Fish Out of Water

The other day I biked to a nearby village where our health center had planned an outreach clinic. Nobody showed up to get checked out, however, so my day was left totally free. As I was sitting in a shop talking with a few guys, the shop owner, Ramesh, asked me question that would literally translate to, “Do you want to go kill some fish?”

During my first days in Nepal, I made a few rules for myself, one of them being “never decline an invitation.” So far it’s proven fruitful in various ways. Like last night, when it led me to a neighbor’s house to eat seared pork and drink homemade rice wine to celebrate the completion of rice planting.

Killing fish. My past few weeks had been a bit uneventful, and I was feeling due for a little adventure. I gladly accepted the invitation.

A few minutes later, two of the neighbors, Debraj and Amar, arrived bearing slender bamboo poles with strings and hooks attached.

Debraj and his son

Ramesh checks his line

After completing a final sale, Ramesh left the store in the care of his wife and the four of us set out toward the Bawai River. The day was perfect: a few puffy clouds punctuated the clear blue sky and a light breeze blew through the glistening, freshly planted rice fields.

After about twenty minutes of walking, we stopped to dig for worms beneath a great bo tree. Hindus regard bo trees (pipal rukh in Nepali) as an incarnation of the god Vishnu, the preserver of the universe. Siddhartha Gautama, better known as Buddha, achieved enlightenment sitting under such a tree. Under this particular bo tree, the soil had eroded so much—and all in the past sixty years, according to my companions—that one could walk amongst its roots. We borrowed a hoe from a neighbor and began sifting through the loamy soil in search of bait.

After bagging a bunch of worms, we moved on. As we approached the river, we met several boys crouched on the bank of a side channel who were trying to snag some dinner.

The river itself was about fifty feet wide, its rapidly moving water cloudy with the dirt swept away from recent rains. These would not be ideal conditions for fishing.

“We’re going to go over there,” said Ramesh, pointing to the far side. “You should take your pants off.”

We pulled off our pants and prepared to cross. Ramesh and Amar set out first, drifting slightly downstream as they fought against the current. In a minute, they had reached the other side. Debraj, who is a bit shorter than the rest of us, said he didn’t think he could cross. Instead, he’d remain behind to try his luck in the side channel. I, however, felt pretty confident I could do this. Clutching my pants, flip-flops, umbrella, and water bottle above my head, I descended into the muddy, swift, tepid water and began my traversal. Soon the water was up to my chest, pulling me downstream with considerable force. “Slowly, slowly,” urged Ramesh, which is the advice I always seem get when doing something difficult.

I arrived on the bank without a hitch, invigorated by the thrill of the task, and the three of us continued walking upstream. The path led us into a scrubby jungle and soon grew slippery, uneven, and difficult. Still holding me bundled belongings, I almost fell more than once. Finally, we arrived at a sandy embankment where the water was calmer. We unwound our lines, affixed our bait, and cast out.

Pants-less fishing is the way to go 

I had learned how to fish in Minnesota, the land of ten thousand lakes, sitting on a paddleboat with my grandfather while he told me about the important things in life. Like, well, fishing. But I had forgotten how boring it was—especially without food, drink, or conversation. We just stood around, putting out our lines and waiting. Amar spotted a snake in the water, which he dispatched with his bamboo rod. A man shepherding his water buffalo passed, warning that he’d seen a crocodile in that very spot a few days earlier. I began to feel uneasy, with the jungle to our back and the murky water to our front. After about a half hour of unsuccessful fishing, Ramesh announced that the spot wasn’t any good and we should try a spot back the way we came.

Returning through the jungle proved even more difficult than coming. I stepped in some muck that pulled off my flip-flops, which the current almost whisked away. My rod got stuck amidst the forest foliage. I lost my balance twice. When I had to climb up to a ledge, the root I was standing on collapsed, causing me to fall and cut my leg. Just when I thought I was in the clear, I slipped on some and fell flat on my back, caking my pants with mud. My friends chuckled at each mishap and lent me a hand whenever possible, asking me if I was upset and reassuring me that, at the very least, it was an experience.

We re-crossed the river without incident, meeting Debraj at the side channel. His luck had been marginally better than ours, having one small, eel-like fish to show for his efforts. While Amar and Ramesh took their places next to Debraj, I washed my pants in the stream. Having laid them out to dry on the grass, I picked up my pole and sat. And sat. And sat. Once, I felt a nibble, but when I pulled in my line the worm was gone and nothing had taken its place.

After two more hours of silent angling, we decided to call it quits. Debraj hadn’t caught anything after that first fish; Amar managed to bag four little wrigglers; Ramesh and I had nothing to show for our efforts, although at one point he did snag his hook on his shirt. He actually left early, going off to snack on okra in a nearby field.

We were done for the day, but I was in for one last misstep. As we walked along the narrow path leading through the rice fields, I lost my footing on a slippery patch and fell, landing on all fours in a soggy rice paddy. Now I was a mess. When we later met Ramesh on the road, he said, for the dozenth time that day, “It was an experience.”

And it was. Spontaneous excursions in Nepal always seem to be underwhelming in some ways and overwhelming in others. Like the photo below, you rarely get what you expect.