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Crazy First Arrival into Dhaka, Bangladesh đ§đŠ
đ Dhaka, Bangladesh đ§đŠ
Leaving India was supposed to be simple. It never is. We flew out of Delhi Terminal 3, but first had to chase down USD, $51 per person, supposedly required for Bangladeshâs visa on arrival. A dozen money counters, contradictory rules, blank stares, and finally, crisp notes in hand.
We made it through, barely, and grabbed what was optimistically called an English breakfast at an Irish bar. Dry eggs, grey sausage, and a deep existential regret. But the double Jim Beam on the rocks at 9 a.m.? That hit the mark.
The Air India flight to Dhaka was smooth, calm, oddly serene for what was waiting on the other end.
Immigration in Bangladesh was a maze of paperwork and polite interrogation. We didnât actually need the $51 in cash, card wouldâve done just fine. But try telling that to a counter full of bureaucracy and shrugging men in uniform. Hotel reservations had to be printed. Forms double-stamped. Eyes watching everything. Eventually, we made it out.
Outside, Dhaka hit like a brick wall. Dense, loud, alive. We bargained hard for a taxi to Kackrail Road and jumped headfirst into the chaos. Walking those first streets felt like crossing into another version of reality. Dust, horns, movement, colour, energy.
We took shelter in Grand Plaza Hotel, ÂŖ40 a night, clean, cool, a little pocket of peace above the madness.
Hungry and curious, we asked a security guard on the street what his favorite food was. He didnât hesitate. Kachi Bhai, he said. Gave us directions like it was sacred.
So we followed them. We sat down. We ate mutton kachi for the first time. Aromatic, rich, slow-cooked to the bone. Maybe better than biryani. Probably is.
Bangladesh didnât ease us in. But it rewarded us. You just have to lean into the madness.
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