On a desolate stretch of beach while fishing in Sudan, The Mission’s editor-at-large Conrad Botes heard a voice and had a vision. As featured in The Mission Issue 16 (Jul/Aug 2019).
I could have sworn I heard a voice. I looked left, in the direction I had just came from, then right down the shore in the direction I was heading. I was fishing alone, on a small island just off the Sudanese coast. There was no one else in sight. Behind me, the Nubian Desert shimmered in all its desolate glory. Apart from some impressive rocky outcrops and a few dead branches that might have been some or other piece of vegetation in a previous existence, the landscape was devoid of any form of life. In front of me was the Red Sea. Even without a burning bush or a plague of locusts, it was a positively biblical moment.
I focussed my attention on the water and, in particular, on the beach where half a dozen crabs disappeared into the shallows after theyโd spotted me. As my mind narrowed in on the fishing again, I knew there must be a trigger in there somewhere.
Then I heard the voice again. It sounded strange, almost like a cry for help or a wailing prayer, and I couldnโt recognise the words. I remembered seeing osprey nests the day before and it occurred to me that that it might be one of the birds calling. I scanned the landscape again. Then the sky. Nothing. Was I hallucinating? Perhaps it was Chtulu(do we need to explain?) calling me from the deep, leading me to the motherlode of all triggerfish.
Just as Iโd decided to ignore it and keep going, the voice spoke to me once more. Again I looked up at the heavens, but it was as if the voice was calling me from below. I was standing beside an overhanging sandstone shelf next to the water. To confirm I wasnโt going mad, I looked beneath it and behold! The source of the voice. A lone white goat.
It was a kid actually, quite small and clearly in distress. It bleated its human-like lament again and tried to run away, but was too weak to do so. After reeling in my fly line, I decided that the kid should catch a ride in my line basket. I picked it up and put it in the basket (into which it fitted quite snugly). It must have been completely dehydrated but, unfortunately, I had just finished my water. Uncertain about the accommodation and the mini-bat (what is this?), the kid mustered all its energy and defiantly leapt out of the basket and into the shallow water. Instead of galloping away or whatever it is that goats do when they run, its energy expended, it just stood there looking at me.
I wasnโt sure what to do. Its flockโs whereabouts was a mystery. Even its existence was questionable, because in the blanket of heat that encompasses a Sudanese fly fishing trip, your brain gets a little baked altering your grip on reality. If Camusโs character Meursault in LโEtranger could murder a man because of the sun, surely I could hallucinate a goat into being?
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MR FLOPPY – CHARCOALR400,00 incl VAT
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The Mission BuffยฎR350,00 incl VAT
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TAILGUNNER GRUNTER DAD CAP โ GREYR350,00 incl VAT
I knew if I left it there it would surely die. Perhaps even in the next few hours. However, if I were to take it back to live aboard the boat, I was not sure what would happen to it. The chef might serve us goat stew for supper.
The goat looked at me and I decided that between the desert and the boat, it had a better chance if it came with me. I put it in the basket and it jumped out again. After repeating this about four or five times, the kid accepted its fate and curled up in a resting position. As I turned my attention back to the fishing again, I stripped the fly line on to the kid, who seemed not to give a shit anymore.
The flat we were fishing that morning was a peculiar one. It was about a hundred to a hundred and fifty metres wide before the shelf dropped away into the depths of the Red Sea. But it was a deep flat, definitely too deep to wade. So we were dropped off on the shore and we walked and cast to fish in the shallows. At first I was pessimistic about our chances, but we immediately saw triggers right in the skinny stuff, trying to get to the multitude of crabs running relays between the rocks, sand and water. The idea was that we would split up and regroup at noon when the skiff would pick us up again for lunch on the boat.
The kid was one lucky goat (or it had some seriously subliminal mind control bleats), because, in my efforts to catch my first trigger of the day I had wandered far away from the others that morning to find fish. The first one I found had been tailing right next to the beach. It took the crab fly eagerly and after a quick photo on the wet sand, I watched it bolt into the safety of the deeper part of the flat and that was when I had heard the voice.ย
Triggerfish are often referred to as the clowns of the flats. Lord knows why, because there is nothing funny about their behaviourโฆ as I was about to find out. Theyโre mean little fuckers and their behaviour is unlike any other fish Iโve encountered. If they get hold of a fly and you get it back, be sure that it will be mangled, squashed and rendered useless. Their contempt is palpable, โI piss on your puny fly.โ As I spotted the skiff approaching I still had a few hundred metres to cover before being picked up. I figured maybe I could squeeze in a quick brawl with one of these punks before the session was done.
With the kid swinging in the line basket and the fly line stripped like a ball of spaghetti on top of it, I walked the line slowly, determinedly. And then, as fate would have it, a trigger moved into the shallows in front of me. It was feeding right next to the shoreline, perhaps 40cm from the waterโs edge. The first cast was way off the mark and I remember the fly landing on the beach. The second was right on the money. Tourette guide Mark Murray, who was driving the skiff, had stopped a few hundred metres away and was watching the spectacle. The fish took the fly in classic trigger fashion, slowly swimming away in reverse, and I tightened the line. Triggers have the habit of tugging at the line after a hook, almost as if to dismiss the fact that something is awry, before they bolt off.
At that stage Mark had beached the skiff and came running with the camera. He took pictures of me fighting the trigger, along with the kid sticking its head out ogling the action. Some of the other anglers, who were already on board, hopped out and walked over. While I was about to land the fish, I quickly told the guys about our new friend and its dire need of hydration. And Englisman called Mike unclipped my line basket and poured water into his cap. They walked back to the skiff with the kid, who must have drunk three capfuls before being carried on board.
Meanwhile, Mark and I were having a little photo session with the trigger. I was sitting on my knees, cradling it in my right hand. It was submerged, and as soon as Mark was ready, I would lift it out for a photo.
โI think Iโve got the shot, you can let him go nowโ said Mark.
Feeling benevolent and god-like after my goat rescue, I looked at the trigger and thought, โWhat placid creatures they are after capture,โ while moving my left hand forward to remove the crab fly from the corner of its mouth. It was at this moment that the trigger took revenge, wiggling its slab-like body forward and getting hold of the index finger on my left hand. The whole first phalange went into that absurdly human-looking mouth, while the even more ridiculous little gnashers slammed down on the bone at what seemed like a thousand beats per minute. I wailed like a distressed goat.
Eventually, after what felt like forever, I managed to retrieve my mangled pointer. Mark helped me back to the boat where I collapsed in pain on the deck. The kid, its energy returning, sat upright in the basket and looked at me with a bemused expression. I felt nauseous.
Back at the main boat, while I got pity and chirps, the kid was welcomed aboard like a rock star. What I should have known was that goatsโ milk demands a premium in Sudan as it is used in a number of culinary treats, like the delicious goatsโ cheese weโd been eating all week.ย Once its gender had been ascertained, the kid increased even further in status. The Sudanese chef told me that, because it was a ewe, she would soon be a proud new member of his flock at home. Hydrated and fed, she spent the rest of the trip sleeping on the deck, eating kitchen scraps, and generally behaving as if sheโd been born at sea. The last memory I have of her was of the chef jumping off the boat at dusk with the kid happily tucked under his arm.
Every time I look at the scar on my left index finger, I think of her.ย
This story about fishing in Sudan appeared in The Mission Issue 16. Read the whole thing for free below.
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