capture. I’ve seen it on wels catfish caught from the Rio Ebro, where it is attributed to general ‘stress’ and wisely taken as a sign
that the fish has been out of the water long enough. I have likewise seen it on Thai giant whiprays that have been brought up from thirty feet down, although these fish, recognisable because of
their tags, are often recaptured, so clearly they recover. But goliath is a sight feeder of the surface layers and wouldn’t experience the same pressure drop on capture as a catfish or
stingray from the depths. Besides that, it has a closed swim bladder, which would give it an obviously ‘gassed up’ appearance if it had been brought from deep water – and the
buoyancy of this fish was okay.
I was mystified but, for want of any better idea, eased out into deeper water and held the fish near the bottom, where the water pressure would have been greater. But still its movements became
fainter. At this point I noticed some patches of discoloration on its head, like bruising. As a shoal of tiny fry gambolled around the dying beast, I concluded that, on one of its torpedo-like
runs, it must have swum into a rock. Until now I’d been having a running argument with Fred, who’d been insisting that I take the fish back to the village. Now I reluctantly conceded
that he would have his way.
At the village they were playing football on the sandbar behind our camp. But as I heaved the fish on to my shoulder, the game came to an abrupt end. In moments a cheerful mob, the chief at
their fore, surrounded me. Women held out their babies towards it and then withdrew them, giggling, for a reassuring cuddle, just as the open mouth was about to howl. The scene was incredible and
couldn’t be explained only by the fact that this fish would soon be a meal, a couple of pounds of meat per family. Everybody was reaching out to touch it – at first gentle pats, almost
affectionate, but then, after they’d taken it from me, heavy flat-handed blows. The reality about this fish, I now realised, is that despite the stories of mutilation and death, most people
here never see one. If they don’t regard it as a spirit, it is certainly a myth. They go to the river every day to wash, but their paths never cross; instead, it’s all about being in
the wrong place at the wrong time – or, in my case, the right time.
At that time, the féticheur ’s charm had been in my breast pocket. And whatever I think, I have no way of knowing what would or wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t
been there. All I know is that, now that I felt I had the fish’s measure, I wanted to be on the water again, trying for an even bigger one. But for the film we needed just one ‘big
enough’ fish. Now we had to catch up with all the other stuff: the crane shots and reconstructions and travelling shots and pieces-to-camera and general landscapes, all of which set the
visual scene for the story. So that was the end of my fishing – and probably the end of my Congo story.
But I still can’t help wondering just how much bigger these fish might grow. Most river giants, sadly, are much thinner on the ground than they used to be even a few decades ago. And with
much-reduced numbers, the chances of those exceptional, wondrous, extra-large individuals of the old fishermen’s tales dwindle away to nothing. So the reality, or otherwise, of these beasts
remains unknowable.
Sometime after our film was broadcast in the United States, I received an e-mail from a man who grew up in the Congo, the son of a missionary doctor. He told me about the head of a goliath that
he once saw in a fisherman’s canoe in the Lubi River in East Kasai province, where the fish is known as nsonga menu (‘pointed teeth’), which was also the nickname of a
tribe who at that time were still cannibals and had the custom of filing their front teeth into triangular fangs. The width at the gill plates of the fish he saw was ten inches – one and a
half
that the fish has been out of the water long enough. I have likewise seen it on Thai giant whiprays that have been brought up from thirty feet down, although these fish, recognisable because of
their tags, are often recaptured, so clearly they recover. But goliath is a sight feeder of the surface layers and wouldn’t experience the same pressure drop on capture as a catfish or
stingray from the depths. Besides that, it has a closed swim bladder, which would give it an obviously ‘gassed up’ appearance if it had been brought from deep water – and the
buoyancy of this fish was okay.
I was mystified but, for want of any better idea, eased out into deeper water and held the fish near the bottom, where the water pressure would have been greater. But still its movements became
fainter. At this point I noticed some patches of discoloration on its head, like bruising. As a shoal of tiny fry gambolled around the dying beast, I concluded that, on one of its torpedo-like
runs, it must have swum into a rock. Until now I’d been having a running argument with Fred, who’d been insisting that I take the fish back to the village. Now I reluctantly conceded
that he would have his way.
At the village they were playing football on the sandbar behind our camp. But as I heaved the fish on to my shoulder, the game came to an abrupt end. In moments a cheerful mob, the chief at
their fore, surrounded me. Women held out their babies towards it and then withdrew them, giggling, for a reassuring cuddle, just as the open mouth was about to howl. The scene was incredible and
couldn’t be explained only by the fact that this fish would soon be a meal, a couple of pounds of meat per family. Everybody was reaching out to touch it – at first gentle pats, almost
affectionate, but then, after they’d taken it from me, heavy flat-handed blows. The reality about this fish, I now realised, is that despite the stories of mutilation and death, most people
here never see one. If they don’t regard it as a spirit, it is certainly a myth. They go to the river every day to wash, but their paths never cross; instead, it’s all about being in
the wrong place at the wrong time – or, in my case, the right time.
At that time, the féticheur ’s charm had been in my breast pocket. And whatever I think, I have no way of knowing what would or wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t
been there. All I know is that, now that I felt I had the fish’s measure, I wanted to be on the water again, trying for an even bigger one. But for the film we needed just one ‘big
enough’ fish. Now we had to catch up with all the other stuff: the crane shots and reconstructions and travelling shots and pieces-to-camera and general landscapes, all of which set the
visual scene for the story. So that was the end of my fishing – and probably the end of my Congo story.
But I still can’t help wondering just how much bigger these fish might grow. Most river giants, sadly, are much thinner on the ground than they used to be even a few decades ago. And with
much-reduced numbers, the chances of those exceptional, wondrous, extra-large individuals of the old fishermen’s tales dwindle away to nothing. So the reality, or otherwise, of these beasts
remains unknowable.
Sometime after our film was broadcast in the United States, I received an e-mail from a man who grew up in the Congo, the son of a missionary doctor. He told me about the head of a goliath that
he once saw in a fisherman’s canoe in the Lubi River in East Kasai province, where the fish is known as nsonga menu (‘pointed teeth’), which was also the nickname of a
tribe who at that time were still cannibals and had the custom of filing their front teeth into triangular fangs. The width at the gill plates of the fish he saw was ten inches – one and a
half
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