Although magic realism first attracted attention through its manifestation in South American writing, the Malayan rainforests in the colonial era, with their complicated political situation and boundaries, contained such surreal manifestations that the mystical became merely a part of everyday life. Even before encountering the external influences of magic realism, the observed world in this region was already bordering on hallucinatory: lions and lion-headed fish emerging from the wilderness, able to roam the hills and waters, representing the desires of this island’s inhabitants. When it comes to the plants of Nanyang, even the pitcher plant, a humble vine, eats meat for a living, able to capture its own insects or small rodents. And in the lakes and rivers of Southeast Asia, a species of fish is able to leap from the water to catch nearby frogs or small birds. When it rains, a fair few varieties of fish are able to walk on land. In Singapore, the most frequently seen are the common walking catfish and forest walking catfish, though it is the snakehead that is most famous.
The Merlion, the crocodile, and the snakehead: three aquatic creatures with aesthetic, literary and political associations. The Merlion is a totem of the island’s desire for multi-culturalism; the crocodile’s short-lived attack on a literal running dog of the imperialist forces is a fable of the backlash against colonial incursions; and the snakehead—a creature of the mining pools that are the geological scars of colonialism—being able to heal human wounds, might well represent a hallucinatory dream of Malayan political culture.
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When I was growing up in Malaya, we kept a snakehead in our well, probably of the aruan variety. My mother said the fish was in charge of keeping the water clean. It usually stayed submerged, not moving very much. It was only later, catching snakeheads in the lake, that I realised these were the most vicious fish.
We lived in quite a few towns in Perak: Tapah, Temoh, Tanjung Tualang, all close to the Kinta Valley, which held the largest tin deposits of anywhere in the world. In an era of heavy industry, especially before the 1960s, tin was in high demand from manufacturers of metal goods due to its rust-preventing properties, from battleships to household objects—perhaps as prevalent as nanotechnology today. The British colonial government used the most advanced technology, a mining method known as dredging, to excavate the tin ore—what the local Chinese called ‘tin rice’—buried deep within the earth’s surface. This machine was like a ship, and wherever it went in the jungle, it left behind lakes and sand dunes. After extracting and rinsing the ore, it spat the earth out by the side of the water. Meanwhile, Chinese business owners used more traditional, labour-intensive means of digging up the metal. Areas that had been mined became a series of lakes and ponds of varying sizes. In the anti-colonial period, the tin dredge became an ideal symbol of capitalism swallowing up the land, evidence that colonialism was a destructive force.
As time passed, the various bodies of water became surrounded by small groves of trees, including tropical fruit trees such as the guava and rambutan, turning into oases for young people. We loved to fish there, amongst wild grass and short trees, swimming when we grew tired of fishing. Because the holes were so deep, and fed by underground springs, the water was exceptionally clear. Floating in such a lake was an experience superior to being in the sea or a modern swimming pool. When we grew hungry, we’d climb a tree and pick wild fruit. Because mining districts need to be flushed by water, there were many rivers and streams around—all excellent places for fishing. It was here that I first discovered how vigorous the snakehead could be.
In the ponds or mining lakes, we’d often see snakeheads leaping from the surface of the water to eat smaller fish, and to attack dragonflies or even the frogs and insects clinging to lakeside plants. If one got caught on your hook, you’d feel it fighting back with tremendous energy, pulling at the bait and twisting in all directions. Later in life, whenever I heard of a life-and-death struggle, I’d visualise a snakehead fighting for survival. They were usually a foot or so long, their bodies grey-black with white markings, their heads resembling those of snakes, hence the name. These tropical freshwater fish also live in China. The variety imported by Taiwan and Thailand is known as Channa. There are many sub-species of these fish in Southeast Asia, the two most common known in Malay as toman and aruan. Perhaps because of their vigour, the Chinese believe that snakeheads have strengthening properties, and that eating their flesh after an operation will promote healing. The snakehead’s flesh is coarse, with an elastic texture when chewed. It’s very suitable for making fish-head bee hoon, fried ginger fish, fish hor fun or fish porridge, because it can be cooked for a long time without disintegrating. The Chinese also use it to make medicinal soups for nourishing the body, particularly to heal flesh wounds or post-internal surgery.
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Snakeheads possess a great life force. My other memory of them is that they would often go wandering on rainy days.
When we lived in the kampung, wet weather sometimes turned the dirt roads into rivers of mud. On such days, we’d sometimes see a fish in the slurry, using its long and powerful fins to drag itself slowly forward, on its way from one pond to another lake or river. I never understood how they knew where they were going. Did they know that the mud must be flowing towards a lake of some sort, or did they have some kind of internal map? Or perhaps they could detect the sound of water, the distant call of a flowing river. So from a young age, I knew that the snakehead was an animal that loved to travel.
In Singapore and Malaysia, as far back as I can remember, seafood markets have always displayed slab after slab of freshwater and saltwater fish, usually dead, with one exception: if you look down and see a tub or tank of water, it will definitely contain a black-brown specimen with glittering eyes, moving unceasingly through the narrow space. And if you reach in to catch it, the snakehead will suddenly demonstrate its special power, exploding like a rocket in your hands, splashing water in all directions.
My second encounter with the snakehead species came in my fifties. Dan Ying was ill and had a major operation, and many of our friends and family advised eating snakehead to help the wound heal. Every day to start with, and later every week, I went to the market, which had a stall that only sold live snakeheads. Just as I remembered, the stalls all around were piled with the bodies of dead fish. Only the fish I sought remained alive, eyes glistening as it swam in its bucket, fully alert. I’ve never been able to forget watching, as a child, the cruel ways in which fishmongers killed aruan: raising the fish high with both hands, bringing it crashing down on the hard cement; smashing its head with a great metal hammer—and even then its body continued thrashing. It must be this unstoppable life force that gave rise to its reputation for possessing healing properties.
The stallowner cut the flesh into slices, the pale red of pink rose petals, beautiful. I brought it home to stir-fry with ginger and onion, or make into soup. Sometimes I bought ready-made snakehead fish essence. After a month of this, we were both sick of the taste, and couldn’t bear to even look at it any more. Yet a year later, when I went with friends to eat fish-head bee hoon, I found it delicious once again.
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The flesh of the snakehead is believed to have recuperative properties and is a common tonic, effective for both men and women. In Southeast Asian Chinese households, it’s frequently made into soup and served as a regular dish. Popular foods, while available in high-class restaurants, will naturally be found in the kitchens of ordinary people as well. Snakehead is not expensive, and can be stewed simply with watercress. Every housewife knows how to make snakehead soups like this one:
1. Scale and clean the snakehead, wash and shake dry. Season with a little salt.
2. Place in hot oil and fry till pale yellow. Store in a sealed bag until ready to use.
3. Wash lean pork, boil for five minutes, rinse in water.
4. Soak watercress, candied dates and tangerine peel until soft.
5. Boil all of the above in a sufficient quanti
ty of water.
All the cookbooks I’ve seen also emphasise the healthful aspects of this recipe:
“Shengyu meat is extremely nutritious. An adaptable fish, it can survive in muddy or poorly oxygenated water, and even out of water for short periods of time. It’s a vigorous, vicious creature. Its taste is sweet and cold, with meat consisting of protein, fat, minerals, and vitamin B2. In addition, the muscle around its tail is rich in proline and other free amino acids; it is beneficial to the spleen, can reduce water retention and swelling, and promotes tissue growth. (But patients should not consume too much immediately after surgery, to prevent flesh granulation.)”
The snakehead’s healing properties have become the stuff of legend—even superstition. A Malaysian medicine company called Lenfa.com.my Limited has produced many varieties of snakehead essence. This is how they explain its efficacy:
“This product uses a ginseng infusion imported from America which promotes saliva and reduces heat, increases alertness, clears heatiness and alcohol, and builds up the spleen and intestines. Another ingredient is cordyceps produced in China, which prevents coughs and phlegm, and strengthens the body and back. Finally, this product contains a type of fish that is found deep in freshwater; it is full of energy, ferocious by nature, and its body full of high-quality protein, amino acids, and various vitamins. This is the snakehead (also known as the turtle fish), rendered with the most recent scientific techniques. This medicine has no unpleasant smell, and tastes good. It acts as a tonic for your blood, reduces muscle swelling, strengthens the body’s immune system, and is effective against unbalanced health after illness, shortness of breath, night sweats, bodily deficiencies, weakness after giving birth, exhaustion, insomnia and swollen eyes. This is a mild medication that will heal without unbalancing the body, suitable for old and young in all seasons. An affordable, high-quality tonic.”
In the past, we’ve placed too much emphasis on the healing properties of this fish and neglected how delicious it is simply to eat. Yap Yin Restaurant, located to the south of Kuala Lumpur, is known for its snakehead dishes. Here is an introduction from a website:
“In Sri Kembangan New Village, one restaurant’s chef has captured the exquisite taste of snakehead. Yap Yin Bak Kut Teh Restaurant offers more than just bak kut teh; steamed fish is also one of their specialities, receiving the stamp of approval from gourmands near and far. No one who’s sampled this dish could fail to give it the thumbs up. The restaurant owner, Mr Yap, explains that the aruan fish he serves are all freshly steamed, and cut into slices—preserving the head and tail so customers can see the entire body, which few restaurants bother doing. He says when using this cooking method, it’s important to ensure the slices are identically thick, otherwise they will cook unevenly. Light steaming is all that is required to bring out the natural delicious taste of the flesh. Adding strong seasoning such as tom yam or curry is unnecessary, and may detract from the fish’s own flavour. According to Mr Yap, when customers come to eat, they’ll always make sure to order an aruan dish, the ten most popular flavours being chicken essence, medicinal herbs, ginger and lotus, dried chillies, ginger and onion, bitter gourd, yellow wine, pepper and salt, salted egg and Kam Heong. The recent addition of aruan hot-pot is also quickly becoming a favourite, consisting of a thick stock made from fish bones and other seasonings, into which aruan slices are quickly dipped, then mixed with bee hoon for a simple, tasty dish.”
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In July 2002, the snakehead, so familiar from my childhood, suddenly became international news several days in a row. Pictures of these fish appeared in the papers and other media. It was like seeing an old friend in the headlines. Every day I opened the newspaper with excitement and cut out these articles.
On 23 July, the US Department of State announced a ban on imports of snakehead fish from Asia, on the grounds that they were destroying the American environment. The picture painted by the piece was of a creature with razor-like teeth that could stride across the land, surviving up to three days without water, attacking any humans it came across, eating small animals in its path. It was like something out of a horror movie.
Not only did the Americans intend to prevent more of these fish from entering their country, they wanted to use any means possible to eliminate the existing ones, as if the fish were a new breed of terrorist. Maryland’s Department of Natural Resources, which was also in charge of the state’s fisheries, produced posters with the heading ‘Have You Seen This Fish?’, like a wanted notice, with an exhortation to kill any snakeheads sighted before reporting them to the authorities. The decision to treat snakeheads as enemy monsters was reached by a committee of 12 scientists. Much earlier on, Taiwan had imported this species from Southeast Asia, and probably because they could follow the rain and move their dwelling place, soon populated every pond. As a result, Taiwan, afraid that this vicious fish would threaten the existence of native species, also put out a similar warning in an attempt to eliminate the outsider. All of this has been recorded in Eric Jay Dolin’s Snakehead: A Fish Out of Water.
According to newspaper reports, the fish were first spotted in the lake of a small town near Washington DC. Someone had brought a couple over from Hong Kong, destined for soup for an ailing sister—but the sister recovered, and the Hong Kongers released the fish into a nearby pond. Analysis showed they were from the north of China. Snakeheads now lived in the lakes of six states, proliferating in Florida and Hawaii. From 1997 to 2000, 17,000 snakeheads had entered the United States, becoming an increasingly popular source of food.
When the news reached Singapore, us Southeast Asians reacted with shock at America’s Orientalist attitude. The Straits Times hurriedly interviewed local breeders, who said they interacted with snakeheads every day, and could see that the American reports were wild exaggerations. The Americans’ neo-colonial mindset was revealed through a little fish, and the myths they’d created around it. However strong the snakehead’s life force, there’s no way it can survive on land for three days—a few hours at the most. It isn’t capable of walking, only crawling slowly through mud, just as I’d witnessed as a child. And it may eat smaller fish, frogs or even birds that perch on water plants, but couldn’t conceivably attack a human being. When caught, the snakehead will struggle mightily, perhaps even hurting its captor with its hard head, but the injury isn’t likely to be serious. To describe it as a demon capable of destroying an entire natural environment is nothing but the paranoia of a people terrified of China, and fearful of Asia. Pure Orientalist thinking.
I am nostalgic for the snakehead, that native of Asia, especially the ones that swam in the rivers and lakes of Southeast Asia. No wonder The Straits Times printed a series of special reports after the slander perpetuated by America, loudly proclaiming they had wronged our fish. Singaporeans consume 1,300 tonnes of snakehead every year, spending between three and four million dollars. Apart from our locally reared fish, we also import snakehead from Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia. These fish are more than just a food source; we hold them dear to our hearts. This fish is an intimate part of our lives.
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In tropical Southeast Asia, humans have intimate links to the natural resources around us—fish, plants and fruits. They grow around our houses, don’t threaten our lives, and provide basic sustenance. Here, where there is no winter, it was possible to live well, back when we were closer to nature, simply by relying on fish from the lakes and seas, and wild fruit and vegetables foraged from our surroundings. Therefore the material and spiritual lives of people, plants and animals in the tropics are closely intertwined. Truths and legends about health abound. For instance, eating durians is said to make men more virile and women more fertile, while the aruan aids post-surgery healing, roadside wild mushrooms are good to eat, and wild grasses often make cooling tea when brewed.
As the region contains many religions and ethnicities, food can often be a minefield due to the numerous dietary restrictions imposed by various
belief systems. Muslims are forbidden to eat pork, neither Hindus nor Chinese Buddhists can eat beef, chicken is common but under Islam must be slaughtered in a prescribed way—thus fish has emerged as the only form of animal meat acceptable to every group. In Malaysia and Singapore, early Nyonya or Peranakan cuisine, a fusion of Chinese and Malay cuisine, features dishes such as curry fish head, sambal fish, and assam fish. Peranakans combine two worlds, speaking Malay with Hokkien inflections, their clothing Malay but their customs and way of thinking Chinese. The incoming foreign culture, in combining with the native one, required this fish with no religion, a gift of the natural world.
Today this dual-culture system has become multi-cultural. Looking at the foods devised locally, from yusheng and Hainanese chicken rice to Nyonya kueh, their preparation methods put one in mind of the construction of local Chinese literature, in that both face a particular challenge: whether a type of food or a literary work, the creation must contain a local flavour, whilst incorporating the original traditions of China.
Durians Are Not the Only Fruit Page 7