KYAW-KYAW grimaces as he explains how he was sold, like a spare bit of machinery, to a Thai trawler captain. And how his life then slid into a nightmare of beatings, amphetamines, perpetually interrupted sleep and casual death.
Kyaw-Kyaw is 25 years old, and he can’t read or write. When he was 15 he fled from the violence and crushing poverty of eastern Burma’s Karen state and wound up in the Thai border town of Mae Sot, where he earned a bare living tending water buffalo.
A year ago, a broker arrived in his village offering work and a tempting, up-front inducement. “The broker told me I would have a good job and he gave me 8000 baht [$270] cash,” Kyaw-Kyaw says. “I asked him the nature of the work but he didn’t answer. He just said I would earn 5000 baht ($170) a month.” The broker took him south to the coast and directly to the Thai trawler – which is where he first learned he would be working at sea. “He sold me straight to the fishing boat,” Kyaw-Kyaw says with some bitterness.
Australia spends many millions of dollars a year on wild-caught fish from Thailand, where the industry is fed by thousands of boats of varying sizes and degrees of shabbiness. They are crewed largely by migrant Burmese, with some Cambodians and a smaller proportion of Laotians and Thais; most of them endure appalling conditions at sea for little pay. Imprisoned by the vast blue of the world’s oceans, they are routinely “sold” by brokers, or by one captain to another. They tell of spending months at sea without seeing land, taking amphetamines to keep working, stitching up their own wounds, trying to understand instructions in another language, enduring assaults and the threat of death. They have been described as the slaves of the modern age.
Thailand’s deep-sea fishing vessels range for thousands of kilometres, from eastern Indonesian waters all the way to Somalia and Yemen, and many stay at sea for months or even years, the crews regularly transferring the catch to a mothership and receiving supplies of food and water in return. Sometimes these vessels have legal concessions, but often they poach. The captains are nearly always Thai, and they usually carry a pistol to maintain discipline. Stories of casual and never-reported murder are common. Tales abound of put-upon crew trying to escape: leaping overboard if there is any hope at all, or fleeing into strange and pathless jungles in Indonesia and elsewhere.
The UN Food and Agriculture Organisation’s 2009 National Fishery Sector Overview for Thailand estimates that in 2007 the marine catch was worth 63 billion baht, or about $2.15 billion. Some 60 per cent of the haul, which included threadfin bream, Indo-Pacific mackerel, coastal tuna, big-eye snapper, squid, sardines, round scad and anchovies, was from Thai waters; the rest was caught by the Thai fleet elsewhere. The report concludes that the fishing sector faces various obstacles including “persistent difficulties in recruiting the crews” and problems arising from poaching. “Thai fishing vessels are frequently seized by neighbouring coastal states, and skippers accused of illegal fishing and/or unlawful intrusion in the EEZ [exclusive economic zone] of the country concerned,” it notes drily.
It’s a big industry, and one that has links with nations around the world. According to the Australian Bureau of Agricultural and Resource Economics’ Australian Fisheries Statistics 2009 report, Thailand sold Australia at least $24 million worth of frozen fish, fish ¬fillets, smoked, dried and salted fish, fish meal, fish balls, fish cake, fish sausages, caviar and caviar substitutes, and fish livers and roes. This figure excludes canned fish and seafood, which are mostly produced from imported materials. And besides exports, domestic consumption in Thailand is huge.
It seems Thai trawlers have not yet encroached into Australian waters, but Tamsin Allen, acting spokeswoman for the Australian Fisheries Management Authority, says they have been seen nearby. “Australian surveillance aircraft regularly sight large mothership and carrier-type boats operating near the Australian-Indonesian EEZ boundary; these vessels have been identified as operating in support of smaller fishing vessels in Indonesian waters. The large motherships sighted north of Australia are often of Thai origin.”
Kyaw-Kyaw, with the muscles of hard work bulging under his T-shirt, saw one of the men on his trawler fall overboard. It seems the man was not a valued crew member, because he was left to drown. “Nobody helped him,” Kyaw-Kyaw says, impassively. “We weren’t so far from shore, maybe about two kilometres. He might be dead or alive; nobody knows what happened to him.”
After eight months of working on the boat, on voyages rarely longer than a fortnight, and after fruitless requests for his wages, Kyaw-Kyaw decided to make a run for it. He asked again for money, this time saying he wanted to go to a karaoke bar, which in Thailand is often a place of drinking and commercial sex. The crew leader, from the Mon people of Thailand and Burma, grumbled, but finally gave him 3000 baht ($100). Kyaw-Kyaw took it and ran. For eight months’ work, often waking up every few hours at night to bring the catch in, he had a grand total of 11,000 baht (about $380) to show for it – and 8000 of that was the inducement to travel with the broker.
Kyaw-Kyaw says he was beaten twice, for minor infractions. Drug use was rife on the boat and a tablet of amphetamine cost just 250 baht ($8.50). He shrugs. Now he has found work as a gardener in Bangkok, and his life is much easier. As well as being unable to read or write, he can’t speak Thai very well, so his options are limited. For the moment, though, he is simply happy to be off the boat.
Like the mafia
Aung Thu Ya, president of the Seafarrers’ Union of Burma, says the Thai fishing industry is enmeshed in criminality. Falsified documents, corruption, systematic poaching, assault, forced labour: the billion-dollar trade fuels multi-dimensional and multi-faceted evil. “The nature of the industry is like the mafia,” he says in his office in Bangkok, explaining that the trawlers both steal fish from other countries and steal wages and liberty from the crews. Aung Thu Ya says that, according to eyewitnesses and other reports, between 300 and 1000 men have been murdered on the Thai fleet since 1995.
More die as a result of neglect. Aung Thu Ya proffers legal papers connected with the Prapasnavee case. In mid-2006, the Prapasnavee fleet of six trawlers returned to Mahachai port near Bangkok from a three-year voyage in Indonesian waters. The owners, the Pongsataporn family, had spent months trying and failing to negotiate an extended fishing concession for the boats. The fleet spent the time hiding in Indonesian waters, banned from entering ports, and unable to restock on food and supplies. Finally the captains were ordered to return to Thailand.
Two men had died before the boats left Indonesian waters; during the return voyage an average of three men died each day from malnutrition. The boat captains ordered the bodies to be dumped overboard. By the time the fleet reached Thailand 39 men had died, and one died later in hospital.
With the help of various aid agencies, the surviving workers sued the owners and got the police involved. The captains fled; the owners denied they were aware of conditions on the boats, and said they did not have the captains’ full names and addresses. No one has been ¬convicted, and Aung Thu Ya understands only minimal back-pay (10,000 to 40,000 baht; $340 to $1360 for years of work) has been given to those workers who agreed to the owners’ offers. “According to the stories of our fishermen, the skippers and officers – they beat, they hit, they kill,” says Aung Thu Ya. “So many cases. They torture the fishermen. But the ¬industry is booming.”
Inland from Mahachai port, in the warren of streets in the town, a few seafarers talk about their lives. Aye is very handsome, with smooth brown skin and bright teeth, and he smiles a lot. He knows, all too well, how much endurance is needed to work on Thai fishing trawlers, but he worries about having his photo taken and his name used. He fears reprisals if he tells his story. It gets worse: the people in charge of the office where he agrees to meet don’t even want their organisation named; they, too, mutter about the “mafia” culture of the fishing industry.
Sitting casually on the tiled floor, Aye talks about the horrors of life at sea. He talks about men who suffer without medicine when they’re ill, who are beaten because they fail to understand instructions in Thai, and of how he once spent two years at sea without seeing land. Aye, now 29, is from Rangoon, and he has been working on the boats for 15 years. Why does he carry on? He says he doesn’t know how to do anything else, and doesn’t know how to start.
Workers like him, with experience and some knowledge of the Thai language, have an easier time at sea. That evening he planned to catch the bus to Nakhon Si Thammarat, on Thailand’s east coast, opposite Phuket, to board a fishing boat, and earn perhaps 5000 baht ($170) a month, with no need to pay for food or accommodation. “I will go anywhere, if I can earn more money, I will go. I have been married and divorced. My aim and my goal is to earn a lot of money. I want to live like other people.”
After all, he has seen the worst of it now. In 2005, he says he saw a Burmese worker argue first with the boat’s Thai engineer, and then with the Thai captain. The captain took out a gun and shot the worker, whose body slumped into the sea. Nothing more happened, either to the ¬captain or the witnesses. “I was living at sea for a long time; how could I report it?” Aye asks. “How can we, because we are in the hands of the ¬captain.” He says with no hard evidence it would be meaningless to report such a thing to the Thai police, and laughs at the thought he could have reported it to the Burmese embassy. “We don’t even know where the embassy is.”
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