This post describes a raid, that is, a visit to a country undertaken with the sole objective of bringing me closer to my aim of visiting all countries on Planet Earth.
Raids are all about quantity, not quality. Yet, as this post will hopefully illustrate, raids add value, because it is almost impossible to travel anywhere without learning something new.
Preparation for a raid always starts with close examination of a world map and transport options. Which countries are close? Which countries are open to visitors? Next, I research entry requirements. In Bangladesh, I am able to obtain visa on arrival, a huge relief. The cost of a visa is USD 50. I also learn that I need covid vaccination certificates, a return ticket, and a letter of invitation from my hotel.
I buy the tickets, book the hotel, obtain the letter via Whatsapp from the friendly hotel receptionist, and save the documents to my iPad. The Dollars are in my wallet. I am ready for action. I mentally prepare as well; Bangladesh is not reputed to be the easiest of travel destinations.
I fly Biman Airlines from Singapore. The four-hour flight passes without incident. I am struck by the two very distinct groups of passengers on the plane.
Like so many other flights in Asia, the vast majority of passengers are economic migrants. My heroes. Endless streams of workers regularly travel between the labour-abundant nations of Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Philippines and labour-scarce countries in the Middle East and Singapore. Most of these migrants are poorly educated. Some barely speak English. Many are small in stature, reflecting severe poverty, even famine in childhood.
However, there are also many highly educated migrants, who perform very important jobs in their destination countries, such as accounting, legal services, company administration, client services, and fund management. This is particularly true in the Middle East, where host nations often struggle to supply highly-skilled workers.
Regardless of their level of education, the migrants have in common that they are risk-takers, hard-working, endlessly patient, frequently abused, yet remarkably curious, optimistic, and cheerful. They often work under very bad conditions, frequently face humiliation, often outright discrimination. I have enormous admiration for these people.
When they board the flight in Singapore, they are heavily laden with gifts - clothes, sweets, electronics - packed tightly into bundles and cheap bags and other odd bits of luggage. Many have long and arduous journeys ahead, even after they arrive in Dhaka. But they are returning to their families and they are happy.
The other group of passengers on the flight are members of the Bangladeshi elite. They sit in Business Class, almost alone, because there barely any business people going to Bangladesh, at least not on this flight. Many know each other. Most are polite and reserved, but some are rude to the stewardesses. In spite of their arrogance, the stewardesses treat them with utmost respect. Even the pilot pays a visit. I am reminded of one of the uglier realities of life in poor countries, namely that wealth and power are often the same thing and that some of those lucky enough to have it abuse it. Many members of elites in the West behave the same way.
At 6pm, we touch down in Dhaka's Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport, Bangladesh's window to the world. For some visitors, including myself, this is our first impression of the country.
On the steps leaving the plane, I am struck by the acrid smell of smoke, but I cannot see fire anywhere. The airport must be surrounded by settlements of people, who make food over wood stoves.
A new airport building is under construction. The old airport is ugly and worn. Whatever is not in a state of disrepair is tattered and dilapidated. The walls are in dire need of a lick of fresh paint, carpets are threadbare. In places, the concrete shows through.
The departure lounge comes into view. In the centre are rows of plastic seats on metal frames. The seats are taken by older men with orange beards and white robes, women in saris, some veiled, and many, many young men in fake brand-name T-shirts. All patiently await their flights. Stalls along the walls of the departure lounge sell sweets, soft drinks, masala tea, clothes, souvenirs, samosas. The smell of curry and sweat is familiar and not altogether unpleasant.
Signs in many colours and designs, including some that flash in bright neon green direct us towards immigration. The corridors are lined with faded commercials of failing banks and portraits of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, assassinated Father of the Nation.
We are only three foreigners in arrivals, a tall German woman, a Singaporean business man, and myself. We pass several heavily sign-posted, but un-attended Covid stations, then arrive at the visa-on-arrival desk. It is manned by four immigration officers in blue uniforms with silver chevrons. They sit behind a tall, dark plywood counter next to a small empty stall with a lit display of the latest exchange rates.
I approach one of the immigration officers and explain I wish to make a visa application. He points to some benches a small distance away, telling me I have to pay for the visa first. I ask where I pay. He points to the empty stall. I say there is no one there. He says the man is praying and having his dinner. It is Ramadan and the sun has just set. Business must wait.
So we wait. After 30 minutes, I sense the Singaporean business man next to me is getting impatient. He shakes his head and giggles quietly to himself. Then he fishes out his phone and takes a picture of the empty stall, no doubt wanting a memento. I have the same urge and I am just about to reach for my own phone, when the four immigration officers angrily rise from behind the counter and begin to shout and gesture at the Singaporean. He is not allowed to take pictures. Nowhere does it say photography is not allowed, but pointing this out does not help the Singaporean at all. He is forced to delete all the photographs on his phone and given a 10-minute admonishment with raised fingers, raised voices, and thinly veiled threats. Then he is allowed to return to his seat.
We wait another five minutes. Finally, the man from the stall with exchange rates returns. He sits down and belches loudly. A pong of half-digested food emanates from his stall. The German woman hands him her passport and USD 50 for the visa. Looking only at the money in her hand, he shakes his head, and says,
"Fifty-one Dollars".
"Vot?", replies the German.
"Fifty-one Dollars. It is fifty-one Dollars". He points to a blue sign on the wall. It says a visa costs USD 50 plus 0.15% service fee. The German looks bewildered at first, but then produces another fifty Dollar note to cover the fee. The man looks at the bill, shakes his head again, and says, "No change. Next!"
The German woman wanders off to find change for the fifty Dollar note. I realise to my relief I have a stash of one-Dollar bills. I pay the man USD 51 and he gives me two receipts, keeping one for himself. I proceed to the immigration counter.
I stand in front of the four immigration officers. They merrily chat among themselves, seemingly oblivious of my presence. I let them be. After a few minutes, the senior officer, a man whose eyes constantly dart back and forth like the tongue of a snake, barks, "Papers!"
I open my iPad and show him my documents. He shakes he head.
"Black and white paper only!"
I ask him where I can find a printer. He says upstairs, two left, then a right. Then, lifting his eyes to meet mine, he repeats,
"Upstairs, two left, and a right. Do you understand? The Digital Centre".
He smiles, but it is not a warm smile. I nod and thank him and walk up the down-escalator, which is not working. The up-escalator is closed off. I turn left and find myself in the main departure lounge. There is no obvious second left turn, let alone a right turn. I am lost. I start to look for the Digital Centre.
I am a very self-reliant person. I always try to solve problems on my own before asking anyone for help. I walk around the departure lounge until I am sure I have checked everywhere; there is no Digital Centre. I ask a friendly-looking man in a tiny tax-free outlet for directions. He points down a long line of basic food stalls and tax free shops.
"Three shops down, there!"
I follow his outstretched hand, but cannot see the Digital Centre. I get all the way to the other end, then ask again and I am told I missed the place, it is just back there! I head back where I came from, this time asking in each shop I pass.
I finally find the Digital Centre. It turns out to be a small cubicle selling cheap snacks, soft drinks, and, somewhat incongruously, hand bags. At the back of the store is a small table with an old desk top PC and a printer. The shop owner is a kind man with a beard that traces his jaw line from one ear to the other. I ask if this is the Digital Centre. He nods and points to a note on the wall with an email address: babaonline6@gmail.com. I am to send my documents to this address and then he will print them for USD 1 per page.
Documents in hand, I return to the immigration officers. This time it is just me. There are no signs of the German woman and the Singaporean man. I wait five minutes. Then the immigration officer with the smile gets up and walks to a back office. Just before he disappears, he turns around and barks an instruction to a younger colleague to deal with my case. A few minutes later I have my visa.
I leave the visa-on-arrival desk and proceed to the main immigration desks. A long line of Bangladeshis are waiting to have their passports checked. I join them. Twenty minutes later, it is my turn. The officer looks at me and points to somewhere behind him. He says,
"You go!".
I am confused. "Go where?", I reply.
"Go! No need!" I finally get it. I am clear to enter Bangladesh.
It took me one and a half hours to clear immigration. I am met by a man from the hotel, who, thankfully, waited for me. He escorts me through customs (I only have hand luggage). At the car I tip him well. The hotel is just a few hundred meters from the airport, but I am glad I arranged transport. It is dark. The road is heavily congested, the air full of shouting, hooting, and clouds of dust. Roadworks seemingly everywhere. Many dogs. No pavements.
The receptionist at the hotel bids me welcome with a big warm smile. He is my friend from Whatsapp, who helped to organise my welcome letter. I thank him. He knows what I been through. We chat. I tell him about my quest to visit all countries in the world. He asks me to keep him updated. I promise I will. When I am in my room, he calls me, asks if I need anything? Food? Drink? Alcohol? I politely decline. My return flight is next morning at 8.30am and I need to sleep.
At 6am the next morning, the hotel car takes me back to the airport. I tip the driver. I find the Biman Airlines check-in desk. Join the queue. Halfway, a big wig shows up with police escort and jumps straight to the front of the queue. A foreign woman objects, but is told to keep quiet. Another reminder of the reality of wealth and power in poor countries.
Security is a non-event. My sandals trigger the buzzer, but I am waived through. I find myself back in the departure lounge from last night. I go to the Digital Centre to thank the man who helped me print my papers, but someone else is behind the counter this morning. I buy a cup of masala tea and two rotis for breakfast.
The flight is on time. My last view of Bangladesh from the window of the plane is a network of rivers cutting through a sea of green rice paddies.
It is easy to poke fun at a country like Bangladesh. The entitled old elite, the tired infrastructure, dodgy immigration officials are a reminder that Bangladesh is a poor country.
However, these impressions do not tell the whole story. In reality, Bangladesh has done incredibly well since the nation was born out of a war in 1971. From being one of the poorest nations in the world with a GDP per capita of just USD 128 in 1971, Bangladesh is now solidly on track to graduate from the UN’s Least Developed Countries list. GDP per capita has skyrocketed to USD 2,500 (see below), while poverty has declined from 43.5 percent of the population in 1991 to just 11.3% in 2022.
Bangladesh's economic achievement is all the more impressive in light of the severe challenges the country has faced.
Following Partition of the Indian Dominion in 1948, Bangladesh, then known as East Pakistan, was placed under de facto West Pakistani control despite the fact that Bengalis accounted for 55% of the combined population. This was largely due to one of the legacies of colonialism; the British encouraged military training of Punjabis in West Pakistan, while maintaining that Bengalis were a 'non-martial' race. West Pakistan's military was therefore superior and this came into play after Partition. Soon Urdu, hardly spoken in Bangladesh, was imposed on Bengalis as the official language. Only in 1956, after years of conflict, was Bengali accepted as an official language in East Pakistan.
However, discrimination by West Pakistan continued and Bengalis began to demand autonomy. In 1966, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, leader of the pro-independence Awami League, called for a loose confederation with West Pakistan, implying a massive dilution of the latter's influence. In the 1970 General Election, the Awami League captured 160 of 162 East Pakistani seats, forcing talks with West Pakistan leader Zulfikhar Ali Bhutto.
The talks failed.
On 26 March 1971, West Pakistan initiated a military crackdown in East Pakistan. Before his arrest, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman circulated a written note containing the Bangladeshi Declaration of Independence. The declaration was read on radio on 27 March. The Provisional Government of the People's Republic of Bangladesh was formed on 10 April. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was announced as Head of the State.
Between March and December in 1971, West Pakistani forces seeking to restore control committed genocide in Bangladesh. Between 1 million and 3 million Bengalis were killed. Hundreds of thousands of women were raped.
The violence only abated when India intervened. The Pakistani government fell and its army surrendered on 16 December 1971. To this day, Bangladesh's relations with India remain better, deeper, and broader than relations with Pakistan.
The Rahman Administration, Bangladesh's first as an independent nation, was a disaster. Unable to adjust to Democracy after years of fighting authoritarianism, Rahman nationalised large sections of the economy and became increasingly autocratic, banning newspapers and alienating large sections of the population.
In 1974, a surge in global commodity prices pushed up rice prices in Bangladesh. Ordinarily, a rise in prices encourages more production and imports, which in turn pushes down prices, but a number of important factors prevented this from happening in Rahman's Bangladesh. The infrastructure was still devastated from the 1971 war, Rahman's socialist economic policies discouraged production, and multiple floods of the Brahmaputra made it impossible to grow more rice. Moreover, tensions with other countries, including the United States, made it difficult for Bangladesh to import rice. As a result, rice prices kept rising and millions of people lost their ability to buy food.
As Amartya Sen, the Nobel Prize winning economist, has demonstrated in his writing most famines are not caused by a lack of food, but rather by the collapse of people's ability to buy it. In the period from March to December 1974, more than one and a half million Bangladeshis died of starvation, because they could not afford to buy food. Another half a million died of diseases in the months following the famine.
By now, Rahman's failures were so great than he had become widely despised. He was assassinated by military officers in 1975. A succession of military dictatorships followed. As in many other Emerging Market countries, it took the end of the Cold War for Bangladesh to return to Democracy. Since 1990, politics have remained volatile in Bangladesh, but the country has avoided a return to dictatorship and kept extremism at bay. For these reasons, and due to sensible economic policies, Bangladesh has flourished.
Finally, a note on refugees in Bangladesh. As the UK government seeks to pass legislation to effectively ban all refugees from entering the UK, it is worth remembering that a poor country like Bangladesh is hosting more than a million Rohingya refugees from Myanmar. The UK claims that it does not have room and money to take any more refugees. Yet, UK GDP per capita is nineteen times higher than that of Bangladesh, while Bangladesh's population density of 1,265 people per square kilometre is four and half times greater than that of the UK (281). According to Wikipedia, more than 24,000 Rohingya were killed by the Myanmar military and local Buddhists militia since 'clearance operations' started on 25 August 2017. Some 18,000 Rohingya Muslim women and girls were raped, 116,000 Rohingya were beaten, and 36,000 Rohingya were thrown into fires set alight in acts of deliberate arson.
End