Something like hate

"Cedar Rapids Recreation Commission."

I saw this on a T-shirt worn by a young Middle-Eastern boy today at the hospital. As in, Cedar Rapids, Iowa. His father was standing nearby, and possibly an uncle or something. The uncle had a turban and long robes on. Neato.

***

I think I might hate Bangladesh a little.

I am genuinely worried about this.

So. I've been in Bangkok for about a week and a half. And it's been very good: health improved, vacation (of sorts) taken. But reflecting on the things that a country like Thailand has going for it that B'desh does not . . this is an activity that darkens me. I have something like dread that wells up when I think about returning. I've suddenly realized that so many of the things I love about life on planet earth are not present in Bangladesh, at least not in ways that I can see them.

Their musical heritage seems limited at best and your average person has less musical education than I did at age 10. The result is that no one in my class can keep a beat when I try to do "musical" exercises, and what passes for music has been sounding to me like a dying seal as of late. The only art that can be seen outside of exclusive art schools is rather simple Rickshaw art which usually amounts to a pretty picture of a bird or a Bangladeshi film star and, style aside, looks like something a typical high schooler might paint for his mom for Mother's Day. The food is all the same--good, but all the same. After awhile one yearns for some hummus or a hamburger or anything different. In general, there are so few deviations from the status quo. And of course, as we've seen of late, they're not exactly in step with our ideas on free speech, ala cartoon riots. The list goes on; I'm going to stop now, but . .

I came with deep-set intentions of never ever foreclosing on any person or culture. Before I came, one current PCV warned me that "this culture sucks." Of course I scoffed and snorted at his ignorance and ethnocentrism. But lately my search for redeeming qualities in this oppressed culture has come up . . empty.

There are phases of culture shock, and they continue through at very least the first year in a new culture. I'm told that right around the one-year mark or perhaps just a bit earlier is when the feelings of negativity and hatred are at their worst.

I devoutly hope that I have reached this point early and can be done with it Soon.

Because I'm at the point where if I flip to a Bangladeshi TV station while waiting at the hotel, I skip over it really fast. It's like eating a food you like on the day you come down with the flu. For months you can't stand even the thought of that food.

If anyone's made it through this post, I hope it has sounded to you like the rantings of a petulant child. Then maybe I'll snap out of it soon.

***

Close Guantanamo Bay!

go go

Yes, they put a camera inside me, and yes they used the, uh, ventral entrance. Which just seemed a little over the top to me. Sort of like Tim Robbins' escape from prison in Shawshank Redemption--they had to take the long, narrow, secret passageway. At present I'm still waiting to find out what they saw in there.

Adjusted number of female nurses who have NOW seen my junk: 5 (and once the pictures get uploaded that number's going to explode). The only other thing I have to say about the cystoscopy/catheter is that it hurt when I came to--but not that bad--and for the surgery I was in a chair almost identical to a gynecologist's chair. I only know what one of those looks like because Matt D. and I had one in our apartment that we shared with Dusty A.

Traveler friend Matt K. was in town and we did this and that, including my first stop ever at a go-go bar. These things don't really excite me, in fact they kind of give me the willies, to be honest, but I was really curious and wanted to at least see what one looks like. So we stepped into one just to have a butcher's. Having been a McDonalds worker at the tender age of 15, I would like to draw the following parallel: A bad lead singer of a band holds onto the microphone stand much like a freshman holds onto his beer at his first frat party; much like a bored but tender McDonalds employee holds onto the cash register; much like those girls were holding onto their poles.

Anyway. 15 seconds and we were out. So it's not like I've really experienced Gomorrah, but at least now I know where to bring the parents when they visit.

Oh, and here's to Thailand for being the only South Asian country (according to Matt) where people don't use their car horns to communicate everything. Silence is golden.