What if no one's watching?

Humans are social creatures. This is not some epiphany I woke up to this morning over my (non existent) cornflakes. Really smart people with degrees n stuff have asserted this theory many times over - too many for me to list them here. And while that's all very good and well, frankly I'm far more interested in what happens to humans when they can't be social. Luckily I'm conducting my own human experiment into the phenomenon through living alone in a city where I know no one in a country where being alone is as foreign a concept as toilets that flush. To both myself and my colleagues, my daily activities are being studied like that of a lab rat in a see-through cage.

Here's a snapshot of things I am learning:
* I like that no one knows I ate Ovaltinies for breakfast, in my undies, listening to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
* Flying solo means there are no support troops to assist in my ongoing War Against Roaches
* There is no one else to blame when I run out of toilet paper, or juice, or gin

And here's a snapshot of things I am learning specifically about myself:
* I have depressing and repetitive taste in music when left to my own devices
* In fact, a lot of what I do when left to my own devices is repetitive: I cook the same meals (as in pasta six nights in a row this week, with the same six ingredients), listen to the same music (Bon Iver repeated 17 times so far), and stalk the same five people on facebook even though I have another 102 'friends' to stalk
* I actually love being alone for about three consecutive days, but know when I start conversations with my fridge, the fan (particularly when the power is out), my thongs (my brown Havianas, not my black ones), or my favourite packet of incense (jasmine, from Nepal) - that I've reached my Healthy Limits of Aloneness.
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Having reached such a limit this week, I unusually accepted a colleague's (let's call her Sarah for ease of storytelling) offer to spend the evening with her. Unusual because usually the last thing I want to do is hang out with work people all night when I've been hanging out with them all day - and I've never been a fan of talking about work 24 hours a day. So normally I'm quite happy to leave work talk largely to work time, and spend the rest of my free time debating with people not from work whether PJ Harvey's new album is ace (it is), whether Government-Government aid creates more problems than it solves (still chomping through this one, the arguments are a mouthful), or pondering whether I should blow a week's food budget on one expensive but unbelievably enjoyable tofu bento box when next in Dhaka (of course).

Okay, so now I should clarify that my colleagues are not privy to the actual day to day minutiae of my 'alone' life (unlike you, you lucky devils) - rather their curiosity and interest stems to taking alternate responsibility for inviting me to lunch, inquiring as to my weekend plans, asking if I cook my own meals etc etc. Basically as a culture where extended families live on top of each other, their concern at my solo-living is both genuine and endearing, and in a bid to make me feel less alone they ask every day how my parents are, how my brother and sister are, and whether I have considered their offer to find me a good Bangladeshi boy to marry (since that clock is ticking, you know). While it can be annoying, on the whole it's pretty flattering that they care. I'm not sure if the situation was reversed I'd be as thoughtful and attentive to a new colleague back home.

After spending two hours at Sara's place, meeting her family, talking through power and gender issues she's having at work, and generally having a really great chit-chat, I confess to being relieved when my rickshaw departed that I was being delivered to the doorstep of my deserted apartment. There are seven people living in three rooms (including the kitchen) in Sarah's place. Their front door is never closed. Personal space is an impossibility. Sarah has absolutely no idea what it's like to eat Ovaltinies in her undies for breakfast while listening to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. More to the point, Sarah probably doesn't ever want to know what this is like.

Lucky for me I'm not Sarah, and lucky for Sarah she's not me.