Narrative 2

The peninsula which lied about 5 miles north of Inhabane, on the coast of Mozambique, was only accessible by boat. The long way round from the north was an incredibly difficult 4WD track and was not really an option for most people. So for all intents and purposes, the peninsula acted as an island. Dhow boats would inch their way from the mainland in the morning and afternoon. Fishing boats could be seen through the palm trees, with hardened men and boys making their living from the rich oceans.

The place was idyllic. As visitors we would spend hours between the hammock and the beach. Reading, chatting, feeling slightly hungry as we only had a limited amount of food for the week and a half we intended to stay there. The ‘campground’ consisted of a drop toilet and space. We set up our tents slightly away from the towering palm trees, concerned that we would be part of the statistics which state that more people are killed each year in this part of the world by falling coconuts than lions.

The main beach was a few hundred metres away. It pointed towards the mainland, with a large decaying boat marooned on the shore. How it got there was anyone’s guess, but the locals made the most of it’s height, using it as a jetty to get to deeper water in the hope of throwing over a line and catching a fish.

Twenty children or more would be perched on the ruined boat, each with a homemade hand line, which consisted of a block of wood and salvaged fishing line, often with knots every couple of metres. They would sit there for hours, in what appeared to be a futile effort to snatch a fish. Some didn’t even appear to have any bait, as if they were just hoping that a passing fish may get bored and decide to see what would happen if they took hold of the line.

Days passed and as visitors we enjoyed the relaxed pace of this tropical existence.  We ate, swum, slept, read, ate, slept, swum.

One morning, the ‘owner’ of the campground came to us with an old speargun. The owner was a cheery enough fellow, typically his face appeared young, but his rough, wrinkled hands and his lack of teeth betrayed his age, which was nearing 60. Our few conversations had determined that he had been there for some time, was well known in his local community, and had 4 wives. We guessed that the woman who shared his hut and who we at first believed was his daughter, was in fact one of the four.

Dave and I accepted his offering of the spear gun, even though neither of us had handled one before. Soon appeared an old snorkel set to complete the package, and we were off to go hunting for fish.

There is something beautifully primeval about heading off in search of food. As if your ancestors are crying ‘bravo, welcome to the real world!’ We set up a responsible distance from the children fishing. I was the first to see what I could find, so with goggles on, spear gun in hand, I waded into the water slowly. Once the water level was deep enough I plunged down.

I couldn’t see a thing. Let alone any fish!  No, that is an over exaggeration, I could see my hand in front of my face, just. I may have had a chance of seeing a whale that had mistaken me for dinner, but seeing a small fish, let alone catching one was going to be impossible. My dream of putting food on my plate that I had caught with my own two hands (and a spear gun) looked like it was not going to be fulfilled. To be honest, I didn’t even know how to fire the spear gun and I had more chance of impaling myself than actually catching a passing fish.

Like any good men, we persevered a few more times, for a moment imagining that we the water was becoming clearer, but as 40 minutes passed, we hadn’t seen a fish, let alone aimed the gun at one.

Jacob was a tall, lean young man, in his twenties. He approached us from further down the beach. Dave was the first to notice that he had his own spear gun. We smiled to greet him.

“Hello.”

“Hello”

Jacob looked down at our gun, and no doubt at our lack of fish.

“Not a good spear that one..”

“Nah mate” replied Dave. I shook my head, looking down at the inferior spear gun, as if I knew any better.

“Where you from?” Jacob asked.

“Australia”

Jacob smiled. It was a warm smile, a genuine smile. Given the circumstance, it didn’t make sense.

“Here, you try mine.” He reached his spear gun out with both hands.

Our initial refusals were not accepted, so it was I who slowly re entered the water, Jacob’s spear gun in hand thinking that I could have a sub machine gun and it still wouldn’t help me to see a fish!

After a few dives, all lasting less than 15 seconds before I had to get back above water for breath, I made my way back up to Jacob, handing over the spear gun.

“I can’t see any fish.”

Jacob placed his goggles on.

“Lots of fish, you see.”

We watched as entered the water and dived. It seemed like he was underwater for an eternity. Perhaps he had been knocked out? For a moment I went through what the plan of action would be if he did not come up. Do I dive in now to get him out? What happens if we can’t find him? Where is the closest police station?

We then saw Jacob’s head, bobbing up out of the water. He turned to us, a wide smile across his face, and then reached his hand up above the water, revealing, a fish!

The bastard had caught a fish! How did he do that? Dave and I looked at each other in amazement. The bastard had caught a fish!

What followed was truly amazing. Within ten minutes Jacob had brought up 6 fish, placing them through a needle connected to a buoy which trailed behind him. The fish were all about an arm length long, shinning and healthy looking.

Jacob must have felt that he had proved his point, or shown up the white guys enough, and he brought his catch to the beach, offering us two fish to take back with us. We at first refused, thinking that this catch would surely be his families food for the day, or days ahead. Jacob insisted. He had a story to tell us, a story, which would make us, understand.

Four years ago, three Australian guys had arrived on this small peninsula. They were spear fishermen, proper ones. A younger Jacob was one of the children trying to catch fish from the wreck, wooden block and fishing line in hand. He found out that the Australians wanted to get a boat, to go further out from shore, to find larger fish. Jacob offered to help them find a boat, which he did.

For two weeks, Jacob was the Australian’s guide. He would arrange for a boat each morning, bargain an appropriate price with the captain. He would organize food and drink, and a place to sleep. He liked the Australians. They were friendly, they laughed a lot, and they were amazing at spear fishing. They even gave him a some lessons on the art of the spear gun.

On the last day, when it came time for the Australians to continue their holiday, Jacob was sad to see them leave. They thanked him for all of his help and gave him more money than he had ever seen. He embraced them, a huge smile across his face. The four men placed their luggage on the dhow they were to catch back to the mainland. They all got on board, smiling back at Jacob, the boy they had befriended over the last two weeks. They began to talk about something. Jacob was too far away to hear. Then one of the Australians reached into his bag. He pulled out a spear gun, stood and looked at Jacob.

“Jacob. For you.” He yelled as he threw the spear gun from the boat. It landed by Jacob’s feet. At first he did not understand. He looked back at the Australians.

“It’s yours Jacob. Thank you!”

They waved as the boat moved away from shore.

That simple gesture, the giving of an old spear gun, changed Jacob’s life. As he learnt to hold his breath, to wait patiently for fish to move past. As he learnt the spots where the schools of fish would be running, he was able to catch more and more fish. Enough to not only feed his family, but to sell to the restaurants on the mainland. The money he made went to school fees, for himself and his brothers and sisters.

He hadn’t been taught to fish. He had been taught to spear!

He placed the two fish in front of us.

“For you. Good Australians.”

Jacob stood, his tall, muscular frame shadowing us. Placing the remainder of the fish over his shoulder, he walked back from where he came. Exiting scene right.

Dave and I returned to camp, presenting the fish to our suitably impressed partners. It wasn’t until they were being cooked that we announced the truth and relayed the story of Jacob, the boy who was taught how to fish.