Part I:
On hot days after strong rains, almost
every able bodied man and boy from my village takes to the winding
cow paths that meander carelessly through the surrounding marshy
lowlands. As they romp through the water and rushes and a labyrinth
of massive termite mounds, like lonely atolls in chaotic archipelagos
stretching onto the horizon, their recreation often seems more
self-sacrificing than good fun. But undaunted, they continue on their
way, on this pilgrimage induced by passing storms and a brutal sun.
Often the only thing visible as they disappear into depths of the
steamy marsh are their 3 meter long bamboo fishing polls, bobbing
curiously above a sea of slender grasses.
They are seeking any one of a number
of calm, muddy pools, about knee-deep or so, and they are willing to
brave hoards of mosquitoes, poisonous snakes, intense heat and
life-sapping humidity to reach them. Their prize at the end of this
typically Paraguayan ordeal are heaps of miniscule fish, in the end
all bloodied and tethered by the gills to a strong reed which is then
slung over their shoulders to carry home. If they are lucky, they
might catch a few as big, maybe a bit bigger than their hands. If
they are really lucky, they'll score some marsh eel (mbu'su in
Guarani)--the holy grail of campo Paraguayan pond fishing.
Lucky for me, not all of these
otherwise isolated marsh ponds are so far-flung. Along the main dirt
road that leads to my community, the one I bike or walk or run at
least once every day, there are at least three (sometimes more if the
skies have been particularly generous). Usually, these are the first
to be picked over, fished out by the early-bird locals eager to grab
some diner without the self-flagellation of the deep wetlands. This
also tends to be where the youngest kids hone their skills—sitting
for hours and hours crouched around dangling poles, watching their
bobber-less lines with fervent devotion, waiting for the childhood
rush caused by the slightest nibble from a fish that, more than
likely, won't be much longer than a finger.
In a world with homemade poles and
recycled fishing line, the absence of reels means that these fish are
only hooked by violently yanking upwards on the poles. No controlled
capture, no epic battles between man and beast-- just an anxious kid,
a deceptive fishing line, and a wild, occasional attempt at hooking a
bite. If they miss the bite, of course, their over-zealousness simply
sends a scraggly, rusty hook on the end of a line flying through the
air, liable to snag any one in the remote vicinity. If they have in
fact hooked the fish, however, it is likewise sent soaring. There is
skill involved in this method, for sure, its just hard to appreciate
when you are dodging hooks and fish ever few minutes. Still, it is
incredibly endearing and immensely entertaining to see the little
boys scramble once they realize that so-and-so has actually caught
something, each one trying to be the first one to grab the line and
unhook the unlucky specimen. Endearing, of course, until you realize
that a bunch of these pathetic little fish might be the only serving
of protein any one of these young kids receive for the day (or
possibly a few days). Regardless its hard not to smile; their
excitement is contagious.
Part II:
Several days ago, on a dusty walk home
under a peak noon-day sun, I passed a motley group of neighborhood
youngsters intently engaged with one of more popular watering holes
that line the edge of the wetlands. From the looks of things, they
wouldn't have been eating much for diner that night—a small
cat-fish type thing (about as long as a hand), a few half-palm sized
sun fish, and various other assorted pond treasures, each one
seemingly smaller than the one before. I sat with the kids for some
time, bullshitting in Guarani and trash-talking about local soccer
clubs, as they persisted in their marginal efforts. Perhaps my
arrival brought some good luck, or maybe it was just the heat of
midday that had drawn some better prospects for the boys-- in the
psuedo-matra of my more fish-minded neighbors “Sí
sale el sol bien, por eso sale la pesca también.”
(When the sun comes out, so do the fish.). Pretty soon we were
no longer dodging empty hooks as they orbited our heads, but instead
foot-long marsh eels that wriggled-madly at the sudden shock of being
mercilessly ejected from their aquatic home.
One boy, the unusually small and
high-pitched Willy, was the resident expert eel-smasher as well as
defacto comic relief. The moment an eel would spectacularly exit the
muddy shallows, he went into action-- grabbing the line and
de-hooking the poor devil in a matter of seconds. In their final
efforts, the eels would cling desperately to his arm, each long
serpent-like creature easily consuming almost the entirety of Willy's
tiny forearms with its coils. Calmly and while uttering a constant
string of Gurarní
profanity (even I, with my limited grasp on the language, knew that
this kid had a very dirty mouth), he would slowly unravel the tail in
a way that did as much to exhaust the struggling animal as to audibly
break its bones and ligaments. Soon, it hung like a limp rag from his
small hand, still alive but barely.
Taking each one by the tail he would
then proceed swing it through the air in a wide arc, bringing its
head down onto a large stone, the combination of the two issuing a
loud, wet “Whack” every time. The whole spectacle--complete with
more indigenous cursing, Willy's exaggerated efforts and wide grin,
and occasionally punctuated by a traditional 'campo call' (a very
Paraguayan practice of offering a brief holler or yelp at opportune
moments)--might seem somewhat barbaric to those accustomed to more
“humane” ways of treating their future meals. Rest assured, Willy
is a burgeoning eel-smashing professional and the whole process, from
catching the eel to its skull-smashing death, took less than a
minute. Maybe this is still not the greatest consolation to the
animal-lovers out there, but what can I say: this is life in the
Paraguayan campo and these boys are as proud as they are hungry.
After snagging a few more mbu'su
from this surprisingly productive pond, the young boys in all their
victorious pomp, invited me to their home for diner that evening.
Among the wide array of strange Paraguayan dishes that I have had the
pleasure of sampling over the past year and a half, including not
only (seemingly) every wild animal that these Plata Basin forests
have to offer, but also their various organs and other assorted
“innards”, marsh eel was still not on the list. So of course, I
had to accept.
Part III:
Willy's
house is one of a number of houses in my community that seem the
quintessential example of abject poverty: its a small, wooden-plank
structure with dirt floors and thatch-grass roofing (more than likely
also playing host to a number of South American “kissing bugs”
which carry the potentially lethal parasitic disease, Chagas). The
house consists of one-room, maybe the size of a single typical
American suburban bedroom, and an accompanying yet separated kitchen
structure where the mother Elisa cooks over an open fire.
The house is
stuffed-full with four small beds, each topped with a moth-eaten foam
mattress (enough to accommodate the entire family of 12), and a small
television balanced precariously on a dresser in the corner. A single
incandescent bulb hangs from the ceiling on its thin, black chord;
another flickers quietly in the kitchen to help momma prepare diner
after the sun has gone down. Ducks, pigs, the family dog and chickens
all make their way through these sleeping quarters on a fairly
regular basis, the later sometimes laying eggs in the warm nooks
otherwise occupied by spiders or trash.
The
smaller children themselves (Willy, his younger brother Richard, as
well as their two sisters, Maria and Luz) seem to reflect this
austerity in their anatomy, displaying all the feature typical of
malnourishment and underdevelopment. Their small bodies are
disproportionate—thin in certain areas with bulbous joints and
large heads. They seem like poorly-drawn caricatures, complete with
awkwardly gaped teeth, eyes that bulge from their sockets, and
protruding foreheads on top of delicately small bodies. It was
surprising (or perhaps sobering) when I learned that Richard and
Willy were 5 and 6 years old, respectively. I wouldn't have guessed
anything more than 3, maybe 4.
But goddammit, if
these kids are the happiest little runts in the world and the easiest
people to make smile. As we prepared the day's meager bounty for
diner (which would eventually be a sort of salty eel stew with onion
and oregano), I pretended to eat bugs which sent the children into
peels of laughter. It seemed like this may have been the funniest
thing they had ever seen, up until I unleashed the power of the
“claw” (for anyone who has seen LiarLiar with Jim Carey, you
should know what this is). At a certain point, I realized that I
needed to calm them down again; such laughter and commotion so close
to bedtime was certainly not appreciated by the neighbors. Once I
stopped, the children seemed instantly caught-up in the descending
curtain of tired eyes. With little more than a few spoonfuls of soup
and mandioca in their bellies, the four little ones feel asleep
within minutes, huddled up like small rabbits in a mosquito-net
draped clutch. Willy, that day's fearless hunter, lay squashed in the
middle of them all, his small mouth still holding on to the subtle
grin from an afternoon of childhood triumph.
The rest of the
family and I all hunched over two bowls of eel-stew and made quick
work of it all. For those who have never eaten eel, its quite ideal.
With all the flavor and texture of fish (maybe slightly tougher) yet
without the infinite little spines of cartilage and bone that
typically irritate efforts at eating other aquatic animals. Once one
has cut the flaps of ligaments around the head and face, the rest of
the eels slimy skin slides off easily like a coat. Sometimes, to
loosen up the outer-layer so that it can be more easily stripped from
the body, the whole eel is placed on the ground and rolled like a
rolling pin. This not only helps to release the skin from the flesh
but also acts to tenderize the meat at the same time.
Once
the skin is peeled and the organs removed and tossed aside (unless of
course, the eel is full of eggs, which can be eaten as
well—Paraguayan caviar), the whole eel can simply be sliced into
segments and cooked as is. The final product, a thin and salty
fish-soup (with eel taking the place of fish, of course), is a prized
favorite of campo Paraguayans who live far from the riparian borders
of the country. The soft eel-flesh can be effortlessly slurped off of
the bone--a single continuous spinal column that runs the length of
the creature but without the additional eating-hazards of tiny ribs.
In my humble opinion, and speaking with the authority of my extensive
experience with other Paraguayan rarities, I must say that eel-stew
is quite delicious. He'iterei
(delicious in Guaraní).
Here's
to unexpected afternoons and unexpected perspective.
Del
Tierra de Estero
(from land of marshes),
little
hupo