Leaving Bangladesh is an adventure all of its own.
Outside the airport is chaos. Visitors must bay an entry fee
to the airport if they want to wave off their loved ones, so most stand in
front of the entrances having emotional farewells and blocking the doors.
Usually this isn’t a problem for me because I’m ushered through the first class
door by some helpful security guard despite having bought the cheapest of cheap
Air Asia tickets.
As soon as you enter the door you queue again to put all
bags through a scanner, which constantly breaks down and the officers are
usually asleep.
Once you find your airline check-in there is another series
of queues. Usually I manage to skip these again by being moved to the first
class queue or once they opened a booth especially for me and closed it after I
had finished.
Last time I was forced to queue with the others and luckily
I discovered the queues are not as long as they look, it’s just that
Bangladeshis are trolley mad. Every person has to have a trolley, because
chances are if you’re rich enough to travel, you’ve never had to carry anything
in your life, someone else has always done it for you. Even those just
travelling with hand luggage take a trolley.
After check-in, they leave the trolleys scattered around the
desks, so reaching your airline assistant, is a bit of an obstacle course.
Once you have checked in, there isn’t an awful lot to do. There
are some uncomfortable red plastic chairs that probably came from another
airport when they decided to renovate 20 years ago. There is a dimly lit hall
with some very suspect food places and a couple of duty free shops (one of the
few places in Dhaka you can purchase alcohol).
I’ve recently discovered a restaurant that serves safe (I
hope) food and offers a vague sanctuary before the flight, apart from the
waiting staff attempting to engage in conversation.
The flight itself is interesting and unlike any other flight
I’ve ever caught. When I fly back to Bangladesh, I feel like I’m already in the
country as soon as I board the plane. The men stare at you as if you’re naked,
the children as if you’re a ghost and the women as if you’re Angelina Jolie
there to steal their babies.
Despite buses and trains having the same seating order,
people spend far too long walking up and down the aisles trying to find their
seats and inevitably most will sit in the wrong one until the flight attendants
ask them to move, which they will reluctantly do. Most are business men or
travel in families with one bossy son in his 20s who will tell everyone where
to sit (usually wrong) and even what to eat.
Almost every second man will have a mobile phone out calling
or texting. When the flight attendant tells them to turn it off, they slide it
into their shirt pocket and pull it out again the minute she walks away.
I like to sit and read trying to block out the sound of
attendant needed bells ringing for nonsense reasons, but me pulling my book
right up to my face apparently isn’t a clear enough indication I want to be
left alone. The man sitting next to me will always move closer and closer to me
then start asking what my country is, have I got a husband and what are my
views on Ricky Ponting.
After four hours the flight lands and the flight attendants
look as if they’ve aged about 4 years and I am left wondering if they benefits
of my holiday have already evaporated.
