The First Goodbye

Today I’m grumpy. And irrational. My body is silently screaming, I’m sick of feeling nauseas all the time and everyone is irritating me. I know this means it’s time to get out…I’m aching for Australia.

Partly this is because I’m not sleeping well – it’s so hot these nights that my fan only serves to move the heavy, hot air around my room and I wish to god I’d not been a tight-arse when we arrived and dished out for a Western mattress.

It’s partly because my date with the Charmer was cancelled last night, and rather than being the adult I realized at the time I should be, I became the child who wasn’t allowed the candy she wanted – really, really, reallllly wanted. And really? I know I can’t always have what I want, but why do I have to be a child about it? So I’m also irritating myself…great.

And it’s also because the first goodbye, and one of the two hardest, is coming. In four days I have to say goodbye to someone who, over the course of the last nine months, has become, well, lets just leave it at someone without whom this country, this place, this experience, is less bearable, less cool, less…just less.

We’ve had our own little rollercoaster journey during this time, but what we have firmly established is a solid friendship – one that I’ve relied on in the times I couldn’t cope on my own and one that has made the great moments greater.

I know it’s not the end of our friendship, but it is the end of an era: you won’t be here to call/text/email multiple times every day, we won’t have our Saturday Mango breakfasts, I’ll be the only shit one in our capoeria class, I’ll have to find someone else to fix my computer, it’ll be less easy to critique each other’s relationships, personalities and character flaws and have philosophical debates, I won’t have your bony shoulder to try and fall asleep on in the CNG home, you won’t be around to pull me in for a hug, there’ll never be another ‘Sunday’ and maybe I’ll never get around to saying that one word aloud.

We knew it was ending, and in one way or another it has been since it began, but selfishly I’d hoped to go first. And just because I’m the only one crying and because I’m not afraid to say that I’ll miss you like crazy, doesn’t mean I don’t know that you won’t too.

(because there is no pseudonym that can capture in a few words all the ways you affect me).

Friday bloody Friday

Friday. Oh God Friday. Friday was a perfect example of how life in this country swerves viciously from desperate despair to joy to pleasant, unexpected surprise.

I was woken, despite a persistent hangover, in my favourite way, devoured a Sure Hangover Cure breakfast (vegemite toast with ORS chaser) and strolled to my computer to observe James continue to fix my laptop (yes, I could have done this myself, but sometimes a girl needs a boy to just take control of these things).

James was in the middle of ‘synching’ (without properly synching because …blah blah blah IT technical language…Casey tunes out) my iPod with iTunes and pulling the videos, music and photos we’d backed up to the iPod off and saving them back to my hard drive, post System Restore (thank you Dell, you mother-fuc-ing bastards for selling me a piece of sh-t computer that after just six months completely shat itself…but let me not rant here…).

J: Cool. Finished. All your videos and music are back on the hard drive.

C: And my photos?

J: What photos?

C: Ha ha James. Yeah, what photos…yeah right. Ha ha. Hilarious.

J: Ummm, Case, there aren’t any photos here.
(Nausea overwhelms, tears jump into eyes. Casey hides in bathroom while James checks again. After two minutes, Casey re-emerges)

J: Case, there aren’t any photos here.

C: mmm. (Tears freely cascading down cheeks) Ok (sniffle sniffle)...I’m running really late (wipes snot from red nose)…really have to get across town (whimper) to pick up the new Intake of Australian volunteers at the airport (silently swearing for not being able to wallow in misery at home).

J: Ok. But I might be able to recover some of them ok? I’ll come over again soon and look, ok?

C: mm. (sure all hope has died along with the 8 YEARS of photos cataloguing life, love and travel – my whole LIFE – which, no I don’t have backed-up anywhere else, thank you very much for asking).

Building guard stares at the red and spotty girl as she leaves the building, without pestering her in the usual fashion with questions of ‘how are you?’ and ‘where are you going, apa?’

Miraculously a CNG appears and, struggling to speak Bangla while sniffing back tears, I’m on my way to Rach’s place for an omelette lunch before we are picked up and taken to the airport. Despite crying openly (my least favourite thing) all the way to Banani, the CNG driver assured me he had 400 taka change. When we arrived and he only had 300 taka and Nice Casey morphed into Irrational, Screaming, Crying, Psycho Casey:

“You f-cking lying prick. You f-cking said you had f-cking char-sho f-cking taka bhanti (400 taka change). You’re a f-cking disgrace to your country. I hate you. You bastard…I hate you!” Followed by tears and stamping of feet. Resisting the urge to fall to the ground and cry and bash my hands on the ground like a child, I made it upstairs where Clancy (yet again) came to my rescue (he also gave the driver some attitude, though not sure why at the time).

Following some cuddles, reassurances and jokes (my friends are the best!) I decided slitting my wrists might not be a responsible solution and pulled myself together. And I definitely laughed at least twice before we got in the car to go to the airport.

At the arrivals gate of Dhaka International, reminiscing about the day, nine long months ago, when we first arrived in Bangladesh, the day seemed lighter and brighter and full of hope once more.

When the 13 new AYADs stepped out of arrivals and into the humid, crowded parking lot, their faces were a mix of excitement, anticipation, nerves and exhaustion. With so much to overwhelm their senses, we left them at the hotel to get some sleep and won’t see them again until the end of the week, by which time they’ll feel like a month has passed with all that they will learn and see and do.

Always a great reliever of anger, stress and bitter disappointment I went straight to the gym. Feeling much better about the state of the world I went home to prepare for a date with, let’s call him, The Charmer.

I know you’ve all noticed I’ve been quiet on the subject of men in this blog and in part that’s because it’s so damn hard to keep up – both with what’s happening and how I feel about it – and because I don’t quite believe it myself. Suffice to say that Bangladesh has not been the Year of No that I expected would follow my Year of Yes. In fact, I’d recommend the expat community in Bangladesh to any single woman in Australia complaining about the man drought…

Anyway, I digress. The Charmer is, well, rather charming and after a long and emotional day an evening in with a bowl of pasta, a bottle of Pinot Noir, a film, and a lovely man to cuddle was the perfect way to end it.

So, although some days inevitably involve tears of utter desperation, there is always hope that some unexpected happiness is just around the corner. And it is liberating, anticipating what each new day will bring.

What is perfect anyway? On reflection…

I don’t have the answers. I don’t even pretend to understand the complex workings of the mind or heart.

I trust in people. See the best in them. Look for the right in what I suspect to be wrong. I won’t be told that something or someone is not good enough for me. I will want to prove you wrong.

I’m also very good at ignoring the obvious when it’s not what I want to see.

I think when it comes to love, nothing is perfect, but it’s about finding something or someone perfect enough.

For me that means finding someone who compliments those things that are Fundamentally Casey: (a start, but certainly not a comprehensive list)
• He is interested in my career, supportive of my ambition, interested to read my work.
• He is a keen traveller, interested in exploring the world and understanding all its complexities.
• He is quirky, fun, interesting and ambitious.
• He is mature, responsible, compassionate and loving.
• He gets along with my family and friends.

And, honestly? The search continues…

What is perfect anyway?

Today, I’m questioning even the simplest of things. A dream last night has me in a contemplative, melancholy mood and thoughts I’d put aside in order to survive this year come flooding back.

What it all boils down to is: what is perfect anyway? When we talk about being in a relationship that is right, healthy and sustainable, is it ever all the things we want?

Does it matter if he doesn’t want to travel, so long as he doesn’t stand in my way? Does it matter if he isn’t interested in politics, so long as he listens to my frustrated rantings? Does it matter that he’s opposite to me in a million little ways (a country boy to my city girl, his easy going to my high maintenance, his rational to my emotional, his metal to my indie rock)? Does any of it matter at all if adores me? If he knows me, allows me to be myself, makes me truly happy? If all the little things he does and says to show he cares (like arriving on my doorstep out of the blue with flowers or flying into town on his one day off so that I can wake up on my birthday with him beside me) are all the more touching because he’s never done them before? If, despite my intention not to, I fell in love with him?

Probably the dream is meaningless and simply a subconscious reflection of my anxiousness about the physical and emotional journey home.

But again I’m standing at a cross-roads and the paths lead in very different directions. How do you choose between two things that your heart wants in equal measure?

Times, they are a'changin'

It wasn’t until after I’d bought the ring that Lyrian said “do you know that symbol means change?” No, I didn’t, but it sure seems appropriate.

On Sunday at 9.30am my baby brother became a father. My parents, now grandparents; my sister and I Aunties. Our once family of five is now a family of eight. Indiana Mae has the face of an angel and I can’t help but fall a little bit more in love with her every time I see her picture.

When I think about what I was doing when I was my brother’s age, I think about milestones like graduating from university, falling in love, leaving home for the first time and travelling overseas, beginning the journey of self-discovery. Nothing like the heart-ready-to-burst love that comes with a baby so entirely dependent on you for their every need, that your life takes on a whole new meaning and importance.

My life is still all about me – what do I want, where am I going, who am I? But this is my right as a happily single woman of the world. For a parent, your wants, your desires, your needs, are a distant second to those of your child.

And the prospect of being a parent scares the hell out of me, even now at 28 (almost). But my brother David? He’s the man. I know, with more certainty than I know anything about myself, that he will be the most incredible, devoted and loving father.

And it is probably because of all the emotion that new life brings to my world, that it is with sadness that I prepare to leave Bangladesh. In only 16 weeks I pack my things and leave, unlikely to ever return. Leaving behind some amazing people, an incredible job, a culture that is both thrilling and frustrating, and heading in different directions from friends who I love as family.

I am grateful for every day here. I smile more at the random little things that happen each day. I laugh and agree to read an Australian poem about rain at the office function in a few weeks to mark monsoon season. I sing aloud in public (albeit quietly). My nails are jagged and dirty, my hair frizzy, my face devoid of makeup, my feet constantly dirty and cracked. But how am I? I’m really living.

(and no Lawrence, not all men are bastards, but there is a whole blog that could be written on my current relationship with various men, best left for a day when I better understand it).

Adopting cultures

I noticed them almost immediately. I was poolside at the Park Hotel on my last day in Calcutta when they arrived.

He was a thin middle-aged man, pudgy around the middle. She was his fat middle-aged wife. Both blonde with soft white skin.

Their fear, expectation and shock almost tangible.

In his arms was an Indian baby no more than a year old. A child to call their own. A brand new addition to their family. After years of waiting, hoping, praying and fighting for the right to be parents, now, so all of a sudden really, they were.

The baby was so innocently unaware of the magnitude of the moment. If he knew he wouldn’t be looking at me with big, round curious eyes, but at his new parents with a look that said “I’m here, you’re doing great, this is right”.

Because their family back home would expect it, she was videotaping their first swim. He couldn’t smile, couldn’t be playful; the weight of the moment heavy in his arms.

I felt anxious for them. I wanted to run over and say “it’s okay, be natural, you’re doing great, this is right”. But this is just the beginning of the next struggle for them.

That boy will now have a life so different to other unwanted children in India. He will receive an excellent education, speak two or three languages, have all the opportunity in the world. He will also struggle – being an Indian boy, a minority in his class, always wondering about/ aching for Indian life, a yearning that will probably go unfulfilled until his adult life because, I wonder, how often he will return here, with his new parents who may only remember these first hard, awkward days in a city so removed from home, unsure how to bring him back here to reconnect with something they aren’t part of, never will be? And for him, a stranger in his own city – never really fitting in or feeling ‘at home’ anywhere.

The scene in front of me ignites a melancholy and a personal debate about inter-country adoption.

But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, with the struggle so many millions of children around the world in mind, it’s impossible not to believe that, for this little boy, this is right.

Cocktails and cabs in Calcutta

Back when Nat, Lyrian and I were first planning a girly long weekend out of Bangladesh, the plan was Kathmandu. And really, that’s where we should have gone. Kathmandu has everything we wanted in a weekend away – shopping, cocktails, pool-side luxury, great food, tourists, anonymity, etc.

But keen to explore new lands and meet new people, after much deliberation, we chose Calcutta. It’s not that we didn’t enjoy the trip, it just wasn’t Kathmandu.

Crammed with dilapidated colonial era buildings, big old yellow taxis (that speed through the city as though a race track – oddly, the direction of the one-way traffic changing at 2pm every day), the easy availability of alcohol (every hour is happy hour!) and bacon (god bless Hindu’s) and relative anonymity (thanks to a booming tourist industry), Calcutta is a beautiful place to visit.

We managed to fit in some shopping (at New Market and a million bookstores), a visit to Mother Theresa’s Home for the Sick and Destitute (horrific the scene of torture, torment and hopelessness inside, but beautiful the men and women who so selflessly dedicate themselves to these people) and Rabindranath Tagore’s home (Bengal’s most famous poet).

Time between was spent pool-side and in restaurants and darkly lit bars sampling the best Calcutta had to offer (which it turned out consisted predominantly of cocktails – and we were determined to sample them all, several times over).

An Ode to a Girly Long Weekend in Calcutta (when you live in Bangladesh):
I love you
Mojito and Caprioska
sweet minty fresh

Gin n Sin
sour tang

Golden Margarita
Peach Margarita
Apple Margarita
bitter burn

Mai Tai
you are

Singapore Sling
pop

Daiquiri
smooth
down
my
throat

Cosmopolitan
I love you.

A special shout-out to the hilarious old waiter at Flurry’s, who had us in stitches long after our meal. And to the middle-aged man who jumped in the wheelchair meant for the passenger on our plane who had a heart attack and kept us in-transit six hours longer than intended: you had us crying tears of laughter, before they became tears of utter frustration.

Calcutta, in all your beauty, you made us miss Dhaka, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

The random, little things that make me smile

Today I love Bangladesh. And because this isn't an all day, every day thing, here are some of the random, little things that made me smile today:

* I woke up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of light rain
* and I had to turn DOWN my fan
* My hair was frizzy and out of control (as it is every day) and I realised I don't care anymore
* I met a big deadline
* I participated in a Communication for Development meeting, contributed and felt incredibly inspired
* A man wearing a mini-skirt lunghi was paraded past my office
* When my rickshaw-wallah this afternoon gave me the most curious look when I started singing along to my iPod
* and I continued to sing (aloud, in public)
* I noticed that my rickshaw-wallah has a gorgeous square jaw and a tiny arse and hips that are, I swear, half the size of mine
* and that I shouldn't be noticing in such detail
* That I kicked arse at the gym
* That I responded, in Bangla, to a lady in the grocery store
* I looked at the photos of my newborn niece Indi again and fell a little bit more in love
* I cooked dinner and realised I DO suck without Clancy's guidance
* There is chocolate in the fridge.