Enjoy it without me!

A little while back, I was accosted in the hall by one of the tiny office staff. “Dave!” she said, “Will you be enjoying fishing on Monday?” This is a typically Chinese construction (at least, it is around here; everyone sounds like they read books with titles like Greater Motivation Through Your Vocabulary Choices), and the obvious answer, of course, is “Yes.”

Apparently, the last time I went fishing I was four years old. I say “apparently” because I have no memories of the event (doubtless I repressed the horrific experience of killing and disemboweling a helpless ichthyoid), but I have seen incriminating photographs. I figured that the worst that would happen was that I’d have lots of time to read my book and practice my Chinese, so I stowed the necessary reading material in Charlie’s bag and headed out. I was particularly looking forward to getting out into the great green beyond (there is precious little of this in Zhoupu, which sometimes appears to be shooting for “Most Post-Apocalyptic Town of the Year” award). I knew we’d be doing this because Victoria had messaged us telling us to bring some food for lunch. We would be fishing “in a wild place where there is no restaurant.” Great! Less concrete = better.

We clambered onto a bus, plus Wang Xin (our adminstrator) and Victoria (a secretary and friend of ours) and took off down the Zhoupu side streets. After a stop to purchase some fishing gear, our bus stopped in front of an apartment building, and our guide stood up. “Now let’s enjoy fishing!” Wang Xin said brightly, gesturing toward the bus door. I peered out the window. Apartments to the left. Stores behind us. Peach orchards to our right. Buildings everywhere. Somehow, my Western-Canadian trained mind had envisioned “wild place” as involving more wilderness and less . . . humanity.

My sense of doubt increased when we walked through another block of apartments and rounded a garlic field. A tiny canal stretched listlessly in front of us, complete with algae-covered light bulbs bobbing against the shore. Surely not, I thought. “Here we are!” exclaimed Wang Xin. A dead fish looked mockingly up at me from the bank. A feeling that was not quite encouragement washed over me.

Once I got over my initial disappointment, however, it really wasn’t bad. There was a nice grove of bamboo overhanging the far bank which provided great amusement, as Charlie immediately and inextricably entangled his line in a bamboo shoot while attempting to cast into the shade. His gyrations, and the Chinese guide’s accompanying shouts of dismay, provided all the hilarity I could have asked for.

I have heard otherwise intelligent and deep-thinking men extol the virtues of fishing. It promotes introspection, they say. It puts you in touch with creation. It’s relaxing. It’s the thinking man’s sport. Baloney, I say. There’s nothing I did while I was fishing that I couldn’t have done lying in my bed in my air-conditioned apartment, except get a sunburn. I cannot imagine an activity more boring.

“What about catching fish?” I hear you cry in protest. Yeah, you tell me, punk. What about catching fish? I wouldn’t know, as I certainly didn’t catch any. My method consisted of baiting the hook with some kind of cornmeal mixture, putting the line in the water, waiting fifteen minutes, pulling my line out of the water, and looking at my now-empty hook. I would sometimes spice up this routine by looking across the canal at the Chinese dude, not one hundred feet away, and watching him reel another one in. It was disgusting.

From now on, I’m sticking to tuna sandwiches. The lousy fish can stay where they are.