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.