The journey's the hardest bit when attempting to get to Dhaka...

Before leaving there were several things I was particularly nervous about. Firstly whether I had actually booked a flight or not, you see in my endeavour to find the cheapest deal I had booked my flight off an online phone company from a man who spoke bad english and refused to send me a confirmation letter. Secondly I was scared that if my flight was real what kind of airline I had found, again I had been looking up reviews online the night before and they were not good to say the least; I was convinced I was going to end up in a battered old aeroplane with no leg room, broken toilets, and food that would make me very sick. And finally I was terrified of spending the night in Mumbai airport which I imagined to be similar to a Brazilian slum.

So as to quell my nerves and ease me into a new culture I had spent the last two days before at a hippy music festival with my dad and brother. My dad revels at the change to show off his new bracelets, ever growing hair, and share his plans to couch surf around the world. While my brother likes to believe he is way too cool for this hippy malark stubbornly wearing skinny jeans and sitting with his IPod touch out the whole time. One thing we do all agree on is the comedy stage where this year particular highlights included a very naked man, a very lewd guitar player, and a female comedienne who told us of her brilliant new invention whereby if girls wear their pants inside out they have a handy minge pocket. GENIUS. Even news of this couldn't quite quell those nerves though...

Practising for his hippy days...

My mother clearly just as worried told me to text her as soon as I arrived in Mumbai Airport, I reminded her that this was also the earliest I could possibly phone her. 'Well you could text me on the plane...'. 'No I couldn't.' To which SHE (Miss Worryer of the Century) replied: 'oh don't be silly it doesn't matter anymore. ' Even going as far as to take it as personal insult that I wasn't prepared to do this.

Luckily I did value my life so my phone was switched off as soon as I boarded the plane and bloody hell was I relieved that A) I was on a flight and B) the aeroplane did not look like it was on its last legs (just yet) so now I could just enjoy the flight. I don't quite understand why people don't like flying - for 8 hours you get a lovely little seat with a blanket, pillow, and your own TV. Then, to make life even easier, air hostesses walk down the the aisles serving you food and drink. In fact, thanks to the fasten seat belt sign and general lack of space, you are dis-couraged from moving - I reckon in another year or two they will have built in toilets to your seats. I imagine this in a similar style to Eastern European trains whereby it just falls on to the platform - I do see the difficulty of emulating this on a plane obviously.

What I have described would of course not occur on your average Easyjet flight but believe me those pointless wet flannels they hand out at the start of the flight add some extra excitement and make you feel all posh (who knew it was so simple). And as for the food - since I was flying with an Indian airline it was all of course, well Indian. Which meant vegetable curry for breakfast, a curried veg wrap for lunch, then more curry and a weird potato thing for dinner ( throwing my digestive system in the deep end). Lovely as the curries were, I would argue it is a bad plane food selection for a group of people in an enclosed space with poor ventilation and only 8 toilets...

Although I did get funny looks for taking these, you can now play the which one is breakfast, lunch and dinner game!

Swiftly changing topics the plane also proved amazing for people watching. One Chinese girl (I say girl she was mid twenties) had invested in the full Hello Kitty sleeping range so roamed about in huge slippers and a neck rest potentially to show off her purchases - I wasn't impressed. While some very hippy Londoners with broad cockney accents were a random addition to the mainly Asian passengers.

Escaping the plane at 11pm local time only meant a 9 hour wait until my flight to Dhaka. Unfortunately the 'Slumper Lounge' provided was already full of the we-sleep-anywhere Chines contingency. Hours of playing scrabble on my IPod were inevitable, I had been playing with my brother before and so it was set up for 'pass and play' - a mode I initially couldn't get out of resulting in me playing several games against myself (advantage being I can't lose). And when I eventually did the first word the virtual player came up with was vodka - conveniently duty free were also giving out free samples.

Another highlight of endless travel is of course getting to test out whether 48 hour deodorant really lives up to its claim, don't worry I won't spoil the surprise! The toilets in the airport also confusingly have a conventional one and a squat one - this seems madness why would you choose to squat?! It is like being offered a free air conditioned taxi ride and going nah I will take the hot, over crowded bus instead!

Escaping Mumbai Airport meant my final flight to Dhaka, more curry, and a little more sleep (word of warning Bangladeshi men don't like you falling asleep on them in aeroplanes). My first glimpse of Dhaka was pretty exciting though, it is definitely a cultural change with grey high rise buildings and huge shanty slums.

Preparations....

PART 1.

The problem with stressing all the time and never doing anything is that well you stress all the time and never do anything. Therefore 5 days before I was scheduled to fly I had no Visa. This was not entirely my fault as a) the Bangladeshi High Commission from the layout of their website wants to make it as difficult as possible to enter their country, and b) I wasn't in my country until 2 weeks before I left... See me being dum had not thought about the fact that I could not send off a postal Visa application without my passport so arrived home two weeks before my scheduled departure with no visa sitting on my doorstep. A trip to London was definitely in order...

As to get from Glasgow to London (thanks to our wonderful train network) you have to go via Newcastle I decided my easiest option was to stop off at Newcastle and pay my flat a visit. Unfortunately my awful flatmate was there to meet me off the train so a wee mini tour of Newcastle was in order. In one day we managed to fit in: two games of scrabble, chai tea, pea soup, an art exhibition featuring old school photos mutilated in an amusing way by string, and cider all rounded off with fish stew. Impressive eh ;-). Unfortunately while I had been away my room had been stolen from me by an oversized giant (aka Tom) who had added a bike, porn movies, and a mattress protector to my already perfect room. A slightly softer night's sleep was appreciated mind...

Part 2: LONDON aka CAPITAL CITY VISA TIME

Wanting a cheap train ticket, I booked a ticket that got me to London at 11.45am leaving exactly 1 hour and 15 mins to get me from London King's Cross to the Bangladesh High Commission, I viewed this as a challenge. Trying to hide my map of London so as not to look too touristy and just sneaking even more obvious glances at it, I somehow managed to get across the city to be greeted by the posh glow of South Kensington. The BHC is something less desirable however shoved away in an underground cellar and featuring what must be the only outdoor toilets in South Kensington. Inside the scene can only be described as similar to one from the stock exchange but with Bengalis instead of bankers all waving their passports. The queue for 'foreign' visitors was empty and decidedly closed. I did manage to eventually find someone to talk to who told me that he couldn't give me a Visa. After basically travelling from Glasgow to London just for this Visa you can imagine I was very unimpressed so with some crocodile tears while I concocted some very elaborate story about camping out the whole night in London he told me to take a seat. A very suspenseful 45 minutes later a Visa was granted, thank bloody goodness, handwritten and everything!


PART 3: NAN

In the same way that since I needed to go to London I might as well go to Newcastle, since I was in London I felt I might as well visit my Nan in Southampton. Now my Nan is obviously my Nan so is a very treasured person in my life, but equally this woman is something else; one of those people in which life has delivered nothing but misery and has the attitude that if something bad is not currently happening it is just because something bad is about to happen. Her views on life therefore make a depressing read, she's not good company for the easily upset. The upside is her hearing is sufficiently bad enough to mis-hear any sarcastic comments me, my dad, or brother make.

Without a doubt her much controversial views are those on immigration:
Nan's views on immigration (largely gained from a daily subscription to the Daily Mail):
1. Immigrants all eat our swans
2. Takeaways (mainly Chinese and Indians) breed guinea pigs for their meat and also use cat and dog a lot. We did explain, in the same way they probably don't eat swans, that chickens are so cheap its not worth the bother of using swan, cat, dog, nor guinea pig.
3. Immigrants all pretend to be gay to gain entry to our country.
4. Immigrants never get jobs.
5. Immigrants all live in huge houses which have been split up to house them.
6. On the matter of organ donation, the 'coloured people' have so many diseases that they can't donate organs so aren't helping the system.
7. And finally noting that not many Christians go to Muslim countries. Again ignoring all the tourists visiting North Africa.

I can't really criticise though as the woman did teach me yesterday how to make an amazing bread pudding (not bread and butter!) which I ate most of (I was criticised for this as well of course).

And now the last stop before Bangladesh starts tomorrow with a trip to a hippy music festival with my brother and even hippier (than the music festival) father for a few days of glamping...

You wouldn't think I was leaving the country for 2 months on Saturday, oh dear...