Gone Fishin'

Neither of us can believe that we've now been here for 16 months, which means that certain things have been coming around for the second time. Like the lovely aroma when the first storms of the 'little' rainy season give the Suej Canal a good old stirring up. Phnom Penh's seasons are simple:

January - February. The dry season. Characterised by dryness (most of the time) and heat.

March - May. The hot season. Increasing heat. Then more heat, with high humidity and occasional storms.

June - July. The little wet season. Slightly less heat (making it just very hot) and more frequent storms.

August. The little dry season. Sometimes hard to spot, but for a couple of weeks the storms become rarer or even stop. But the temperature goes back up.

September - November. The wet season. Does exactly what it says on the tin: i.e. p****s down. Normally in the form of torrential storms that typically come once or twice a day and last 2 - 3 hours. Pretty much every day, especially when you have to go out. This offers interesting opportunities for underwater cycling. It also cools down so much that it can sometimes take almost an hour for you to dry out while sitting in a bar after a complete through-to-the-skin soaking. In other words, still b****y hot.

November - December. The cool season. Lower temperatures, dry days and cooling winds make this season ideal for barangs looking for somewhere really hot for a holiday. In comparison to the other 44-odd weeks of the year, though: woohoo! However, the wind is always blowing against you on your bicycle no matter what direction you're going in, so the extra effort makes you just as hot as you were before.

But for the people of Cambodia, the main effect of the seasons is on the rivers. The rainy season comes at different times along the length of the Mekong but, basically, the flooding typically starts to reach Cambodia in mid June and runs through until late November. On or about 1 July, the level becomes so high that the Tonle Sap starts to flow back uphill into the Great Lake. This starts the breeding season for the fish and so it's time once more for

National Fish Day!
(Perry's Tale Part 2)

This time, forewarned was forearmed. Once again, there were the crowds. Once again, there were the VIPs. This year, though, the band was missing. Mind you, the event was held in Kep province, close to the sea. Perhaps someone had recognised the risk of all that low-frequency vibration causing a tsunami.

Interestingly, the location was by a large man-made reservoir that filled much of what had been a Japanese airfield during World War II. For the historians, this was the airfield that helped make the invasion of Malaya and the defeat at Singapore possible, after the French kindly let the Japanese use Cambodia (just nicely in range of the Malay peninsular) by surrendering in March 1941, about 8 months before the war actually started.

However, today's invasion was by the Prime Minister and his entourage, together with the 10,000-odd Cambodian people who had come along to witness his first visit to the province since 2003. They came by bicycle, bullock cart, moped and truck. He came by helicopter.

Once again, I had a front row seat, only about 5 places away from the PM. The ceremony was much like last year, but it ended up with him showing just what a shrewd and capable political operator he is. Many of the people of Kep province had written personally to him asking for new school buildings, hospital facilities, roads, etc. The sort of things that it's any government's job to provide. He read out a number of these letters. At the end of each one, there was a pause, followed by the phrase (rather splendidly delivered, I have to admit): "Chuon tam samnour" (fulfill the request). He would then turn to the VIP cage where, on one side, were our hero and some of the other supporters of the fisheries and, on the other, were just about every cabinet minister and most of the senior figures in the CPP. Looking at the party section, he would announce a name, make them stand up, and announce that they were going to pay for this school/clinic/road. The crowd loved it.

Then it was time to release the fish. The PM led the process, with a number of the cabinet ministers and a few selected barang guests, who were shepherded to the front of the line. Including yours truly. Here's the PM releasing the fish.

As you can see, there are a lot of fish in the tank. But he did have first go, so it made it easy to fill the net. There were even still quite a few in there by my turn. However, I think my cry of "I shall weleathe Wodewick" may only have confused people. What kind of fish is a Wodewick? It's certainly not one of these that I managed to scoop up in my net. Luckily, the PM didn't ask me what I meant when he came over to shake my hand afterwards.

And here's one we made earlier. This is what they grow into, waiting in a tank at a restaurant we ate at recently while on a field trip to a fish hatchery (of which more anon). It's called a Clown Featherback and is very tasty.

The fish in the Mekong and the Gulf of Thailand have some absolutely fabulous names; here are just a few examples:

Siamese Flying Fox. It's not a fox and it doesn't fly. It's not even a bat. Perhaps surprisingly, it's no relation to a Siamese cat, either, apparently.

Mekong Honeysucker. Unless they have underwater bees here, I'm not sure how this one got its name.

Bumblebee Catfish. OK, that's that one cleared up then.

Bighead Walking Catfish. Well, you'd be big headed if you were a fish that could walk.

Sicklefin Weasel Shark. 'Nuff said (Kate).

Not just a bizarre item on the Indian restaurant menu but apparently a real fish after all: Bombay Duck. Not a duck, of course, and not from India either. Obviously.

For the Harry Potter fans: Bludger.

For the Darby and Joan members: Common Silverbiddy. Or, for dance night: Painted Sweetlips. And later, Tumid Venus. We'll not dwell on that one.

For those who remember Fatima Whitbread: Javelin Grunter.

For the horse fanciers: Splendid Pony. Yes, it's a fish. Don't try to back it in a race.

Blackeye Thicklip. Perhaps that's what happens to Siamese Fighting Fish that lose. Or maybe they walked into the Propellor Ark. At the front of a flying fish, perhaps?

And to conclude: Belcher's Oyster. Well don't eat so many then!

Of course, that's not what the Cambodians call them. They give them names like 'Trei Riel" (silver fish) or "Trei Changwa Plieng" (rain puddle fish). Probably more accurate. But the main point is that you can eat just about all of them, and they do. But first you have to catch them!

On the main river, where the current flows very fast, the main option is by small boat, as above. Sometimes a number of boats will work together. As you can see, it's a pretty labour-intensive undertaking.

But on the lakes, in the tributaries and in the areas of flooding, much bigger platforms are used. From head on, they look like something out of a science fiction movie. H. G. Wells' Martians fallen on hard times (alright, and with an extra leg).

The pictures below show how it works: the net is attached to the 4 bamboo arms and is raised and lowered by a hand winch situated next to the cabin (or, this being water in Cambodia, perhaps 'shed' would be a more accurate description. And the family do live in there)

The reward for all this can often be small. This is the outcome of a morning's fishing on one particular platform that I visited. They did tell me that things were normally rather better, though.

However, for larger scale operations, you need teamwork to exploit the current.

There are much bigger barriers than this, made out of bamboo, but they're only allowed at certain times of the year in order to make sure they don't deplete the breeding stocks. I haven't been to visit one of those yet, so no picture.

Of course, there is an alternative to catching fish: growing them. The capacity of the natural rivers and lakes is limited, so aquaculture (fish farming) is without question the most important way of increasing the production of fish in line with demand over the longer term.

But Cambodia has got a very long way to go. Aquaculture production in Vietnam is well over 1.2 million tonnes per year. Thailand is about the same. For Cambodia, it's less than 50 thousand. That's less than one twentieth of what Cambodia's neighbours manage, despite Cambodia's need for food security being so much more intense. There are many reasons for this: the recent history of the country, the historical abundance of wild fish (far more than either Thailand or Vietnam) and, last but certainly not least, the need for investment in infrastructure and operations that is required. But Cambodia has no choice: it must grow its aquaculture. The target we have set (based on the demand projections I made last year) is 15% cumulative growth per annum.

So how do we achieve this? Ladies and gentlemen, your correspondent now presents "Janet and John do Aquaculture" or "See Spot Farm Fish." Pay attention: there will be a test at the end.

To start off with, you need fish eggs (we won't get into the whole 'what came first...' bit just yet). These are the little white blobs shown by the arrows in the picture below, which is followed by a picture of one of the tanks in which they are hatched.

Once the eggs are hatched, the baby fish (known as fingerlings) are moved into ponds where they are fed until they reach a size where they can be sold on to other farmers. One hatchery like this can provide fingerlings for a great many farmers.

Of course, to get the eggs, you need adult fish. These are kept in ponds like this one.

I took these four pictures at a private hatchery I recently visited. The farmer had received a $500 loan to set up the enterprise and had already paid this back within 3 years. He now had a thriving business that not only provided him and his family with a good income but also stopped the other local fish farmers from having to buy in fingerlings from Vietnam, so there's an economic benefit as well.

On the other hand, there are large, government-run hatcheries too. Here are a couple of pictures of one I also visited.

In contrast to the private hatchery, which only had two tanks but which were beautifully maintained and in full use, the government institution had loads of huge tanks that weren't being used at all. Except for one that was full of frogs. You can also do an above and below comparison of the associated ponds. The government hatchery had cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to produce. Output from the private one: 700,000 fingerlings last year. Output from the government one: less than 50,000.

So why the difference? A number of reasons, probably. Ownership, entrepreneurism, and empowerment are just three that spring to mind as likely candidates. But I did find out one interesting item at a meeting recently. One of the government hatcheries was recently completely refurbished at a cost (again) of several hundreds of thousands of dollars (kindly donated by Japan). Quite apart from the fact that I can't see how anything in this country can cost that much to build (but then, you've got to make the money to pay for all those schools, roads and hospitals somehow), there was one small fault in the process. No-one thought to include any funding provision for brood stock (the mummies and daddies of all the little baby eggs).

Consequently, when the hatchery was finished, it had no money to buy any fish. This only came out when questions were asked about why the government hatcheries hadn't met their production targets for last year. I held my tongue: the Director General was mad enough for both of us. What came first should have been a b****y plan!

Of course, nothing like that would ever happen in our own country, would it? Noooo.....

But once you have got your fingerlings, all you need are a pond or a cage (in the river) to fatten them up until they're ready to be harvested. It seems that many of the local species will thrive just about anywhere: what looks like a muddy hole below was actually teeming with catfish and carp.

So, to work towards the growth targets, our main interventions will be associated with training small-scale farmers and helping them to dig (and maintain) their ponds. If need be, the majority of the supply of fingerlings will have to keep coming from abroad for the time being. It all shows the need for having clear goals and joined-up plans and, despite the hatchery situation, we have actually made some great strides in this direction over the past year. We now have a much better idea of what we need to do, why we need to do it, and how we will go about it. But Rome won't be built in a day.

To fund our programme, we're almost totally reliant on money provided by donor governments, who get my vote of thanks. There are some issues, however. Some governments seem more interested in getting political brownie points at home rather than actually helping improve the lot of people in Cambodia, so would rather fund headlines than real change. Others will lend money, provided that most of it is spent on services bought from their own technical experts. This is called Tied Aid and is not only a pretty shabby way of helping a poor country but is also not allowed under EU law. This, however, hasn't stopped one EU member nation from proposing this very recently (no, not France, since you ask).

Others seem to be looking for a longer-term return: it appears that Her Majesty's Government may have at least a partial view that aid should be focused where it can help develop a market that the UK can trade with. After a number of years providing, among other things, crucial support to the fisheries sector here, DfID will cease providing support to Cambodia in 2011. I can't resist it: so long, DfID, and thanks for all the fish.

On the other hand, without the international community, we would be going nowhere. So all and any support is, from my perspective, gratefully received. In particular, my own special thanks go to Denmark, who really are key to making our fisheries programme possible.

To close, here are some more pictures (and a clip) of people fishing. It's the only time I've seen anyone using a rod but the people wading into the water to make their living are something you see here every day. Many of them are desperately poor but I really do believe that what we are trying to do now will help to make a difference to their lives in the future. It also feels a lot better on a personal level than helping to enrich Wall Street.

OK, I lied about the test.

VSO is a leading development charity with almost 1,500 skilled professionals currently working in over 34 countries. VSO's unique approach to international development is founded on volunteers, working together and with local communities to fight poverty and achieve lasting change. If you want to learn more about VSO, please visit www.vso.org.uk

A Certain Sinking Feeling...

We did a post a while back about road transport here; now it's time to take to the water. Until a few years ago, the only way to get between many of the towns was by boat and a lot of the general traffic still goes this way. There are also still passenger ferries that run up and down the Mekong and the Tonle Sap but nowadays they're not too frequent. Or too new. This picture was taken at Kampong Cham of one getting a few running repairs.

Always fills you full of confidence, watching them do repairs right on the waterline with apparently nothing more than cigarette butts and a hammer. I had hoped to show a picture of an even older one that had been beached on the bank but unfortunately it got washed away by a flood.

Not all of the vessels look so decrepit. The one below looked gorgeous, with its wood gleaming gold in the sun and reflecting in the blue of the river. You can actually tell the season by the colour of the water of the Mekong: in the dry season, it's blue and in the rainy season it's rich brown from all the run-off (you can see the difference in the photos). But it's always incredibly powerful; the currents can run at anything up to 10 km/hr (or even more at the peak of the wet season).

Many of the boats on the river, however, look like nothing quite so much as animated garden sheds.

Or, in this particular case, a garden shed that's come off its wheels (look on the foredeck...).

Wood does, of course, have one advantage when it comes to boat building: it floats. Metal, on the other hand, doesn't. Not sure that message has entirely got through yet.

Spot the waterline. When I first saw boats loaded like this I thought it amazing that they didn't sink. However, that was before talking to one of my colleagues about it. Apparently they do. Quite often, surprisingly. Or not, depending on your understanding of Archimedes' Principle and your use of the word surprising.

Below is a 'before' picture: as in, before they load it. Quite possibly with all of the scaffolding you can see. And all the other building materials. The most interesting thing about this picture is that the scaffolding is made of metal. Normally, there seems to be no limit to what you can do with bamboo and twine.

Balance is another interesting new-fangled concept that seems to be a bit slow catching on in some places. And it's not even loaded with anything much yet...

Staying with high-tech, in a previous existence, one of my pet hates was when your flight lands on time and then spends about an hour on the tarmac waiting for the gate to be freed up because the aircraft on it has been delayed by yet another French/Spanish/Greek air traffic controllers' strike. This is the Cambodian equivalent: waiting for the other ferry to get clearance to push back from the muddy bank. Still, at least there won't be any unnecessary delays waiting for them to raise the bow ramp: they never bother to do that anyway.

And while we're on about airports, here's the local equivalent of long-term parking. On the other hand, see? Wood floats!

A fact not lost on the owners of the boat below.

Many Cambodians spend much of their lives on the water and they use boats much as others use cars. Here are some examples of typical Mekong river run-abouts.

The standard family vehicle.

The top-of-the-range family vehicle.

The local delivery van.

The level crossing.

The Number 51 bus.

And on this bus - a new version of the old college trick of seeing how many people you can get in a phone box. But using a leaky boat on one of the world's most powerful rivers. And, in this case, barangs (about 30 VSO livelihoods programme volunteers split between the two boats), who typically weigh about one and a half times more than Cambodians. Still, at least they don't normally carry any unnecessary weight like life jackets. In this case, though, as it was an official fact-finding field trip to one of the Mekong islands, they did. They made quite good cushions, as a matter of fact.

Actually, I'm forced to admit that the complete absence of the Health & Safety Nazis is one of the reasons I love Cambodia. The water is their home and they just get on with things.

VSO is a leading development charity with almost 1,500 skilled professionals currently working in over 34 countries. VSO's unique approach to international development is founded on volunteers, working together and with local communities to fight poverty and achieve lasting change. If you want to learn more about VSO, please visit www.vso.org.uk