Tri-fecta

Chong Kneas, Tonle Sap, CAMBODIA
Targeted fish: Tricman, trionday, tridiep, trira, tritoe, compote, chiroba, trifra, trichidao (some English names, which might correspond with above fish: spotted featherback, catfish, snake catfish, soldier croaker, sheatfish, giant snakehead, carp)
Fishing methods: seine, gillnet, canoe trawl, castnet, Khmer dipnet, fish weir, fish trap
Footwear: bare feet for life
Favorite local sayings: “Sus-dai!” (hello) “Coconut!” (mocking the American)
Local food: Rice, and fish soup. Sometimes grilled or fried fish. Cigarettes.
Drink of choice: ice, Tonle Sap lake water, tea
Local entertainment: really bad Khmer talk radio. Khmer news on the television, viewed for about an hour after dark, run off a generator.
Local music: traditional music of the ganong, back-and-forth male-female duos with Indian influence, Thai-style women singing slow songs of heartbreak.
Select Local Fishing Boats: No names. The boats are built to last, heavy and deep, painted sparingly.
Local Fruit: very little affordable for the floating houses, but nearby: bananas, dragonfruit, mango, tamarind, oranges, pineapple, apple, papaya, pear, coconut, grapes, jackfruit

Sifting Minnows

If the floating house had had a door, we would have been out of it before 4 am, and as I watched the sun set over the west side of Tonle Sap, still sweating and still hunched over a pile of mixed finger-length minnows, my back was reminded what commercial fishing is like. Mr. Gran was towing our four-boat procession to a new area of the lake, not willing to let anything like darkness make him call it a day. The catches seemed to have been good for most of the day, I’d guess averaged around 400 pounds of fish per haul, and each haul taking around two hours to complete, we were about to start our seventh set of the day. The crew hauling the net got a short break as Mr. Gran moved between areas, and the fish-sorting crew usually got a few minutes to inhale a couple of butts as the net was closing up, before a new pile of silver minnows were scooped onto deck. Everyone seemed happy, but to be honest I was ready to stand up straight, and my fingertips were sore and bloody the many surprise pricks from shrimp shells and catfish barbs.

Over the past five days, I’d come to really respect this fishing gang. Despite being unable to speak with them beyond a few basic words and phrases, they all proved to have good hearts and to only poke fun at me in a good-natured kind of way. As we hauled back the net or tied the same hitches- the repetitious work of fishing, the men would keep me smiling with animated outburst of English words and phrases they knew:

“Coconut!”
“Sweethaat!”
“I don’t know!”
“Do you live here?”
“Where you from?”
And of course my old favorite, “Wow!”

This is a group of ridiculously hard workers who get up at sunrise and worked until the light runs out, and longer when out on the boat. With the exception of Mr. Gran and his wife, they sleep on the bare wooden floor or on one of the boat decks, only sometimes under torn mosquito netting (on still nights the bugs are bad). They seem content to eat rice and fish for every meal, talking about an upcoming meal like it’s a exotic dish. In the 20- by 70-foot floating house, 15 men and boys, 3 women, one baby, and one strong-willed tomcat with a stubby tail all make peace. I’m still not sure how or if everybody in the group is related, but this doesn’t seem to matter. During the couple of days not spent fishing, everybody worked on mending old net or hanging a new one, repairing a boat, or keeping the mob fed.

Each of the three women are as much involved with the fishing operation as any of the men. Like I’ve seen in other parts of southeast Asia (and beyond), women are often the ones running the show. In this home, they oversee net repairs, sort re-sort fish before they go to market, and handle the sale of fish to market. The exact same thing could be said for women in the 4,000 Island region to Laos- despite not often being aboard when the fish are caught, the women are absolutely crucial to the small family fishing operations.

All day the sets had yielded a mixed bag of small fish, mostly of the size sold in the US for ice fishing bait. The majority of the catch was what looked like a shiner, and the second-most common catch was what looked like a freshwater catfish/shark sold in pet shops, with comical whiskers twice as long as its body length and a tiny tail like a thresher. A funny duckbilled catfish was also common, and these were sorted separately. Each set carried with it a few pufferfish, this kind spineless but with a large fake eye painted on each of its sides. Of all things, the crew was very afraid of the bite of this tiny-mouthed airbag- perhaps they are poisonous or perhaps this is superstition, but I found this fear hilarious, considering all of the other dangers the crew barely acknowledged. I was much more intimidated by the water snakes, while the crew thought nothing of grabbing the snakes and throwing them back into the lake, often right over my head (funny funny).


From the reward of a typical set, consisting of perhaps 5,000 tiny fish, each minnow was picked over and sorted into bins. The crew for this was usually one especially smiley fisherman named Soon, his two sons who had especially dark skin, my buddy Heap, and myself. These fish were sorted both by size and by type, and then bagged and put on ice. When thirsty, the fishermen would sometimes break a chunk off the ice block in the insulated fish tote, dip it in the lake to get off some of the fish slime, and put it in a bowl, where it would quickly melt. Most of the men would drink straight from the murky lukewarm lake, if they drank anything at all. I couldn’t shake the idea that for part of each year this lake is the receptacle for everything the upper Mekong has to offer. Lots of greywater coming from as far up as the Himalaya, through southern China, Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia, ending in Tonle Sap. And the guts of these gentlemen are strong enough to deal with it all.

Perhaps Tonle Sap fishermen are superhuman, because in addition to having iron guts, their lungs seemed to have no problem filtering through a couple of packs of cigarettes each day. Every evening one of the women would dole out portions of cigarettes- 2 packs to every man or boy- and these burned like wildfire at every short break in the day, and pretty much continuously in transit or on the home float. Even the two darker-skinned boys, who I’d been told were 17 and 18 but looked to be 12 or 13 and certainly hadn’t hit puberty yet, were puffing- and also pulling on the net- as hard as any of the men.

After wrapping a round of fish sorting, finishing hauling the final set in the dark, and sorting these as our floating caravan steamed towards our floating home, I sat upright to stretch the back. Four dark silhouettes stood out on the back deck, a shade darker than the sky. In the center of each of these dark outlines was a small orange glow. Pick, pull, or puff- not too different than the Newfoundlanders, yis b’ye.

Upon getting back to the house around 9 or 10pm, I had visions of the monster pot of rice and cauldron of soup opening their lids to our sunbaked faces as soon as we stepped off the boat. Wrong I was. One pile of assorted fish still needed to be re-sorted before bringing fish to market the next morning at 4am, and the least valuable of these fish needed to be minced into fishmeal for the hundreds of pet catfish, whose cage was lashed to the east side of the house, and who needed fattening before they could go to market. Turning minnow scraps into fat catfish with a backyard aquaculture operation. Other families in Chong Kneas have crocodile farms strapped to the side of their houses, where they transform low-value minnows into exotic reptile leather. Tonle Sap minnows, if sifted and sorted properly, might just fuel the world. The midnight dinner of rice and fish was delicious.

Tug-of-Life

Tonle Sap is a huge lake in the heart of Cambodia, a broad but shallow lake that shrinks and swells almost beyond belief with the seasons, and the main source of fish for all of Cambodia. The lake has a complicated role with the Mekong River- during the dry season, water flows out of Tonle Sap into the Mekong, and out to sea; during the monsoon season, the current in the Tonle Sap River reverses directions and Mekong water flows into the lake. The lake serves as a flood control for the lower Mekong, as well as a nursery for many of the fish that eventually enter the river. In return, the Mekong provides the lake with new water each year, and included in this liquid package is all the good and bad debris carried down from upriver.

Just because it’s a nursery doesn’t mean that Tonle Sap is off-limits to heavy fishing pressure. For communities like the “floating village” of Chong Kneas, fishing is the only game in town. Fishing and Chong Kneas are as related as the chicken and egg: they come tegether, and it’s certain that if you removed either one of the pair, the other would disappear.

Chong Kneas is not far from Seap Reap, which in turn is near the spectacular mecca of ancient temples known as Angkor Wat, and so the Midas’ touch of western tourists is not unknown along the northeastern shores of Tonle Sap. Tour companies actually offer short boat trips out to the floating village, allowing tourists to marvel at how “terribly poor people make a living, without ever walking on land,” as one European lady explained to me, before returning to the comforts of Seam Reap. I was convinced her description was lacking.

After a moto (motorcycle taxi) ride, and despite the better efforts of a smooth-talking Khmer boat owner (who was hoping he could get me to pay for another ride out the next day), I managed to work out a deal to stay with a family living in a floating house, in the constantly shifting, floating assembly of houses, floating stores, floating school, and floating churches known collectively as Chong Kneas. If you don’t like your neighbors, just pull up anchor and move to a new part of town for free.

Just on the short trip out to where town was currently located (the entire community shifts according to water level and fish harvests), I’d seen some creative variations on familiar fishing styles. I’d watched a motorized canoe pull one end of a tightly woven net up the middle of a stream, while two men scrambled to manhandle the other end of the net- attached to a big vertical stick- up the muddy river bank. At times one of the fishermen would jump in the water to clear a snag from the net, and the tow would continue. Canoe trawling? There were many fish traps cut into the riverbank, men tossing castnets from the shallows, and men dipnetting from canoes with huge triangular hand nets. Once reaching the lake, I could see complex fish weirs, made of wooden stakes driven into the muddy bottom, designed to corral traveling fish into a holding pen. Gillnets were set and marked with bamboo or bottle buoys. Far offshore, the occasional cluster of boats broke up the smooth horizon line, with no shore visible across the immense lake.

My new host, Mr. Gran, is the boss-man for a four-boat seining operation. Only a few minutes after showing up on his watery doorstep, I was the mute add-on to the 15-man crew, headed for (slightly) deeper waters. All of these four boats were stout and wide, open wooden craft between 25 and 30 feet. Two of the boats had power- diesel auto engines- and two of the boats were without any motors. Mr. Gran runs the larger of the two powered boats, which serves as tugboat in transit, provides power when making a set, and carries all of the fish in it’s hold or on deck. The other powered boat is what would be called the skiff in the parlance of seiners. The larger of the unpowered boats holds the entire net. The smaller of the unpowered boats is stationed between the skiff’s tow line and the start of the fishing net, and the fisherman in this boat is responsible for keeping a large pole, attached to the edge of the net, vertical and hard on bottom.

I should note that for the few of you reading this who are familiar with seining, my description will sound simplified and boring. For anyone not familiar with seining, this will sound confusing and boring. Might as well skip the bore, no matter who you are! (In case you’re still reading, a few people have asked me to explain…) Seining is rodeo fishing. You locate a concentration of fish, either through divine intervention, experience, or dumb luck, and then circle a net around the school of fish. A seine net is designed to be of small enough mesh such that fish can’t pass through (this would be a worthless net) or even pass through partially and get stuck (this would be a gillnet). Many seine nets, designed to catch salmon, herring, or anchovy among others, are designed with the ability to cinch up the bottom of the net before the entire net is hauled aboard. Aptly named, these are purse seines, and allow for fishermen to close off the downward escape option for fish caught within the net.

A seine can be set in a variety of different shapes, proven through years of trial and error to be effective at one time or another. A “hook” is more or less a stationary set, often with one end of the net hard against shore, and with the other end of the net looping back (a-la-hook) to discourage wandering fish from simply swimming outside of this offshore end of the net. A “tow” is a set where the seine net is used in a similar fashion to (floating) trawl net, moving a smiling net through the water before closing up. A “roundhaul” is where the net is immediately set in a circle around what is hoped to be a lively patch of water. “Closing up” any set- a hook, tow, or roundhaul- involves bringing both ends of the net together, at which time the net should be more or less circular. At this time the net is hauled back with the aid of power blocks, and the skiff goes to work with a towline attached to the main boat, keeping the net in an orderly circular shape and the boat and net in good position relative to the other.

Enough of the dry generics! I mention it only because the seining deal on Tonle Sap is unique. The net is extremely long- at last twice the length of an Alaska salmon seine net- probably stretching over half a mile if laid out straight. It isn’t a purse net but instead takes advantage of the fact that the lake is rarely deeper than two or three meters, and so the net stretches the whole water column and the bottom of the lake blocks any downward escape. Three smaller boats take the place of one big one, the sweat and backache of 12 men hauling the gear replaces heavy rigging, oil, and a deck crew of three. Without fancy boats or gear, this low-tech fishing cooperative is capable of making seven or eight sets a day, which any old hand in the seining world will admit isn’t a cakewalk.

With a hand signal from Mr. Gran, off peels the skiff, which until now is the last of the four boats in tow. Attached to the skiff is a stout tow line, which is attached to the leading end of the net with a large wooden pole. As the pole pays out, one fisherman in the smallest unpowered boat goes out with it, pole in hand, assigned with the talk of keeping this end of the net vertical and ensuring the net stretches all the way to the bottom. The bulk of the crew is piled into the net-carrying boat, and they make sure the net pays out smoothly, while their boat is towed along by the one and only Mr. Gran. In 10 minutes Gran loops all the way around and passes inside of the skiff. A boy from the net-carrying boat jumps overboard and swims with a tag line to tie in to the corkline, around 50 meters up from the beginning of the net. At this point Mr. Gran’s big boat takes over the pole-tending duty from the smallest boat, and all free hands join in hauling the net, hand-over-hand, shaking fish caught in the net back into the watery ring as they go.

Heave away, boys! Endless hauling, pulling back hundreds of meters of heavy netting, fish and debris through thick water. It’s an eternal game of tug-of-war for these Tonle Sap fishermen. Considering the bloody, war-pocked recent history of Cambodia- many people alive today remember losing family, parents, or friends to Pol Pot’s genocide and civil war- a better description of the fishing struggle here might be the tug-of-life.

After over an hour of sweaty hauling, the crew has hauled all but the final 50 meters of net. The skiff powers the net and boat in a sweeping arch, forcing all fish hard against the net, and quickly the crew skips a small portion of the net where most of the fish are concentrated, the end pole (held by Mr. Gran’s boat) is now simultaneously pivoted to be horizontal and flush with the surface of the water, and the crew speedily hauls in the last bit of the net. When finished the big boat and the net-carrying boat are rail to rail, but the fish are caught in a pocket of net, now tucked underneath the net-carrying boat. This 50-meter section of net is transferred to the big boat (“backstacked” for all ye seiners), and then the net, starting with the fish-rich pocket, is slowly hauled onto the net-carrier. All the while a portion of the net lies in the water between the two boats, and the fish ball is sort of rolled along, getting thicker and denser all the while, the catfish getting caught in the mesh by their stubborn barbs and needing to be constantly shaken out of the net. At last the “money bag” of fish is ready to be scooped out with a brailer (a heavy hand net designed for this). The previous two hours of toil is now measurable in thin silver slices and tired backs.

What fin-filled bounty does 30 man-hours of sweat, sifting a five-acre patch of Tonle Sap, look like when laid out on deck? About like 300 pounds of assorted minnows, a couple dozen fish larger than finger-length, a few hundred small prawn, a couple of water snakes, a few sticks, a hundred odd pound of rocks and snail shells to return to Davy Jones. Sort the catch out and let’s do it again! With a couple bowls of rice, a little fish soup, and a couple of dozen cigarettes, these Tonle Sap seiners seem happy to continue their version of the tug-of-life forever.

Four-thousand Islands, Four Minnows

At the far southern tip of Laos, just north of the border with Cambodia, hundreds of islands crop out of the smooth Mekong. These are stubborn islands that refuse to be swept downstream and instead force the water to flow around, splicing the current and creating impressive waterfalls, broad eddies, beautiful channels, and bloating the river’s width to an obese 14 kilometers during the wet season. During the dry season (October through April), many more small islands stick above the surface, making the region’s name, Si Phan Don (Land of 4,000 Islands), seem more in the ballpark. Many of the bigger islands are inhabited, and a couple- Don Det and Don Khon- are popular with tourists for three major attractions: rare Irawady dolphins, picturesque waterfalls, and an island Rasta vibe that pervades and often intoxicates visitors.



A few kilometers to the north lies Don Khong- bigger, much less touristy, and relaxed but in a much less chemically-induced way. Here most capable men and many women, except for the few making a living from tourism, are fishermen and rice farmers. One local tells me he guesses there are 3,000 regular fishermen on the island, and the total population can't be much more than 10,000 folks. Almost all Don Khong houses are on stilts (makes for a nice shady open-air first floor, which also serve as a shelter for animals, machine shop, wood shop, and flood insurance all in one), and dogs are sparse- there are no food scraps to be had, enough but no excess.

Branthuay is a man somewhere around 50, strong, quick to smile, a tan five-foot six, and can speak Lao, English, and French. This description would get me nowhere with the police blotter, as I could be describing one of many Lao men. Branthuay lives with his wife and kids on the east side of the island, seems to have the normal job mix for an islander. He fishes, and during the rainy season he tends the rice fields. He also heeds occasional attention to his five water buffalo, which are fairly autonomous and spend most of their days in the shadow of a Buddhist Wat (temple), or grazing on the town green, at this time of year very dry and brown. Branthuay has fished the waters within a kilometer or two of his island for the past 28 years, each year seeing the river flood and ebb in yearly cycles, watching fish pulse up or downriver according to the water, and seeing the fish get smaller over the decades.



In college I procrastinated by playing around in boats of different shape and size. One of these was a featherweight craft which was boldly named “The Eagle”. I remember the name seemed ridiculous, because the kayak, made for flatwater racing, was so unsteady without headway that it seemed to have a will of it’s own, very unlike an eagle (steady, soaring), more hell-bent on acting like a duck. It was all but impossible to balance the thing without a dramatic flip, and just sitting in the boat meant a never-ending, nervous twitch of hip muscles.



Branthuay’s bare-bones canoe was every bit as unstable as The Eagle. Going out fishing with him felt like trying a high-wire act. It must take Lao-level calmness to go out in this boat at high water and keep it upright.



During the day, especially early in the morning, the castnet is Branthuay’s tool of choice. He targets water depths between two and five meters, and then does the unthinkable- he stands up in the bow of his canoe. As he did this, I felt like lying flat on the bottom of the canoe to try to add some ballast, but to save face I settled on just easing back in the stern, hands clamped to the gunwales, feigning a relaxed recline. Gripping a handful of the net in his left hand, another handful draped over his right elbow, and the rest cradled on his right forearm, Branthuay rotates his whole torso starboard to port, his left hand leading a graceful fling. In his right hand, he holds a loop of strong line which is connected to the center of the net. With this discus throw, the net flies out of his hands, and the steel chain which lines the perimeter of the net plunks down on the surface in a perfect 10-meter circle. And the boat somehow stays upright.



After letting the net sink to the bottom, Branthuay slowly pulls back on the main rope, in pulses. Fish which were in the water within the one-meter ring should, in theory, now be caught in the folds of the net. Nothing but weeds this time. Move and repeat the casting dance. Again, only mucous-like algae and a few weeds.



The same day, after dark, we went out again, and this time Branthuay carried along a gillnet. A gillnet with mesh smaller than an inch- far too small to catch lobster or halibut bait. But bigger is often not better in fishing, and smelt taste every bit as good as a heavy salmon. We paddled out away from the island. The darkness was pierced by twinkling from all around- the flicker of house lights from the island and from the far side of the river, from the 40,000 stars above, from fireflies on the tiny islands, and from fishermen's flashlights as they checked their business and then saved their batteries. The hills above town on Don Khong were ablaze in long narrow lines. Oddly enough, it struck me as perfectly normal that in this mysterious tropical land the island might have a volcano, which would of course be active and trickling molten lava down it’s slopes. I then rubbed my eyes and realized that instead locals were burning their rice fields, cycling back nutrients for the coming crop.



The was an explosion going on right then, though not volcanic. As full darkness set in, an impossible number of tiny bugs rocketed out of the unseen in into my face, in my eyes, down my throat, in my ears, up my nose. Not a biting bug, but ones that are only more annoying because they don’t bite, and yet still have a magnetic attraction to a human face. Like the boat balancing act, Branthuay seemed unaware of the difficulties, and that his unnecessary sternman was walking a tightrope of temporary insanity.



To set the driftnet alone in decent current, Branthuay starts by dropping a rock overboard. The rock is leashed to a stout line, which he then connects to one end of his gillnet. Downstream we drift, setting as we go, plastic water bottles serving as corks. When fully out, Branthuay paddles up to the rock, frees the upstream end of the net from it’s anchor, and then tows this high end perpendicular to the current. From then on, it’s a matter of towing on one end of the net or the other, trying to keep a slight downstream smile to the net, and monkeying the net around any of the small river islands. (Thank you fireflies, mini lighthouses of the Mekong.) Although tough to sense in the blackness, we were drifting quickly, and Branthuay was busy. He hauled and reset his net three times this night.



The sum total for the day and night efforts was a whopping four potbellied fish, each about five inches long. Valued at 700 kip each (about 10 cents), this was not a red-banner fishing day for the Eagle II. Expectations are not particularly high in these parts- 100 finger-length fish or one or two bigger fish, adding up to a kilogram or two, are considered a normal day. Branthuay caught 130 small fish the day before, but tonight there fish were somewhere else. According to my Lao fishing friend, most of the common species- fish like Pa Pea, Pa Kung, Pa Tong, and Banang- are worth around 40-50,000 kip per kilo (around $5). Luckily, the fuel bill is measured in spoonfuls of sticky rice (or for others with external motors, in small quantities of gas). April marks the biggest pulse of upriver fish, as the start of the wet season commences, and is when the locals search for what (I think) translates to “economic fish”- nice densities of heavier fish. Until then, fishermen around Si Phan Don seem satisfied enough to go for not-so-economic fish.

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.