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Sunday morning in the Dili fish market.
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The fish market – perhaps only one of several such markets – is some 15 minutes’ walking from my hotel in Dili, East Timor.The iridescent colors of some of the tropical fish, freshly caught and sprayed with water, had aroused my curiosity earlier.On this leisurely Sunday, I decided to take pictures of some of these patterns, of light and shape and arrangement on tables.
The fish stalls form a row by the curbside. Further behind as well as in the shallow water, there is a lot of background activity going on. Fishermen tend their nets. Women cook in little eateries. Cocks, dogs and small children are all over the place.
When I had exhausted my photo frenzy, I sat down, the only foreigner wide and far, for a mediocre cup of coffee and a delicious roll of bread. I didn’t really know on what note to conclude my adventure. It was hard to avoid the impression of some kind of animal martyrdom, and of an unwelcome and burdensome complicity. But, then, this is a cottage industry type of fishery, not a reckless bottom-trawler war. I saw this extremely skinny young woman, apparently hesitating to buy. I decided only the Timorese could negotiate the moral terms of their trade. Grateful they let me walk away with the pictures.
