Bangladesh 2024 Pt. 1: Sometimes Nothing Goes as Planned

June 4-7, 2024

Denver, CO

Toronto, ON

Istanbul, Turkey

Dhaka, Bangladesh

My long awaited departure date, June 4, glistened before me as a day of excitement. I had been planning it for a whole year. I had booked my tickets 2 months prior, and was so excited to finally be returning to my beloved Bangladesh.

Mom and I headed to Denver on June 3rd, so I could be in town ahead of my 7:30 am departure time. We got a hotel and set our alarms for early morning.

I woke up at 3 am to discover all my flights had been cancelled! What a nice morning surprise. They had been rebooked and rerouted through Istanbul, Turkey. AND with a 21 hour layover in Toronto.

It all seemed very sketchy. One email said I could check in for my new flights, but the text message I received only minutes later stated that they were still attempting to rebook my canceled flights. It was 3am. I have never liked mornings, but this particular one was turning out to be especially nasty.

I decided to check in. It worked! I selected seats all the way to Dhaka. Was it true? I had no idea— I had never flown in these airlines before. For all I knew, Air Canada was hoodwinking me. I’ve always been skeptical of Canada.

So, I went to the airport. I went to the airport like I would have for my original flight. All I wanted to do was talk to an actual human being that could tell me what time I was supposed to fly. Mom dropped me off at the front doors and indignantly I stomped inside.

The lady who helped me looked younger than me, and seemed only slightly less clueless. Luckily, someone came and hovered over her shoulder as she checked the status of my reservation. “Yes.” She confirmed. I would be leaving DEN at 7:00pm now. My flight to Toronto would land shortly after midnight, and my next flight to Istanbul was scheduled to leave at 9:30 pm the next day.

Mom and I went back to the hotel and went back to bed. Sometimes that’s all you can do. Sometimes that’s the best option. Just go back to bed.

We decided to visit the shops the next day. In booked a hotel in Toronto, and decided that nobody in Canada speaks English. At least, not at the hotel I was trying to sleep at. The skepticism continues.

Just as we were pulling up to the airport for the second time that day, I got a notification that my flight had been DELAYED. I was beginning to feel like I’d never get there at all. I went through security with random attacks of frustrated tears. I’ve decided that airports are a good place to cry; because nobody can tell if you’re sad to say goodbye to someone, or if you’re just being dramatic.

My flight got delayed once more. Now we were 1h40m behind schedule, and I had a hotel to get to. I had no idea how long customs would take, if they’d be mad at me for being late, or how Canada runs. I had never been to Canada before. The Canadians I know seem pretty great, but one can never tell if they’re acting.

DEN-YYZ

Finally we were on our way. All 37 of us. The flight attendant quipped as he made his announcement: “There’s only, like, 37 of you, so you can wander around and treat this like your very own private jet.”

We landed in Toronto and made a mad dash through customs. Why is everyone always in such a screaming hurry? Then, THE CURB.

I stood on THAT CURB for what felt like forever, waiting on the shuttle for what felt like forever. At last, I saw the promising green H on the side of the van. But, when it pulled up, I saw that it was for Holiday Inn in Dixon— not Mississauga, where I had booked.

I had already called my hotel twice by this point about the shuttle. “Ya, ya, ya, ma’am. We will send one. I’ll connect you to the driver.”

“Ya, ya, ya, ma’am. I will come,” the driver said. “I am at the hotel and I’ll be there in 20-25 minutes. After thirty minutes, two more phone calls, and palpable anger building up inside me, the driver finally came.

That is when I understood the reason for her tardiness and lack of urgency to get to me. The accent and the familiar South Asian music gave her away. I know these people, and they do not prioritize being on time.

I pulled up Google maps to make sure she was actually taking me to the hotel instead of kidnapping me. It wasn’t just Canada this time; I would be skeptical of anyone at 3:30 in the morning.

As you’ve maybe caught on, I was not happy about being in Canada. Allow me to explain: it’s not that I have anything wrong with the place. In fact, three good friends have found good Canadian husbands. It’s just that I have a slight aversion to the country. You see, in all my twenty-four years, I’ve somehow managed to stay out of Canada. This has become somewhat of a personality trait of mine; and a good party trick. I love to shock people with the revelation that I’ve never been to Canada. Now, my reputation was being ruined before my very eyes.

We made it to the hotel in one piece, and the Indian gentleman at the front desk represented his people’s hospitality beautifully. Since I was arriving at nearly 4 am, he offered me a late checkout of 2 pm the next day. I could have hugged him right on the spot. But I didn’t. That would have been inappropriate. He gave me 2 bottles of water and the key cards to my room: room 348. I jaunted up the elevator, doing a happy dance all the way.

My room was all the way at the end of the hall, so when my key cards didn’t work, I had to walk all the way back down to get to the elevator. The front desk man seemed beside himself. After all, one of their valued members’ cards didn’t work. (You see, whilst trying to book the room, the lady on the other end had tricked me into becoming a rewards member.)

Upon entering my room, I discovered something beautiful. I had been given “The Imperial King Suite!” A glorious, huge, soft, king-sized bed awaited me. All to myself. There was a little kitchen nook, a living room, the bedroom with my (king) bed, and of course, a bathroom. After ravishing my luck, I took a shower and went to bed for some much needed sleep.

I set my alarm for an 8:30 breakfast. After all, the only thing I’d had since lunch the previous day was a chocolate croissant and a bag of fruit gushers. When my alarm rang, I scaresly heard it. I shut that wretched thing off and went straight back to sleep. I didn’t wake up until 1:00 pm. And I’m proud of it. It’s not every day I get a king-sized bed to myself. I had to make the most of it.

The next afternoon, I found myself back on the airport shuttle. I was accompanied by a couple who was going to Madrid, and a lady who was meeting a friend at the airport for supper.

YYZ-IST

The flight to Istanbul was uneventful at most, save for the two Turkish women I shared row with. I’m suspicious they were laughing about me on two separate occasions. But, that may just be the self-consciousness talking.

To eat, we were served chicken with rice, cucumber and tomato salad, some kind of stuff I couldn’t identify, bread, and delicious cake. For breakfast, I chose pancakes. It came with fruit salad, cheese and cucumber, and toast.

Uneventful? Did I say uneventful? I almost forgot the medical emergency. Shortly after takeoff, I noticed the flight attendants bent over a seat ahead of mine. Shortly, they escorted a woman to the restroom. Then, the flight attendant asked that, if there be any medical doctor on board, they would show themselves to the crew at once. Several people came forward, and not long after, a gentleman was working with the lady. The flight attendants made themselves busy scurrying for water and emergency medical kits. I was certain we would have to make an emergency landing, but eventually, the lady seemed to make a full recovery.

Istanbul’s airport is incredible. I asked a number of people to point me towards customs, and I finally found the right place and went through with a British man. I came up the escalator and found myself in a futuristic—looking world.

After exchanging $40 for 990 Turkish Lira, I purchased some Turkish Delight and lunch from Shake Shack. Then I made my way to the final gate.

It was packed with Bangladeshis. I heard wafts of Bangla conversation, and I so badly wanted to butt in. And, I learned that Bengalis have not changed. Loudly they packed their way to the front of the line. Impatiently, they waved their passports in front of the gate agent. But, I couldn’t help but to smile as I watched. These are the people I had learned to love.

Once in the jetway, they separated a number of us and gate-checked our bags. No matter, I thought. Less stuff to haul around. I was halfway down the jet-bridge before I realized all my important documents were in there! I frantically went back, only to remember I had stuffed them into my backpack. *Phew. Crisis averted. Once again, I was halfway down the jet-bridge, and I realized that my passport was most definitely in my luggage.

Panic-stricken, I ran back to find that it had already been loaded into the elevator. Frantically, I said to the nearest man: “Sir, my passport! My passport is in that bag!” I don’t think he understood my language, but he did understand the look on my face. Without a word, he handed my bag over, and, with great relief, I retrieved my passport. After double-checking to make sure I had everything I’d need for customs, I scurried onto the final plane.

IST-DAC

Lisa had instructed me to sleep for the final flight, so I would be ready to go the next day. I was scheduled to arrive at 4:50 am, and Trevor and Lisa & company were planning on heading straight home to Khulna from the airport. Had my original plans panned out, we would have had time to waste a day in Dhaka. However, with my new plans and with conference fellowship scheduled to start the next day, we would have to go straight home.

And so, I slept. I declined the first meal and tried to ignore the lady chanting “Allah, Allah, Allah,” in the seat behind me. I tried to ignore the man smacking next to me. I tried to ignore the snoring guy in the row in front of me. Somehow, exhaustion won out, and I was able to fall asleep.

They served breakfast shortly before landing. And then, I watched the map as Bangladesh unfolded before me. I couldn’t see well for the darkness of the morning, but through the haze, I could faintly make out the lights of Dhaka. And when we landed, I cried. It was not a cute dainty little cry. It was a full on ugly-crying sob session.

I remembered all the feelings of the last time I landed here. If you would have told me then that I would be coming back, voluntarily, in three year’s time, I would not have believed it.

Thus ends the tale of the journey to get here. I’ll write about the first day and everything else later on. We had quite the ride trying to get my entry visa, but that is a story for another day.

I’ll try to remember update, but I won’t write everyday. I return home on June 29th. Follow along if you want, but there are no obligations here! :)

Love from Bangladesh 🇧🇩

-Kalli Sue