DAC/KUL

We are on our way to Kuala Lumpur. The drive from CDC took about 75 minutes, so quite busy. This is the first normal day since the strikes, so I guess people are still playing catchup. It's always sad to leave here, because the staff look after us so well. They don't speak English, and I don't speak gibberachi, so communication is always a challenge. I just need to make sure I don't piss Sarah off, or who knows what concoction I might be eating.

As we approach the terminal, Sarah reminds me again about not letting anyone touch our bags. I must say it is hard work, because there are always more crowds on the footpath than there should be. We drove up to the front of the building, just like most normal airports, except that at the beginning of this stretch of footpath is a gate with armed guards waving us through.

Not sure if I mentioned, but at the Taj hotel at Mumbai, they have three steel posts that come out of the ground, blocking your car's way onto hotel property. Shiny steel, with a ring of LED lights around the top. Standard stuff, mirrors under the car, look under the bonnet, everything you see in the movies. Hit the button, the three poles go down, and you're in. Same deal to exit. One car at a time. Complete control over their sandpit.

The same deal at the Leela in New Delhi. Mirrors, bonnet, yada yada yada. Even for their own hotel cars. Impressive.

Now, back to Dhaka. Gate, permanently half open, guy in uniform with a rifle on his shoulder.
Now these guys. The Bangladeshi army. You've seen photos of the people and the vehicles on the streets of Dhaka, right. Dirty, weather-beaten and covered in scratches and dents. And the vehicles are worse. Every time I see either soldiers in this town (and you can hardly avoid them), or one of their vehicles, the thing that strikes me is that they are clean, freshly painted, brand spanking new. And so are their vehicles. The uniforms are brand new or freshly laundered, perfectly pressed. It's as though these little soldiers come in matching sets, and you just pull them off the shelf, inflate them, and off they trot. Hut, hut, hut.

Now the other thing about them is their uniform. The freshly laundered one. It is in camouflage pattern. I was about to say camouflage colours, but that's the problem.

Camo uniforms from the days of jungle warfare were shades of green, khaki, stuff like that.
When George Bush decided he wanted a holiday home in Baghdad, his personal couturier came up with some sandy shades in a nice pastel. People were into the colour tea about then in their decorating choices, so it fit right in.

But these guys? The most obvious colour in their camo uniform is blue. Blue! Where the hell are they going to hide with bits of blue all over their clothes? Are they going to guard the waterfront from a deck chair? Jump out of the sky? I'm thinking this place has had female Prime Ministers for a little too long. Too many chiffon or silk saris floating around the corridors or power.

So, back to this guy at the gate.

If he is manning the gate, and he's the only guy with a gun, how the fuck did all these dropkicks get past to bug us on the footpath?

That's all I was going to ask.

Anyway...we get checked in. Sarah has left a bag of shoes that was inside my suitcase coming over, back at CDC, so that her shopping will fit. It's now 23 point something, and her big pink one is 26 point something. We are going to have to move a little out of that one before we check in for the Auckland/Christchurch flight tomorrow.
Oh, yes. And there is a box. A dinner set. I know! Sarah, remember. Don't worry, it's not hand luggage, so she will spend the entire trip hoping that the loaders can read the 47 fragile stickers on it. I know, I know. Good luck with that.