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Snoeke
There is sand in my snoek
Where’s
my sand! bellows a woman. Her arms are smeared with blood and her
hair is wild. A spectator shudders awake and speeds away.
The
young man returns with a handful of gravel and makes a heap on the
cement table next to the fish.
Mariette
pats the palm of her hand onto the sand and sprinkles a handful on
the outside of the fish. She tests the grip on her knife and grabs
the fish, adjusting her hold on the slippery body. Her neighbour at
an adjacent table is cleaning his knife on the grass, plucking a
handful to improve the grip of his tool.
Then,
rubbing her nose on her sleeve, Mariëtte proceeds with the gutting
and beheading of the meter-long snoek.
It is
late afternoon in a small harbour on the Overstrand coast and locals
are standing ankle-deep in fish. The silver bodies of the gigantic
fish are carefully divided between the cement tables. On top of
these structures locals are cleaning, beheading and gutting the
snoek for the waiting customers.
Guts are
dropped through holes in the middle of the tables and seabirds flock
and hop closer to the tables, hoping to grab some of the off cuts.
Spectators and prospective buyers, children and mangy dogs stand
around, attention fixed on the flashing knives and sharp comments
from the slashing Ninja’s.
Some of
the older men sit and watch, sucking deep into their cigarettes,
one of them depositing it into the corner of one the cutter’s
mouths. He draws deep and passes the same cigarette to his
colleague opposite him, his bloodied fingers leaving a print on the
smoke.
Early
morning the ocean is smudged with little fishing boats. Light and
unloaded they bounce along the steely surface of the sea searching
for great shoals of snoek. Once found, they park alongside other
boats and put their anchors out.
Maak
‘n dorpie (making a town), they call
it when the boats form a cluster, meters from each other. So they
will lie for hours while the men pull the fish from the oceans’s
deep.
Snoek
are predator fish and hunt in shoals in the cold waters of the
Benguela current along the Southern and Western coast of the Cape.
Usually found at depths of 12 – 20 meters, fishermen use sardines or
pike, the latter being much more expensive but preferred by the
fish.
With
hands wrapped in bandages or fabric, fishing line with nests of
hooks, sinkers and bait are tossed overboard. A sharp tug on the
line and a powerful tug of war ensues.
When the
fish are brought over the side of the boat, men will scramble to get
a firm grip on the slithering and furious fish, carefully grabbing
hold of its head and expertly breaking the neck. The only then can
the hook be removed.
Snoek have extremely sharp en long
teeth and can eliminate a finger with spectacular indifference.
The myth
of pap snoek mushy snoek should be expelled here and now:
Various theories abound on why snoek can be mushy resulting in
floury flesh when it is cooked.
Locals
explain that it has nothing to do in
which month snoek is caught. Some believe that when snoek caught in
months without the letter R, it will be pap.
The
firmness of the flesh has to do with how the fish is treated when
caught. Break the neck first and then stab it so its blood can drain
out, explained Oom Hansie, an old boy with wrinkles and
deepsea eyes.
It is
then important to salt the fish as soon as it is gutted. Handfuls of
coarse salt are sprinkled onto the flesh and rubbed in before it is
frozen. If the fish is being cooked while still fresh, rinse the
salt off as soon as you get home with the catch.
The
crowd is getting rowdier; liquid
refreshments do the rounds. So too
the quips and sayings grow stronger and coarser. Bottles of beer
travel between the gutting tables as hands grip the bottlenecks and
gulps of bubbles disappear down salty throats.
As the
sun sets another crate of fish is being divided between the cutters.
The other boats are being washed down. Then heading home for the
night, but not before the last load is cleaned, only then can the
cutters get themselves under a hot shower.
Behind
me two clean fish lay and wait on the rocks: a cutter’s own supper
awaits.
With his
initials carved into the pink flesh, H M will feed his family
tonight and will sleep the sleep of a satisfied man.
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Winter
Every silver lining has a dark cloud.
Marinda Louw
A good friend, suffering from clinical
depression, often used his variation of the well known
saying. In winter we can fall prey to the clouds of the mind
and a mistiness of the soul.
Northwester winds bring clouds, bursting
with rain to the Overberg. The rough seas echo the
uneasiness and frustration in our lives. Short days, wet
shoes and musty washing tempt our patience. We can get
bogged down with bored, overactive children, slow days at
work, flu and a general constipation of the brain.
The sluggish economy is a white noise in
the back of our minds, causing us to think twice about
spending.
Should you sell your house/car/kids? We
cannot pay the excess to have that operation done. We cannot
afford to eat out anymore.
The recent changes in government,
increases in electricity and food and that persistent cough
can cause even the sunniest of personalities to slump into
melancholy.
As the world is changing even more
rapidly in recent times, I have seen relationships changing
at an even faster pace. Friendships fade, intimate bonds
wither and even those that we have so deeply trusted
surprise us with sudden betrayal.
We don’t fit in the jeans, in the circle
of friends and in our own lives anymore. Where we might have
thought was a lining of shining behind the oncoming darkness
seems to have been the armour of the oncoming adversary.
But is all really so dreadful and dark as
I have painted here?
During a recent visit to the Rijks Museum
in Amsterdam, I have seen the paintings of the Dutch painter
Rembrandt van Rijn and some of his students. He mastered the
art of creating shadows by using the chiaroscuro effect.
This paint effect creates contrast
between light and dark areas his art.
With delicate strokes of oil on canvas he portrayed daily
life in 1600 Holland to create emotion and luminosity.
Importantly, it was with his use of shadows that he created
areas of
illumination.
Winter is a time of reflection. Maybe
those clouds are just a reprieve from the harshness of the
rat race, a chance to see things in a softer light?
Without the harshness of summer and
prettiness and sunglasses we should be looking at things,
shrug off the pretences and plastic and falseness of that
which does not contribute positively on our lives.
Do we really need all we crave for?
Do we need the people we so desperate
compete with?
Do we need someone else’s approval?
May we be able to use the grayness to see
the lightness in our lives, those areas of warmth, the
friends that stayed, the good we have.
The clouds will pass and the sun will
warm again and the towels will eventually dry. The blues
will lift, the jeans will fit and soon we will be able to
choose the colour of our clouds’ lining.
Winter might just bring that bearable
lightness of being.
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Contact Nosy Rosy for further details.
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