by Robson Green
At this point Taylor hands the phone to his mother.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘I’m sorry, I’m a bad father. Tell him I love him.’
This was meant to be all about my little boy and his birthday but the conversation became all about me, my utter exhaustion and obsession with my career. I drag my sorry self back down the hill. I must do better as a dad.
I pull myself together and embark on a five-kilometre hike with the Maleku through the jungle to catch the elusive machaca. After losing Alex’s fish in such a humiliating fashion, I am determined I’m going to hook one of these veggie fish and keep it, maybe even frame it. On the way, tribesman Oscar shows me a poisonous frog that can kill you stone dead, bullet ants (among the largest on the planet) that will put you in A&E for a few days, and a beautiful chameleon that thankfully is benign. I look at this amazing creature and say to camera, ‘Out of all the colours in its repertoire, vibrant yellows and greens – he chooses a dull shade of brown.’
The Costa Rican soundman, Alberto, pipes up: ‘Stop! I can’t hear anything.’
This is unsurprising as he has insisted on taking a forty-foot cable attached to the camera everywhere we have ventured, land or sea. Most other soundmen are usually connected by wireless because of the dangerous type of terrain but not Alberto, he’s old-school. Earlier on today, after getting caught in the undergrowth, he fell down a steep slope taking the cameraman, Tim, with him. We stop filming to assess the extent of the problem.
‘Is any of it useful or shall we film that piece again?’ asks Ross.
The sound guy replies, ‘Well, sometimes I hear and sometimes I don’t.’
Ross: ‘So did you hear any of what Robson just said?’
Sound: ‘Sometimes I hear and sometimes I don’t.’
Ross: ‘Has this happened on any other occasion whilst we’ve been filming?’
Sound: ‘Sometimes.’
Ross (now losing it): ‘So are you telling me that sometimes you couldn’t hear Robson on the boat, or with the tribe or river fishing?’
Sound: ‘Sometimes I hear.’
Robson: ‘Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you tell anyone?’
Sound: ‘You are a bad man, Robson, shouting at me! The people will hear you sometimes.’
And thus the soundman became known as ‘Sometimes’. We later found out that much of the sound was poor quality but we manage to muddle through.
We trundle on through the forest. Morale is rock-bottom until, through the trees, we see the sparkling Río Venado. We hurry through to the water’s edge. It’s nice to get out into the open air; the forest is hot and oppressive whereas the water is clear, cool and about ten feet across. For the first time since arriving, I feel back in my comfort zone; being on the riverbank somehow restores my equilibrium.
We are using methods the tribe have relied on for1,200 years and today our bait is the machaca’s favourite food, figs. I sniff the fruit.
‘Smells very nice. Can we eat it?’ I ask.
Tribesman Oscar nods. ‘It’s nice.’
I take a bite. The fig is hard and tastes terrible, all sour and musty like grandma’s tights. I spit it out. Oscar and the other lads chuckle.
I take my line with a hook baited with the horrible fruit and throw it into the middle of the river, using the minnow-drop method that Alex and I had previously tried. I suppose this could be called a fruit-drop – and anyone attempting it in the northeast would be called a reet bloody fruit-drop.
‘I’m in! I’m in! Please let that be a fish! Yes. Yes! YES!’ After a decent fight I reel in a machaca and I get the name right on camera – back of the net! The fish, known as Hiki Maleku by the tribe, has an impressive set of razor-sharp teeth like its Amazon relative, the piranha. Its scales are silvery and tinged with green, probably from eating its five a day, unlike its crazy carnivore cousin. Perhaps that’s why one species of piranha is red-bellied, from all the blood, I muse. I land a second fish and am thrilled. Oscar and his mate have had an unsuccessful day but are pleased that my two modest fish have made me hysterically happy. They laugh at my crazy behaviour. ‘La Pura Vida!’ I shout.
In spite of the arduous five-kilometre trek back to the village, I am still buoyant, and I am beginning to feel fitter and more sure-footed. Back at camp, we smoke the fish and serve it with – you’ve guessed it – bananas. The bananas are rank but the fish is lovely and tastes a bit like grouper, with big meaty flakes and a light texture. The machaca is such a healthy, powerful fish, mainly because it is constantly swimming against a strong current. It’s no wonder the Maleku tribe are such healthy people, both physically and mentally. They enjoy a natural stress-free life and a good diet: the Omega-3-rich fish, coupled with mineral-rich bananas and a good two-hour yomp to find your food, is a winning combination. Not to mention their iron-rich armadillo – it really does tick all the boxes.
Sailfish
My journey in Costa Rica is almost over but I am returning to the Pacific to have one last outing with Jesse Baletti and Steve Starbuck, in search of the fastest ocean predator on the planet. We meet at Playa Flamingo and head out on Jesse’s boat. Hopefully this time we will manage to hook a legendary sailfish.
The midday sun beats down, making the waves shine. We’ve been at sea for nearly five hours now and nothing has been attracted to the lures, but all the signs are positive: the birds are scattered over the water, the dolphins are feeding, and, with the gentle sea breeze, the temperature is perfect. This is my last chance to catch this majestic billfish but I am realistic.
Suddenly the line explodes off the outrigger. Perhaps it’s another tuna, I think. I harness up and take the rod from Steve. I’ve been taught all the basics of what to do but in reality, when you see the bend in the rod, all you can do is hang on for dear life. Whatever is on the end of the line is packing thirty pounds of tension on the reel. This is power – the clutch is fully on and the line is still zinging out as the fish takes off at full speed. It strips over 250 metres of line. Jesus Christ! As I play the fish, my muscles burn and I remind myself that it wasn’t long ago men were fishing such creatures with hand lines. The chance of this being my ultimate prize is still remote, though. This ocean is teeming with all manner of fish. It really could be any number of species on the end of the line.
As I slowly lift and deliberately wind, the fish torpedoes out of water about 100 metres from the boat. Whoosh! It is a sailfish. I can’t believe it! The sail is just visible and it jumps two or three times before diving back under the water, where the battle continues.
Jesse shouts over from the helm: ‘All right, keep your line tight, keep it tight. It’s about a hundred-and-twenty-, hundred-and-thirty-pound fish.’
I am trying to keep my cool.
‘What kind of line have we got on here?’
‘Ahh, you got a forty on there,’ says Steve in his Carolina drawl.
‘This is not salmon fishing,’ I say, straining. ‘He is just holding and I can’t do anything. Ha, right, come on . . . oooh, yes, he’s starting to run again. Whoa! Gotta run, run, run, keep reeling, Robson, keep reeling. Ah, man, he’s coming up, keep the line tight, keep winding – this is when it’s dangerous.’
I decide to take it nice and easy with this fish, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime catch and I don’t want to blow it. He is near the boat, about ten feet away, and I can see his sail a metre from the surface.
Suddenly the long, slender creature flies across the crest of a wave, his navy and purple sail at full mast, iridescent like taffeta in the sunshine. The fish is dark blue on top with a bistre and silvery underside, and he has a spear like a marlin. But his sail – his sail is sublime.
After fifty minutes of playing the fish, Steve pulls the line to the side of the boat. He bills the fish and hauls the tired creature onto the side of the boat. He unhooks its mouth and unfurls its now-pitch-black sail. I hold the fish with Steve and touch the silky sail and slippery skin. Its Ancient Greek name is Istiophorus p
latypterus, which means ‘to carry a sail’. The incredibly complex hydrodynamic design makes this billfish capable of extraordinary bursts of speed, the fastest in the ocean.
Steve tags the fish in order to help marine biologists understand more about these incredible creatures. He returns it to the salty waters holding it by the bill allowing oxygen back in the gills, and when it is strong enough he lets go.
What a baptism of fire. How on earth am I going to top that? I fly back to the UK, safe in the knowledge that in Costa Rica we have made a great show.
Post-Production Meeting One Month Later.
Hamish looks me straight in the eye.
‘Robson, you look good, the episode’s fine, but the voiceover’s shite. It sounds like your balls are up your ass. Give it some passion, some grunt.’
I am astonished. How dare he? Hamish looks at the editor.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Truthfully? It’s quite boring.’
‘Boring? It’s fucking soporific!’ adds Hamish.
I storm out of the editing studio, squeaking a few insults back at him and racking my brain for the definition of soporific. I google it and loathe Hamish even more. But you know what, he was right. The voiceover is terrible. I had felt I had improved so much in Costa Rica and was beginning to grasp what I was meant to be doing, but in the end I dropped the ball before the final touchdown.
Chapter Three
CANADA AND BRITISH COLUMBIA
‘The Curse of the Ocean Pearl’
November 2008, Series 2
Who’d have thought it? The four episodes of Series 1 prove to be a hit for Channel 5 and a second series is commissioned. And this time we’ve got eight episodes to play with.
I pack my suitcase, mentally preparing to leave my wife and son again. People who travel a lot on business, especially soldiers, will know this feeling – the wrench of leaving your nest and familiar surroundings, to face the unknown. As I lay out my three holdalls, the sense of adventure is palpable.
I spy Taylor out of the corner of my eye. Packing is a ritual I usually do on my own but this time Taylor wants to be with me. The first holdall is for thermals, fleeces and puffa jackets. The second for all types of footwear, from Arctic boots to trainers. The third is for my smalls, socks, shirts, jeans and pictures of my family – something I always take with me.
‘Tay, tell me something about Canada,’ I say.
‘Um, there are lots of black bears and polar bears and grizzly bears,’ he says, growling.
I always ask him to find out some interesting and unusual facts about the places I’m about to visit; each one I use in the show is worth a quid. It’s a nice little earner for him.
‘Very good. And did you know Canada is from the Native American word kanata, which means “village” or “settlement”? No? Well, now you do.’
He rolls his eyes at me and leaps onto the bed like a salmon.
I say my goodbyes and hug Vanya. The long absences are not easy for her. Then I turn to Taylor, who has been holding it together well.
‘It’s all right, Tay. I’m coming back. I will think about you every second of every day, and even though I’m away I will never ever leave you. I will kiss your picture goodnight every night until I return. Will you do the same for me?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘Good lad.’
It physically hurts to get in the car and I wave and wave until I can’t see them anymore. Five minutes later I phone Vanya.
‘Is he OK?’
She tells me that, as soon as I turned the corner, he went to watch SpongeBob SquarePants. Kids these days – so shallow.
Jet lag is like being in a really crap musical you don’t want to be in: you’re singing the songs and dancing the dances but your mind and heart are elsewhere. It’s as if you’re watching yourself from the wings, wondering how you will ever reconnect with that dancing, singing twat on stage. My nightmare musical would be Salad Days – I bloody hated that one. After ten hours in the air, my body and mind are truly smashed, but I gaze glassy-eyed out of the window at the mountains, vast lakes, emerald-green forests of British Columbia, and they take my breath away.
Black Gold
It’s 4.48 a.m. in Vancouver and my head is bouncing off the walls. In the UK it’s nearly lunchtime. I witter to my diary cam about how I’m losing the plot and I really am. Unable to get back to sleep, I’m dressed, fed and ready to go by 6 a.m.
The iconic Fraser River flows through the city of Vancouver and just a few miles upstream is the largest freshwater fish in North America, the mystical sturgeon, which can grow up to five metres. To try and help me catch this prehistoric giant is Randy Beck – yep, Randy – and, seeing as there’s only him and me on the water today, let’s hope he doesn’t live up to his name. Men can get kinda lonely fishing sometimes.
It’s a cold, grey day. We jump out of the minivan at our meeting point on the Fraser River. Randy wanders over to greet us and shakes my hand firmly. He looks like Tintin’s mate Captain Haddock but without the hat. I jump aboard his fishing boat and we head upriver. It really is bleak and wintry out here but the mountains in the distance lend a stark beauty to the misty monochrome scene.
We’re casting from the boat today because if I hook one of these fish from the bank I’d probably end up waterskiing in its wake. Think of sturgeon fishing as a tug of war with a small car. They grow so large because they gorge on the millions of salmon whose life cycle ends here, and in order to catch this extreme fish we are going to need some extreme tackle. Randy drops anchor unexpectedly. Clank! My heart skips a beat before going into overdrive. My nerves fray even more when Randy introduces me to what he calls a ‘mangina’. I’ve worn one before but never heard it called that. It is basically a harness that wraps around your waist with a little codpiece at the front to accommodate the butt of the rod (it’s all getting a bit Julian Clary). I tell Randy it reminds me of the heavy-metal band Saxon’s lead guitarist, who wore one of these to spin his guitar mid-song. It seemed an apt story, given Randy sounds exactly like a roadie at soundcheck, but sadly the pop trivia is lost on him. I quickly move the conversation on.
‘OK, Randy, let’s just pretend I know nothing about sturgeon fishing.’ Er, you do know nothing about sturgeon fishing, Robson, pipes up my internal monologue. ‘Shut up!’
‘What?’
‘Not you, Randy. Jason, the director, was coughing.’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ says Jason Holmes from a second boat across the way.
‘So what tips would you give in order to catch a sturgeon?’
‘Three things that are essential for this type of angling are courage, power and strength,’ he says.
I’ll get my coat.
I am lying through my teeth, telling Randy I’ve spent five days a week at the gym for six months preparing for this moment, when, all of a sudden, I get a nose-full of a putrid stench. If that smell is coming from Randy’s bottom he needs to see a doctor immediately. It’s like someone’s just opened a coffin next to a sewage plant. I discover the culprit is Randy’s bucket of ‘green death’ stink bait. It’s shocking, a full-on dirty bomb attack on the senses. Sturgeon love putrefied salmon, it’s like fishy crack and they know it’s bad-quality gear, but they’re addicted to it. I place the bait on the hook and am gagging. I cast out fifty yards of line and drop the lure into a natural feeding channel behind the boat. All we can do now is wait. Please bite, I think, I’ve travelled nearly 5,000 miles and feel like I’m on a bad acid trip.
We’re using ninety-pound breaking-strain line with thirty-pound tension on the reel, as some of these creatures can weigh over 500 pounds. The odds really aren’t stacked in my favour. Randy tells me that, because the price of caviar is so high, one decent fish can be worth up to $100,000 and it’s not uncommon for boats to be held at gunpoint and asked to hand over their catch or else they’ll be sleeping with the fishes. The thought that I could be murdered for a fish takes time to sink in. I need to try
these damn fish eggs, I think.
Suddenly, something begins to stir in the depths and the rod gives a small but significant twitch.
‘There we go!’ shouts Randy.
The rod is resting in a cradle on the side of the boat; I wait for Randy’s command: ‘Hit it! Hit it! Hit it!’ I swing the rod skywards to hook the fish – ‘Reel, reel, reel!’ – and I wind with all my might, but nothing’s on. We’ve missed it. My heart is pounding in my chest.
‘Bloody hell, Randy, I nearly had a heart attack when you shouted: “Hit it!”’
We don’t have to wait long before we are in again.
‘Now, now, now! Reel reel reel!’ yells Randy.
‘Yeah! I am!’ I shout.
The bend in the rod is near breaking point; I feel as if I have hooked a mini submarine. The bend increases and the rod almost folds back onto itself. I wind and pull up but every time I wind in two yards, he takes me out two yards.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, the fish reveals itself close to the side of the boat and it is the most extraordinary sight to behold. It’s about five feet long and forty pounds in weight. We heave her on board. I try to hold her up for the camera but she’s such a strapping and awkward lass that I struggle, so Randy takes the tail and I hold her head. She is an astonishing creature whose family has survived two ice ages. She certainly looks prehistoric with the white, diamond-shaped scutes patterned down her sides, like the armoured skin of a crocodile rather than fishy scales. The Native Americans used these scutes as cutting tools, arrowheads and piercing instruments. The sturgeon was also prized for its oil content, and just a hundred years ago these beautiful fish would even be stacked at the sides of rivers or lakes, to use as firewood. (‘Throw another fish on the fire, there’s a good lass.’ ‘Throw your own bloody fish on the fire, you chauvinist pig!’ Whack! Getting smacked around the chops with one of these fish could be fatal.) It was also common to see steam-boats sailing along the Mississippi powered by sturgeon oil, until legislation led to the cessation of overfishing. Now they are under attack because of their eggs, which are known as ‘black gold’. This particular fish is worth around £20,000, but because sturgeon are endangered, and thankfully protected in Canada, we are going to put her back.
