Short Stories and Essays
OUR CAMBODIAN FISHING EXPERIENCE
by
John E. Enslen
© 2008 All Rights Reserved
[Although most fishing stories are not completely true, the following completely true fishing story occurred in 2007 when my wife Dianne and I were full time senior missionaries in the Kingdom of Cambodia.]
I am a 61-year-old, seventh-generation Alabamian. My wife of 40 years, Dianne, is a 59-year-old native of rural northeast Georgia. Throughout our married lives and the raising of our six children, we have resided in my small hometown of Wetumpka, Alabama, a veritable fisherman’s paradise. Less than 40 minutes from our home are Lake Martin, Lake Thurlow, Lake Yates, Lake Jordan, Lake Bouldin, Lake Mitchell, the Coosa River, the Tallapoosa River, and the Alabama River. Private fishing ponds are bountiful, including three within a short walking distance of our backdoor. We have easy access to the Gulf of Mexico to the south, about three hours away. Consequently, fresh water and saltwater fishing have been a favorite and enjoyable pastime of mine since early childhood.
After my wife retired from her work as a registered nurse at our local 300-inmate county jail, and after I retired from a 35-year law practice, we decided that we would volunteer to serve, at our expense, a two-year mission for our church. After notifying church authorities of our desire, we were surprised to receive an assignment to labor in the Kingdom of Cambodia. Upon our arrival in Cambodia, we learned that it would be our job to help establish a new congregation in Siem Reap, Cambodia, home to the ancient Angkor Wat ruins.
Cambodia is a country of depressing poverty, deadly disease, relentless refuse, foul filth, stagnant stench, and government greed. One may add to that list extreme weather conditions, rabid dogs, home-invasive lizards, mosquitoes which spread incurable diseases like elephantiasis, unpaved and pothole laden roads, unregulated vehicular traffic, the lack of modern medical facilities, the lack of a postal delivery system, a steeped Buddhist tradition, and more than a little anti-American resentment possessed by some older citizens for the bombing of the civilian population during the Viet Nam War.
I wish I could say: That’s the bad news. But unfortunately, that is not all of the bad news.
Hovering with silent gloom over all of those factors is the deeply imbedded psychological trauma in the general populace psyche caused by 30 straight years of internal civil wars. Those wars were marked by self-inflicted genocide in the millions, to include the entire intellectual gene pool. Also present are the lingering detrimental effects resulting from the total destruction of the family unit by dictatorially mandated separation and dispersion about three decades ago.
Here’s the good news:
Despite all of the negatives, the common people are friendly, respectful, kind, helpful, accommodating, and approachable. Their dire circumstances have imposed upon them a certain amount of humility and teachability. They are some of Heavenly Father’s most beautiful children, inside and out. For these important God-given human attributes which they possessed, we were most grateful.
We had labored intensely in Siem Reap at our challenging endeavor to establish a congregation. We had struggled daily to speak the 23-vowel, 33-consonant native language—Khmer. With the indispensable help of the four young single male missionaries with whom we were working, we had garnered about 50 native Cambodians, all former Buddhists, into our regular Sunday worship services. By then, we were eight months into our Cambodian adventure.
It was at this point in time that our presiding church leader gave us a special four-day assignment. We were asked to explore the possibility of forming another congregation in the distant resort town of Sihanoukeville, located in the very south of Cambodia on the Gulf of Thailand. Nine hours of hectic travel in our ten-year-old sports utility vehicle separated us from Sihanoukeville.
When I say “hectic” travel, I am referring to the indescribably chaotic motor and bicycle dominated traffic, mingled with wormy-looking cattle, sharp-horned water buffalo, ancient-looking ox carts, pony-size horse-pulled wagons, and overloaded pickups whose beds were piled with wrapped-face humans. Well, maybe I can describe the crowded, chaotic, non-laned, movement of traffic. It looks much like the movement of Alabama fire ants immediately after someone steps on their raised ant bed. We fortunately arrived safely at our living quarters for this short investigative stay in Sihanoukeville—an up-class hotel with a full half-mile of privately owned beach property.
During each week of our mission, we were allowed one mid-week day of personal rest and relaxation. We felt that a fishing trip in the Gulf of Thailand might be a wonderful way to take a short break from our proselyting activities. Through the hotel concierge, we booked for the next day a fishing trip in the perfect mixture of sparkling azure and light-blue gulf waters.
When we excitedly arose that early Tuesday morning, December 18, 2007, we pulled the curtains back from the sliding glass doors of our sea-view, third-floor balcony. There was a light sprinkling rain under overcast skies. Shortly thereafter, our boat driver, who was weather savvy, sent a message to our room via the hotel clerk that he would pick us up on the beach near the “dragon tail,” a local three-dimensional work of art, at 10:00 a.m. instead of 8:00 a.m..
That delay gave us just enough time to drive into town so that we could buy some snacks and some aloe. Although we were in southern Cambodia’s cooler season, there are nevertheless only two seasons—very hot and even hotter. We successfully accomplished our errand and timely returned to the hotel.
We happened to walk through the hotel lobby on our way to the beach where we were to board our fishing boat. The free breakfast buffet was still available in the hotel lobby. I stopped at a table of fruits and grabbed several pieces of peeled and de-seeded Khmer grapefruit wedges. I would simply eat it as I walked toward our point of rendezvous.
My first bite of grapefruit tasted like it had been sliced with the same knife previously used to cut off the heads of dead fish. I ignored the internal warning not to eat any more of it. The second bite tasted a little more normal, and there were only about six or seven good mouthfuls anyway, so I ate it all.
It was still sprinkling lightly as we walked down to the east side of the long, white-sanded, hotel-owned, half-mile of beach to meet the fishing boat. Dianne carried a small open umbrella, but I braved the hardly noticeable raindrops. We carried with us in plastic bags our food, drinks, lotion, towels, and other supplies for the day.
We did not have to wait long for the boat. By the time we had taken photographs of each other, the boat had rounded the nearby rock peninsula and come sputtering into view. The all-wooden boat came to a rest in shallow water near the shore. One anchor thrown out the back and another thrown onto the shore kept the boat perpendicular to the gentle waves that were lapping at the beach. The boat was a respectable 30 feet long, but it was much narrower than we had expected. A weather-beaten, faded-blue plastic canvas in the center portion of the boat provided the only protection from direct sunlight.
One friendly, good-natured, unmarried Khmer man about 25 years of age would apparently serve as captain, deck hand, bait cutter, fish de-hooker, fish cleaner, and whatever else might be needed. His English was limited to two words, “hello” and “Coca-Cola;” and Dianne and I had not learned any fishing terminology in Khmer. The words “church,” “missionary,” “faith,” “repent,” “baptize,” “Holy Ghost,” “prophet,” “apostle,” “revelation,” and “scripture” were of no help to us in communicating our fishing desires and preferences.
By the way, our boat captain named Too-un (phonetic) was unmarried because his savings were still short of the $2,000 it takes to purchase a Khmer wife from the wife-to-be’s father. Such a dowry is part of the Cambodian culture, and tends to keep people single for a long time. Too-un didn’t own the boat; he was simply paid a small amount of money for driving it. Too-un believed he would have the full $2,000 saved in only five more years, quite an accomplishment considering he earned less than $100.00 per month on which to subsist.
We boarded the boat, and the captain steered southeasterly into the gorgeous, island-infested Gulf of Thailand. We were propelled by a 13-horse power Honda, gasoline reciprocating, outboard engine, just like the one on my portable sawmill back in Alabama. Our maximum speed was approximately 10 miles per hour if there were no wind abetting or hindering our progress. Our captain stood on the aft deck with a string in his right hand and the rudder stick in his left hand. With the string he could accelerate and decelerate the throttle on the gasoline engine, thus controlling our speed. There was a rope attached to the long propeller shaft. By pulling on this rope, the captain could immediately lift the propeller entirely out of the water as a means of reducing engine speed. It was primitive, but effective.
As we traveled further into the gulf, the clouds steadily gave way to full sunshine as the Captain had expected. But I was not enjoying the magnificent scenery as much as I would have liked. I have never been one to get sea sick, but the gently rolling motion was constantly churning the strange tasting grapefruit I had eaten.
We had traveled a good half hour and were about five miles distance from the departed shore. I had valiantly fought for as long as possible the now irresistible urgings of my body to discharge the bad grapefruit and everything else in my stomach the grapefruit had contaminated, and I am not referring to the urge to vomit. I could have somewhat gracefully accomplished that task over the side of the boat with little difficulty.
The boat was devoid of restroom facilities on deck or downstairs. In fact, the boat had no downstairs. It was barely a boat. It certainly wasn’t a ship. What was I to do? Under the circumstances, my natural inhibitions were speedily vacating my mind. Nothing mattered to me other than my rising distress. A cursory glance into my oceanic surroundings revealed that there were no other boat passengers or crew within view, unless they were using a high quality set of binoculars—highly unlikely.
I had to warn Dianne of what I was about to do. She knew I had suffered terribly for as long as I could, and I was about to ruin my clothes, the boat’s atmosphere, and our day of fishing if I did not take some drastic and immediate aversive action.
I imagine the captain thought absolutely nothing unusual about my taking off my shirt and putting on a life preserver. In Cambodia, men without shirts are almost as common as children without shoes. But I am confident in saying that my next move caught the captain by complete surprise. I quickly pulled off my knee-length shorts and underwear in one quick, two-handed stroke, and in a flash, so to speak, dove overboard! Dianne says that there is still fixed in her mind a clear rear view of my embarrassing, emergency, evacuation. This view recalls itself to her mind in unexpected moments, hence her otherwise unexplained outbursts of chuckling.
I had not planned on skinny dipping in the Gulf of Thailand on that day, or any other day for that matter. But oh what a relief it was! After doing my business, as they say, I began a fast-paced, two-armed backstroke, timed with an alternating frog kick with my legs. I made steady progress in removing myself from the contaminated area and catching up with the boat, especially after the surprised captain lifted his propeller out of the water.
There are no brakes for a coasting boat, so I had quite a distance to travel. With all of the splashing I was now doing, I had more than a little fear that I might attract a shark. I suddenly recollected seeing some small sharks for sale at the local fish market the day before, and I did not want to meet their granddaddy out there. Truth of the matter though, my activities had probably attracted more catfish than sharks.
While I was feverishly working my backstroke, Dianne was trying to explain to the wide-eyed captain exactly what was transpiring. Fortunately, she had learned some medical terms in Khmer, such as “poo-ah chew,” which means “stomach hurt.” Already obviously aware that his boat had no facilities, he quickly understood her explanation. (In fact, he interpreted the episode as an indication that he was permitted to urinate, which he did, with his back turned toward us, from the aft of the boat, shortly thereafter.)
I felt a significant degree of marathonian accomplishment when I eventually caught up with the coasting boat. I immediately tried to pull myself into the boat without the aid of anyone or anything, but was unsuccessful in doing so on my first attempt. The side was just too tall for me. (That’s a nice way of saying that I weighed more than my dissipating, age-reduced strength.) On my first unsuccessful attempt, I strained mightily in my exhausted condition only to barely get my gluteus maximus above the water line.
I really think I could have boarded the boat totally unassisted by first wrapping one leg over the side of the boat, but the potential for pain combined with the potential for further embarrassment prevented my even attempting it.
After my first unsuccessful effort to re-enter the boat, Captain Too-un began walking briskly my way. I thought he was going to lend me a hand, but he walked past me, picked up a heavy, three-step metal ladder, and hooked it onto the side rail of the boat adjacent to where I was treading water.
Dianne had already secured a towel from one of our plastic bags and was anxiously prepared to quickly enwrap me upon reentry. After hooking the narrow ladder to the side rail, the captain politely turned and looked the other way as I began climbing the three steps. But my trials were not yet over.
When both of my feet reached the second step, and I was fully exposed to the world, the lower part of the boat’s side dipped away from me as the result of a passing swell. The heavy metal ladder remained attached to the top of the side rail, but the bottom of the ladder became separated from the side of the tilting boat. When the boat rocked back and the ladder rejoined the side of the boat, the upper part of the ladder caught a portion of my right thigh in an excruciatingly painful pinch against the side of the boat.
I decided right then and there that I was going to be a real man about the situation, so I did not scream or even report my predicament. (It was like I didn’t want my unseen opposition to know he had deposited a good lick on me.) The next passing swell gave me relief from the pinch, but my fully exposed ascension up the ladder had been substantially slowed.
I made it to the third step, and over the rail. Dianne was finally able to envelop the lower half of my wet body in the large white towel she had been holding for quite a while. From watching the Khmer men who wear towel-like wraps called “krawh-mah,” and from our having had a Swedish exchange student to live with us, I knew exactly how to discreetly slip on my pants under the towel.
The pain in my now-discolored right thigh was subsiding somewhat, and I was ready and anxious for some real fishing. I was hoping to catch enough fish so that we could sell them and pay the $70.00 rental fee on the boat. By the way, the cost of the boat rental no longer seemed high. I was quite relieved and pleased with myself for the fact that I had paid the higher price for our own “private” boat as opposed to the lesser price for seats on a party boat—perhaps my one really good decision that day.
I did not know whether we would be trolling or bottom fishing. I looked around the boat and could not see a single rod and reel. Further, I could not find any type of live well for our bait. There wasn’t even an ice chest for storing the fish we would catch. I began to disappointingly feel there had been a miscommunication—that all we wanted was a boat ride.
That’s when Captain Too-un solved the no-bait problem. He flagged down a nearby commercial fishing boat that was harvesting, among other things, squid in a dragnet. The captain put some paper money into an empty clear-plastic drink bottle, screwed the top on tight, and threw the bottle toward the commercial boat. His toss was short, and the bottle bounced off some rigging and fell into the water. A young deck hand on the commercial fishing boat dove into the water as quickly as a kid playing dibble-dabble, and retrieved the floating bottle with the money in it. Then someone on the commercial fishing boat threw a small plastic bag full of squid into our boat. It landed on our deck with a thud. Now we had bait, but I knew we would not be trolling.
Captain Too-un took us another couple of miles further into the gulf and then, with rope in hand, pulled his propeller out of the water. We were about 100 yards from the shore of a three-acre size rocky island. After turning off the engine, the captain threw out an anchor. It was only then that I saw for the first time a three-gallon bucket with seven plastic water bottles in it. The bottles had fishing line wrapped around them with a hook on the end. I thought to myself, we’re going jug fishing just like back home. We’ll put some bait on those hooks, throw out the plastic bottles, let them float around, and then pick up the fish when the bottles start bobbing. Well, I turned out to be completely wrong.
To demonstrate the proper fishing technique, Captain Too-un unwound some line from a plastic bottle. I could not help but notice that the sinker was nothing more than a common rock, tied to the line with the line—a definite “no-no” in my fishing world. Something else was different about the fishing set up. The metal hook did not have an eyelet or hole in the end of the shaft. Where the eyelet would normally be located, the shaft had an enlarged knob. The line was merely tied directly to the straight shaft of the hook tightly so that the line could not slip over the enlarged knob on the end. That’s the Asian way.
The captain put a cut piece of squid on his hook and lowered his line over the side of the boat. We were in about 20 feet of water, and the bottom was rocky. In less than a minute, he pulled a small fish out of the water by hand. He didn’t even reel the line around the bottle as he raised the fish; he just lifted the line straight up with alternating hands.
The fish was very, very small. If its head were cut off, it would fit nicely with three others just like it into a sardine can. I figured he would throw the wiggling little fellow back, but he didn’t. Evidently, they don’t throw anything back in Cambodia. He threw the medium minnow-sized fish into a half-filled, six-liter, yellow, plastic Prestone anti-freeze container that had the entire top cut out of it. Since that was the only fish container in site, I knew we were in for some small-fish fishing. Fishing is fishing, and we had not done any in more than eight months, so we decided to enjoy it best we could.
Before we knocked off in the middle of the afternoon, we had caught 25 little fish all together. Dianne caught 4, I caught 6, and Captain Too-un caught the other 15. It took all 25 of them to almost fill up the plastic container in which they were quickly suffocating. By the way, Dianne caught the “largest” little fish, an exotic, bug-eyed, red snapper-colored species that you might expect to see in a rare pre-historic collection.
We had a lunch break on one of the islands that had a modest restaurant-bar type of facility inside a round, thatch-covered, open-air pavilion. The boat’s owner and the restaurant’s owner was the same person. My hamburger and Dianne’s meatless spaghetti came, compliments of the boat owner, with the cost of the boat trip. The mixed breed dog that hung around the place got most of the meat from my hamburger. It was simply too tough for my teeth. (The dog even had a little trouble with it.) The several cows and calves standing around the edge of the restaurant added to the already bad-enough fly problem.
Dianne left her unfinished meal at the dinner table to go look for shells along the beach. She had some success. While she did that, I actually had a fairly involved, 20 minute gospel discussion with two basically sober Australian gentlemen at the bar. (I think religion is often a topic of discussion at bars.)
During the day we saw only one rather small sailing boat and no pleasure fishermen. There were a few small commercial fishing vessels in the waters. My guess is that this place will go through a drastic change in the next 10 to 15 years. It is a potential paradise. But for the present time, cruise ships had totally ceased stopping at the adequate port facilities there. The excessive port docking fees and visa charges drove them away. The greedy government officials who had pocketed the exorbitant fees had shot themselves in the foot. They are a major part of the reason there is no McDonalds, Walmart, Home Depot, Publix, or any other major retail franchise in the country, except for Dairy Queen. Even the two downsized Dairy Queens are restricted to the two commercial airports in the country.
After returning to the beach near our hotel, we thanked Too-um for a pleasant day of fishing, gave him all 25 of our suffocated little fish, and paid him the $70.00 according to our agreement.
I was tired from our day of fishing. I wasn’t tired from fighting and hauling in a bunch of heavy fish; rather, I was tired primarily from my almost-naked, fast-paced, long distance, backstroke swim. I say “almost-naked” because I was wearing my life preserver at all relevant times.
My feeling of tiredness that day was exceeded only by my intense feeling of gratitude. I was very thankful that we had chosen to rent a private boat, and I was indeed grateful that the only part of my body that got caught in the ladder-boat pinch was my thigh.