After six days of unsuccessful stand-bys deriving on no flying and, despite the obvious grievances of operating a flight to Dhaka in Bangladesh, my spirits are high just for the fact that I am finally about to leave the city, entering the briefing room shortly before midnight.

The following days work as a fixed set. The same crew to join forces and operate three of the most demanding destinations in our network, a marathon to the swampy lands of Bangladesh, back the Middle East for a minimum rest period and continuing to war-torn Tripoli along a route that ends at the shores of the Atlantic in Casablanca, before returning to Doha for yet another minimum rest and a short turnaround to Dubai.
Once introductions are made whilst comically stating the obvious discontent with the assignment, the mood lightens amongst the cabin crew, whilst the demanding and exceptionally filthy nature of the flight to Dhaka runs almost imperceptible across the night.

The highlight of the flight perhaps comes from my passengers, the humility and simpleness of the two-hundred souls sitting in economy reflecting the financial difficulties of Bangladesh, the two-hundred souls representing only a tiny fraction of the thousands of emigrants exported as cheap labourers in the Middle East.

      ‘My crew seat was passenger-facing. Once the wheels touched down at Dhaka Zia Airport, I was impressed with the sudden glow now emanating from my passengers’ eyes, for they knew they were finally home and the years of enduring injustice and slavery were finally over. For a second, I could identify myself with them. The desperation of getting out of the aircraft as quickly as possible and just sprint through the terminal, for the body can no longer resist the deprivation of that touch, that hug, that familiar warmth.’

Once we walk through the ample corridors of the somewhat clean airport terminal, a modern expressway takes me to the hotel, where two large blue-tiled pools shine like rare diamonds against the grey cloudy sky.
The hotel rooms are remarkably nice. From my balcony,  the tall yellow wall separates the manicured hotel gardens from a busy railway. The dilapidated trains rapidly cruise in a frenzy of cargo and passengers, creating ripples of musty air that stir empty plastic bags that lightly float towards the fence.

The swampy landscape across the expressway induces curiosity. The distant half-finished apartment blocks emerge from the marsh like failed dreams now succumbing to the unstable terrain, their concrete beams now covered by a reigning must corroding them from the very inside. A nap and a brunch later, I approach the reception desk and I hire a taxi for the day.

Eid is being celebrated across the Muslim world and in Bangladesh, this means the streets are traffic-free. Radio beaming Hindi music at full blast, the taxi driver explains in his limited English about the many peculiarities of the city, the million of residents that have this week vacated the grind and have traveled home, the daily fight with rickshaw drivers and cows, the shockingly low salaries. He changes the CD for a mix of Female pop music and, Britney Spears or not, we reach a building of pink walks topped by asbestos. ‘The Royal Palace, I take picture’, he says, before we continue our tour speeding across leafy thoroughfares to Dhaka University, where the British have left a beautiful structure built in red bricks and Victorian lines, a treat of the Old East Pakistan remaining pristine through the adversity.

At the Parliament grounds, geometrical structures made of concrete play around the grass fields, where locals laze and squat whilst stuffing on small dishes of fried chicken and goat cheese balls. I am challenged to try one, but the fear of food poisoning is too strong to accept. I decline with a smile and continue the walk.
At Dhakeshwari Temple, I join dozens of pilgrims and sit in the cold floor tiles. Finally, at Gurjan District, I buy some pirate DVDs at one of the hundreds of shops selling cheap knocks off in the city.

My ‘suffering partners’ have spent a day in the hotel and by dinner time, six of us laugh and share crew stories around the buffet. The monsoon dominates the sky in the morning and forces a slow down:

      ‘It was rainy and cloudy all day long , so I decided to turn it into a relaxation day, which basically meant: waking up , looking through the window, sleeping more , waking up again, order room service, sleep more, watch half a movie , internet , gym , some pool when the sun was out for like an hour , some more internet and then prepare for the flight back home.’

My ‘galley-operator’ skills are streamlined on the return flight to Doha, where we land shortly before midnight for a twenty two-hour duty rest period before the next leg of the assignment.
Laundry, lunch at a restaurant -since Ramadan is now over- and some express grocery shopping take up most of my day and once again at midnight, I am strapped to my crew seat awaiting for take off.

     ‘I didn’t even unpack my suitcase. Just took out the dirty clothes and put some new ones on it , the rest remained the same.’

With no Arabic or French speakers available amongst our crew, the flight to Casablanca via Tripoli take turns for the worst. From a boarding in almost sign language, to the lack of understanding the logic behind assigned seating, to hundreds of duty free bags clogging overhead lockers and corridors.
Delayed, a set of twelve crew members recourse to instruct passengers to sit on any empty seats, the doors closing almost an hour behind schedule. I pull a cheat sheet for the meals and start my service:

– Dejej : Chicken
– Samac: Fish
– Chai: Tea

I briefly glance at the airshow and see how our aircraft flies over Suez and Alexandria at night and how the Libyan coast opens up with its emptiness, contouring the limit between Africa and Europe. At five in the morning, a Mars-like red dust welcomes us into Tripoli, where twenty passengers disembark.

Already exhausted, a second breakfast service is provided for the hop to Casablanca. Male passengers eat loudly, while the women pack the melamine dishes into their bags. At ten in the morning, the sun blasts through the cabin windows and the dry plains of Morocco are finally touched some eleven hours since departure.

My first impressions of Morocco are not the best: a two-hour wait at the immigration lane -even on the fast tracked crew lane-, plastic bags dotting the side of the motorway and awful traffic. I fall asleep in exhaustion only to wake up when the bus pulls next to the hotel reception.
I nap for an hour and change into flipflops and shorts. The Gare du Casablanca is a few streets away, yet an attempt to visit Marrakech fails due to delayed train schedules.

From the hotel, I walk down a wide boulevard of closed business -Saturday perhaps?- and enter the parallel universe of the Ancienne Medina, instantly swallowed into the world of loud street vendors, pungent seafood odours and dodgy-looking hotels.
Tricked by my out-of-scale street map, I end a long walk at the Grand Mosque, where pilgrims are seen praying in clusters of gowns as white as the tiles that crown the beautiful arabesques. The light blue tiles of a water fountain represent the sky, the light blue of the crashing waves next to the mosque represents the wildness of the Atlantic Ocean, at this time the only standing barrier between myself and my family.
A tout chases me for several streets and, slightly location challenged, I take a taxi back to the hotel for some overnight rest.

The come-and-go of this roster assignment is nearing its end. ‘At what cost?‘ I think, whilst I order room service and laze around the TV for the rest of my last day in Morocco. I briefly visit the Ancienne Medina for some photos and I return to the hotel to mentally prepare for the long return flight. Loads for the operation:

– Aircraft: Airbus A330-300
– Casablanca (CMN) – Tripoli (TIP) : 45 passengers. Easy breezy, some trays around, few cups of coffee, smiley non-English speakers.
– Tripoli (TIP ) – Doha (DOH) : 245 passengers. Unruly passengers, sick children, not enough chicken meals, grumpy non-English speakers.

It is one of the longest nights of my life. From departure at Mohammed V airport to my bed at Al Mansoura, my body aches for rest and my mind craves for some sort of comic relief. No time for this today though, I operate a Dubai turnaround in the late afternoon and finally -yes finally!- bag some days off.