Biman Air

My flight to Dhaka was scheduled to depart at 4:45 p.m. on Sunday, August 7th. I arrived at the airport at 3:00 - fashionably late as always - where I learned that the flight was delayed, until 9:00 o'clock that evening. This information was relayed to me by a large Arab looking man in a turban who asked me incredulously, "YOU'RE going to Dhaka???" So I spent the next six hours reading my book and waiting for the plane that would take me out of the part of the world I'd come to be familiar with and feel somewhat at home in, to a part of the world I knew very little about.

At 8:00, I changed from pants and a tank top into my Bangladesh outfit of an ankle length skirt and t-shirt (the most conservative thing in my sad, road worn, wardrobe) and headed to gate number 21. As I walked through the x-ray machine and into the departure area, I realized that I was the only white, western woman (and person for that matter) at the gate. I walked over to a set of chairs and sat down. A few moments later, two men - Bangladeshi, I presumed - sat in the seats next to me and asked me where I was from. After a brief introductory conversation where they asked why I was flying to Dhaka, where I had been in Thailand, what I did for a living; and answered my questions in return, we settled into an easy flow of conversation about the state of the world (how difficult it was for them, as Muslims, to travel, which they did a lot for business, after the terrorist attacks in New York), the socio-economic and political state of Bangladesh, and the beaurocracy of flying Bitman Airlines. By the time they called our flight, we were trading jokes and businesscards (the latter from them, my lack of employment a hindrance to my possession of a business card) and talking about meeting for lunch or dinner later that week (with Erica and Mark, of course).

As I boarded the plane, it occured to me for the first time that what I was doing was pretty brave (or pretty stupid, depending on your perspective). Granted I was going to visit friends who work for the US Government and would be able to call on all the powers that be if necessary, even if just armed with the fact that I, myself, am an American Citizen; but here I was, on an airplane full of people from a country I knew nothing about, going to this country I knew nothing about, just happily strapping in in expectation of whatever was to come.

Because I was in the 10th row of a relatively large plane, in an isle seat, I had a front row seat to the row of traffic filing past me to fill in the seats in the rear of the plane. Not including me, I counted five other non-Asians - two backpacker types, a young business woman, and another woman and her small daughter. The rest of the passengers appeared to be from Bangladesh (or India, or Paistan or some other country in the area) but were quite a varied lot themselves. There were large imposing looking men with long straggley beards and bulky turbans, middle aged men in suits, young men in western dress, woman in traditional dress, brighly colored and beautiful. Next to me, sat a young girl, about twelve; in front, a well-dressed man in a flashy purple suit with a sheen that reflected the light; to my right across the aisle, an older man with a closely trimmed grey beard seated with a woman about 10 years his junior in traditional dress (loose flowing pants, a loose top and a long flowing shawl draped around her shoulders).

I settled in and began reading my book. After about 5 mintues, I noticed my young neighbor looking at me intently. I turned and smiled, a gesture that she returned, and went back to my book, but she continued to stare. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, I turned and asked her if she was from Dhaka, to which she responded affirmatively, asking me if it was my first time in Dhaka, to which I responded affirmatively. Seemingly satisfied, she turned back to her mother seated to her left and relayed the information. After a time, she turned to me again and asked, "What is your favorite color?" followed by "What is your hobby?" "What is your favorite food?" "Are you finished with your schooling?" "Have you seen the film Titanic?" I countered with questions with my own and I soon learned that Jihah (I name I thought sounded unfortunately like Jihad) was 12 years old, the third of four children, the youngest of which, at two, was currently being passed around between the rows as happy as could be) and was just returning from five days in Thailand where her father was recieving "treatment." Her father was from Calcutta, she liked Indian food, if she could be any animal she would be a bird, she liked school well enough and her hobby was sleeping.

Just then, the man in the suit in front of me, who had been reading to me from the Bangladeshi newspaper, turned around and asked if he could see my book. At first I was confused, but having no reason to refuse his request, I passed it forward and watched as it was passed around the isle. Luckily I wasn't reading anything controversial at the time. I asked Jihah if she knew the man in the seat in front of me, who had been spending a fair amount of time entertaining her tiny brother, whom her mother had willingly handed over the seats, and she told me that no, she did not know him and why, was he disturbing me?

As the attendants started my way with the drink cart, I mentally chose my drink - a 7 up to settle my stomach - and thought that I would ask the attendant if she knew our estimated time of arrival. A female flight attendant was serving drinks from the back side of the cart, while a male flight attendant served drinks out of the front. Each few rows, as they do on every flight I've ever been on, they would move the cart so that each would have approximately three new rows to serve. Since the family on my left had all recieved their drinks when the cart was on the aisle on the other side of the plane, I was the only passenger left to be served in my isle. I waited expectantly as the cart was shifted by me, and then patiently as the man started serving drinks to the people five rows behind me, and then questioningly as the men in the rows behind me, first one, then two, were served, leaving me drinkless and still wondering what time we would arrive. Wondering if I had just been missed or if I had been intentionally slighted, I pressed the attendant button, illuminating the red plastic geometric form of a flight attendant above my head. Half an hour later, the button was still alight, a glowing reminder of their slight.


As I sat, still thirsty and wondering about the estimated time of arrival, the pilot, or so I assumed, came over the intercom and explained that we were flying over Myanmar at ___ knots and an altitude of ____. He apologized for the earlier turbulance and the late start. He explained that we would be arriving in Dhaka ata 10:39 local time, which was an hour earlier than Bangkok time, about an hour and a half from that moment. He then went on to say, "We should be, ah... experiencing.... ah, um, turbulance... for, well... pretty much the whole flight into Dhaka;" which luckily for my stomach (and my fellow passengers) was a false prediction.

Finally left to my own devices, I returned to my book, only interrupted by the arrival of a delicious meal of chicken curry, afterwhich I finally turned off my attendant light. When the attendants came around with arrival cards, I put my book in my bag (with the help of the man across the aisle from me, who zipped the zipper while I crammed in the book) and filled out my form, sharing each line item with Jihah watching over my forearm. The only indication that Bangladesh might be any different than anywhere else I've been, the line asking for my husband/father's name, which I gave, after a slight hesitation (which did not go unnoticed by Jihah, who asked, "You do not know your father's name?")

After our mutual achievement of fitting my book back into my overstuffed bag, the man across the isle began asking me where I was going, where I had been and what I did for a living. He had just returned from Thailand where his mother had gone for an operation. Apparently Thailand's health tourism industry is thriving. Unfortunately, from this man's story, it may not be justifiably so. He talked of extra charges, poor service and non-Englsih speaking staff, all things that were said to be included in the "package." He was not at all happy with the service, but happy that at least his mother was doing well. He was looking forward to getting her home where they would not be charged for the pen with which the doctor wrote our their bill.

As the plane coasted in for a landing, I was still having this conversation with the gentleman to my right, which became increasingly more difficult as the aisle between us begain to fill up with people anxious to get off the plane. At one point, a shoulder bag came close to knocking off my head and the men in the seats around me started yelling that the man with the bag, saying how he shouldn't even be standing up because the plane was still moving and asking how much sooner was he really going to get off the plane than anyone else. The yelling escalated until there were men holding another man back to keep them from coming to blows.

The plane finally stopped and we all filed off. My new friends, Razo and Sazo from the departure gate, walked with me and we chatted at the baggage claim, until my bag arrived and I walked through the doors of the baggage claim to reunite with Mark and Erica, happy to be among friends again and looking forward to experiencing more of the small glimpse of Bangladesh that I enjoyed on the plane.