Homecomings

I’ve never been good at transitions. And a transition that feels like stepping back? Harder still.

There are things, obviously, about Australia that I love and am ridiculously grateful for. In these uncertain financial times, I’m very glad to have been able to return to my old job (and salary). I love my car and the freedom that offers. My beautiful new house and glorious back deck. The amazing Thai restaurant around the corner. Being an Aunt and wondering at the incredible joys of parenthood..

Life is so easy when you have family and friends around, when you can wear what you like, say what you like, go where you like, when the biggest decision facing me at midday is sushi or salad? When I’m not covered head to foot in sweat 24/7.

However, I’ve returned to Australia (48 hours before returning to work) with a suitcase full of dirty sandals, salwar kameez, hippy skirts and singlets. Not much in there that says “communication professional”.

So…shopping. First stop: trousers. Cue. Sales assistant hands me a pair - size 8. I put them on. I do them up. I stare at myself in shock and delight. I buy them. At work the next day, sat down, size 8 seems like a FUCKING STUPID IDEA. Second stop: shoes. Flats because we’re just gonna take this one step at a time. A matter of hours later, heels covered in blisters.

So, it has come to this. A year in a developing country and I’m incapable of buying myself decent fitting trousers or shoes. Worst still, I don’t know what is fashionable, what looks good on me, what colour complements my complexion. And, I realise furiously, I DON’T CARE.

What upsets me in Bangladesh? The naked child sitting in the road crying, alone.

What upsets me in Australia? Ill-fitting clothing.

It’s superficial and it’s meaningless. And the realisation only compounds my frustration.

This is the third symptom of reverse culture shock.
1. Disengagement – wrapping things up, planning the return home
2. Initial europhia – that first coffee.
3. Irritability and hostility – FUCK this superficiality.
4. Readjustment and adaptation – falling back into old routines.

I hope that fourth stage isn’t too far off.

Because right now?
I miss seeing the cheeky smile jump onto Bilal’s face when I returned home from work every afternoon, asking ‘bhalo acho Casey apa?’ He looked so stern when we first met him but his big grin quickly became an everyday comfort. The last person I said goodbye to.

I miss going into the field and hearing people’s stories. Seeing the struggle in their eyes. The deep lines in the women’s faces. The calluses on the men’s hands. The sagging in their bodies. The resilience of character. The hardness that has long since replaced any real hope for a better life. Hearing how desperately they need our help. Knowing how much more there is yet to be done. They inspire me to tell their stories and give me a reason to hope for change.

I miss the giggles and pokes and laughter of the children, even in the most desperate of situations. The way they’ll grab at my hands and pull me down to whisper in my ear. The way the younger ones will hide behind their mothers, eyeing me coyly, wondering what this strange florescent woman wants? The way the adolescents ask me to sing. To practice my Bangla with them. To ask me how I really feel about their country?

I miss being the only bideshi in the office who lives this side of town, who catches a rickshaw on her own to work every day.

I miss dinner time at home with Matt and knowing that on the down days we’ll make a tuna mash. I miss the nights he’d get out his guitar and I’d pretend to read. I miss our morning breakfasts on the balcony watching the men in their lunghis across the road wash from a bucket of dirty water. And our afternoon debriefs, with a stiff drink and cheeky cigarette, on the roof as the sunset.

I miss weekends at the Aussie club. Weekend breakfasts with James. The five-star quality of a night-in with Tarek. The many, many amazing people I've met and great friends I’ve made.

I miss it because I look at the photos and remember it like another lifetime. Like a dream.

So I’m ready for this stage to pass, for acceptance to creep in. But I love the passion and creativity that Bangladesh has inspired. And I know the key to settling back in to Ozzie life is to find something that brings that to my life… Any suggestions?