Excerpts from Muncar

 The van moved with haste across the southwestern coast of Bali, packed with people (and baby chickens and sugar gliders in the backseat). The two people in the furthest row in the back were sandwiched in between piles of bags and luggage while the woman in the front kept throwing up every few hours. I was sat near the window, thankfully, making sure my nose received a steady stream of fresh air as I tried my best to sleep through the stench of livestock, sweat and vomit permeating the small white van with a barely working air conditioning system. 

I had purposefully downed an especially potent sleeping pill to make the trip as bearable as possible. It wasn't my first time crossing over to the island of Java by car, but it was the first time I had done so for work. As the car finally settled in the ferry, I sat in the outdoor seating area, finding comfort in the cold metal seats after being cooped up the past 4 hours as I drank in the sights of West Bali. My eyelids grew heavy as the breeze gently caressed my cheeks. When I woke up, we had arrived in Ketapang Harbor. Fishing boats passed by and small buildings came into view as our boat finally docked. It was still another hour before we reached the fishing port of Muncar. I was sweating profusely under my new black sweater, a graduation present from a dear friend. We grew tireless and bothersome as the car continued to travel under the blazing heat towards Muncar. 

After an hour (although it felt more like an eternity), we finally arrived in Muncar, a few kilometres shy of the infamous fishing port. It was mid day and I immediately lied down on the cold marble tiles of my colleague's house, relieving myself of the sauna I had endured walking to the house after the car dropped me off at the wrong place. I slept again for an hour before finally riding the motorcycle to my guesthouse near the port. 

I was finally able to visit the port the morning after and it was unlike anything I had ever seen. The plethora of flamboyant and brightly colored boats, big and small, decorated the port with unmistakable grandeur. Evident touches of Javanese nuances uniquely characterized the boats as those of Muncar fishing boats. It was noticeably quiet, apparently people were resting since it was "Jumat manis", the designated rest day for fishers and merchants alike. There were still a few people here and there, moving styrofoam boxes of fishes off the boats to be sold in the open air market. The air was especially pungent and I instinctively scrunched my nose as I moved deeper and deeper into the market. Further closer to port, wide fields of fish were being dried in direct heat, adding to the heavy, thick scent of fish in the air. 

The next few days were filled with interviews, getting to know fish merchants and the wider local communities. A new section had been added to my catalogue of fishing communities. The people of Muncar were tough, resilient and knowledgeable. Fishing is second nature to them. It is also the central, silver lining connecting each and everyone within the community. Whether you're a boat owner or a simple crew member, the camraderie of each fishing crew was endearingly palpable as they got together every afternoon to stitch their damaged nets before leaving again for the waters of the Bali strait in search of mackerels. 

Before I knew it, I was hastily bidding everyone farewell after spending a memorable 4 days in Muncar. I rode the ferry back to Bali and watched as the peninsula grew smaller and farther away, the open arms of the island of the gods embracing me upon my return. I smiled watching the short clips I took of the short, fleeting moments I had in Muncar, thinking of the words I will be using to perfectly encapsulate my trip to Muncar in a single narrative and inevitably wondering if I will ever be able to return and visit.