I enjoy reading other peoples but have often wondered if it's a little self-indulgent to do one myself. It does rest on the assumption that people actually want to read what I have to say. Although this is already proving to be the most exciting period of my life, in terms of experiencing new and different things on a daily basis. And I have just had my birthday, which is almost a New Year's resolution kind of time. Every year, I vow to maintain a journal and every year I fail dismally. I love the act of searching out the perfect book in which to write my deepest darkest thoughts. Should it be one that is made with beautiful paper? Leather-bound? A 10 cent exercise book from the supermarket? Spiral-bound so I can rip out pages? Or properly bound so I can't hide from my thoughts later? Do I concentrate on writing short but sweet entries every day? Or go for a more substantial entry less often? It doesn't seem to matter what book I decide to keep my journal in or the format in which I choose to write, by about January 18 all has fallen by the wayside. I suspect this blog will be much the same. Hmmm...
It is now 11 weeks, 4 days since I arrived in Bangladesh. 8 weeks, 1 day since arriving in Sitakunda (pronounced "Shit-akunda"). Well and truly reaching that time where I am wondering what the fuck I am doing with myself and why I am even here.
I walked out of my office (which is also my house) this morning to go to the corner shop to buy some water. The crazy lady who lives in the herbal medicine factory across the lane is sitting on the steps. A sari slung toga-like over her shoulder, no blouse underneath. She has breasts that every girl has nightmares about having when she grows old. They aren't terribly big, just incredibly droopy. Kind of how pockets look on a pair of tracksuit pants you've turned inside out to wash. I don't even bat an eyelid. This sort of spectacle is now part of my daily routine. The irony of the situation strikes me. People don't even look twice at her exposed breasts, knowing she is crazy. If, however, I walk down the street forgetting to put on my orna (a scarf-like garment intended to cover the breasts and thus maintain a girl's modesty) the resultant stares could only be worse if I had forgotten to put on any clothes at all.
T1 at work (the one who always calls me "Sir", which is such a sweet and rare display of respect that I don't have the heart to tell him this salutation is reserved for men) tells me I have "excellent polish" on my toes. I get compliments on the most unexpected of things here. I think back to one of my first days at work, when someone described my drink bottle as "shundor" - the Bangla word for "beautiful".
No comments about either (a) my hair, (b) my sweat rash or (c) my pimples today - it is a good day.
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