by Robson Green
‘Pull it faster,’ says Kevung.
‘I am pulling it fast. I can’t pull it any faster, Kevung.’
My arms are a blur with motion.
Kevung gets a fish, and across the way so has George, but mine’s nearly at the surface. It’s a four-pound mandara, or perch, but the line gets caught around the side rigger of the boat and becomes taut. The fish flicks its tail and is off.
‘Shit!’
I am so upset. That fish has just taken me fifteen minutes to pull up and now I’ve lost it.
All the guys pull up lovely fish. They wind in the line with ease. Kevung is about twenty years older than me but he is so strong he pulls the line up like a man taking it easy on a Sunday afternoon. These guys don’t have any fancy boats or equipment; they are using what nature gave them. The only expense is the nylon line and a hook. And I’ve just lost one. Later, when we arrive back on shore, I give them one of mine and they are so grateful. Out here, it makes a difference. I think about Riccard’s lure, still in the tree. Maybe I could tell them about that one, too. Poor Riccard – I need to give him one of my lures. Luckily I’m seeing him tomorrow and I might be directing myself, because it looks like Jamie will have to fly back to London after all.
George pulls up a six-pound mandara and he paddles over for me to inspect it. It will make a great meal for the villagers. I congratulate him and pass it back but I didn’t travel 13,000 miles to hold another man’s fish; I need to catch one of my own and I’m staying out here all night if necessary – and Jamie says it is necessary. Me eating eggs on camera with the Tolai tribe won’t really cut it with the producers back in the UK. Extreme Egg Hunting With Robson Green might not get another series.
I drop the line and hope the fish are hungry. I wait. Nothing. I am impatient. I want a fish. I can’t face the villagers without catching anything. I’m in. Please, please stay on, otherwise it’s boiled eggs and soldiers for me and I don’t want that. Come on. Use your core, Robson. Straight back . . .
‘Oh . . . I’m fucked.’
Kevung laughs. He tries to improve my technique but I am in a rhythm. Nearly there, come on. Oh, for fuck’s sake, where’s the bloody fish? I keep pulling and pulling. It’s never-ending. And finally I pull up the smallest fish ever. It must be no more that a pound and I haven’t got a clue what it is. It’s definitely not the bream I was dreaming of. I’ve lost more weight pulling in this blinking fish than I’ll gain from eating it. Kevung informs me that it’s a loueer – it’s a sweet little thing with bright yellow markings. I knock it on the head. He’s my contribution to the feast tonight, as well as the megapode eggs, of course.
Between us we have caught three large mandara, two decent-sized bream and my loueer, which, placed next to the other fish, looks like a rotten banana. That night we eat with the tribe, cooking the fish and megapode eggs over an open fire. I tell the children how I found the eggs, digging in the ash. They don’t understand a word I’m saying but are transfixed by my mimes. The megapode eggs are delicious, all yolk and no white but do you know what, George was right: eggs and fish really don’t go well together.
Giant Goldfish
Early the next morning Jamie calls the police to see if they have made any progress, and they have. They turn up at the hotel holding his bag. They’ve got the culprits. Jamie is so relieved – we all are. Everything is there save the cash. He kisses his burgundy passport and shakes the hands of the policemen. He has just narrowly avoided six days of the most arduous travelling imaginable.
The police tell us the story of how they got his bag back. They battered down the door of the suspects, who made a run for it, so they shot them in the legs and went after another guy with a machete. Jamie and I look at one another out of the corner of our eyes. What? Did we just hear right? The senior officer invites Jamie to go with them to the hospital to see that justice has been done. In fact, we can all go. Strangely we unanimously decide to give that particular treat a miss. Jamie shakes their hands again and they are on their way. All I can say is don’t nick anything in PNG because they don’t mess around like they do in Britain, where you’d get three meals a day, a telly and an endless supply of narcotics.
After a spot of snorkelling we drive back to Kimbe in West New Britain. Riccard’s taking me out on his big boat. We are reef fishing about 600 feet down, and in answer to my prayers we are using electric reels! Riccard takes us to spot where he has caught unknown monsters.
‘There are some big things down there that we haven’t managed to pull up. I’ve had this reel here smoking sometimes,’ he says in a light Aussie drawl. ‘There’s actual smoke coming out of it because it’s going backwards and you know they straighten these big hooks.’
We send the squid hooks down and no sooner have they hit the bottom than both reels go off. They whine like distant sirens. Suddenly mine stops: the fish is off. I take the other rod port side: 600, 590, 580, 570 . . . kick gears click on. With forty feet to go the alarm sounds to alert you to the fact that the fish is near to the surface and it’s time to reel in by hand. As I start winding, the rod bends acutely. I wind with all my might and what comes into view is astonishing. It’s a giant goldfish! Like something Gulliver would have won at the fair. I am so astonished that all I can manage on camera is a load of ‘wows’ and platitudes.
It’s called a ruby snapper and the Latin name is Etelis carbunculus, which means ‘ancient stone’ – hence ruby. It is a vibrant orange with a shimmer of gold and massive black eyes, because it’s dark down there in the benthic zone where it resides. Wow! It’s a forty-five-pound goldfish! All I can say is we’re going to need a bigger bowl. I mean, imagine flushing this one down the loo when it’s dead. But we’re not going to do that today, we’re going to eat it.
The goldfish has whetted my appetite. What else is down there? What about one of the monsters Riccard was speaking about? One of the lines beeps. The electric reels perform their magic.
‘We’ve got something very, very large on the end here,’ I say. ‘OK, we’re at forty feet. We’re at thirty feet, Riccard. We’re at twenty feet, we’re at ten, nine, eight, seven . . .’I start winding with all my might. ‘Oh, that’s a weird-looking fish – look at that. What is that?’
Neither Riccard nor I know. In fact, we don’t find out for a couple of days and begin to think we’ve discovered a new species. I am hell-bent on calling it a Robson – even though it’s as ugly as sin, I want a fish named after me. But, God, it’s a minger – a cross between a barracuda, an oilfish and a gar with a black sail, like a ghostly pirate ship. I think of names that actually suit it, like the Cowell. Yes, that works. Or maybe the Mandelson, or even better the Janet Street-Porter, although the mouth’s not big enough.
Three days later we find out from a marine biologist that it is a barracouta, or black snoek. Identifying fish can at times be very difficult, particularly as they’re known by different names around the world, which is why the Latin term in the universal language of classification is so helpful. This is a Thyrsites atun – it’s a versatile, oily, bony fish that can be grilled, fried and tinned. It was hated in Britain during World War II because canned snoek was associated with deprivation and rationing. Ask your Great Aunt Margaret, or anyone of that generation, if they remember tinned snoek. Just from the look of it Riccard and I don’t fancy a bite, so we pop it back to go and frighten the other fish.
We decide to try our luck one more time and immediately something enormous fights with the reels. We pull it up and it takes the line back down. This happens again and again, until the reels are screaming under the pressure. The motors whir. Is it a shark? Riccard says it’s not fighting like one but whatever it is it’s enormous. The reels pull the fish to forty feet, thirty feet, ten feet, and then the creature takes the line back down to fifty.
‘It’s going to burn the engine out,’ says Riccard.
‘What the hell is it?’ I say, imagining the undiscovered and mysterious creatures down there, like the one Riccard’s n
ever been able to land. Perhaps it’s a world-record-breaking giant goldfish over 100 pounds? But, then again, it’s more likely to be a bull or tiger shark holding on to the fish I’ve just caught, desperately trying to steal my prize for himself. The motor continues to struggle, until crack! The line snaps – it’s over and the fish is gone without a glimpse or even a clue. But whatever it was has just broken a line built to take 250 pounds! I look at the rod.
‘It’s busted the whole rig. I’m kind of glad that we didn’t bring it up,’ I say. ‘As I have come to realise on this journey, some fish aren’t meant to be caught.’
We put the ruby snapper I caught on the barbecue and cook it until the flesh is succulent. I scoop up the meaty white flakes with my fingers and, as I chew, wonder if I’ll ever discover ‘the Robson’.
‘You will have to come back and fish for longer with me next time,’ says Riccard. Then maybe, just maybe, we will land one of the undiscovered monsters of this strange but incredible lost world.
Chapter Fourteen
RUSSIA
Crime and Punishment
November 2010, At the Ends of the Earth, Series 4
Arriving in Moscow sets the tone for the rest of the trip. It’s cold, grey and not one person is smiling. At our hotel, the reception has no reference of our booking. The middle-aged shot-putter behind the desk is a thoroughly unpleasant individual who grudgingly finds us a few rooms for the night. It’s a dour place and it’s so bloody cold as we carry our stuff up the rickety stairs to our rooms. I open the door to reveal my threadbare bed with a minimum of battered 1950s furniture. This hotel is so bad, even Lenny Henry wouldn’t advertise it.
I look out of the window onto the streets below. It’s snowing. Everyone is wearing Cossack hats and furs and walking with their heads down. It’s like a Norman Cornish painting. Norman, who is still going strong at the time of writing this book, is a pitman painter from the northeast who captured the factory workers and miners, their heads lowered as they trudged to work. They probably had stoops a bit like my dad from being cramped in unnaturally small spaces underground. But there’s no mining here: people have their heads bowed because of the biting cold and probably a good old dose of Russian melancholy. Have you ever read a cheery Russian novel? I haven’t, but then again I’m not sure I’ve managed to finish one.
The rest of the crew go to bed but Peter, our indefatigable soundman, and I stay up and drink vodka for medicinal purposes. I take a sip and immediately choke – it’s like rocket fuel. An old boiler, wearing the dress she was buried in, bangs some cold sliced beef in gravy on the table. This is accompanied by cold peas and potatoes (all tinned), pickled fish and boiled eggs. Everything is cold – it reminds me of a trip to East Germany before the Wall came down. The vodka dulls our senses and anaesthetises our taste buds, and we are slowly able to ingest the food. We take another shot of the firewater and retire to bed. It is so cold I get under the covers fully clothed and watch my breath make steam. As I drift to sleep I decide not drinking vodka is more of a risk than drinking too much here. I vow to top up for the rest of the trip in order to keep out the chill.
In the morning the same woman, wearing that same sage-green dress, slams our breakfast down. It’s not much of an improvement on dinner. Today we’re heading for Eastern Siberia. The new director, Matt Richards, is an energetic, affable guy, full of ideas. Sadly Jamie is booked up with other work so can’t join the gang back on tour this time. I miss Jamie but am warming to Matt’s ideas on how he wants to expand on the humour side of the show. I smile at Peter and Craig Herd, back behind the camera, and say, ‘Yeah, Siberia’s going to be rich territory for gags. The land of hundreds of Soviet forced-labour camps, where millions perished under Stalin’s rule. There was a reason why he sent people to Siberia, you know?’
‘Why?’
‘Because there was no chance of them coming back. It’ll be a laugh a minute, this episode.’
Matt smiles. He remains upbeat and ever the optimist.
Khabarovsk Krai
On the plane to Khabarovsk, I have never seen such a bunch of glum people in my life. The pilot makes an announcement that sounds almost cheery: ‘There is a technical problem with the plane. I will keep you informed.’ Twenty minutes later he comes on the intercom again. This time he sounds like his dog has just been intentionally run over by the men who burgled his house and killed his wife: ‘The technical problem is now fixed so we can take off.’ The passengers’ faces fall further and as the engines start they go from glum to looking like members of a funeral cortège. We must be heading to a really bad place.
The atmosphere gets worse as we come in to land. The mood goes from funereal – the dipped heads of Norman Cornish paintings – to Edvard Munch’s The Scream. If I thought people in Moscow were miserable, the Khabarovskians are suffering from chronic depression. I am now seven time zones away from Moscow and 3,000 miles away from home. Even the gulags didn’t make it this far. Right now I would give my left testicle to be back in Britain, drinking a pint (of Sauv Blanc) in my local, standing by a warm fire and hearing laughter again.
On the way to meet the fixer, Isabella, the Khabarovsk landscape is barren, lonely and grey. The winter is brutal in the far east of Russia, and the temperature drops below –30 degrees. I look across the Amur River and it’s like the face of the moon: a rocky field of ice. Only the middle is still flowing. People pick their way across looking for a spot to dig a hole and perhaps, if they are lucky, find a fish.
We get out of the van. It is so cold that it almost burns. In spite of this, however, Isabella is dressed in a blue skirt, thin tights, flat summer shoes, a pink headscarf and a cardie, complete with a white handbag. She stands there shivering. I am not sure she’s built for the job. We introduce ourselves and quickly discover she also doesn’t speak a great deal of English. As a fixer you have to be a translator – it is part of the job spec. Matt looks panicked. It’s as if the real fixer has double-booked and his mum’s agreed to stand in. (‘Your fixing job is easy. I shall make you proud. Go to your other job, Josef.’ ‘But you don’t speak good English, Mother.’ ‘No, but I will learn. Nothing is as hard as Russian.’)
As I prepare to film a PTC dressed in full Arctic gear, five layers of thermals and Arctic boots, I glance over at Isabella, still shivering, looking like she’s just popped down to Tesco on a mild spring day. I smile. Maybe Matt is right about finding the humour on this trip.
. . . And action!
‘Khabarovsk sits at the edge of Russia, less than twenty miles from the Chinese border. It’s on one of the world’s longest rivers, the Amur – and apparently because of its spectacular beach and similar latitude to the French city – it’s known as the Nice of the Far East.’
Yes, it’s guinea-a-minute here. I look at the moon rocks. It’s not a beach, it’s more like a coastline, because it’s –20 and everything is frozen over. And it’s on the same latitude as Nice? So what! I’ve been to Nice and it’s nowt like this bloody place. I’ve spent many a day on the Beau Rivage Plage, in my Speedos, doing my Daniel Craig impression. If I did that here, my testicles would retract to my ears and you’d have to call me Susan. I don’t think the French Riviera is in trouble yet.
Nanai, Sikachi-Alyan
Isabella comes with us in the van to meet the Nanai tribe in our first filming sequence. The roads are treacherous with ice but that doesn’t seem to bother our driver, who is motoring along at an enthusiastic pace, talking all the while on his mobile phone. In fact he’s never off the damn thing. We begin to slow and turn off onto a beaten track leading into the forest. As we climb, the trees become denser and denser, and the snow gets deeper. At 1,000 metres up we hit a three-foot bank of snow. The fixer’s job, during the recce before the shoot, is to let the director know that they can get from A to B safely. But it is now obvious that Isabella has never fixed anything in her life. She encourages the driver to keep pushing through. He tries, revving the engine and putting the tyres in a spin, but w
e slip backwards. We are stuck deep in the forest, halfway up a hill, trying to explain to Isabella that there is no way we can make it through. She finally agrees and says, ‘Yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it?’
Not quite the response we are after.
‘What shall we do?’ says Matt.
‘I don’t know,’ says Isabella.
Matt takes charge. The driver is still glued to his bloody phone. We get his attention. In my mind, I imagine slapping the back of his head and throwing his phone out the window but instead Matt puts a firm hand on his shoulder and suggests he hangs up. The driver turns his head to look into Matt’s black, angry eyes. He cuts the call and starts to turn the van around. But we have no snow chains, no snow tyres, and we’re in a little minivan like a Bedford Cruiser, full to the gunnels; like the fixer, it just isn’t built for the job. The driver is ignoring our protestations. He will do things his way. He tries to go forward again, then back. It’s like Austin Powers in the snow. The engine whirs as he tries to get traction; he puts the steering wheel in full lock; he tries the same in reverse until smoke billows from the back. Finally he puts his hands in the air.
‘We are stuck,’ he declares in Russian.
Yeah, well done, mate, we told you that half an hour ago. We all look at Isabella for a solution. She looks back at us and starts to cry.
‘I worried we are in the middle of woods with much snow. My cat? How will she eat?’
She meows and mimes eating, to get the importance of her message across. We are all agog. From that moment on, it’s not about the show any more, it’s about her hungry ginger tom.
After an animated discussion it is decided that Isabella and the driver should remain with the van. We leave her to organise a 4×4 to pull the van out of the snow and solve her pussy problem. The debacle reminds me of a time when I had just set up Coastal Productions and we were filming Come Snow, Come Blow with Tim Healy and Rodney Bewes from The Likely Lads. The crew and I were on our way to a recce when I said to the driver, ‘Hang on, we’re going in the wrong direction.’ He said, ‘No, I am late for my trumpet lesson.’