Extreme Fishing (23 page)

Fernando and Juma are working together in unspoken shorthand, gathering in the fish and re-laying the net. I help where I can but am conscious not to interrupt their synergy.

After a long and fruitful day out fishing, we return to the village. Aliga cooks the arowana over an open fire and Fernando, Juma and his younger brothers and sisters, the crew and I sit down to
eat. The fish is placed in front of us, accompanied by manioc (cassava), which has been cultivated here since around 7,000 BC. The starch of this tuberous root produces tapioca. The manioc we are
eating this evening is a dried powder that you stuff in your mouth, followed by a piece of fish. It has the consistency of small ball bearings in self-raising flour. I gave it a miss and delight my
palate with Aliga’s beautifully cooked arowana.

As the sun is setting I do a PTC explaining that the Amazon River system is not only where the villagers source their food but is also where they bathe and wash their clothes, as well as being
their transport network. The river is a lifeline to these families and without it they would perish.

We finish for the evening and face another night in the hut-from-hell with an undeterred Arianna on the prowl. We take turns as lookout but we are useless: one by one we fall asleep on duty and
the hut is left unguarded. Arianna makes a grab for Peter. There are swinging noises, creaking ropes, a frantic scrambling sound, followed by a primal scream.

‘Get the fuck off me, you crazy woman!’ yells Peter, falling out of his hammock.

He is in pain as well as shock. Arianna has squeezed both his testicles. She is frogmarched back to her shack and I am concerned: ‘With all the cooking equipment she’s got we could
be murdered in our beds.’

‘Shut up, Robson. Or I’ll get the mad mare to cut yours off,’ says a still-shaken Peter.

After a fitful night’s sleep, disturbed mainly by a bloody cockerel that crowed from 2 a.m. onwards, we wait for breakfast. It doesn’t come so we make our own. Arianna is on strike
and is refusing to cook any more meals for us. What’s more, she’s copped off with a local Jaraua fisherman, the poor bloke. He’ll need as much manioc and fish as he can physically
digest to survive her wanton lust.

Pirarucu

I am determined to catch a pirarucu today to feed the village, and more importantly Arianna’s poor sexually ravaged fisherman, so I set off with Jorge. One look at
him and I know he’s the business. He’s dressed in pink trousers, a yellow cardie and a straw hat – only a tough guy could get away with that outfit. He has a kindly way about him
and he finds me amusing. But I know he’s thinking ‘Who the hell is this guy? Bruce Parry was way better.’

This morning the village has received some good news. There is a sustainable fishing policy enforced across the reserve and a government official is here to tell the village their quota for
pirarucu hasn’t been caught; as a result, over the next ten days, they are allowed to catch 500. Although the government has banned commercial fishing of pirarucu, catch-and-release is
permitted in certain areas of the Amazon basin and native tribes, like the Jaraua villagers, are allowed to harvest this giant on a strict quota system. Thanks to these restrictions the
pirarucu’s numbers are beginning to recover.

I ask Jorge, using my best mimes, where he stores the nets and fishing tackle? To my dismay I discover we are using a harpoon. (Nets, rods and reels are just too expensive.) It’s brutal
but that’s not why I am anxious – I was useless at javelin at school. I have never had any upper body strength. I was crap at shot put, rubbish at throwing the cricket ball but was very
good as Captain Hook in the school production of
Peter Pan
. Armed with a couple of spears, Jorge and I head upriver looking for signs of the large serpent-like creature to surface and show
itself. The pirarucu is an air breather and comes to the surface in a swishing motion every ten to fifteen minutes to take a gulp of air. The fish is only visible for a split second but it’s
enough to pinpoint and launch our harpoons. Well, that’s the theory.

The temperature is nearing fifty degrees and there is no shelter. Remember, the heat is reflected off the water so it’s a double whammy, and the sunscreen is applied and re-applied as it
trickles off. We slowly glide along looking for signs of disturbances in the water.

SWOOSH! SWOOSH! Jorge raises his hand, indicating I need to and keep quiet as we are now in stealth mode: we have spotted our target. And there is more than one, so all we can do now is wait.
Wait and stand, arm raised with the spear like a coiled spring. Waiting and standing and waiting. After three minutes my arm begins to ache.

(Loud whisper) ‘Jorge, my arm is about to drop off.’

He looks at me, smiling. I see something move in the weeds so I raise my harpoon.

‘Jorge, what’s that?’ I say dramatically, ready at any moment to deploy my weapon.

‘Alligator,’ he says.

‘Oh.’

I’m sure poor Jorge has been told I’m an expert from Europe and now he’s discovered that I am in fact a puny, whingeing, mediocre harpoon-throwing lad from Newcastle upon Tyne.
Actually he doesn’t know I’m a crap harpoon thrower yet – but he will. Now I wish ex-Royal Marine Bruce Parry were here as well.

I need to lower my harpoon but Jorge signals for me to keep it raised – I only have a second to fire and if I’m not primed it’ll be too late. Whoosh! To our right, about thirty
yards from the boat, the fish takes a big breath like a drunk lass preparing to go into a stinky public lav, and Jorge fires his harpoon – he just misses. Seconds later after the fish has
disappeared without trace, I fire. I miss, just. In fact, I’m short by about twenty-five yards. Jorge laughs. He’s never seen anything so funny in his life.

‘The thing is,’ I try to explain in an elaborate system of arm gestures, ‘I had no rehearsal for this and Jamie, that “cabrão” of a director, thought it
would be a good idea not to tell me the method of fishing.’

In this moment I know for a fact that if I aimed the harpoon at Jamie I would get a flipping bullseye.

The scene of Jorge just missing and me throwing like Bridget Jones continues for hours and hours. The unrelenting heat is getting to me and so is Jorge’s chuckling.

‘You might be laughing at me, Jorge, and you may think my technique leaves a lot to be desired, but quite frankly, bonny lad, you’ve caught fuck-all as well!’

He smiles and ups the ante, starting to throw like Fatima Whitbread.

Seven hours go by and I am delirious. Jorge spots a disturbance in the water twenty yards directly in front of the boat. He fires. It’s a hit, and the rope attached to the spearhead
tightens. We are in.

‘You are amazing, Jorge. Simply amazing!’

Then the rope slackens and the fish is off.

‘No! Jorge, no!’

The spearhead is retrieved and all that is on the end is a single scale of a giant pirarucu, equal in size to the palm of my hand. It would appear to belong to a 200-pound-plus fish. Morale is
rock-bottom.

‘Don’t worry, Jorge. All we have to do is get the other part of the fish.’ I suggest helpfully.

We spot the creature time and time again but I keep missing and finally, near to a swoon, my deltoids shot, I collapse and lie prostrate in the bottom of the boat. A passing fisherman takes pity
on me and lends me his umbrella. So there I am, fanning myself like Helena Bonham Carter with a white parasol, while Hercules is primed and ready to take out the serpent. Splosh! Jorge strikes
again and it’s a hit! And this time the rope is running, the spearhead is secure and Jorge has a victorious expression. I can only stare in awe at the man’s endurance, strength and
skill.

‘We did it, Jorge! We did it!’

Jorge throws me a look.

‘
You
did it!
You
did it!’

The creature shows itself in the distance to be a 100-pound pirarucu. Jorge takes the rope and starts to fight the fish, trying to bring it to the side of boat. Unsure of what to do, I find a
wooden club.

‘Do you need this?’ I enquire.

It’s a veritable cardinal rather than the modest fishing priest I use to dispatch brown trout on the Coquet. He asks me to do the honours, so, raising the club, I bring it down on the
fish’s head with all my might. It’s brutal but swift and efficient, and it’s how these guys survive.

As I sail back to camp I have time to reflect on what an astonishing journey along the world’s most iconic river this has been. It’s been a great privileged. To top
it off, the fixer has ferried in 140 cans of Skol and an electric piano out of nowhere – this river really is the giver of life. Our classically trained sound engineer, Prada, starts banging
out the tunes. I sing ‘Proud Mary’ as Arianna gyrates in front of us, trying to show us what we’ve all been missing. And thank the Lord we missed it! Her fisherman beau takes her
away by boat – now that truly
is
a great river.

December 2009, World Tour, Series 3

As I lean out of the cab window taking in the sights, I am hit by the distinctive smell. It reminds me of when I was on holiday as a kid in Binibeca, Spain – the
smell of baked terracotta in the warm air, only this time mixed with the savoury smoke of cigars. I inhale deeply. Havana is alive with colour: the faded colonial architecture, the fabulous 1950s
cars, the women, the street musicians, and the vibrant blue ocean. I feel heady with excitement. Jamie, Peter and Craig are caught up, too. Cuba has an intoxicating flavour and I want to lap it up,
bathe in it and lick the bowl.

We pull up at the iconic Hotel Nacional, where Sinatra, Marilyn, the Rat Pack, Rita Hayworth and Ant & Dec have stayed before me. We dump our kit and take a wander round Havana. Americans
haven’t been able to legitimately visit this Caribbean island since the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, and the embargo is still in place today. As a result of these tough sanctions, Cuba is a
place that has remained unhomogenised by the outside world. Florida is only sixty miles away but the cultures couldn’t be further apart. And even though the islanders have been held in an
iron grip by Communist dictator Fidel Castro since he seized power in 1959, and are now ruled by Fidel’s younger brother, Raúl, their sense of identity feels so defined, their
self-worth defiant.

We walk past a cigar factory and pop in for a quick look around. I want to stay longer but there’s no time to film – our schedule is so tight. Contrary to popular myth, Cuban cigars
are not rolled on the thighs of virgins, but the factory girls do stretch the tobacco leaves on their laps as they sort and grade them. A professional storyteller reads to them as they work. Cuban
women are like no other – beautiful, with classical features, healthy skin, no make-up and plenty of life in their eyes. I listen for a while before asking the name of the book. It’s
Harry Potter. The reader tells me she also reads Dickens and Hemingway. Cuba might have a terrible human rights record but it has one of the highest literacy levels in the world and most people
speak English fluently.

Jamie has decided he wants to celebrate the Cuban clichés. Across the road is parked a blue open-top Cadillac in immaculate condition. The Cubans not only take great care of their
vehicles, polishing and buffing like the average classic-car geek in Britain, they also engineer the parts themselves. I jump in the back of the Cadillac Eldorado and Jamie hands me a mojito.
I’m liking this new non-sadistic style of directing. I sip my drink. Only a Cuban mojito tastes this fresh. My taste buds give the minty rum syrup a full-on snog while Jamie cuts a cigar and
lights it. He hands over my Montecristo No.2 and I am taken for an elegant tour of the town. I feel like Sinatra.

Malecón Promenade

Before sunset we film a fishing sequence on the Malecón Promenade in Havana. Fidel Castro, worried his citizens would attempt to flee his regime, strictly
controlled access to all boats. As a result of this, all fishing boats are owned by the state and use is only for the privileged few. This is bad news for Cubans, but good news for fish stocks, and
better news for me. One of the only ways for people to catch fish is off the promenade. Hundreds of men and women line the sea wall, day and night, using rods and hand lines to catch bait fish,
snapper and sardines, which they eat or sell to the government-owned restaurants, some of which are house-based. Basically you can go to people’s houses and they will cook for you but the
money earned has to go to the state, otherwise they will go to prison. This is enforced by the secret police, who, dressed in plain clothes, are indiscernible from regular citizens. We have been
followed from the moment we arrived and I know that two men in a black Ford are watching us right now. It’s a strange feeling.

There is a knack to fishing off the promenade but if you don’t know what you’re doing, like me, it’s like casting a line into a washing machine! A wave smacks the sea wall and
we all get drenched.
Ah, that’s why everyone’s wearing anoraks
, I think to myself. I had thought maybe it was going to rain. The trick is to put your line out in water, jump
behind the wall and then jump back up. The waves bring the fish in. Lots of people are catching fish, except me, so I ask some guys across the way what bait they are using. Shrimp. We buy their
whole supply. But it’s not the bait that’s getting fish, it’s the spot they are fishing in. There are lots of sardines and small jacks and we’re in the wrong place. But
there’s no room. I cast again in the same barren spot and vainly hope something might swim by. A wave slaps me in the face.

The sun is beginning to go down and the light starts to change. Out of the corner of my eye I see a pelican stealing one of the fishermen’s bait. I chuckle. Then I realise the pelican is
actually on the end of his line.
It must be an accident
, I think – it’s not. This dude is purposely catching pelicans for a local restaurant to roast. Alessandra, our AP, gets
deeply upset. The man yanks the pelican in, grabs it, closes its wings and binds its beak and feet. Alessandra is now beyond distressed.