Authors: Robson Green
Mekong Catfish
The next day I’m back with Eddy again. We’re heading forty minutes outside of Bangkok to Bungsamran Lake, which in Thai mean ‘Luxury Lake’.
It’s a twenty-acre stock lake containing over fifty species. We’re after the Mekong catfish, another enormous freshwater fish, so it should be a good rehearsal for the giant stingray.
My heart races and I go weak at the knees when I consider this quarry. Thankfully it’s still a few days away.
We put big balls of hard-packed rice husks above a hook and throw them out a good thirty-five yards. It’s a bit like casting a tennis ball. The Mekong catfish is sadly facing extinction in
its eponymous river, so fishing is tightly controlled. They are threatened partly through overfishing, but partly owing to decreased water levels because of upstream damming in the People’s
Republic of China.
‘There’re restrictions now on the Mekong River,’ says Eddy, ‘so fishing parks like this one offer anybody the chance to hook fish they wouldn’t be able to catch
elsewhere.’
A 100-kilo catfish was pulled out of this very lake so it’s possible I could become a record-holder today – it would be nice to put a different kind of record to my name. In the wild
they can grow to between 150 and 200 kilos in just six years. I yank the rod up and we’re in. I reel and reel – giant Mekongs love to run. This one takes me up and down the pontoon and
round the houses. It has an amazing amount of sustained power. I run up the pontoon again. Where’s he taking me now? He tries to go down to the bottom when something in my back tweaks
slightly. It feels very sore, like red-hot needles. Pulling him in is a test of stamina. He won’t give up but nor will I. Wow! He peers through the surface.
‘Look at the girth on the fella.’
He’s a good fifty pounds – OK, by no means the biggest, but handsome all the same. Eddy and I pick him up and he looks at us with his big eyes. These Mekong catfish have seriously
dangerous spikes on their pectoral fins, which can do some serious damage, so Eddy carefully puts him back into the lake and I head straight to the physiotherapist.
River Kwai
After a quick Thai massage with a happy ending – not a Patpong happy ending, but my back’s much better now, thank you – I head west with Eddy and the
crew to the Burmese border. We stop off at the iconic Bridge over the River Kwai, which is actually pronounced ‘Kway’. Kwai (‘kwhy’) are in fact buffalo, and many drink from
the River Kwai (‘Kway’). Two hundred and sixty thousand men laboured on the Death Railway that stretched 258 miles from Bangkok to Rangoon in Burma and was built by Japan to support its
forces during World War II. More than 90,000 Asian labourers and 16,000 Allied prisoners of war died of accidents, starvation and disease during its construction; 6,318 British personnel lost their
lives. Others were luckier, including Ronald Searle, the British cartoonist and creator of St Trinian’s, who managed to survive the war.
On the bridge a young man in a plaid shirt and jeans is playing the violin.
How lovely
, I think, until I tune into what he’s playing and start howling with laughter. I join in:
‘Hitler has only got one ball, the other is in the Albert Hall. Himmler had something similar but poor old Goebbels had none at all.’
The busker takes me aside: ‘Do you know Hitler has only got one ball?’ He puts his finger to his lips. ‘Nobody knows – only one ball.’ Well, they do now.
Despite the heat I can’t resist getting my rod out to try to catch a few perch. Eddy tries all manner of bait, including bananas. I instinctively know we are not going to catch one today,
especially with the gathering crowd behind us, so it’s time to go. The cows and buffaloes have come to drink, pee and poo in the river.
Indian Carp
In the late afternoon we arrive at Khao Laem Dam, 180 miles west of Bangkok, where I’m meeting Air Lekkham, who’s lived on the reservoir all his life.
It’s like the Lake District with jungle attached to it. This freshwater fishing heaven exists because of the Khao Laem Dam, built in the 1980s to supply water and electricity to the area.
It’s a world away from the comforts of the city. I spot our hotel – it’s a raft with a roof, in the middle of the lake. It’s primitive but I’m sure it’s as
comfortable as the Hilton, and I certainly won’t feel fiscally plundered in the morning. Our accommodation is open-plan and we are all sleeping in one room, but it’s the only way to get
an early start tomorrow.
At 10.30 p.m. we are still sorting out fishing gear for the morning and as we finally settle down for the night the insects come alive and start attacking us. We are covered in them: mayflies
like pterodactyls, the high-pitch whine of mosquitoes, moths that are all over me like a busy jumper. I film a piece on my diary camera recording my suffering by moonlight. My therapist said
it’s good to share, and that’s why I got into TV! I am exhausted and I desperately try to settle down to sleep again. I put my headphones on in an attempt to drown out the noise of
mosquitoes and Jamie’s snoring, which is getting on my man-tits. After what seems an eternity, I finally drift off.
Eddy wakes me up with a start, singing ‘In the jungle, the mighty jungle . . .’ at the top of his voice. I want to kill him and so does the rest of the crew. I’ve had only four
and a half hours of fitful sleep and this guy has the brass neck to sing. I drag my sorry behind out of bed.
This morning we are fishing for Indian carp (rohu), which isn’t native to Thailand but actually originally from India and Pakistan. It’s the staple diet for families here, and what
they don’t eat they sell at the market. However, whatever we catch we are going to eat and I’m excited. No one eats carp back home because it’s a bottom feeder and hovers up silt,
weed and other gunk, apparently making it taste muddy, so I can’t wait to give my verdict on rohu. Carp only feed at certain times, so we wait for sunrise. Eddy asks me to cast out three
metres past a float and to the right. I’m so tired I can’t hit a barn door but finally I make a good cast. Eddy is impressed but the fish couldn’t give a toss; two hours later
there is still no sign of life.
‘Up at three forty-five, no sleep on a raft, to catch carp. This better be worth it, Eddy,’ I say grumpily. ‘You’ve got six rods out there and there hasn’t been a
bend in one of them.’
I’m hot and tired and I feel like a seven-year-old. Minutes later I moan from the hut.
‘When are we going to get one, Eddy?’
‘In terms of carp fishing we’ve been here a very short time,’ says Eddy.
He’s right, and that’s why I don’t like carp fishing: it’s inactive and boring. The carp fishing posse can ‘troll’ about me as much as they like on the
Internet, I care not. Some people don’t like curling or tai chi – I don’t like carp fishing.
I take shelter from the burning rays on a ‘day bed’ in the hut. I just need an opium pipe to deal with this interminable ennui and I’m set for the day. Eddy is the watchman and
our six rods are primed. We wait restlessly and another three hours pass before a rod springs into action.
‘Keep it pumping, Robson.’
I’ve got to keep him off the bottom, otherwise he’ll be in snags, vegetation or dead trees that hold the fish or catch the line and I’ll lose him. I don’t lose him and we
land the fish. I am very pleased to have caught such a fine-looking rohu and, after a very long morning, I’m really looking forward to devouring it.
We cook the carp five ways: steamed, shallow-fried, deep-fried, grilled and baked. It’s a lovely white fish – not in my top three but very nice. We enjoy five courses, including tom
yum carp soup. It tastes beautiful and nothing is wasted. Here they even eat the swim bladder that helps the carp float in the water, but this doesn’t stay in my mouth long. Rather like
prairie oysters, it’s an acquired taste.
Buddhist Temple
So the day of reckoning is here: we are going after a giant stingray today and I am wetting myself. We travel to a place called Chachoengsao, fifty miles from Bangkok, and
Jamie wants me to visit a beautiful Buddhist temple to bless the day. It’s something I’ve never done on a trip before but I’ll take all the positive vibes I can get. Buddhism is
an amazing philosophy and one of its key tenets is to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.
I deliver a piece to camera: ‘Yes, I’m after the world’s largest freshwater fish. A fish that can weigh up to one thousand pounds. A fish with a barb so deadly that it can kill
in seconds. We’re going after a giant stingray!’
One of the crew’s phones rings. Oh, for goodness’ sake: not in the middle of a take – and in a Buddhist temple, of all places . . . I try not to get uptight. Buddhism is about
achieving calmness and training one’s willpower to overcome emotional responses and act rationally, so I have a go. But actors are the most unstable creatures on the planet – far worse
than francium, the most unstable element in the Periodic Table. Maybe that’s why they call it a periodic table . . .
Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, Robson
. I breathe
in the incense and stare at Buddha. Finlay walks over to me, the phone outstretched.
‘Robson, you need to ring Sandra urgently.’
Sandra, my business partner, is my rock. She is Paul Burrell to my Diana. She answers after a single ring.
‘Robson. I’m so sorry.’
‘Has Dad passed away?’ I ask, sensing what has happened.
‘Yes, he has. [pause] Joanna, Dawn, David and Yvonne were all with him. He had an aneurysm in his stomach.’
She goes on to tell me Big Rob was with his girlfriend Yvonne watching TV, when all of a sudden he gasped with pain and experienced the fatal burst.
‘Did he suffer?’
‘No, it was so quick.’
I stagger outside the temple. I’m feeling light-headed and the picture distorts. I desperately search for a corner to break down in but I can’t find one.
Keep it together,
Robson
. I walk towards a tree, the mobile drops from my hand and I collapse on my knees, sobbing alone in the heat. Two guys are staring at me. Maybe they think it’s part of the show.
Maybe they are thinking, ‘Wow, this guy is really good.’ I want to tell them Big Rob’s dead but I don’t.
Jamie comes and hugs me.
‘I’m sorry, Robson, I’m so sorry’. He turns to everyone: ‘OK, we are all going home now.’
A Buddhist monk silently makes his way over. He looks at me and holds my hand. His presence is so calming. He strokes my face and looks at me in the eye.
‘Was he not well?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, still choked.
‘He has moved on to a good place, but he is still here with you. He is within you. You look like him. You are him.’
It’s an extraordinary moment. I will never forget the way he looked at me.
Later on I realise I have learnt one of the four truths of Buddhism: life is challenging. For everyone. Our physical bodies, our relationships – all of our life circumstances – are
fragile and subject to change. We are always accommodating.
I guess grieving is part of accommodating.
Big Rob
I visit my mum first. She’s OK, I think because she and Dad parted years ago. She sips her tea and says, ‘I was at the Spanish Ballroom in Whitley Bay when I
first clapped eyes on your dad. The first thing he said was, “I’ve been watching you dancing all night. You’re the most beautiful woman here.” ’Course I knew straight
away he was after something and I was right. He said, “Are you here next week, because I’d love to dance with you?” I said, “I’ll be here.” He said, “Oh,
good. Can you lend us ten pence to get the bus home? I’ll pay you back.” The cheeky so-and-so had spent all his money on drink. Your dad was a wonderful dancer: he glided across the
floor – and he paid me back, just as he said.’
I see my two sisters, who live just yards from Mum. They are taking it very badly but my brother David is reserved as ever. As we remember Dad our sadness turns to laughter, especially when we
recall his preference for going everywhere bare-chested, including restaurants!
‘What about the time in Devon, we were going for dinner and Dad had his top off. The guy at the door said, “You can’t come in”, and Dad says, “You try and fucking
stop me.”’
He was as hard as nails. He thought it was completely normal but as kids we knew something was wrong. No one else’s dad was half-naked all the time. Come rain, shine or Arctic winter, he
never had a shirt on and was always as brown as a berry. I remember him digging the garden on a cold winter’s day with only his trousers and boots on. He was a great horticulturist and grew
prize-winning vegetables. He also had a beautiful flower garden where he grew roses, carnations and exquisite blue corn-flowers, which he gave to family, friends and local people.
The funeral service is at Whitley Bay Crematorium, with 200 people crammed into a very small space. Dawn and Joanna both say a few words and then it’s my turn. David stands by my side as I
speak; he is catatonic with grief.
‘Dad loved his football and he followed his beloved Newcastle United around the world. I remember a time in Nice when Monaco slaughtered Newcastle. Before the game I took Dad to the
Colombe d’Or – a famous restaurant patronised by Matisse and Picasso, who paid their bills with paintings, which are still on the walls today. Dad thought the paintings were shite.
“I don’t get it. It’s not my cup of tea.” He ordered the soup; it was gazpacho. He took a sip and in broad Geordie summoned the waiter over. “How! Bonnie lad, this
soup has never touched the flame.” Antwerp made me smile, too. Dad was very anti-German. At lunch they had all the different flags of Europe on the table. He walks over, seizes the German one
and says, “You can take that one off for a bloody start.” Next to go is the Italian ensign, which he plonks down on the table. I say, “Dad, you weren’t even in the
war!” “So what! I still hate those bastard Krauts and I’ll never trust the Eyeties.” He makes a sudden grab for the Tricolour: “Almost forgot this one,” he says.
“Bloody collaborators.”’
I take a breath and end my speech by plagiarising Jimmy Dean’s ‘Big Bad John’: