totin rebels are all bumped

My wife has been pretty good about my fishing expeditions into the back of beyond, but when I told her that I fancied a trip up the Zaire river in search of Goliath tigerfish, she finally put her foot down. Having spent a lot of time in that part of Africa, she has some fairly strong views on its suitability for recreational anglers. She made several pointed remarks that included words like bloody, selfish, irresponsible, and widowhood. It was clear that Goliath tigerfish would have to wait until the Kalashnikov-totin rebels are all bumped-off, or become the government, and several African tropical diseases are finally eradicated. How would it be if I went back to South America?, I asked. Seeing that I was intent on yet another folie vacance de peché, she agreed without enthusiasm. Before she could change her mind, I swiftly arranged a trip to Venezuela, and Shanghai’d Paul Witcher to act as photographer. Tropical South America doesn’t spring to everyones mind immediately as first choice for a fishing trip. In fact the tropics in general seem to be out of bounds to the average Britisher, who likes to know that the caterpillar eyeing him from the lettuce on his plate is a proper British one. We’ve seen all the Hollywood films, and been appalled to behold Humprhey Bogart, festooned with blood-sucking leeches after a dip off the side of the African Queen. We suppose that salivating jaguars wait hungrily behind every tree, and boa-constrictors of appalling size lie in wait for us on every over-hanging bough. Its really not like that at all. It’s wilderness alright, but the jungle has a strangely friendly air about it, like a shady greenhouse on a sultry day, with well-rotted leaf mould piled in the corner giving off a gently pleasing primeval pong. Given a modicum of common sense (no wandering in the jungle at night saying, here kitty-kitty) it’s quite survivable. The glittering prize for the more adventurous is fishing beyond the dreams of Hemmingway. South America is the Mecca of the angling world, or at least, it should be. The Amazon watershed alone holds twenty per-cent of all the worlds freshwater. Some of our Patrician forebears knew more about it, and had funds enough to take steamers white and gold, south to the uncharted tropics. In the early years of this century the dorado of the river Plate were considered to be a very sporting proposition. In his seminal work of 1937 Gamefish of the World, Leander J. McCormick writes: In the vast Plate system that debouches where Buenos Aires and Montevideo face each other across a far-flung estuary, there swims a magnificent golden fish, the dorado, whose game qualities are little known to dwellers in northern climes. Yet there are few fish so bold and gallant, or capable of giving the angler such a nerve tingling battle. By reputation, the best dorado fishing is found on the Parana river of Paraguay, but I’ve heard that the rivers of the remote Matto Grosso in South-Western Brazil also hold some mighty examples. I went fishing there once, but caught no dorado. There is no doubt that the dorado is a fine sporting fish, and one that should be on the list of anyone who finds himself in the situation to try for them. But, for those seeking an even greater angling challenge there exists another extraordinary South American fish that should satisfy all but the most outrageously adventurous – the payara, or as it is sometimes known – the Dracula fish. The freshwater fishing facilities in tropical South America are almost entirely geared to bass-mad North-American anglers for whom nothing much exists beyond their own black bass and its tropical cousin the peacock bass, so news of the payara as a sporting species has hardly reached the civilized ears of Europeans. Paul and I determined that if necessary we would cut our way through virgin jungle to reach these fabulous beasts. Before we reached the payara rivers, there were other distractions. It was possibly rather ambitious to try to cram in a day offshore for marlin, two days in the islands for bonefish, a search through the coastal mangroves for snook and tarpon, and a semi-organised hunt for peacock bass and payara on the Cinaruco and Orinoco rivers: nevertheless, it all worked out quite well. Limited time prevented us from learning as much as we would have liked about each location, but we had sufficient time to catch quite a lot of fish, and discover that the potential is tremendous. Offshore, the marlin chased our baits without committing themselves further, but we caught some super wahoo. Big tarpon showed all round our boat in the mangroves of Tacarigua, although they managed to evade our perfectly presented flies. The formula one bonefish of Islas Los Roques were a super-charged delight, and the peacock bass of the Cinaruco preposterously pugnacious. But, ultimately, it was the payara that were the most impressive of all. The photographs tell no lies: the payara is one of the most breath-takingly fearsome fish in existence: all our most horrific nightmares made real. It took me some time to come to terms with the fact that in South American rivers everything that swims, crawls or slithers is trying to make a meal of everything else. The payara is just more extravagantly equipped for this tense daily struggle than most. The payara is a creature of the torrents, and if that water is also quite deep, then so much the better. From its station near the bed of the river, it surges up to snatch at smaller fish foolish enough to swim through its field of vision. Its hard to imagine that anything coming within range of its amazing dentition might retain anything more than a fleeting hope of escape. Certainly, once impaled on those sabre-like lower canines the mini-drama would be all but over. Smaller payara – perhaps up to 10 lbs. or so, are shoal fish. Thereafter they become increasingly solitary. Few very large payara are taken by anglers, probably because they are not specifically fished for with suitable flies or lures. Having said that, the pyrotechnics ensuing from a hooked thirty or forty pounder might easily overwhelm the unprepared. Whatever the size, a hooked payara immediately heads for the surface and leaps into the air, twisting its body and shaking its head. This aerial extravaganza is repeated time and time again, so, not surprisingly, nine out of ten hooked payara simply throw the hook. Its a breathtaking and frustrating business, and all the more fun for that. Even when the fish tires sufficiently to quell its acrobatic inclinations the game has still to be won, since they retain enough reserves of energy to make long and determined runs into rocks or sunken branches that might offer them sanctuary. Payara often use the weight of the current to lie dogo until they gain a second wind. I’ve had salmon do that too. Altogether, the payaras ferocious dedication to survival is hugely impressive, and not a little awe inspiring. But then, all the fish of these pampas and jungle rivers demonstrate a desperately tenacious grip on life that attests to millions of years of evolution in a savagely unforgiving arena. We stayed at Cinaruco Bass Lodge on the Cinaruco river – a tributary of the Orinoco that flows into Venezuela from Columbia. The lodge offers a delicious little outpost of civilisation in the wilderness. It may seem ridiculous that in the middle of one of the worlds most remote places one might require such things as a clean bed, hot meals, and a freezing beer, and this link with civilisation is certainly optional. For those who need to feel the hot breath of the jungle, it is all too easily found just a hundred yards from the lodges ever-open bar. I managed a night of it, and survived to tell the tale without so much as a hint of concern. There was just a moment or two of panic when my cheery enquiry to someone or something moving through the trees near my hammock at three oclock in the morning elicited no response. And if anyone heard my strangled squawk when the knot in the rope holding the hammock unexpectedly slipped an inch or two, I can only hope they will keep their laughter to themselves. Actually, I’d happily do it again – occasionally. As at most of the other bass lodges, the fishing at Cirunuco is entirely dictated by the fancy of the anglers, and we found that the Indian guides were perfectly happy to take us payara fishing in the rapids, as a change from the usual over-serious pursuit of peacock bass. I’d brought along my 10 bonefish outfit. In view of the payaras preferred location near the river-bed, I opted for a fast-sinking FT8 line, and a three yard 20lb. level leader, with 18″ of 40lb. seven-strand wire to the fly, a gaudy no-name tinsel dressing on a heavy 1/0 stainless hook. My tentative first short cast brought an immediate slashing take from a fish that turned the poor little rod into a half-circle. Not a payara, but a piranha. The mere mention of the fact that one has fished in South America is enough to draw blood-thirsty questions on the subject of piranhas. They’re a bit of a curse I’m afraid. Not only do they savage anything that moves, however remotely it resembles a meal, they tear flies and lures to shreds within seconds. The piranhas that we found on the Cirunuco were pretty big – up to about 4 lbs. and fought like the very devil himself. So strong were they, that if they were not, whilst on the hook, being systematically whittled away by their cannibalistic brothers and sisters, we would have spent a great deal of fishing time landing them. Eventually we found that by keeping the fly in only the fastest water, we avoided their marauding attentions for most of the time. The first payara took off with after-burners ignited about ten minutes later. That evening, in the bar, I was heard to claim that it passed low over the boat in the piked position, climbed steeply at 1500 knots to 3,000 feet, then issuing coloured smoke dived to within a foot of the water, where it hovered with a wicked grin on its countenance for over an hour, before spitting out the hook, which by that time had been reduced to a shower of sparkling steel chaff. The naked truth may have been something less fanciful than that, and Paul, who was timing the event, tells me that in reality I was connected to the fish for something less than five minutes. Even now, in my mind, the bar-talk recounting of the event is the more accurate. What is certain is that the fish really did fall off the hook, and it probably weighed less than five pounds. If justice is ever to be done to the payara, then in its thought, form, and deed, it should never be described as anything less than spectacular. The lightish single-handed outfit was hopelessly inadequate for the fish that were hooked. A stiff-butted 10 #11/12 with an extension butt would have served the situation better. Several de-frocked flies later I landed a three pounder that for some minutes had tried very hard to pull my arm off. In defence we turned to salmon spinning outfits, and tough plastic Rapala plugs. The remnants of what was once a first-class collection of lures, now adorn the walls of my study. Some have teeth embedded into them: others have huge chunks bitten out of them. Quite how anything survives the carnage in South American rivers, I really cannot imagine. Despite the toll on flies, lures, rods, and anglers, we caught a lot of fish. Such an intense and fish-rich Bouillabaisse has to be sipped, rather than gulped down in great draughts. We stopped for some hours during the red-heat of the day, and swung in hammocks under the shade of trees, whilst our Juarista indian guides cooked some of our catch over a wood fire. We ate utterly delicious peacock bass, which was eschewed by our guides, who preferred to eat fried piranhas – skin, bones, and all. Amidst screams of laughter they claimed that piranhas were essential to their performance as lovers. I have since enjoyed the odd piranha myself: not bad at all, but with no obvious improvement in my status as a lover. The head guide rejoiced in the Spanish name of Fermin, however, that name was the only thing Spanish about him. Fermin held himself in the quiet but proud manner of a Sioux warrior chief, and astonished us by carrying an enormously heavy 30HP outboard engine under his arm for over 200 yards. I suspect that he ate his piranhas raw, and whole: teeth, tail, and table-manners. We also caught payara from spectacular rapids on the Orinoco near the Amazonia town of Puerto Ayacucho. Near such centres of population the fish are netted for local consumption, so the remaining fish are fewer and smaller. Apart from a few small peacock bass killed for our lunch, we returned all fish caught. On the Paraguaso river, near its confluence with the Orinoco, Paul hooked a payara of well over twenty pounds that leapt four feet into the air, tore off seventy yards of line, then leapt again. Even at that range we clearly saw the flash of the lure as it, and the fish, parted company in slow motion. Was it the sound of the rapids we heard, or the wicked toothy chuckle of that awful fish. I can only suggest that if you’ve already done the angling grand tour: Norway for the salmon: Alaska for the steelhead: Canada for the lake trout: India for the mahseer: and Siberia for taipan: then you could do no better than to head for the payara of Venezuela. If funds permit, then a mixed itinerary that includes billfish, tarpon, bonefish, or even dorado, is well within the scope of a two or three week expedition. Having decided that payara offer a worthy challenge, it remains to decide how and where to set about it. Clearly, a one-off expedition to deepest Venezuela is an extremely expensive undertaking. There are those for whom such an outing would require nothing more than a swift call to Abercrombie and Ffitch, and a note to their accounts department. For most though, the cost-effective approach is to use the facilities already in place for North American bass anglers, then do your own thing. These specialist fishing lodges are to be found in unbelievably remote corners to the South American hinterland. The lodges have simple landing-strips that allow access by light plane, offering the opportunity to fish in truly wild regions where access would otherwise require two or three days of overland rigours in a Landrover, and accommodation amounting to nothing more than a hammock. Its quick, direct, and reasonably affordable. Again I say, the whole thing is very survivable. Apart from white knuckles and a total inability to speak whilst we were shooting some impressive-looking rapids in a small aluminium boat, we had no doubts at any time that we would return safely to the bosom of our families. Courtesy of my doctor wife, I carted a pretty comprehensive medical kit around with me. It was opened only to administer a local anaesthetic to the owner of Cinaruco bass lodge, who had embedded a very large hook into the back of his hand. A minor operation that was paid for in whiskey and sodas. In addition to the fishing, there are masses of fascinating creatures to see. Caymen laze on sand-bars, anacondas wind their impressive length through waterside trees, and jaguars can still be spotted by those with sufficient patience – and nerve. Brilliantly coloured birds perch on orchids lodged in the trees. Ospreys and eagles are as commonplace as magpies in Britain. We went in January, which coincides with the dry season. The weather was delightfully dry and warm, and there were no bugs to speak of.

I booked through Alpi Tour, a Caracas-based but American-owned company that specialises in angling itineraries. They cater mainly for super-fussy American bass anglers, who are ruthlessly unforgiving of inefficiency. Fax is the easiest method of contacting them 285.6067. They proved to be a first-class outfit. Happily, there are direct VIASA flights to Caracas from London Heathrow.