It was the last day of Verity´s Queensland holiday. As she sat waiting for the bus to get to her flight back to Sydney, she decided –with some resentment– that it had been the most boring holiday ever. And a week was way too long to be stuck in a resort with little else to do other than sit around the pool and wait for the next meal, or at least that is how it had felt for her. She, lured by the images of the jungle in a brochure, had been deeply mistaken when she booked the neat little holiday package, what she needed, she thought, was an adventure. And those Jungle Adventure Tours they had offered at the resort were not the “adventure” they promised. “Fun, food, and culture,” that probably meant that they took you in a bus to a picnic area —close to the rainforest— and there you got a picture next to a fig tree, a sandwich, and a boomerang made in China as a gift. Everything seemed so phoney, she thought, as she looked at the newly wed couple who, like her, had been at the resort and were now standing at the bus stop on the road in the blaring evening sun. They were immaculate individuals, she judged, as she noticed their freshly pressed t-shirts and brand new wheeled suitcases. The plane to Sydney would be departing in less than an hour, and the bus seemed to be late.
Her phone rang, she quickly scrambled her things in her handbag and found it. Flashing on the screen she saw the text: Translator Agency. It meant work, she was fast to answer. Her agent needed a translator, could she work in Sydney tomorrow? The job was a Spanish-English assignment for the start up of an aquaculture farm in Sydney. They needed an interpreter for the expert team, out from Barcelona. “Eels? Fish farming? Sure”, she didn’t hesitate, “I will be there, tomorrow 9.pm sharp”, it was not something she had done before, but surely she could manage. She then saw the time: 5.58 pm. The bus was late.
Cairns airport was small so she could check in fast, if the bus came soon, five minutes, no longer. The young couple seemed stressed, she had talked with them at the resort, they too were boarding that plane to Sydney at 7.15 pm. The man, in his flashy white sneakers and safari shorts was pacing the length of the bus stop shelter nervously; his wife had looked at her watch several times as she wiped her brow and puffed out in protest. The road was hazy from the heat, the silence piercing and the minutes long, when a dusty old holden emerged in the distance and came chocking through to a sudden halt next to the bus stop where they stood.
A young Aboriginal man with deep set eyes, and no shirt, was at the wheel. Next to him, a skinny old man with thick grey hair, who appeared to be his father, looked at her with sparkly blue eyes. “Bus to Cairns got a flat tyre,” said the young man .“If yous going to the airport we can take you”. She looked to the others and saw them shake their heads to signal a “No” as they grabbed their luggage nervously and held it tight. For some strange reason, or perhaps because of the couple’s indecorous response to the man’s offer to help, she did not hesitate, jumped into the back seat, and waved goodbye to the couple as the car drove off.
She was feeling pleased, she would make it to her flight. She leaned back relieved as she took her handbag off her lap and placed it on the cracked leather seat. How silly were those people not to get in the car, it was so spacious, she thought. She loved being in that old Holden with its large windows, and thin steering wheel, it was so much more interesting than sitting in one of those air-conditioned mini buses that take you to the airport. She even liked the ticking sound of the blinker and was wondering why things of the past were so cute and simple, when she felt a sudden break. “We just gonna take a detour Miss,” said the young man as he made a sharp turn into a dirt road. Her heart beat went fast. Had she made a dangerously dumb mistake by getting into a car with two strangers? For a second she looked at the eyes of the young driver in the rear vision mirror, and realised then that he was watching her. “Too many cops down the highway to the airport Miss! and this car’s rego just expired.” The dirt road was red, dusty and full of potholes. “Anyways, what’s your name Miss? I’m Gaia, and this is me dad Jack” he said with a grin.
“I’m Verity” she said as she brought herself to the edge of the seat and winded up the window to stop the dust from blowing in. “And just a bit worried that we’re not going to make it to the Airport before quarter to seven when the gates for boarding close.” The thought of her job the following day, made her voice tremble . “In fact I should be there in thirty minutes.” And that was the last flight for the day, and all though she knew that the next flight after that one was at 4:30 in the morning and would get her into Sydney on time —and she had a blazer jacket and trousers in her suitcase, which went well with the shoes she was wearing— the thought of spending the night at the airport was a stressful one. “No worries!” yelled Gaia. “We’ll get you there.”
He seemed truthful, she thought, as she rested her eyes on the creased neck of the old man. She felt a slight relief and said to herself that there was no need to fear. The sun was setting, and a full moon had emerged faint on the horizon ahead. She took a deep breath and looked out her window. The winding road through the thick mangrove forest with its fleshy leaves and the pink sky above was a soothing sight, she loved the mysterious beauty of the mangrove forest, it reminded her of Rosseau’s paintings, so exotic and full of life. How she wished she could glide like a spirit among the trees and see all the life those ancestral forests hid. She noticed how Gaia had slowed down and hunched his head over the driving wheel to look at the moon above, it was a truly mesmerising sight. And then came a sudden halt.
“Sorry Miss” he said as he pulled the handbrake hard. “I know you city people always catching planes and rushed, but this night’s too good for fishing.” She heard the old man chuckle, a smoker’s cough followed, “next flight Verity” she him man say. And then Gaia stepped out of the car with bare feet and wearing nothing but black jeans. She saw how he looked up at the sky and said something, which sounded like a prayer, in a language she didn’t know with many guttural sounds. She looked again at her mobile phone, it was 7.05pm. A sudden rush of heat made her dizzy, she wouldn’t make it to the airport and the jungle suddenly seemed dark and threatening. Gaia got back into the car and drove down to the river bed without igniting the engine. “We just need to be real quiet Miss, we don’t want to wake up the fish now getting ready to sleep.” He was serious when he said that it was going to be a fishing night. “Yous empty your pockets of money, we fish for food —money is a curse— no luck if you carry money fishing.”
She saw no danger in leaving her money and valuables in the car, not a soul would wonder into that river bed at that time of the night, which also meant that she had no idea where she was. Gaia tippy toed out of the car and gently closed the door, then the old man did the same and lit a cigarette as he leaned against the bonnet. He was a skinny old thread with leathery skin in a baggy old singlet and jeans. As she watched him smoke she realised that she might not make it to her job the following day. Gaia was now pulling a dinghy by a rope from out of the low laying branches of a large mangrove tree. He dropped it by the water, and as he walked up to her she saw a crab scuttle across the river bank behind him: “I reckon that with a bit of luck you’ll be at the airport before three Miss.” The mosquitoes were biting fiercely and when he noticed Verity slapping her legs to kill them, he cupped some mud from the base of a protruding mangrove root and offered it to her as a repellent. Verity patted it over her legs and when she was done she was handed a hand made torch. She noticed then that he had wrapped something around the tip of a long stick and ignited it, it was big and smoky and gave a lot of light.
The old man climbed into the dinghy as Gaia, knee deep in the water now, held it against the river bank. Then, in his soft voice, instructed Verity to stand at the pointy end of the boat and hold up the torch high, “like the statue of liberty” he said. She did as she was told and in no time she found her self standing on the tip of the boat as the old man rowed steadily with silent paddles in the dark river. Nothing mattered. They were there to fish. No-one could speak, their eyes were set on the water and fish that swam in the night. The bird calls, the sudden gurgles and the changing breezes stood out like little signs, as if they meant something in a language she didn’t know. The river was wide, it flowed heavy and slow; and with the torch and the full moon, now getting high in the sky, she could see clearly in the water just below her, all the large fish in their peaceful slumber. Soon Gaia would throw his spear, catch a fish, and then they would be done for the night and she could get back home. She decided to trust him. She had lost all fear of what was next. The forest, was not a mystery anymore, not a painting, not a threat, she was in it like them, the cooing birds, the slow water, the thick air, she was in there as if she was one of them, a frightened crab, a hooting owl, a sleepy fish, Gaia, or the flowing water.
The flight attendant, with her blond bun and bright lipstick, woke her from her deep sleep by putting a breakfast tray filled of packaged bits and two small dishes of hot food before her. The plane would be landing in less than two hours. Verity had not eaten for too many hours now and all though she was in need of sleep, for the day that lay ahead of her, –she was ravenous—she woke up and devoured the scrambled eggs and poached tomates taking quick little mouthfuls. And with every bite came little flashes of the night before, and she remembered the moment when Gaia threw the spear at the large fish in the mangrove. He had caught fish, and spear, in the flick of a moment. It was hard to believe that someone could do that. Apart from the skill of throwing a spear from a tiny dinghy, and having the eye to calculate where to throw to catch under water with little light, there was something wonderful in that act of fishing in that way, as there was no impact, she realised, on any other organisms in the river. The animals where happy and he only took what he needed for his family to eat. His gargling words were, he later said a prayer.
* * *
As she tore through little plastic packets of crackers and cheese, she realised that she had been fishing the way humans had fished to eat for time immemorial, with few things, and great wisdom. It had been beautiful, the water so clear, and the moon so large. But now she had to leave those thoughts as finding a shower at Sydney airport was of uttermost importance.
Verity made it to her assignment by 9.am. feeling surprisingly awake after the run through the airport, the blessed shower, and the taxi ride, she was now standing next to the silver roller door of the fish farm and waiting for the men to arrive. The farm was a grey industrial building with only one window and a galvanised sloped roof. It was ugly and satintrusively in the middle of a patch of cleared forest close to the national park by a creek south of Sydney.
As Verity waited she became impatient and started pacing the length of the entrance. That was when she caught a reflection of herself on the window. She looked sharp with her long hair, tied back into a low pony-tail. Yes, she looked professional. But she also dishonest, and not sure why, as if she was an impostor, or a traitor. In a few hours the job would be over, she’d be Ok, it was going to be hard as she had not slept. She looked up towards the sun, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and listened to the gurgling sound of the little stream nearb
A few minutes later the two Spanish consultants were stepping out of a taxi enthusiastically. The fish logos on their short sleeve shirts sat next to the company name: Euro Aqua Consulting. They rested their briefcases on the concrete ground and following the Spanish greeting norm, kissed Verity on both cheeks. Antonio was a tall thin man with grey hair and his son Daniel was a young man with a boyish gaze and a generous smile. They briefly discussed their flights from Barcelona, the hot weather, and their business.
“La aquacultura es el futuro,” he said, tilting his head slightly.
“En Australia hay gran potencial, y es un mercado de exportación. ” Added Antonio with a fatherly smile.
“Mmm, si, muy interestante…” Verity said with wide open eyes.
The men immersed themselves in some paper work they needed to discuss among themselves and she leaned against the roller door and closed her eyes to avoid the glare of the morning sun. She could feel that her shoes still had sand in them. Queensland sand, where the sun shines and the rivers still run clear, she thought and soon remembered the moment when she had taken her shoes off to get into the dinghy.
The sound of a car crushing gravel broke off her memory and brought her back to her job. A shiny black four-wheel drive with tinted windows zoomed in and parked under the shade of a gum tree to the right of the farm. Then two large men, slowly emerged out of the car and swaggered over towards Verity and the two experts.
The man with red hair seemed to be the boss.
“Clive” he barked as he stretched out his hand to Antonio.
They all introduced themselves mechanically then stood in an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.
“Barça? O Real Madrid? Asked Clive with a chuckle.
“Barça, Barça! Real is the football team for Madrid, but we are from Barcelona!” Said Antonio in an accented English.
It was not bad English, thought Verity, and this would help. Clive’s partner, Peter, towered over Clive like a friendly puppet and nodded to every thing he said with a grin. Verity’s interpreting work had began.
The building inside was like an endless white tunnel holding two rows of water tanks each standing well over a metre tall and about one and a half metres in diameter. They stood at the door briefly and Verity translated some figures and the general state of the farm. Three hundred kilos of baby eels were arriving in a week. That meant a large investment at $1000. a kilo, and they had to deal with some sort of infection in system A.
There were some dead eels upturned floating on the water, and the faint smell of ammonia made Verity nauseous.
Clive led them away from the large fish tanks and into what appeared to be a small laboratory, with a sink, and benches along the walls. There, Clive and Peter slipped on white plastic coats. Antonio asked Peter for some water samples from system B as he took out a microscope from his briefcase. Baby eels were expected in system B and the water had to be right. Verity was translating for Antonio:
“Now the re-circulation systems need to be checked, and we need to check the Ph, the temperature and the oxygen…”
Peter returned holding a glass container with water and Antonio poured it into a tube.
The men waited in silence and after a few minutes Antonio shook his head. Then they all turned to him. He lifted the tube against the fluorescent light and frowned.
“Too much nitrites.”
Clive said nothing and produced a long drawn out breath as he looked to Peter. In silence they all stood next to Antonio monitoring the glass tubes in their little stand as they changed colour.
On the bench-top there were charts and bottles, and bags of feed piled up against the walls. This is what was required to produce fish, she thought. Not an ocean, not a river, not a boat, and certainly not a spear, or a prayer. The men in their white coats were immersed in their charts, figures, microscopes, medicines. Fish feed made in a processing plant was stacked against the wall.
From the glassed air-conditioned enclosure where they stood Verity could see into the farm, a long white tunnel with plastic pipes arching over and around the two rows of tanks. And as they waited for the results the forest with its arching mangrove roots over the pristine water flashed annoyingly into her mind like a reminder of the beauty of the forest, it’s warmth and its fertility.
Then Daniel said “malo, malo” as the liquid in the tubes changed to green. And they all turned to him and held their heads down looking into the tubes as he meticulously squirted liquid from a dropper into another set of tubes.
Verity felt Clive’s strenuous breathing onto her neck as he looked over her shoulder to the tubes. Even in his reserve she could feel his tension. They waited silently for the results, and her mind wandered off to the mangrove forest. The air was a lovely sea breeze, peace and beauty reigned. The old man, with his big hands, rowed gently, careful not to disturb the fish. Verity stood holding the torch, skimming the water for fish, and the young man stood close, holding the spear above his shoulder. Ready to strike.
The tide was high, the water ahead black, but with the light of the torch she could see everything below, the giant arched roots —like spider legs—, seagrass, stones, and a passing silvery fish, everything in the clear water shone like jewels on green velvet. And as they advanced up the narrowing river they had to bend over to avoid the mangrove tree branches above. There were times when they seemed to be entering a tunnel made of branches with clear bits for glimpses of dark blue sky. Everything seamed perfect, safe, right, and beautiful.
But now she was close to Clive, and she could feel the apprehension in his body, his shallow breathing, the strain in his stance, faltering and weak, the unblemished hand with thin fingers covering his mouth, and the fear for all the money that could be lost. Terrified they waited for test tube results, scribbled on pads, looked into dark tanks, and wiped their brows.
And the river returned, unwavering Gaia, standing solid on the tip of the boat with the spear held above his shoulder, she remembered his strong hands, their awakened senses, and their concentration.
“We need to bring the Ph down to 5.” Said Daniel bringing her back to the present.
In the small room with its blinding white walls under the fluorescent lights she felt cold. The air in the small office was dry and there was an overwhelming smell of disinfectant, as if all life except that of the eels was to be suppressed.
Antonio wanted to inspect the recirculation system and see the filters. Now she could get out of that hostile room at last. Then a heavy door opened into ghastly room where pumps ascending five metres set in a stream of water coming from the tanks produced a deafening roar. It was hard to translate over such noise. This is where everything happened and here the men became animated, gesticulating theatrically to make sure everyone knew which button controlled what. Everyone had to yell to discuss measuring devices requiring calibration, and temperature, and a myriad of buttons with different functions. And Verity transferred the information from one language into the other without a pause. Her throat was sore and the air acrid.
They moved onto the last lever and bending over pipes they listened to her as she translated Antonio’s instructions. Then they left the noisy room behind. But by then her voice was beginning to fade. The men then strode out and down the aisle of the farm with Verity behind, she felt her hands sweaty. Daniel stopped at one of the tanks, for the first time she could see where the fish lived. The water current never ceased, brown eels swam in a circle following the circumference of the tank. It was never-ending journey to nowhere.
Stressed, and rushed —like us— she thought.
Verity tried to see the eyes of the fish, they seemed panicked, some were trying to jump out others would try to swim against the current, they often rubbed against each other, the tanks where over populated, the water was dark and dirty. She could not see the bottom of the tank, and the eels would certainly not be able to see where they were going, they had no purpose, she decided. But they just kept going. By now Verity, lost in her thoughts could not hear the words the men spoke, she felt her legs weak, the lights were too bright. she felt faint.
“See there that one, his head is red, It’s diseased, that’s why they are not growing,” said Antonio. Verity was relieved that Antonio had spoken in English and she did not need to translate. Then they all stood silent looking at the eels.
The bottom of the mangrove reappeared in her mind with it’s clear stream and light sand. And then came the sight of a beautiful silver fish, over half a metre long and meandering large and slow close to the water’s surface. Then the sudden and sure sweep of the young man’s arm like a flash released onto the water followed; and in a clean stroke of the spear, it pierced into the silver fish. Silently he pulled the speared fish up, released it flapping hard into the dinghy next to the old man’s bare feet. He then turned to the sky again. This time, to give thanks. And then they left.
“Antibioticos!” Antonio cried.
“Is it worth it?” Asked Peter.
Antonio shrugged his shoulders. No one knew how the eels would respond, but many were dying and there would be loss.
The men had frowns. They stood with their hands on the rim of the tank looking down into the circular stream of tireless eels. There were thousands of dollars involved. Many eels would die.
“Look” said Antonio, “I have seen this before, you put the fish through the course, many die, others are not big enough, you waste a lot of time, you need the tanks, there can be contamination in your system…”
And as Verity translated it became obvious to all that it was best to do a dump, and that there was no clear destiny for the sick fish. It would be a dangerous waste.
Then she lowered her head, she could feel her heart thumping and hear the men talking as if they were far away. The eels kept swimming around in their crowded tank, only in the centre there were none. She kept her head down looking at their long brown bodies sometimes twisting over each other. She knew the men were speaking to her, but she could hardly hear them. And this went on for a few minutes. She felt nauseous. The men, the fish, and the endless stream of eels where spinning around her. She stepped back. She lifted her head, the men were silent. She took another couple of steps back from the tank, and said:
“I have to go.”
“Pero ¿qué te pasa? Estás pálida.” Asked Antonio clasping her hand with affection.
“Estoy bien, estoy bien,” she replied.
“But are you ok? You look pale.” Clive said.
Verity did not answer then marched towards the door. Clive followed then opened the door for her.
“I’ll call a taxi for you love, just wait there.”
When he stepped outside she handed over the interpreting agency’s card to him, which was what interpreters did, but she could not speak. His hands were long, unblemished. Good for handling test tubes and charts, she thought.
“I am sorry,” she mumbled.
“Yeah…You’re right,” he said sympathetically as he looked at the card.
She stood outside next to the silver roller door and felt her nose tingling and her eyes welling up with tears. But she contained them, it was all over now. She turned her head up towards the sun, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. And then she remembered the paddles, gently striking the water in the black water, the fish caught, the gurgling sound, the crickets calling, and she felt so much victory in her failure to finish her job that day.
Paula Ajuria 2006
paulaajuria.com.au 