Secret beach, where ‘bule’ never come to visit. Fishermen beach. Their small blue boats, fortified with bamboo construction, stand in a row in front of the wavy Indian ocean. Fisherman use the bamboo structure for pushing them into the water, and pulling them out again when the day of a hard work is over.
In the arms of a tiny bay, rocks are covered with green and dun algs. They are colletcted by locals, to be mixed with rice flour and cooked in a hot sizzling palm oil. The villigares rely on what the sea kindly offers each day. Early in the morning, and once again jus before the sunset, tired fishermen are bringing their boats back from deep waters. They know their way back between treacherous rocks and mighty waves. The decks are loaded with fresh fish, later to be sold in Yogyakarta or eaten for diner. The beach is the place, where they fix their old boats, dry fishing nets and crab cages. It is where they spend most of their day, preparing for the next expedition into the blue ocean waves. This is also the place where they dump everything which doesn’t serve then any more. Plastic containers, styrofoam boxes, dead fish parts, pieces of used strings and terpauline, torn socks, empty cans, scraps of rubber, straws, old bottles, broken glass, cigarettes, parts of fishing equipment, coffe sachets, lost shoes. These are a few of many more unwanted rubbish left behind, mixed with the seashells and white coral reef debris.
Sun sets down, shedding it’s light on the cliffs. Swallows are flying high in a light blue sky. They are gliding on the strong ocean wind. Fishermen are finishing to push the last boat onto the shore. It is heavy. This is their last effort for today.
That place belongs to them. It’s THEIR beach. Flags attached to every ledge, are proudly flattering in the wind. This is their home. Maybe, I think for a moment, it makes their life complete in a way we can never comprehend…