DESIRE

LOST AND LEAVING

Early phone calls this morning helped me to a bright start. I sit here now, anxious, looking at the belongings I've accumulated recently and wondering about how to carry them along. Being a nomad has made a utilitarian out of me. I don’t have much; in fact, I have almost nothing. Everything I did own I purged upon my departure from Grinnell. But still, I have some stuff. I wish I could live out of a suitcase. As it stands, I live out of two.

A new chapter, a new beginning; for the first time, I’ve started to see my time here as finite, as terminal. When next will I be able to read under the dappled shade of a tree in Stuyvesant Park (the Western half), or linger outside of St. Georges in the brisk morning air after Sunday service? No more curry cutlet lunches at Udon West, no more delicate desserts in a casual surrounding at Cha-An, no more green-tea cupcakes at Amai down the street. I’ll have to find new places!

And the worst part: no more 50% off yakiniku dinner specials at Gyu-kaku. How will I live?

But is that the extent of my connection to this country? Can commercial transactions and gluttony really summarize my attachment to this life? No, if only it were that easy. Leaving this country means leaving my connection to the people who matter the most to me, leaving the land of my mother-tongue (who, or what, am I without a means of communication?), leaving the ability to catch pop cultural references -- in other words, I leave everything behind, including my sense of self.

I’m so tired of this; I’ve been on the move for too long. All I’m looking for is a place to call home. A vain effort since I refuse to assimilate, refuse to belong (odd since the only thing I crave in life is acceptance), and consistently strive to go against the grain. It is in my nature to do so. And where does that leave me? Awash in a sea of uncertainty. I think they call it Europe. When I uproot myself (yet again), life as I know it will end. Who will I be(come)?

In a previous incarnation of this journal, I raised the question of where I saw myself in December. At that point, the future was entirely up in the air. I did actually conceive of the idea of my still being here, gainfully employed, looking forward to the holidays and to my first non-white Christmas in eons. I’m still uncertain about the path I’m about to traverse, but at least a path exists. I can’t even envision the finality of September 1st, a mere five days from now.

VISA TRIALS

The past few weeks have been hellish; the stuff nightmares are made of. I was kept awake at night with worry about my indeterminate future; in particular, my ability to procure a French long-stay student visa scarcely five days before I am to depart. I tried to stay awake last night, so I wouldn’t sleep through my interview this morning (I’ve been getting up at 3pm lately -- the result of those sleepless nights I mentioned), first by dragging my roommates into a circular conversation until the wee hours of the morning, then by busying myself with meaningless blog-hopping. At around 6, however, my eyelids started to droop and I was forced to retire.

I had a brief and restless nap and shot out the door by 8am for my 11:30 appointment. Upon arrival, I was informed that applicants weren’t permitted to enter the building until the scheduled time so I wandered around the Upper East Side and had brunch at a charming café on 73rd. I then whiled away some hours on a bench in Central Park, going over my documents for the umpteenth time and organizing the placement of each sheet according to their position on the list of requested documents. As the hour of reckoning drew closer, I moved to a stoop in front of the consulate and entered a zen-like trance as I attempted to keep my nerves at bay. The minutes trickled by.

And then, it was my turn.

I sauntered up to the security guard, flashed my appointment card and identification, and was promptly ushered into (along with a handful of other 11:30am-ers) a narrow hall with glass booths on one side and a cluster of chairs on the other. I was first in line and made it through the initial processing with nary a hiccup. I was then handed a receipt and told to take a seat while I waited for my interview.

From my perch, I was able to witness the fate of the rest of my group unfold. The first person after me was missing her attestation (“What’s that?” she asked) -- denied! Thank you, come again. Your flight leaves tonight? Too bad. Second person’s parents are US citizens but were unfortunately born in Iran -- processing will take a minimum of three weeks. Your flight leaves tomorrow and classes begin at the end of the week? Sorry, government protocol. Please curtail your sobbing and histrionics, the French government is merely precautious, not racist. Next!

At this point, I started to lose myself deep in prayer. If middle-aged white women couldn’t get past the hawkish glares of French consular officials, there was no hope for an un-white, 20-30 year old boy like me (i.e. profiling anyone?). I was deep in concentration, trying to perfect my doe-eyed and impotent expression, when my name was suddenly called. I gulped and timorously made my way over to the glass booth. The proceeding events were a pleasant blur. There was banter (a bit in French, a bit in English), there were polite requests for copies of my documents, there were smiles, and there were snippets of advice on career and living in France.

A few minutes later, I was strolling down Fifth Avenue with a receipt for my passport and the knowledge that I could pick it up at 3pm that day. I was all smiles despite the fact that I was being sustained on two hours of rest. I decided to linger around the vicinity of the consulate while waiting to pick up my visa, so I went for lunch at some Italian place with gorgeous floral arrangements and sunny tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk. I also had a bit of a look around the area and peeked into some stores I must remember to revisit, stores that sold specialized artisanal crafts without a recognizable brand. [Note: Lexington Avenue, between 74th and 76th]

I picked my passport up at 3 and have been lovingly caressing the visa ever since. On the one hand, I loathe how much importance is accorded to this sticker in my travel document. In fact, I also hate that I don’t have freedom of mobility as evinced by the trials and tribulations I had to suffer through (mostly the stress before the interview, not the actual interview itself which in retrospect was a piece of cake) all for the sake of pursuing a Masters degree in a nation that is not my own. What is this ridiculous anachronism known as a “nation-state” anyway? But I digress. With this final piece of preparation taken care of, I am now gearing up for my departure on Monday.

New York has been good to me, but there is still so much more of the world to see.

CHINATOWN

At around 12:57 am this morning, after the conclusion of a satisfying celebration of my birth with some close friends, my mobile device emitted its last feeble beep before settling into an eternal slumber. No amount of flinging it across the room could resuscitate this fixture of my life. Hitting it repeatedly against the edge of a table, similarly, elicited no response. Thus, after staring blankly at its dim screen for close to an hour, I resolved to give it an appropriate burial and promptly launched it with great might into the gaping maw of my trashcan. Such crap does not deserve to be recycled.

Although I fancy myself fairly independent in that I’m not entirely reliant upon companionship, I also recognize that I would have no understanding of my own existence were it not for my place in a greater community of Others; wasn’t it Sartre who posited the notion of a mirror-effect? Admittedly, I could have done without this means of instantaneous communication for the next few weeks, but why subsist right? I’ve always been a fan of immediate gratification anyway. With that in mind, I set off to (horror of horrors) Chinatown this afternoon in search of an adequate replacement.

I had my first taste of China(town) during the express ride there, where I was squished into a corner of the train by little old ladies wheeling gigantic produce-filled carts. I beamed at this reminder of East Asian wet markets, but bemoaned my lack of standing space. Emerging from the subway, my olfactory glands were furthermore assaulted by the putrid odor of rotting seafood and human byproduct. I staggered along Bayard as I struggled to channel respiration orally. Upon finally regaining composure, I continued on my quest for the coveted Unlocked Mobile Phone.

After about fifteen minutes of weaving in and out of unmarked backstreets, I soon realized I was quite lost and could no longer orient myself. Seeking a respite from the humidity, I decided to step into what appeared to be an air-conditioned space and was immediately teleported to Hong Kong. I’d like to describe what I ventured into as a “mall”, but the word doesn’t adequately reflect the reality of it. It sort of reminded me of the labyrinthine communities housed within the Chung King Mansions in Kowloon, albeit on a smaller scale; entire lives could be lived without exposure to the natural elements.

Rows of narrow storefronts lined never-ending passageways and the glare of florescent light drenched everything in sight. There was a curtained clinic at the top of one escalator, and right next door, a pharmacy with a long line of sickly people spilling forth. The manifold stores were typical of the sort found across East Asia or within predominantly Chinese enclaves; stores that sold neon-colored, single-sleeved polyester tops embedded with cheap diamante, and the like. The walls were also covered in mirrors that reflected the visual cacophony of glaring lights and colors. It was maddening.

My familiarity with the type of environment evoked a pleasant feeling, like a visit to an ancestral home. I also suspect spaces like this one might be prototypes for future urban living. I’m not usually so doom and gloom, but having recently watched the animated feature Wall-E, I’ve been musing about the prospect of an atmosphere so polluted it’s become incapable of sustaining life. Within a built environment, air will be filtered, temperatures may be controlled, the threat of rain nullified, and so on and so forth. By fabricating our habitats, we gain an added advantage in controlling our (collective) destiny.

I finally left the Blade Runner-esque fantasy and ventured out into the “fresh” air. It had started to rain by then and I fumed as I kept getting caught behind groups of ambling denizens and gawking tourists. I finally found a place that would sell me the contraband I so desired, although at a price I would rather not have paid, but I yielded out of desperation. I am now, once again, equipped with a phone. I’m also satiated from an exquisite dinner with the roommate (duck confit and goat cheese salad was to die for) and about to turn into bed. All is well with the world.

OLD AGE

23 -- four years past being a teenager, four years into young adulthood, four years closer to a natural death. The last time I attached unnecessary significance to an arbitrary day in the Gregorian calendar was August 14, 1999, when my carefully laid “birthday” plans were rendered useless and the ensuing disappointment was more than my young heart could handle. Since then, I’ve stopped committing birthdates to memory and don’t expect anyone else to do the same of mine. I’ve become a little better about remembering, with the advent of Facebook and its automatic reminders, but birthdays have ultimately lost their relevance to me, let me make this clear.

It's not that I’m completely heartless; I do understand the birthday phenomenon. Hallmark marketing aside, it’s an event, far more personal than Christmas or Groundhog Day, in which the individual celebrant is allowed to take stock of his or her life thus far. I’m sure at some subconscious level even the most vapid bimbo realizes that individual worth is measured not in material accumulation but in human relationships. Hence, the proverbial birthday acts as an opportunity for the celebrant to validate his or her connections to humanity; acknowledgement in the form of “Happy Birthday”s followingly seek to authenticate and elevate the individual’s sense of self worth.

But humankind, in its animate glory, is a never-ending source of disappointment. My soul, being the feeble thing that it is, susceptible even to the tiniest of pinpricks, cannot weather such crushing blows to its esteem. Without a home-base, without a geographical location in which I know more than five people, with being transient and having spent my “birthday” in over 10 countries so far, how can I expect constancy in the face of such uncertainty? It is thus in an act of self-preservation that I reject my role in this celebration. Nevertheless, I almost always find myself pleasantly surprised on the day of my birth each year, because I’m sentimental and a sucker for such things.

I received some phone calls at a little after 12 this morning and woke up to a slew of e-mails in my inbox. Logging on to Facebook, I was similarly greeted by a giant sign wishing me a pleasant day. I was so moved by this cyber-display of affection it was all I could do to prevent myself from kissing the screen. Of course, I was already secure in my relationships with the sources of all of these acknowledgements -- people who can see past my affectations, people I’m uncomfortable around because their gazes cut a little too deeply (I hate you for being able to see me more clearly than I can see myself) -- but they were nice gestures nonetheless. Definitely appreciated.

Soundtrack:

Prefab Sprout - Appetite
Procol Harem - A Whiter Shade Of Pale
Psychedelic Furs - Ghost In You

AIR TRAVEL

Today, after weeks of research and deliberation, I finally decided that flying Air India to Paris is simply a deathwish waiting to happen. I tried in vain to get a refund, but ultimately decided to write it off as a sunk cost and purchased a more expensive ticket on another airline. Air India has a record of about 7 fatalities per 1,000,000 takeoffs, while American can boast of a rate of less than 1. [Source] My father, of course, is appalled by my flagrant disregard for the value of money. But in the face of death, I ask, what worth is a few hundred dollars? Needless to say, we're currently not on speaking terms.

My nerves are wrought from the prospect of my upcoming flight. They say flying becomes easier with experience, but in my case, I've only become more distraught with each passing flight. Every safe landing to me is interpreted as another successful attempt at thwarting death's efforts. But the odds will catch up eventually, I'm almost certain. I just want to find a place in the world I can call home so that I may curtail all of this criss-crossing of the globe and lead a comfortable and safe life within a 5-mile radius until my ultimate expiration from natural causes. Too much to ask for?

REDUX

Some selections from my previous online incarnation, to start:

Saturday, June 16th, 2007

As Nasira says, every day in Dhaka is an act of survival.

I stayed in for much of the day because of my illness. I also didn’t eat or drink anything except for a few vegetable crackers around 2:00 pm and a can of Sprite around that time as well. I wanted to see the girls for the last time before they returned to the land of the free (home of the brave) so I left for their hotel sometime in the early evening. We hung out for a bit, then Alanna and I decided to go get dinner while Nasira stayed behind since she wasn’t feeling well enough to leave the hotel premises. We went to Topkapi, a Turkish restaurant in Gulshan, as we thought they might serve sheeshah there. To our dismay, sheeshah was nowhere to be found although we did have an amazing buffet dinner. No pictures though since my camera was dead. Did I mention it started to rain while we were hanging out in the hotel?

Sometime earlier, we had also decided to seek out alcoholic beverages, which seems to be the theme for most of our outings. Alcohol is nowhere to be found in this Muslim country except at maybe the expatriate enclaves fondly referred to as “clubs” here. There are also signs at every restaurant insisting that Bangladeshi nationals steer clear of such prohibitive liquids, despite the fact that alcohol isn’t served anywhere. From what we’ve gathered though, most places are strictly B.Y.O.B. affairs. The problem is, no stores are allowed to sell alcohol either, which leads me to think that the only way to get a drink in this country is to buy bottles of Bombay Sapphire at the airport on the way in.

Anyway, the gist of the story is this: we were desperate for some fun and decided to go all out. I’d heard about this place right next to Topkapi called Dejavu Café and driving past, it looked very much like a club, so I suggested we check it out. Minutes later, we found ourselves in this uber-swank lounge with huge leather sofas, a dance floor and a live DJ spinning house tracks. We cracked open the menu and the first thing we saw was sheeshah. Alcohol, of course, was nowhere to be found, although a group of Chinese businessmen at the table next to us had a bottle of Brigadier and a few cans of Tiger beer open. The house music progressed into mainstream hip-hop and I was back in Iowa again. Such a nice feeling, familiarity; it’s at times like this that I thank the heavens for globalization.

After some apple-mint sheeshah, a crepe suzette and cups of green tea, it was time to hit the floor. Alanna and I decided to open the dance floor and if people hadn’t been staring before, they certainly were this time. Whole groups shifted positions in their seats just so they could observe the live entertainment for the night. But Alanna and I, having been pent up within our hotels for all of this time, decided to just let loose. The DJ was supportive and periodically released smoke clouds that formed around our erratic movements. We were all over the place; I did the funky chicken, Alanna got low, we even did some swing dancing. After some time, a few other young and trendy Bangladeshis decided to participate in this spectacle. If I had to summarize this experience, I would say that it was the highlight of my time in Bangladesh so far, sad as that may sound.

Next comes the bad part. At around 11:30 pm, we decide to make our exit. Trying to find a cab is always the hardest part of any outing to Gulshan. We ask about the best place to hail a cab and the doormen insist on helping us out. How kind, we think. After some time, they finally manage to wrangle a cab into giving us a ride. The driver asks for four times the usual price, which works out to be about 6 dollars, but we consent. The kindly doormen suddenly turn on us and demand baksheesh (a “tip”) in the most menacing way possible, such that even the cab driver started squirming in discomfort. I won’t narrate the events from there, but essentially, it was quite an awful experience. The money itself was inconsequential, but the feeling of utter helplessness in this strange and awful city was overwhelming.

The cab dropped Alanna off in Banani before proceeding to Mirpur. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this yet, but there exists an area between Gulshan and Mirpur called Cantonment, which is where the army base is located. Being able to cross this area cuts the travel time to my hotel in half, but the catch is that foreigners aren’t allowed in it. Cab drivers always try their luck anyway. When the roads are crowded during rush hour, getting through isn’t such a problem; other times, I just tell my driver to forget it. Now picture this: the streets are deserted except for a few strange characters hovering about; the pollution also blocks out any moonlight so the darkness in Dhaka is absolutely suffocating.

I was too consumed with bliss on the ride back that I stopped paying attention to where we were going. All of a sudden, I look up and find myself at the guarded entryway of Cantonment, which looks even more foreboding in this light (or lack of it). Before I can start to protest, armed guards are walking up to our vehicle as my driver tries to engage them in conversation. The commotion attracts the attention of the strange hovering characters and soon I am surrounded by pairs of curious eyes as a conversation is carried out in a language foreign to me. One guard then knocks aggressively on my window and starts barking at me. All I could do was apologize profusely. It was all very stressful, but we were finally allowed to turn back and head out. I was furious at my driver. Stupid man! You’d think the 400 taka fare would have been enough incentive to deposit me safely at my hotel.

Anyway, I was seething with rage. His reckless driving on the wet and slippery roads aggravated me further. And what should we pass by next but a motor accident involving two taxis. I, of course, was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the mangled corpses; I was on edge for the rest of the ride back. Upon arrival, I ran all of the way up to my room where I double-locked the door, had a long shower, and vowed never to leave this sanctuary again. I hate this city. I just want to live!

Thursday, June 14th, 2007

It finally happened -- I'm sick. It started with a general feeling of malaise yesterday and reached its peak this evening. Some other bad news: the two American girls I've been clinging on to have decided to cut their trip short -- they leave on Monday. Both of them had been feeling ill for awhile and Nasira was taken to the hospital yesterday, even. It's sort of understandable since during our last outing, we had unanimously decided that this was the worst city any of us had ever been to; Alanna even preferred it to Johannesburg. We reached this consensus after we were cheated by a rickshaw driver, walked around in the rain for a few hours trying desperately to find a cab and nearly got hit by blind motorists at the Gulshan-2 circle. All of this was of course made worse by the crowds that would gather to watch us stumble about and the child beggars who would wheel seemingly lifeless forms on dirty carts towards us. Anyway, we're hanging out for probably the last time in Bangladesh tomorrow. We shall meet again on greener pastures, I have faith.

There are a few things to like about Dhaka. The weakness of the currency, for one: I've eaten in five-star places for one-star prices; I take 45 minute air-conditioned cab rides for two dollars; I tipped my bell-boy five dollars (it was my first day) and he was moved to tears. Furthermore, the "friendliness" of the people -- I can't decide if I consider it a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, I get invitations for lunch every time I step outside. The fact that my presence alone can imbue such feelings of elation within someone makes me feel warm inside. But other times, it can be a bit much. I generally feel self-conscious as it is and feeling every eye trained on me as I walk to the bank every morning causes my body to experience awkward spasms. Then there are the days where I'm just sweaty and irritated by the dust, pollution and inadequate pedestrian access. On those days, I morph into the ugly tourist: I reply to every question about where I'm from, what my name is and whether I'm married with a bark and a growl; I bully dishonest rickshaw drivers; and generally act in an unpleasant manner.

I don't know what else to say. Maybe my illness has something to do with my sour mood. On an unrelated note, you know how sometimes you have a feeling that sort of references a past aspiration that, because of the turns life takes, no longer exists -- and then this feeling serves sort of as a reminder of an earlier version of yourself? Maybe it's just me. Anyway, Solipsist by Kaki King just came on my iTunes playlist and generated a weird sensation. I feel appreciative and yet full of regret. Trick Me by Kelis just came on and killed the mood. Back to Bangladesh -- I also discovered a quaint coffee shop with high-speed wireless access in Gulshan. They brew Starbucks coffee. I sense I will be spending a lot of time getting acquainted with this place as it also serves sort of as the de facto intern hangout. In terms of work-related issues, I think I've decided that one of my projects is going to be the establishment of a formal regulatory framework for the bank. I spent much of yesterday researching at the library and have made some progress. All work will be on hold until next week though as I leave for my extended village stay this Sunday. I will be in a little village near Sirajganj (I think) until next Thursday. I'm just looking forward to getting the hell out of Dhaka.

Tuesday, June 12th, 2007

It's Tuesday. I only make mention of this because it's still hard to wrap my head around the idea that Sunday is the first day of the working week -- definitely much harder than I expected.

I have, since my last entry, experienced two field trips; one to a remote village about an hour or two outside of Dhaka, and the other to an urban microfinance initiative (Padakhep) within a Dhaka slum. The village trip was a pleasant experience, despite the monsoon rains that created floods everywhere we went and drenched us thoroughly. I was picked up from my hotel at 7:30 am and what seemed like two minutes later, I was already rolling through rural pastures. Our first stop was a branch office, where we met the branch manager in charge of this district. I feel bad that I don't remember his name or the name of the village we visited.

Anyway, his office was dark and illuminated by an eerie candle. There was also the overwhelming stench of manure. Working through the translation services of my coordinator necessarily hampered communication, but I was still able to pose some of the questions I had. I found out that the area under his jurisdiction had a 100% repayment rate, the value of savings exceeded the value of loans outstanding, and this district was generally a model for the rest of the Grameen system. It thus became obvious why I was taken to this particular village.

We then made our way to a borrowers center meeting where we were ushered into a dark hut and made to sit in front of rows of rural women in colorful garb. The meeting then commenced with a bizarre ritual whereupon every person saluted and shouted something in unison. Each member was introduced and we, in turn, introduced ourselves. We were then given the opportunity to communicate with these women although I cannot attest to the veracity of their responses. I feel that I will probably receive a more honest response during my extended stay in the village, when members of the bank can be kept at a distance and the women freely allowed to speak.

The urban poverty project was a whole different ballgame. I emerged with the staunch belief that these people, under the illusion that the city held greater opportunity for advancement, had made the biggest mistake of their lives. Within the slum, we had to scramble over heaps of rubbish, crawl through narrow alleyways while diseased children rubbed against us and so on; I had, of course, chosen to wear flip-flops on this day. To top it all off, I stepped on a dead rat while clamoring over a rubbish heap. We also visited a shelter for street children later in the afternoon, but I was much too perturbed by the sight of the dead rat to fully appreciate this experience. Anyway, I now want to start a move-back-to-the-village campaign. Who's with me on this?

Friday, June 8th, 2007

I should be more diligent about updating this thing, so much has happened since my last entry. It's Friday today, prayer day; I arrived early on Tuesday and found a message at reception from Musa asking me to call her the second I arrived. We met up for lunch a few hours later at this luxurious Thai place and the check ended up being a tenth of what a comparable place in the United States would have cost. Having been up for days, I started to lapse into narcoleptic episodes after lunch and Musa's chauffeur (no sane person drives in Bangladesh) had to promptly whisk me back to my hotel so that I could take a nap. My "nap" ended up lasting until 9:00 am the next morning when I woke up with a start -- I was almost late for my first day of work!

I won't be boring and list everything I've done since then. Suffice to say, I have been gawking in wonderment at the many differences between this place and every other place I've experienced so far. But such observations are to be expected, I am in a totally different region after all. The most striking thing, however, is the sense of familiarity I feel, or at least, how unexpectedly expected this place seems. I'm not nearly as overwhelmed as the guidebooks said I would be. Perhaps because this place bears a striking resemblance to every other sweaty Asian metropolis I've been to: noisy, polluted and overcrowded. Or perhaps I've just become that much more of a seasoned traveler. Whatever the case may be, I'm just content that I don't hate this place as much as I thought I would. Things could be worse -- much worse.

So here I am: Dhaka. I'm an intern at the Nobel Prize winning Grameen Bank of Bangladesh, supposedly the first microfinance institution in the world. I applaud you if you could detect the strain of cynicism in my tone. The past few days have been spent reading orientation materials and watching informational videos. The real work starts on Sunday when I make my first field trip to a nearby village. Communication with my coordinator is reduced to a series of hand gestures so I have no idea what it's called or even how to prepare for it. I just hope to return safely. The well-being of interns is clearly not one of the priorities of the Grameen Bank. Just yesterday, a blade from one of the fans I was sitting under flew off and hit a nearby window. I thankfully lived to tell this tale.

I have been hanging out with a variety of interesting people, mostly other interns but also a few friends from school. I spent Wednesday touring the city with two other American interns; we went to old Dhaka and saw a few monuments and museums. The National Historical Museum was absurd -- an entire floor was dedicated to paper prints of famous Western art -- but at 5 taka, I really couldn't complain. There is also, surprisingly, a Grinnell alumni group here and I bumped into them yesterday at the American Club as I was making merry at the bar during happy hour. We've made plans to meet up later in the week. My good friend Yue from school arrives tomorrow and I can't wait to see her. I've chosen to only dwell on the more positive aspects in this entry because my first impression of Dhaka has been a mostly positive one. I'm not nearly as depressed as I thought I would be. A bit bored maybe, but definitely not miserable. I think I'm going to make it to the end.

Monday, June 4th, 2007

Day one of my "adventure" and I'm already wishing I never left. I'm updating from a Starbucks in Dubai International Airport; I'm quite comfortable except for the fact that I haven't had a shower in three days.

The journey to Dubai was harrowing to say the least, and I'm not sure I want to go into detail when describing it. In sum, I boarded the first flight of my four-leg journey heavily intoxicated and sleep-deprived, had all of my domestic flights be delayed due to inclement weather, had to stumble about in the torrential downpour that greeted me in New York, had my shuttle driver hit someone on the road, had to pay 120 dollars for a cab ride to the airport, made it there 30 minutes before my plane was supposed to depart and still miraculously boarded my flight. I made plans so far in advance that I don't understand how or why things went wrong. Thankfully, I only left a few nonessential things behind and have spent the past few hours replacing them within the duty free shopping center here at the airport. I also bought boxes of Swiss chocolate as gifts for some fictional dinner parties I imagine I will attend in Dhaka and two liters of alcohol to get me through those lonely nights I told you people about.

Speaking of lonely, I wish people here would leave me alone. I am being stalked as we speak. Perhaps this is just a fragment of my imagination, but I sense that staring blatantly at someone is a bit of a social norm here, as is sitting directly next to them despite the availability of empty seats all around.

This entry ends abruptly as the author discovered, much to his dismay, that he had missed the final boarding call for his Dubai-Dhaka flight.

Saturday, May 26th, 2007

Friends,

I apologize in advance for the lack of communication on my part. I have, since Tuesday, fled collegiate residential life and now happily reside in a small efficiency within the downtown radius. There is still work to be done on the place and my belongings have been hoarded into a closet for the time being, leaving me feeling very unsettled. I spoke to the landlord yesterday and it is doubtful that repairs will be completed before I leave for Bangladesh next Sunday, so this transient lifestyle will continue until then.

I don't know how I feel about Bangladesh anymore. I realize that some apprehension is to be expected before a departure, but I can no longer rationalize how it fits into my life plan. From all the images Google has presented me with, it seems incredibly unaesthetic, not to mention filthy and unsafe. I have a sinking feeling that this journey will be my last; I just hope my demise will be swift and painless. Furthermore, how lonesome I will be. I have already accepted my fate as an asocial creature and expect to spend most of my free time alone in a dark room, weeping tears of regret and anguish.

I also spent my entire stipend before even arriving in the country, mostly due to a lack of advanced planning. I insisted on flying with my favorite airline, Emirates, despite the slightly higher cost as I wasn't keen on being squished into some budget airline for the 40 hour journey. Anyway, this has left me with nary a cent to spare! Out the window go dreams of hiring a domestic helper, no more living in the expatriate area either. I may even have to give up air-conditioning and start eating on the streets. What a long summer this is going to be.

The previous paragraph was written mostly in jest, but it is still rooted in truth. Onwards now to some more constructive preparations: I have been reading a few quality books on the political climate and history of the country, as well as some critiques of the Grameen Bank model and microfinance in general. I read Daniel Pearl's article in the Wall Street Journal, and Muhammed Yunus's response to it. I have also been re-reading poems by my favorite Bengali author of all time: Rabindranath Tagore. I was thinking about it and I realize now the extent to which post-colonial literature has shaped and influenced my childhood, particularly literature from the Indian subcontinent.

The days since moving out have been wonderful, exactly how summer days should be. I am somewhat gainfully employed, mostly just finishing up projects I didn't manage to complete within the school year. I'm also working for Alumni Reunion Weekend, my favorite sort of job, where I get paid to network and socialize. I realize the previous statement contradicts something I said earlier in this note, but I think a possible explanation might be that I am able to speak more comfortably with people who are not of my own age. Anyway, I also met the most fascinating man the other day, a professor at my school, as I signed up to help him move to a new office (for pay, of course). Little did I realize how much heavy-lifting was involved and promptly quit the next day. But the time I spent conversing with him was definitely memorable.

This man has been to, literally, every corner of the globe. He has visited both the North as well as the South pole and, still finding the earth too small for him, has set his sights upon outer space. He also does something or other with the United Nations, has published a million books including some non-fiction Paul Theroux-esque travelogues, albeit less literary and more scientific. We had fun belittling Manila and Jakarta together, my two least favorite cities on earth. I feel a kinship towards anybody that can participate in this activity with me. I have a sinking feeling Dhaka will join these ranks within due time, perhaps by next week.

Apart from work, I also spend much time just wandering around town and having mini adventures. The only good thing this town has going for it is that, despite being located in Iowa, it has a fairly significant foreign population. Understandably, foreign has some negative associations, but I use the word in the most favorable manner possible. Just today I met a man who, from his rapid speech, I could tell was not from around these parts. He turned out to be a software engineer (of all things) from the Jersey shore and we spoke at great length about NAFTA.

I also discovered my favorite shop of all -- Twice Around, an antique store -- and I make it a point to drop by every day to purchase some small knick-knack that I may use to decorate my spartan dwelling with. On Wednesday I bought two miniature oil portraits of two children, a boy and a girl whom I presume were siblings, from late 19th century New York. Their names were Peter and Charlotte. The superstitious Asian side of me quivers with fear every time I wake up in the dead of night and catch the slits of moonlight illuminating their translucent faces; but on the other hand, it is also unbearably sad that I have these mementos and know nothing else about what might have been some extraordinary lives. And also, they serve as obvious reminders of my own mortality.

I also eat out regularly, imbibe alcoholic beverages much more regularly, listen to live music, watch movies at the theater, and generally muck about. It's all so much fun! I need to use the bathroom now so I will end this here. I will be in touch with you all soon, hopefully. My apartment is not connected to the World Wide Web, so this might prove to be a little more difficult than usual, but I shall persevere.

Cheers,
Mark

Thursday, January 4th, 2007

The first thing to pass through my esophagus today? (unintentionally) frozen yogurt. It's actually not bad - I'd even venture to say it's good. Steps in the manufacturing process of (unintentionally) frozen yogurt: be annoyed that nothing in your fridge is ever cold enough, turn thermostat all the way up to "freeze" level, forget you did so and continuously wonder why all your cheeses are rock hard and a giant orange cube is floating around in your bottle of orange juice, stock up on healthy snack foods (preferably cups of yogurt) at the grocery store, chuck into fridge (which by now is actually a freezer), dick around on the computer, go to sleep, wake up, dick around some more, have shower, answer angry growls from stomach, remove cup of yogurt from fridge/freezer, peel back plastic film and voila! (unintentionally) frozen yogurt.

Anyway, this has been an entry in waiting. No, not the manufacturing process of (unintentionally) frozen yogurt but the following part. I want to reflect on the past semester and draw some conclusions that could potentially aid me in the upcoming one. I'd have to say that the primary reason for my downfall from straight As to a B+ average is that I thought I could compensate at the very end. I expected my stellar performance on the final exam to make up for whatever shortcomings I may have had during the semester. Granted, I was always good with my work; but the problem was that I "just didn't give it [my] all". I took every assignment, every test too lightly. I never mastered the material completely, always assuming I could leave it up until the end to do. Clearly, that didn't work out too well when finals week rolled around and I was saddled with an insurmountable mound of work to plough (haha, I'm such a post-colonial subject) through. These are lessons I should have learned ages ago - alas.

Thursday, September 21st, 2006

This past summer (2006), in retrospect:




Hong Kong




Indonesia

Monday, June 12th, 2006

Let me provide a setting for this moment.

I am sitting at the Starbucks in Bangsar Village; the air-conditioning is making my nose drip. I feel the way any warm-blooded creature should feel in a situation like this -- cold and uncomfortable. But the only other option, sitting outside in the sweltering 36 degree humidity is far worse; at least, to me it is. I suppose I really do have a myriad other options at my disposal. I could potentially wander outside of the thermoregulated environment that Bangsar Village provides, and situate myself at a sticky plastic table in Devi's Corner. I could order a revoltingly saccharine iced teh-o -- and then what? No wifi there. So I guess I really am limited to this horrible arctic prison.

I have a lot more to write about, but I'm running off to a wine bar now. Quick note though, I saw De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté a week ago and there is one scene where Romain Duris's character is sitting at a bar and having a breakthrough moment in his life. Breathe by Telepopmusik plays and the bass sounds much like a heartbeat. The mood is mellow and lo-fi and suitably Parisian. I just thought it was a nice moment. And for better or for worse, it has lodged itself firmly within the trappings of my mind. I've drawn many conclusions from this one scene, as I am wont to do. The premiere conclusion, however, is that I will never forsake the exhilaration of city life ever again. I accept that my brief stint in Iowa was necessary for me to appreciate the fortune bestowed upon me since my conception. I don't even know where to begin to list the things I've decided to be appreciative of. Everything! I am appreciative of everything! I really am. So I will continue to eke out an exiguous existence in the midst of this Iowan nothingness, biding my time until the day I can finally cast off these shackles and soar to the greatest of heights. Even if I find myself, 23 years from now, waiting tables in a Parisian grotto, returning weary at the end of every day to a small shoebox apartment that I cohabit with a cast of "questionable" characters, I will be appreciative and grateful that I am, at the very least, living in a city.

Isn't the optimism of youth great? I'll probably be dead in 23 years. Anyway, it's time now for that wine bar I mentioned.

Tuesday, January 31st, 2006

The past year (2005), in retrospect:

Laos; Cambodia; Vietnam; Thailand

Saturday, June 21st, 2003

There were two colon tissue samples in the lab today, one from a bloody, cancerous colon and the other from a normal one. They were being mixed in separate test tubes with enzymes when I walked in. Before being placed in the centrifuge, the solutions resembled a mixture of drain water, filthy blood and bits of squid. I found it truly nauseating and conjectured on the repulsiveness of the odour it emitted, and yet I felt this strange compulsion to envision drinking that repugnant liquid. My mind went into great detail when concocting the fantasy. I imagined the muculent DNA coating my tongue, nibbling on the chewy bits of remaining colon, the bitterness, the pungency, everything!

I think I'm a little deranged, you know. This happens to me several times a month. Why is it that occasionally, when confronted with a situation, my mind vividly conjures up depictions of a horrible, although possible consequence? When I'm running after the bus, I imagine latching onto the bumper and being dragged along the tar road until all that is left are a dangling pair of hands and a trail of fresh blood littered with pieces of my flesh. Is this a subconscious defense mechanism used to desensitize myself towards my worst fears? Or maybe my subconscious is picking up on the doom that seems to taint the Malaysian air these days, and channeling them into gruesome visions.

This, coupled with my mild fascination for serial killers, delusional state of mind and morbid fascination conspire to accelerate my descent into mental illness. I need professional help.

Friday, June 13th, 2003

Today was my third day as an attachment at the national Institute for Medical Research. It's becoming less awkward, and for that I'm grateful. Two days ago, I was having second thoughts about spending the entire month there, but now the situation doesn't seem so bad. In fact, after my persistent nagging this morning, one of the nice researchers let me load the microcentrifuge and I felt relief as the excruciating silence was broken by the sound of whirling specimen.

GENESIS

A new beginning.