The Fishing Net

Thanks to a particularly disruptive volcano and news of clashes between the Thai army and red-shirt protesters, Bangkok could nearly be described as quiet and eerie. Violent thunderstorms served to keep the market stall traders busy and us handful of travelers entertained. The sudden deluge of rainwater was either used (with a handful of laundry detergent and a lot of scrubbing) to clean the streets, or left to form massive reservoirs in the market stall canopies where it could be dumped on unsuspecting passer-bys. It was easy to sit around people-watching in this rainy place somewhere between Glastonbury Festival and Bladerunner’s metropolis. Although my main reason for being in Bangkok was for its transport connections, I did use the time constructively to visit one of the city’s tailors. Unlike my previous experience in Vietnam, this time I knew exactly what I wanted. Other than a Paisley shirt, the clothes I ordered were all clones of garments I had previously owned, loved and worn till their threadbare death: a spangly silver silk shirt, a powder blue and white stripey shirt, a pair of flared jeans and some brown cords. I wish clothes shopping was always like that: books of fabrics to choose from, a whole shop to myself, a tailor with all the time in the world, and my sister at hand to make sure I didn’t order anything too ridiculous.

The remainder of our time in the country was spent on Koh Chang; an island off the far east of Thailand near the Cambodian border. There was something "just right" about the place. It didn’t have many resorts, didn’t party too hard, had more Thais than tourists, and for some reason celebrated Songkran (Thai new year) two weeks later than the rest of the country. We stayed in bamboo huts in the family-run Joy Cottage. In the evenings the place hosted live bands, Billie Holiday was played in the mornings, and cats, dogs, toddlers and mosquitoes circled our ankles whenever we sat down. During the day we sunbathed on the nearby Lonely Beach. As usual I would become restless after 20 minutes of lying still, and would set off with my snorkel and camera in search of adventure. On one occasion I again tried to swim to the neighbouring island. I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes twice, so before setting off I drank plenty of water and proceeded to make my way to the island swimming close to the shoreline. As I swam near a rocky outcrop, I noticed that rocks were full of small coves. The first cove in fact turned out to be the entrance to a cave. After walking a few metres in to the cave, daylight slipped away to darkness. I set my camera flash to maximum, pointed it in to cave and took a photo. My idea being that the photo would give me a rough idea of what I could expect as I blindly felt the sides and climbed deeper in to the  cave. A second after taking the photo, the air was filled with the sound of screeching, chirping, swooping and flapping. I had woken up the caves inhabitants; bats. The photo showed that I could venture a lot deeper in to the cave, but then what? Take another photo? Piss-off the bats even more? At the thought of a bat chewing-off my eyelids, I turned around and dived back in to the sea. In the sheltered waters of the next cove, I again disturbed the locals; a giant shoal of silver anchovies. As I swam through the shoal I was surprised that despite their numbers and my size, we never brushed shoulders. At this thought, I felt something touch my toes. I span around to try and catch sight of whatever it was. Dangling on the surface of the water next to the rocks was a fishing net. I gave it a tug to free it from the rock and get it out of my way. Just as I did this, the shoal of anchovies changed direction and swam through the net. They were too small to get caught in the mesh, however something had caused the net to surge. I peered beneath the surface just in time to see a long silver garfish chase the anchovies through the net and become snagged by its toothy beak. Looking further along the net, I saw that the first surge had been caused by another garfish who was entangled and thrashing about in the translucent nylon. To free them, and not cause them further harm, I would need a knife to cut the net. Normally my knife is clipped on to my belt when I go in to the water, however after finding that I never needed to use it, I decided on this particular day not to bother bringing it. I would therefore have to take the net (and the fish) to a knife, which, I hoped I could borrow off someone at the beach. I tied myself to the net and carefully, looking out for more fish, began swimming back to the beach. About half way there I noticed two eyes watching me out of the sand. As I descended to get a closer look, a giant striped tail thrashed out stirring up a cloud of sand; I had woken up a stingray. I swam alongside it for a moment then left it be as I remembered I was tied to a fishing net and that it could all go horribly wrong for all of us.

Back at the beach I created quite the scene. Fortunately I attracted the attention of a guy with a knife, and so I set to work freeing the dying the fish as quickly as I could. My backup plan, eating them, went out of the window when I saw my sisters reaction to the haul. I had half forgotten that she was a vegetarian, and so probably wouldn’t want to spend her last day on a Thai beach with a pair of decomposing fish. I sped up my attempt to untangle the fish who were now motionless except for their gills which continued to gently open and close. As soon as they were free of the net, I positioned them in the water and pulled them against the current in a vein attempt to get the water flowing through their gills and resuscitate them. As I was doing this, an old, topless Italian woman came marching up to me. From her point of view it must have looked like I was torturing the fish.
  ‘You will eat these animals?’ she demanded.
  ‘No I-’
  ‘You make me sick!’
And the she pushed me aside, grabbed the fish out of my hands, and threw them in to the sea as far as she could. Before I could explain what happened, and how I didn’t really mean to catch them, she walked off muttering under her breath in Italian. A bit taken aback, but relieved that I didn’t have to worry about what to do with the fish anymore, I walked over to my sister who I hoped  could see the funny side of the encounter and console me that I had done nothing wrong. She didn’t look happy.
  ‘What’s up?’
  ‘There’s dead fish in the sea!’ she snapped.
  ‘There’s always dead fish in the sea!’ I joked.
  ‘Well there weren’t any in my bit a minute ago. I can’t go back in the water now!’
  ‘What do you want me to do about it ?!’
  ‘Move them.’
  ‘Where to?’
  ‘I don’t care.’
And then she turned the other way and went back to her sunbathing.

Diligently I went back in to the sea and tracked down the vegetated garfish. I swam them back to the rocks, and threw them to the crabs. Food isn’t wasted in the sea I told myself.

I’ve kept the fishing net in my backpack for another day.

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