Never Again, Bangladesh Biman

I have been planning my trip to Bali since December, when I called Bangladesh Biman–the government-run public airlines– to ask the fare.  Over the next few months, I decided on my exact schedule: I would fly to Bangkok, then to Bali; back to Bangkok, and spend some time there before returning to Dhaka.  In March, Thomas and I braved the Biman office in Motijheel to buy my ticket to Bangkok; after a two hour adventure, I had a ticket for 31 May.

Yesterday, one week before my departure, I received a call:  ‘Sorry madam, we are cancelling our flights to and from Bangkok from June 1. You will have to find another airline.”  What, what?? I have one week to deal with this??

Today I went to the Banani Biman office to see what I could do.  No, sorry, they said, you have to go to the same office where you bought the ticket.  Ok, fine, so I travel down to Motijheel, and after going to three different counters, I finally reach a nice man willing to help me.  Thinking I didn’t understand Bangla, he called another office, and asked for the agent who had sold me the ticket and asked him if he remembered selling a ticket to a foreigner.  I was baffled as to why I need the EXACT agent to take care of the matter, and how he could possibly remember this one foreigner to whom he sold a ticket two months ago (on second thought, though, it’s very possible that he would remember, being as I might have been one of a handful).  The agent, for whatever reason, refused to come into the office at that time, and asked if I could come in tomorrow.   I complained that I have to go to office, and the agent (through the nice counter man) said I should just come after my trip to Bali to get my refund. What? You gotta be kidding me! You owe me this refund, it’s the fault of the airline, and you want me to wait on my money?

After asking the counter man again if there was any way HE could do anything, I realized I would have to come back the next day.  It’s still not clear to me why I need the man who sold me the ticket to give me the refund.  It’s one of those mysteries of customer services in Bangladesh.

Says too much about Bangladeshi 'identity'

Crossing Borders

The India-Bangladesh border

I chose to go to Calcutta by bus this time, because K had told me that it’s a nice experience and not at all difficult.  I’m not sure I agree on the ‘nice experience’ part, but it was certainly interesting.  I’ve never crossed a border before except on a plane.  I took the bus from Dhaka at night, reaching Benapole on the Bangladeshi side around 6 am.  We had to wait  in the bus guesthouse, because the border was not yet open.  Then the passports have to be stamped by immigration before you go with all your luggage to the customs lines.   I was whisked through the customs line, and then went to stand in line at the border itself.  You walk across the border, and an Indian BSF officer checks your passport again, after which you have to go through the Indian immigration offices.  Once you’ve finished all the paperwork, you must wait for your fellow bus passengers to finish before boarding another bus to go to Kolkata.

I suppose the trip there wasn’t so bad.. but the trip back felt like an eternity.  I think the next time I’ll just go by plane!

Being Sick on the way to Dhaka

On Thursday morning, I thought I felt well enough to start on my way to Dhaka.  Two hours before I was supposed to leave the orphanage, I threw up several times, and Shiraz advised me not to leave.  But I was determined, and so we (Shah Jahan and I) got on the rickshaw to go to the bus station in Char Fasson town.  Upon reaching the bus station, however, we realized that no bus would be going to the town we needed to go to (Dullarhat), and I hurriedly agreed to ride in the Tempo.

The tempo.  Someday I’ll post a picture of it.  But for now, imagine this: a small, small truck that looks a bit like the ones from the 1930s.  Over the bed of the truck is a rounded iron cover, and inside are two benches that face each other.  Fifteen to twenty people attempt to shove themselves inside on the benches, knee to knee.  Of course, I’m taller than most people in the rural areas, so it’s even more uncomfortable.  As I sat down, I immediately realized that I would have no where besides my lap to throw up if my stomach began to roll.  So, with every ounce of strength and will, I forced myself not to throw up as we bumped along another terrible road for 45 minutes.  Every minute or so the boy hanging off the back would hit the top of the truck–smack, smack, smack–to let the driver know if another vehicle was passing.

The most comfortable of all vehicles, the tempo

After we reached Dullarhat (which means, the market of grooms, oddly enough), we had to take a rickshaw several kilometers to the actual launch site, in Ghosirhat.  From there, we climbed aboard the ferry-boat and settled in for the 18 hour trip.  thankfully, I did not throw up again, but I don’t think this ‘bug’ is quite gone.