Outside the hotel in pre-dawn darkness a coach picks up our group to go to Sassoon Docks. Amidst a cacophony of horns, we wind our way through traffic. The guide tells us fishing boats can go to sea for up to three weeks. Smaller ones without refrigeration may only go out at midnight and bring their haul in next morning.
Fish, prawns and other seafood are sorted into containers on deck ready for the day’s market. We alight and our guide leads us into the melee of locals. Following the baton raised above heads, I clasp my friend’s hand, not wanting to be lost in the crowd. It’s still too dark to see well.
Fishing boats, below the harbour wall, are clustered together. Their bright deck lights illuminate the catch. They are wide-decked timber boats more than twelve metres in length with small coach houses. Some have their gunnels painted bright blue.
Fishing boats unloading their catch
Orders made up on the dock
Colourful flags adorn the fishing boats
We walk past a grimy concrete area covered with large aluminium bowls, lip to lip. Each contains shiny fish of different species. A strong salty smell wafts from the sea’s bounty. As the sky lightens, we can see the dark-haired men with brown eyes. Women in colourful saris, bowls atop their heads, push past us. I notice a few looks of annoyance. As tourists we are getting in the way of their daily struggle to make a living. These women take orders from people in apartment blocks and deliver to customers by 8 am.
Amongst the seething bodies, we attempt to push and weave our way through this human mass. I notice the edge of the harbour wall getting ever closer. It’s a three-metre drop down to fishing boats surrounded by polluted water. My anxiety level rises. Injury is certain if any of us fall over not to mention the chances of disease if water is ingested. The likely care in an Indian hospital does not bear thinking about. The fearful faces of my companions prompt me to act. When I catch the eye of our guide, I yell, ‘This is dangerous.’ She nods in agreement and leads us out of the masses. This is certainly the real India. I have never been in such a suffocating crowd in Australia.
Our guides in saris
The drop down from the wall to the boats
Transport in and out of the dock area
In less-busy areas we see crushed ice being bought in woven baskets. One lad loads three huge blocks onto a bicycle and rides off. A cart full of crushed ice is dragged by. The load is fed down a calico chute into the hold of a vessel.
Colour coded fuel drums are being filled from a tanker then delivered to boats. After the frenzy of activity, we could wander along the dock. In sunlight the fishing boats are bright with flags: tangerine, yellow and multi-coloured stripes.
The sun is a pink ball in the polluted haze as we look out to sea. I watch as a woman empties her rubbish bag straight into the putrid harbour. Our guide shakes her head. We are told education about pollution has started. It will be a while before practices change.
Deck of a larger vessel strewn with ropes and nets
Ice going down a fabric chute
A pink sun in the pollution haze
Photos: Robyn McWilliam