Mekong gauntlet

A first glance at any market in these parts, and you can start to grasp just how big big a role fish play in the Asian diet. Pork, chicken, ducks, eggs, (frogs, egg fetus, intestine) are important supporting actors, but here fish is the star. From what I've seen, mainly little fish, dried fish, displayed in aesthetic swirls or neat bundles. Fresh fish, fish sauce, fish eggs, fermented fish, fish flakes, tiny fish to sprinkle on as a topping to any meal.

Clearly the Gulf of Thailand is the source of some of fish consumed, fish caught with hook, net, or dynamite. For some reason, perhaps because I'm fresh from seeing the mighty Amazon, world's most productive river, I was keen to explore the Mekong River fisheries, reputed to be the second-most productive river in the world, fish-wise. The Mekong starts on the Tibetan plateau, sprinting away from the mountains, winding through the southern China's Yunnan province, before assuming a steady pace south. The lower stretches of the river feed hungry mouths in Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam. Fish life in the lower Mekong is greatly enhanced from a giant lake in the heart of Cambodia- Tonle Sap. I'm told that the Tonle Sap is the source of three-quarters of all the fish caught in Cambodia, and much of the Laos take as well. Many fish migrate out of the Tonle Sap and up to Mekong, later to return back to their mother lake. I'm hoping to explore a stretch of the Mekong (time and visas allowing), before looking for fisheries in Tonle Sap itself. (Maybe I'm trying to justify why, after arriving in Bangkok, I headed directly away from the water and into hilly northern Thailand.)

At the border of Thailand and Laos, only a few miles south of China's border and near a region once renown for it's opium production (an area known as the Golden Triangle), I caught my first glimpse of the Mekong. I wasn't expecting much- a big brown river- so the river's striking beauty was a welcome splash in the face. Here the water forms the border between the two countries, dark striated rock and fine white sands line the banks, and it seems like a contest as to which side of the river can foster a bigger smile. On the Laos side, the greeting switches from sa-wat-dee kap! to sa-bai-dee!, and Beerlao seems to own or sponsor everything, like Coca-Cola in South America. There's a contagious energy at the convergence of multiple countries that is hard to ignore, a turbulent swirl of cultures and languages that is partially mixed but not willing to dissolve into something consistent. Unlike the diversity of a big city housed within a single country, where there seems to be a constant push to continue the blending process, these international convergence zones seem more stable with their chunky blend, and so them seem a little more vibrant and turbulent.

In Huay Xai, Laos, I watched men and their sons set up intricate networks of stakes in the river shoals, forming a "V" in which fish heading upstream would be funneled through a slot and into a fish trap. A fish weir of sorts, Mekong-style. I also poured over the design of a few complex reed and stick cornucopias set in the shallows. Fish enter the trap and trip a dangling strand of monofilament, which then releases the trap door at the entrance. I'm amazed that these traps could actually work with river currents, shifting sand bars, and cunning fish. Other fishing styles used here are cornucopia-shaped traps, with a tapered opening a-la lobster or p-cod pots, and the old Alaskan favorite- dipnets.

Heading downstream, I soon realized that nearly every eddy of the river was being fished, at least at some point in the year. Stemming out of the reeds or wedged into the rocks, arching wooden poles- as long as 10 meters- dangled over the water. From these hung gillnets or lines (baited hooks?). Hundreds of patient fishing poles waiting for the upstream flow of fish. In more calm stretches of the river, lines of plastic water bottles marked the top of gillnets. In between tending these setnets, fishermen in long, slender canoes would stand and etch perfect rings in front of their canoes with cast nets. Although fishing techniques and tools are basic, the fishing pressure on this stretch of the river is impressive. Hard to imagine any fish making it past this assorted gauntlet of trickery.

Luang Prabang is a small city in Laos, bordering the Mekong, French colonial influence still evident, full of warm and friendly Laos folk and- to my eyes- overrun by tourists. Here locals have learned that many westerners will bite at the familiar tuna sandwich before nibbling unknown curry dishes or Lao fish soup. Across the river, based on a wide sandbar, local fishermen were not sandwich artists, and were probably wondering why this falang was hanging out on the wrong side of the river, asking in confusing gestures to help with net mending work. Here in patient action was a new variation of fishing to my eyes- a Mekong driftnet fishery.

For the bulk of the day, fishermen stood on the edge of the sandbar, cleaning weeds and algae from their gillnets. Gear work and preparing to make a set consumed most of the day- a pattern true to most any fishery anywhere I'd guess. It seems that vegetable matter is thick in the Mekong, and nets are great at catching it all. Each fisherman had a net 250 meters long and about a meter deep. Wine bottle corks served to float the cork line. Most of the fishermen had actually sistered together two gillnets of different mesh size. Bee and his son, with whom I tagged along for most of the day, used one net with 5-inch mesh, paired with one of bigger dimensions. Bee's canoe, like the others, was all in all very similar to that of those used along the Amazon. Parallel evolution for similar demands. Unlike Amazon boats, though, these Mekong canoes have flared bow and stern, and the bow has an elegant fork that, to me, has the likeness of a dragon. A mix of the pragmatic or artistic, this flared, forked bow transforms a basic canoe into a real looker. The canoes are powered by the same long-shafted lawnmower engines used in the Amazon, although the motor is often mounted midship.

After clearing junk from the net for an hour or two, Bee and other fishermen ferry most of the way across the river, each on their own schedule. From there, they begin to lay out their net, setting quickly and angling back towards the sandbar and just slightly downriver. The Mekong pumps along at around 10 kilometers an hour in this stretch, so immediately the net begins to drift downstream. The fisherman follows the net downstream for a kilometer or so, before quickly hauling his net and returning to the sandbar to repeat the cycle. Today, vegetables are thick and fish are thin, and I don't see any of the half dozen boats of the sandbar fleet bring aboard a single fish. Plenty of weeds though. In the late afternoon, Bee resigns to net repairs, giving his son a lesson in net mending (educational only before other boys start up a soccer/wrestling contest). Other boats continue to set and keep getting skunked.

I'm impressed that these guys stick to sifting river water with what I imagine is an inevitable draw towards the easy money of tourism, the edge of the city lying just out of hearing range of the sandbar. In Laos, the average salary is roughly a dollar per day. Maybe these men are turned off by the uglier aspects of the callous foreigners always passing through, expecting services, intruding with obnoxiously hefty cameras. Maybe they mix the two forms of work. Maybe their wives work in town, selling handmade scarves or blending fruit shakes. Or maybe they just like fishing. I wish I spoke Lao and could ask, but even then the answer probably would come across as a big smile.

The opposite jungle

Another whirlwind transition, in which I admit to have strayed from the fisheries quest a bit. However, I've met few people with more of a myopic fixation on fish than me, so the tangential wanders may be less boring to some than the main subject...

The best way to leave the Manaus was by ferry boat, down the Amazon, to the coastal city of Belem. The passage has a romantic billing, but this feeling leaves the passenger as soon as he steps on board. It turns out that getting to Belem is only the secondary goal of the ferry boats, the first goal being to achieve a new world record in the number of hammocks that can be slung aboard, while still allowing for people to fit within the hammocks, and for these people to still be able to breathe. I'm exaggerating. The hammock scene was fun while it lasted, and was indeed intimate. The trip downriver went smoothly enough, and the crowd aboard was spirited and friendly. For a good chunk of it, I was fighting an internal war with worms which seemed to be having a party in my intestines, so I wasn't a very keen observer of much outside of the quickly-degrading toilet facilities.

Along the river were a few remote homes, which seemed to have the ferry schedule dialed. As the ferry passed these houses, canoes would dart out, into the path of the oncoming ferry! The ferry had the aspect of a bulldog and plenty of inertia, so at first this seemed like a ridiculous move on the part of the young children paddling the canoes. Sometimes, as the ferry bore down, plastic bags filled with miscellaneous objects would be tossed towards the canoe from the big boat. I learned was a unique form of charity for families far from easy luxuries. Extra fruit, food, or clothes were bagged by ferry crew or passengers and tossed to the canoes, and the kids would give a quick wave and would then scramble to collect the gifts before they sank. Other times, the kids would magically position their boats to just miss being steamed over, and then the boy paddling in the bow would exchange his paddle for a rebar hook, which was tethered to the bow of the canoe, and would quickly snag one of the giant tires that served as fenders, lashed alongside either side of the ferry. The young paddlers would hitch if they had something- often fish- to sell on board the big boat. The risk taken in hooking the ferry seemed to far outweigh any profit. The canoe would immediately accelerate from a standstill to 15 kilometers an hour, the canoe was swamped with the big boat's wake, and it always looked at though the canoe were about to be swept underneath the belly of the bulldog. I have no idea how these kids learned this trick, but they are damn good paddlers to pull it off.

Belem has a huge fresh fish market in the part of the city known as Ver-o-Peso. Here were fish new to my eyes, with a range of big catfish species replacing the colorful mixture from upriver. Saltwater species resembling sea trout, mullet, and sardine, along with shrimp of all sizes, were being hawked by middlemen who sat on wooden crates on the slimy riverfront sidewalk. A small fleet of fishermen aboard gillnetters ranging between 12 and 15 meters, taking a few days rest from recent two-week trips in the high seas, watched the morning fishmongering spectacle with pretended disinterest. By around 8am, restaurant owners had pecked over the fish and carted away their choice fins, hired muscles were carrying the bigger loads away, flip-flops through the slime; the middlemen were drinking beers before nine.

So it's farewell to Brazil, where locals would give me a simple, earnest thumbs up which said it all. A place where the rainstorms were predictable and intense, just like the catcalls on the streets. Here passion and sexuality were worn on the outside, and clothes fit tight. Where the clothes and fish are both colorful, and the fish and plants often have more teeth than the fishermen or farmers. Here the jacaré is the grizzly (where everybody has an epic story about a friend who just barely made it), the woods are loud but the cities are louder, and the general attitude might be summed up best by an old lady I met in Belem, still going strong nicotine in here late 80's- "I don't know why I love the life, but I do!"


Traveling from the jungles of Brazil to the jungles of southeast Asia made for an unavoidable excuse to see western Europe for the first time in my life. First stop, Madrid, Spain, and with it a shock of culture and age. An old building in Alaska is one from the 1950's. An old building in Maine dates back to the 1800's. Here in Spain I found myself walking around in a medieval city- still throbbing with life today- founded in the 7th century! In my gawk my way through the ancient narrow streets of Toledo, I passed up chances to see fine museums, instead opting to save my euros for the "Instruments of Medieval Torture" museum, and to buy a hunting knife. I might have fit in well back in the day. I left Spain happy to learn that it's acceptable- even classy- to drink a big cup full of thick chocolate syrup instead of coffee, and impressed a layered culture formed with significant and often bloody input from Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, and Muslim faiths.

London. The place seems so familiar that I almost forgot that I'd never been anywhere near it before. In a two-day pass through, I found some parts to live right up to the Monty Python lore. [In a crusty British accent] announced repeatedly on London's subway (tube) intercom: "This is the Picadilly line traveling to Cockfosters. Next stop, Picadilly Circus. Reminder, no busking." Or the tight-lipped mother to her loose-lipped son, who called the transportation box in front of him an elevator: "We're British, Henry, we call it a lift." I do say! While I could see how these tendencies, mixed with the lovely British weather, would entice pilgrims to move west, I was blown away by London's ethnic diversity, bringing all sorts of energy and excitement, and can definitely see the allure of the city behind the grey front.

Another quick stop in the sand dunes outside of Abu Dhabi (airport complete with prayer room), and then right into the mad bustle of Bangkok. I managed somehow to weave around the especially thick swarm of smooth-talking tuk-tuk (motorcycle taxi) drivers at the airport, and onto the public buses. Sa-wat-dee kap! Kap-kun kap! First impressions of Thailand's capital are of smoggy skies, intense traffic, big smiles, polite wai (bows of respect), lots of cross-dressing Thai men, and incredible spices in the food.

Now off to explore the fisheries of the Mekong!

Tudo Bem

Parana do Paratari, AMAZONIA, BRASIL
Targeted fish: tambaci, tucanare, piraracu, sahardeon, janjea, piraiba, pirarara, arowana, triera, caruazu, bobo, jiju, surubi, cascuda, pechibuey, piow, sardina, jaraci, piranha, many others….39 different species were quickly rattled off by da Silva girls (excuse the phonetic spelling)
Fishing methods: setnet, harpoon, bow and arrow, hand-tossed net, hook, paralyzing powder made from tree bark
Footwear: nada, bare feet
Favorite local sayings: “Tudo bem” (All’s good or no worries, used lots like “Pura Vida” is used in Costa Rica)
Local food: A combination of peche, arroz, and feijon (fish, rice, and beans), spagetti, and lots of corn farina. Fish soup or fried fish. Guayaba and cacao fruit. On rare days, gallina (chicken) or carne preservada (canned beef product).
Drink of choice: Nescafe coffee, Escudo beer
Local entertainment: swimming, teasing piranhas, Saturday night Catholic mass, community bingo games
Local music: mostly absent upriver (no power), but in certain homes, the incredible percussive beats of SAMBA!
Select Local Fishing Boats: Of all the canoes in the region, only one was named: Deus e Amor- God and Love. (This was a typical name painted on larger boats downriver in Belem. Although not as tough sounding as the Time Bandit, it calls upon two omnipotent forces for protection, and so it’s probably a superior choice.
Local Fruit: over 60 different fruits mentioned as being commonly eaten, plus six different types of bananas

On my final evening upriver, Antonio set his nets in a small lake, which we reached only by getting out of the canoe and pulling it (barefoot) through a shallow stream that stemmed off of the big Solimones. The offshoot was less stream and more a tangle of spiky vines and reeds, but at least it was brief. Once we mucked our way into the opening of the lake, huge flocks of brilliant white stork-like birds crossed above like they had waited for us to show off. Dipping up and down just above the water, flocks of noisy black birds passed, their group so thick it looked more like a dark and fuzzy low-lying cloud. Antonio set the nets quickly, instructing sternman Joe as to where he wanted to set with a word or wave of his hand. He told me that the lake held some especially big jacare, and I had every reason to believe this, judging by the especially dense amount of life- even for Amazon standards- above the water.

On the trip back to his house, I could see why Antonio had been quick with his net-setting. A fine tropical rainstorm was daring us to outrun it. Antonio throttled his engine to it’s highest, but of course the storm won. It was as if the canoe were passing under a waterfall continuously for 20 minutes- what must have been inches of rain. And then the storm passed and the sun came back out for a blazing sunset.

At 5am we were back on the lake. Still dark, the birds were quietly roosting, but the occasional giant bat swung through the flashlight’s orb. As we approached the first net, an intimidating thrashing of reeds distracted us both, and Antonio paddled straight towards the ruckus and into the reeds. Two red eyes glowed from further in. Antonio threw his two-pronged harpoon and the world went crazy. Antonio had stuck a jacare of the “Mucho grande” variety, and the receiver wasn’t happy about the matter. The harpoon tip was attached to about 20 meters of stout cord, and this was attached to the harpoon’s shaft by a few piece of weak cotton string. With the explosion, the shaft had come loose, as designed, and now Antonio had nothing but a long leash on his new pet. I had no idea what could be done next, it being still dark and the jacare of unknown size being held somewhere within 20 meters but having only suffered an annoying skin piercing. Loud thrashing continued. Antonio told me to paddle in full reverse- attempting to tow the croc out of the reed cover. The chaos incarnate would have none of this and I couldn’t pull the boat an inch.

Antonio had done this dance before, though, and was unimpressed by the stubborn animal. He pulled steadily on the cord, carrying the boat towards the red eyes, whacked the croc on the head with his paddle (after which, exactly twice, the beast took at good chomp at the bottom of the canoe), and backed the boat away, al the while keeping tension on the cord. After repeating this over and over, and waiting calmly at a 20 meter distance between surges, Antonio finally traded his paddle for a machete, and, with the absence of fanfare more characteristic of his father, placed a few quick strikes on the neck of the tired jacare. With this, the vertebrae was quickly severed and splashing stopped immediately. As dramatic a scene as it may have seemed to me (and as much as I’m describing it like a medieval battle), this was just another morning of bringing home Amazonian bacon for Antonio. He had carefully but efficiently killed a three-meter jacare- lots of steaks for an asado (barbeque), a nice change of fare from the usual fish. There was little entertainment value in this for Antonio, and it certainly wasn’t done for bragging rights.

By the time the aquatic grizzly of the Amazon was aboard it was light enough to see, and the birds were declaring the arrival of dawn. The nets, perhaps due to the violent flush of rain the evening before, held a nice batch of arowana, long slim fish which boast massive scales and an impressive forked goatee. This was one of the very few days since I’d been with Antonio that he’d caught a sizeable amount of fish to sell to market. There may have been a little extra sparkle in his grin as we left the lake.

From Josa’s house, I waived down the passing transport boat, and in three hours I was in a different Brasil, a different world. Music blared from boomboxes and street vendors hawked pirated copies of the latest Hollywood movies: the streets of Manacapuru. Here and in Manaus, only a few hours further from the da Silva’s floating home, with a little sweat and toil it seemed like a person could make a decent living at all sorts of different jobs. Why does Antonio and his clan continue to eek it out fishing upriver, when they could earn more and eat better in a city so nearby? Antonio had actually known big city life- he’d worked for four years in Manaus transporting vegetables to and from the market- and had chosen to come back to the river life. What keeps him here when he seems so constantly broke? Probably the same thing that keeps Mainers from moving to Boston, that stops every last Alaskan from moving to Anchorage, the same things that keeps outpost Newfoundlanders clinging to the rock. Sometimes work is just what you do to afford living where you want, how you want.