Gone Fishin'

A few weekends ago, I was invited on a fishing trip. When I was asked, the guy beside me replied saying, “Of course he wants to, he’s Canadian.” I told them that this should also be their response to: “Do you want a beer.” I’ve given up explaining that Canadians are not all woodsmen. Lately, I just go with the explanation that Canadians are just like Americans, except more polite, and we don’t think that Jesus is in the White House. I wasn’t sure exactly what a fishing trip in Pakistan was going to entail, but that’s generally the case with everything I do here. Want to do this? Sure, what is it? Want to eat this? Sure, what is it?

So, we struck out at 4:30 AM, or at least, that was the plan. I think we finally were on the road by 5:45. So far, exactly like a Canadian fishing trip. We drove out of the city along the coast for about an hour past French Beach, where we usually go when we are headed “to the beach.” I have no idea why it is called French Beach, and I have even asked, but I certainly haven’t seen any Parisians strolling around. We crossed a small mountain range into the neighbouring province of Bulachistan, Karachi’s province being Sindh. You have to use your imagination on the “mountain” part. We’re not talking the Rockies here or even the Appalachians really. But they’re still impressive pale outcrops of rock that tower above the sand. You really get the sense that a couple of minor tectonic plates had a disagreement over something a few eons ago.

Bulachistan is one of Pakistan’s larger provinces, but it is also the most sparsely populated. We pulled into a village, whose name I don’t remember, and I don’t suppose it would be essential information for any of you anyway. The village is undeniably a fishing village, and you get the feeling that nothing has changed much there in a quite some time. My friend had recently had a boat built and it was tied up in front of the village, along with at least sixty others. The boats are difficult to describe, but that’s not going to stop me from trying. They are open, with no cabin. The front and back are identical and amidships flares out quite widely. You know those Greek warships featured in terrible movies about the fall of Troy? Well, these aren’t really like that at all. Maybe more like a Viking ship, except not really either. You know, maybe try picturing a Venetian Gondola that’s 30 feet long, has a raised section at either end, and in lieu of a swarthy Italian with a pole, has two, big diesel engines on the stern deck. These engines power propellers that are on long shafts that can be raised and lowered with ropes. That way, they can bring the boats right up on the beach. We only used one of these engines and propellers, so I don’t know if the other is back up, or whether they do use both sometimes. The rudder comes up well above the deck and ends in a yoke with a rope tied to both sides. This allows the boatman to sling the rope across his middle and steer by pulling one way or the other. Conveniently, this also allows him a large range of movement on the stern deck while still in control. The design of the boat is very old; when the villagers build one, there are no plans followed or measurements taken, the workmanship has been passed down for generations. Even the slips where the boats are moored are passed down from family to family.

As we were loading the boat, there was a buzz amongst the villagers that a marlin had been caught the day before. I asked about this, and was told it was only a small one, but it was one of the first of the season. How small, I asked.…. Oh, only about 100 Kilos. Right, I thought, now I understand what kind of fishing this is going to be. I looked sceptically at the boat, and tried to imagine hauling a 200 pound fish over the side. The kids of the village were about the cutest I’ve seen. They have dark skin, much darker than those from Sindh province, and their hair is bleached out, I’m presuming by the sun and salt water. This kind of makes them look like little Beyonce’s. They would shuffle up shyly. I’m not sure if they had ever seen the likes of me before. We gave them some candy and they shared it amongst themselves, helping the smaller ones get the wrappers off. Awww.

And then we were off. The boatmen can control these craft with amazing skill. We had two villagers along with us as our crew. The older man was primarily in charge of steering, and he was straight out of Hemmingway, except maybe for the turban. He was old and gristled, with just the right amount of teeth for a big toothless grin. He also wore glasses, which made me think he knew what he was doing. The other guy was younger and in charge of the engine and the fishing gear. He reminded me of a darker version of Joe Walsh, post Eagles, pre- reunion tours. He was also great, with a big smile most of the time. Now, this might be because the two of them consumed more Hashish in 8 hours than I have ever seen in my short life. They were constantly rolling up another joint, and they even seemed to have some form of marijuana that they chawed on like chewin’ tobacker.

We cruised out, and set 8 deep-sea, spinning tackle rods trolling behind us. Any time one would go off, the guys would run to cut the engine, and then we would play the fish in. We caught a few small yellow fin tuna, about three feet long. The fishermen all use an interesting system of hand signals as they pass each other in the noisy boats. First, you raise your hand over your head as if you were holding an imaginary ball. This means, “What’s the story?” Then they use a series of signals to tell you what fish they have caught and how many. We started getting signals from these guys telling us that there were Barracuda (signal: snipping fingers like scissors) schooling back by one of the islands. So we turned around and headed that way.

The island was yet another peak of the mountain range that I spoke of earlier, but it thrust directly out of the water a few hundred feet. It’s pretty impressive. Around the island swarmed just about every boat in the vicinity. They were all making passes through the same area. So picture 50 boats passing pell-mell, higgledy-piggledy, trailing fifty feet of line behind them, and using only hand signals to communicate. It made me think of traffic back in the city. On each pass we were hooking four or five barracuda at a time. Here is a fish that is done in by its love of shiny things. We took in about 20 fish, and I caught the biggest one (ha!), about 4 feet long. It reminded me of fishing Mackerel at home, how you can just drop your line and catch a bucket load. But speaking of Mackerel, when we got back to the beach, someone had caught a large one. It looked exactly like mackerel at home, except, you know, it was over 6 feet long. Of course, you know me, I couldn’t resist saying, “Holy Mackerel.” Don’t worry, no one laughed then either.

On the way home we entered the city limits, and one of the guys said, “Ahhh, back to civilization.” ….I refrained from any comment.