A Downpour

Now I am beginning to understand the word monsoon. for me personally, this is largely what all of this traveling is about. Removing my encyclopedia/library images from my mind and replacing (juxtaposing?) them with real images.

I arrived in Bangladesh yesterday morning. Of course it felt like late evening since Dhaka (the capital city, where Save the Children has it's main office) is 14 time zones forward of my home state of Washington in the U.S. Interestingly, this jetlag is getting to be less of a problem. Perhaps I received the secret jetlag inoculation during one of my travel health appointments amidst the plethora of needle pricks.

Here I go again... On my last trip here I was "taken" by a man during my Immigration inspection. Since that time 15 months ago, I have thought of it often and related the story ot others to demonstrate how gullible I can be and how things work when we are unaware in developing countries. The story goes like this...

I had just walked off the plane after arriving in Dhaka at Zia International Airport. As I approached the array of immigration officers sitting in their booths to inspect our passports and visa's an older man approached me. He walked directly up to me, offered me his official looking credentials as he began to speak. He simply said to me, "Please come with me". Believe me, this is the last words that you want to hear as a foreigner upon entering a country. Bangladesh has had more than its share of internal strife and suspicions are often cast on Western visitors.



Like the time I serendipitously arrived in El Salvador on the eve of the national elections. El Salvador has had suspicion cast on it's voting practices and prior ot my departure, former U.S. president Jimmy Carter announced that his team of fraudulent election observers (were they "authentic" observers) would arrive in the country prior to my menial arrival. Sure enough, after I disembarked a military person had his automatic weapon pushed against my chest wanting to deny me entry. This was before i even made it to the immigration area. As I fingered mt Save the Children picture ID which has an text offering on it's backside pleading that I be given expeditious and safe conduct across international borders to provide humanitarian response. The soldier was not interested. Fortunately my host explained in rapid fire Spanish that I was okay.

Back to my "immigration" official. This serious-faced man then asked me to hand over my passport to him (a big no-no) and when I hesitated I found it hard to to comply as he reached toward it. He then conducted instructed me to follow him as he walked me over ot the VIP immigration desk. Oh, my orifices were aching already. As he approached the officer who was currently engaged with an immigration case, he turned towards me and directly me not ot approach the immigration officer. This was all in a very low, authoritative tone of voice. Well, after a few moments he returned with my passport stamped and ready ot go. Then he said, "Do you have something for me?" I had been conned. This statement becomes familiar overseas. This man had been credentialed to 'assist" travelers through the immigration process. Occasionally Save the Children will provide someone to do this for me, but I am notified ahead of time. As I fumbled for something, I argued inwardly the notion of, "I did not ask for you to provide this service", but I had gained about 10 minutes of line waiting time back into my life. So, all that I had available, I gave to him, a 2 English Pound coin. I normally do not keep cash on my person except for that carefully hidden away $100 for drunken border guards in remote areas. But i never pull out this stash of emergency money. Besides, I would probably be arrested for doing so in public.

Well, I had been ready for my "immigration" official. I had made sure I had some additional British coins at hand when I disembarked. This time, if i was approached, I was going to ignore his official stature and calmly ask, "For what services do you offer to me?" I would then negotiate on the spot so that we both knew what was going on. Ah, fragile ego that I have! Well, the best laid plans of mice and travels are often disappointed. He was no where to be seen. Perhaps he was pummeled by a suddenly enlightened traveler after learning his true quest. But, yes, is that him over there by a young disheveled traveler. Yes! Sure enough (what horrible grammar), there he was with his well-practiced approach. I was like in a time warp watching myself as this young man fumbled for his passport and the sweat on his forward exceeding the monsoon temperature and humidity. "Next!", I heard from the immigration official that I was awaiting. Time to move on...

I am so petty, just like the British comedian, Mr Bean who takes childish offense so quickly and plots his revenge.

I love Bangladesh. In part, because it is the first exotic locale I visited. The first time was part of a round the world trip (my 1st) in October 2005 soon after I started doing this. The excitement has not worn off, rather it has increased i would say. I returned in March 2006, so I have made many friends.

Oh, and for some inexplicable reason I was upgraded to business class on my Boeing 777 flight from London Heathrow. More on that later!

Back to the Monsoon. I found out during my first visit to El Salvador in 2003, that our northerly (and southerly) notions of season do not exist. That in the tropics (betwixt the latitude delineations of the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn) there is a rainy season and a dry season. The former in Bangladesh is produced by Monsoons. It is pouring rain and thundering this morning as I enjoy my small pot of coffee and toast. The movie "Elephant Walk" comes to mind, and "Rains of Ranchipur", the former which I read the book. Here I am.