Bangladesh

After ten days in Kathmandu, we repacked our bags and headed for yet another airport to fly to Bangladesh. I had some work to complete there for both my social justice work and also the book that I am currently working on. Arriving at the airport entrance and before we could enter, our luggage had to be screened at an x ray machine. The next step was check in, sending off our x-rayed luggage. All our hand luggage was tagged. The next stage...more x-rays. But thank God, there was a woman’s line as the man's stretched way back. The technician rifled through my bag, then waved me on. Just when we thought we were finished, we had to go to a long table and in front of some women guards, every single item in our carry on bags had to be taken out. With great curiosity, the women looked at our belongings and asked to what various things were for. One Nepali woman opened up the fold-able wooden frame of my mosquito net and tried to figure out how it would work. Mom's surgical tape was taken away from her. Remember the tags we had to put on in the beginning. They all got stamped.

Next, we were herded into a nondescript room. There were many gates but non the less, we were all herded towards the same gate, irregardless of the flight destination. We watched people straggling in late for their Delhi flight. We knew why, the horrendously long inspection line. Mom and I sat and wondered how we would know when our flight was boarding. There was no loud speaker. Suddenly hundreds of young men, possibly migrant workers, rushed for the boarding gate door. As we found out, it was our flight and so we joined the crowd. I've never seen so many people try to squeeze through a doorway. Unbelievable pushing and shoving. A frustrated airport worker yelled at the boys to get into line, but it continued to be pandemonium.

Eventually we made it through the door. Going up the airplane steps, the same boys pushed and shoved, instead of going two by two. I clung to my mother to make sure that she was not tripped. Finally we got to our seats and sat down with a huge sigh. Our flight was only an hour but the whole process took much longer. Mom decided to go to the bathroom only to discover that the doors on both toilets of this big Airbus 310 did not shut and were hanging on one hinge. She came back to her seat holding her pee. Meanwhile one of the young boys went in, and my mother imagined him standing there holding the door with one hand and his penis in the other. The migrant workers did not care that the door did not shut and were soon lining up to use the toilet. Mom and I wondered if they had ever been on a plane before. One of them bravely tried sitting down in first class but was shooed out. Perhaps he thought that it was like getting on a bus.

And hour later, we arrived in Bangladesh. It was incredibly hot. Thirty-three degrees at nine at night. Luckily, we were picked up at the airport by our air conditioned hotel taxi and headed into the city. The highway was ultra modern, with six lanes. But the traffic jam was unbelievable. Bumper to bumper. “It is always like this,” our young driver informed us.

Finally we arrived at our hotel exhausted. Mom and I yearned for a drink. Couldn't wait to have a black Russian. Would even settle for a gin and tonic without ice. At reception, Mom immediately asked the guy "Where is the bar?" She was given a grave look. "No bar here, Madame." "Okay, where is one?" I replied. "Not possible," they said. "Well, how about the restaurant, they must serve alcohol?" "Not possible Madame." We checked into our room. Mom nose dived for the mini bar. She opened it expecting little bottles of booze, but alas it was clean as a whistle. Ask me how much we wished we had brought something from Nepal.

We went downhill from here. In this hotel, it was all men, very patronizing, very uncomfortable. Being women of action, Mom and I decided immediately to change hotels the next morning. We read about another hotel in Lonely Planet in another section of town and after breakfast, off we went.

After much looking, we found the place. The man at reception immediately shoved us into a dingy room on second floor without so much as a "what would you like?" We queried, “Do you have a room available?” "We will get you a room after some time,” he replied. Meanwhile we looked around the dingy room where they had parked us. Can you imagine what this room looked like? Mold everywhere, all over the walls, the toilet didn't flush, oppressive. As if that was not bad enough, the reception guy kept coming up with the card in his hand for us to sign. "No, we will sign only when we get a room," we insisted, not wanting to commit. At one point, Mom went downstairs to check the progress of the room and reception said," Go back to your room.” Back in the room, Mom and I looked at each other and said “Let's get the hell out of here.” But we did not know where to go, so we bravely left our bags locked in the room, got a rickshaw and after some hunting, found a lovely safe hotel for only ten dollars more per night. Frantically, we rushed back for our bags. Back up to the room, past now three men at reception. We carried down our heavy backpacks and ran out the door. The men all followed us out to the rickshaw, demanding to know where we are going. But without a word, we fled the scene.

But that is not all. Later the same day, we went by cab, then rickshaw down to Old Dhaka to see the waterfront. Still no women in sight. It was horrendous. Every time we stopped there were crowds of men around us. Mom tried to take some photos by the water for her work. I kept a watchful eye on the men watching her. We were constantly yelled at, harassed and bullied. The second rickshaw ride turned out to be disaster as he wanted more money than was due. We went into a shop. He followed us in, (we are only women after all). The rickshaw walla told a man in there that he wanted more money from us. Mom was standing about five feet away from this man who looked her in the eye and said "You come here." Mom looked him in the eye and said "Why would I go there? If you want to talk to me, you come here." Meanwhile, I was observing the stand off. “Come on, Mom, let's get out of here.” We ducked into another shop, desperately trying to melt into the crowd. No luck. The rickshaw walla followed us in there too. Much to Mom's chagrin, I gave him the money to get rid of him. The absolute glee in that man's face astounded us. He had yet again pushed a woman around and a foreigner at that.

With the assistance of a kind old man, we were quickly walked to a taxi stand and got out of there. Back in our hotel, we immediately decided to leave this male dominated country. The contacts that I was supposed to meet with had fallen through and there was no reason to stay. Within ten hours we were on a flight to Goa. I'll never forget the feeling of animosity towards us, and the incredible feeling of being a non-being that I encountered there and how two seasoned world travelers were brought to their knees.