A fisherman from Bog Walk, St Catherine, who fishes in the crocodile-infested waters near the Mandela Highway. - photos by Ricardo Makyn/Staff Photographer.

Ahh fishing. It's a pastime shared among many a father and son, brethren and sistren. It's perhaps the most hands-on method to acquire a meal and often helps those engaged in the activity to relax.

There are exceptions to this rule, however. Like when the fishing expedition is taking place at a gully next to a major highway.

It was on a clear, warm Tuesday afternoon that I came across Chappy, a bearded, older fellow with golden teeth and skinny arms. He was wearing a torn khaki shirt that seemed as if it had been part of his wardrobe since the '60s and worn-out plastic slippers. He was standing about 15 feet from the Mandela Highway that connects St Catherine and Kingston, holding a crudely fashioned fishing rod, the line of which was covered in the brown, muddy water of a gully that seemed to run under the roadway.

"Hold on pan dis yah fi mi boss, mi need fi go sell someting," he shouted to me. I didn't really have time to object. I just grabbed the line and watched the man run to the side of the road where a car was parked. I stood there trying to hold the line still while the man collected money from the driver, for a fish I assumed he had caught not long before I had shown up. The car sped off and Chappy returned to the gully. I gladly handed the line back to him and gazed at the water. You couldn't see anything beneath the surface. The water was as brown as Ovaltine and smelled like wet dirt.

Subject change

"Er ... is it safe to eat the fish you catch in that water?" I asked.

"Den hello, di people dem weh buy di fish dem nuh must wash it off before dem nyam it? But ah wah do dis man yah man?" he quipped.

I could tell I wasn't about to get anywhere with that line of reasoning, so I hurriedly changed the subject by asking Chappy how sales were going.

"Well it up and down. We deh here ah sell fi bout five year now wid di elder man dem. Since dis year tings start pick up likkle bit. At least we can afford fi put on a pot ah evening time," he said. I looked around. There was nothing but bush behind us. I asked Chappy what was behind the bush.

"Is Riverton dump deh 'round deh man," he answered quite casually. Now that bit of information only served to increase my doubts about the prudence of eating fish caught in the gully, but I decided not to bring that up again. Instead I asked Chappy where he lived.

"Right ova deh so," he said, pointing to a zinc shack not far behind us. The man's home seemed to have been floating on water. There was only swamp land all around. "Mi like mi likkle place still. It nuh really look so nice but it deh right beside mi workplace," said Chappy.

I half-jokingly asked him if there were crocodiles in the water.

"Yeah man, whole heap. Dem water yah ingested wid crocodile," said he. "More time when mi ah sleep mi hear dem ah bark. Dem bark like dog, yuh know?"

Dinner invite

I suddenly felt uncomfortable standing so close to the swamp, but it was not until Chappy offered to share with me a meal of fish he had earlier prepared for his lunch that I decided it was time to leave. I thanked the man for his kind offer and hurried back to the roadway where another vehicle had just pulled up. The driver, I assume was another of prospective buyer of the gully fish.

robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com

This youngster shows off his prized catch - a fish he recently caught in a gully just off the Mandela Highway.