Dhaka and Shanghai

I spent the past 2 weeks at our offices in Dhaka and Shanghai.  Here are some assorted shots.

The Bangla school bus.

Shanghai feets.

Time Out says it's the best uni in Shanghai (at Sasano).

Plant signage at the office in Shanghai.

Grannies dancing near the Jing'An Temple.

"We have no amateur tea and coffee.  that's why tea and coffee loves come here."  Perfect.

The most wonderful $6 lunch the world over:  Crossing the Bridge noodles from Yunnan province.

Bangladesh, Last Time

Here I am, scheduled to go back to Bangladesh in less than a month and I haven't even posted the pics from my last trip.  Two trips in just over 2 months?  Guess I'm pretty much a regular there these days.

I was sort of dreading this trip, not for any particular reason.  As I've gotten older, I find myself worrying more about travel risks (mostly about plane crashes, I'll be straight) and this can kinda bum me out before I leave.  It's not as bad as packing for one's own funeral, but the thought of my own death always seems to cross my mind before I go on a long business trip.  And that sucks.  And with Bangla, there's always the worry about getting sick, too.  Or maybe it's just that I miss this kitty-girl when I'm gone.  Because I totally do.

Look at her guarding my luggage!

Well, no thanks to my crazy anxious pre-travel brain, the trip was SUPER-DUPER!  As in, I was even imagining myself living in Bangladesh--that's how great of a trip it was!  I know!  WHAT?!?  

Why was the trip so good?  For starters, I didn't get sick--not even a squirty tummy.  Nothing!  And this was true even with my sampling some of the local food prepared at a couple of suppliers.  So I got to enjoy delicious biryani and samosa without any "Bangla Belly!"  I felt like I was grateful for every moment I was feeling good, every moment I wasn't on a toilet (or worse, in a hospital).  I knew that at any time, something could be ill-digested or bacterial and there would go everything.  I wanted to sing, "I feel great! I love every moment of life!"  But I kept it pretty chill.  

I got to spend some quality time with my colleagues there, and that was great, too.  It's fascinating to see how they have transitioned their lives from Stockholm to Dhaka--and they all love it there now.  It's wonderful.  They are definitely the right people for the job(s). 

So I had great work meetings, ate well, relaxed, and had no travel snafus.  Do you hear that, BRAIN?  Can you keep it chill before the next trip then?

A plateful of wax apples offered by a supplier. 

I can't get enough of the beautifully adorned rickshaws.  Or the traffic.  

Oh, the TRAFFIC.

How can I explain it?  There is no order.  If someone could convince the drivers that if they took turns, things would indeed move more quickly.  But instead, it's like a stare-off wherein all of the cars inch-inch-inch at each other--no one willing to let another go--until one car makes his way out in front, at which point all of the cars behind him get to go until the other cars nip them off.  So it's basically something like sitting and waiting for at least 30 minutes... and then driving frantically for maybe 1 or 2 mintues.  Then sitting and waiting for another ridiculous amount of time.  Then driving for not enough time to really get anywhere.  

Meanwhile, you see the same cars/rickshaws/buses for hours on end, as you're basically stuck in the same pack.  The culture is set up around this traffic--people weave through the traffic on foot, selling beverages and snacks.  Gotta pee and you're a guy?  Just leave your car there and hit the side of the road.  Ain't no thing!  (Besides, they're all doing it in India!)  

It can take hours to go a few km.  The mind boggles.  I'm actually surprised there aren't bands of marauders, robbing those stuck in traffic and running off on foot.  But I'm glad there aren't.  My anxious brain did try to wedge some terrible "What If" thoughts into my tired traffic brain, but I shut it up by telling it that if my appendix DID burst while I was stuck in Dhaka traffic then that must be how I was meant to die.  Because die I surely would.  Ain't no airlift in Bangladesh and ain't nobody getting through that traffic--burst appendix or heart attack, neither.  No way, no how, nuh-ugh.

*gulp*

This is the Dhaka city view from my fancy hotel room in the Westin.  Note that if you're in need of a space, there's an office "TO-LET" in the back center-left.  

Also, every time I see a "TO-LET" sign around town, I see it as "TOILET."  Though there's probably no guarantee that something "to-let" would actually have a "toi-let."

Insta-goodness.

Love the hand-painted 7-Up sign.

Which way to go?

Trashy.

I love both of these checkered buildings so much.

Traffic survivors.

I love the chickens in the net basket at left.  I mean, I guess I really DON'T, but that's why I took this shot anyway.

Nice ride, pal.

I picture the guy in the sunny G's in the poster as the Jay-Z of Bangla.  But he's probably just campaigning for office or something.  Also, note the umbrella covering the pile of jackfruit underneath!  Jackfruit gotta stay cool, yo!

Navigating it.

I actually spent my 38th birthday in Bangla (out at a fun party at a place called Bellagio).  When I got back to my hotel room, these "imported roses" from B had turned up.  Nice, huh?

Bangla Bonanza

I have really been getting around lately.  Lest you think all of this travel to be glamorous, I point you to Exhibit A:  Bangladesh. 

I've been to India (a buncha times), so I was fairly prepared for Bangladesh.  Well, as prepared as anyone can be to drop in on a still-developing country.  (Roads?  These are proving a challenge.)  Having been terribly sick on previous work trips (starts with a C-H, rhymes with "vagina") and knowing people who have been hospitalized for stomach troubles while in Dhaka, I decided I was not going to take any chances with the local cuisine.  Lame, I know.  (But really, do you even know of a Bangladeshi restaurant in your city?  In your country?)  Multiple people described Bangladeshi food to me as similar to Indian, but... "oilier."  Hmm.  It's like it helps itself right out of your system!

When at a lunchtime crossroads of pizza (full of gluten!) and chicken curry (full of risky microbes!), I opted for the pizza.  I was totally that prissy girl who eats "western" food instead of the local delicacies, when in fact I am a pretty adventurous eater.  (I should have a t-shirt made that states, "Do you have any fish eyeballs, because this gal's hungry?!")  But I didn't have any major stomach issues, so whatever.  I basically survived on a diet of nut bars and food from the Nordic Club.

Oh right, the Nordic Club.  Dhaka is dry.  As far as I understand, you can't order anything alcoholic from a restaurant.  The hotels will serve booze, but what to do if you are an expat who likes to get her drink on?  Join a club!  There is the Nordic Club, the American Club, the British Club, etc.  For the cost of a membership, which is pretty reasonable, you have the privilege to exchange your cash-money for coupons that you can then turn in for alcoholic beverages.  Yeah, the system is roundabout and antiquated (it also involves a ledger), but there is booze at the end so if it ain't broke...  These clubs also have imported ice cubes (the kind that won't give you the squirts), swimming pools and pool tables, Western food, tennis courts, and a built-in social scene.

Our journey started with a layover in Istanbul that grew from 4 to 10 hours.  We managed to station ourselves at the HSBC lounge for free drinks (didn't need that, was still hungover from the night before) and food.  We spent the layover haranguing various mustachioed Turkish Airlines employees who kept giving us the slip, endlessly replaced by another mustachioed colleague... until we got tired and holed up in the lounge.  The heavens celebrated our boarding with a lightning storm for the ages, but now that Turkish Airlines was finally loading the plane, they didn't seem to notice.  I, however, was trying to keep it together in front of my new colleagues when I really just wanted to cry.  You know who should have been struck by lightening, however?  Every one of the Turkish Airline flight attendants who were awful to the Bangladeshi travelers.  Honestly.  Y'all was totally racist on that plane.  Not cool.

We landed in Dhaka to this, the land of left luggage.

This one looked like someone was ready to take it home, but alas.  It too had been left.  The package on the bottom sort of looks like a butterball turkey.  Strange wrapping jobs, these.

Yet another shot of the airport.  This looks like some weird church basement, but it's really the lost luggage area at the Dhaka airport.  I was especially fascinated by the stroller graveyard at top center, but you can't see it so well here.

This lapped fruit is pomelo, served with cayenne salt.  It was deelish.

This is the lovely view from my coworker's apartment, where I enjoyed the pomelo.

This was the view from my borrowed desk at our office there.  Not quite as lovely.

Bottled water from the hotel.  As you can see, it's "Free from Arsenic."  Wow, that's something I've been taking for granted all this time.  Poor Bangladesh has had a real problem with arsenic in the water;  it's nothing less than a slow and painful mass poisoning.  I was jokin' it up when I took this picture, but now I feel a little bit yikes about it.

I was lucky enough to be in Dhaka at the same time as my lovely friend Taylor, who brought me this mag from her flight.  Note the warning label.

This might be one of my favorite photos ever.  I took this on the way back from visiting a supplier.  There were dozens of other pigs just like this guy, all rooting through the trash on the riverbank.

Here's a dark shot of me and the aforementioned Taylor.  I was lucky enough to take my first trip to Bangla with a dear friend and an ol' Bangla pro like T.  It's not the worst place in the world to go if it means you get to see one of your favorite ladies.

And this is Taylor's friend G, the mosquito hunter extraordinaire.  I was treated to some delicious sushi (I know, in Dhaka... but it really was super duper!) and there was nary a mosquito to speak of!  Mosquitos don't step to this guy!

Taka rocka.  Is this the same guy or what?!