by Robson Green
‘Yes,’ he smiles.
I am snagged and I can’t get the hook off – it’s a terrible cast with no sense of distance or height. I am yanking and yanking, desperately trying to untangle the line. Craig is filming, grinning.
‘Will you just pan off while I get my five-a-day?’
Jamie is loving my failure. As a director, he brings out the worst in me.
I am jet-lagged, freaked out about crocodiles and for some reason I can’t get ‘She Drives Me Crazy’ by the Fine Young Cannibals out of my head. I hum it over and over, still trying to untangle my line, but it snaps and the lure is left dangling in the tree. There’s no way I can get it. It’s a twenty-pound leader attached to a forty-pound braid line – an expensive mistake. Riccard is so patient: ‘Don’t worry. It happens all the time.’
He casts his line out and places the lure perfectly by a floating log. Wham! Riccard lifts his rod up and starts wrestling the fish.
‘As soon as he hits the lure he’s turning and it’s just like a steam train. If it’s a big one you just have to hold on,’ he says, reeling.
It’s only a four-pound black bass but it’s a massive fight for such a small fish. Many black bass come in at around fifteen to twenty pounds here, but several have been seen over thirty pounds in size. I imagine it would be like hooking a charging herd of mammoths.
The black bass is a fine-looking fish with shimmering silver, pink and gold scales the size of shirt buttons, and a spiky dorsal fin. The Latin name is Lutjanus goldiei and it’s actually part of the snapper family, which inhabits fresh and brackish water. The two canines on its upper jaw and smaller teeth below allow this fish to feed on whatever comes his way: small fish, mammals, crabs, baby crocs . . . he’s not fussy. He is the biggest predator in this river, save the reptilian rippers.
After setting up again, I cast out my line. I need to be between three and six inches from the edge of the structure, in this case a fallen tree trunk. Come on, Robson, don’t mess this up. I get vegetation again.
‘Can you please stop filming me doing stupid casts?’
Or maybe I could just stop doing stupid casts in the first place. I am annoying myself intensely. I want to become a troll on my own Twitter page. Jamie grins: ‘Just take a deep breath and relax. Calm down,’ he says, knowing this will wind me up even more. Thankfully, I get the lure back this time and save Riccard £12. I cast again, this time three inches off my target. It’s a cast that deserves a fish and I get one. ‘Hold on, Robson,’ says Riccard.
Just as he predicted the bass is fighting like a commuter train in full motion. And I lose it.
‘I did everything right, Riccard! I did everything you told me!’ God, I hate myself today. I want to swap bodies and be Riccard – or even Prada – but not me. I exhale loudly. There is a way to fight a black bass and I put too much bloody tension on the reel – when the fish runs, you need to let the line go a little slacker and put just enough tension on, but not too much. This comes with experience and, as usual, I’m learning the hard way. Riccard casts effortlessly with one hand. It’s beautiful to watch and he is so precise. I need two hands and two minutes to get myself sorted; I’m all fingers and thumbs. Riccard’s in. The one thing you must do with a black bass is move it away from the structure as quickly as possible because the fish wants to go back into his hiding place. In fact, as he attacks the lure, he is already turning for home.
‘They bolt so quickly,’ says Riccard. ‘He’s taken me into the snags.’
‘What do you do when he’s returned to his lair?’
‘Give a bit of slack but not a loose line, and watch him.’ He swims out but the line is caught about ten feet down. The fish can’t get off the hook and Riccard can’t bring him in. It’s stalemate – someone has to go in and retrieve the fish.
‘In you go, Robson,’ says Jamie.
‘What about the crocodiles, Jamie?’
‘I can’t see any. It’s fine,’ he snorts.
‘They are stealth hunters – they are not saying “Here I am, over here!”’
‘Well, you’ve got a head start.’
Jamie would secretly love me to be attacked by crocodiles – to him it would be TV gold. I can imagine him shouting, ‘No! Don’t rescue him yet, don’t rescue him yet! Let him have a little bite of your leg, Robson, just a nibble. You’ll get a BAFTA! Maybe an MBE! It’ll be worth it.’ I fold my arms. I’m not going anywhere. So Chris puts his goggles on and dives in, holding his breath for nearly two minutes. He comes up and says the line is well and truly snagged and then suddenly he is yanked down. A nine-pound fish has just pulled a 170-pound man back into the water. He emerges victorious with the bass on a lip grip and passes it to Riccard. It’s an amazing fish: solid, healthy and powerful.
That evening we eat the two black bass Riccard caught, garnished with my vegetation. I need to up my game.
Good Head
The next day we are in Rabaul in East New Britain – well, what’s left of it after a twenty-foot blanket of ash buried the town in 1994. As with the World War II military hardware in the forest, they haven’t quite got round to tidying up yet. The volcano erupted, the ash fell and everyone fled, and that’s how parts of the area have remained. It’s a tropical Pompeii. Mount Tavurvur smoulders ominously in the background, a sinister reminder of the red-hot bubbling danger beneath. Tavurvur is part of a horse-shoe of volcanoes – active and potentially deadly – surrounding an aquamarine bay. The water is beautiful and serene, like a lagoon, but it is in fact Rabaul Caldera – the eye of a supervolcano – and if this baby blows, the town won’t be the only place in trouble. They will feel the effects in Newcastle. No wonder people are ‘on the nut’ here. It’s a case of ‘live for today, because tomorrow you could be covered in boiling hot lava’.
The topography is terrible news for Rabaul, bad news for the planet, but great news for fishermen. The area is alive with bill-fish and I am hoping to catch a Pacific blue marlin. It’s been over two years since I caught my first marlin, an Atlantic blue, off the Azores. Today game fishing enthusiast and pervy lure maker John Lau is going to help me.
I meet him at his workshop, where he is busy working on a lathe. John’s lures are known in game fishing circles throughout the world. We shake hands and he presents me with a lure he’s made especially. ‘It’s called a “good head”,’ he says with a twinkle. His other lures are the Linda Lovelace and his personal favourite, the Monica Lure-insky. We walk down the private jetty to his gleaming white yacht, the Stephanie. After the saucy lures I can’t help wondering how Stephanie, whoever she is, got a whole boat named after her. The mind boggles.
Soon we are powering through the waves and immediately we can see there are billfish feeding at every turn. There are sailfish circling a bait ball of rainbow runners, lashing into them just 100 yards from the boat. On the starboard side a marlin is tucking in to another shoal of bait fish. There is activity all around.
I tell John that I am changing the name of my lure to Marlon Brando.
‘Why?’ he asks.
‘Marlin Brando – geddit?’
‘No,’ he says, looking blank.
‘I’m gonna make that fish an offer it can’t refuse.’
He looks at me, bewildered. It wasn’t funny to start with and by the time I’ve explained it five times I want to stick an orange in my mouth, wind my head in electrical tape and jump off the side. Maybe that’s the sort of stuff Stephanie was into? I want a boat named after me. I’m game.
We trawl through the feeding area with our lures but after thirty minutes we have no takers. There are tuna feeding as well, but none of them are bothered about Marlin Brando when they have the real thing, and the heat is starting to become unbearable.
‘Let’s give them fresh bait,’ I say.
We send out Rapala lures for rainbow runners. The deckhand pulls them up with ease. After half an hour I finally catch one. We slowly trawl the live bait but after three hours we get nothing. A tuna goes by, looks at
our bait and turns away at the last minute. These billfish are well fed and ready for an afternoon nap. I tempt them like Mr Creosote: ‘Surely, Mr Marlin, you have room for one more wafer-thin rainbow runner?’ Nope. They are positive.
I have never seen so many billfish in my life. We must have spotted about twenty-five in total, as well as porpoises, whales and dolphins all wading into the fray to enjoy a good old buffet. John Lau points at the leaping dolphins: ‘Such beautiful creatures.’
‘Yes,’ I say, looking at Jamie. ‘But have you ever swum with them? There is a dark side to dolphins.’
‘Oh, you’re not still going on about the pink river dolphins?’ says Jamie. ‘So what, one nipped your leg and butted you in the chest.’
‘I have been doing some research, Jamie. Dolphins are rapists and are even into gang attacks – you look it up.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. And it’s the same with moles.’
‘Moles? What the fuck have moles got to do with anything?’
‘There’s a dark side to them, too. Moles are misogynists. Ask David Attenborough.’
‘Ah, it’s funny you should mention him. Do you like birdwatching? Because I’ve just signed you up for some this evening.’
We jump off the boat and thank John for an enjoyable day at sea. After a quick wash and brush-up it’s time for me to fall on the grenade and judge the annual Miss Billfish Competition, a beauty pageant for game-fishing enthusiasts.
I loathe and despise Jamie as I’m really not feeling this event. I stand next to John, the event’s compère, curl my toes and fix a grin. There are about fifty people crammed into a makeshift marquee with plastic chairs, a dodgy red carpet and a table where judges sit. I’m one of four. It’s thundering and lightning outside and the rain is cascading down. Kids and dogs are running around, screaming and pissing on the carpet. It’s a shambles. John taps the microphone loudly and everyone has a mini heart attack.
‘Good evening’ – the feedback is excruciating – ‘tonight we have a movie star all the way from England. I would like to extend a huge welcome to Robson Green.’
One person claps.
‘Thank you. I’m still available for panto.’
My job is to interview the contestants, who are wearing a variety of costumes this evening. I come up with a great Miss Billfish question: ‘If you were a fish, what kind of fish would you be?’
‘I’d be a marlin so I could travel the world, as I’ve heard they migrate a lot,’ says one shy young woman.
One lass says: ‘I don’t want to be a fish. Why are you asking me that question?’
Question two: ‘Do you like working with children?’
‘Yes, because I’ve got a lot to offer and I am a kind and giving person.’
‘Do you like working with children?’ I ask another hopeful.
‘No,’ she says flatly. Come on, that’s beauty queen basics – you have to love kids and want world peace.
Question three: ‘Who’s your favourite actor? By the way, I’m an actor.’
‘Tom Cruise. Never heard of you.’
I ask a girl in blue. ‘Heath Ledger,’ she says.
‘Oh boy, do I have some bad news for you.’ She hasn’t got a clue he’s just died.
‘He’s so talented and handsome.’
‘Not any more, he’s not.’
‘What?’
I tell her. She puts her hands to her face. I have turned into Larry David from Curb Your Enthusiasm; my humour is becoming as dark as the atmosphere. I really don’t want to be here.
The fashion parade begins, to the soundtrack of the dodgiest 1970s soft-porno music. It’s all a bit surreal. The women are judged on their interviews, personality and their outfits, and the other judges are taking it very seriously. There is a female Aussie tourist guide, a young guy who fancies all of them, and some pervy old guy. I give them all maximum points for each category.
One model has a Naomi Campbell-style fall as she hits the catwalk. She gets back up and bravely continues. A dog jumps up at her and barks and kids run round in deranged circles. The next two models walk down the runway wearing only very small bikinis. Suddenly the generator fuses and the lights go out. About ten minutes later the problem is fixed and the parade continues. How much longer can this go on?
Finally the girls line up and the announcement is made: ‘And the winner is . . .’ – cue drum roll – ‘Miss Billfish, winning by a nose, the girl in blue.’ I put a ribbon over her and a tiara on her head. She is very chuffed.
We escape back to the hotel, sharpish. It’s after midnight. I’m about to put my light out when there’s a knock at my door. It’s Jamie. He’s had his bag stolen.
‘With all my money, cards and my bloody passport, Robson.’
We call the police.
The day before, Jamie had gone to do a quick recce in Kimbe. He’d heard there was something called ‘condom fishing’ so he had driven to a pharmacy to see if they stocked prophylactics (it’s an unlikely story but absolutely true!). He jumped out of the van, leaving his bag on the front seat. The pharmacy did indeed stock an array of condoms and the owners were happy for us to film in their shop. Having organised this set-up, he jumped back in the van and joined us at breakfast. Only now has it dawned on him that his bag had been nicked out of the van, which he admits he didn’t lock. I shake my head disappointedly.
‘Basics, my sadistic friend, basics.’
The police arrive at the hotel. They are the picture definition of ‘dodgy’ but couldn’t be more helpful. They think they know exactly who has his bag.
‘Leave it with us and we’ll get your bag back,’ they say.
Jamie calls IWC in Glasgow. He is very concerned about the next shoot in New Caledonia. Without his passport he won’t be allowed in. Helen says if he goes back to the UK within the next two days they can issue him a new passport straight away and he can be back in time for the New Caledonia shoot, but it’s a logistical nightmare. Jamie is stressed. It’s nice to watch. Usually I’m the one sweating.
Eggs and Fish
Meanwhile we have a show to make, and this morning I am going hunting for eggs and hand lining with the Tolai tribe. We head by boat across the Rabaul Caldera, straight for the ACTIVE volcano, Mount Tavurvur. The lava has turned into metallic grey rocks of pumice. Every tree is a scorched post and the volcanic heat turns the waves to steam as they lap against the black shore. We navigate through a channel in thirty- to forty-degree heat. Local man Robot and three friends are waiting to greet me. They are dressed in sarongs and bare-chested like my dad, which, given what we’re about to do today, feels particularly apt. I’m going to be mining. But not for minerals under the earth: for megapode eggs buried deep in the ash.
The native bird, which looks like a rooster-sized moorhen with massive feet, uses the heat of the volcanic ash to incubate its eggs, and apparently they’re very tasty. Robot and his guys are going to help me find them. It’s really not that hard – you just start digging where the footprints stop! I start burrowing and soon am grey with ash. Dad would be proud of my newly discovered mining capabilities. It’s in the genes, I think, as I dig like a champion. He used to say: ‘You graft? Your skin wouldn’t bloody graft!’
Bloody hell, these birds certainly bury their eggs deep. I’ve been slogging away for two hours and I have ash in my eyes, ears, mouth and nose, but about four feet down I’m getting close. The air is hot and dry and so is the ash. I start to shovel and part the grey slag with my hands. I reach down into the hole and find an egg. It’s like a large duck egg. I find another. I am triumphant but Jamie and Craig now want more footage on a different side of the ACTIVE volcano and I want to go before it starts to spew molten lava at us. Robot takes me to another spot and we start digging. The ash is acrid in my eyes and Jamie, all clean and Lynx-fresh, is sadistically enjoying my transformation into an ashen spectre of my former self. I dig for another four hours, finding half a dozen more eggs. Finally Jamie’s happy he’s
got the footage he needs.
I pass the eggs to Robot and his team who will sell them for the equivalent of about 40p each; with all the eggs I’ve helped them find, they should make about four quid. They give me five to take for dinner. I thank them, hurriedly leaving the dry, dusty, ACTIVE volcano, and head by boat to a beautiful island paradise, home to the Tolai tribe. As I arrive, kids are diving off a tree into the turquoise-blue waters and playing tag on the sand. On the shore I am greeted by tribal leader Kevung, who reminds me of Nelson Mandela. He beams a wide smile. I shake hands with two other guys wearing very random T-shirts.
‘Are there some big fish out there? What kind of big ones?’ I ask.
‘Breams,’ replies one of them.
‘Big bream? They’re very tasty fish. Do they go well with eggs?’
‘No,’ he says bluntly.
‘Oh, right.’
He gazes out to sea. I read his thoughts: ‘Who is this guy? Who the hell eats fish and eggs?’ Note to self, Robson, next time just bring a nice Chardonnay.
We go out in canoes with an outrigger on one side, a bit like the bancas in the Philippines. I’m sharing with Kevung. Out here the water gets very deep, very quickly. Even in these tiny handmade canoes, we’ll be fishing depths of more than 500 feet and using a hand line will be a test of endurance. Luckily I’ve brought my trusty chamois gloves. I’m not stupid. Besides, Kevung wears a glove too so I’m just copying the locals.
We send down weighted hooks with squid as bait. Anything more than ten pounds in size at this depth will take hours. And bingo! I’ve got a fish. I start pulling up the line, which I predict will take about fifteen minutes. The line winds against a carved-out tree branch.
‘Pull,’ says Kevung. ‘Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull,’ he says, getting me into a rhythm like a fishing coxswain.
The fish is fighting and my arms are aching. I start dreaming about electric reels. I’m usually not a fan of them. What’s the point? Hard work is all part of it but now I’m beginning to think they are one of the best inventions of the modern age, along with penicillin and the Pill.