-^-for posterity-^-

another catfish farm, another meal.

we went to another friend’s catfish farm on tiger island (it’s a small island in the middle of the mekong river. it’s quaint and lush.) we arrived at about eleven and fished for our food.

surrounded by brilliantly green mango trees, we threw lines into fish ponds. they were rife with fish but we couldn’t tell. the large fish weren’t biting. they must have been sleeping at the bottom. the ponds were about ten feet wide and about two hundred feet long. the water was murky brown and every once in a while a few fish would lazily float to the top, flail a bit and then sink again. we sat on bamboo bridges holding small bamboo poles. the bait was a mealy combination of rice and other things. you could easily ball it in your hands, roll it on the hook and toss it in the water. it had the same texture as bread dough that doesn’t have enough flower in it.

we caught small fish. they were large and you could have eaten them but we were going for the real thing. we threw them all back. we went home with nothing.

the mother of the house was distraught that we hadn’t caught anything. she put on her hat, grabbed the pole and headed off. i followed her because i was curious and bored of talking. she said, “giu im lang!”, with one finger to her lips. i was to be quiet as we trudged through the mango grooves and weeds. she was old and thin but full of energy. she was going to catch our lunch.

we sat on a bamboo bridge again, her squatting flat-footed and me sitting cross-legged. the wind was at out back and it stirred the water. the water moved with a purpose towards the other side. the sun came and went being masked by flying clouds. we didn’t make a sound, only the leaves in the trees danced and bumped into one another.

she tossed the bait into the water softly. it sank and she held the pole still. it was about an inch above the surface of the water. we watched the black string. it would tighten a bit, twitch violently and she would tug. she knew how to catch fish but they were all too small.

she caught a few fish in succession and then there was a drought. all of the fish were bored with our bait. they all sank to the cool bottom and chatted quietly. they knew our game. the line would tighten a bit but it wouldn’t twitch. i tried not to blink and watched.

after ages of silence we saw something. her brown arm was tensed and holding onto the even browner bamboo tightly. she was ready to strike. she was a predator, a lion stalking an antelope. the line moved only so slightly and she tugged. a large fish was begrudgingly dragged to the surface of the water. it was silver and gigantic. she quickly dragged it to shore and it sat in the leaves flopping. it struggled to stay alive. it needed the water. it was going to die soon and we all knew it. it still struggled. i was tempted to throw it back in the water out of pity but something stopped me.

she asked me to take it home and i did. i carried it by the tail and it struggled to free itself. i gave it to some women and they hit it over the head a number of times and cut it into pieces. it arrived on the table five minutes later fried. it came to the table so freshly fried that the skin was still bubbling from the oil. it tasted salty and juicy. the pieces of white meat fell apart in your mouth if they didn’t in your chopsticks. we ate it with soy sauce and chilies. we ate it and gave the bones to the dog. the fish had died but our bellies were full. the dog licked his paws.