Time

During our last trip to Bangladesh, I sent an email back to friends describing what Dhaka, Bangladesh was like. Note that I didn't address the character of the Bangladeshi people, nor did I deal with the interesting political situation. Both will be dealt with at a later date, but I would be remiss if I didn't indicate that the people of Bangladesh are amazingly kind and giving. They would gladly give you the shirt off their back and wouldn't even make you ask for it. In fact, if you so much as eyed it approvingly, they probably would not only give you that one, but go where they make them and buy you three. They make Western concepts of hospitality look selfishly feeble. Due to this great treatment, I had a wonderful time there. Don't lose that in this description of the chaos. The mad, roiling, chaos of kind people.

Bangladesh And Its People (all sixty zillion of them)

In order to first understand our trip, I need to explain a few things about the country of Bangladesh. Depending on who I’m talking to, Bangladesh has somewhere between 130 and 150 million people crammed into a country roughly the size of an average American state. If you then consider that much of this country is covered in water, particularly during the monsoon season when everything floods, you’re talking about cramming half the population of the United States into Rhode Island. The largest, capital city, Dhaka, has 14 million people, and is oddly reminiscent of New York with 10 times the dirt and 100 times the chaos. If you think New York City is a bustling, gritty metropolis then you’re a yokel. People here routinely refer to some of Bangladesh’s smaller cities as towns, despite the fact that they are populated by 2 million people. I thought this might just be a poor choice of English words, but when I asked someone how large Chittagong was, they told me “not very big.” I asked specifically, and I was told 4 million.

The overcrowding colors everything here. The sidewalks are crammed with people in the commercial areas and even the residential areas have numerous people walking down the street. The roads can be described no other way than insane. There are four predominant types of vehicles sharing the roads everywhere in Bangladesh (including the highways): cars, buses, mini-taxis, and rickshaws. The percentage of buses here, by necessity, is much higher than in the US. They’re all privately run, and they’re all packed to the brim, with typically one guy hanging off the back bumper or out of the door, usually smoking a cigarette. The mini-taxis are basically a three-wheel ATV that someone has thrown a green carriage on top. So, they seat a driver and about two passengers in back. Lastly, there are the rickshaws, which are three wheeled bicycles fitted with a small, inclined, half-sitting, half-standing carriage area in back. Rickshaws are the coolest thing on the road, because the carriages are all brightly painted and unique. The best rickshaws have streamers, shiny metallic ornaments, and murals of famous movie stars. They’re also the biggest pain in the ass, because they’re slow and plentiful, creating a big, eco-friendly, brightly painted nuisance. In addition to these vehicles, there are all kinds of custom conveyances: rickshaws converted to transport large items (like refrigerators), flat push-carts for transporting things like building materials or vegetables, and tiny trucks that look like quarter size versions of US military troop transports.

The diversity in size, speed, and survivability of the mode of transport is what led me to describe the roads as insane. Driving here is not driving in the sense that we know it; it is more like an infinitely repeated game of chicken. There are no lanes, and there are almost no signals (none that are obeyed), stop signs, or police supervision. Every inch of road is occupied and everyone is trying to force their way into your space. Because of this, rapid fire honking is absolutely necessary, and the drivers keep their hand on the horn at all times. When traffic is relatively clear, the cars weave their way through a phalanx of rickshaws, mini-taxis, and pedestrians. They don’t so much go around, as they go through, gaining ground from behind or heading face-on, with their hand on the horn, forcing the people or rickshaws to move or be hit. Drivers here are constantly engaged in what appear to be near head-on collisions, only to have someone pull away at the last second. Somehow, there is a system to all this, with everyone teetering on the brink but pulling away at some controlled moment. In the US, everyone says that people in fill-in-the-city can’t drive because they don’t drive the way they do in that persons home town. People can drive here; there is a system; it’s just based on insanity. I haven’t seen any accidents in the city, but judging from the busses and some cars, they are plentiful. The busses in particular look as though they’ve been in hundreds of accidents. You can only pull dents so many times before you’re driving around a ball of crumpled tinfoil.

In the midst of this are the pedestrians, playing Frogger across traffic. There are no signals or stop signs, so there is no designated place or time for safe passage. So, they have this impotent, darkly humorous means of stopping traffic. They extend their arm between them and the car, as though holding it back. Janeane Garofalo used to say her Los Angeles fantasy was to hit someone in the cross-walk just as they were saying “you know, they have to stop.” The response here from drivers is frequently similar, and I have seen several people nearly die this way before scampering off in the Heismann pose. They’re smaller people, but quick. Good reflexes.

Out of necessity, I’ve had to turn down my stress level from worrying about accidents to worrying about fatal accidents. The only saving grace about the congestion is that it is rare for people to get up to 30 mph here. So, most accidents are minor. This is not true out on the highways, something I did once and swore never again. There, cars, trucks and buses do get up well over 60 MPH and feel no need to drive on their side of the road. You either get on the shoulder, or you die. This is made very complicated, because those same rickshaws and mini-taxis are out there, driving slowly, mostly on the shoulder. In my trip out to the countryside, I arrived upon a recent, absolutely horrible accident where a bus plowed through a mini-taxi, demolishing it before turning over and running into a bazaar. After this experience, I stopped worrying about the car being dented or pedestrians dying. One can only worry about so much, so I’ll just worry about myself. Thus, in the city, as long as traffic is moving and I have AC, I’m happy.

But I’m usually not happy. Most intersections are a mass of gridlocked vehicles and commerce, and the AC is frequently out. While stopped, kids selling balloons, popcorn, candy, flowers, maps, and fruit descend upon the cars. Most people run up and call me “boss,” which I really don’t like. I’m sure some white visitors like to feel above the masses, but I’m not fond of it. I have a different style, and thus I have a favored patron. Tania’s aunt Berry (Berry Fupu) bought candies from a small girl one night, and she asked Berry Fupu to give the candies to me, her “friend.” Every since, I buy from her when I see her. We shake hands, and I give her 10 Tk (about 14 cents) for flowers or whatever she’s selling. Tania calls her my girlfriend. We now know she lives in a rented room with the other Oliver-esque kids selling at that intersection. Tania asked me if that is what would’ve become of Maya. Perhaps if her mother hadn’t gone to women’s center.

In addition to these kids, there are the beggars. These are typically women, holding naked, half-asleep children and people with horrible deformities. You name it, I’ve seen it. Every shape of tumour or growth, every type of lost limb. We save up coins for these people, although this can get out of hand.

I’ll leave you with this cat, who rolled down the driveway where we’re staying. Yes, rolled. He was singing a nice, religious song, and blessed me when I gave to his cause. I ran out to take this picture (and give him a 10 Tk bill) because a different legless man--I’ve seen many--got away from me the day before on his way out of the cul-de-sac. This guy was not so speedy. Quality was bad, but I was trying to be stealthy when I took it so as not to embarrass him. He’s had it bad enough.

It's Not Like We Haven't Done This Before.... Right?

On October 6th, my wife Tania, my daughter Maya, and I are going to Bangladesh to adopt twin boys. In some sense, we've done this before, as Maya was adopted in Bangladesh in the summer of 2006. However, we haven't done this before. We've never adopted two at the same time, and depending on who we tell this to, we are are either totally bat sh*t crazy or Mother Teresa-esque world savers AND bat sh*t crazy. I particularly like the latter. Much like Cindy McCain, I too want to claim that Mother Teresa personally handed me the babies in Bangladesh, despite her being dead for 11 years. But I digress.

Last week, Tania's Aunts in Bangladesh went and visited the boys. Tania's cousin, Salman, took a camera, giving us our first view of them, Kamran and Kalil.

Cute, no? (Koob shundor, na?) It goes without saying that I'm very excited and can't wait to get there and start the process. As we work through this, I will attempt to keep you all up to date on the twists and turns of the process. This is never simple though, never easy, but worth every step.