Bangladesh? Really?: Why South Asia’s Forgotten Country Might Surprise You

When I told people I was traveling to Bangladesh, the reactions were almost always the same. Eyebrows up, a confused pause, then a hesitant, “Bangladesh? Really?” It wasn’t worry, not exactly. More like people were trying to recall whether Bangladesh actually existed on the travel map. It’s the country that somehow fell through the cracks between more familiar neighbors like India, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. I’ve even heard someone suggest that Afghanistan would come to mind sooner as a holiday destination.

And yet—after visiting Bangladesh for the first time in 2019, and again in March 2024—what I remember most is not the chaos or the culture shock, but how little had changed. Despite five years, one global pandemic, and the difference of traveling with my husband instead of solo, the essence of the place was still the same. And honestly? That’s what makes it worth going.

Let me walk you through what you should expect. Spoiler: it’s not you. It’s Bangladesh.

The very first thing I learned: no question is too personal. The moment I stepped off the plane, I was greeted not by “Welcome” but by “Where is your husband?” And it didn’t stop. If you’re a solo female traveler, expect a steady stream of questions about your marital status, your childbearing plans, and your exact age. I eventually invented a husband (real, but not present) and a baby named Hugo. Hugo, as it happens, is a cat. But when you’ve been married more than nine months and still don’t have children, things can get awkward quickly. Better to invent a kid and move on.

The second thing: people stare. A lot. Not in a threatening way—more like the way you might study a strange new animal at the zoo. Sit at a street stall to eat and within minutes, you’ll have a full audience. Start chatting in the market and the crowd will grow. Faces watching, heads turning back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. And then the phones come out. “Madam, selfie? Selfie Madam?” I must’ve heard that a hundred times. Bangladeshis love taking pictures with foreigners. Sometimes it felt like I was the tourist attraction.

Another thing to expect? Followers. Not on social media—real ones, in the street. Friendly, curious, sometimes helpful, often unnecessary. People would trail behind me through markets, offer directions I didn’t ask for, or appoint themselves my unofficial tour guide. I had helpful “escorts” at train stations, temples, mosques, and even inside restaurants. One of them once insisted on showing me the fastest walking route from my guesthouse near hotel labbaik dhanmondi to the New Market, even though I was just going for a walk. Occasionally I’d have to explain (politely, firmly) that I didn’t need company.

Speaking of safety—expect warnings. Lots of them. Often completely out of nowhere. In Sylhet, I was told not to visit a quiet ashram because it was “too dangerous.” Others informed me I shouldn’t go anywhere alone. One man actually said, “Bangladesh people are not good.” Which is ironic, because no one warned me about the one thing that really is dangerous: transportation.

If you’ve traveled in India and thought that was intense, Bangladesh will reset the scale. Especially in Old Dhaka. Imagine a pitch-black platform, train headlights glaring, crowds pouring over the tracks in every direction. No one uses the footbridges. People wait on the tracks until the train is nearly upon them, then scatter at the last second. Trains arrive already overflowing—people clinging to the sides, jammed into doorways, climbing up onto the roof. Boarding is a battle. Disembarking is an art form.

Why the Shalwar Kameez Became My Unexpected Favorite Outfit

In the middle of all this, you’ll probably end up buying a shalwar kameez, whether you planned to or not. That’s the long tunic, loose trousers, and scarf combo worn by most local women. Aside from helping you blend in, it’s also just really comfortable. Yoga pants? Don’t even think about it. As I put it in my notes: “Yoga pants would be wildly uncomfortable here.” The shalwar kameez quickly became my favorite thing to wear.

Even the hotels offer a kind of chaos—wrapped in good intentions. Budget places often come with “five-star” service that’s equal parts charming and baffling. The staff is attentive, enthusiastic, and not particularly concerned with privacy. One night I was mid-shower when the hall boy rattled the doorknob, desperate to spray the room with bug spray. It was, apparently, part of the nightly routine. No knocking necessary.

But the most surprising part of Bangladesh isn’t the noise or the questions or the unpredictability. It’s the absence of certain things. There are no pushy touts. No one aggressively sells souvenirs or tries to book you on a tour. There’s no “banana pancake trail,” no backpacker circuit. That can be frustrating if you’re hoping to meet fellow travelers or split the cost of a boat ride. But it also means you get a kind of travel that’s raw and real. Independent, unpredictable, and genuinely authentic.

And the people—despite what some of them will say about themselves—are lovely. Warm, welcoming, funny, generous. I’d go to the same shop a couple of times and be greeted like family. Restaurant owners would remember my order, offer me extra dishes, and join in when I FaceTimed my mom. No sales pressure, just kindness.