A Day in Argomulyo Village

Photos and words by Lutfi Retno Wahyudyanti

"We are the servants of our cows," Agus laughed while he harvested paddy. "Every day, we feed them, give them water, bathe them, and clean up their dung. They just stay in the shed and do nothing."

Agus (62 years old) spends three to five days a week harvesting other people's rice fields with a group of fellow farmers. They are not paid in cash. Instead, the landowner provides snacks and allows them to take home the paddy straw to feed their cattle.

This is everyday life in Argomulyo, a village on the slopes of Mount Merapi in Yogyakarta. Many of the villagers no longer own enough land to support their families. Some have no farmland and rely on seasonal work on other people's fields. Throughout the year, they help plant rice, spread fertilizer, remove weeds, and harvest crops. Some of these jobs are paid, while others are based on mutual assistance, with payment coming in the form of food or fodder rather than money.

For Agus, farming has always been physically demanding and financially uncertain. Yet he continued because he wanted something different for his children. "I worked hard so my three children could go to school," he said. "I didn't want them to become farmers."

Like many young people in the village, Agus's children chose other careers. Some work as construction laborers, shopkeepers, or petrol station attendants in the city. Those with higher education have become teachers or civil servants. Across rural Java, farming is becoming a profession of the older generation.

Agriculture no longer offers a reliable income. The prices of rice, vegetables, and other crops often collapse during bumper harvests, while production costs continue to rise. Farmers spend more each year on fertilizer, pesticides, fuel, seeds, and labor. At the same time, climate change has made rainfall less predictable, increasing the risk of crop failure.

Some families sold their farmland to finance their children's university education or help them pursue careers outside agriculture, such as becoming police.

On Java, Indonesia's most densely populated island, many farmers cultivate less than 1,500 square meters of land. Others own no land at all and survive by working on other people's farms while taking on additional jobs whenever possible.

In Argomulyo, rice remains the preferred crop because it requires less maintenance than vegetables or fruit. Farmers can usually harvest three times a year. Each harvest produces around 12 to 20 sacks of unhusked rice, with each sack weighing about 25 kilograms. A landowner may earn between 5 and 8 million rupiah from one harvest. For many families, that is not enough to cover annual living expenses. Outside the planting season, farmers work as construction laborers, sell snacks, drive motorbike taxis, or take any available temporary jobs to get extra income.

As younger generations leave, the village itself is changing. Most of the remaining farmers are now over 50 years old. Their children have moved to cities, found work in factories, or become migrant workers overseas. As farming becomes less profitable, agricultural land is gradually being converted into houses, shops, and other developments. 

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Life After Sulphur: The Shifting Economy of Ijen Crater

Photo: Oleg B

Fifteen years ago, tourists visiting Ijen Crater, Banyuwangi, would meet hundreds of sulphur miners making their way up and down the mountain. They regularly climbed the 2,443-meter volcano before dawn using a torch. They bring a pair of empty wooden baskets and a crowbar to mine the sulphur.

Near the craters, miners pried chunks of sulphur from the volcanic deposits using crowbars. After loading their wooden baskets with 50–70 kilograms of sulphur, they walk for a two-hour journey down the mountain. They worked early in the morning because the toxic gases became more concentrated as the day approached noon. It was dangerous and exhausting work. The contrast between the miners' hardship, and the crater's beauty attracted photographers, journalists, filmmakers, and YouTubers from around the world.

Many of their stories focused on the miners’ risks working surrounded by poisonous gas for a little pay. Images of men carrying heavy loads for hours became the Ijen identity. Thick calluses marked their shoulders and backs after years of transporting sulphur along steep mountain trails. For many miners, that is a better option than other work.

Most came from villages around Banyuwangi, about an hour's drive from the crater. Some were landless farmers, while others owned small plots that could not provide a proper income. Farming offered seasonal earnings, but daily expenses required cash every day.

"I tried every job available," said Sam (36 years), who worked as a sulphur miner for five years. "I worked on plantation and construction sites, but the work wasn't always available. I have a wife and three children to support. I followed my neighbour’s path and became a miner because the company paid us in cash every time we delivered sulphur to the collection point." Like many miners, Sam had only completed elementary school. There are a few employment opportunities nearby for them.

The sulphur mining operation began in 1968 when a company called CV Argomulyo, later becoming PT Candi Ngrimbi, started extracting sulphur from the crater. The mineral was used in cosmetics, fertilizer production, and the bleaching processes for paper and sugar. In the early years, miners were paid just 2 rupiah per kilogram.

By 2010, approximately 14 to 15 tonnes of sulphur were extracted daily from Ijen. Today, production has fallen to around 4 tonnes daily as industries increasingly rely on alternative sources of sulphur. Instead of that, tourism has transformed Ijen.

As news of the crater's beauty spread and the government repaired infrastructure to reach the crater, visitors began arriving in increasing numbers. At the same time, media coverage highlighting the harsh lives of sulphur miners made the crater even more attractive. Recognizing its tourism potential, local authorities began actively promoting Ijen since 2012 through festivals, events, and tourism campaigns. Today, during long weekends and school holidays, the number of daily visitors could reach 1,500 people. 

"A French tourist visited around 2015 or 2016," Sam remembered. "He felt sorry for the miners and donated five trolleys to help transport sulphur." Soon, other miners began building similar trolleys. Initially, the carts were used solely for transporting sulphur. Miners parked them near the crater rim and walked downhill for the remaining 500 meters. A miner could make four or five trips to the crater and bring the entire load using the trolley.

Photo: Wirestock

Many visitors wanted to reach the crater viewpoint but found the three-hour hike along rocky mountain paths too difficult. Some began asking miners to transport them using the trolleys. What started as an occasional request gradually evolved into a new source of income.

Today, tourists can pay around 1,000,000 rupiah ( 80 USD) to be pushed uphill and 500,000 rupiah (35 USD) for the descent. The uphill trip requires two or three people to move the trolley, so they ask for a higher cost. Even so, a single passenger can generate far more income than carrying sulphur. For comparison, miners are paid around 1,500 rupiah ( 1 cent USD) per kilogram of sulphur. Although a trolley allows a miner to transport up to 150 kilograms at once, tourism offers a better income with less physical risk.

As a result, many miners have abandoned sulphur extraction. Sam is one of them. Today, he works as a guide, accompanying visitors around the crater. A five-hour work can earn him around 250,000 rupiah (12 USD) —significantly more than he once made mining sulphur with much lighter physical work. But not every miner has made the transition. Peak tourism is seasonal. The miners still need reliable incomes, and some workers continue mining because it remains the most dependable option available to them. Nowadays, only around 50 miners work full-time extracting sulphur.

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A Kampong Between the Tides

Photo by Yusran Ucang

Text by: Lutfi Retno Wahyudyanti

I go sailing before dawn

to earn a living,

wandering alone above the waves,

against the current.

— Samma Pammisi, a traditional Bajau song

Before sunrise, a stocky middle-aged woman rows a weathered wooden boat across Tomini Bay. As Halima paddles, she sings Samma Pammisi, a Bajau song about the life of a fisherman.

Halima is heading toward an uninhabited island, ties her boat, and begins walking along the shoreline. Her eyes were watching every crevice between the rocks. She thrusts her iron spear into a narrow gap. Found nothing, she moves and tries again. For hours, she repeats the same movement.

Near noon, Halima shouts joyfully. She has caught her third octopus of the day. Three octopuses mean she can buy rice and diapers for her elderly parents—and save a little money. On calm days, she searches for whatever the sea still offers that has value.

Photo: Tomy Pramono

"Nowadays, I only look for sea cucumbers, giant clams, and octopuses," she says. "Fish are no longer worth much. They sell for only around 20,000 rupiah per kilogram (1,5 USD). During half a day at sea, I have to earn enough to buy diapers and medicine for my parents."

She prefers to catch octopus that could sell for about 100,000 rupiah ( 8 USD) per kilogram. Each octopus usually weighs 600 to 800 grams. She also collects giant clams that fetch between 150,000 rupiah ( 10 USD) and 200,000 rupiah (15 USD) per kilogram, while dried sea cucumbers can sell for as much as one million rupiah (75 USD).

Most fishermen in her village spend days or even weeks at sea, which Halima cannot. Her parents have been ill for years. She must return home every afternoon to care for them. She lives in Torosiaje, a Bajau village built entirely on stilts above the waters of Tomini Bay in Gorontalo, Indonesia. Hundreds of wooden houses stand above the sea, connected by narrow wooden walkways.

Long before these houses existed, the Bajau lived aboard soppe—traditional wooden boats that served as both home and transportation. Some of them then stayed and created a floating village. In 1980, the Indonesian government relocated the community to the mainland. Many families stayed, but others returned to the sea because they earn a living from the water. Today, around 1,500 people live in Torosiaje and still depend on fishing.

"I never finished elementary school," Halima says. "I left in the second grade because I followed my parents to sea."

For many Bajau families, formal education was once considered necessary only to learn basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. The nearest schools were far away, and many children eventually dropped out to help their parents fish.

Life at sea has always been dangerous. Between November and January, strong seasonal winds often sweep across Tomini Bay. Locals call them the "widow winds" because they took the lives of many fishermen.

Today, climate change has made these winds increasingly unpredictable. Halima knows that uncertainty well. She became a widow herself when her only son was still a toddler, after leaving an abusive husband who never supported the family.

Women who dive for octopuses and giant clams in Torosiaje are rare. The work requires exceptional diving skills that are passed down to Bajau boys who spend much of their childhood in the sea. Halima learned because she had no other choice. Although she has eight siblings, she alone became responsible for caring for their aging parents. 

The Bajau are often called sea nomads, renowned for their ability to free dive and navigate coastal waters. For generations, they fished mainly for subsistence or traded their catch for food. That way of life has changed. Today, they also pay for school fees, mobile phone credit, electricity, fuel, and household appliances. Those growing needs require catching more fish.

Traditionally, Bajau fishermen relied on hand lines, spears, nets, and small multi-hook fishing lines. But rising demand for seafood and shrinking catches have pushed some to use destructive methods such as blast fishing, despite government bans. Fishing itself has also become more commercialized. Investors—many from the Bugis community—now finance boats, engines, fuel, and fishing gear. In return, fishermen work under profit-sharing arrangements or monthly wage systems, replacing the more independent livelihoods of the past.

Meanwhile, climate change, coral degradation, and pollution have reduced fish populations in the coastal waters surrounding Torosiaje. Fishermen must travel farther offshore using motorized boats, increasing both fuel costs and financial risk. These changes are reshaping the work choices of the next generation. While many boys once became fishermen after finishing high school, more young people now leave the village to seek work in cities.

Each morning, Halima still rows into the bay singing Samma Pammisi. Yet she quietly admits that she is saving money to open a small grocery store at her house. After decades on the water, she is tired of rowing. Perhaps, in the years to come, the song that she sings to celebrate a life at sea will become less meaningful.

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