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.