Kens Published Fishing Article

[El Presidente]

Seiously....the day Ken is a fishing writer is the day I start writing about wine

I understand the following article has been published. Ken will fill you in when he gets back.

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Cuban Fishing

Central Australia, surely one of the most miserable places on earth. By the side of the road, turkey vultures are ripping apart the remains of a dead dog while scrawny chooks pick at rotting mangoes. The town is dominated by a massive, rusting, dilapidated factory spewing forth vile stinking pollution. Grinning kids ride ancient bicycles past billboards proclaiming the success of the Revolution and offering turgid quotes from Fidel. Down the road are some of the many elegantly simple headstones dotted throughout the region, a tribute to those who lost their lives defending their country from Americans.

This is Central Australia, a la Cuba, several hours southeast of Havana, and one of the few ugly places in one of the most beautiful countries on earth. Just why we should have been honoured by the naming of this particular village was a mystery we were never able to unravel. Theories ranged from a tribute to our sugar industry, an unlikely thing to offer a competitor, to the more plausible ‘thanks’ to a group of Aussie businessmen for contributing to a nearby children’s hospital. One local seemed to think it an example of the Cuban sense of humour.

Central Australia sits north of Playa Giron, a strange little village on the southern coast of Cuba, famous for two reasons. First, this is where the Bay of Pigs invasion took place, an event that still casts an enormous shadow over attitudes and actions in Cuba. A small yet typically detailed Cuban museum - “this shard of broken glass came from the spectacles of one of our famous freedom fighters” - is surrounded by some of the downed planes. For a few extra pesos, you can watch a short film on the event that would be considered too weird even for late night SBS.

The second reason to visit Playa Giron, and why five of us had traveled from Queensland, was that this was supposedly home to some of the greatest fishing on the planet. Like everything else about Cuba, it wasn’t that simple.

Traveling in Cuba is wonderful fun and immensely rewarding though often exceedingly frustrating. Expect more things to go wrong than right and then, as they say, go with the flow. Anyone arriving with a ‘do not go quietly into the night’ attitude should try elsewhere. Just sit back, open a beer and nudge things to a resolution. Although none of us had been to the island before, we were fortunate that our ‘team leader’ spoke fluent Spanish, a great help especially outside Havana.

Of course, not all problems are of Cuban making. At one stage, our ‘leader’ picked up a mystery disease and was fading dramatically, sapped of all energy. At times he could barely keep his eyes open, not helpful as he was also our navigator. The mystery was solved several days later when he discovered that the antibiotics that he had been shoveling down his throat, helped by large quantities of local rum, were in fact sleeping tables. Meanwhile, another of our group so mangled his only attempt to master Spanish that instead of thanking a group of hotel workers, he proudly announced he was a sodomist. True.

But none of that mattered now that we had arrived. Playa Giron is headquarters for fishing for giant tarpon, snook, blackbass, barracuda, permit and most legendary of all, bonefish. Apart from the museum, there is little else here except for the resort, a series of old concrete bungalows originally built for holidaying KGB hierarchy. It suggests that the Cubans held a very low opinion of their erstwhile benefactors. The resort had also been badly treated by the town’s other unwelcome guest, a massive hurricane that had destroyed much of the region.

It was here that we first encountered a very odd Cuban cult, the moustache worshippers. Although Cuba is overflowing with stunning women, a small number consider that the height of female beauty is a moustache and they can be seen preening theirs carefully and proudly. One with growth that would put Merv Hughes to shame took a shine to our leader and the rest of us watched in stitches as she’d chase him around the resort like something from Benny Hill.

We'd hadn't even settled in for our first drink (many Cuban resorts have an admirable policy of all drinks free) to plan our assault on the local fish and prepare our gear (bring your own - there is nothing available) when we met Manuel. Fawlty Towers fans will understand if I suggest he was aptly named. Wherever you go in Cuba, you will be approached by locals, called jineteros. They are keen to make a dollar from tourists anyway they can and will offer to take you around, sell you (inevitably fake) cigars or CD’s (usually blank), arrange girls (or guys) and so on. Most are quite delightful and harmless and can make good tour guides.

Manuel was the trumpet player in the local band, one of the best we encountered. He was also, according to himself, the most knowledgeable tour guide, fishing expert, entrepreneur and so on in all Cuba. In no time, we’d been offered everything from cigars to CDs. Assured of his peerless local knowledge, we hired M to take us to the best spots next day. He also promised to arrange our permits and guides, US$10 a day each. Meanwhile, we kept him in rum and beer.

We met next morning. By the time we reached the nearby lake, he advised us the government had increased permits to US$265 a head overnight. Everything went downhill. We couldn’t get the permits, even at that price, couldn’t find any spots, couldn’t hire a boat - you name it. The day ended up with lunch, a series of bars (at each one, musician friends of Manuel would miraculously appear to play for us, at a price of course), us driving Manuel around and delivering drinks to his friends and eventually finding a small but fishless piece of paradise to drown a fly for a while, while Manuel and his girlfriends drank our beer. It turned out to be M’s favourite swimming hole.

Day two would be different, Manuel promised that evening, as we listened to his band and watched the brilliant dancers, the equal of anything we found in Havana. Manuel would would pick us up at 6am to troll offshore for sierra, a local species of mackerel. At 3am at the local bar, we suggested to Manuel that if he was to make our appointment, perhaps it was time to grab some sleep. We’d watched the local girls pouring rum down his throat as though he’d just crawled out of a desert and was dying of thirst. No problem, he assured us. It was impossible for him to get drunk and he’d never failed to show before - which ranks up there with ‘the cigars are real’.

We dragged ourselves out for the 6am rendezvous. No sign of Manuel. Still missing at 7am. We searched the town. No evidence of M or his friends. Same at 8. Mid afternoon, Manuel finally emerged with a hangover to kill a crocodile, full of apologies. The day wasted, we tried our luck off the breakwall designed to help prevent further American transgressions on Cuban soil. Presumably, this would be achieved by invading troops breaking their legs on the crumbling ramparts. One of us accidently jagged a tiny, ugly, bulbous-eyed reef fish. This caused much mirth among the locals. It wasn’t going well.

Against my better judgement - we were running out of days - it was decided to give M one last chance. The US$265 permit being a little daunting (we were complete novices on our first serious flyfishing trip and no idea of what guides usually cost. So naive were we that our leader had bought all our gear at K-Mart for $70 for rod and reel – who knew what good gear cost, though we do now). We opted for sierra again. M was only three hours late this morning and met us with several friends. As what we were doing was highly illegal for them, they took us well out of town along a beach road around a headland to wait for the boats. An hour and a half later, we were beginning to wonder but then, around the headland, we spotted two dots on the horizon. Rowboats. We were expected to troll for mackerel in rowboats! It was another hour before one landed and we were taken, one by one, back through the surf to the other boat.

Needless to say, we caught nothing though there were a couple of hits and, as if to taunt us, one of the rowers had picked up two on his way. Nonetheless, a great way to spend a morning. The rowers were incredibly fit, hardly drawing breath through five hours of offshore rowing. One was a local doctor who found his monthly wage of US$20 a month insufficient to feed his family. So he fished most days, either for himself or taking out the occasional tourist.

Why rowboats? Quite simply, the government will not allow citizens any form of outboard or motorboat in case they decide that it should be used to assist them to relocate to Miami.

After finally ditching Manuel (not easy and rather sad as, despite his shortcomings, we’d come to like him), we decided that as tomorrow was to be our last day fishing and we had come so far to chase bonefish (macabi, as they are known locally) we’d bite the bullet and buy the permit. It took us the rest of the day to track down the small unmarked hut, some 120 kilometres away, that issued the permits. Very Cuban. We were given our slip of paper and told to be at the gates of Las Salinas at 6am next morning. It was a good hour or more from the resort and we were moving on at the end of the day so it was to be a very early start. We made it, despite all Cubans feeling an overwhelming sense of evening hospitality designed to make such things impossible. One of our number had earlier bought a local girl a drink, which was apparently considered a marriage proposal and he spent the last evening dodging her extended family, keen to meet their new son-in-law.

Las Salinas is one of the great wilderness areas of the world, a haven for birdwatchers with over 65 species migrating through there. Similarly, it is Mecca for fishermen. The saltwater flats extend for many hundred square kilometres and most of the fishing one does is in water less than a foot deep.

After entering the park, there is a 25 kilometre dead straight dirt road raised a foot or two above the water, which leads to a fishing base. Driving through the flats, which extend beyond the horizon on both sides of the road, with the incredible birdlife is an amazing experience. One prays that the Cubans realise just what an extraordinary natural treasure they have, though there is little evidence throughout the island that environmental issues are of much concern.

Once there, we were each allocated a guide with a plastic skiff and a pole. Where in the flats we went would depend on the type of fishing we did but the guides obviously thought that anyone not using fly wasn’t serious. Such timewasters were allocated lesser water. Within minutes of leaving base, you will not see another human until your return, many hours later. Here, three pounds is an average bone; five is very good and seven exceptional.

My guide was Lazaro and when he took the rod, he could send a fly out like a bullet. In comparison, I felt like a clumsy rhino trying to balance on a beachball while lobbing bricks. Despite that, within minutes of being on the water in this serenely beautiful place, I knew that the cost was irrelevant. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and any fish would be a bonus.

In the early morning, you can spot bonefish by their habit of tailing; sticking their nose into the sand looking for food, leaving their tails exposed. One has to be deadly accurate with the cast. Too close to a moving fish will spook it and too far will evoke no interest. One learns quickly. The guides warn you not to try for barracuda without wire traces but, fishermen being like little children, it is inevitable that you’ll succumb and toss a fly near one. There will be a quick splash and no fly.

After an hour or so of watching bones glide by came that unforgettable moment. My attention was taken by a small shark, about two feet long, nosing around one side of the skiff and a huge barracuda tracking bonefish on the other when Lazaro got very excited and indicated a small pack dead ahead. For once, the fly went where it was supposed to. A bonefish checked it out but nothing happened, except Lazaro got even more excited. Somehow, one expects a great sportsfish to burst onto the fly but they don’t. They pick it up and move on while you need to keep the line taut, wondering if they have taken it. Sometimes as much as eight seconds pass before the fish realises something is wrong. I was insisting Lazaro was wrong – the fish had not taken the fly when came the unimaginable explosion. They will strip up to 100 metres of line in a few seconds. Any attempt to slow them will cost you the fish and probably a finger or two as well. Needless to say, a $70 rod and reel comes sans drag. The slow process of reeling them back follows but beware for there is more to come. They can make five or six similar runs, though each a little shorter as they start to tire. If there are mangroves nearby, they will duck in and out and you’ll find yourself on foot, slogging through sandy mud and mossies trying to untangle the line, not snap your rod and keep the fish on. If there is a heaven, this has to be it.

It is all catch and release - they are inedible, the name is a clue. The fish arrive utterly exhausted and it is necessary to get them back in the water as quickly as possible. The Cubans swish them through the water several times to help revive them as they believe this will wipe the fish’s memory so you can catch it again.

My first was about five pounds and I was so excited that, after photos and as we were about to release it, I couldn’t help myself and gave it a big kiss, a la Rex Hunt. Clearly our Cuban friends are not familiar with his show as poor Lazaro got such a shock he almost fell in the water. After fishing with him now for a few years, he is used to it.

Over the rest of the day, I caught two more, one slightly bigger and the other about 3 pounds, and missed four or five. The other guys had varying stories but similar results; and similar silly grins. For anyone who enjoys fishing, there can be no greater or more rewarding experience than the bonefish of Las Salinas.

KBG

[traded]

Ok, I was intent on making fun, but this was very well written. Good work Kenny.

One funny typo though...

Hopefully your leader was not taking sleeping tables as you report but sleeping tablets. [5th paragraph, second to last line]

David

[coneatty]

Great Story! I felt like I was there.

[Colt45]

Wasn't this the story published in Crema Magazine back around '04?

I still have both Cuba Odyssey PDFs

[FlyFishingDude]

Very nice Ken, waiting for the pictures and the follow up. A 3lb bone will grenade a 70$ reel in a heart beat. Rob, don't sell yourself short, write about the vino and I would read it, honest...

[thechenman]

Nicely done KG...

[PigFish]

Too many capital letters and punctuation marks for Ken's work. It is a fraud I tell you! -LOL

-Piggy

[El Presidente]

A 3lb bone will grenade a 70$ reel in a heart beat.

This was our very first Over Seas Fly fishing adventure. We were still using our learning gear (didn't know better) and landing great Bones on $10 "Screaming Eagle" reels ....which had no drag at all

Our guides thought we were either very very good.....or clueless. They figured it out quickly