Restart. I’ve written a lot on my trip to Bangladesh already, but with my overambitious attempt to relate every minute detail (a task all but impossible for even the most seasoned of travel writers), with life going on (and, indeed, accelerating), and with copious other writing projects demanding my more immediate attention, I had just put this on the back burner (along with the entries on my other trips) until I ‘had more time’. Which, as we all know, doesn’t happen. You make time. But, in the interest of allowing time (made or otherwise) for other writing projects, I’ve now taken the liberty of condensing my initially conceived scope of a day-by-day breakdown of the trip into a nice summary. For a vividly detailed, intricately plotted recounting of this voyage (and others), I may end up writing a book regarding my experiences abroad, but this is a more immediate medium, demanding more immediate (and thus, less carefully thought-out and edited) writings. So, in the interest of expeditiousness (nearly three months after the fact…), I’m writing the abbreviated version of my adventures in Bangladesh. It won’t quite do it justice, but it’ll do for now.
(Note: I introduced my co-adventurers in my previous entries on Bangladesh, but for completeness’s sake, I’ll reintroduce them here: Asha and Rebecca, both from Canada, and Jorge (from Spain). All of them friends and colleagues of mine, and all with a good number of foreign countries under their belts (including several third-world nations), albeit none that had the impact on them as did Bangladesh.)
(One further clarification: the vehicle I refer to as a ‘rickshaw’ is not a rickshaw in the traditional, Chinese sense, pulled by a footman walking through the streets. This rickshaw is a covered seat that can uncomfortably (and rather precariously) fit two passengers, tacked onto the back portion of a bicycle. Hope that helps in envisioning the story. On with the show!)
So, Bangladesh. Amazing, strange, dirty, impoverished, mysterious, yet friendly country. About 160 million people (population estimates vary significantly, but without a strong infrastructure with proper census-taking capabilities, it’s to be expected that a good chunk of the population wouldn’t be accounted for, especially considering the high birth and death rates in the region) shoved into a country smaller than the state of Georgia. Once the wealthiest and most beautiful Dutch colony on the Indian subcontinent, now one of the poorest countries on earth. Yet, the people were always smiling. At least when they saw us western travelers. Whether this was because we were as much an oddity to them as their unique land was to us, I can’t say for certain, but it was an intriguing paradox. I could philosophize on poverty and wealth, on the mindsets and worldviews of the first-world nations (and their inhabitants) versus those of the third-world nations, but I won’t. At least not here. An interesting dichotomy, to be sure. We’ll leave it at that for now.
When people ask me what Bangladesh was like, the word I keep returning to is ‘authentic’. Dirt, grime, people everywhere, trash, wild animals, the hollowed-out shells of buildings left over from the region’s colonial past, swampland and dense forests, naked children, deformed old beggars, roadside villages populated by corrugated-tin hovels, shelters constructed of worn tarpaulins and black plastic sheets, emaciated cows and goats withering away on the verdant roadside, fishermen eking out a living in hand-hewn wooden boats, rice farmers wading into the disease-ridden waters of the paddy, toothless old grandmothers sitting in a doorway and staring blankly at the world. The Third World in all its glory. Much of what I saw probably hasn’t changed much since Kipling’s day, or earlier (save, of course, for the occasional faded Pepsi sign plastered on a wall somewhere). Truly an experience.
One more fun note: as you would expect of a third-world country, the water isn’t safe to drink. Bottled water is available, of course, and this was an interesting experience: drinking, washing your hands, brushing your teeth, and every other daily activity utilizing water that we have a tendency to take for granted all become far more tedious tasks than one would think. But that’s not the promised ‘fun’ part; this is: even the bottled water (or at least some brands that we ran across, purchased, and imbibed, albeit without reading the mineral analysis on the label that provided the following revelation) includes some interesting substances, such as lead, arsenic, and cyanide. No joke. Whee!
The car ride from Dhaka in the center of the country to Cox’s Bazar in the southeast (that those who read my previous entries on this trip have been waiting so patiently to hear about) took just shy of fifteen hours… to travel all of 350 kilometers. Bangladesh traffic, especially during the exodus from Dhaka that accompanied the Muslim holiday of Eid al-Fitr. Buses overflowing capacity, with boys hanging on the back and sides, dozens of men sitting atop. Trains with dozens more men sitting atop them as the vehicle hurtled across the countryside. What was inside, whether freight or more passengers, I don’t know. Rickshaws, men leading cows through the streets on a tether, bicyclists with baskets of full of dozens of live chickens lashed to the back, boys pushing carts full of potatoes through the streets: these were our traveling companions on the long road south. Half-hour-plus queues awaited us every forty-ish kilometers when we would have to stop to refill our car’s terribly small natural gas fuel tank. Bathrooms consisting of a filthy concrete room with a hole in the floor with more far more grime and bugs than one would find in an au-natural latrine in the middle of the wilderness. A waste-disposal policy consisting of throwing your trash (biodegradable or not) wherever suits your fancy (no, seriously, the guy who ran one gas station told me to just throw my tissues on the ground; I opted to carry them with me until I came to a proper trash can). Five people crammed into a tiny sedan, with our luggage, for fifteen hours. With nothing but an occasional apple or snack bar to eat, and a juice box or bottle of water to drink, for the whole day. And I was fevered and dehydrated to boot. If I can offer any advice on this situation, it’s this: don’t go to a third-world country when you’re already sick. It’s just asking for trouble. But more on that in a moment.
We finally got to Cox’s Bazar around midnight at the end of our second day, and found a hotel of sorts in which to stay. Looking out from our room (or from the balcony on which our floor’s rooms were accessed) we could see rice paddies, trash heaps, a small cluster of makeshift huts that the locals called ‘home’, and the decrepit remains of concrete buildings long since forsaken, iron rebar jutting from the edges in rows like dutiful sentries waiting for an enemy that would never come. It was kind of unreal. Our rooms were kinda crappy as hotel rooms go, but when compared to the accommodations of the locals around us, it was the bloody Ritz-Carlton. On the other side of the hotel (visible from the roof), the view was layered: directly below, the two-lane road leading past the hotel, frequented by pedestrians, bicycles and rickshaws, with the occasional car coming past to mix things up; beyond the road, a hedge of tall conifers (whose tops were just below the roof of the seven-story hotel); past the trees, the longest unbroken white-sand beach in the world (120 km), the beach of Cox’s Bazar, could be seen; and beyond that, the crashing waves of the Bay of Bengal and the majestic horizon. I returned to this view several times throughout the trip: during the brightness of the day, with the excited shouts of bicyclists and beachgoers providing audible testament to the busyness of the place; in the awe-inspiring orange and red of sunset, as the hot tropical sun dipped into the sea for its daily respite; in the cool solace of the night, with the occasional faint ringing of the bells of a rickshaw on the street below the only sound breaking up the soft rhythm of waves crashing against the seashore, the perfect sliver of the Eid moon reflecting off the waters of the Bay, the subtly shimmering sands of the beach, the dark treetops casting their silhouettes on the hauntingly beautiful spectacle behind them. This last, the nighttime view, was perhaps the most memorable, its quietude and peaceful sense of solitude washing over me after a long day.
On day three, our first day at Cox’s Bazar, we took it pretty easy. Got up late, kinda missing breakfast, and we ventured over to the pool of the hotel next-door to our hotel. We boogied down with a bunch of guys from Sri Lanka on vacation in Cox’s Bazar. Actually, they were doing most of the boogying, and we were doing the chilling, watching, and enjoying the spectacle. We did meet a few of them, but my fever, worsened by the long, arduous day in the car the day before and weakened by malnourishment and dehydration, made me less outgoing than I might have normally been. We ordered some beef and fried rice and ate our first real meal in more than thirty-six hours by the pool. It actually tasted pretty good, but that was probably due at least in part to my voracious appetite that had not been sated for the past few days.
That evening, the four of us set out to explore the nearby village of Cox’s Bazar, hiring a pair of rickshaws and their drivers from the group of a dozen or more who crowded around the gate to our hotel, clamoring for our business. We drove/rode (for Asha and Rebecca opted to drive for a good portion of the journey, Jorge and myself seated next to our respective deposed local drivers) down several open roads, the cool air of evening blowing in our faces as we cruised, finally arriving at the village proper. Its streets were crowded with rickshaws and foot traffic, increasingly so as we neared the market. Our drivers led us to a set of about ten shop faces, five on each side of a corridor that opened on one end onto the street. Each shop sold slightly different items at arbitrarily inflated prices (for haggling purposes), was tended by a Burmese (‘Myanmarian’?) woman or two, and was owned by the same businessman in Myanmar. Considering the lovely exchange rate of about 50 Bengali Taka to the UAE dirham (or about 180 to the U.S. dollar) and the incredibly low cost of living in Bangladesh (commiserate with the incredibly low wages available), we found some lovely souvenirs at this collection of shops. Our drivers had followed us in and helped us, with our negligible knowledge of the Bengali language (consisting solely of how to say ‘Thank you’) and relative greenness to the customs of commerce in such a place (myself far more so than my more well-traveled co-adventurers), not to get taken advantage of with shoddy product or overpriced merchandise (given, said merchandise at its ‘overpriced’ state was still a pretty good deal, all things considered).
As the sun set that evening, Eid was called (that is, the holiday was declared to have officially begun… although supposedly it was called the day before (or even two days before) in most of the rest of the Muslim world… that’s Bangladesh for you). There’s something magical about driving a rickshaw through the nighttime streets of a village in Bangladesh, trading shouts of ‘Eid Mubarak’ (a greeting like ‘Merry Christmas’… but for Eid) with my fellow rickshaw drivers, ringing my little bicycle bell all the while. I was having the time of my life. We finally got to the hotel, paid our cab drivers (about ten times the going rate, unbeknownst to us, but the guys were good sports and quite helpful, so we figured they deserved it… it’d do them more good than it would us anyway), and went inside. I was hot, sweaty, and increasingly dehydrated, but still riding high from the surreal excitement we had just experienced. Before I got to my room, I knew I wasn’t feeling well, and I attributed it to perhaps being dehydrated or something. Asha insisted I should drink some water, but I thought I should wait, as my stomach was churning. Eventually I relented and drank some water. A few seconds later I saw it again. And that was the beginning of a delightful twenty-four hours of some sort of illness. I won’t go into too many gory details about the episode. It might have been food poisoning, a twenty-four hour flu, or something else. Jorge and I ate from the same plate during lunch that day, but it could have been that my fever (coupled with the lack of nourishment and hydration the previous day) had weakened me and made me more susceptible to whatever I got. Very few times in my life have I experienced such a low following so close on the heels of such a high. I spent most of Day Four, trying to keep some fluids down, sleeping, groaning, and reading. Even when the ordeal was over, I was weakened by having even more liquid and nourishment expelled from my system (and I still had my fever from before!). Additionally, certain smells, particularly ones that reminded me of the beef and fried rice I had eaten the day before (which, for whatever reason, seemed to be fairly ubiquitous in Cox’s Bazar) made me nauseous. Chicken corn soup (basically Egg-Drop Soup with tiny bits of diced chicken and a few kernels of corn dropped in) was my staple for the rest of the trip. Solid food, especially Bengali food, being seasoned like the ill-fated dish I ate on Day Three, was all but unpalatable for me. On a bright note, though, at the end of Day Four, after night had fallen, I discovered the previously described view of the Bay from the roof of the hotel. Perhaps I was predisposed to enjoying the view due to the miserable night and day I had just completed, but that rooftop view, with its cool quietness, its sense of peace and solace washing over me, was, at least at the moment, one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. A rotten ordeal, bookended by moments of joy and peace. Thank God for small blessings.
So Day Four was mostly a wash; on to Day Five. The four of us rode in a ‘tuk-tuk’, a small vehicle with a go-cart-like engine (hence the origin of the vehicle’s name), that has a roof and walls, but no doors. With a tiny backseat and a small front seat for the driver, it can comfortably fit two or three midgets. We crammed all four of us (plus the driver) into the vehicle. Good times. Every time we got into a vehicle in Bangladesh, from the car on the way to Cox’s Bazar, to the rickshaws whose backseats would accommodate only about half of each of the two passenger’s buttocks, to the perpetual fear of being slung from the ‘tuk-tuk’ and onto the street, to the soon-to-be-described boat ride and domestic prop-plane flight, we always seemed to be taking our lives in our hands. But considering the crowds of locals who ride on top of buses and trains, I suppose that’s just a way of life in Bangladesh. This ‘tuk-tuk’ took (ooh, sorry… bad pun not intended) us to the port, an old wooden boardwalk that branched off for docking in places. The number of bedraggled locals, clothed in rags and old t-shirts, who clamored around us throughout the day was somewhat unnerving. Not so much out of a fear that they posed a danger to our persons or possessions, nor really out of any sort of xenophobia, but rather just out of a sense of their sheer numbers and their lack of the Western idea of ‘personal space.’ But then, when you cram 160 million people into a 144,000-square-kilometer space, I guess such considerations never even enter the popular mindset. Unfortunately, this was somewhat exacerbated by their stares (evoked because of the foreign-ness of us relatively rare western tourists to their land), creating a feeling of being on display for these ubiquitous crowds of locals.
Our guide led us to an old wooden boat, already almost filled to its capacity of about twenty passengers. An outboard motor had been affixed to the boat, so we cruised out into the Bay of Bengal, headed for our destination of the nearby island of Maniyashi. We got an interesting view of the coast as we cruised down it, the groups of fishermen fishing from their dark wooden boats, more impoverished villages, more boats and people than I could count, the people probably the builders or ancestors thereof of many of the boats, every one of them wooden and fairly rough-hewn, betraying their indubitably hand-carved origins. As we got sprayed by water from the Bay during our high-speed crossing, I came to the conclusion that the Bay of Bengal is not only the dirtiest body of water I’ve ever encountered (the Hudson River included), but the smelliest. And of course, said nasty smells didn’t do anything good for my wellbeing considering my new sensitivity to them after my fun on Day Four. But back to our story.
On the island, we encountered an even more ‘authentic’ village, with all its exotic and impoverished trappings. The main purpose of our visit to the island was to visit the old Hindu temple (still in use by worshippers when we went) and the Buddhist pagoda atop the hill. A couple of goats were loafing atop headstones and at the foot of mausoleums in the nearby cemetery, the Bay on one side, the staircase up the mountain from the village to the temple on the other. Children and hawkers were all over the path up the mountain. The temple was fairly interesting, although it lacked the architectural wonders that travel books have impressed upon me as being a ‘typical’ Hindu temple. Dirty, dirty place. And we had to take off our shoes when entering the place. Good way to get gangrene, etc. But we didn’t. Thank Vishnu. Or something.
The Pagoda was pretty cool, too. The path up the mountain from the temple was, for the most part, little more than a goat path, the ground on either side sharply sloping into the valley below. In fact, if one of the goats we saw lounging by the side of the path were to race down it while we were trying to make our way along its perilously narrow course, we would likely as not have tumbled down the mountainside. Upon arriving at the pagoda, which was impressive in its own right, it was the view that took my breath away. You could see for miles; villages, rice paddies, farms, ponds, fishing trawlers in the Bay, children playing in a field, a view of everything that I’d seen thus far in my journey, a sweeping panorama of life in Bangladesh. We stayed at the pagoda for about twenty minutes, enjoying the view, interacting with the locals (including about four children) who had followed us up, and snapping the arbitrary photographs of the pagoda and the surrounding scenery.
After backtracking to the dock and then across the bay to the mainland, the girls went to go do their thing, while Jorge and I sauntered down to the beach. It was truly a sight to behold. And I’m not talking about the record-holding beach itself (as we were unable to appreciate its 120 kilometer length from our vantage point, and the part we could see was not all that impressive). The part that impressed us was the multitude of Bengali and other assorted Indian subcontinental peoples who thronged the beach. There were easily tens of thousands of beachgoers, all local (or at least more local than us crazy western tourists) and all fully clothed. Long sleeves and full trousers for the most part. And they went swimming in the same costumes. I felt like we’d stepped out of the forest and into a beach scene in 19th century England or America. Only the attire was more traditionally Indian… and the people were a wee bit tanner. But the number of the people milling about, most of whom didn’t even seem to be doing anything beach-related (i.e. something related to the sand, the water, or the sun), was the amazing part for us. Vendors walking up and down the beach sold everything from seashells to flowers to popcorn. Groups of young men played soccer in the packed sand. A man used a tether to lead a donkey down the beach, while a boy rode a horse the opposite direction, chased by his hooting friends.
Jorge and I took turns swimming in the surf, ignoring the red flag flying to indicate an undertow warning. The undertow wasn’t too bad, and, luckily, this part of the Bay didn’t stink like the area we’d boated across that morning. After our brief splashing about in the Bay, we wandered about on the beach for a while, eventually returning to the trees, finding a shady spot, and cracking open our respective books to read while the sun set (these books, along with our cameras, were the reason we took turns swimming: whomever wasn’t swimming was keeping those goods dry and unstolen).
Shortly before sunset, a group of about eight or so young men, probably in their late teens or early twenties, came up to the two of us and wanted to take pictures with us. Caught up in the moment, we consented, and they took turns swapping the cameras and the role of photographer, while the rest of the bunch surrounded us and posed with us like old friends. So we’re probably on some Bengali’s slideshow of their holiday in Cox’s Bazar (“…and here are these two white guys we found on the beach…”). As Jorge observed immediately thereafter, “now I know what it’s like to be a rock star.” Personally, I would have preferred a few more females amongst my groupies, but whatever. Kind of illustrative of the previously mentioned entertainment that we foreigners provided the locals.
More shortly before sunset, a group of children and their adult leader came over to us and started singing. Due to their accents, it took me a few verses to realize that they were singing in English, and singing about Jesus to boot. As it turned out, these children were orphans who had been taken under the care of the adult leader, a local pastor. Kind of interesting, being in the middle of a Muslim country, surrounded by countries that are primarily Hindu, Buddhist, and atheist, and here are a bunch of kids singing Sunday School songs. I talked with the pastor a bit, and he gave me his card. Then the sun set. And the sunset was decidedly beautiful (and grew even more so once the sun had fallen below the horizon… but alas, my camera batteries were dead). After regrouping with the girls for dinner, Jorge and I retired to our room, while the girls went to the hotel next door for an Eid dance party. Supposedly all of about ten people showed up, despite the advertisements stapled to the telephone poles lining the street. Jorge and I were bushed, and we decided to crash early. We had an early morning flight to catch.
Day six. The day of airports and smelly flights. Our flight from Dhaka to Sharjah was scheduled for nine or ten that evening. We were in Cox’s Bazar that morning. How to get to Dhaka in time? We decided shortly after arriving in Cox’s Bazar (while the memory of the fateful fifteen hour car ride was still painfully fresh in our minds), that we would take advantage of the domestic flights available on select days from Cox’s Bazar to Dhaka to expedite the trip and get us back to the Dhaka airport with minimal headache (and a much greater likelihood of us catching our flight, instead of being stuck in traffic behind a eight-cow pileup). Royal Bengal Airlines. On their weekly schedule, consisting of about eight or ten different routes between various airports in the country, the airline has about twenty-five different flights. In a whole week. Fleet of one or two planes total, I’d surmise. We traveled by van to the airport. I thought the airport looked like something out of a movie. Some long-abandoned airstrip out in the middle of nowhere, architecture and infrastructure evoking cinematic memories of World War II-era landing fields in isolated areas, a sorry excuse for an airport constructed in the African bush country in the mid-twentieth century. Something like that. On the tarmac sat several old prop planes that looked as though they hadn’t seen service (or indeed, even been serviceable) since sometime in the 1970s, and the tarmac itself was riddled with deep cracks and shoddy patchwork. The airport was tiny, with all of two rooms, the silliest excuse for airport security I’ve yet to encounter, and seemingly no sense of direction or purpose among the workers staffing the terminal. Luckily, the plane that arrived to pick us up did look newer, although it was also a prop plane (my first commercial prop plane!). It was relatively small, but surprisingly nice inside, and due to the morning hour (the flight departed around nine or ten in the morning), or perhaps just due to the fact that most Bengalis can’t afford to fly, the plane was quite empty. We ended up stopping in Chittagong for a few minutes while we dropped off a passenger or two and acquired a few more, before finally arriving in the Dhaka airport.
Jorge toured Dhaka a bit with a van and driver he hired, while Asha, Rebecca and I, adventured-out for the time being and not too keen on the relatively exorbitant price quoted by the van driver, hung out in the airport for the duration of the day, having another day of our meals consisting of snacks procured from vendors until we managed to get past security when our flight started check-in procedures (about seven hours after arriving), when we ate at an actual restaurant further into the terminal.
After boarding the flight, we had a repeat experience of something that happened prior to our arrival in Dhaka from Sharjah five days earlier (that I neglected to mention while relating that episode (at least in this incarnation), but it’s more pertinent here). The cabin crew sprayed insecticide throughout the passenger area while walking up and down the aisle. Considering the personal hygiene of most of the other passengers, and the condition of much of their makeshift baggage (often consisting of cardboard boxes reinforced with packing tape and plastic bags), this practice is understandable, and, I’ve discovered since, a fairly common practice in international flights, particularly in ones with third-world countries at one end or the other of the journey. Kill the bugs who might transmit diseases or be invasive species in the ecosystem of the destination country. They should have used more potent spray, as both Rebecca and myself had cockroaches crawl across our arms during the flight. Good times.
At long last, we arrived in Sharjah. It was nearly midnight local time, and we had to be at work in just over seven hours. However, I had had my heart (or stomach, as it were) set on something for the past several days, ever since my… episode after the rickshaw drive on Day 3. A cheeseburger from the airport McDonalds. Not so much for any symbolic reasons, making the trip come full-circle to the restaurant and airport where it had begun, but rather because I missed food that didn’t remind me of that ill-fated beef and rice meal by the pool in Cox’s Bazar. And the burger was delicious.
And so much for condensing the trip. Geez. Over 4700 words. I’ll try to be more concise with my Jordan entry. I have novels to write…
See you at the next entry!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Springtime in December
In literature, poetry, and songwriting, the winter months, most notably December and January, have long been used as symbols for dark and somber periods, for death, cold, and other elements often associated with that time of the year (at least in the northern hemisphere). In increasingly typical fashion for me, I’m bucking the trend.
November was a rather rough month for me. I won’t get into too much detail, but between stress at work (observations gone awry, having to get my grades done a week in advance, getting everything squared away for my absence from school for four days on an international field trip, figuring out what the heck my students had been doing and what I need to have them do next upon my return from said field trip, and preparing for student-led conferences on top of the usual first-year teacher insanity), lack of proper sleep for several weeks running, and a series of events and observations that kind of soured me towards Dubai and its shallowness, I was mentally, physically, and emotionally struggling. Homesickness started to hit in full-force, largely propagated by an amazing trip to Jordan (whose rolling hills, naturally verdant landscapes (in places), and cool, cloudy weather reminded me at times of Tallahassee; the trip culminated in my seeing the kids’ parents greeting the students as they returned from to Dubai the last night), and I was really starting to get down.
Our school’s work days for the month of December were recently cut to just the 14th through the 17th. I was planning on just staying in Dubai for the month and write, but, since I’m now leaning towards just staying in this country for the two years of my current contract (instead of extending it another year like I was considering doing prior to becoming disillusioned about the city in November), I figured that I needed to do as much traveling as I can while I’m here. So I’m going to Rome for nine days. On my own. It’s a place I’ve always wanted to go, and it’s a trip I definitely think I need to take right now. It should be inspirational, both in bringing out my muse (more on that in a moment) and in bringing up my spirits for life in general. In more ways than I can say, I’m quite excited.
In addition, I’m resolving that, henceforth (in theory, for the rest of my life), I will write at least one page a day. On my novels, on a short story or novella, on a blog entry or whatever. Just to write. Just to stay in practice with the passion that I’ve allowed myself to neglect over the past few weeks. I’ve used the excuse of late that, were I to launch into writing on another major project, I would become obsessed with it at the expense of sleep or other activities, as I’ve been known to do in the past. And, truth be told, I probably would, but as it is, I’ve still managed to putz around at night to deprive myself of sleep with admittedly much less productive activities. And if I can find the time to read fifty-five books (no, seriously) in my first three months here, then dang it, I can afford to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard, as it were) and write on a daily basis. Given, the chances that I’ll be able to stop my daily ritual at one page, or even five, is slim, and this was the main reason for my postponing of writing on my major works for so long. But so be it. My mind is constantly coming up with new ideas for stories, gleaning them from the sights, sounds, people, and experiences that I’m encountering on this amazing adventure I’m on. I need to put them down. Besides, writing is decidedly cathartic for me, so beyond indulging in my great passion, beyond increasing my repertoire of written works, beyond practicing my craft, I’ll be releasing the stress of my rather hectic life. And it’s a heck of a lot less expensive and more productive than a lot of other de-stressors available in this town.
I’m also planning on writing a good deal while in Rome. Lots and lots to see, but I know I’ll be back, both soon and often, and I just want to have a nice relaxing trip. Meeting people, doing some sightseeing, some photography, a little reading (I’m taking Virgil’s Aeneid, just to be meta), and a lot of inspiration and writing. I think it’ll be cool to say, ‘oh yeah, I wrote that passage while sitting on the Spanish Steps,’ or whatever.
Thus, this December shall not be the embodiment of the cold darkness that it oft symbolizes in poetry and prose; instead, it shall be the advent of a new springtime in my life, of brighter horizons, of indulged passions and inspirational experiences, of hopes, dreams, and resilience. And if that’s what my December looks like, I can’t wait to see what the actual spring months hold for me.
Postscript:
I’ve been slacking on blog entries the past few months, and I apologize for that. I hope to have more entries up in the coming weeks, including a completed (albeit condensed from its initially conceived scope) entry on my Bangladesh trip, one on my Jordan trip, and one on my upcoming trip to Rome. Stay tuned, and thanks for your continued prayers, support, and sharing in my adventures.
November was a rather rough month for me. I won’t get into too much detail, but between stress at work (observations gone awry, having to get my grades done a week in advance, getting everything squared away for my absence from school for four days on an international field trip, figuring out what the heck my students had been doing and what I need to have them do next upon my return from said field trip, and preparing for student-led conferences on top of the usual first-year teacher insanity), lack of proper sleep for several weeks running, and a series of events and observations that kind of soured me towards Dubai and its shallowness, I was mentally, physically, and emotionally struggling. Homesickness started to hit in full-force, largely propagated by an amazing trip to Jordan (whose rolling hills, naturally verdant landscapes (in places), and cool, cloudy weather reminded me at times of Tallahassee; the trip culminated in my seeing the kids’ parents greeting the students as they returned from to Dubai the last night), and I was really starting to get down.
Our school’s work days for the month of December were recently cut to just the 14th through the 17th. I was planning on just staying in Dubai for the month and write, but, since I’m now leaning towards just staying in this country for the two years of my current contract (instead of extending it another year like I was considering doing prior to becoming disillusioned about the city in November), I figured that I needed to do as much traveling as I can while I’m here. So I’m going to Rome for nine days. On my own. It’s a place I’ve always wanted to go, and it’s a trip I definitely think I need to take right now. It should be inspirational, both in bringing out my muse (more on that in a moment) and in bringing up my spirits for life in general. In more ways than I can say, I’m quite excited.
In addition, I’m resolving that, henceforth (in theory, for the rest of my life), I will write at least one page a day. On my novels, on a short story or novella, on a blog entry or whatever. Just to write. Just to stay in practice with the passion that I’ve allowed myself to neglect over the past few weeks. I’ve used the excuse of late that, were I to launch into writing on another major project, I would become obsessed with it at the expense of sleep or other activities, as I’ve been known to do in the past. And, truth be told, I probably would, but as it is, I’ve still managed to putz around at night to deprive myself of sleep with admittedly much less productive activities. And if I can find the time to read fifty-five books (no, seriously) in my first three months here, then dang it, I can afford to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard, as it were) and write on a daily basis. Given, the chances that I’ll be able to stop my daily ritual at one page, or even five, is slim, and this was the main reason for my postponing of writing on my major works for so long. But so be it. My mind is constantly coming up with new ideas for stories, gleaning them from the sights, sounds, people, and experiences that I’m encountering on this amazing adventure I’m on. I need to put them down. Besides, writing is decidedly cathartic for me, so beyond indulging in my great passion, beyond increasing my repertoire of written works, beyond practicing my craft, I’ll be releasing the stress of my rather hectic life. And it’s a heck of a lot less expensive and more productive than a lot of other de-stressors available in this town.
I’m also planning on writing a good deal while in Rome. Lots and lots to see, but I know I’ll be back, both soon and often, and I just want to have a nice relaxing trip. Meeting people, doing some sightseeing, some photography, a little reading (I’m taking Virgil’s Aeneid, just to be meta), and a lot of inspiration and writing. I think it’ll be cool to say, ‘oh yeah, I wrote that passage while sitting on the Spanish Steps,’ or whatever.
Thus, this December shall not be the embodiment of the cold darkness that it oft symbolizes in poetry and prose; instead, it shall be the advent of a new springtime in my life, of brighter horizons, of indulged passions and inspirational experiences, of hopes, dreams, and resilience. And if that’s what my December looks like, I can’t wait to see what the actual spring months hold for me.
Postscript:
I’ve been slacking on blog entries the past few months, and I apologize for that. I hope to have more entries up in the coming weeks, including a completed (albeit condensed from its initially conceived scope) entry on my Bangladesh trip, one on my Jordan trip, and one on my upcoming trip to Rome. Stay tuned, and thanks for your continued prayers, support, and sharing in my adventures.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Bangladesh - Day 1 - The Adventure Begins
Apparently I don't do things halfway. I start writing fiction, and instead of putzing around with short stories, I hammer out a full-length novel. I get my passport, and instead of vacationing in the Bahamas or Europe, I move to Dubai. And now, for my first international vacation, when most of my colleagues are going to tourist-friendly areas like Greece, Egypt, Turkey, and even Thailand, I go to freakin’ Bangladesh.
Our adventure began officially at 8 a.m. Monday morning (September 29th). A private cab took us to the Sharjah International Airport, in the neighboring emirate of Sharjah (just a few kilometers away from our apartment building), for our flight to Dhaka. As this was my first flight out of a non-U.S. airport, the attention to security (or relative lack thereof) was kind of surprising. Asha actually got through the first security gate (into the terminal) with a giant Swiss Army Knife in her pocket, which she showed to the guard and asked if it was okay for her to take with her. He said sure (the second guard, at the second security gate which lead to our particular gate, did confiscate it, but only after Asha had again volunteered that she had it on her person). I set off the metal detector, and the guard did sort of a cursory sweep of my person with the hand-held detector, then let me through. None of this silly x-raying of our shoes as we walk through barefoot. The guards threw casual glances at the x-ray machine as our luggage went through, more engaged in the jovial conversation they were sharing than in meticulous scrutinizing. Kinda interesting.
When we got through security, the immigration control agent stamped our passports with exit visas from the UAE. I guess a person is kind of in no man's land at a point like that. A man without a country. Although I guess the issuing country (i.e. the U.S., for my passport) would still be valid, though no flights from that airport flew to any of our native countries. But I digress.
We arrived in a large duty-free area, but instead of buying anything (as we had a good three-plus hours until our flight left), we headed to the food court, which, to our surprise, was not only open, but was also permitting patrons to eat their purchases right there in the food court. If the importance of this moment escapes you, it’s probably because you haven’t been reading my other entries (go back and read them!). Short version: it’s still the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, and eating in public during daylight hours is illegal. Apparently the airport has their own regulations once you get past security. It may have only been nine in the morning, but let me tell you, that McDonald’s burger tasted darned good.
Fast-forward a few hours (and another burger… hey, I was hungry, and Lord knows we had no idea when the next meal we would eat would be (note: it ended up being at about ten p.m., Dhaka time), and we were in the departure lounge by our gate. Asha bought some Smirnoff at the duty free area for use in Bangladesh (because, again, we had no idea how long it’d be or how easy it’d be to get some sort of alcohol in Bangladesh… another Muslim country, still during Ramadan, and much less tourist-friendly than the UAE). I watched the baggage while the girls went to the restroom. Coming back, Rebecca started singing the ‘one of these things is not like the other’ song from Sesame Street to Asha. And she was right. The three of us were the only non-Bengalis waiting for our flight. In fact, we were the only people whose ancestry was not from the non-Indian subcontinent that we saw for days. We did meet a guy named Rashid in the lounge, though, who was of Bengali ancestry but who was raised in Canada and now lived and worked in Dubai. He gave us some tips on Bangladesh, some that encouraged us, some that made us wonder more and more what the heck we’d gotten ourselves into. He would be staying with a friend of his in Dhaka for the week. We swapped phone numbers, and he told us to call him if we needed anything.
The plane was about forty-five minutes late arriving, and there wasn’t any announcement (at least, not one that we could hear, or in a language we could understand) regarding the reason for its tardiness. Realizing that we had gotten a cheap flight and that we were going to freaking Bangladesh, we joked that they were busy building the plane. The whole trip was full of these ‘what-are-we-getting-ourselves-into, laugh-to-maintain-our-sanity’ moments. At last, the plane did arrive, and we left on an Airbus A320. We flew over the Arabian/Persian Gulf, Iran, Pakistan, and India before finally arriving in Bangladesh. Shortly before we landed, our flight attendants sprayed the cabin with insecticide. I didn’t realize that’s what it was at first, but apparently it was their attempt to abide by the health regulations of Sharjah (out of which Air Arabia is based) in staving off the spread of disease carrying bugs (we’ll see how successful those efforts were on the return trip on Day 6… stay tuned!).
It was dusk when our plane landed in Dhaka. One thing I noticed as we flew over was the relative darkness of the city, the lack of lights below, like most metropolis’s I had flown over or seen photographs of. A few streetlights, a lighted building or two, and a good chunk of headlights. It reminded me of Peter Pan’s Flight at Disney World, when the ride takes you over turn-of-the-century (that is, last century) London at night: the scene was dominated by those little sets of headlights rolling through the streets.
Finally we arrived at the gate and disembarked. Even in the terminal, there were no other westerners. ‘Welcome to Bangladesh’, a giant overhead sign greeted us. Indeed. We went to the passport control counter and were asked by the agent for our visas. We told him we didn’t have them, that we figured we could get them there, etc. etc. etc. Well, we were right. We were directed to go over to the currency exchange booth and pay fifty U.S. Dollars, returning to the passport control counter with a receipt. We did so, and got a fifteen-day visit visa stamp in our passport. Easy peasy.
After changing our money to Takas and searching unsuccessfully for some food or tourist information, we headed toward the airport exit. We met up with Rashid again at baggage claim, and he hooked us up with a driver who took us to the hotel where our friend Jorge was staying. And when we left the airport, that’s when Bangladesh really hit us.
There were armed guards with helmets and rifles slung over their shoulders making their rounds through the airport, who, like most people in the country that we encountered, would return any smile we gave with an even bigger one of their own. Kind of an unnerving sight, until they smiled at you. Several of them were holding back the mob of impoverished onlookers as cars and taxis left the airport. There was an iron-barred fence that enclosed the vehicle cue, and in each gap between bars, faces peered out at us, the unwashed masses come to see what sort of people were arriving at the airport today. The things you do for entertainment when you don’t have the technological trappings and economic prosperity of our Western world, I suppose. It kind of felt like we were on display, those dozens of eyes on us, taking in the sight of these light-skinned foreigners. Little did we know that this would prove to be a recurring theme throughout our journeys.
We got into a van with our luggage and a driver who spoke virtually no English. We spoke no Bengali, so it made for a fun match. Luckily, Rashid’s friend who hooked us up with the ride gave the driver instructions before we left, so we got to the hotel alright. The first thing I noticed when I got in the car (other than the people cramming themselves in to see the airport arrival festivities) was that the steering wheel was on the right side of the car. “Hey!” I observed. “They drive on the wrong side of the road here!” My comment was meant to be facetiously ethnocentric, but I had no idea how prophetic my words would prove, especially in the days to come.
After a van ride filled with traffic lights that weren’t working, long lines of street lamps that were broken or unlit, clogged intersections (where buses and rickshaws drove side by side), and several dark alley roadways, we arrived at our ‘hotel’. The Hotel Zakaria seemed kinda seedy, but that was exacerbated by the facts that a) this was Bangladesh, where everything is dirty and seedy by Western standards, and b) there wasn’t a whole lot of light in the lobby, the hallways, the stairwell, the restaurant, or the road outside. Ultimately, it was a nice enough place, a place to eat (where I almost cracked a molar on a piece of bone hidden inside a bite-sized morsel of ridiculously spicy chicken), sleep (once we got rid of the rat poop that was on Asha’s bedsheets), refresh ourselves (by brushing our teeth using bottled water), take photographs (like the plant that was growing in a bathtub in the hallway outside our room, or the giant cockroach in the stairwell that Jorge took up with immediately), and ride the elevator (that had no door, so we could actually touch the wall of the elevator shaft as we ascended… who needs fingers, anyway). We had dinner, explored a little, relaxed and chatted in our room, and then retired to bed. The driver that our hotel manager had secured to take us to Cox’s Bazar the next day would be arriving at 8 a.m., so we had to sleep fast. And sleep we did.
Our adventure began officially at 8 a.m. Monday morning (September 29th). A private cab took us to the Sharjah International Airport, in the neighboring emirate of Sharjah (just a few kilometers away from our apartment building), for our flight to Dhaka. As this was my first flight out of a non-U.S. airport, the attention to security (or relative lack thereof) was kind of surprising. Asha actually got through the first security gate (into the terminal) with a giant Swiss Army Knife in her pocket, which she showed to the guard and asked if it was okay for her to take with her. He said sure (the second guard, at the second security gate which lead to our particular gate, did confiscate it, but only after Asha had again volunteered that she had it on her person). I set off the metal detector, and the guard did sort of a cursory sweep of my person with the hand-held detector, then let me through. None of this silly x-raying of our shoes as we walk through barefoot. The guards threw casual glances at the x-ray machine as our luggage went through, more engaged in the jovial conversation they were sharing than in meticulous scrutinizing. Kinda interesting.
When we got through security, the immigration control agent stamped our passports with exit visas from the UAE. I guess a person is kind of in no man's land at a point like that. A man without a country. Although I guess the issuing country (i.e. the U.S., for my passport) would still be valid, though no flights from that airport flew to any of our native countries. But I digress.
We arrived in a large duty-free area, but instead of buying anything (as we had a good three-plus hours until our flight left), we headed to the food court, which, to our surprise, was not only open, but was also permitting patrons to eat their purchases right there in the food court. If the importance of this moment escapes you, it’s probably because you haven’t been reading my other entries (go back and read them!). Short version: it’s still the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, and eating in public during daylight hours is illegal. Apparently the airport has their own regulations once you get past security. It may have only been nine in the morning, but let me tell you, that McDonald’s burger tasted darned good.
Fast-forward a few hours (and another burger… hey, I was hungry, and Lord knows we had no idea when the next meal we would eat would be (note: it ended up being at about ten p.m., Dhaka time), and we were in the departure lounge by our gate. Asha bought some Smirnoff at the duty free area for use in Bangladesh (because, again, we had no idea how long it’d be or how easy it’d be to get some sort of alcohol in Bangladesh… another Muslim country, still during Ramadan, and much less tourist-friendly than the UAE). I watched the baggage while the girls went to the restroom. Coming back, Rebecca started singing the ‘one of these things is not like the other’ song from Sesame Street to Asha. And she was right. The three of us were the only non-Bengalis waiting for our flight. In fact, we were the only people whose ancestry was not from the non-Indian subcontinent that we saw for days. We did meet a guy named Rashid in the lounge, though, who was of Bengali ancestry but who was raised in Canada and now lived and worked in Dubai. He gave us some tips on Bangladesh, some that encouraged us, some that made us wonder more and more what the heck we’d gotten ourselves into. He would be staying with a friend of his in Dhaka for the week. We swapped phone numbers, and he told us to call him if we needed anything.
The plane was about forty-five minutes late arriving, and there wasn’t any announcement (at least, not one that we could hear, or in a language we could understand) regarding the reason for its tardiness. Realizing that we had gotten a cheap flight and that we were going to freaking Bangladesh, we joked that they were busy building the plane. The whole trip was full of these ‘what-are-we-getting-ourselves-into, laugh-to-maintain-our-sanity’ moments. At last, the plane did arrive, and we left on an Airbus A320. We flew over the Arabian/Persian Gulf, Iran, Pakistan, and India before finally arriving in Bangladesh. Shortly before we landed, our flight attendants sprayed the cabin with insecticide. I didn’t realize that’s what it was at first, but apparently it was their attempt to abide by the health regulations of Sharjah (out of which Air Arabia is based) in staving off the spread of disease carrying bugs (we’ll see how successful those efforts were on the return trip on Day 6… stay tuned!).
It was dusk when our plane landed in Dhaka. One thing I noticed as we flew over was the relative darkness of the city, the lack of lights below, like most metropolis’s I had flown over or seen photographs of. A few streetlights, a lighted building or two, and a good chunk of headlights. It reminded me of Peter Pan’s Flight at Disney World, when the ride takes you over turn-of-the-century (that is, last century) London at night: the scene was dominated by those little sets of headlights rolling through the streets.
Finally we arrived at the gate and disembarked. Even in the terminal, there were no other westerners. ‘Welcome to Bangladesh’, a giant overhead sign greeted us. Indeed. We went to the passport control counter and were asked by the agent for our visas. We told him we didn’t have them, that we figured we could get them there, etc. etc. etc. Well, we were right. We were directed to go over to the currency exchange booth and pay fifty U.S. Dollars, returning to the passport control counter with a receipt. We did so, and got a fifteen-day visit visa stamp in our passport. Easy peasy.
After changing our money to Takas and searching unsuccessfully for some food or tourist information, we headed toward the airport exit. We met up with Rashid again at baggage claim, and he hooked us up with a driver who took us to the hotel where our friend Jorge was staying. And when we left the airport, that’s when Bangladesh really hit us.
There were armed guards with helmets and rifles slung over their shoulders making their rounds through the airport, who, like most people in the country that we encountered, would return any smile we gave with an even bigger one of their own. Kind of an unnerving sight, until they smiled at you. Several of them were holding back the mob of impoverished onlookers as cars and taxis left the airport. There was an iron-barred fence that enclosed the vehicle cue, and in each gap between bars, faces peered out at us, the unwashed masses come to see what sort of people were arriving at the airport today. The things you do for entertainment when you don’t have the technological trappings and economic prosperity of our Western world, I suppose. It kind of felt like we were on display, those dozens of eyes on us, taking in the sight of these light-skinned foreigners. Little did we know that this would prove to be a recurring theme throughout our journeys.
We got into a van with our luggage and a driver who spoke virtually no English. We spoke no Bengali, so it made for a fun match. Luckily, Rashid’s friend who hooked us up with the ride gave the driver instructions before we left, so we got to the hotel alright. The first thing I noticed when I got in the car (other than the people cramming themselves in to see the airport arrival festivities) was that the steering wheel was on the right side of the car. “Hey!” I observed. “They drive on the wrong side of the road here!” My comment was meant to be facetiously ethnocentric, but I had no idea how prophetic my words would prove, especially in the days to come.
After a van ride filled with traffic lights that weren’t working, long lines of street lamps that were broken or unlit, clogged intersections (where buses and rickshaws drove side by side), and several dark alley roadways, we arrived at our ‘hotel’. The Hotel Zakaria seemed kinda seedy, but that was exacerbated by the facts that a) this was Bangladesh, where everything is dirty and seedy by Western standards, and b) there wasn’t a whole lot of light in the lobby, the hallways, the stairwell, the restaurant, or the road outside. Ultimately, it was a nice enough place, a place to eat (where I almost cracked a molar on a piece of bone hidden inside a bite-sized morsel of ridiculously spicy chicken), sleep (once we got rid of the rat poop that was on Asha’s bedsheets), refresh ourselves (by brushing our teeth using bottled water), take photographs (like the plant that was growing in a bathtub in the hallway outside our room, or the giant cockroach in the stairwell that Jorge took up with immediately), and ride the elevator (that had no door, so we could actually touch the wall of the elevator shaft as we ascended… who needs fingers, anyway). We had dinner, explored a little, relaxed and chatted in our room, and then retired to bed. The driver that our hotel manager had secured to take us to Cox’s Bazar the next day would be arriving at 8 a.m., so we had to sleep fast. And sleep we did.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Bangladesh - Prelude to Adventure
I’ve now technically been to eight countries. I was born, and lived for most of my life, in the United States (1); I took a cruise in the western Caribbean in June 2003, spending a day each in Haiti (2), Jamaica (3), the Cayman Islands (4), and Mexico (5); I moved to the United Arab Emirates (6) in August 2008; and I spent a few hours in Oman (7) in September on my visa run across the border (read the previous blog entry for more on that little trip). My eighth country, though, was my first real international “vacation”, the first time I spent more than a day in a country that I wasn’t calling “home”. And boy did I pick a doozy: Bangladesh.
Our travel agent actually asked us, point blank, why we would want to go to Bangladesh. Apparently it’s not a popular tourist destination. Even among my extremely well-traveled colleagues, no one had gone to Bangladesh. But we were going.
Let me back up a bit. I wrote in a previous entry about the Eid al-Fitr holiday that marks the end of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan. I wrote about how there was a distinct possibility that the Eid holiday would be extended from the original four-day weekend to a five-, six- or nine-day holiday. I also wrote about how, if the holiday were extended, I would go to Istanbul for four nights, and if it were not, I would go to Nepal. Well, by the time the Dubai Ministry of Education finally decided to extend the holiday, all of those packages were already snapped up. Some of my colleagues and I went to travel agents, scoured the internet, and phoned airlines to find out what was left that we could afford with our single paycheck we’ve received thus far. The answer: not much. Which was disappointing, but not devastating. There were plenty more holidays coming up, and I didn’t have much to spend on a trip yet anyway. I was kind of resigned to spending the week in town, perhaps going on a short trip or two to Abu Dhabi or Oman, or perhaps on an off-road camping trip in one of the neighboring Emirates. There was a lot of Dubai yet to be explored as well, and I had just started work on a new story idea that was really starting to take hold. Then, as things often seem to do when you become content with what you have, opportunity presented itself.
Maybe ‘reared it’s ugly head’ would be a more apt description. Two groups of friends/colleagues found two different trips available. One was to Bangkok, Thailand. The other was to Dhaka, Bangladesh. Actually, I didn’t know it was to Dhaka at first. I didn’t really know the capital of Bangladesh. It’s kind of one of those things where you’re like “oh yeah, I knew that” when you find something out, like dredging the deep recesses of your mind for some bit of information that you had acquired, but really didn’t properly catalogue it for recall. Incidentally, both were on my list of places to travel to someday. Bangkok, and Thailand in general, was a significant one (along with about fifty other countries). Bangladesh wasn’t. In fact, I really didn’t know much about what there was in Bangladesh. But incidentally, that was what won me over to going there instead of the ultimately preferred Thailand.
There were two main reasons why I chose Bangladesh over Thailand for this trip: lack of funds and lack of time to plan. Thailand has many ancient historical sites, touristy destinations, and other crap that I specifically want to see. Bangladesh has… well, I really didn’t know. So there were no expectations, no plans to make, no things that I just had to see/do/experience. The flight to Bangladesh was about 700 dirhams (~190 US$) less than the one to Thailand, and the lure of going somewhere that virtually no one had gone to was kind of exciting. So Bangladesh won. Thailand will be there, but the chance that I would find another opportunity to go to Bangladesh, especially with three other willing adventurers, was slim.
The idea of going to Bangladesh was the brainchild of Jorge, a Spanish (both in subject area and in nationality) teacher at our school who has taught in Thailand and traveled to 31 countries, including Laos, Cambodia, Malaysia, India, Sri Lanka, and Iran. For him, the trip was also born out of necessity, as the trip to Athens he was planning on taking ended up being more expensive than he was planning on. He had a Bengali kid or two in one of his classes who put the bug in his ear for doing something original by going to Bangladesh, and when I caught wind from a couple of my colleagues (who will be introduced momentarily), I thought, ‘hey, why not?’ Hook. Line. Sinker.
My other two fellow adventurers were both Canadians. Asha, a PE teacher, had traveled to some rough countries before, including Uganda, Ecuador, Kenya, Tanzania, and Thailand. Rebecca, who teaches science, had also traveled to 31 countries, including South Africa, Malaysia, and Singapore. All three of my companions had roughed it in much of their travels, staying in hostels and guest houses in Africa and South America, backpacking for four months across Europe, and bicycling from Bangkok to Singapore. An adventurous bunch. But they had never seen anything like Bangladesh.
The adventures began before we even left the country. Just deciding to go to Bangladesh (figuring out where we were going to go, the length of our vacation changing at the last second, the frantic search for flights, the ‘sure, why not?’ decision to go to Bangladesh of all places) set the roll-with-the-punches, fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants tone that would become par for the course during the trip. Jorge had bought his ticket before Asha, Rebecca and I did, and he left on Sunday (September 28). The three of us who were to follow him bought our tickets on Saturday (September 27) under the pretense given to us by the travel agent (who asked us why we wanted to go to Bangladesh) that we could get our visas at the airport upon arrival. He said that his information said that the country ‘strongly advised’ visitors to get visas prior to arrival, but that they are available at the airport. So we bought our tickets and decided to go to the Bangladesh Consulate in Dubai the next day (Ravi, the travel agent, called the main consulate in Abu Dhabi to confirm that his information about visas was correct, and he also found that we could get our visas beforehand, with same-day service (if we arrived at ten a.m., we could have the visas by one p.m.)). We left early, which really didn’t help us get to the consulate on time. No one seemed to know where it was. Lots of people thought they knew where it was, but unfortunately there were about three or four conflicting accounts as to where it was. Eventually we found it… and realized why no one knew where it was: it was tiny. It was really just a crappy two-story house that the Bangladeshi government decided to convert into their consulate. And I use the term ‘convert’ loosely. The second-story waiting area was a living room full of china cabinets, furniture from the seventies, packing boxes, and all sorts of other knick-knacks that looked like they belonged in the attic of some pack-rat grandmother.
After waiting for a while, the Assistant Consul (actually I don’t know what his title was, but he was the only guy other than the Consul General who had an office, so I’m deeming him as such for now) heard our inquiry and gave us some forms to fill out. Halfway through, we realized that we didn’t have a lot of these things that the form was asking us for. A sponsor letter? An invitation from the government of Bangladesh? Seriously? We asked the guy about it, and he said that we needed sponsor letters from our employers. Oh, and no, you can’t get same-day service. In fact, it’s eleven o’clock, our office is closed. What time did you open? Nine. Seriously? A two-hour workday? No wonder no one ever gets to visit your country. And no, you can’t get visas at the airport. You were told wrong. Wait, no, you can, Mr. Burns. Americans okay. No one else can get visas at airport. Crap. But the guy’s story changed several times while we were talking to him. Either he didn’t understand what we were asking at first, or he just didn’t know what the heck he was talking about. I kinda figured it to be a mixture of the two. So, no visas were to be gotten before we left, and in theory there weren’t going to be any available at the airport. Jorge’s flight left in about an hour for Dhaka. Maybe a quick turnaround flight. Maybe a reprise of Tom Hanks’s role in The Terminal. Or maybe, just maybe, we’d all manage to get into the country.
We left the consulate to grab some ‘sponsor letters’ from our school, just in case those might help our case with immigration officials in the Dhaka airport. On the way out of the building, though, a poster in the stairwell caught my eye. “Visit Bangladesh,” it said, “Before the Tourists Come.” Wow. Well, we were sure gonna try. And we wouldn’t be disappointed...
Our travel agent actually asked us, point blank, why we would want to go to Bangladesh. Apparently it’s not a popular tourist destination. Even among my extremely well-traveled colleagues, no one had gone to Bangladesh. But we were going.
Let me back up a bit. I wrote in a previous entry about the Eid al-Fitr holiday that marks the end of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan. I wrote about how there was a distinct possibility that the Eid holiday would be extended from the original four-day weekend to a five-, six- or nine-day holiday. I also wrote about how, if the holiday were extended, I would go to Istanbul for four nights, and if it were not, I would go to Nepal. Well, by the time the Dubai Ministry of Education finally decided to extend the holiday, all of those packages were already snapped up. Some of my colleagues and I went to travel agents, scoured the internet, and phoned airlines to find out what was left that we could afford with our single paycheck we’ve received thus far. The answer: not much. Which was disappointing, but not devastating. There were plenty more holidays coming up, and I didn’t have much to spend on a trip yet anyway. I was kind of resigned to spending the week in town, perhaps going on a short trip or two to Abu Dhabi or Oman, or perhaps on an off-road camping trip in one of the neighboring Emirates. There was a lot of Dubai yet to be explored as well, and I had just started work on a new story idea that was really starting to take hold. Then, as things often seem to do when you become content with what you have, opportunity presented itself.
Maybe ‘reared it’s ugly head’ would be a more apt description. Two groups of friends/colleagues found two different trips available. One was to Bangkok, Thailand. The other was to Dhaka, Bangladesh. Actually, I didn’t know it was to Dhaka at first. I didn’t really know the capital of Bangladesh. It’s kind of one of those things where you’re like “oh yeah, I knew that” when you find something out, like dredging the deep recesses of your mind for some bit of information that you had acquired, but really didn’t properly catalogue it for recall. Incidentally, both were on my list of places to travel to someday. Bangkok, and Thailand in general, was a significant one (along with about fifty other countries). Bangladesh wasn’t. In fact, I really didn’t know much about what there was in Bangladesh. But incidentally, that was what won me over to going there instead of the ultimately preferred Thailand.
There were two main reasons why I chose Bangladesh over Thailand for this trip: lack of funds and lack of time to plan. Thailand has many ancient historical sites, touristy destinations, and other crap that I specifically want to see. Bangladesh has… well, I really didn’t know. So there were no expectations, no plans to make, no things that I just had to see/do/experience. The flight to Bangladesh was about 700 dirhams (~190 US$) less than the one to Thailand, and the lure of going somewhere that virtually no one had gone to was kind of exciting. So Bangladesh won. Thailand will be there, but the chance that I would find another opportunity to go to Bangladesh, especially with three other willing adventurers, was slim.
The idea of going to Bangladesh was the brainchild of Jorge, a Spanish (both in subject area and in nationality) teacher at our school who has taught in Thailand and traveled to 31 countries, including Laos, Cambodia, Malaysia, India, Sri Lanka, and Iran. For him, the trip was also born out of necessity, as the trip to Athens he was planning on taking ended up being more expensive than he was planning on. He had a Bengali kid or two in one of his classes who put the bug in his ear for doing something original by going to Bangladesh, and when I caught wind from a couple of my colleagues (who will be introduced momentarily), I thought, ‘hey, why not?’ Hook. Line. Sinker.
My other two fellow adventurers were both Canadians. Asha, a PE teacher, had traveled to some rough countries before, including Uganda, Ecuador, Kenya, Tanzania, and Thailand. Rebecca, who teaches science, had also traveled to 31 countries, including South Africa, Malaysia, and Singapore. All three of my companions had roughed it in much of their travels, staying in hostels and guest houses in Africa and South America, backpacking for four months across Europe, and bicycling from Bangkok to Singapore. An adventurous bunch. But they had never seen anything like Bangladesh.
The adventures began before we even left the country. Just deciding to go to Bangladesh (figuring out where we were going to go, the length of our vacation changing at the last second, the frantic search for flights, the ‘sure, why not?’ decision to go to Bangladesh of all places) set the roll-with-the-punches, fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants tone that would become par for the course during the trip. Jorge had bought his ticket before Asha, Rebecca and I did, and he left on Sunday (September 28). The three of us who were to follow him bought our tickets on Saturday (September 27) under the pretense given to us by the travel agent (who asked us why we wanted to go to Bangladesh) that we could get our visas at the airport upon arrival. He said that his information said that the country ‘strongly advised’ visitors to get visas prior to arrival, but that they are available at the airport. So we bought our tickets and decided to go to the Bangladesh Consulate in Dubai the next day (Ravi, the travel agent, called the main consulate in Abu Dhabi to confirm that his information about visas was correct, and he also found that we could get our visas beforehand, with same-day service (if we arrived at ten a.m., we could have the visas by one p.m.)). We left early, which really didn’t help us get to the consulate on time. No one seemed to know where it was. Lots of people thought they knew where it was, but unfortunately there were about three or four conflicting accounts as to where it was. Eventually we found it… and realized why no one knew where it was: it was tiny. It was really just a crappy two-story house that the Bangladeshi government decided to convert into their consulate. And I use the term ‘convert’ loosely. The second-story waiting area was a living room full of china cabinets, furniture from the seventies, packing boxes, and all sorts of other knick-knacks that looked like they belonged in the attic of some pack-rat grandmother.
After waiting for a while, the Assistant Consul (actually I don’t know what his title was, but he was the only guy other than the Consul General who had an office, so I’m deeming him as such for now) heard our inquiry and gave us some forms to fill out. Halfway through, we realized that we didn’t have a lot of these things that the form was asking us for. A sponsor letter? An invitation from the government of Bangladesh? Seriously? We asked the guy about it, and he said that we needed sponsor letters from our employers. Oh, and no, you can’t get same-day service. In fact, it’s eleven o’clock, our office is closed. What time did you open? Nine. Seriously? A two-hour workday? No wonder no one ever gets to visit your country. And no, you can’t get visas at the airport. You were told wrong. Wait, no, you can, Mr. Burns. Americans okay. No one else can get visas at airport. Crap. But the guy’s story changed several times while we were talking to him. Either he didn’t understand what we were asking at first, or he just didn’t know what the heck he was talking about. I kinda figured it to be a mixture of the two. So, no visas were to be gotten before we left, and in theory there weren’t going to be any available at the airport. Jorge’s flight left in about an hour for Dhaka. Maybe a quick turnaround flight. Maybe a reprise of Tom Hanks’s role in The Terminal. Or maybe, just maybe, we’d all manage to get into the country.
We left the consulate to grab some ‘sponsor letters’ from our school, just in case those might help our case with immigration officials in the Dhaka airport. On the way out of the building, though, a poster in the stairwell caught my eye. “Visit Bangladesh,” it said, “Before the Tourists Come.” Wow. Well, we were sure gonna try. And we wouldn’t be disappointed...
Monday, October 6, 2008
Pimp Our Jeremy
WARNING: The following entry contains some facetious and/or satirical remarks regarding my ‘sexiness’ and related subject matter. The nature of these remarks should be apparent to those who know me, but in the interest of staving off interpretations of me as a self-absorbed Narcissus, here’s your disclaimer.
A few of my young female colleagues took an interest in pimping out my wardrobe fairly early on. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the expression, it basically means an overhaul or makeover of sorts to make the thing to be pimped out more flashy, visually pleasing, and sexy. When I went to the happenin’ birthday party of Genna, an effervescent and delightfully British colleague of mine in the English department, she and Christine, another of my English department friends, decided to take up the cause as well. Unleash my God-given potential of being even more of a looker or something like that. Given, I got the numbers of two girls while at the party, so I wasn’t struggling too badly in that department. But I’m all for having girls dote on me, and in the interest of my fashion awareness and increasing the number of ladies gawking at me, I went along for the ride.
Our first payday was Wednesday, September 24. We were going to go to the mall that day, deemed by the girls as "Pimp Our Jeremy" day (a play on the MTV show "Pimp My Ride"), but there was a department meeting, and Genna had dinner plans, so we postponed it to Friday: an all-day affair. Alas, Asha, Rebecca, and Martine, other friends who wanted to help pimp me out, were unable to come on Friday, but they get me for subsequent rounds (actually, Asha already took me out to Karama, a knock-off bazaar kind of place here in Dubai, and both she and Rebecca got to give their opinions on clothes I bought in… but no, that’s another entry).
Friday. Genna, her husband Paul, Christine, and her boyfriend Morgan (also a teacher at our school; science) took me to the Mall of the Emirates. First stop: hairdresser’s. I had let my hair grow longish of late, not really sure what I wanted to do with it. The cut I got is similar to one I had for a while in the States, albeit spiked with hair wax. Already a hundred times better, the pimp-ers concurred. Then to the new digs. Tried on lots of clothes at different stores. Ultimately, I walked out with only one new outfit (it was rather expensive), but the jeans and shoes are nice staples that I’ve already built upon with other new (and decidedly less expensive) shirts, and I broadened my fashion horizons. The result? Lots of stares and wows. Seriously. Asha, Rebecca, and Martine were amazed. Asha actually stared at me for a full twenty seconds with her mouth wide open when she first saw the new look. Between that, the gym, and my increasingly adventurous spirit (see forthcoming entries on my Eid break travels), those ladies won’t stand a chance. I’m trying out my new look this weekend at the clubs (since they’ll be open for the first time since Ramadan). It may be October, but Dubai just got a little hotter.
A few of my young female colleagues took an interest in pimping out my wardrobe fairly early on. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the expression, it basically means an overhaul or makeover of sorts to make the thing to be pimped out more flashy, visually pleasing, and sexy. When I went to the happenin’ birthday party of Genna, an effervescent and delightfully British colleague of mine in the English department, she and Christine, another of my English department friends, decided to take up the cause as well. Unleash my God-given potential of being even more of a looker or something like that. Given, I got the numbers of two girls while at the party, so I wasn’t struggling too badly in that department. But I’m all for having girls dote on me, and in the interest of my fashion awareness and increasing the number of ladies gawking at me, I went along for the ride.
Our first payday was Wednesday, September 24. We were going to go to the mall that day, deemed by the girls as "Pimp Our Jeremy" day (a play on the MTV show "Pimp My Ride"), but there was a department meeting, and Genna had dinner plans, so we postponed it to Friday: an all-day affair. Alas, Asha, Rebecca, and Martine, other friends who wanted to help pimp me out, were unable to come on Friday, but they get me for subsequent rounds (actually, Asha already took me out to Karama, a knock-off bazaar kind of place here in Dubai, and both she and Rebecca got to give their opinions on clothes I bought in… but no, that’s another entry).
Friday. Genna, her husband Paul, Christine, and her boyfriend Morgan (also a teacher at our school; science) took me to the Mall of the Emirates. First stop: hairdresser’s. I had let my hair grow longish of late, not really sure what I wanted to do with it. The cut I got is similar to one I had for a while in the States, albeit spiked with hair wax. Already a hundred times better, the pimp-ers concurred. Then to the new digs. Tried on lots of clothes at different stores. Ultimately, I walked out with only one new outfit (it was rather expensive), but the jeans and shoes are nice staples that I’ve already built upon with other new (and decidedly less expensive) shirts, and I broadened my fashion horizons. The result? Lots of stares and wows. Seriously. Asha, Rebecca, and Martine were amazed. Asha actually stared at me for a full twenty seconds with her mouth wide open when she first saw the new look. Between that, the gym, and my increasingly adventurous spirit (see forthcoming entries on my Eid break travels), those ladies won’t stand a chance. I’m trying out my new look this weekend at the clubs (since they’ll be open for the first time since Ramadan). It may be October, but Dubai just got a little hotter.
A Short Little Jaunt Across the Border to Oman
The visa that I have for the United Arab Emirates right now is a visit visa that lasts but 30 days. My employment visa, like that of many of my colleagues, is still being processed by the government. Unfortunately, even though I am employed in the country, my visit visa is no longer valid after thirty days. So on day number 29 (September 19), I rode on a bus with about thirty of my colleagues (the bus was pretty much filled to capacity) over the border to Oman and back on what is commonly referred to as a visa run. UAE exit stamp, out of the country, into Oman, Oman entry stamp, Oman exit stamp, back to the UAE, entry stamp, home. One nice little loophole about being from one of the 34 countries that the UAE gives automatic visit visas to (as most of our new faculty is). In theory one could do this indefinitely, live in the UAE and just go abroad and back when your visa is just about up. Once was enough for me, though.
The bus picked us up from our apartment building on Friday morning (the first day of the weekend out here). 6:45 a.m. on a weekend. Way too early, but I was excited. This was the first time I had left the city of Dubai since arriving, so I got to see the neighboring Emirate of Sharjah (which our apartment building is really only a kilometer or so away from), as well as some dunes, mountains, and wildlife.
A few of my sightings, discoveries, and experiences on our short little jaunt across the border:
- The almost-perpetual haze visible when looking long distances in Dubai isn’t smog or construction dust; it’s desert sand in the atmosphere. The haze was just as bad, if not more so, over the isolated dunes as it was over the city.
- Lots of wild camels: camels grazing on desert brush, camels sleeping, camels eating out of a roadside dumpster.
- ATVs and offroad vehicles cruising the dunes.
- A herd of goats walking across a field and into a gorge via a real live goat path.
- The mountainous region southeast of Dubai known as Hatta, whose mountains largely look like they have the consistency of a tall gravel dump.
- My first exit visa from a country!
- I got chastised by an Omani border guard for taking a picture at the border of a sign that struck me as funny at the time. Oops.
- My time in Oman (for this trip at least) consisted of spending two hours in the welcome center, collecting travel brochures and maps, watching a rugby match in Arabic and the Oman travel video on the overhead televisions, and chatting with my colleagues while our passports got processed. Well, that and walking to and from the bus. I did stand on Oman soil, so it counts as a country I’ve been to.
I’m not done with Oman, of course. There’s still plenty to see there, from the sights of Muscat (the capital city) to the fjords of Musandam, and I’ve still got another visa run of sorts to do once my employment visa actually goes through. But it’s another stamp in the passport (technically, another six, all told, what with all the exits and entries), another adventure had, another memory made, another few dozen pictures taken. Especially the one I got yelled at by the border guard for. I’m definitely keeping that one.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Fun with Ramadan, the First Day(s) of school, and Upcoming Adventures
Ramadan, the Muslim holy month (which, though determined by the lunar calendar, happens to coincide almost exactly with September this year) is an interesting time. As I mentioned in a previous post, Muslims are required to fast during the day (including drinking water… in the desert! Go figure...) and are prohibited from dancing or making loud music. Living in a Muslim country, these prohibitions also impact non-Muslims. We can’t eat or drink in public (including in a vehicle), and all of the nightclubs are closed. Most restaurants are closed during the day, and most shops close around midday. There is a trade-off though, and of late I’ve gotten to experience a few of the fun aspects of Ramadan, aspects that have been compared to the commercialization of Christmas in the West.
One of the traditions associated with Ramadan is the Iftar, or the breaking of the fast at sundown. When the Iftar call to prayer is issued from the mosques, the faithful are finally able to eat and drink, and the party begins (sans music and dancing, of course… the real party comes after Ramadan’s over, but more on that in a bit). There are numerous restaurants around Dubai that offer Iftar feasts and buffets, and I got to partake in one of these last night with some friends/colleagues/neighbors of mine at a nearby restaurant. The food was amazing, and quite reasonably priced (39 dirhams, which is about 11 U.S. dollars), and the atmosphere, especially with most of the patrons being bedecked in the traditional Emirati garb (white robes and white dishdash (the head curtain thingy they wear)), was really neat. [Sorry about the generic synonyms for “good” in the preceding sentence. I’m an English teacher; I really should do better.]
Although most of the shops are closed during the afternoon, they open after Iftar and many stay open until the wee hours of the morning. Furthermore, there are displays in the malls with traditional Bedouin and Arab displays exhibiting their culture and heritage, including live actors and animatronic camels. And then there’s the Ramadan lights. Traditionally, lanterns are hung for Ramadan decorations, and although we have some of those in our neighborhood, we also have strings of lights (like Christmas lights) strung across building faces and from street lamps. And just outside our building, we have a beautiful Ramadan tree (or so I’ve christened it… wait, can I “christen” a Muslim tradition?). It’s a tall date palm right around the corner from the mosque, and it has been bedecked in blue Ramadan lights that look ever so pretty at night. I’ve yet to see another in town (though I’m sure in some of the more traditional areas, like the one I live in, there are more), so I feel lucky that I get to see it fairly regularly.
I made it through my first week of teaching. I already know all of my kids’ names, so I’ve started to develop a rapport with my students. They are very respectful, using ‘sir’ and wishing me a good day as they leave class. My seventh and eighth graders have energy out the wazoo. My ninth and tenth graders need a jump start most days. Behavior and classroom management isn’t too much of an issue at the moment. My big thing to work on is forming and implementing a unit on the fly. We’ve got the structure for our first unit (that we finished just a week-and-a-half ago), but it’s gonna be a challenge to flesh that out (pacing, activities, etc.) on my first go. Luckily, I have a good team with me, so that’ll help as well.
I’m starting to see more and more of Dubai. I’ve made two excursions to Sheikh Zayed Road (the main drag in the more touristy part of town) in the past week, I’ve been to the Mall of the Emirates (and seen Ski Dubai through the glass), and I’ve discovered a really neat Italian restaurant on the banks of the Dubai Creek. I’ve also found a church that I’m planning on attending for a little while. Vicki, our librarian, goes there, as do a few other faculty members from our school (I knew we’d be seeing a lot of each other). It’s small, but there are a lot of good people there. I’m glad to get plugged back into a body of believers. I’ve also found a more few guys (some at church, and some in our apartment building who teach at our sister school) to hang out with, which will be nice, because outings involving shopping with the almost completely female group from my apartment building are really starting to get old.
Eid al-Fitr is the three day holiday at the end of Ramadan. As it currently stands, that will equate to a four-day weekend for the public sector (including schools) from October 1-4. There are rumors going around, however, that Eid will get called early, perhaps on the 29th or 30th of September (it all depends on when the guy in Saudi Arabia looks at the moon and says it’s over, but Eid coming early is supposedly a fairly regular occurance). If this happens, the Ministry of Education will probably shut down schools for the whole week (which is what happened last year, and what I believe schools in neighboring Abu Dhabi are already planning on doing). Air Arabia, a UAE airline based out of Sharjah (the emirate to our north, and really only a few kilometers from where I live in Dubai), is offering some sweet airline/hotel deals during September and October, so several of my colleagues and I plan to take advantage of this opportunity to travel a little. If Eid ends up being just the four days, like it currently is, I’m probably going to spend three days/two nights in Katmandu, Nepal. If Eid gets extended, I’ll be spending five days/four nights in Istanbul, Turkey. Exciting stuff, eh? Regardless, I’ll be going to both of them in the coming years, but I’m excited to start doing some more world exploring. And speaking of world exploring, this weekend I’m heading to Oman for a visa run (a trip across the border and back to renew my UAE visitor’s visa) with a bunch of my colleagues whose visitor’s visas are about to run out (and who have yet to receive their resident visas). I’ll probably be in Oman for less than an hour, and I certainly won’t get far into the country (this time), but I’ll be able to check another country off my list (with a star next to it to give it a more thorough return visit). Look out world, here I come!
One of the traditions associated with Ramadan is the Iftar, or the breaking of the fast at sundown. When the Iftar call to prayer is issued from the mosques, the faithful are finally able to eat and drink, and the party begins (sans music and dancing, of course… the real party comes after Ramadan’s over, but more on that in a bit). There are numerous restaurants around Dubai that offer Iftar feasts and buffets, and I got to partake in one of these last night with some friends/colleagues/neighbors of mine at a nearby restaurant. The food was amazing, and quite reasonably priced (39 dirhams, which is about 11 U.S. dollars), and the atmosphere, especially with most of the patrons being bedecked in the traditional Emirati garb (white robes and white dishdash (the head curtain thingy they wear)), was really neat. [Sorry about the generic synonyms for “good” in the preceding sentence. I’m an English teacher; I really should do better.]
Although most of the shops are closed during the afternoon, they open after Iftar and many stay open until the wee hours of the morning. Furthermore, there are displays in the malls with traditional Bedouin and Arab displays exhibiting their culture and heritage, including live actors and animatronic camels. And then there’s the Ramadan lights. Traditionally, lanterns are hung for Ramadan decorations, and although we have some of those in our neighborhood, we also have strings of lights (like Christmas lights) strung across building faces and from street lamps. And just outside our building, we have a beautiful Ramadan tree (or so I’ve christened it… wait, can I “christen” a Muslim tradition?). It’s a tall date palm right around the corner from the mosque, and it has been bedecked in blue Ramadan lights that look ever so pretty at night. I’ve yet to see another in town (though I’m sure in some of the more traditional areas, like the one I live in, there are more), so I feel lucky that I get to see it fairly regularly.
I made it through my first week of teaching. I already know all of my kids’ names, so I’ve started to develop a rapport with my students. They are very respectful, using ‘sir’ and wishing me a good day as they leave class. My seventh and eighth graders have energy out the wazoo. My ninth and tenth graders need a jump start most days. Behavior and classroom management isn’t too much of an issue at the moment. My big thing to work on is forming and implementing a unit on the fly. We’ve got the structure for our first unit (that we finished just a week-and-a-half ago), but it’s gonna be a challenge to flesh that out (pacing, activities, etc.) on my first go. Luckily, I have a good team with me, so that’ll help as well.
I’m starting to see more and more of Dubai. I’ve made two excursions to Sheikh Zayed Road (the main drag in the more touristy part of town) in the past week, I’ve been to the Mall of the Emirates (and seen Ski Dubai through the glass), and I’ve discovered a really neat Italian restaurant on the banks of the Dubai Creek. I’ve also found a church that I’m planning on attending for a little while. Vicki, our librarian, goes there, as do a few other faculty members from our school (I knew we’d be seeing a lot of each other). It’s small, but there are a lot of good people there. I’m glad to get plugged back into a body of believers. I’ve also found a more few guys (some at church, and some in our apartment building who teach at our sister school) to hang out with, which will be nice, because outings involving shopping with the almost completely female group from my apartment building are really starting to get old.
Eid al-Fitr is the three day holiday at the end of Ramadan. As it currently stands, that will equate to a four-day weekend for the public sector (including schools) from October 1-4. There are rumors going around, however, that Eid will get called early, perhaps on the 29th or 30th of September (it all depends on when the guy in Saudi Arabia looks at the moon and says it’s over, but Eid coming early is supposedly a fairly regular occurance). If this happens, the Ministry of Education will probably shut down schools for the whole week (which is what happened last year, and what I believe schools in neighboring Abu Dhabi are already planning on doing). Air Arabia, a UAE airline based out of Sharjah (the emirate to our north, and really only a few kilometers from where I live in Dubai), is offering some sweet airline/hotel deals during September and October, so several of my colleagues and I plan to take advantage of this opportunity to travel a little. If Eid ends up being just the four days, like it currently is, I’m probably going to spend three days/two nights in Katmandu, Nepal. If Eid gets extended, I’ll be spending five days/four nights in Istanbul, Turkey. Exciting stuff, eh? Regardless, I’ll be going to both of them in the coming years, but I’m excited to start doing some more world exploring. And speaking of world exploring, this weekend I’m heading to Oman for a visa run (a trip across the border and back to renew my UAE visitor’s visa) with a bunch of my colleagues whose visitor’s visas are about to run out (and who have yet to receive their resident visas). I’ll probably be in Oman for less than an hour, and I certainly won’t get far into the country (this time), but I’ll be able to check another country off my list (with a star next to it to give it a more thorough return visit). Look out world, here I come!
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