Photography has always been about curiosity for me — the thrill of capturing a story in its rawest form. One of the images that sparked this curiosity was Steve McCurry’s iconic photograph of the stilt fishermen of Sri Lanka. The image, with men perched high on bamboo poles against the endless ocean, became one of the most recognized depictions of human resilience and tradition. So when I traveled to Weligama, I was eager to see this spectacle with my own eyes, camera in hand.
But the reality was different. The shore was quiet. No stilt fishermen stood on the poles. For a moment, I assumed it was just the wrong season. Still, excited, I got out of the car and prepared my gear. And then, something curious happened: as soon as a few fishermen noticed me with my camera, they rushed into the water, climbed onto the poles, and began posing as if to recreate the scene I had imagined.
I froze, caught in a dilemma. Should I click a staged photograph — one that I knew wasn’t authentic to the moment? I could already predict what would follow: once the pictures were taken, they would ask for payment. And they did. Yet, when I looked at the situation from another angle, I realized this exchange itself carried a deeper story. What might appear staged to me was, in fact, a livelihood for them. Tourism, climate change, and dwindling fish stocks had altered their reality — and posing for aspiring photographers had become a way to supplement their income.
So I clicked. I captured not just an image but a new layer of the story. For me, that moment in Weligama wasn’t about authenticity versus performance, but about adaptability. The fishermen had transformed an old tradition into a modern means of survival. And as a photographer, I left with more than pictures; I left with a lesson that stories aren’t always what we expect. Sometimes they evolve, just like the people living them.