Ma'a Salama Dubai, Nomaashkaar Dhaka

I'm leaving the world of plenty to capture on tape one of the world's poorest countries.  I have a connecting flight in Bahrain. I am the only one with a paper ticket, so when I finally make that known, I am quickly ushered to the front of the un-line (as in, it's not a line), because my flight leaves in 20 minutes. Once I get to my gate, everyone there is asking me why in the world I would go to Bangladesh. I have never had to reassure myself of something so much. Why are they asking? Why would I not go to Bangladesh? Is there something wrong with Bangladesh? I don't get it... En route, I get stuck in Kolkata, or at least what feels like 'stuck' - I'm in a waiting lounge for seven hours, after going through many a maze to get there.  Officials tried to tell me I had to buy a $100 US visa to enter the country, because there's no direct passage for transfers. So, I must go into India, turn back around and enter the airport, and then get to my gate (which there is only one of).  My carry-on is then completely emptied. By this point, I'm a tight packer. I don't think they knew what they were getting themselves into. 

(Enter the Dhaka airport)

I made it! Now to tackle customs. I'm speaking a mix of English and Arabic, because they are Muslim, but really know very little English and very little of the Arabic I'm speaking. I'm about to purchase my American visa when... none of the ATMs work. There are three of them. None of them are online. I beg exchange bureaus to take my card in exchange for currency, but they can't do it. So, after an hour of groveling, I manage to let the workers know I'm going into the city to find an ATM, get cash, and come back and purchase my visa (which, by the way, is recorded in a huge leather book by hand, then tossed to a pile of previously filled books that could be mistaken for kindling). So, basically there was no record of me being in Bangladesh at this point. But I was there.

I'm waiting for my hostel owner to pick me up. I find it fascinating how people transport their things.... 

Sheets wrapped around stuff tied in rope with their contact information in Sharpie. I was beginning to think it wasn't such a bad idea, considering my bag at this point is almost ripped to shreds. 

We escape the airport. Mr. Hu is driving me. I am in complete awe. It is daybreak, and while smog and dust prevents a real sunrise, the city is already alive. The sound of angry horns, the smell of dirt in the streets, children begging at my window, people sprinting to catch already packed buses, rickshaws weaving in and out.... It got my adrenaline pumping. It would be impossible not to catch the energy. I wished I didn't have to care about my visa. I just wanted to dive in.