One side of the Zia airport in Dhaka looks like any other airport. The other side is littered with stacks and piles of luggage and a posse of travellers stampeding for something. That is the Gulf section, I presume. The money changer of Janata Bank almost leaps out of his glass cubicle to shake my hands and con me with a low rate for the Indian rupee. 1:1.3 is not that appealing, but I do go for it.
The ride from the airport to the hotel might not have been more than 5 kms long. It was surely more than an hour long. The traffic is not maddening, it is hopeless. Nothing moves. Add to that the officious policemen and the traffic signal looks like god here. Overhead cables are dusty and slither the air like vines. Cars are from Japan, autos are from India. Drivers are from the Fifth Element.
And to round it off, there are