Afloat in Bangladesh

A hypnotic river cruise aboard an old-fashioned paddle-boat steamer.

Article by: Hilary Heuler, May 2008

A cursory glance at the map of Bangladesh will tell you everything: this is a land defined by water. Rivers, streams and rivulets marble the countryside in the winter and flood it in the summer, when the broad Jamuna River swells into a fluid sea of melted Himalayan snow. In fact, the country is so densely veined by waterways that soldiers' camouflage uniforms aren't army green, they're blue.

On either side the shore is slipping past like an impressionist painting, green rice fields and golden sand glowing through the morning mist.

Fortunately for the road-weary traveller, there is a comfortable - nay, luxurious - way to travel on the water instead of around it. Southern Bangladesh happens to be home to some of the most fascinating riverboats in the region, particularly the historic old paddlewheel service known as the Rocket. Built by the British in the dockyards of Calcutta, these four Mississippi-style paddlewheels have been plying the waters between Dhaka and West Bengal since the 1920s. Today, first-class passengers can still experience the river much as their colonial predecessors did...just chalk it up to good old-fashioned Bangladeshi hospitality.

Contrary to its name, this Rocket isn't exactly speedy - a boat trip between the southern town of Khulna and Dhaka takes around 28 hours, while by bus it can be done in eight. But it's hard to imagine a more enjoyable way to experience a bit of South Asia's living history.

We board in Khulna in the dead of night, shuffling past several dozen motionless figures huddled like refugees under blankets and tarps on the loading dock. The next morning, I wake up in an elegant wood-panelled ship's cabin, complete with clean white sheets, a fan, a reading lamp (circa 1945) and a small sink. I wander out onto the deserted first-class deck and am instantly enchanted - on either side the shore is slipping past like an impressionist painting, green rice fields and golden sand glowing through the morning mist. From time to time a woman in a bright sari strolls by. Fisherman wade in with their nets, and a small boy runs along a sandbar trailing a home-made kite. Someone on the bank waves.

'Your breakfast, madam?' The steward appears with fried river fish, an omelette and toast. Tea is served in delicate gold-rimmed china. Like all meals on-board, it comes off as a half-forgotten interpretation of British cuisine; food on the Rocket bears no resemblance to anything I have ever tasted in Bangladesh. But the steward beams when I praise the fish, and promises to cook me more for lunch. All day long he hovers around me, deliberate and proprietary in his tidy red uniform.

The Rocket's four paddlewheel steamers were British-owned until 1971, when they were nationalised by the new Bangladeshi government following the country's bloody war of independence. The engines weren't converted to diesel until the 1980s. But the boats were warmly embraced by a populace accustomed to life on the water, and ticket sales never flagged.

By midday, the sounds of people singing and clapping begin to float up from below, and someone has turned on a radio. A fingerless beggar reaches through the gate separating first from third class. On the deck, I've been joined by a group of bearded Imams trying, in the politest possible way, to convert me to Islam. Wooden canoes glide past on either side, farmers harvesting the water hyacinth that lies on the river like a heavy duvet.

The old and new worlds blend so smoothly here that it isn't until our first shore-leave that I am struck by what an anachronism the Rocket really is. The rowdy port of Barisal is a carnival of Christmas lights, crowded with street vendors selling curry, fried puri (bread stuffed with dahl) and crispy little nests of fushka (mashed potato and chickpea served in a pastry shell). And there, dwarfing our quiet vessel, is the future of riverboat travel: a flock of enormous, brightly lit commercial cruise ships blasting Hindi music across the water.

The old wood creaks softly with the vibrations of the motor, and the big wheel churns.

A full day on the boat slips smoothly by, and before I know it I'm sitting on the darkened deck watching the flickering lights of the shore drift past the railing. The old wood creaks softly with the vibrations of the motor, and the big wheel churns. A voyage like this can be a holiday in itself, a blissful, occasionally surreal retreat from dry land and everything that comes with it.

But in the end, there isn't much time to say goodbye. I open my eyes at dawn to find myself thrust into a chaos of barges, boatmen and clanging bells; like Dhaka's streets, Dhaka's port is a hive of activity. Canoes swarm hopefully around larger vessels, shuttling people, transporting cargo, angling for a piece of the action. I barely have time to collect myself before I am hustled off the boat back into modern Bangladesh.