Dhaka and The Rocket!

As we sit relaxing in our first class cabin and wait for dinner to be served, the gentle vibrations and dull hum of the engines are the only reminder that we are afloat and heading “up river”, that and perhaps the ships wheel logo that decorates the pillow cases and bed sheets. Before you choke on the whole traveling 1st class issue may I clarify a few things. We are paying 2380 Takka for the both of us for the journey to Khulna. The same price, pretty much, you might remember us paying for one night in that flea pit in Srimangal. For 2380 Takka (230HKD/18GBP) we get a 30 hour ferry ride with all the benefits that you would imagine 1st class should entail. Now, 1 night in a regular hotel and a set of bus tickets to Khulna would, believe it or not, actually cost more... mad huh? So we are SAVING money by traveling 1st class. If only I had a tuxedo to wear to dinner…

Anyways, enough boring talk of money, we are on board the Ostrich, a 235 feet long 638 tonne paddle steamer built in Calcutta in 1929 and converted to diesel in 1985. In recent years it has borne the likes of Michael Palin and the British High Commissioner along these rivers of Bangladesh and if it is good enough for them it is certainly good enough for me. Go now and throw away any “100 things to do before you die” book that does not include a trip on this, “The Rocket”, the generic term for these austere craft that hail from another age entirely. Simply put this is one of the coolest things I have ever done in my life and alone, it is reason enough to visit Bangladesh. I feel like I have stepped back in time and become a character in a novel written by the secret love child of Agatha Christie and Joseph Conrad.

As I savour this moment of pure luxury and elegance like a fine wine it is hard to imagine the events of the past 12 hours as anything but some kind of surreal dream. Such a pronounced juxtaposition of occurrences would be hard to envisage happening anywhere else apart from here, in Bangladesh, a country defined by its contrasting extremes.

Barely awake in the early morning we are taking a rickshaw along the main North-South road through the Old Town, en route to Shankharia Bazar and Hindu Street, where we have been told by a Chaiwalla (Tea Seller) that a festival will be taking place. Jude makes a comment about how crazy the taxi’s are in Dhaka and as I turn to agree one swerves in close. The man in the passenger seat is now leaning half out of the window as he grabs Jude’s bag from her lap. The strap is around her back and she holds on to it so tight that as the taxi tries to accelerate away she is lifted out of her seat with what she will confirm was a particularly girly scream. I could have told the would be thief that it was pointless trying to separate Jude from her handbags, I’ve been trying to do that for years, but he didn’t hang around long enough to listen. Realising that he himself was going to be dragged out of the window of the taxi if he persisted he let go. As the taxi made a break for it through the relatively light traffic I swear the rickshaw driver tried to give chase. He was certainly shouting and carrying on loud enough to create quite a stir amongst the crowds nearby. From the aggression and tension this act aroused I am convinced that if they had not been able to get away from the area the outlook for them would have been pretty bleak. A trip to a Dhaka hospital followed by a trip to a Dhaka jail almost certainly the probable outcome, a double whammy of pain and discomfort for sure.

A couple of hours later we were dodging our way down Hindu Street, one of the most colourful and interesting parts of the old town, as the inhabitants went daft for the Holi festival. The most obvious element of this festival is the spraying, splashing, throwing and exploding of various coloured dyes over anyone that dares to set foot in the area. We were however willing participants in these shenanigans and had come prepared, our cameras safely wrapped up in ziplock bags and electrical tape. Within minutes of entering the fray we were drenched in vivid hues and smiling from ear to ear.

After a shower and change of clothes we hit the New Market in search of a Salwar Kameez and some deep fried chicken before downloading ourselves at the Dynasty Cyber Cafe. Pulling stumps there (England had beaten Bangladesh in Dhaka the day before so I had to get a cricket reference in here somewhere!) we headed back to the hotel to collect our bags but were caught in Dhaka’s infamous traffic jams. We made the last two blocks on foot considerably faster than we could have by any other means. On the streets again and now with big backpacks we searched in vain for an auto-rickshaw that would take us to Sadarghat from where the Rocket departs. Desperation begins to kick in as we realise how pressed for time we are and that the decision window is getting narrower by the minute. Then in the midst of all the confusion and craziness the driver of a horse drawn carriage shouts “Sadarghat, Sadarghat, Sadarghat” and beckons to us, we look at each other and with equal parts desperation and resignation we give in to the potential solution to our problem this unlikely mode of transport provides. As the carriage itself is packed with colourful Sari clad women and children our bags are thrown up onto the roof and we are invited to sit immediately behind the driver a good 10 feet off the floor on a very small and exposed bench. With a flick of the reigns and a quick crack of the stick on the horses backs we are off. Holding onto our bags with one hand and onto the cart for dear life with the other we careen through the streets at breakneck speed. From our vantage point the chaos of Dhaka’s streets is laid out in all its glory but in reverse so are we. People stare from out of buses, rickshaws, cars and shops at this strange apparition of two westerners grinning wildly as they flash past in blur.

We are let off a fare distance from Sadarghat as the streets have become impenetrably congested but the Rich and Jude of today are very different from the pair dropped into this madness two weeks ago. Gone is the confusion and culture shock, what remains is two resolute people with their sights firmly set on making their ferry. Big bags make for an intimidating sight in the crowd and with death stares set and speed march on we enter fray like a battering ram, daring anybody to try and oppose our momentum. Scattering locals left and right we arrive at the waterfront buildings and don’t even have to ask before a handful of people point further down the road and shout “Rocket”. What few tourists Bangladesh does attract all seem to come through this way at some point.

The waterfront is a seething, disordered mass of humanity beyond comprehension. At the ramp down to the wharf we are instructed to buy tickets for access. Flashing them our tickets for the Rocket we are met with shaking heads and pointed to a small grill in the wall surrounded by a tight choker of people waving small denomination notes in air. Pulling a 10 Takka note from my shirt pocket I wade through the syrup of sweaty bodies and with the advantage of height and long arms thrust my cash through the bars. I receive a pair of access all areas passes and some very grubby change in return.

As we head down the ramp a surge of euphoria overwhelms me as I realise I am having the time of my life. Boats are crammed into every available gap along the wharf in a scene that evokes images of London’s docklands in Victorian times. A cast of thousands is embarking or disembarking, hawking, buying, shouting, spitting, smoking, staring, pushing and shoving. A young boy earns a little baksheesh by guiding us through the melee past an endless row of ferries to the end of the wharf where the Ostrich lies docked. I hand the man our tickets and the world changes in an instant. “Mr Richard, this way please.” We are led across the gang plank and up some stairs. A set of keys are pushed into my hand by an attendant who says “Cabin 4” and we enter a regal wood panelled air conditioned dining room. At the far end of the dining hall one of the wooden panels bears a small brass plaque “No. 4” and we step into our own little sanctum of peace.

After putting our bags down a door on the other side of our cabin leads us out onto the 1st class observation deck. Leaning against the rail and looking out over the heavy traffic and filthy waters of the Buraganga River I am lost for words. On the far bank the rusting hulks of boats in the process of being broken lie like rotting corpses on the mud. Through the holes in their wounded hulls the bright sparking of cutting tools illuminates their innards and casts reflections off the toxic river that silhouette a myriad of small boats scratching out a dangerous living on the overcrowded waters. As night draws over the city it is clear the vast majority of these boats have no lights and as a ferry steams past at a rate of knots I can only wonder at the risks involved.

The diesel engine of the Ostrich coughs into life and the horn warns of our imminent departure. Our attention is drawn to a small boat directly below our vantage point, ferrying its one man cargo in our direction. As it draws near and the chap is busy paying the ferryman the huge paddle wheels of the Ostrich start to churn. I am surprised by how quickly the old steamer begins to pick up speed but perhaps not as surprised as the chap in the small boat. Realising he is about to miss his boat he makes a gutsy move and grabs hold of the deck of the Ostrich, which is only just within his reach and a good 6 feet above the small boat he is now standing up in. As the Ostrich begins to pick up speed the man holds on with both hands and drags the small boat along after himself with his feet. Letting go with one hand he reaches for the ferryman in the small boat and I feel sure he has realised how badly wrong this is all going and has decided to give up and instead try to get back into the little craft, but no. He takes his briefcase from the ferryman and still hanging on with one hand throws it up onto the deck of the Ostrich. As the chap lifts his foot out of the small boat it quickly gets lost in the darkness as we power on up the river and he now dangles precariously from the side of the deck with very few options left as it is clear he is incapable of pulling himself up. Luckily for him this rather silly scenario has become something of a spectator sport and 3 fellas watching from the lower deck rush over and drag him up onto the Ostrich. As everybody gathered round has a right good chuckle and the man brushes himself off I can only stare, in gobsmacked disbelief, at the total insanity of this place. You don’t have to wait around very long in Bangladesh for something totally outrageous to happen right in front of you, that is for sure.