P. Sainath

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It was 2 a.m. It was pitch dark. And we were aboard
what goes by the proud name of ‘mechanised boat,’ off the coast of Ramanathapuram district (often
colloquially referred to as Ramnad) in Tamil Nadu.

The ‘mechanised boat’ was essentially a dilapidated,
somewhat ancient vessel fitted with a Leyland bus engine (condemned in 1964, but
refurbished and adapted for this craft – and still working in 1993 when I made
this trip). Unlike the fishermen, who were all locals, I was clueless about
where exactly we were. Somewhere-in-the Bay-of-Bengal is the best I can
describe it.

We’d already been out at sea some 16 hours,
through some rough patches. But nothing seemed to dim the smiles of the five-member
crew, all of them bearing the surname ‘Fernando’ – very common among the
fisherfolk community here.

The ‘mechanised boat’ had no source of
light beyond a burning kerosene-soaked rag at the end of a stick held up by one
of the Fernandos. Which worried me. How was I going to take photographs in this
darkness?

The fish solved the problem. 

They came up in the nets gleaming with
phosphorescence (and I am not quite sure what else) and lit up the part of the
boat they were in. Bouncing the flash off them did the rest. I was even able to
take a couple of photos without using the flash (which accessory I have always disliked). 

An hour so later, I was treated to the
freshest fish I’d ever eaten, cooked on the perforated bottom of a big old tin
turned upside down. Under and inside the tin they had somehow lit a fire. We
were out at sea for two days, one of three such trips I made off Ramnad’s coast
in 1993. All the time the fishermen worked cheerfully and with great efficiency
in tough conditions with primitive equipment.

We were accosted twice by the Coast Guard
who checked us out – this was the LTTE era and Sri Lanka was just a few
kilometres away. The Coast Guard grudgingly accepted my credentials –
consisting solely of a letter from the Collector of Ramnad saying he was
satisfied I am a bona fide journalist. 

Most of the fishermen on this coast are in
debt and work for very low wages based on a combination of cash and
produce. The most educated amongst them that I met had studied up to Class 6. For the enormous risks they run, the rewards are few,
though the prawn they catch (for instance) are worth a fortune in Japan.  Oddly enough, there is not all that much of a
difference in class background between the men in this kind of craft and those of the traditional
non-mechanised fishing vessels or country boats they sometimes clash with. 

Both are impoverished and few own the
boats. In fact, almost none in the case of the ‘mechanised’ craft. We made one
more haul from the sea early in the morning – and then headed for land. The
Fernandos were smiling. This time, more in amusement at my baffled face as I
tried to understand the economics of their existence.

It&#39;s simple, one of them said: “We work to make
someone else millionaires.&quot; A shorter version of this piece appeared in The Hindu BusinessLine on January 19, 1996.

High risk on the high seas, with low rewards

ആഴക്കടലില്‍ നേരിടുന്ന വലിയ അപകടം, കുറഞ്ഞ പ്രതിഫലം

জান বাজি রেখে সাগর ছেঁচে মেলে শুধুই খোলামকুচি

ਮਿਹਨਤਕਸ਼ਾਂ ਦੀ ਮਿਹਨਤ ਸਿਰ ਪਲ਼ਦੇ ਪਰਜੀਵੀ

ઊંચા સમુદ્રો, ઊંચું જોખમ, ને નીચું વળતર

లోతైన సముద్రంలో గొప్ప ప్రమాదాలు, తక్కువ లాభాలు

ନଗଣ୍ୟ ପାରିଶ୍ରମିକ ସହିତ ଉଚ୍ଚ ସମୁଦ୍ରରେ ବିପଦପୂର୍ଣ୍ଣ ଯାତ୍ରା

बेहद मामूली मजूरी के बदले बड़े जोख़िम उठाते मछुआरे

উত্তাল সাগৰত জীৱনৰ শংকা, নগণ্য মজুৰি

கடல் வாழ்க்கையின் அதிக அபாயங்களும் குறைவான பலன்களும்

ಸಣ್ಣ ಪ್ರತಿಫಲಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಅಪಾಯವೆದುರಿಸುವ ಕಡಲ ವೀರರು

दर्यावरची बख्खळ जोखीम, फुटकळ मोबदला

گہرا سمندر، جان کا خطرہ، فائدہ کچھ نہیں

Ramanathapuram

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High risk on the high seas, with low rewards

Out on a two-night trip with fishermen off the coast of Ramnad district in Tamil Nadu, who toil, as they put it, 'to make someone else a millionaire'

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