It is 2200 when we arrive, so hard to get a sense of the airport from the outside. My first impression I had once we got into the terminal, was the smell. Musty, humid, dank. Similar to the airport at Dhaka, it is functional rather than pleasant. We make our way to immigration, then to the baggage claim, and finally customs. There is a guy peeling passengers from the main queue into another. Keeping the queues even. No, this is the queue out, bypassing the X-ray machine. Whatever the profiling technique he was using, we passed.
On our way out, Sarah stopped to change some money. She was told in Christchurch that foreigners are not permitted to bring Indian currency into India. Being an obedient citizen, she waits till she gets here.
Then out into the meet and greet area. Looking, hoping, looking. There's my name. A sense of relief that this part of the process is working. A driver and some kind of supervisor are there to meet us, and lead us to the car park.
The first time we went to Dhaka, Sarah told me not to let anybody touch our bags. There are so many people milling about outside these airports. Often they will offer to carry your bags. According to my resident expert, these people will either do a runner with your bag, or will demand a tip when you get to your car. The problem is that generosity becomes a weakness. Let one person help and you will be surrounded by people, all jostling to help and be paid for the privilege.
Harsh? Yes. Realistic? Unfortunately.
The car is new. And small. The bags all get shoe-horned into the boot, to my surprise. The limo in KL couldn't take both big bags, so I'm impressed.
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