Fishing and coastal heritage in Engandiyur, Thrissur (Part 2)

Site: Engandiyur, Thrissur district

Notable aspects of heritage: Artisanal fishing, traditional knowledge, craftsmanship, community, social identity, natural environment

Challenges: Natural disasters, coastal erosion, institutional interference, changing demographics and interests

Researcher and author: Devaki Vadakepat Menon

Access Part 1 here

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Subramanian recalled his youth as comprising multiple hours on the shore during the daytime. “I would be told by my father, a renowned fisherman here, that I am supposed to learn how to reel fish, cure fish, dry fish. Sometimes I would sit on the warm summer sand with other fisher children, shielding our eyes and watching our fathers haul their boats into the calm, glittering water. Afterwards, we played football, cricket, and some tag-sort of games. In the late afternoon, the beach would be crowded with shouts, hoots, happy and excited cries, and expressions of disappointment as ten, twenty boats returned with varied catch. Does that count as heritage?” Subramanian and Indira led me to the same beach, now still and silent as the late afternoon sun glared above us. An empty, sand-filled shack stood as a lone structure on the coastal stretch.

“Over there, that’s a plot of land I used to play on,” Subramanian said, as we took shelter under the roof of the shack. He was pointing to a distant spot in the Laccadive sea.

“Land?”

“Yes, the sea has been taking away everything. Beach, boats, fishing, traditions…” trailed Indira. “Some of us still own plots of land. What’s the point of it now? Can’t sell what you can only reach with an anchor.”

Engandiyur is one of the hundreds of coastal fishing villages across Kerala that have been affected by coastal erosion and changing climatic conditions. Subramanian reported that he believes the sea has taken over 50 meters of land between the 1970s and 2024. Many houses, building materials, boats, nets, and countless assets have been washed away. Indira stated that the 2004 tsunami remains fresh in the minds of Engandiyur’s citizens as having damaged the coast the most. Indira also commented that the disaster affected homes and lives. As a result, there was a drastic transformation in people’s relationship with the sea, seemingly overnight.

“There are some government schemes that give us 10 Lakh rupees to buy a new plot, build a new house. Some of us took the offer. I have relocated further inland. You can see the house I grew up in,” Indira said as we passed a dilapidated, thatch-roofed house. Peering through windows into the sand and debris that filled every room, Indira added, “it’s like a sandy and watery grave of houses here. Not just houses, but traditions and memories also”. Engandiyur’s long-term residents grew up in houses built using natural materials. These included combinations of thatch, pucca, mud, and concrete. The reliance on natural materials for day-to-day life allowed Indira and Subramanian’s ancestors to live sustainably. In return, the coastal landscape offered them a source of sustenance and livelihood that helped build the village’s economy.

“What else did coastal erosion affect?”

“Intangible heritage, like knowledge. But I would say… traditional craftsmanship,” said Subramian immediately. In most traditional or artisanal fisher communities in Kerala, fishing gear is predominantly crafted from coir, cotton, and plant fibre. Indira and Subramanian mourned the loss of the vakka (a fibre made from flax)—a plant with a protective root system that guarded against erosion, and acted as a cost effective material for seine nets. Vakka is no longer found on Engandiyur as a result of shifting soil acidity, due to sea water inundation and salinization of freshwater sources. Protective mangrove vegetation, which Subramanian once said was abundant on the coast, has decreased significantly.

Declining natural resources, unstable shores, and harsher waves has led Kerala’s fishermen towards more robust materials. Plastic bait, nylon lines, tarpaulin sheets, and rubber and fibre nets have provided fishermen with efficient means of catching fish as environmental and economic conditions worsen with coastal disasters. The switch from simple wooden plank rafts and boats to mechanized boats, to navigate harsh environmental conditions, has resulted in rising fuel costs and pollution for many. These trends can be witnessed in Engandiyur, too, Subramanian alluded to these materials as toxic to the biodiversity of the sea and land.

“And what about that,” I asked about a large structure in the sea as we walked across the beach. “Is that helping Engandiyur’s coast?”

Breakwaters and rock walls jut out into the sea from Engandiyur’s small beach. Indira and Subramanian claim that these protective structures were created by displacing natural resources, such as stone, from further inland. The efficiency of pulimutt or breakwaters remains a point of skepticism for Subramanian, who is convinced that they have inflicted more damage upon the shore. Breakwaters across Kerala’s coast have been criticized for their haphazard construction, irregular maintenance, and unscientific development. Across many fishing villages, coastal protective measures have been blamed for capsized fishing boats and deaths, the disruption of artisanal fishermen’s routines, and increased financial burdens for economically disadvantaged fisher communities. Indira and Subramanian, too, blamed the interference of the government for the decline in Engandiyur’s coastal health and associated activities.

“They (government officials) come and go quickly after building such structures. They might get money to help us more, but they pocket it. You just know they pocket it. Also, the real damage is illegal sand mining, and resort construction. Big names—local politicians, business owners, the manal (sand) mafia—all come here to extract sand from our shores. They try to buy our land off of us for cheap prices for their hotels. The government seems to be really quiet on such matters. Now as the shore recedes, our fishermen have no place to store their boats. They all go to the nearby Chettuva harbor.”

The harbour was a large concrete complex in Chettuva, a village neighbouring Engandiyur. A few men sat with their feet hanging off the edge of the harbor dock, peddling water and streaming videos on their phones.

“As you can see, we don’t have many fishermen left,” said Subramanian. “It does get crowded later in the day, but not as much as it would’ve on the beaches…. Back in 2005, or 2010. The people you see here are mostly not from our village. We have people coming in from other states—Orissa, Bengal, Tamil Nadu. Many are hired for cheap labor by large fishing businesses. Here, the auctions happen. Middle men determine the price of fish. Before the harbor, our fathers set the price of the catch themselves. It allowed fishermen to make a profit. It involved more women in work, to peel and dry fish. Harbors have provided a way to continue fishing in harsh conditions, but they’ve taken away a lot of autonomy and made fishing more gendered.”

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Towards the end of our walk, Subramanian and Indira talked more about the decline of fishing in the village. Eventually, Subramanian led me to a verdant plot of land he owned inland. There, I received a tour of his attempts to boost the mangrove biodiversity of the village. Subramanian has been mass-planting shrubbery which he hopes will protect against further erosion of inland regions. He pointed at a spot in the soil, and said, “the fibrous root system can extend this far. The hope is that enough of these plants will stop the sea from eventually creeping into our homes inland. I suppose that’s our natural heritage, also affected by people’s lack of knowledge, and ironically also by erosion.” 

“And are you sure you will be safe?” I asked.

“Of course,” Subramanian said with a wave of his hand. “The sea possibly cannot reach us out here.”

“That’s what I thought a few decades ago,” Indira laughed as we dropped her off at her new house.

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