Always nice to come back home

Besides dealing with the family problem which required my urgent presence in Dhaka, I talked to as many people as possible, watched carefully everything around me, and took some notes. This letter is a travel report and comes as a result of that brief visit. In no way does it pretend to be an academic treatise on the social, political, or economic conditions of Bangladesh today. It merely narrates some thoughts and reflections of a traveller and tries to convey the general impressions of a native of Bangladesh who has lived most of his life abroad and only occasionally gets an opportunity to visit his home country because of financial and other constraints, and inevitably sees things from a different perspective which is not necessarily critical but simply different.

This time I travelled by British Airways. The ground staff at Madrid and London airports were efficient, but it seemed to me that there were more armed police and security personnel than in earlier years at Heathrow. The flight to Dhaka was uneventful. The in-flight service was on the whole good although it seemed to me that the quality of food and beverage served on the plane had deteriorated in a significant manner. The presence of two Bengali-speaking stewards on the plane was helpful because the vast majority of the passengers were Bangladeshi emigrants travelling home for their Eid holidays. The take-off and landing were smooth. After a long and sleepless night, I arrived at Zia International Airport at 5.30 in the morning when it was still dark outside and wondered whether there would be anyone to pick me up at the airport.

I still have unpleasant memories of my previous arrivals at the Dhaka airport. I am not talking about the old Tejgaon airport where, I remember, I boarded a plane for the first time in my life, to go to Rawalpindi. Dhaka at that time was a small provincial capital and air traffic was minimal. I still have vague recollections of people going to Tejgaon in the evenings to watch from the rooftop of the airport building, planes touching down and taking off for distant horizons. (By the way, this time I wanted to have a look at the old airport to reminisce about the past. But when I arrived at the site, I was told that one could not visit the place because it was under the control of the military.)

The new Dhaka international airport had always given me the impression of a sinisterly chaotic place with poor lighting. It also smelled musty and looked shabby. I remember helpless crowds of passengers milling about the place, where even the most simple tasks were made complicated by corrupt bureaucrats. But this time -- what a change! As I entered the airport building, I could not believe my own eyes. I found well-lit spacious lounges, no crowds, impeccably clean floors, neat rows of immigration control points, disciplined queues of passengers, and helpful officers ushering in the visitors one by one with courtesy. It took me no more than five minutes to clear the immigration and customs controls. I do not know who is responsible for this transformation. But whoever he or she is, sincere congratulations are in order.

As I mentioned earlier, I was worried that because of the hastily organised trip in the month of Ramadan, none of my family members would be able to make it to the airport in those early hours of the morning to collect me. Well, I need not have worried.

None of my brothers (my sisters had wanted to come as well but were persuaded to stay back because of the ungodly hour of my arrival) and several nephews slept much that night. Immediately after seheri, they went to the airport to wait for me. It was wonderful to find them there. The weather was pleasant. I felt singularly blessed as I stepped out of the airport building in the bright early morning sunshine of my hometown.

Upon arrival in Dhaka, a visitor immediately becomes aware of the different modes of road transport used there, the Dhaka drivers' scanty respect for lane discipline, and monumental traffic jams. There are bullock carts, buffalo carts, human carts, gas-powered and gasoline-powered cars, buses, trucks, vans, and three-wheeled autos, and of course, lightweight cycle rickshaws. Although this time, I found fewer cycle rickshaws than before, it seemed to me that most of the traffic jams were prima facie caused by them and the three-wheeled autos.

I have the greatest sympathy for the drivers of these vehicles. Most of them are poor migrants from rural areas and work very long hours to earn a precarious living because, except a few lucky ones, the vast majority of them share their day's takings with the owners of the vehicles. In the absence of a reliable public transport system, they also render a useful service to the public.

Most of the motor car and commercial truck drivers rarely follow the most basic traffic rules like maintaining minimum distance between moving vehicles and not overtaking in forbidden places. They also drive their vehicles in such an aggressive manner that these poor rickshaw and three-wheel cab drivers are forced to follow suit, often risking their own lives. Unlike other occasions, this time I found that there were more traffic police and, by and large, greater respect for stop lights.

As I sat in the traffic jam, I could not help recollecting that in my days (the fifties), there were few private cars and many bicycles in Dhaka. Since there was not much commercial traffic particularly in New Dhaka, life was peaceful. I still remember how pleasant it was to walk along Bailey Road or Minto Road or even in Mogh Bazar or Malibagh. This time it seemed that walking in Dhaka was a risky adventure. An underground rail system could ease the chaotic traffic situation, but I am not sure whether it is a viable proposition to build an underground rail system in Dhaka because of its low altitude and recurring floods.

On arrival, the first thing I usually do is to visit our family graveyard at Savar, where my parents and one of my brothers are buried. So braving the chaotic traffic on the Dhaka-Savar road, I and my brothers set out on the last leg of my long journey. More next time.