Where you can find me now...

I now live in Cambodia and blog over here: www.caseymccarthy.tumblr.com

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?

Bittersweet goodbyes

In Bangladesh we don’t say ‘goodbye’. Instead we say ‘abar dehka hobe’ (see you soon).

So, it is with tears in my eyes and a strangled voice that I tell my colleagues that I will see them soon, although I know I won’t and I leave my new and incredible friends and this life behind because today I leave Bangladesh for the sunny shores of Australia.

There are many things about Bangladesh that I will miss. I’ve made friendships here that are truly special and I’m incredibly sad to leave these people behind, but I have to hope we’ll stay in touch and will see each other again.

A special and truly heartfelt thanks to Clancy, Rach, LJ, Nat, Tarek, Muraly, Nadith, Denis, James and Shilpi Ma. You guys in particular have made this year so much more rewarding and remarkable.

I’ve learnt huge amounts about myself, what I’m capable of and what I’m not, about who I am and what I want, about development and aid, about the world, about religion, faith and spirituality, and most importantly I’ve learnt that chasing your dreams can only lead you in the right direction.

I don’t know what comes next. But after this incredible year, whatever it is, I know I can deal with it.

Abar dehka hobe Bangladesh. Ami tomra bhalobasha.

Love poetry and mortality

I’m a volunteer and I’m a backpacker. This couldn’t have been more obvious when I left Muraly and Tarek at the Kolkata International Airport VIP lounge to take my budget airlines flight to Delhi. Dressed in blazers, polo necks and freshly pressed trousers, they were boarding Business Class to Mumbai and staying in a five star suite during fashion week. I was frizzy haired without a spot of makeup, in an old salwar kameez, with a backpack and headed to the dirty, sweaty, smelly backstreets of Old Delhi.

Trying desperately to suppress an overwhelming desire to go with them, to have that sort of holiday, I spotted a guy who looked to be embarking a similar holiday as me. We shared a knowing look and polite smile. We got chatting while we waited for our bags in Delhi and decided to share a taxi into town. We exchanged email addresses and agreed to meet up later in the week.

Delhi, Old Delhi in particular where I was staying with Matt and Kate, is a buzzing metropolis of people, rickshaws, trucks, bicycles, cows, chickens and chaos. It was hot, dirty and smelly – not unlike Bangladesh. A tourist mecca, there was plenty to see and do during my six days in Delhi.

I met up with Matt and Kate for breakfast the next morning before hitting Karol Bagh where Matt did some serious shopping, we had lunch at a restaurant deploring drink driving (CSR hits India!), went barefoot in the grass at the Red Fort, and had dinner (including sangria and beers!) at a Mexican restaurant (complete with cowboy hats and boots) in Connaught Place.

On Sunday, while Matt and Kate attended the conference they’d come to Delhi for, I hit the highlights of Delhi – Jama Masjid, Ghandi Memorial and Museum, Humayan’s Tomb, India Gate, Parliament House and Lakshmi Temple (wow!). Desperate for a beer I headed to the nearest bar where I fell into conversation with an Indian male model (as you do). Ali works for L’Oreal and said he’d like to take me to Paradise. Really. You can’t make this stuff up. However, by ‘paradise’ he meant Lodi Gardens – which was rather lovely and peaceful and green and full of cute squirrels.

That night Matt, Kate and I went for dinner at Karim’s (one of the best Indian restaurants in South Asia, apparently) where I discovered the Bangladesh’s salad of cucumber, carrot and onion slices with some chilli’s is actually quite impressive.

The following day, while Matt and Kate were on their day trip to Agra, I met up with the nameless Aussie backpacker from the airport. We headed south to visit Lotus Temple, but got sidetracked at a bar along the way where we confessed secrets over a lunch of burgers and Fosters. The beer buzz killed disappointment that Lotus Temple was closed and we instead headed to Humayan’s Tomb and then Connaught Place for Happy Hour! Keen to see for himself the Cowboys at Rodeo, we downed several more beers and cocktails, took some silly photos, confessed more secrets and hopped along to the next bar, where we downed some more beers, took some silly photos and, feeling like old friends, bonded over our backpacks, transient lifestyles, searches for love, hope and something extraordinary, and he confessed to having found out just two weeks earlier that he is HIV+…

WHAM!

Like a punch in the guts, it was a sobering revelation. One that he is still reeling from and trying to accept. I offered all the support and encouragement I could while struggling to deal with such a stark reminder of my own mortality and how scarily little I actually know about HIV and AIDS.

When we parted that night – him to seek spiritual peace in Rishikesh and me in search of cocktails and felafel in Kathmandu – we were more than two backpackers whose paths had randomly crossed....we shared a bond and hope.

The following day, lost in a melancholy of my own, I wandered around the markets and wrote a lot in my diary. I couldn’t get him out of my mind, the panic, the uncertainty, the inability to process it, to know what to do next. I think of him often, hope he is okay, that he is finding the peace he was looking for in India. I am grateful to him for confiding in me and reminding me that HIV is a real and present danger. I hope our paths cross again.

Wednesday I arranged a trip to Agra. The young guide picked me up from the hotel and off we went, a Hindi tape of pop songs playing at full volume all the way to Agra – except when he’d turn it down slightly to tell me about his girlfriend and other sexual exploits (I preferred the music at full volume).

It was lovely to get out of Delhi, where like in Bangladesh, it doesn’t take much driving to feel like you’ve escaped the city. We zoomed (very fast) past little villages and dhabas (road side cafes) on the five hour trip to Agra, via Mathura and a temple that marks the birthplace of Krishna.

The Taj Mahal is humbling in its size and majesty. Built by a Mughal Emporer Shah Jahan for his ‘favorite’ wife Mumtaz Mahal who died giving birth to their 14th (!!) child, the white-domed mausoleum combines elements of Persian, Indian and Islamic architectural styles. That’s a high standard as far as romantic gestures go.

I spent a few hours wandering around the Taj Mahal grounds (which also includes a mosque and a museum and lovely gardens) before tracking down my ‘guide’ (who wasn’t proving information on anything other than other forms of romantic expression). He took me to a marble dealer where I helped line his pockets with commission (but I will have a lovely table to show for it). The drive back to Delhi was torturous beyond belief. Clearly my driver has no problem listening to the same four songs, at full volume on repeat for seven hours. I’d have preferred his trash talk. Nevertheless, I survived, but was very ready to board the flight the following day to Kathmandu.

Love in / loving Kathmandu
I love Kathmandu but the next time I go to Nepal I really need to venture further out – Matt and Rach’s photos of Pokhara and the six day trek they did were amazing. But coming from Dhaka (and in this case also Delhi) a few days of relaxation were all I could manage. I spent the four glorious day shopping, reading, dancing, sleeping and sitting in cafes, drinking great coffee, beer, wine and cocktails, eating pasta, fresh bread and cheese, falafel, cake and a great many other delights.

I went out for coffee with a sweet Nepali boy who worked at one such cafe who I thought had balls for asking. And danced up a storm at a reggae bar with new friends, including one slightly-intense Nepali boy who sat up all night writing me poetry (and has now come to Bangladesh to ‘return my hair band’...you can’t make this stuff up!)

It was also Clancy’s birthday while we were there (actually, the reason we were there – the wine, cheese, coffee, beer, cake, etc just sweetened the deal) so Rach, Lisa & Graham, Simon & Bron, Jez & Nicole, Matt & Kate and I celebrated with him at La Dolce Vita, over wine and antipasti. Happy birthday Matty!

I wasn’t ready to leave Kathmandu, but I was ready to return to Dhaka, to my last few days at UNICEF, to pack up my life and say my goodbyes.