The Tourist Trap

Out and about on the bike it’s not unusual for us to see tourists doing things that we consider to be mad, hilarious, ridiculous, bewildering, or all of the above. Take for example the 52-seater coach that purged all its passengers onto the edge of a field so that they could take photos of the sheep therein. Which they all very happily did! Or those who hand over fists of notes to be photographed on a manky, flea-ridden and moulting old donkey, and then pay more to sit their children on it! Or the tourists taking photos of the train notices, fascinated that anything can be late! Having laughed at them, derided them, dismissed and demeaned them, I can’t help but wonder, have we now joined their ranks?

We stroll down Dingle pier as a large fishing boat comes in, cameras at the ready to capture an iconic moment where the fish haul is lifted, sea water glistening in the morning sunshine, sea gulls flocking in the blue sky and the lined and creviced faces of the fishermen illuminated in the early morning light. Not a chance!

The boat docks and we hang around for ages, while the men in the boat chat to the men from the waiting lorry, share cigarettes (presumably without having washed their hands since handling the fish), and exchange stories, no doubt about the one that got away.

We stand awkwardly with the handful of other gawping tourists, waiting for something camera- worthy to happen. Eventually the crane shifts and the catch of the day is hoisted out of the hold. The hook clasps heavy metal chains which wrap around dozens of white plastic crates, in which the fish are already packed in ice. There is nothing for us to see: no glistening fins, no dead beady eyes, no splash of sea surf from the trawl. I can’t help thinking the crew are laughing at us.

Of the many boats docked in the marina, only one appears to have an Irish crew. The others are Spanish, Portuguese, Eastern European and Asian. The men seem to manage the presumably complicated language barriers, and the various crews intermingle and chat. Some are clearly concerned about the cameras, turning away or staying hidden when they see us preparing for a photograph. I feel guiltily voyeuristic, and wonder what they’re leaving behind that fishing (possibly illegally) this far away from home and in these often-dangerous waters, seems like a good option.   

We walk away somewhat disconsolately, just as a coachload of Americans are disgorged onto the street near the pier. We try to avoid them as we make our way to a coffee shop, slinking past the statue of Fungi. But the voices carry, and I hear one woman loudly questioning to her compatriots: ‘All of this, for one dolphin?’    

I can’t help thinking she’s right.