Authors: Robson Green
Between them, Sandra and Helen finally manage to get hold of Jamie and the team, now in their beds. The whole team is woken up and ordered to come and get me, immediately.
There isn’t an inch of me that isn’t wet and I’m starting to get cold. The lights are very close to the island now and I can hear men talking. The rain continues to pour down
and they are talking loudly over the sound of the waves as two men drag their boat ashore. I don’t move one single muscle and barely dare to breathe. They are just yards away from me and the
images of what they are going to do to me flood my brain like a virus-infected computer on its way out. In fact, later on I realise they were actually fishermen coming to shelter from the storm but
after discovering that stash of money all I could think of was cold-blooded killers.
Jamie and the team finally arrive around 3 a.m., half asleep. I’m cold, reeking of bevy and exhausted from being terrified. Jamie thinks the whole thing is hilarious and wants to do some
filming but I’m not in the mood.
‘Come on, Robson, it’ll be great material.’
I tell him where to go. He examines the cameras.
‘Are you sure you can’t just stay here until the morning, filming on your diary cam?’
‘Fuck you!’ I roar, throwing the bag of money at him and taking a swing for him. Jamie’s six-foot-two, I’m five-foot-nine, and punching high isn’t a good way to
box. I of course miss. AP Finlay McCray holds me back. Jamie is now furious, too, and also has to be restrained by Finlay. This adventure is now less
Robson Crusoe
and more
Lord of the
Flies
. I feel like Piggy, the kid with glasses that they bullied and ultimately killed.
On the boat I change into some dry clothes. I’m so wet my fingers are all wrinkled. I’m not Bear Grylls or Ray Mears, I’m Robson Green. I’ll leave those guys to fight the
wilds. As we bounce across the gentle waves, I can see there are hundreds of lights out at sea, like street lamps. They twinkle across the water. Each light is a fisherman who, night after night,
provides food for his village and family. They are proper fishermen, unlike me.
I have never been so pleased to see a bed in all my life. I luxuriate in it, hugging a soft pillow, and sleep soundly. In the morning, in spite of everything and all the hell
I’ve been put through, I wake up full of warm feelings of love towards my
Extreme
team. After all, they did come and rescue me in the end. Jamie has taken the money I found to the
local police and all order has been restored.
Before we head to Manila I decide to pop to the shop to load up with supplies for the long journey ahead, buying fruit, juice, sweets and loads of delicious things for the whole team to gorge
on. I walk outside, laden with food, and notice both of the production cars have gone.
That’s weird
, I think, looking this way and that. I wait around for a few minutes, imagining
they’ve gone for a quick toilet stop. Ten minutes later no one has returned, and this is when it dawns on me that they have fucked off without me and are on their way to Manila. I am really
upset, and what’s more I’ve got no signal on my phone. Fuck! It is twenty minutes before anyone notices I’m not in the car. Each group thinks I’ve gone with the other but
thankfully Peter Prada decides to double-check. He phones Jamie.
‘Is Robson with you?’
‘No, we thought he was with you,’ says Jamie.
Fuck!! Loud screech of brakes.
I’ll tell you what, I am devastated. I thought I was part of this great team and they didn’t even notice I wasn’t there – or maybe they did and left me on purpose? They
eventually turn up to get me and I peevishly give all the food I’ve bought to some random locals. Well, at least they appreciate the gesture and there’s no way these bastards are
getting a thing from me now. I sulk all the way to Manila. During the trip I turn to Jamie and say, ‘I thought we were like a rock band on tour.’
‘We are. But sometimes it gets crazy on the road and shit happens.’
He’s right, it certainly does.
February 2009, Series 2
It’s a twelve-hour flight to Thailand and, knowing that jet psychosis is waiting for me at Arrivals, I decide to follow a close friend’s advice and take two
sleeping tablets called Stay Knocked. They contain melatonin, the hormone in the brain believed to maintain a regular sleeping pattern – my friend assures me that I will sleep like a baby,
awake feeling refreshed and as if I’ve had a hot shower completely synced to Bangkok time.
I fall asleep all right; I stayed KO’d for the entire flight and am only able to shoot one piece on my diary camera as I’m coming into land. I feel like some deranged squatter has
laid waste to the delicate furniture of my mind; the sofa’s on fire, the coffee table’s broken and he’s nicked the telly. When we touch down, Jamie takes one look at me and
decides it’s best to shoot me in wide because a close-up and the effects of Stay Knocked may scare the children. Bangkok Airport is insane, hectic, nuts, crazy, bonkers, and I’m
watching it happen through bevelled glass.
We head out to film in the busy streets, avoiding tuk-tuks, elephants, women whose chest hair goes all the way down to their testicles, spider sellers, scorpion sellers and ladies who have
turned ping-pong into a whole new art form. It’s all here in this hot, sweaty and vibrant city of sin and serenity. This is the land of contrasts. No sooner am I shown to my room in the hotel
than my face hits the pillow and I dream I am swimming with a giant stingray, one of the chief quarries of this particular adventure. It flaps its wings like a rubbery raptor, so graceful in the
water. I am feeling relaxed and I touch the creature. It winks at me. I become aware that I’m not swimming alone – there is another man, an Australian. It’s Steve Irwin.
‘Hello, Steve,’ my voice echoes strangely underwater.
He smiles and waves at me. The stingray lifts its tail. Nooo! I sit bolt upright, gasping for air.
Market
Today I am feeling more human but my nightmare has left a residue of acrid fear. Why the hell do I want to hunt a giant freshwater stingray after one harpooned one of the
greatest wildlife presenters in the chest? What does the experience add to the show? Oh, yes, I forgot: it’s called
Extreme
Fishing
. Why on earth didn’t I
sign up for some gentle fly-fishing?
We hop in a tuk-tuk and go to the Bang Kapi market to meet contributor Eddy Mounce. Originally from Ipswich, he came to Thailand on a fishing trip six years ago and never caught the flight home.
He now works as a fishing guide for tourists from all over the world. Here we stock up on bait for our first fishing adventure. My deli counter at Tesco looks nothing like this: everything is
fresh, i.e. ALIVE! Fish flap, eels squirm, cockerels cock-a-doodle-doo, crabs scuttle, frogs jump – and one desperately tries to break out of a net bag, attempting to part a hole with its
strong green arms. It’s brutal; there are about twenty all piled together in the bag. I want to help them but it’s how things are done here.
I must admit the market is a full frontal assault on my Western sensibilities, however it also seems more real and truthful. Back home we are shielded from the suffering and visceral, bloody
destruction of the animals whose lives we take. Everything is stewed and neatly packaged in ready-meals or cling-wrapped with pretty pictures to mask the violent slaughter and butchery that befalls
the creatures. But I am very proud of the animal welfare standards we have in the UK. In my opinion, limiting suffering should be top of the list when harvesting fish or dispatching any animal.
Eddy interrupts my contemplation by shoving a bag of chopped-up mackerel in my arms, which we are going to use as bait. I then have to ask, in my best Thai, for several bags of cow’s
blood. The woman bends down and reaches under the counter, passing me one gallon at a time. I bung the two transparent bags of burgundy under each arm, pay the woman at the stall and wander off to
go fishing with Eddy. This place is as mad as a bag of frogs.
Lake IT
The city of Bangkok and all its madness is a world away from the simple life of many people who inhabit this beautiful country, where once again fishing is a lot more than
a hobby – it’s a way of life. The humidity smacks you in the face, you are battered by the relentless sun and you’re leaking from orifices you didn’t think you had.
Sixty miles south we head for a lake known as IT Lake Monsters, and it’s a world away from the madness of Bangkok. I’m pleased to be out of the oppressive city and in the
country-side, with open plains and tropical vegetation. We arrive at a man-made lake a bit like the ones we have back in the UK, only the weather’s nicer and this lake is stocked with some of
the most amazing predators from all over the world. Unlike Loch Ness, there are real monsters of the deep lurking under the surface.
Eddy introduces me to Alley Lungtong, the singing fisherman.
‘Sawadee-krup, Robson.’
‘Sawadee-krup, Alley.’
Alley tells me the lake is stocked with barramundi, tigerfish, alligator gar, redtail catfish and arapaima, and even though some are endangered species, parks like this help protect them, so I
can fish with a clear conscience. The arapaima is incredibly rare in the wild. In fact, you have more likelihood of catching an arapaima here than in South America, where it is from originally. I
am desperate to catch this great predator today. It hunts by scent so we are hoping it likes the cow’s blood. I chuck jam jars of blood across the lake, ‘chumming’ the water. Much
like fishing for shark, the blood will get into the arapaima’s nostrils and hopefully bring them towards our bait. I have only chummed for sharks before and never anything else.
It’s midday and the heat is overpowering, plus it’s 95 per cent humidity, but I don’t have time to complain because within thirty seconds I am in. Alley thinks it’s a
redtail catfish, but whatever it is it’s big, and the pull on the line and the heat are wearing me out. Just when I think I can’t reel anymore, the redtail catfish comes to the surface.
It is about thirty to forty pounds. Its red tail mixes into orange on its underbelly; a stunning creature. We put it back – the policy is catch-and-release here and the lake wouldn’t
stay stocked for long if it weren’t.
I ask Alley what he does while he waits for a bite.
‘I like sing-song.’
Perhaps he could be a replacement for Jerome
, I wonder to myself, although I’m still hoping to hear back from PSY. Imagine it: Geordie Gangnam Style.
Suddenly I feel a yank on the line.
‘We’re in.’
Straight away it’s off.
‘Oh, bugger.’
I teach Alley the correct British fishing phrases. ‘Oh, bugger,’ he says over and over.
But the wait isn’t long before we have another bite. It’s an alligator gar! I reel him in and hold him up to the camera. The alligator gar is an extraordinary-looking ray-finned fish
that has existed for 100 million years. He’s known as an alligator gar because of his crocodilian head and rows of sharp teeth. They can grow up to ten feet in length and are found in the
brackish waters of the southern United States, although this fella can survive for up to two hours out of water. No one needs to be in this heat for long so I pop him straight back. This mean-assed
predator’s got business to attend to in his lake. He’s the Godfather fish because he will eat anything and anyone, even turtles and wild-fowl.
As we continue to wait for the arapaima to make an appearance, Alley bursts into a rendition of a Thai favourite. I join in: ‘I love Thailand, I like Patpong. I like Thailand, I love
Patpong,’ we croon.
‘What’s Patpong, Alley?’
I quickly work out it’s the Bangkok ladies he loves. Patpong is the ‘entertainments’ district of the city.
‘OK, let’s end it there. It’s a family show and I’m not Wayne Rooney.’
With no hat on I’m beginning to feel the symptoms of sun-stroke. In this kind of heat your blood thickens and takes longer to circulate round the body. I try not to think about a syrupy
chum trying to force its way around my veins. I really should take an aspirin but there’s no time because I’m ‘in’ again and whatever’s on the end of my line feels
very different. As I begin to reel the fish in I can see it’s an arapaima (or pirarucu, as the species is known by the Amazonians), one of the largest freshwater fish in the world. I bring in
this dinosaur of the deep. Her tail is like an eel’s and she has distinctive red speckles on her body. I put her back into the lake, mission accomplished. I shake Alley’s hand and thank
him for a great day. It’s time to head back to the mayhem of Bangkok and not before time. I think my brain’s boiled.
After a quick shower and change of clothes at our very kitsch hotel, which looks as if it is made of sequins, and with all the female staff bowing every five seconds, saying
‘Sawadee-ka’, the crew and I head out to dinner. Assistant Producer Finlay has booked a table at one of Bangkok’s top restaurants and I’m looking forward to indulging in
some delicious Thai cuisine. But the restaurant’s not quite what I expected and the name is truly terrible: it’s called ‘Cabbages and Condoms’. I reluctantly enter.
The place is packed and there is a long queue for tables. We breeze past the line and a waiter with a johnny on his head (no lie) takes us to our table. He’s got it all the way over his
eyes and nose, only his mouth is uncovered, and it is inflated at the top.
It must be a femidom
, I find myself thinking. Oh, God – I really don’t want to consider this when
I’m about to eat. There is a tree made of condoms next to our table, and there are lights, chairs, tables and flower arrangements all made from brightly coloured willy sheaths. Apparently the
proprietors are concerned with raising awareness for sexual health and family planning. I’m really not sure if the message is getting through, or whether it’s even relevant to the
affluent middle-class patrons here, but the food is amazing. I’m not a fan of the doggy bags, though . . .