Between conservation and exploitation: inside Indonesia's shark trade Part 2

0:24 am. I am wide awake. In my head I go over the strategy I've planned for the day.I put a wad of 50,000 rupee notes in my pocket to pay for information and a pack of Lucky Strike to start a conversation with the traders, a small notepad in the other pocket. I get on the scooter and ride through the empty streets of Surabaya. Listening to "Highway to Hell" and the Alan Parsons Project on my headphones.

It’s  four o'clock. In the dark, the first vendors are loading plastic bags with small fish before the big ones arrive. With my  flashlight I might still take good pictures in the dark. The landing stage for the boats is just behind the market hall. This is also where the fish are sorted. At first glance I spotted another white-spotted wedgefish, a good two meters long.

And it is not alone. The smallest ones are about 30-50 centimeters long and the larger ones are all between 1.5 and 3 meters long. I use the time to walk a few rounds and get a good overview. I keep the GoPro running so as not to miss a moment.

A man who looks a bit younger than me is standing at a ramp. He has a small notebook in his hand. Every few seconds someone comes up to him to say something or ask a question.

I approach him and asked if I could ask him a few questions. He agrees and I offer him a cigarette, but he refuses.

"Do that many sharks come every day?"

"Yes, every day."

"Where do they come from?"

I give him my notebook. He writes it down.

"Where are they sold? Local restaurants?"

I slowly feel my way forward, not wanting to open the door and make him suspicious. No one needs to know that I suspect the fins are being shipped illegally to China via Surabaya.

"Yes, local restaurants, but also to fish factories."

"Where are these factories? Can you give me the name of a company?"

He writes down the name of a seafood supplier in Surabaya.

Bingo. That's what I was hoping for. But I am amazed at how easy it is to get this information.

I ask him for his phone number in case I have more questions and hold out my cell phone.

He readily enters his contact information.

I thank him and hold out a couple of bills, but he refuses them as well.

Before too many other people notice me, I go back into the hall and check on the current status of the catch. Although the situation has just gone well, I'm still vigilant. Among the people here will be the big bosses, the buyers who usually buy several hundred kilos. They are the first step to illegality. He either ships the fins to China himself or through a middleman and delivers the meat to restaurants. The former is illegal, and if anyone notices I'm asking awkward questions about it, there could be problems. These people usually have more money and a lot of influence among the locals.

Back in the hall, the large rays can be narrowed down to 2-3 individual clusters. I watch from a distance, trying to understand the dynamics of the group. An older and a younger man sit in the middle and cut the animals into small pieces. They are very precise and skillful and are constantly supplied with new fish. Two men bring in the animals, an older woman walks around constantly, and two men sit on a bench and smoke. One man stands next to the "butcher" and waits. He takes the finished pieces, weighs them in boxes and takes them out of the hall.

He looks friendly and I take the opportunity to talk to him.

He asks me what I'm doing here and I tell him that I'm interested in the fish here because I like fishing myself.

It's not easy for me to say that, especially considering what's going on in front of me. But it opens him up a bit and we talk about soccer. He tells me that he likes Jürgen Klopp and that he follows the Premier League. We talk about Lionel Messi and if he's too old to still play well. I am accepted into the group and invited to sit down. Again I offer the group cigarettes, which this time are gladly accepted.

He explains how the business works and introduces me to the people in his group; the older woman from earlier is his mother. He also shows me his boss, the buyer. His T-shirt has the name of a company on it. I ask him how he speaks English so well and he tells me that he learned it in high school. We sit together for a while, and now that I've gotten some information from the man, I try to make progress on an interpersonal level. Nobody minds that I'm filming and taking pictures, and the men make room and wait when I want to document something. The man has to go back to work and so I do another round. I go back to the pier where they are still sorting fish. Mostly small ones, which are lying in a big pile in the middle of a group of women and are distributed into baskets from there. After the previous encounters I relax a bit and the people here are not as busy as before because of the late hour. After two men want to have their picture taken, they offer me something to drink, it tastes like sugar cane juice. Next they offer me some kind of porridge and milk with coffee. Everyone is having fun and wants to see if I like it. Then someone holds out a plastic cup with a pink liquid. I asked what it was, but of course no one could explain. A woman and an older man tried to stop me from drinking it, pointing at their heads. They were very forceful. On the other side, some younger men were cheering me on to drink. Well, what the hell. If I want to get ahead, I have to take a risk. I sip from the cup. I can't identify the taste, but it does not taste healthy. A little like alcohol, but not as strong. The woman and the man become even more energetic and I decide to trust their judgment. I walk on and let the cup disappear around the next corner.

Back with the group from before, after a few minutes I noticed how my perception changed as if I had drunk a few beers.

What was that liquid? I remembered my encounter with methanol at the Full Moon party.

Around half past eight, the hall slowly empties and I make my way to a small café to regain my composure.

I feel dizzy and try to fight it off. I feel like throwing up, but I can't. I decide to drink two coffees and some water to dilute and get my circulation going again. After an hour I feel better and decide to drive back. I wonder how I would feel if I had drunk the whole cup instead of just a small sip. Well, lucky again.