For 4 to 5 days in Bangladesh, Dorli and I were in the rural,
southwest part of the country to conduct the three-day storytelling training. It had taken 11
hours to drive to that part of the country in what should have been
a six-hour drive, due to the various religious festivals going on in
the country. The leadership decided that they would fly Dorli and I
back on a small regional airplane for a 45-minute flight to avoid the long drive back. The van
that had taken us south would return with our luggage, arriving
in Dhaka at 3 a.m., where we would already be peacefully asleep in our beds.
The morning of our last day in the south, we got up and had breakfast, packed up our things and climbed into the van. Our first order of the day was to drive to some development projects and meet with the people involved so Dorli could report on them to the organization she works with in Germany which funds these projects.
While she was visiting seed projects, self-help groups and child development centers
projects, I was at a Nazarene training center interviewing Nazarene pastors
and leaders about their ministries.
The plan was that Dorli and Milton -- the communications and NYI coordinator who hosted us -- would return from the projects at 3 p.m. and we would regroup in the van to drive to the nearest airport to catch our flight. Our flight was at 6:15 p.m. It was supposed to be a 90-minute drive to the airport. Leaving at 3 p.m. would mean we would get to the airport at 4:30 and thus be there almost two hours before our domestic flight.
At 3:15, Milton and Dorli still were not back and so I continued my interviews in the training room.
At 3:30 they came around the corner at a run, rushed into the training center shouting, “We have to go! Now! Now!” I quickly packed my backpack and we both took a fast pit stop in the bathroom. By 3:45 were in the van and flying down the roads.
Based on the promise of a 90-minute drive, we should have been at the airport at 5:15, with still an hour before the flight. It seemed to be cutting it close, but we thought that should still be fine for a small airport and a domestic flight.
However,
it was soon 5:30, then it was 5:45. We kept glancing at our watches.
At 5:45, the van driver swung off the highway and into a gas station. Milton yelled in Bengali, “No! No! We don’t have time! Keep going!” They yelled back and forth a bit and the van driver pulled through and back onto the highway.
About 5:50 p.m, Dorli and I started to ask where we were and why we hadn’t arrived yet. We began to despair of catching our flight.
At 5:55 we finally drove through the gateway to the airport. We breathed a sigh of relief. However, we weren’t in the clear yet. The road from the gateway to the actual airport stretched ahead of us for kilometers, and it was filled with pedestrians, wagons, people leading cows, bicycles, motorcycles and other cars. We crept along, weaving through all the foot and vehicle traffic.
At 6:05, we pulled up in front of the airport. Thankfully we were leaving our big suitcases in the van, so we could run unhindered with just our backpacks. As we passed inside the doors and made a run for the ticket counter, the security people stopped us and indicated we had to put our backpacks on an x-ray machine situated right by the front door. We threw everything on the conveyor belt and then snatched it up on the other side.
With Milton at our side we ran to the ticket counter and shoved our passports at the agent. He said, “you need to check those backpacks.” Milton told him in Bengali, “Nope, They’re not doing that.” We were all in such a frantic hustle I guess the agent decided it wasn’t worth bickering about so they let us take the backpacks. They thrust our tickets at us and we crossed the room to some glass double doors leading into the gate area.
There was another security check, so we gave quick hugs and goodbyes to Milton, thinking we wouldn’t see him again, and then tossed our backpacks on the second X-ray machine belt. On the other side, they insisted we go into a curtained booth for a pat down by a woman.
Dorli went in first and popped back out very quickly. She said the woman had only run the wand along one of her arms and then stopped and sent her back out. I took my turn in the curtained booth. The woman didn’t even wand me, she just stamped my ticket to say she had done it and ushered me back out.
At this point, only three minutes had passed since we had entered the airport. It was 6:08. I was a bit relieved to still see people entering the gate area behind us. We rushed out of the doors leading to the tarmac.
At this small airport, you would walk down a long sidewalk to the airport runway where your plane would sit waiting, and you’d climb some stairs attached to the small plane to get up inside. Dorli and I ran down the sidewalk to the airplane sitting on the tarmac just outside a chain link fence.
As we approached the plane, Dorli looked at her ticket and said, “Well, our ticket says NovoAir, but this plane is labeled United Airlines. I’m sure it’s fine, let’s just get on.”
There was a man standing beside the stairs on the plane. He looked at Dorli’s ticket and said, “You’re at the wrong plane. Your plane is down there.” He pointed to another plane further down the tarmac.
The stress and hilarity of the situation finally got to us. Dorli and I burst out laughing. Now we had the problem of trying to jog on the runway while laughing hysterically. I can’t imagine what we looked like to the man standing at the second plane: Two white women, shrieking with laughter at a full-out sprint down the runway in the darkness.
The plane was still waiting not only for us, but some more passengers coming behind us. The man took our tickets, we climbed up the stairs, and walked down the aisle while gasping for breath and still laughing. We flopped into our seats — which were one behind the other — and laughed until we were crying. We were making quite a scene but the Bangladeshis just ignored us. I looked at my watch — it was 6:10. The flight was supposed to take off at 6:15.
The cabin crew were still getting the plane ready to go and more people were climbing on the plane. About two minutes after we had settled into our seats, we looked up to see Milton standing in the aisle with his backpack, grinning and waving at us. We gasped in surprise. He then found his seat. Steve, another storytelling trainee who had been with us in the van, was right behind him. Dorli figured out that after they’d waved us into security, they must have gone back to the counter and asked if there were any seats left. There must have been at least 2 seats left so they’d bought two tickets and gone through security in even less time than we did.
We were so happy that Milton and Steve would also be able to go back to Dhaka the easy way with us and not have to ride all night on dangerous roads in the van with the driver.
The plane took off at 6:17.
I was utterly in bewilderment that we had arrived at the airport 10 minutes before a flight, gone through security twice, checked in at a ticket counter, run down the runway and still managed to get on our flight in a total of 5 minutes. Only in Bangladesh and only in a small airport.
I was never so relieved to make a flight.
The morning of our last day in the south, we got up and had breakfast, packed up our things and climbed into the van. Our first order of the day was to drive to some development projects and meet with the people involved so Dorli could report on them to the organization she works with in Germany which funds these projects.
While she was visiting seed projects, self-help groups and child development centers
projects, I was at a Nazarene training center interviewing Nazarene pastors
and leaders about their ministries.The plan was that Dorli and Milton -- the communications and NYI coordinator who hosted us -- would return from the projects at 3 p.m. and we would regroup in the van to drive to the nearest airport to catch our flight. Our flight was at 6:15 p.m. It was supposed to be a 90-minute drive to the airport. Leaving at 3 p.m. would mean we would get to the airport at 4:30 and thus be there almost two hours before our domestic flight.
At 3:15, Milton and Dorli still were not back and so I continued my interviews in the training room.
At 3:30 they came around the corner at a run, rushed into the training center shouting, “We have to go! Now! Now!” I quickly packed my backpack and we both took a fast pit stop in the bathroom. By 3:45 were in the van and flying down the roads.
Based on the promise of a 90-minute drive, we should have been at the airport at 5:15, with still an hour before the flight. It seemed to be cutting it close, but we thought that should still be fine for a small airport and a domestic flight.
However,
it was soon 5:30, then it was 5:45. We kept glancing at our watches.At 5:45, the van driver swung off the highway and into a gas station. Milton yelled in Bengali, “No! No! We don’t have time! Keep going!” They yelled back and forth a bit and the van driver pulled through and back onto the highway.
About 5:50 p.m, Dorli and I started to ask where we were and why we hadn’t arrived yet. We began to despair of catching our flight.
At 5:55 we finally drove through the gateway to the airport. We breathed a sigh of relief. However, we weren’t in the clear yet. The road from the gateway to the actual airport stretched ahead of us for kilometers, and it was filled with pedestrians, wagons, people leading cows, bicycles, motorcycles and other cars. We crept along, weaving through all the foot and vehicle traffic.
At 6:05, we pulled up in front of the airport. Thankfully we were leaving our big suitcases in the van, so we could run unhindered with just our backpacks. As we passed inside the doors and made a run for the ticket counter, the security people stopped us and indicated we had to put our backpacks on an x-ray machine situated right by the front door. We threw everything on the conveyor belt and then snatched it up on the other side.
With Milton at our side we ran to the ticket counter and shoved our passports at the agent. He said, “you need to check those backpacks.” Milton told him in Bengali, “Nope, They’re not doing that.” We were all in such a frantic hustle I guess the agent decided it wasn’t worth bickering about so they let us take the backpacks. They thrust our tickets at us and we crossed the room to some glass double doors leading into the gate area.
There was another security check, so we gave quick hugs and goodbyes to Milton, thinking we wouldn’t see him again, and then tossed our backpacks on the second X-ray machine belt. On the other side, they insisted we go into a curtained booth for a pat down by a woman.
Dorli went in first and popped back out very quickly. She said the woman had only run the wand along one of her arms and then stopped and sent her back out. I took my turn in the curtained booth. The woman didn’t even wand me, she just stamped my ticket to say she had done it and ushered me back out.
At this point, only three minutes had passed since we had entered the airport. It was 6:08. I was a bit relieved to still see people entering the gate area behind us. We rushed out of the doors leading to the tarmac.
At this small airport, you would walk down a long sidewalk to the airport runway where your plane would sit waiting, and you’d climb some stairs attached to the small plane to get up inside. Dorli and I ran down the sidewalk to the airplane sitting on the tarmac just outside a chain link fence.
As we approached the plane, Dorli looked at her ticket and said, “Well, our ticket says NovoAir, but this plane is labeled United Airlines. I’m sure it’s fine, let’s just get on.”
There was a man standing beside the stairs on the plane. He looked at Dorli’s ticket and said, “You’re at the wrong plane. Your plane is down there.” He pointed to another plane further down the tarmac.
The stress and hilarity of the situation finally got to us. Dorli and I burst out laughing. Now we had the problem of trying to jog on the runway while laughing hysterically. I can’t imagine what we looked like to the man standing at the second plane: Two white women, shrieking with laughter at a full-out sprint down the runway in the darkness.
The plane was still waiting not only for us, but some more passengers coming behind us. The man took our tickets, we climbed up the stairs, and walked down the aisle while gasping for breath and still laughing. We flopped into our seats — which were one behind the other — and laughed until we were crying. We were making quite a scene but the Bangladeshis just ignored us. I looked at my watch — it was 6:10. The flight was supposed to take off at 6:15.
The cabin crew were still getting the plane ready to go and more people were climbing on the plane. About two minutes after we had settled into our seats, we looked up to see Milton standing in the aisle with his backpack, grinning and waving at us. We gasped in surprise. He then found his seat. Steve, another storytelling trainee who had been with us in the van, was right behind him. Dorli figured out that after they’d waved us into security, they must have gone back to the counter and asked if there were any seats left. There must have been at least 2 seats left so they’d bought two tickets and gone through security in even less time than we did.
We were so happy that Milton and Steve would also be able to go back to Dhaka the easy way with us and not have to ride all night on dangerous roads in the van with the driver.
The plane took off at 6:17.
I was utterly in bewilderment that we had arrived at the airport 10 minutes before a flight, gone through security twice, checked in at a ticket counter, run down the runway and still managed to get on our flight in a total of 5 minutes. Only in Bangladesh and only in a small airport.
I was never so relieved to make a flight.
No comments:
Post a Comment