The Last Sea Nomads

Leaving her hut that hovers on stilts above crystal blue water, Zausiyah gets into her boat at sunrise and rows out to sea. She finds a choice spot, stores her paddle, baits four hooks, and tosses her line down into the deep waters of the Molucca Sea in Indonesia.

Sometimes the hooks come back empty. Other times she catches four fish in one throw.

“Fishing is the only thing we, the Bajo people, know,” says Zausiyah, referring to the Indigenous group she belongs to. “I started fishing when my husband went blind. I’m tired, but this is our only way to earn a living.”

Zausiyah, who like many Indonesians goes by one name, says she’s in her 60s. Her husband, Mawardi, around 72, lost most of his sight after an accident involving explosives he was using to fish.

The Bajo, sometimes spelled “Bajau,” have made their living by deep-sea fishing in Southeast Asia for centuries. Once mainly a nomadic people, they spent a large part of their lives in their boats or in offshore huts. Today their communities are scattered throughout the waters off the coasts of Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines. Indonesia is home to about 180,000 Bajo.

Zausiyah lives in a hut on stilts above the crystal blue water of the Molucca Sea in Indonesia. She gets into her boat at sunrise and rows out to sea. She finds a choice spot and stores her paddle.

Then she baits four hooks and throws her line down into the deep waters.

Sometimes the hooks come back empty. Other times she catches four fish in one throw.

“Fishing is the only thing we, the Bajo people, know,” says Zausiyah, referring to the Indigenous group she belongs to. “I started fishing when my husband went blind. I’m tired, but this is our only way to earn a living.”

Zausiyah, who like many Indonesians uses one name, says she’s in her 60s. Her husband, Mawardi, is about 72. He lost most of his sight after an accident involving explosives he was using to fish.

The Bajo, sometimes spelled “Bajau,” have made their living by deep-sea fishing in Southeast Asia for hundreds of years. They used to mainly be a nomadic people. They spent a large part of their lives in their boats or in offshore huts. Today their communities are scattered throughout the waters off the coasts of Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines. Indonesia is home to about 180,000 Bajo.

Life as Zausiyah knows it may be vanishing. Bajo used to come ashore only to trade for supplies or shelter from storms. Then, in the 1980s, Indonesia started to develop settlements on land for the Bajo and to improve the services available to them. This led to more Bajo adopting a hybrid lifestyle, splitting their time between land and sea.

Some have given up their seaborne lives entirely, getting jobs or sending their kids to school on the mainland. With more options on land, some younger Bajo have stopped fishing entirely, and there’s concern that traditional customs will disappear.

The nomadic life as Zausiyah knows it may be vanishing. Bajo used to come ashore only to trade for supplies or shelter from storms. Then, in the 1980s, Indonesia started to develop settlements on land for the Bajo. The government started to offer more services to them. This led to more Bajo adopting a hybrid lifestyle. They began splitting their time between land and sea.

Some have given up their lives on the sea entirely. They’re getting jobs or sending their kids to school on the mainland. With more options on land, some younger Bajo have stopped fishing. There’s concern that traditional customs will disappear.

“Things have changed a lot here,” says Sunirco, the leader of the Indonesian Bajau People Association, an advocacy group. He lives in a village off Peleng, one of the largest islands in an archipelago in the province of Central Sulawesi.

Unlike Zausiyah’s hut, which is separated from others by an expanse of ocean, those along Peleng’s shores stand over shallow water and connect by footbridges.

The area used to be a thick wetland forest, Sunirco says.

“I had to swim to go to school if I could not catch a boat ride. Unlike our ancestors, we are no longer boat dwellers.”

“Things have changed a lot here,” says Sunirco, the leader of the Indonesian Bajau People Association, an advocacy group. He lives in a village off Peleng, one of the largest islands in an archipelago in the province of Central Sulawesi.

Zausiyah’s hut is separated from others by the ocean. In contrast, huts along Peleng’s shores are over shallow water and connect by footbridges.

The area used to be a thick wetland forest, Sunirco says.

“I had to swim to go to school if I could not catch a boat ride. Unlike our ancestors, we are no longer boat dwellers.”

Before noon, Zausiyah is done fishing and makes her way back home. Her hut is one of a dozen supported by wooden poles anchored to the sea bottom off the coast of the island of Sulawesi. Wooden boats bob beneath each home, where shellfish hang down by strings and sea cucumbers lie scattered on the decks, drying in the sun. Here, life is still rooted in the sea.

Before climbing up to her hut, Zausiyah barters her fish for some cookies from neighbors who’ve just returned from the mainland.

Her adult children live in the village off Peleng. They take turns visiting their parents, bringing supplies such as rice, cooking oil, fresh water, and wood.

While their village is attached to the land, much of it is still not really a part of the land. Evidence of a life based on the sea’s resources is everywhere, with dried fish spread out on wooden surfaces and fishermen carrying their fresh catch to a small marketplace. Still, this is a far cry from a life lived on open water. On the edge of the village, motorcycles come and go on a gravel road connecting it to the rest of the world.

Before noon, Zausiyah is done fishing. She makes her way back home off the coast of the island of Sulawesi. Her hut is one of a dozen supported by wooden poles anchored to the sea bottom. Wooden boats sit beneath each home. Shellfish hang down by string and sea cucumbers lie scattered on the decks, drying in the sun. Here, life is still rooted in the sea.

Before climbing up to her hut, Zausiyah trades her fish for some cookies from neighbors who’ve just returned from the mainland.

Her adult children live in the village off Peleng. They take turns visiting their parents. They bring supplies such as rice, cooking oil, fresh water, and wood.

While their village is attached to the land, much of it is not really a part of the land. There is evidence of life on the sea everywhere. Dried fish are spread out on wooden surfaces and fishermen carry their fresh catch to a small marketplace. Still, this is a far cry from a life lived on open water. On the edge of the village, motorcycles come and go on a gravel road connecting it to the rest of the world.

For now, a life divided between sea and land may be as far as many Bajo will go. Adjustment to mainland life hasn’t been easy. However well-intentioned some of the government interventions may be, they’re typically done from the perspective of people accustomed to living on land and ignorant of Bajo culture.

In one case, the local government built a health center in an area considered off-limits by the Bajo, and no one would go. And while officials tend to push concrete homes and footbridges as sturdier alternatives to wood, they can feel unnatural to the Bajo—and unwanted.

Adjustment to mainland life hasn’t been easy. For now, a life divided between sea and land may be as far as many Bajo will go. The government interventions may be well-intentioned. But they are often based on the perspective of people accustomed to living on land and ignorant of Bajo culture.

In one case, the local government built a health center in an area considered off-limits by the Bajo. No one would go. And officials tend to push concrete homes and footbridges as sturdier alternatives to wood. But concrete can feel unnatural to the Bajo.

But to those who study the Bajo, there’s little question the people are increasingly assimilating to life on land and losing touch with their nomadic, seafaring past.

“The Bajo we see today are not the Bajo that we used to know,” says Wengki Ariando, a researcher at Chulalongkorn University in Bangkok, Thailand. Many Bajo, he says, “have lost their identity.”

But while the Bajo may no longer live entirely at sea, many still make their living almost exclusively from it.

Off Peleng, a fisherman named Wardi and some of his relatives tend a 50-foot-wide sero, or stationary fish trap, to intercept migrating fish. The best spots for placing these traps get handed down from generation to generation.

The morning tranquility out at sea breaks when a school of skipjack tuna heads into the trap, which has an open fence at one end and a net at the other.

But to those who study the Bajo, there’s little question the people are increasingly adjusting to life on land. They are losing touch with their nomadic, seafaring past.

“The Bajo we see today are not the Bajo that we used to know,” says Wengki Ariando, a researcher at Chulalongkorn University in Bangkok, Thailand. Many Bajo, he says, “have lost their identity.”

But while the Bajo may no longer live entirely at sea, many still make almost all of their living from it.

Off Peleng, a fisherman named Wardi and some of his relatives tend a 50-foot-wide sero. A sero is a stationary fish trap that catches migrating fish. The best spots for placing these traps get handed down from generation to generation.

The morning tranquility at sea breaks when a school of skipjack tuna heads into the trap. It’s made with an open fence at one end and a net at the other.

“Get ready, they’re coming,” Wardi yells from his observation post.

Some of his fellow fishermen begin rowing their boats to the edges of the trap. Wardi watches as the school of fish veers into it.

“They are in—close the gate,” he shouts.

Five fishermen dive into the sea to wrap the net around the day’s catch. It takes a team effort to lift it out of the water, but soon about 300 flapping skipjacks fill three boats to the brim. Cheers go up at the sight of them.

 While placing the traps at the perfect spot in the path of the migrating fish depends upon traditional knowledge, the Bajo have adopted some more modern approaches to extracting the sea’s bounty.

Long renowned for their free diving skills—plunging underwater for as long as five minutes without oxygen—some now use breathing equipment to help them go deeper and stay underwater longer as they hunt for fish. They’ve replaced traditional wooden goggles with store-bought plastic ones.

“Get ready, they’re coming,” Wardi yells from his observation post.

Some of his fellow fishermen row their boats to the edges of the trap. Wardi watches as the school of fish swims into it.

“They are in—close the gate,” he shouts.

Five fishermen dive into the sea. They wrap the net around the day’s catch. It takes a team effort to lift it out of the water. Soon three boats are full of about 300 flapping skipjacks. Everyone cheers at the sight of the fish.

Placing the traps at the perfect spot in the path of the migrating fish depends upon traditional knowledge. But the Bajo have also adopted more modern approaches to fishing.

Bajo are known for their free diving skills. They can dive underwater for as long as five minutes without oxygen. But now some use breathing equipment to help them go deeper and stay underwater longer as they hunt for fish. They have also replaced traditional wooden goggles with store-bought plastic ones.

Still, for many Bajo who are used to the traditional ways, life on land holds little appeal: The sea is home. They believe deep spiritual connections exist between the Bajo and the ocean, and that the community’s taboos should be upheld to avoid risking a reprimand from the spirit of the sea.

For other Bajo, like Zausiyah’s children, it’s another story. Zausiyah worries that the younger generation doesn’t follow the rules or forgets entirely what offends. To throw out rice or other food into the sea is taboo, as is entering a sacred area or speaking loudly and disrespectfully in nature.

“The young generations should understand that nature will give us a warning if we cross the taboos,” Zausiyah says.

After some consideration, her husband concedes that the younger generation views the sea with less reverence than he does.

“The young people nowadays are different,” he says. “They don’t even listen to us, their elders, let alone listen to nature.”

Still, many Bajo are used to the traditional ways. Life on land holds little appeal. The sea is home. They believe deep spiritual connections exist between the Bajo and the ocean, and that the community’s taboos should be upheld to avoid risking a reprimand from the spirit of the sea.

For other Bajo, like Zausiyah’s children, it’s another story. Zausiyah worries that the younger generation doesn’t follow the rules or forgets entirely what offends. She believes it’s taboo to throw out rice or other food into the sea. It is also forbidden to enter a sacred area or speak loudly and disrespectfully in nature.

“The young generations should understand that nature will give us a warning if we cross the taboos,” Zausiyah says.

After some thought, her husband agrees that the younger generation views the sea with less reverence than he does.

“The young people nowadays are different,” he says. “They don’t even listen to us, their elders, let alone listen to nature.”

Muktita Suhartono reports on Indonesia and Thailand for The New York Times.