Pregnancy, Hungarians and Lungis

You want stories? Well, I shall not fail you. Not so soon.

I'm staying in a nice neighborhood, and since this is the subcontinent, we are lucky enough to have someone who comes 3 days a week to clean and do laundry. This is good, since I'm not sure that any clothes I handwash would actually get clean. Well, Irene immediately took to me. Luckily, she speaks some hindi, so we can communicate. She's my age, but has a 12 year old and a 3 year old. She's a petite woman (well, in the US we'd call it petite. Here it is normal, and a sign of childhood malnutrition leading to stunting. But, those are technicalities.)

Irene has told me all about her life, so I learned that her handsome husband (her words, not mine) is a tailor. One of my outfits was not fitting well, so I asked her if he could let it out. We had a strange conversation about how her figure is not the same since her children. But, based upon some previous conversations, I said - but that's ok. You have a baby. And she said - you mean the 3 year old?. And I said, um, no...how many months until you will have your baby? And she said - You think that there is a baby in my stomach?

Uh. Um. yes? isn't there?

Oh no. I can't get my figure back since my children.

THE WOMAN LOOKS 6 MONTHS PREGNANT.

I've learned long ago not to ask heavier women if they are expecting. But never thought that someone who looks thin, is young, and has a large pot belly would be an issue. :)

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Generally, we lose power once a day. There is a generator, but only certain plugs or lights work when the generator comes on. None of these are in my room. At least it is one less sense that can be overloaded, since there is constant honking and strange smells at all hours.

It's a conservative place. Friday is the day off, and the streets are quiet! This week, Thursday is also a national holiday - Language Martyr Day. Any time I leave the apartment, I need to wear a Salwar Kameez (Shalwar in local lingo). The only time I didn't was when my sole destination was the American club to get a drink. I can't wear the top with jeans. I can't wear it without a dupata (orna, in local lingo). In fact, you can't even wear the dupata any way except over both shoulders, covering your chest.

Because, clearly, we cannot tempt men. They must, at most, see only the arms of a woman. And not even her shoulders (no sleeveless Shalwars either). And, any hint of having breasts must be hidden, so it looks like a mono-boob. But, do they have to follow the same standard? Are they in kurtas, or bedsheets like in the middle east or afghanistan? No. They get to run around town in a lungi. That, is, essentially a wrap around skirt, which can be short or long, depending on your mood, and can be pulled between the legs for greater mobility and a thong like effect which is highly unnecessary. I'll do my best to provide photos. Double standards irk me.

Well...I take that back. Let me tell you about the underground market for products important to the 'bideshi' (foreigner). In this Muslim country, those products include alcohol and bacon. Since it is still a poor country with a limited diet, it also includes cheese, bread, and spaghetti sauce.

For the booze, the options are to become a member of one of the clubs. The American Club, the British Club, etc. Or, have friends who are members, and go as a guest. In order to become a member, you can't just show a passport and some dollars. You have to be sponsored by a "First Tier" member...someone who is directly employed by the US Govt. I haven't made any "First Tier" contacts yet.

But, you don't always want to drink in a club. You want a beer or glass of wine at home. If you forgot to pack it in your suitcase, or have run out and don't have a trip to India or Thailand scheduled soon, options are limited. Until recently, there was the 'blue gate'. Someone in the know must take you to the blue gate. You knock, and are let in, where you wander back towards the building, past an unkempt yard. As you get up to the door, a Burmese woman asks you what you need, goes back into the apartment, and produces it for you. Word on the street is that the blue gate doesn't open anymore.

And as for the bacon (or sausage, ham, pork chops, pepperoni...) one must go to the German Butcher. This is another unmarked private residence, only open between 9:30 and 12, and 3-6. I went with Becky to the German Butcher yesterday. She wanted to get some good bread and some chicken.
I learned that The German Butcher is not German at all. He is an older Hungarian man, married to a Korean, who has lived in Bangladesh for the last 15 or so years. He makes his own sausage, grinds his own beef, and they bake fresh multigrain bread as well. So, I asked where he gets the pork for the sausage. Apparently, he raises boars or something. And, the chickens will come to you any way you want - defeathered for one thing; but even as boneless chicken breasts! What a luxury. And, he doesn't believe in bird flu. So, he still sells chicken. ;)

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Before coming, I had asked Becky what I should bring for them. She only had 2 requests. Cheese and Coffee.

The only coffee here is nescafe. So, her need for real coffee is understandable. Yesterday, we saw a 1 quart size tin of Maxwell House for $8. A new import. And as for cheese...it is slowly making its way into the grocery stores frequented by the 'bideshi'. Most Bangladeshi's don't go to a grocery store. Everything they need can be bought at street markets or small shops. But the cheese that does arrive here...well... I've learned that the American food companies and grocery stores really have stooped to a new low.

When they realize that they are overstocked and the expiry date is about to come, where do you think the food goes. Not the trash. No no. It goes overseas. The cheese that you can buy "fresh" from the store has expired in December. And it is exorbitant.

Eish!

I guess I'll just eat some rice.