by Robson Green
My next task is to make some kind of shelter. Ray Mears made a bivouac on his show so I’m going to do the same, but the light is fading. I um and ah before deciding it might be better to catch some food first. So what’s on tonight’s menu at the Castaway Café? I could catch a few crabs, or I could cast a line for some small reef fish similar to the ones I caught with Charlito. I walk along the water’s edge, half-heartedly looking for crabs. What am I doing here? This is crackers. I think about casting a line out and then I have a much better idea. Hidden among the few supplies I’ve been allowed to bring is a bottle of white wine and a corkscrew.
I find a coconut and draw a face on it in homage to Tom Hanks in Castaway, set up the camera and open the bottle of Chablis. As the last of the light fades, I raise a toast to my new date, Julia (after Julia Roberts, because of her massive mouth). I take a sip of the wine and then drain the contents of the glass. I pour another and another.
‘That’s better,’ I say to Julia. ‘It’s all a bit more fun now I’m getting pissed.’
As I finish the bottle, and open the Sauvignon Blanc, I start talking nonsense to the coconut and the camera.
‘Have you heard of the notion that many dog-owners look like their pets, Julia? Well, they tried an experiment to see how true it was. They took an architect and his dog, an engineer and his dog and an actor and his dog, and under laboratory conditions tested to see how each reacted to a pile of bones in the middle of the room. The engineer’s dog goes first and makes a complex cog system with gears, reflecting the behaviour of the owner. The architect’s dog constructs a bridge. Next up is the actor’s dog. He eats all the bones, fucks the other two dogs and asks for the rest of the day off.’
I roll around laughing but Julia is po-faced.
‘You need to lighten up, Jules, have some fun.’
I reel off my CV, and she tells me hers. I feel inadequate but quite horny. I think I’m in with a chance with Jules when suddenly there is a loud clatter of thunder. Boom! As if someone’s lifted a grand piano and dropped it. Immediately the heavens open. It’s not a light shower but rain of biblical proportions, like someone has a hose over my head and I haven’t made a fucking shelter and – shit! The cameras! I manage to get the Z-camera, batteries and the diary cam wrapped up in my waterproof coat. The fire is well and truly out, one torch has died and the other is on life support. I take a swig from the bottle of wine, grab Julia and stumble over to shelter under one of the coconut palms. What the fuck am I doing here?
It pours and it pours and it pours down for over four long and lonely hours and then that’s when the REALLY BIG storm hits, and with it there is thunder, sheet lightning and, of course, more rain. The water takes out all the batteries and the Z-camera so all I have is my diary cam. I am soaked to the skin and sozzled and I want to go home – this isn’t funny anymore. The only connection I have with the outside world is a satellite phone so I ring Jamie. No reply. I ring again. No reply. I can’t get hold of him because he’s at the bar with Craig and Peter and they are all off their tits. Bastards. They’re lording it up in opulence and I’m sitting here on my own on an island in the middle of the Pacific, under a fucking waterfall, talking shit to a coconut I quite fancy.
I scramble around in the undergrowth, trying to make a last-minute bivouac with palm leaves. The rain has washed away a pile of coconuts under a tree and I can see a polythene bag. I shine my torch on it. It’s a plastic carrier bag. That’s odd, I think. I look inside and my heart stops beating. It’s full of money. Oh. My. God. I’m going to be kidnapped by terrorists or drug runners and murdered in a scene out of Scarface with a chainsaw. I don’t fucking want to be on Treasure Island anymore. I’m in grave danger and I need to get off this fucking island.
I calm down and decide to count the money. It’s torrential rain but at least counting gives me something to do. My heart beats rapidly against my chest. There’s 68,000 pesos! Jesus Christ, 68,000! It’s a big stash. (Which I later discover is only £1,000, but it is still a great deal of money in these parts.) As I put the notes back in the bag I suddenly see lights coming towards me across the water. I shut my eyes and open them; I must be mistaken . . . but I am not. Lights are coming this way and I stop breathing. Very slowly I hide the money back under the pile of coconuts and move back under the tree. This is now not only inconvenient, it’s fucking terrifying.
I dial Jamie. There’s no reply so I phone the series producer, Helen Nightingale, in Glasgow, and wake her up.
‘Hello?’ she says sleepily.
‘Helen? Get me off this fucking island!’
‘Robson, are you OK? Have you spoken to Jamie?’
‘I’ve tried; he’s not answering, none of them are. They’re all pissing it up.’
She says, ‘OK, I’ll phone him now. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’
‘Send a boat, a fucking pigeon, do whatever. I am going to die!’
I get on the satellite phone again and ring my business partner, Sandra, who has got me out of many scrapes in my life.
‘Sandra, whatever you’re doing, wherever you are, get me off this fucking island.’
Between them, Sandra and Helen finally manage to get hold of Jamie and the team, now in their beds. The whole team is woken up and ordered to come and get me, immediately.
There isn’t an inch of me that isn’t wet and I’m starting to get cold. The lights are very close to the island now and I can hear men talking. The rain continues to pour down and they are talking loudly over the sound of the waves as two men drag their boat ashore. I don’t move one single muscle and barely dare to breathe. They are just yards away from me and the images of what they are going to do to me flood my brain like a virus-infected computer on its way out. In fact, later on I realise they were actually fishermen coming to shelter from the storm but after discovering that stash of money all I could think of was cold-blooded killers.
Jamie and the team finally arrive around 3 a.m., half asleep. I’m cold, reeking of bevy and exhausted from being terrified. Jamie thinks the whole thing is hilarious and wants to do some filming but I’m not in the mood.
‘Come on, Robson, it’ll be great material.’
I tell him where to go. He examines the cameras.
‘Are you sure you can’t just stay here until the morning, filming on your diary cam?’
‘Fuck you!’ I roar, throwing the bag of money at him and taking a swing for him. Jamie’s six-foot-two, I’m five-foot-nine, and punching high isn’t a good way to box. I of course miss. AP Finlay McCray holds me back. Jamie is now furious, too, and also has to be restrained by Finlay. This adventure is now less Robson Crusoe and more Lord of the Flies. I feel like Piggy, the kid with glasses that they bullied and ultimately killed.
On the boat I change into some dry clothes. I’m so wet my fingers are all wrinkled. I’m not Bear Grylls or Ray Mears, I’m Robson Green. I’ll leave those guys to fight the wilds. As we bounce across the gentle waves, I can see there are hundreds of lights out at sea, like street lamps. They twinkle across the water. Each light is a fisherman who, night after night, provides food for his village and family. They are proper fishermen, unlike me.
I have never been so pleased to see a bed in all my life. I luxuriate in it, hugging a soft pillow, and sleep soundly. In the morning, in spite of everything and all the hell I’ve been put through, I wake up full of warm feelings of love towards my Extreme team. After all, they did come and rescue me in the end. Jamie has taken the money I found to the local police and all order has been restored.
Before we head to Manila I decide to pop to the shop to load up with supplies for the long journey ahead, buying fruit, juice, sweets and loads of delicious things for the whole team to gorge on. I walk outside, laden with food, and notice both of the production cars have gone. That’s weird, I think, looking this way and that. I wait around for a few minutes, imagining they’ve gone for a quick toilet stop. Ten minutes later no one has returned, and this is when it dawns on me that they
have fucked off without me and are on their way to Manila. I am really upset, and what’s more I’ve got no signal on my phone. Fuck! It is twenty minutes before anyone notices I’m not in the car. Each group thinks I’ve gone with the other but thankfully Peter Prada decides to double-check. He phones Jamie.
‘Is Robson with you?’
‘No, we thought he was with you,’ says Jamie.
Fuck!! Loud screech of brakes.
I’ll tell you what, I am devastated. I thought I was part of this great team and they didn’t even notice I wasn’t there – or maybe they did and left me on purpose? They eventually turn up to get me and I peevishly give all the food I’ve bought to some random locals. Well, at least they appreciate the gesture and there’s no way these bastards are getting a thing from me now. I sulk all the way to Manila. During the trip I turn to Jamie and say, ‘I thought we were like a rock band on tour.’
‘We are. But sometimes it gets crazy on the road and shit happens.’
He’s right, it certainly does.
Chapter Seven
THAILAND
Accentuate the Positive
February 2009, Series 2
It’s a twelve-hour flight to Thailand and, knowing that jet psychosis is waiting for me at Arrivals, I decide to follow a close friend’s advice and take two sleeping tablets called Stay Knocked. They contain melatonin, the hormone in the brain believed to maintain a regular sleeping pattern – my friend assures me that I will sleep like a baby, awake feeling refreshed and as if I’ve had a hot shower completely synced to Bangkok time.
I fall asleep all right; I stayed KO’d for the entire flight and am only able to shoot one piece on my diary camera as I’m coming into land. I feel like some deranged squatter has laid waste to the delicate furniture of my mind; the sofa’s on fire, the coffee table’s broken and he’s nicked the telly. When we touch down, Jamie takes one look at me and decides it’s best to shoot me in wide because a close-up and the effects of Stay Knocked may scare the children. Bangkok Airport is insane, hectic, nuts, crazy, bonkers, and I’m watching it happen through bevelled glass.
We head out to film in the busy streets, avoiding tuk-tuks, elephants, women whose chest hair goes all the way down to their testicles, spider sellers, scorpion sellers and ladies who have turned ping-pong into a whole new art form. It’s all here in this hot, sweaty and vibrant city of sin and serenity. This is the land of contrasts. No sooner am I shown to my room in the hotel than my face hits the pillow and I dream I am swimming with a giant stingray, one of the chief quarries of this particular adventure. It flaps its wings like a rubbery raptor, so graceful in the water. I am feeling relaxed and I touch the creature. It winks at me. I become aware that I’m not swimming alone – there is another man, an Australian. It’s Steve Irwin.
‘Hello, Steve,’ my voice echoes strangely underwater.
He smiles and waves at me. The stingray lifts its tail. Nooo! I sit bolt upright, gasping for air.
Market
Today I am feeling more human but my nightmare has left a residue of acrid fear. Why the hell do I want to hunt a giant freshwater stingray after one harpooned one of the greatest wildlife presenters in the chest? What does the experience add to the show? Oh, yes, I forgot: it’s called Extreme Fishing. Why on earth didn’t I sign up for some gentle fly-fishing?
We hop in a tuk-tuk and go to the Bang Kapi market to meet contributor Eddy Mounce. Originally from Ipswich, he came to Thailand on a fishing trip six years ago and never caught the flight home. He now works as a fishing guide for tourists from all over the world. Here we stock up on bait for our first fishing adventure. My deli counter at Tesco looks nothing like this: everything is fresh, i.e. ALIVE! Fish flap, eels squirm, cockerels cock-a-doodle-doo, crabs scuttle, frogs jump – and one desperately tries to break out of a net bag, attempting to part a hole with its strong green arms. It’s brutal; there are about twenty all piled together in the bag. I want to help them but it’s how things are done here.
I must admit the market is a full frontal assault on my Western sensibilities, however it also seems more real and truthful. Back home we are shielded from the suffering and visceral, bloody destruction of the animals whose lives we take. Everything is stewed and neatly packaged in ready-meals or cling-wrapped with pretty pictures to mask the violent slaughter and butchery that befalls the creatures. But I am very proud of the animal welfare standards we have in the UK. In my opinion, limiting suffering should be top of the list when harvesting fish or dispatching any animal.
Eddy interrupts my contemplation by shoving a bag of chopped-up mackerel in my arms, which we are going to use as bait. I then have to ask, in my best Thai, for several bags of cow’s blood. The woman bends down and reaches under the counter, passing me one gallon at a time. I bung the two transparent bags of burgundy under each arm, pay the woman at the stall and wander off to go fishing with Eddy. This place is as mad as a bag of frogs.
Lake IT
The city of Bangkok and all its madness is a world away from the simple life of many people who inhabit this beautiful country, where once again fishing is a lot more than a hobby – it’s a way of life. The humidity smacks you in the face, you are battered by the relentless sun and you’re leaking from orifices you didn’t think you had.
Sixty miles south we head for a lake known as IT Lake Monsters, and it’s a world away from the madness of Bangkok. I’m pleased to be out of the oppressive city and in the country-side, with open plains and tropical vegetation. We arrive at a man-made lake a bit like the ones we have back in the UK, only the weather’s nicer and this lake is stocked with some of the most amazing predators from all over the world. Unlike Loch Ness, there are real monsters of the deep lurking under the surface.
Eddy introduces me to Alley Lungtong, the singing fisherman.
‘Sawadee-krup, Robson.’
‘Sawadee-krup, Alley.’
Alley tells me the lake is stocked with barramundi, tigerfish, alligator gar, redtail catfish and arapaima, and even though some are endangered species, parks like this help protect them, so I can fish with a clear conscience. The arapaima is incredibly rare in the wild. In fact, you have more likelihood of catching an arapaima here than in South America, where it is from originally. I am desperate to catch this great predator today. It hunts by scent so we are hoping it likes the cow’s blood. I chuck jam jars of blood across the lake, ‘chumming’ the water. Much like fishing for shark, the blood will get into the arapaima’s nostrils and hopefully bring them towards our bait. I have only chummed for sharks before and never anything else.
It’s midday and the heat is overpowering, plus it’s 95 per cent humidity, but I don’t have time to complain because within thirty seconds I am in. Alley thinks it’s a redtail catfish, but whatever it is it’s big, and the pull on the line and the heat are wearing me out. Just when I think I can’t reel anymore, the redtail catfish comes to the surface. It is about thirty to forty pounds. Its red tail mixes into orange on its underbelly; a stunning creature. We put it back – the policy is catch-and-release here and the lake wouldn’t stay stocked for long if it weren’t.
I ask Alley what he does while he waits for a bite.
‘I like sing-song.’
Perhaps he could be a replacement for Jerome, I wonder to myself, although I’m still hoping to hear back from PSY. Imagine it: Geordie Gangnam Style.
Suddenly I feel a yank on the line.
‘We’re in.’
Straight away it’s off.
‘Oh, bugger.’
I teach Alley the correct British fishing phrases. ‘Oh, bugger,’ he says over and over.
But the wait isn’t long before we have another bite. It’s an alligator gar! I reel him in and hold him up to the camera. The alligator gar is an extraordinary-looking ray-finned fish that has existed for 100 million years. He’s known as an alligator gar because of his crocodilian head and rows of sharp teeth. They can grow up to ten feet in length and are found in the brackish w
aters of the southern United States, although this fella can survive for up to two hours out of water. No one needs to be in this heat for long so I pop him straight back. This mean-assed predator’s got business to attend to in his lake. He’s the Godfather fish because he will eat anything and anyone, even turtles and wild-fowl.
As we continue to wait for the arapaima to make an appearance, Alley bursts into a rendition of a Thai favourite. I join in: ‘I love Thailand, I like Patpong. I like Thailand, I love Patpong,’ we croon.
‘What’s Patpong, Alley?’
I quickly work out it’s the Bangkok ladies he loves. Patpong is the ‘entertainments’ district of the city.
‘OK, let’s end it there. It’s a family show and I’m not Wayne Rooney.’
With no hat on I’m beginning to feel the symptoms of sun-stroke. In this kind of heat your blood thickens and takes longer to circulate round the body. I try not to think about a syrupy chum trying to force its way around my veins. I really should take an aspirin but there’s no time because I’m ‘in’ again and whatever’s on the end of my line feels very different. As I begin to reel the fish in I can see it’s an arapaima (or pirarucu, as the species is known by the Amazonians), one of the largest freshwater fish in the world. I bring in this dinosaur of the deep. Her tail is like an eel’s and she has distinctive red speckles on her body. I put her back into the lake, mission accomplished. I shake Alley’s hand and thank him for a great day. It’s time to head back to the mayhem of Bangkok and not before time. I think my brain’s boiled.
After a quick shower and change of clothes at our very kitsch hotel, which looks as if it is made of sequins, and with all the female staff bowing every five seconds, saying ‘Sawadee-ka’, the crew and I head out to dinner. Assistant Producer Finlay has booked a table at one of Bangkok’s top restaurants and I’m looking forward to indulging in some delicious Thai cuisine. But the restaurant’s not quite what I expected and the name is truly terrible: it’s called ‘Cabbages and Condoms’. I reluctantly enter.