Practicing ethnography for over a decade yields not only lived experiences but also profound insights into the realities of human life. My very first study focused on a coastal community composed of fishing groups. Due to ethnographic ethical standards, I must withhold the specific region and location of this study.
Food, But Not for Consumption
I observed how a group of people willingly endangered themselves for economic purposes—not for their own consumption, but to sell their catch and fulfill the dietary needs of distant consumers. This was the reality for one group of fishers who utilized explosives and chemical mixtures to catch fish, yet never consumed their own harvest.
They were fully aware of the risks involved. They even introduced me to a colleague who had been paralyzed due to a diving mishap, as well as others who had lost limbs or witnessed the deaths of fellow fishers. Despite this, they persisted in using these dangerous methods because it was the only way they knew that guaranteed results.
Their immediate justification was the financial gain from selling the fish. However, if money were the sole motivator, why not reserve at least a few fish for their own families? As it turned out, their stated reason was not the primary driver. There was an underlying organizational structure that prevented them from doing so. This compliance was not entirely forced, as it operated under established organizational rules that members felt compelled to follow.
Ultimately, an ethnographer must grasp an individual's role within an organization. This is crucial because while their stated grievances may sound profoundly heartbreaking, they often appear content in their daily routines. They receive wages and guarantees for their families, both of which are deeply embedded within a culture of patronage.
Temporal Regulation and the Implications of Defiance
Conversely, I encountered another group of fishers who appeared remarkably relaxed in their daily routines. While fishers in other regions worked tirelessly from afternoon until morning every single day, this specific group only operated during designated times and not on a daily basis.
Every day, I would ask, "Are you going fishing?" or "Have you caught anything?" Their responses were invariably, "Not today" or "Not at the moment." Intrigued by this pattern, I discovered that they strictly adhered to a specific division of time; they only showed enthusiasm for fishing during highly particular windows.
I could not find a foundational explanation for why they obeyed these temporal boundaries, despite having prepared myself with academic literature regarding marine fishing cycles. This impasse lasted until a non-key informant remarked, "You need to ask the person who is actually listened to."
After several days, I finally met this influential figure, who happened to be a traditional shaman (dukun). I realized that I had not yet passed by his house during my fieldwork. Upon meeting him, he proved to be very welcoming.
He explained their system of time management throughout the day—identifying when an endeavor would succeed, when it would fail or be futile, and when it would lead to fatal danger or death. This cosmic and traditional knowledge explained why these fishers did not operate like conventional fishing communities. They harbored deep anxieties about mishaps, such as losing their fishing gear, getting stranded at sea by sudden storms, or facing death. Consequently, they were immensely grateful even when they caught only a few fish, viewing a meager catch as a blessing equivalent to being spared from harm.
Conclusion
These two fishing communities illustrate contrasting ways of navigating life. On one hand, risking one's life is deemed acceptable for financial survival; on the other hand, danger is something to be avoided at all costs, even if it means accepting minimal economic returns. Ultimately, this reflects how culture is constructed and actively practiced in daily life.