One morning on the Subansiri River in India, Kevin Thompson and I are up early making chai, when a small canoe filled with local fisherman in their underwear beaches next to our rafts. They wander up to the kitchen, with their guns; I smile and offer them chai, having learned that it's best to ingratiate yourself to unsmiling, gun-toting locals via spontaneous generosity. Set the tone for a friendship-type relationship rather than a hostage arrangement right of the bat. Thankfully, they are thrilled to have the chai on a misty Himalayan morning and accept it graciously.

Turns out, they've been on a hunting and fishing expedition for five days and are headed back home with their catch. They show us their fish: leg-sized golden masheer sloshing around in the bottom of their wooden canoe. They ask us where our food is and I show them our metal comm boxes filled with dried goods.

They look at me blankly and restate, "Where's your food? Your fish?"

"We don't have any," I say, proudly. "We're self-contained."

They're confused and horrified. They set down their cups of chai to go remedy our misfortune immediately; tying rocks onto sticks of dynamite, then blasting the eddy in front of our camp.

"Boom!" A dozen or so shiny golden masheer bodies surface. The bare-legged fishermen paddle after them with their dug out and our raft, gathering the stunned fish before they float downstream.

"Here," the fishermen say. "Food for you." We accept them guiltily, thanking the fishermen for their gift. The fish are lined up next to each other on our blue kitchen tarp, twitching wildly. Without thinking, I pick up a rock and bash their heads in--something I learned growing up in Wyoming-- so that the fish won't suffer more than they already have. The fishermen watch, interested in what is apparently an unnecessary step in the hunting process for them.

When the fish stop writhing, the fishermen inquire about our birds.

"We don't have any birds," I lament.

"What?!" They gasp. "We have to get you some birds." They give Kevin a .22 and insist that he shoot some birds so that our poor group can have some proper food. Kevin obliges, only pretending to aim at some birds above the tents, and completely misses them. They are disgusted that he is such a poor shot. They click their tongues, go down to their boat and pull out some extra fish to give us.

Kevin and I are waving goodbye as the fishermen paddle back upstream to their bamboo homes when the rest of our group wanders out of their tents, bundled in down and fleece, looking for chai.