This text is a chapter from my book "Several Stories from the Indian Subcontinent". All photos, videos, and text are original work by Pavel Gospodinov.
In Bangladesh, water transportation is crucial. It's impossible to miss this mode of transport, which is why I set myself the goal of exploring the topic in more detail.
Along the Karnaphuli River near Chittagong, just beyond the impressive Shah Amanat Bridge, there's a widening filled with at least 100 large ships, anchored in small groups. From the bridge, where I walked on foot, the view of the river with its parked ships was mind-blowing. Joy and wonder flowed through me abundantly.
Later, Yusuf and I descended to the shore beneath the bridge and rented a small canoe to navigate between the ships. It's challenging to describe the sensation of gliding in a tiny boat among hundreds of anchored giants. The size difference was staggering. Some ships were inhabited—we could hear the clang of hammers on metal and scraping sounds. These vessels aren't destined for scrap, despite their proximity to recycling yards. They're anchored here for repairs, which can last months or even years. The men live aboard these ships. We often spotted them suspended on movable scaffolding along the rusty hulls. Armed with hammers, they struck the metal in a slow, rhythmic cadence.
Further downriver, we encountered another large group of ships, smaller in size but tightly lined up as if on parade. As we drew closer, we could peek at their decks. The men aboard, spotting us, emerged and began waving. Some were hanging clothes but quickly abandoned their chores to join the greeting. Most were bare-chested, with lungis wrapped around their legs, resembling pirates preparing for departure. I felt immersed in a movie scene.
The daily lives of these men fascinated me. What did they do in the evenings after hammering all day on sun-heated metal? How much were they paid for this labor? Did they realize the seeming futility of tapping a small hammer against a massive hull? These questions whirled in my mind as we slowly passed the long line of small ships, their crews still waving enthusiastically.
We reached a small bay where at least 30 old wooden ships were beached on the muddy shore. They resembled an abandoned pirate movie set, yet these were very real vessels still in use. I wasn't sure if these particular ships were slated for repair or scrapping. People wandered on the decks, their activities unclear from our vantage point.
Some ships undergo repairs in specialized workshops. Yusuf and I visited one on Dhaka's outskirts, easily accessible from the main river port of Sadarghat. Though the ships were pulled ashore, the primary activity remained the same—hammering on hull plates with small hammers. Our boat halted between two such vessels, just below about 20 men dangling from the deck, clad in rags. At noon, the temperature soared to at least 35 degrees Celsius, likely doubling near the sun-heated metal. It felt like time travel, with the swinging legs of hammer-wielding men above me serving as living proof.
Historical background: Bengal has a rich tradition in boat and ship building. In the 14th century, Moroccan traveler Ibn Battuta described a vast fleet of military, passenger, and cargo vessels in his travelogues. By the mid-15th century, European traveler Caesar Frederic noted Chittagong as a major shipbuilding center. Later sources report that in the 17th century, Chittagong's shipyards built an entire fleet of warships for the Turkish sultan. During the Mughal period, villagers along the Bay of Bengal mass-produced small ships and boats. This tradition, though slightly modified, continues today.
Eager to see a shipyard for new vessels, we visited the Potaya shipyard on Chittagong's outskirts. Descending onto the muddy shore, we found ourselves among about 10 small wooden ships at various stages of construction. The workers, clad in traditional lungis, shirts, and head scarves, looked as if they'd emerged from a tar barrel. Several ships were being coated with a thick, black, sticky liquid—presumably tar. Men armed with large brushes lay under the ships, coating every corner. The surroundings were incredibly dirty. The scene of ships and tar-covered workers in lungis was captivating. I meticulously photographed each one, spurred on by the workers' evident enjoyment. Clearly, my presence brought some variety to their routine.
When break time arrived, the men sat down to drink tea. They laughed, joked, and teased one another. Their work didn't seem to burden them as much as I had imagined. The human spirit craves positivity and good cheer, regardless of circumstances—just as it needs water and food. I wondered how long it would take me to adapt to this work if I were in their shoes, and how much longer before I'd start smiling while hammering away. As their tea break ended, the men returned to their tasks.
Today, over fifty shipyards are concentrated around Dhaka, Chittagong, Narayanganj, Barisal, and Khulna. These yards primarily construct river fishing boats, passenger vessels, cargo ships, and maritime vessels for use in the Bay of Bengal. While countries like Japan are investing in Bangladesh's shipbuilding industry—exemplified by the Ananda shipyard's successful construction and sale of its first ocean-going ship to Denmark in 2008—this remains more exception than rule. Bangladesh continues to be a land of exotic river and maritime traditions, characterized by small boats and ships, and manned by crews who resemble pirates, seemingly poised at any moment for their captain to cry, "Hoist the sails!"
Join us for an intimate small group journey to Bangladesh, where you'll experience the country's rich culture, stunning landscapes, and warm hospitality. View the complete program here.
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