Musings, Travel Log

One Last Time

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Long Bien Bridge and Banana Island below

“This is the last time you will be performing this play, probably for the rest of your lives. After all those rehearsals, doing it over and over again,  going scene by scene, for just 30 minutes on that stage…one last time.”

A pep talk from our director that was more grounding than lifting our spirits, but it hit me hard and sank in. Two months of 2+ rehearsals a week, couple hours each, then almost everyday, hours stretched; all for a “Silly Shakespeare Short” rendition of The Tempest. To think of where we started 8 weeks ago– barely knowing each other, barely knowing the script, and morphing each scene into the final interpretation– it’s kind of special all that came out.



Then there’s what the director calls “postpartum” after the last fadeout and final bow, when the set gets broken down and the cast say their goodbyes. What do I do nowAll that time and energy pushing for something and then suddenly the weight is gone. Did all that even happen? Thankfully there are pictures to prove it did.


Poetically, that dovetails into my last few days in Hanoi–and abroad–before flying back to the States. bitter.sweet. surreal. Now every xe om ride feels like ‘the last time’ I’ll fly through these streets and sights, so I peel my eyes open and crane my neck every which way. Because as much as I want to come back to Vietnam and Hanoi, I truly don’t know if or when it will ever happen. And it certainly won’t the same experience as I’ve had these 12 weeks living in my Ba Dinh bubble with a rooted work schedule. If I come back, it will likely be leisure based, which is entirely different from actually living in a place. The street I’ve lived on constantly shifts to a different one each time I look a little higher or a little closer around. Twelve weeks sounds shorter than three months, and time does a funny dance with memories where yesterday feels like weeks ago but has it already been months since I moved in in September?

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Not only the sights, but obviously the people I’ve met along the way. Soaking in hot tea, toiling away at backstage ‘refugee camp’, a drink after, a smoke, over hot pot, cruising the bay, countless rides to rehearsal, arm-in-arm in Old Quarter, lunch around the office table. Good, great, bad, meh; and it continues to amaze me how we wouldn’t have met under any other circumstances (yes, platitudes platitudes, but that doesn’t mean the sentiments aren’t real).



One of the many nooks and crannies of backpacker haven, Old Quarter

Of course, as I’m writing this, D reminds me:
“Ah that’s wonderful (that I’m blue)! Doesn’t that mean that you had a good time while abroad, and that’s why good byes are so so hard?”

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Pho cocktail. Sums it all up.

Okay, enough of the syrupy stuff. It’s been a ride, Vietnam, and em yêu anh* for it.


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Giang Vo Lake after work


*If you couldn’t guess, “I love you.”


Travel Log

And Now for Something Completely Different…

Hoan Kiem Lake at night

Hoan Kiem Lake at night

Hanoi, Vietnam–

I think I’ve taken the familiarity I had with Bangladesh for granted– being able to speak and read language enough to get my bearings, and blending in with the masses. Now? Now I have a full appreciation for the struggles my other fellow expats encountered in Dhaka. Despite the Roman characters, I am utterly lost reading Vietnamese signs and can hardly pick out a word of what’s being spoken as there is very little English shared between me and the locals. Now I get to be giggled at while butchering the few foreign phrases I know. Honestly, it gets tiring: constantly trying to explain via charades and not being understood, trying to understand others through facial expressions and pointing around.

Roadside barbershop

Roadside barbershop

It could be easier, but I wouldn’t trade my (brief) experience so far. I got to explore more familiar territory and witness the nuances of my heritage culture. And now I get to plunge into new waters to see how well I can navigate when left on my own. Each experience lets me appreciate the other and I can’t help but to constantly compare/contrast the two cities: rickshaws are traded for motor bikes (they will be missed), there are more women out and about, stores are still stacked one on top of another while concreteglass buildings share air with fading older facades reminiscent of Old Dhaka, and there are still people coming out of the woodwork from every crevice. Also, the rains seemed to have left Bangladesh and met me here in Hanoi, because I am talking sheets pouring down.

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15 minutes of leapfrog to get through every intersection

Aside: While I sorely miss riding colorful, body-jarring rickshaws, I must say I am feeling the zippy motorbikes. Zooming through narrow alleyways, I feel like I’m in an action movie as we whiz, zigzag, and swerve through neon signs and under touching balconies. Currently 60/40 in favor of getting my own bike.

Cheers to another 2.5 months of getting lost.

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Travel Log

Old Dhaka Revisited

Eid in Bangladesh essentially shuts the country down for 4-5 days; and I mean shut down. The roads are virtually vacant and most shops and restaurants are closed as hundreds of people go back to their hometowns or just relax during the few government holidays available. While it offers a much welcomed break from work, it can also be hard to find ways to fill in the free time when there’s hardly anything open. This Monday was the last official vacation day for half of the BLC (housing) group that stayed in Dhaka for Eid and, being disappointed by a closed bakery the day before, I was hopeful but weary that today would be more fruitful. So we ventured into Old Dhaka to explore its narrow alleyways as that part of the city is kind of in ruins itself. Honestly, I thought I saw whatever there was to see the first time some of the girls and I took a small tour of the area and wasn’t sure of what to expect. Happy to say that I was proved wrong.

Ahsan Manzil aka Barbie's Bangladeshi Beach House

Ahsan Manzil aka Barbie’s Bangladeshi Beach House

Ahsan Manzil (aka the “Pink Palace”) was used as the point of reference for the CNGs, but to our surprise, the site was actually open (we failed once before and it was expected that Eid closures were still in effect). The structure was built in the late 19th century and was home to the Nawabs, or rulers, of Dhaka, at one point the center of trade and political power in East Bengal and Assam province. It’s hard to say just how pink the palace used to be, but more recent renovations have rendered the building a subtly striking pinkish coral color that really stands out from the old beige of the surrounding streets, more so against the gray sky that threatened rain all day. Inside is a museum providing the history of the home and reconstructed rooms where one can imagine local royalty from the colonial area dining around the elaborately set long table, or entertaining guests with tea and chatting on plush cushions in the formal living room. Luckily, the rain decided to pour while we were inside, and we could watch it fall looking out of the wrought iron windows. It all emphasized how closed the active chapter of the palace’s history was.

It's raining, it's pouring, nanabhai is snoring

It’s raining, it’s pouring, nanabhai is snoring

The view from the front of the building includes the Buriganga river so we made our way closer to it. Once there, we saw row boats willing to take visitors around the water and agreed on taking a ride. I couldn’t contain my excitement; this was something I’ve been wanting to do since I got to Bangladesh and after one of the guys did so already. For almost half an hour, we sat peacefully on a shallow wooden nouka (“boat”) as a gentleman gently rowed us past the palace we explored moments ago. You can imagine what life must have been like in the Manzil’s hey-day: strolling around the palace grounds, watching the fishermen and tradesmen row across the river, maybe taking a ride yourself. 

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Then, an improvised adventure letting random alleyways take us where they will. And somehow, they took us to church. An Armenian church, or rather, the Armenian Church featured in almost every tourism guidebook. It is a medium-sized gold-embroidered white building with what reminded me of Spanish-influenced missionary architecture. After the initial shock of what we stumbled upon, we walked to the entrance where a man welcomed us inside even though we were technically past normal visiting hours. Right as you enter, there is an open courtyard riddled with tombstones–many with uniform white crosses, others with personalized marble plaques honoring the deceased. Beyond that lies a garden and the house where the caretaker and his family live. According to Mr. Ghosh, the incredibly warm and talkative caretaker, this church, built in 1781, has been under his family’s care for almost 80 years, even though they themselves are Hindu. From what Savannah and I gathered, the family has had a very close relationship to the Armenians who settled here years ago (garment factory owners?), but most of the Armenians have since moved away.

The most peaceful graveyard I've ever visited

The most peaceful graveyard I’ve ever visited

He opened up the inside of the church and turned on the lights to reveal an aisle of pews leading up to an altar of lamps and paintings of Jesus, all below a high-vaulted ceiling from which small fans and lamps hung down. Mr. Ghosh continued chatting with Savannah and showed the baptism room to the left while Stephen leafed through one of the Bibles. I joined Carly and Dorothy sitting in the pews and tried to absorb the feeling of the church: it was beautiful in its well-crafted simplicity, decorated but not gaudy, a sense of open space yet smallness that asked for quiet observation. Apparently service is only held on special occasions as there isn’t a large enough Christian population around for regular use.

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Space and solitude

We stayed at the church for some time, and as it grew darker outside, Mr. Ghosh offered to walk us to a mosque nearby. Maghrib time was minutes away when we arrived so we decided not to disturb the prayer and looked on from afar. Finally, it was time to head home. The ride back was pretty quiet from what seemed like exhaustion given the jam-packed day we had. I am content.

Alouise said, and I readily agree, that you don’t need to go outside (Old) Dhaka to enjoy a vacation. It deserves a second, third, fourth visit, with historical sites I was unaware were so close to home. While I desperately hoped to get out of here for the few days we got off, I am grateful to explore a side of the the city that I had not appreciated before.

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Travel Log

The B-sides: Part 1

Another girl at BLC also blogs but doesn’t have enough time to compose long posts, so instead she tries to write a single sentence about something, about her day that stuck out to her; an event, a feeling, a realization, anything. Taking up on that idea, an irregular series of snippets from my day-to-day.

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Commute home

The scarf is cursed. Threads get stuck on everything and I tripped twice…not on the scarf itself, but still. I blame it.

A co-worker’s dilemma: a car is headed towards you but just then, you see a lady wearing sky blue– do you run out of the way, or stare in place at the lady in blue?

What I say: “What format did you use for process documentation?”
What he hears: “Tell me about your education and/or philosophy on Bangladesh society”

Turns out we are “very bad” at karom board– the other players were gracious enough to give us dozens of extra “chances”…oh banana tree (kola gaach)

I love D’s eternal optimism. All of her words seem to carry an air of “why not?” Her stories of travelling alone and relying on strangers makes me want to try to do the same. Her entire reason for even being here seems random.
“We’re here, talking, isn’t that crazy?”

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Fuchka, ginger tea & live music enclosed in a ‘room’ made of patchwork sheets on a rooftop, lanterns hanging above while we sit on cushions on the ground.
It was easy to be absorbed by the female singer’s smooth, milk-tea voice set against the guitars and hand drums. The lyrics are beyond my Bangla capabilities, but you could effortlessly get pulled into the yearning drawn out notes of loss or sadness, get lifted by the more joyful beats.
It’s got expat catering written all over it, but I can appreciate good music & food in a sweet space any day.


The BLC mine

A very multicultural Fourth of July, which is duly appropriate: a bunch of Americans (plus Spanish girl) in Dhaka, partaking in Mauritius and Peruvian alcohol, on rooftops.
This weekend was a particularly hard one to let go. After almost a month, the BLC group’s finally been able to go out all together, and they’re really a lovely, eclectic bunch. Only a few short weeks before people start leaving…

Spoke to “H,” a security guard downstairs on the night shift. So nice how one simple question can lead to longer conversations you didn’t intend on having. I learned he has a brother working on his PhD in China, and I told him what it’s like to get around in America.
Pleasant, happenstance, a small connection formed.
And my Bangla is understandable and somewhat good! Validation.
It was also a lesson in listening to what the other person is saying instead of thinking what you’ll say (Hemmingway). I liked it. I’ll try it more often.

Touched by kindness in the form of unordered begunis and rooh afzha to accompany my quesadilla iftar. Ramadan mubarak y’all.

Things I miss: dressing up. mixing and matching pieces from my wardrobe until I create an outfit that makes me happy; miniskirt with sheer tights, tank and long cardigan, red lips and black hat.

Bengali barbie, shady Korean bar of men and beer, delicious woodear, Ferraro Rocher gelato

Today is one of those days where I question what I’m doing with my life.

An otherwise uneventful day ends up having one of the most profound, opening conversations I’ve ever witnessed; discovering experiences with how mechanisms of the universe can work in our lives.

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Travel Log

Sylhet: A Break from the Noise

Tea gardens

Tea gardens in Sylhet

Color: Green
Word: Lush
Mood: Peaceful
Sound: Rain

If it wasn’t clear enough from my last post, Dhaka is rather… rambunctious. Don’t get me wrong, I really am enjoying my stay here and all the activity around definitely keeps you on your toes. But you realize just how loud it is when you take a trip a few hours (or a 30 minute plane ride) north to Sylhet. Think of it as Dhaka’s more reserved, naturally prettier countryside sister. The most distinguishing features are the acres upon acres of beautiful tea gardens sourcing the country’s tea addiction.

Both my parents– and the majority of British Bangladeshis, as Lonely Planet is quick to point out– hail from this district, so it’s a requisite stop for any trip to the motherland. The intense pride of being Sylheti can be akin to considering oneself (me) Texan first and American second for a lot of people and the dialect is quicker, sharper on the tongue (and, I think, more fun) than “proper” shuddho Bangla.

The overall contrast of the place is clear as soon as you step out of the plane: the runway is essentially a dirt road surrounded by, like everything else there, forests. Driving to your house, the worst traffic ‘jam’ here beats most good days driving through Dhaka.

I had a leisurely five-day getaway during which my mother and I mostly stayed home with my aunt and cousin. Each day consisted of the four of us waking up for sehri* around 3 AM, waking up a few hours later and reading or watching TV if the satellite dish worked, until it was time to go out for the day. I was usually awake before everyone else so I’d have a few quiet moments to myself, watching the rest of the neighborhood slowly wake up, too. Monsoon season was still in full swing so sheets of rain would fall almost like clockwork throughout the day. The windows and doors are always open, letting the outside air roam around the apartment. No WiFi, no problem. I’ll admit I tapped into my data a few times for email and Facebook, but otherwise it was a pleasantly tech-free zone. Nice and quiet.

The first site to visit was my maternal grandparents’ home in Kanishiel, a village about 45 minutes outside Sylhet town. The trip took us through narrow dirt roads that kept getting narrower–but still allowed two-way traffic for CNGs and wide-load trucks alike–flanked by trees on either side to create a canopy of leaves overhead. Sylhet as a whole can be considered rather rural, but this place was even more so. Long stretches of green fields dotted with homes and local mosques. I’ll save the details of this trip for another post.

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The hills are alive…with the smell of cha-a-a

Of course tea gardens were on my must-see list so we visited three on the third day. The gardens are comprised of rolling hills carpeted with tea plants, with stick thin trees shooting up sporadically. I’m at a loss to describe the scene other than green, green, and more lush green. A few women tea collectors were working the fields and made it very clear they didn’t want their picture taken, so I got their hats instead.

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Accidentally snuck a glimpse at another collector. Can you spot her?

Where's Wahida

Where’s Wahida

Nearby the last garden was an eco-park. Right upon entering the park is a playground where–mother and daughter, adult and young adult–we all transformed into giddy six year olds. Raisa and I jumped onto the oversized swing while my aunt and mom hopped up and down the see-saw. It was a hilariously happy sight.

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You’re as young as you feel. Pictured: 6 years old.

The rest of the trip was mainly spent visiting relatives and shopping. We had developed a cozy, carefree little routine in Sylhet. I’d miss taking our meals together, walking around town with Raisa, our moms reading the newspaper at the table together. It was hard to say goodbye to my khala and Raisa not knowing the next time I’d get to see them when my mom and I finally had to leave. An hour later, we were back in the chaotic grind of Dhaka. To anyone who is in, or thinking of travelling to, Bangladesh, you do not want to miss Sylhet. Here are a couple more pictures to round it out.

This guy likes it here

This guy likes it here

In Kanishiel near my grandfather's home

In Kanishiel near my grandfather’s home

Travel Log


New Market: it hits you in the face.

New Market: so…much…stimuli.

In the (butchered) words of one of my fellow ex-pats, Dhaka can be mentally exhausting.

Stay here for a few days and you’d be hard pressed to find a better description.

Noise. There is constant noise, mainly transportation based–car horns blaring in perpetual traffic, rickshaw bells brringing as they squeeze through seemingly impossible spaces. And so…many…people. 14.4 million people with almost 1,000 coming in every day*, go figure. The idea of sonder** in a place like this shortcircuits my brain.

The traffic is a severe test of patience as half a kilometer can magically turn into a 2 hour commute by car, both ways. There really should be a “work-from-car” option and I guarantee you, productivity levels would be through the roof.

Walking can be faster, but you’re still dodging cars, CNGs and rickshaws because, hey, there’s no sidewalk. More blaring horns and ringing bells telling you to move out the way–backways, sideways, all ways.

One of the stops on a recent trek throughout Old Dhaka was New Market, an open-air market packed with booths and stalls selling anything and everything from clothes to stationary to luggage to books, vendors beckoning to our predominantly caucasian group with “Hello! Hello!” After almost an hour circling around the dizzying layout, we awaited our driver outside one of the entrances.

Just standing there: touching shoulders with traffic, stoic in the waves of people pushing past in either direction, sweat rolling down our faces…there was no room for reaction; you can only stand as all the stimuli smack you in the face simultaneously.

All this, paired with alternating bouts of fiery heat and sheets of rain– it’s enough to opt out of venturing out of your AC oasis of a room altogether. Even my relatives who actually live here and have to face these elements everday are drained from the burden of it all.

Despite all that, I am still itching to get to feel out this place. I’ve got about two months left here and I’ll be damned if it’s spent all in my room. Fortunately, as we ex-pats make more connections with the locals, the options to go out are increasing.  And I guess you can kind of get tune out the noise after a few days…

*A tidbit from my roommate–I believe it. 

**In short: the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own; a semi-madeup word, but it is my favorite. 

Travel Log

First Impressions

Current mood: dazed, dizzy, and utterly dope. As much as I'd like to take credit, this is actually a baby picture of one of my cousins in Dhaka.

Current mood. As much as I’d like to take credit, this is actually a baby picture of my cousin, Rimo,  in Dhaka.

Basically my mood since I’ve first arrived: dazed, dizzy and postively dope. Collecting my initial thoughts, here are a couple yays and nays:

Nay: heat that cooks you from the inside and leaves you dripping sweat, more suitable for rotisserie chicken

Yay: apparently that climate also makes this mishtimaash– literally “sweet month” due to the mass ripening of fruits such as guava, jack fruit, lychee, and most importantly MANGOES

Nay: the kind of pushiness hospitality that urges you to take more food while your mouth is full

Yay: food so good you’ll be taking seconds and thirds (fourths, no judgement) on your own

All in all, I still don’t believe that I’m really here right now. I walk the streets and witness my surroundings, not fully comprehending that this is essentially my home for the next 3 months; subconsiously registering everything as more temporary than it really is. As the jet lag wears off and I form a routine with work, I’m sure the surrealness of my situation will wear off. Until then, see: above face.

* A little background on what I’m doing in Bangladesh in the first place: I will be spending 3 months working with BRAC, one of the world’s largest NGOs and national powerhouse, in their Institute of Education Development on a project working to incorporate play-based learning for young children through the Early Childhood Development department.