Extreme Fishing Read Online Free PDF Page B

dropping the fish that I
stumbled backwards like a startled wildebeest and laid waste to his rod as if it were no more than a twig. I’ll never forget the look on his face or my own toe-curling anguish. However, in
spite of the mishaps, Alex still made me an honorary member of his prestigious fishing club. Dunno when I’ll use it, mind!
    Maleku Tribe
    The next day we take a five-hour drive north, deep into rainforest. We are heading for the village of Impala to meet one of the last indigenous tribes of the region, the
Maleku. The Maleku people still speak their own language and are fiercely protective of their traditions. They’ve been living here for over 1,200 years, so if anyone knows about jungle river
fishing it’s them. I greet Ulysses and two of his fellow Maleku tribesmen, 600 of whom still live on the reserve.
    ‘Capi, capi,’ they say, tapping me on the shoulder twice. I return their welcome: ‘Capi, capi.’
    Ulysses tells me I won’t be fishing today as they are taking me on an armadillo hunt.
    ‘OK,’ I say, looking at Ross.
    He shrugs and we decide to go with the flow. Well, the extreme part of it fits in with the show, at least! As we hack our way through the rainforest I am reminded of Tony Last in Evelyn
Waugh’s
A Handful of Dust
, who disappears in a South American rainforest and is held captive by a man who forces him to read the entire works of Charles Dickens. I wonder what would be
the modern equivalent of such literary torture? Perhaps the complete works of Jilly Cooper, Jeffrey Archer or even Katie Price.
    My heart misses a beat when Ulysses’ machete swings dangerously close to my knee as we slowly but surely pick our way through the thick undergrowth. The rainforest is the Maleku
tribe’s supermarket, building supplier and pharmacy. After an hour we stop for a breather near an unremarkable-looking bush. The Maleku medicine man, a dead ringer for Frank Zappa, cuts a
leaf off and motions that he wants me to try it. I look around at the director and assistant. They’re both nodding, saying, ‘Try it, Robson.’
Why don’t they bloody try
it?
I think to myself.
    I put the leaf in my mouth and chew. It’s vile and bitter. I spit it out. Suddenly I can’t feel my tongue or throat – my whole mouth is numb! I try to speak but I sound like
I’ve had a smack in the mouth, a root canal and then another smack in the mouth. I start choking to bring my throat back to life. Frank Zappa tells me the sensation will subside and
I’ll be back to normal in half an hour. Great. Meantime I’m thuppothed to prethent a thhow. He goes on to tell me the tribe uses the leaf for numbing the mouth in order to extract
teeth. In fact, many of the pills and potions we have in the West are synthesised from these natural rainforest plants. It’s fascinating. I chew gum manically to get some kind of feeling
back, and slowly it starts to return. I realise I wouldn’t last five minutes on my own in the rainforest.
    After three or four hours of trudging through the unbearably humid rainforest, the Maleku locate an armadillo burrow and start digging the creature out. It takes a very long time and I come to
the conclusion that they must
really
like armadillo. One of the tribesmen disappears down the hole, three others holding him by the ankles; he fumbles about and then shouts something back.
He is hauled up, victorious – clutching an armadillo. I tell them they really should invest in a Jack Russell.
    Instructed by the tribesmen, I knock the strange-looking creature on the head and return to camp with our supper. It’s boiled up by the village ladies and served with soggy bananas. The
Maleku believe eating armadillo is good if you have asthma and it is apparently also a rich source of iron. I wonder if it helps panic attacks. My new friends all watch me take a mouthful.
    ‘It tastes like pork,’ I say.
    They lean in closer wanting to know my verdict. I tell them, ‘I prefer fish.’ They