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.