Quarter Year

Before sunrise the next morning we arrive at the beautiful lake – it supports some primitive docks and a few simple shelters on stilts about a hundred yards out, serving what purpose we’re not sure. Even at dawn a fisherman was returning, quietly beaching his dugout on the flat, grassy shore and carrying his catch home to the village.

The mysterious structures in the lake

We took pictures as the sun rose over an eastern ridge and sprayed soft light, through clouds, onto the bamboo docks. We tried to catch the docks as silhouettes. We tried to capture a ground mist as it drifted over the shore where the lake’s edge blurred with grasses. We tried to capture ghostly fishing nets that hung on posts to stay dry overnight.

Eventually, as the town awoke, we tried to capture a man and his two young sons going out to fish in a double-hulled dugout, the younger one so small that his brother had to carry him piggyback through a foot of water to the boat. Dad used his oar to push them through the grasses, then he paddled the boys just 20 yards offshore to where they would fish.

Men began to trickle out of the village after this – a man with his son, a young boy by himself, an older man alone. All were heading out onto the water to catch their food.

The dock

I found out this village is called Limpah and it’s associated with the small mountain hamlet of Munduk, where we were staying. I asked a guy we met if the lives of people in Limpah were different than the lives of people in Munduk and he didn’t really understand the question at first, then said, “no.” I suppose it was a weird question to ask in the first place, I’m not sure what kind of answer I expected.

The town

Sorry to bring this up in a travel email, but I have to share it:

That night I watched a documentary about fishing in Senegal. I’ll spare you most details, but there was one sequence that changed my understanding of our relationship with the third world. Because European waters are over-fished, European vessels now fish in West Africa. In Senegal, a fisherman can no longer earn a living because a European vessel is depleting the fish stocks. To support his family, the man is forced to immigrate to Milan, Italy. The documentary finds him working a factory’s midnight shift. He says, “Of course I’d rather be home fishing with my sons. But there’s no fish left, so I have to come to Europe to earn money to send home.” In a nearby market, restaurants buy fish from Senegal. I imagine an Italian couple ordering the fish and complaining about the surging population of Senegalese immigrants.

First world consumers are buying away the primary source of protein for areas of the third world because it tastes good. Literally starving people.

(A picture says a thousand words: Click here.)

Back here in Bali, we ask a lady if it’s ok to swim in a waterfall and she says, “No.”
“Is it dirty?”
“No, it’s too cold.” Azure and I laugh at this a little, as the cold water would be fine for us. Remembering the perfect little village in the mountains, Azure asks if we can swim in the lakes.
“No,” she says. “It’s dirty.” She explains that the nearby vegetable farms’ runoff includes chemical fertilizer and pesticides.
“But people eat fish from the lake?” I ask.
“Yes.”

So that’s the situation. I look at the Senegalese man and that photo essay and wonder how I could justify eating fish. Then I hear about vegetable farms poisoning lakes and fish (and the toxins they’re putting directly on the food) and wonder whether I could even justify being a vegetarian in Indonesia.

Anybody can tell you how much I love tuna sandwiches, but there still seems to be no politically responsible option other than local, organic, vegetarian.

The temple that punctuates the town.