Regarding Air and Asian Airports

Written on 9/7/06

When I am on a long trip, I tend to really live for that moment when you finally step out of the car or plane and take your first breath of the atmosphere in this new place. It's usually much more dramatic when traveling by air, since the pressurized cabin keeps one completely oblivious to changes in temperature and humidity. But you can tell a lot about a place based on what that initial breath tastes like.

My first breath of Bangladesh was not disappointing. The humidity hit me like warm, wet towel straight to the face. The air is so full of moisture that my clothes felt damp after but a moment. It's that hot, thick heaviness that one can only associate with saunas and countries that have just been through the monsoon.

The air brought with it not only the heat and humidity, but the medley of smells that can only be created by a metropolis in the developing world. It's a blend of car fumes, food cooking, garbage rotting, buildings going up or coming down, domestic animals, and the sweat and blood of a seething mass of humanity. You would have to smell it to really appreciate it, but once it hits your nose you never forget it.

When I finished sniffing the air, Rachel and I proceeded through the airport without much incident. There was a long line at immigration, and we spent the time getting to know one of the guys who was in line with us. He is from Dhaka, and has been in Toronto for four years getting is undergrad degree. This is his first visit home in all that time. He was giving us some tips about getting around the country, where to visit, etc. and he became the third person thus far to tell us that Bangladesh happens to have the longest beach in the world, and we really should visit it. It seems that this beach is really a point of national pride.

Anyway, after immigrating (successfully, so far...) and finding our bags, we were ready to walk through those big doors that would welcome us into the actual country. This is where the developing world developed into something beyond an abstract idea. Outside the airport door, there is a pavilioned pick-up area surrounded by an iron fence. Inside the fence was the expected zoo of coolies and drivers trying to be of assistance, as well as soldiers with large guns. Outside the fence, though, all I remember is massive wall of people. Men, women, old, young, all packed like sardines, most likely meeting people or looking for some sort of work. It seemed like there were thousands of them crammed around that fence, watching through the bars. Many looked to be quite poor.

We in the west often talk about the exploding populations in Asian countries, and the numbers seem to make some kind of sense to our imagination. The reality of a population 25% of America's packed into a country probably not a lot bigger than Michigan in size is much more intense than a book (or a blog, I suppose) can communicate.

Anyway, we found the driver who was assigned to pick us up, and after getting into the car we found that despite his remarkable ability to safely bear us through heavy traffic at high speed, his English left something to be desired. We could not figure out where he was taking us (our instructions had been to meet a driver at the airport, nothing more). A little later, we realized that the driver wasn't exactly sure where he was taking us either. He had to stop and ask directions three times! We were not comforted.

Yet soon enough we ended up at a pleasant and air-conditioned apartment that seems to be a BRAC guest house. We are being seen to by lady named Shatira who cooks delicious food and is teaching us various random phrases in Bangla. She is not a scholar of English either.

So here we are, at an apartment in Dhaka, waiting for whatever is next. We do not know where we are supposed to go or what we are supposed to do next, but we have good food, beds, and air-conditioning. It could definitely be worse.