Dried skins of manta rays hang from shopfronts, dazed fish swim in tiny buckets and fish gizzards are presented in wicker baskets, whilst the smell of dried fish mingles with a sweeter aroma (mango?) At the back of a tiny shop selling faded plastic toys sits a family around a tiny table eating noodles, the bluish flicker from the TV in the corner playing on their faces.
I like this place. There’s something primal here…the ghosts of past generations of fishermen are etched into the alleyways and crevices, each little shrine a reminder of the nets that have been cast and the fish tallied. A schoolboy runs up and says in very deliberate English, “hello, I’m nine and I go to Tai O primary school…”