Barbel Run

(This is one of a series of articles I wrote dealing with memories of an African childhood. To read the first of these, click here)

The rainstorm passed and the boy ran from the house, out into the new world, bright and sparkling now that the air had been washed clean of the dust of Africa. Colors seemed more vibrant and edges sharp and clear, everything rejoicing in the freshness and life brought by the rain. The sun, emerging from behind the retreating black and purple rainclouds, filled the world with light, reflected from countless raindrops caught by the grass and trees.

Past the swimming pool ran the boy, down to the pines that marched along the shallow depression beyond. Bursting through the trees, he followed the beaten track that led out into a grassy field, out into the open where the light rebounded and shone upon the short-cropped grass. But the boy ran on, not slowing his pace until he entered the shade of the eucalyptus forest that waited at the far edge of the field.

Walking now, he followed the track that meandered through the trees, enjoying the drip-drip of water drops from the leaves above, the last remnants of the storm that had passed. And still he continued, no set goal in mind, immersed in the freedom that was childhood.

When he emerged from the trees, the familiar vista of Pleasant Valley opened before him. To his left, a firebreak of cut grass led up to a crest where a road marked the southern boundary of the lands he regarded as his own. The firebreak continued to his right, ruler straight, down the steepening slope, eventually to reach the lowest point of the valley where another dirt road crossed the river. And ahead, beyond the railway line that ran north and south, lay the valley, masked by the tall grass immediately before him but bounded by the hills that formed the horizon, no longer hazy with heat and distance but magnified and clear in the rain-washed atmosphere. This was his world where he was free to explore and wander freely, without fences or habitation.

Most often he would cross the railway tracks and walk down to the river, a string of separate pools shaded by trees along the banks. But this day, on impulse maybe, he turned right and set off down the less traveled line of the firebreak. As he walked, the forest on his right ended and became a field of long grass that was replaced in its turn by open woodland. To his left, the railway rose upon an embankment as the land fell away towards the river. Here the gulch between the firebreak and rails, hidden from view by the grass, changed course to cross the boy's path. Usually it was dry, a crumbling cleft in the face of the land, but now it was filled with a wild stream, red with mud and tearing at its banks. The boy gathered himself and leaped across at the narrowest point.

Still he continued, drawn for no particular reason to the dirt road that marked the northern edge of his territory. After crossing the river, the road twisted and turned along the base of the hills, eventually to join the main road where it cut through the range to reach the city beyond. It was the crossing of the river that had begun to interest the boy.

He knew that the rain would have filled the river, joining the pools together to form one swift torrent, and he wanted to see the bridge as it justified its existence. It was a simple enough affair, merely a rock and earth dam across the river and containing three large diameter pipes to allow the water to get through. Normally these pipes were dry, the backed up water behind the dam not high enough to reach them. But now the level of the water must have risen to fill the pipes and the river would be alive again.

The boy reached the road and turned left to walk out on to the bridge. There was no parapet and he could stand right on the edge and look down to see the water being sucked into the circular openings below. The rain had been torrential and the river was much higher than he had expected so that only the tops of the pipes were visible. The bridge trembled slightly at the force of the water rushing through.

He turned and walked across to the downstream side of the bridge. Here the river was much lower and the water gushed from the pipes in powerful arches to smash down into the pool below. The air was filled with the roar of water and the smell of ozone, the bridge shivered as it strained to hold back the river, and the boy was lost in his contemplation of it all.

Suddenly a huge fish leaped from the pool to go thrashing into the mouth of one of the pipes. The boy caught a glimpse of a sleek back and fin as it was swept back down in an instant. Then another tried, and another, and the boy realized that were lots of these fish, all trying desperately to defeat the force of the onrushing water to swim upstream. He hurried to the far end of the bridge and descended to the pool below. Standing right by the edge, one hand on the bridge and the nearest pipe roaring forth close to his head, he watched.

Again a great fish burst from the pool and tried to enter the pipe and this time the boy saw what it was. A barbel, the large catfish that lurked in all these African rivers. But what were they doing, mimicking salmon with these great leaps into the rushing water? He had never heard that they migrate in this way.

The evidence was right there before him, however, as the fish tried again and again to make their way upstream. Hardly a moment went by when there was not at least one in mid-air. And then one came so close that, had he been quick enough, he could have reached out and grabbed it.

An idea came to him. If he had a net, he could hold it in the raging water and a barbel would fall into it. It would be easy. And he had a suitable net at home...

He turned and ran for home, back across the bridge, up the long slope of the firebreak, through the forest, and so to the house. A frantic search produced the net and he was gone again, racing down to the bridge to carry out his plan.

As he arrived, panting from his run, he saw immediately that he had missed his chance. Already the water level had dropped so that there was only a trickle issuing from the pipes. And the barbel had stopped jumping. For a long moment he stood crestfallen, the net forgotten in his hand, and dreamed of what might have been.

The boy was me, of course, and now that I think of it again, I consider myself lucky that I was not able to catch one of those barbel. They are huge fish, often over four feet in length, immensely strong, and extremely difficult to kill. They can survive for long periods out of water and are said to migrate overland when their chosen river dries up. African anglers keep a baseball bat by their sides when fishing for barbel and will bash it on the head when they land one. That's if they can hit the head with all its thrashing about, of course. A tough opponent for a fourteen-year-old boy, methinks...

I searched the net for a photo of one of these monsters but could find none. I did come across mention of its migratory habits, however, and apparently the annual barbel run is one of the sights to see if you're ever in the Okavango Swamps of Botswana. In desperation, I did a search for the barbel's rather larger relative, the vundu, and here at last I was successful. This photograph shows a small specimen, a mere 50 pounder. They can grow to 100 pounds, it seems. The barbel looks much the same and reaches nearly as great a size as the vundu in the photo.
Technorati tags: African Catfish; Barbel; Vundu.

(to read the next of the African Memories articles, click here)