| This site has been created
for our tucunaré fishing expedition in the Rio Negro in Amazonia
on October 22nd 2005. Contributions in any language will be
appreciated. Please email me at hstaart@hansstaartjes.com
 On
the 20th of November Marcus, Mark, Osvaldo, Luciano, Fred,
Luis, Marcelo, Jorge, Francisco, Marshall, Joao, Rolando,
Paulo, and I set off to Manaus for the beginning of our fishing
trip on the Foresti I houseboat which we were to meet at Barcelos
on the Rio Negro. The look of the check in staff at Congolhas
was one that was to be repeated often on our trip to the Amazonas
and back; and the long green tube containing all of our fishing
rods, most of which had been purchased by Marcus and our guide
Edson the week before, provided them and us a logistical problem
or two. Having just arrived from London that morning and spent
a few hours at the Hilton Morumbi relaxing I had no idea where
we would find ourselves after midnight in Manaus that very
evening. When we arrived in Barcelos from via Trip airways
the following morning there was great euphoria despite little
to no sleep. Arriving at the airport of this fishing town
at 35 C and 100% humidity we soon realized we were going to
be rather hot. We expected an airconditioned houseboat at
the end of the jetty and a welcoming committee headed by a
certain Edson. There was no Edson so we figured we'd find
him looking for us at the jetty by the Rio Negro..
Too tired from lack of sleep (and perhaps some Manaus overindulgence),
some of us took a hotel room (with airconditioning amazingly!)
while others looked for Edson. Marshall, Luis, Jorge and Rolando
however couldn't wait a minute to fish and collared a local
fisherman to take them on a tucunaré hunt.
Eventually a short dapper Edson appeared in town looking
for Marcus (also wisely asleep in the hotel), to explain that
the houseboat engine was losing oil but had been fixed and
would be in port in acouple of hours. The anxiety of getting
fishing that same afternoon left us wondering whether this
indeed would be the case, but we soon found ourselves on board
with a caipirinha in hand. It was auspicious when we found
Rolando embracing Luis and a three kilo tucunaré that they
had caught on their DIY fishing expedition.
 A few more caipirinhas,
and caipiroscas appeared in conjunction with a wonderful hot
lunch prepared by two great cooks and served by the ever attentive
waiter.Edson's fishing expedition was going to be anything
but spartan! Marcus had lectured us incessantly about the
serious problems that would occur if we were overweight. Then
I found out it was because we wer each obliged to carry at
least one bottle of fine wine each for our evening meals in
our 15 kilo weight limit. Some of us litterally had the two
pairs of shorts and t shirts (plus a pair of tennis shoes,
but "no socks" and definitely "no raincoats- it never rains
this time of year in the Rio Negro" ) that Marcus had stipulated
in his email (with the notable exception of my "black box"
which I had entrusted to Marcus and which was the cause of
certain irresistible curiousity in Manaus, and my camera bag).
Although we never expected it we were fishing
in the Rio Negro that afternoon for at most two hours before
dark. We were split into pairs through a clever lottery system
devised around a deck of cards which Marcus came up with.
People pulling the same card fished together for the day.
Each pair had one piloto or local fishing guide.  The
first day already demonstrated the punishment that even new
gear would get with the tucunaré. One broken bail. Fingers
were saved by what is known in the fishing trade as a "boga
grip", a spring loaded set of clamps that could hold the toothy
monsters by the lip at a safe distance while retrieving the
trebble hooks from the fish. Speaking of hooks, Fred managed
to lodge one into his bare foot. Luckily the piloto had seen
this before and with dextrous hands drew the hook through
the flesh and cut the barb off with a pair of pliers.
Our pilots were not recreational fishermen, but
indiginous people from the rivers with a great deal of local
and practical knowledge. Judging by the ability to keep dying
outboards running, they were mechanics, as well as surgeons.
Paulo explained the background of our guides: "the piloteiros
were all ex-professional fishermen (killing sleeping fish
near the shore, at night, using flashlights), for survival,
they now enjoy most when we release the fish we catch. In
fact, usually the fish were "too small" to bring to the boat,
or "too big - let it procreate." In fact, they never asked
us to release the fish, but we knew they were pleased to release
the fish. They have seen a reduction in the amount of fish,
and their hope in the releasing of the fish is not an altruistic
feeling which they nurture, but a belief that eco-tourism
and sport-fishing will end up giving them and their communities
a better way of life. Some have been taking sport-fishermen
for such trips for 7 years. (Dadá for example was in the past
a rubber tapper, and castanha-do-pará harvester, staying for
months in the forest, hunting and collecting.)". I'm sure
our piloteiros also had an aquarium fishing background like
so many of the inhabitants of Barcelos.. Paulo again had found
out at the Barcelos aquarium that : "for simple fish, they
get R$8 (eight) per thousand fish, ...the middleman then sells
them for R$20 (twenty) per thousand. Many fish die along the
way, for lack of oxygen. The most sought fish is the cardinal
fish, which turns red and has blue hues, even though it is
a river fish."
Chico one of our guides, left me with an indelible
impression. To me he was a metaphor of the impenentrable forest
we were in. A bit surly and incomprehensible, and not just
because of my lack of Portuguese, he impressed me with his
ability with his "facon" (the word for machete there). In
order to get into an "undiscovered" set of ponds, we had to
hack and pole our way througha very narrow canal full of stumps
and low limbs. Chico fashioned a nice pole from a young sappling
that wasn't perfectly straight, but had the right thickness
and a perfect fork in it for gripping the stumpy bottom. 
Following him into the jungle to photograph him
in action, I discovered my total inadequacy in this environment.
I gripped a sappling to steady myself only to discover that
this one was covered in prickly spines. When we had to escape
a torrential downpour in a small clearing I discovered Chico's
true background as an aquarium fish catcher. He lifted a log
or two out of the water very slowly and with care, stuck his
hand inside the rotten bark and produced a beautiful small
black fish with white tipped fins and with a sucker mouth.
Right from the word go I was determined to set
foot on the banks of the Rio Negro for some photography, and
I discovered this is far from simple in this mass of tangled
flora that is the Amazon. I had to abandon some of the most
manic and exciting tucunaré fishing with Chico and Marcus
for another tangle with the underbrush in the name of a photograph.
Once again I encountered the inconspicuous limbs with the
spines on them. This time the achy reminder of the spines
in my fingers made me very wary of this particular tree variety.
However avoidance of this was particularly difficult. While
I was carefully laying out tripod camera and laptop (funny
what we have come to in photography, less film, but sometimes
it seems like even more to carry), I heard Marcus shouting
"Godverdomme" while he missed three out of four fish that
hit his Jumping Minnow. I don't think this Dutch word needs
translation!
It took me 45 long minutes to take one photo,
and I waited impatiently for Marcus and Chico to return to
pick me up. Little was I to know what was to occur next when
we went back to the tucunaré melee minutes later. We were
actually running late for our return to our floating base
camp when Marcus and I both had a double hook up (a few minutes
earlier in fact Marcus had hooked two fish with on one lure,
an event which I have not seen in some 25 years of fishing).
Marcus and I had worked up a froth because he was just one
kilo behind me in terms of total weight caught in our group's
tucunaré fishing tournament. I was determined to try to catch
all my fish on a fly (I caught 95% of my fish this way). I
have invested absurdly in rods and tackle over the years and
was very proud of my Sage 8 weight travel rod with Abel reel.
Little did I expect that a two kilo tucunaré would crack my
precious graphite wand like a matchstick. Perhaps I had been
expecting too much from this rod, day in day out on these
violent (not so) little buggers. I had no reserve rod and
we were running out of time. Oddly enough, Chico had attempted
to mend a bass fishing rod belonging to Edson and that Marcus
had been using. This rod had already been mended in the past
with epoxy, but after one or two casts it was clear that Marcus
found the rod was unusable. After some deliberation with the
boys I decided to cut a piece of graphite out of the bass
rod to try and mend my Sage. I felt proud of never giving
up.... and through several wraps with fine nylon leader material
I managed to "fix" it to the extent that I managed to make
one or two casts. However Chico was not going to allow the
amateurs to continue and run the risk of Edson's wrath for
being late back to the houseboat. As luck would have it, the
ever resourceful Edson had some slow setting epoxy on board,
and I managed a repair that amazed even me. (As there is a
lifetime warranty on this expensive rod, I can't wait to get
back to the place I purchased it for a new one and a few additional
essentials.)
After another wonderful lunch, and paired up with
Osvaldo this time now for the afternoon, and with a "repaired"
rod we set off again with our lucky guide Chico for the last
few hours of fishing. Disconcertingly the weather had grown
from rain and thunderstorms that morning (did I fail to mention
this in the last two paragraphs?) into a stiffling heat that
even had our guides complaining. (Our guides were usually
complaining of the cold, anytime the temperature went below
35 degrees C!) However the epoxy on my rod had now gone very
solid. After much casting, much of it unsuccessful in terms
of fish, I determined that something had changed quite a bit
in the character of my rod. It felt stiff, and the line felt
like it was chafing on the epoxy and fine nylon repair. And
yet Osvaldo and I managed to get a fish each that afternoon
and an amazing serenity set in on us on our way back for the
last time to the houseboat. We had had some of the most exciting
fishing in our lives in a spectacular landscape. However that
was only part of the story.
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