Extreme Fishing (19 page)

Ten minutes later this happens again: our bait is taken and the predator misses the hook by millimetres. Callum thinks it’s a wahoo nicking our bait but on the sixth attempt I catch the
culprit. I am convinced it’s the same one that’s been eating all the pies and now, overfed, has got sloppy and made a fatal mistake. I bring the twenty-pound fish onto the boat. It is a
wahoo – the Usain Bolt of the ocean (cue lightning pose). We knock it on the head and keep it for our supper. Wahoo tastes absolutely delicious, as its Hawaiian name suggests. It’s a
bit like mackerel but with a softer, more delicate flavour.

I don’t have to wait long for my next strike and it’s gold, as the shining dorado bursts out of the water. I know how tough this pulchritudinous fish is to catch and I’m not
going to lose her – she is my greatest prize. She leaps athletically out of the ocean again. If I don’t keep her under control she’ll turn off the hook and be free. She is so
powerful she can exceed 50 m.p.h. in short bursts, and she’s smart – I’ve underestimated the golden maverick once before but this time I play it safe and use all the skills I have
learnt to land her.

I’ve done it! I am ecstatic. A quick bump on the head and we’ve got a fifteen-pound mahi-mahi (the Hawaiian name for dorado, meaning very strong) for our supper to complement our
wahoo – I am a very happy man. As we head back to shore I take in the stunning coastline. Callum points to the starboard side of the boat and as I cross the deck I see a female humpback whale
and her calf. We are all rendered speechless. She ejects sea-water out of her spout like a geyser while her calf expels a faint mist more like a lawn sprinkler – he’ll get there in the
end. They swim by the boat for a while, dive down and are gone.

Back at Hemingway’s, I eat the wahoo and dorado with the crew and Callum. I look around at the other clientele in the bistro. There are a conspicuous number of rotund German women in their
sixties having candlelit dinners with young African men. Around the world, I’ve seen my fair share of saggy ageing men with fresh-faced nubile girls, which is repugnant, but I didn’t
know there was sex tourism the other way round. These boys have been groomed by these grey-haired pornogrannies, seduced with cars, money and treats. They say many a good tune is played on an old
fiddle, but looking at some of these women, I would definitely take up a new instrument.

Dhow Fishing

I wake up with images of haggard German women on heat and feel sick. At breakfast there are old Italian boilers in on the act and we all decide to get some air. Today we
are heading to Malindi, a former port and tourist resort on the east coast. I am dhow fishing with Hassan, Mohammed and Mohammed (Mo for short), three guys who fish together day in, day out and who
are like the Kenyan angling equivalent of the Rolling Stones, all with faces that could tell a thousand stories. They are all wearing the traditional dhow dress of plain coloured kilts. We greet
one another and I hop aboard their boat.

Dhow boats are Indian in origin and design and have been used in the area for centuries; today we are going out in a vessel Hassan says he has designed and built himself. The craftsmanship is
truly outstanding. Coming from a shipbuilding background I appreciate the design and execution. As a lad out of school I was accepted for an apprenticeship as a draughtsman at Swan Hunter, where I
worked in hull design and shell expansion, but I quickly realised that, if shipbuilding and I were both to survive, we would have to go our separate ways. I know the industry has been struggling
since the 1980s, when I coincidentally worked at Swan Hunter, but I would like to take this opportunity to underline that the decline in shipbuilding in the northeast was down to Margaret Thatcher
and not my ineptitude as a draughtsman. Honest!

The men unfurl the sail and we tack across the water. It’s amazing how the boat glides through the waves; I feel this is how we are meant to fish. It’s so natural and more like the
poetry of fly-fishing that I love so much. It is also in complete contrast to the big white petrol-guzzling craft we went out in yesterday. I stare at Hassan, in awe of him for building this boat.
As we sail across the sea I turn to him on camera and say, ‘This really is an amazing dhow boat, so beautiful and perfect for catching reef fish. I understand you built it
yourself?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ he says.

My pupils dilate. WTF? ‘Oh? A little bird told me that you had built it.’

‘No, a local businessman built and paid for it.’

‘Did you have any hand in it at all?’

‘No.’

Basically he’d spun me a right old yarn until he realised he was going to be on camera and it might tie him in knots later.

But whatever the genesis of the dhow boat, one thing is irrefutable: Hassan and his friends know how to fish. I’ve never seen anything like it. They work the lines not only with their
hands but also with their feet, playing the fish like puppets on strings. Their feet and hands all bear the scars of their work but over time the skin has hardened and they feel no pain. Each of
them pulls up four fish, sometimes two at a time, without ever tangling the lines; it’s an incredible feat. They are the masters, with extraordinary coordination and great strength to fight
not only the fish but also gusts of wind and lumpy water. They make it look easy but I assure you it is not.

I’m hoping to catch a grouper or red snapper but first I have to don the traditional dhow fishermen dress. Well, it’s more of a skirt or sarong that fits from the midriff to the
ankles. I feel like David Beckham. In this part of the country it is shameful for men to show their legs, which is unfortunate because I have been told I have lovely legs. Peter Prada needs to
cover his; in fact, I don’t think they have ever seen the light of day. Alistair’s are like pipe cleaners and Craig has Kiwi cankles. But my legs are shapely, like Richard
O’Brien’s, only younger.

I put on my welding gloves to protect my actor’s hands. Hassan explains that fishing without gloves allows him to feel every movement of the fish so he knows exactly when to pull the line
up. (I guess it’s a bit like a rider keeping a gentle contact with the horse’s mouth to make small adjustments in speed and direction.) He confiscates the gloves – if I’m
going to be a dhow fisherman I need to feel the fish and understand the technique.

We drop anchor at the edge of a reef, lowering bait to the bottom. A grouper fish tends to come out of its cave, take the bait and then try to swim back into the reef. You have to take a grouper
quickly otherwise you’ll lose it.

Mo gets a bite and heaves up a chakashangu, or a green job fish. I’m up next – at first I think it’s a snapper but I’ve actually hooked a coral fish. I heave it up. Its
colours are a stunning palate of purples, reds and yellows. It’s part of the grouper family and it’s the best-looking fish we catch all day, not that looks count.

Hand lining looks easy but it’s a technique that takes time to master. The boys are pulling them up like they are going out of fashion and I am losing them at the same pace. They catch job
fish, snapper and emperor fish. Hassan gives me a quick tutorial: ‘If you lift [the line] quickly then [the fish] will know it’s a trap, so you have to lift it slowly.’ His words
of wisdom work. I casually pull up the bait and bam! I get a second bite. As I wind in the line with my hands, the fish fights and the nylon tears into my skin. I think Hassan wants me to have
‘dhow lines’ on my hands as marks of honour so that I can look at the scars in years to come and remember this incredible day. I ignore the burning and concentrate on winning the
battle.

‘It’s a grouper! I have always wanted to catch one of these!’

It’s the biggest fish of the day and in my opinion the second-finest-tasting fish on the planet, after haddock. Its Ancient Greek name is
Epinephelus lanceolatus
(
epinephelos
meaning ‘clouds’) and its striking brown and grey markings do make it look as though it’s reflecting the altocumulus clouds in the sky above. This fish with clouds on will bring a
good price at the market, and in all we have eighteen of them. We later sell them on the beach to the locals for the going rate: 400 shillings a fish (under £3). It’s a good day’s
work – my dad would be proud that I’d done at least one decent day’s graft with scars to prove it.

Tana River Delta

I cannot believe the pilot of our plane, Gary Cullen, is best mates with the headmaster of my son’s school! The clichés gush out of my mouth:
‘It’s such a small world, Gary. I mean, here we are on the way to the Tana Delta talking about people in Surrey! Unbelievable.’

The crew groan and stick their earplugs in. They think I’m such a twat today. Sod them. I natter away and Gary asks if I would like to have a go at flying. Would I? Would I? I smile from
ear to ear: ‘I have always wanted to be a pilot but I didn’t have the aptitude skills or leadership qualities to join the Royal Air Force.’ I once had to take five guys to a river
with three planks and rope to build a bridge to cross it. The way I constructed the bridge ensured all five lads were swept away, with me standing on the bank wondering what to do next. We also had
to lay a minefield, but first of all I didn’t ask if any of the guys had done it before, which is a glaringly obvious mistake as one was an expert. Secondly, I didn’t work out that it
would be best to place all the mines on top of the ground before we dug them in and risked detonating them while trying to plant the others.

After a quick lesson, I take us to 11,000 feet. The Tana Delta is stunning from above: this is where the sea comes inland and forms an estuary and hundreds of little tributaries that bleed off
it. I am reluctant to give the controls back to Gary but he insists on landing the plane, apparently because it’s windy, we’re landing on a sandy beach and, er, I’ve never done it
before.

The crew still think I’m a twat: ‘Oh, my God, I can’t believe you know John Whatshisface. Such a small world,’ they mimick.

We have dinner and go to bed. My room, a very smart colonial jungle tent, has no walls and 360 degrees of views and fresh air. There are only mosquito nets to protect me, which won’t help
against lions, hippos and other big beasts. I don’t sleep a wink with all the wildlife noises, particularly the hippopotami feeding nearby. One of the most dangerous animals in the world, and
the most dangerous mammal in Africa, it’s not a beast you want to piss off – but in only a matter of hours I will be casting a small bait fish over a pod of hippos’ heads and
landing it into their dung in the hope of catching a larger fish. No, I haven’t been drinking: that’s my brief and I can hardly digest it myself and nor, from the sound of it, can the
hippos. It’s like a cacophony of dishwashers on drainage cycle.

As the sun rises we head off in a 4x4 with my guide, Keke, to a tiny village on Tana River. Here we’re meeting the fishermen who risk their lives every day because of how and where they
fish. It’s the first time I’ve been on a fishing trip with a chap carrying a .303 rifle. Sporting an army green shirt, trousers and a kufi cap, this geezer looks the business. We walk
in single file along the bank of one of the thousands of tributaries in the Delta and scramble down the sides to the water’s edge. Five metres in front of me is a pod of hippos trying to
wallow, snooze and defecate in peace. Bait fish like nothing more than chomping on hippo poo and where there are bait fish, there are predators. I cast a line as near to the pod as possible. This
is extreme hippo-poo fishing. Only in Africa; only on this show.

I have to admit I am more than a little cynical, but as I bring the line in by hand I have a take. It’s a small red snapper but I am happy. I ask Keke what ‘beautiful fish’ is
in Swahili.

‘Samaki Mazuri,’ he says, grinning at the size of it.

Well, he can laugh but four hours later it’s the only fish we have and I am more likely to be bored to death than gored to death. I spy a man in a dugout canoe catching loads, so I decide
to ditch my two losers and hang out with him. Call me fickle.

Swab and his son take us upriver in their battered canoe to a secret location supposed to be full of fish, and most importantly away from hippos – the temperature is rising and
they’re becoming agitated. As we pass by, two of them scramble to their feet looking menacing, while the others scatter and dive under the water. I conclude that I’d prefer to watch
them from the bank, not a canoe. The sun is baking and the chance of catching a fish remote. My gut instinct is to call it a day but Swab sets out crab lines – in my experience shrimp and
crabs are always a last resort of a contributor. Well, after all the faffing about with poo and hippos we end up with one tiny crab, which looks like something I pulled out of a rock pool in
Seahouses aged seven, a small bream and a red snapper. I cook them on the fire and eat them with all the other poo fishermen. It’s a poo-tiful scene.

Lake Victoria

Gary’s back and he’s taking us inland to Lake Victoria, the second-largest freshwater lake in the world and bigger than Wales. However, this time I’m
allowed nowhere near the controls of the plane. When the production company, IWC Media, found out I’d flown, they went ballistic.

‘You are not insured. We are not amused,’ said Hamish.

All the crew got into trouble so I am straightjacketed onto the plane and seated at the back, where I can’t touch anything. The fact that I had always wanted to be a pilot isn’t a
good enough excuse to bend the health and safety rules in IWC’s eyes, the killjoys.

After one aborted landing owing to a cow on the ‘runway’, we touchdown on a bumpy field where kids are playing football. When we’ve all coughed our tongues up, we head by boat
to Mfangano Island in the middle of Lake Victoria.

Local fisherman Gilbert is waiting to meet us. He is a charming man with a kind manner. He welcomes us to his fishing village, which comprises square mud-and-wood huts with crude corrugated
roofs. Children run around naked at the water’s edge as mothers wash their clothes and cooking pots. Men busy themselves with carpentry and repairing boats ready for tonight’s fishing.
The lifeblood of the island is omena fish (think white-bait), which the locals catch and sell on the mainland.