The alarm on my phone was unnecessary. I'd been awake since 5 AM, listening to voices drifting up from the beach below my room at Hotel H1. By the time I pulled on clothes and grabbed my camera, the first light was already painting the horizon pink, and the real show was just beginning.
Walking down to the beach takes exactly one minute from H1's front door. The hotel sits 200 metres from where the sand starts, close enough that you can hear the waves from the restaurant terrace. However, merely hearing about something is not the same as actually experiencing it.
The beach stretches north and south from the hotel, a vast expanse of orange sand that is firm underfoot. This isn't the pristine white sand of postcard beaches—it's working sand, marked by the daily rhythm of boats launching and landing, nets being dragged, and fish being sorted. At dawn, it becomes a temporary village.
That morning, I counted seventeen boats, although the number varies with the season and the tides. They're not the outrigger canoes you see on the river—these dugout canoes are made out of albizia tree trunks with hand-painted names in Malagasy script along the bows. "Fanantenana" (Hope), "Fahatsiahivana" (Blessing), and "Ny Fiainana" (Life)—names that reflect both faith and pragmatism.
It is July. We are currently in the season when the sea is rough. The sight of fishermen going out to sea is spectacular as they navigate the high waves crashing against the shore.
The Landing
I didn't fully understand the skill involved in beaching these boats until I witnessed a mistake. The waves here were huge and persistent, and timing matters. I watched one crew wait for nearly five minutes, riding the swells just offshore, before the fisherman spotted the right moment to land.
The boat rode a wave toward shore, the fisherman leaping out at precisely the right moment to grab the sides and run it up the beach. A mistimed landing means a boat full of water and a scattered catch. I once witnessed many such events, especially with the younger fishermen misjudging the wave and ending up chest-deep in the surf, scrambling to save their nets and fish.
Successful landings are akin to poetic moments unfolding. No one needs to give orders. They've done this dance thousands of times.
The Catch
What comes out of the fishing depends on the season, the tide, and a bit of luck. During my week in Mananjary, I watched the morning rituals enough times to recognise their patterns. The bulk of the catch is usually small, silvery fish—some type of sardine or anchovy that I never learnt the proper name for. The locals refer to these small fish as "trondro kely", and they play a crucial role in the operation.
However, the excitement arises from the unexpected encounters. One afternoon, some fishermen landed three large groupers, which drew a crowd of people to the beach, where they clustered around to take a look. Once, memorably, a crew brought in a ray that attracted a crowd of children who kept their distance but couldn't stop staring.
The sorting process occurs quickly, with trained personnel separating fish by size and type. The best specimens are placed in containers destined for the market or restaurants. Damaged fish get set aside for family meals. Nothing gets wasted.
The Business
This isn't hobby fishing. These crews are supporting families, paying school fees, and purchasing essentials like rice, oil, and clothing. The economy is tight, and everyone is aware of it. I watched one fisherman negotiate with a restaurant owner over a pile of fish, both men doing mental calculations about margins and profit.
The market price for fish fluctuates based on the catch, the season, and the number of boats that went out. A good day might bring you 50,000 ariary ($12)—not much by Western standards, but enough to matter here. A bad day, when the nets come up nearly empty, means families eat rice with vegetables instead of fish.
I noticed that the most successful crews aren't necessarily the ones with the newest equipment. They're the ones with the best knowledge of currents, tides, and fish behaviour. Ihary is a fisherman in his fifties whom I befriended. He tells me that he consistently brought in better catches than crews with newer boats. When I asked him about it, he shrugged and said, "The fish have been here longer than any of us. You learn to listen."
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| Ihary and I |
The Rhythm
By 1 PM, the landing frenzy is over. The boats are pulled high up the beach, their masts pointing toward the sky like exclamation marks. The catch has been sorted, sold, or carried home. The beach empties except for a few children playing around the boats and women collecting shells in the shallow water.
But this isn't the end of the daily cycle. Throughout the day, fishermen will return to mend nets, repair boats, and prepare for the next morning's departure. The work is constant, even when the boats aren't moving.
My fisher friend, Ihary, informs me that his wife sells the fish, and he prepares for the next activity. Men gather around their boats, checking their gear and discussing the weather and tides. Ihary has two sons, but neither of them has taken after him.
What I Learned
Staying at Hotel H1 immersed me in this daily rhythm without any effort on my part. I could have easily missed it, sleeping through the pre-dawn activity and emerging for breakfast when the beach was quiet. But once I started paying attention, I couldn't stop.
The fishermen were friendly but not pushy. They seemed amused by my interest in their work, especially when I showed up with my camera every morning. A few spoke some French, and we developed a routine of morning greetings and brief conversations about the night's catch.
One morning, a fisherman named Rivo invited me to help pull his boat up the beach. I believed I was being helpful, but in reality, I was mostly hindering his efforts. However, I appreciated the gesture, and subsequently, he taught me how to identify the various fish species in his canoe.
The View from Room 104
From my bungalow at Hotel H1, one can see the ocean. I could see the entire beach operation spread out below. It became my morning entertainment to watch the boats leave and return later in the day, along with the organised chaos of their departures and landings at sea.
The hotel staff seemed accustomed to guests who showed an interest in fishing. When I asked about the schedule, the receptionist just smiled and said, "They come with the sun." She was right—the timing varied slightly with the tides, but the boats were always back in full daylight.
I realised that access to the working beach was one of the things that made H1 special. You weren't just staying near the beach—you were staying in the middle of a living community. The fishermen weren't performing for tourists; they were just doing their work, and you happened to be there to witness it.
The Bigger Picture
This beach fishing represents something significant about Mananjary—it's a place where traditional life continues. The fishermen still read the weather based on wave patterns and bird behaviour.
Tourism isn't a big part of the local economy yet, which means the fishing operation exists for its own reasons, not for show. The fishermen are friendly to curious visitors, but they're not dependent on tourism income. Compared to places that have transformed traditional activities into tourist attractions, this environment offers a more authentic experience.
The beach adjacent to Hotel H1 provides a direct view of this genuine aspect of Malagasy culture. You just have to be willing to get up early enough to see it.
The beach fishing activity is visible from Hotel H1 year-round but is most active during the dry season (May-October), when weather conditions are most favourable. In the rough weather season, the best viewing time is between 5:30 and 12:00 noon when boats return from night fishing.
