Chittagong is a frantic place just a little busier and more frantic than Dhaka, and as the economic centre for Bangladesh, it does come across a lot more upmarket and cleaner than Dhaka. The range of street food, market food and clothes for example, is a lot bigger than everywhere else I've been so far. Chittagong's most famous son is also Dr Muhammad Yunus, the man who pioneered the Grameen Bank - the micro credit loan systems that lend money particularly to women for small businesses.
The port is the largest one in the country where all its exports and imports come in and out. It also famously has one of the world's largest (but most exploitative and polluting) ship breaking industries - a lot of Bangladesh's metal supplies actually comes from the scrap from these yards. Driving through the city you can see the ship breaking related yards whether it be warehouses, chemicals, tools or transportation lining the main road.
T's mate's mates happened to be chartering a boat out in the harbour so we took a ride out with them. It was a bit grey but we still made it to the end of the harbour, an area before the Bay of Bangal began, before this huge storm took hold of the city. Two types of vessels are present in the harbour – gigantic shipping liners coming in and out of the harbour, some towards the end of its life and about to be sent to the wrecking yards soon, and others coming in and out with large containers like lego bricks. In contrast a handful of tiny 2-4 meter 
traditional wooden fishing boats brave the oncoming storm trying to get a catch before the weather gets too bad. The men are still working away with their oars, some pulling in the lines. They bop up and down in the giant grey waves and floating dead leaves looking like they'd topple over any time, the sky toppling bells of the shipping liners hanging over them. The scene in front of me is probably the most apt metaphor for Bangladesh's place in the world right now - struggling to stay afloat in a storm: sink or swim - is there even a choice?
Old Town & Hindu EnclaveThe next day we took a walk to the old town next to the fishing port. Just like other old towns the narrow lanes wind in every direction. Chickens and goats pluck along the road and a white rubbery like substance, probably fish guts or fish skin are lined out to dry on fence wires. The wet weather finally began to settle down a little but it rained so much overnight that puddles and flooded drains are all over the place.
We find the fishing port at the end of the old town. It was such a circus at the small port – hundreds of wooden boats line the front and men doing all kinds of work swarm the place – fixing nets, fixing boats, transporting fish, packing, or just ordering others around. Fish is packed on ice like spikes on a hedgehog on wagons pulled by bikes. The men pulling the bike were using up all their might because the ground is full of stubborn thick mud, clamping on the thin wheels of the wagon.
A lovely middle aged Hindu man started chatting us up, and took us to the Hindu enclave in the village. They certainly seem to live quite harmoniously with the Muslims here, having their own shrines and schools. The shrine was really basic and almost makeshift looking, and when we arrived there were little boys having a bit of a splash party. Its basically a small store room at the end of the lane way, with a small flooded entrance and a raised bamboo level for the idols which, while coarsely made, had beautiful gold adornments and clothes. The whole place did looked like it was going to fall over any time, but he was just so very proud of it. He showed us the local school where kids are chanting out some reading – its no bigger than 3 meters square, next to the brick lane way where men and women are carrying on their business.
We find the fishing port at the end of the old town. It was such a circus at the small port – hundreds of wooden boats line the front and men doing all kinds of work swarm the place – fixing nets, fixing boats, transporting fish, packing, or just ordering others around. Fish is packed on ice like spikes on a hedgehog on wagons pulled by bikes. The men pulling the bike were using up all their might because the ground is full of stubborn thick mud, clamping on the thin wheels of the wagon.
A lovely middle aged Hindu man started chatting us up, and took us to the Hindu enclave in the village. They certainly seem to live quite harmoniously with the Muslims here, having their own shrines and schools. The shrine was really basic and almost makeshift looking, and when we arrived there were little boys having a bit of a splash party. Its basically a small store room at the end of the lane way, with a small flooded entrance and a raised bamboo level for the idols which, while coarsely made, had beautiful gold adornments and clothes. The whole place did looked like it was going to fall over any time, but he was just so very proud of it. He showed us the local school where kids are chanting out some reading – its no bigger than 3 meters square, next to the brick lane way where men and women are carrying on their business.
He even took us inside his house – a small dark shack sheltered between two thin brick walls with the front and top covered with flax/straw mats. Its probably correct if I assume there’s no electricity or running water here - everything was dark inside and there are several buckets of water being used for different purposes. His old mother, an incredibly skinny old lady with grey hair and a worn out white sari, was crowching down low making the fire and his wife slipped to the back of the house when we arrived. As soon as we sat down on a couple of drums he provided us the entire neighbourhood was here to check us out, he seemed to be extremely proud to pick us up on the street and just laughed and smiled the entire time. This was one of the neatest and warmest experiences I've had here.
No comments:
Post a Comment