Abandon Ship - Chittagong Ship Breaking Yards (Bangladesh) - Duplicate

Feb 7^th, 2010 - On Feb 1^st I made my way to the ship-breaking yards north of Chittagong along with my guide Rahmat, an employee at my hotel. After breakfast I found Rahmat waiting for me in front of the hotel along with a CNG (autorickshaw). We hopped in and were on our way. Although I was skeptical, Rahmat assured me he could gain access to a section of the shipyards lining the shore and, more importantly, provide me with an opportunity to take as many photos as I liked. My original plan was to make my way North of Chittagong solo with only a small compact camera and a shitload of perseverance. But as luck would have it I met Rahmat. 

Not only did my new friend claim to have a pal working there he told me he himself spent three months as an employee. After a half hour drive we took a left down a dirt road that snaked through a village area and eventually ended at some makeshift corrugated tin shops catering to shipyard workers. He told me to wait in the CNG while he surveyed the situation and recommended I hide my camera (larger one) until we were closer. I did as he suggested and wore my camera under my shirt. Bond. James Bond.

A few moments later he ushered me forward and we walked together through a tin barricade towards the shore. Surprisingly, nobody stopped us. At any moment I expected someone to intervene and send my ass packing. It did not happen.

And there I was. All along the shore as far as I could see were gargantuan vessels in varying stages of deconstruction stranded in the mud. Absolutely amazing. I'd entered a new world. We approached a group of gentlemen that appeared to hold some sort of oversight capacity. Again I was expecting at any moment some form of protest by a foreman or supervisor but it did not come. I was under the impression that strangers with cameras were not popular. These operations are magnets for bad press (and for good reason).

Although I was uneasy for the first twenty minutes my concerns were unwarranted as the 'friend' he spoke of was actually his cousin and one of the folks in charge was his uncle (This is how he came to be employed there himself). I was given free rein to have at it. Not only did I snap somewhere in the neighborhood of a bazillion photographs I also shot a little video. Everyone seemed to be at ease with my presence and many of the workers were requesting photographs. I can only assume Rahmat assured them I was not a journalist or activist but I am still shocked they were so nonchalant about the whole affair.

So what did I see? More like what didn't I see. When the cost of refitting an aging vessel becomes cost prohibitive it is sent to places like Chittagong to be dismantled and sold for scrap. Initially, these super tankers and other large ocean going vessels are driven full speed ahead until they are beached as close as possible to the high tide line. This is often still a considerable distance from the shore so workers are required to trod through the mud and begin their efforts where the ships come to rest. As these ships are torn asunder many of the pieces, chunks, and fragments are dragged to the shore via small and large flat sheets of metal entirely by manpower.

There was a small section of a ship being dismantled in the very spot where I stood. Tools of choice? Sledgehammers and blowtorches. Some of the folks working on the second level of what remained of a vessel were so excited to see me there they motioned for me to climb up and join them. I could not resist but I'd be lying if I said it was not apparent, even without the benefit of retrospect, that it was not the safest of undertakings. Still, the temptation was too much for me so I climbed a particularly unstable metal ladder and had a look at the 'operation'. As I stood up there trying to imagine what it would be like doing this day in and day out with little or no safety gear a skittish supervisor thought it a bit much and implored me to descend. No reason to push my luck so I complied.

The shipyards have no shortage of danger. It is everywhere. Rahmat told me that people had died the week before (four if memory serves) and that severe injury and death were an all too common occurrence. Labor is cheap. Regulations are non-existent. It gets worse. Some of the 'men' working there had conspicuously youthful appearances. Appearances were not deceiving. I discovered a 13-year-old boy in the mix but I am certain a few others were no older than 10 or 11.

I asked Rahmat why he worked there and why he'd quit. Family strife (his father had been beating him) forced him to run away. This is where he ran. As you can guess the pay is extremely 'good' for the underprivileged. Rahamt told me he earned 6000 taka ($85) per month. So that's roughly three dollars a day to consistently put one's life on the line. He was fairly lucky as he found himself in the middle of the pay scale. The children I encountered fared much worse. According to Rahmat they were lucky to earn 3500 taka ($50) per month. I am sure the salary 'skyrockets' if you have a skill (welding, metal working, equipment operator, etc.) but for many this is not the case. 

After three months he'd had enough. The danger was too high so he quit and returned home. It was unclear if he ever told his parents where he'd been. Rahmat is hoping to eventually find work in Dubai but the cost of the visa is prohibitive ($200-$300). Will he return to the yards? Hard to say. I certainly hope not.

After taking some shots of the shoreline and vicinity I asked if it would be possible to go further out and tread through the mud. No problem. We simply doffed our footwear and started slithering seaward . Not only was the mud extremely slippery but I also had to be on guard for pieces of protruding metal and other possible hazards hidden just beneath the surface. Prudence dictated I follow close behind Rahmat. Notwithstanding physical dangers I can only imagine what types of toxic chemicals are embedded in that mud and the surrounding area (I hear PCB-laced mud does wonders for skin rejuvenation).

What a scene. On one side was a large ship with its skeleton exposed and on the other the silent leviathans awaiting the execution of their death sentence. Partial corpses were strewn about , each disintegrating day by day as pieces were removed and carried away.

In the distance I witnessed workers going about their duties, appearing like ants juxtaposed along the behemoths of the sea. Hard to believe flesh and blood humans were capable of dismantling such giants. It seems a more appropriate task for titans or futuristic robots, not mere mortals.

Rahmat and I

So I stood there in the mud trying to digest the reality of what I was witnessing. Any way you slice the scene was a constant human tragedy unfolding. Children without a childhood? Men without a choice? A government without a conscience? No, that's too easy. Nothing is black and white. Nothing is ever that simple. Child labor is a terrible reality but what other options are there? Take away their jobs and where does that leave them? Their families? Is inherently dangerous work better than no work at all? Increase oversight. Increase safety standards. Lower profits. Lower wages. Choices. Terrible, terrible choices. You could blame the government I suppose but before pulling that trigger you might want to delve into the history of this star-crossed nation. You will find uffering and tragedy on an Grecian scale. There is a reason why Henry Kissinger once referred to Bangladesh to the 'basket case of Asia'.

To say I was ambivalent as I left that scene would be an understatement. I thanked all who were present for allowing me to wander around. More smiles. More of those damn smiles that carry with them irony, pathos, longing, hope, and a dozen other emotions and sentiments that tug at those existential heartstrings. 

I am nobody

And nobody is me

Nobody is bound, but

Nobody is free

I've found nobody

And nobody's found me

Nobody is blind, but

Nobody can see...

On the way back we stopped at what can only be described as a lifeboat graveyard. All those lifeboats and no one to save. We also stopped at one of the many shops along the road that sell anything and everything related to life on the sea. 
Barometers, clinometers, clocks, sextants, compasses, nautical telescopes, radios, wooden steering wheels, and maps were all on display. I felt a little like a kid in toy store. Unfortunately, Rahmat had to get back to work so I had no time to unbury the treasures I knew lay within. However, I returned the following day with my friend Andy in tow. On account of his myriad purchases the owner looked favorably upon me and sold me a brass hand held telescope for the bargain price of $14. At least it felt like a bargain but then again it was probably the 'you're too ignorant know the difference' price. Doesn't really matter because I am now the proud owner of a heavy, semi-bulky, and impractical nautical telescope. I might regret it if I did not look so ridiculously majestic and irresistible when wielding it. That's Captain Ploomer to you matey! Just give me an eye patch, a hook, and a peg leg and I'll be ready to start plundering the seven seas. Arrrrrrgh!!!