Carp around the World

Scene I: Austin International Airport, Texas, May 2000. I can hardly walk with the six pieces of luggage that I drag to the airline counter. For the fourth time in the last two years, I am moving. As I approach the airline assistant, I can read an expression of bewilderment on her face. This time, I decide to take the innocent approach: "What? Too much baggage? But how...! I need to pay? But see: I have my ticket already! ...for the luggage? But I am only a student...". In the ensuing pause, her eyes glide over the mass of material that I carry. Then she asks: "And what is this?", pointing at the bulky seven foot padded case strung around my shoulders. "Uhm, these are my... fishing rods", I reply, not without a grin on my face. She lets me off lightly.

Carp fishing in Texas is a little special indeed. My fishing buddy is Alfredo, my friend from Mexico. With his airplane, we would take a look at the waters from above, and then explore them by speedboat. The carp in these lakes live an undisturbed life, as most local fishermen only engage in bass fishing. Carp fishing is for the poor, for those who need to catch carp for food. It is a lower specimen, a crap fish. I have no objectives: Leave the carp for us, then!

Scene II: Lake Ontario is a sea! But here we are at a small bay on its New York shore, and the water is crystal clear. Some twenty good carp commute to and from the open lake, all commons. We try to entice them with some floating crust. To no avail. We try corn, but the result is the same. The fish are not feeding. Sometimes it is the same, no matter where you are.

Scene III: Run after run! All afternoon long, the bite indicators signal one screaming run after the other. The carp are feeding, despite the relentless Spanish summer heat. My rods are set up by the side of a small river somewhere in Navarra. Below the overhanging branches of the opposite bank, that's where the fish are! I sit low and enjoy the shadow of waterside vegetation. I am having fun. Sometimes it is good to catch many carp. The size game can start tomorrow again.

Scene IV: How hard it was to find the lake! We are in central Poland, and driving along sandy forest roads in search of this water had been an adventure in itself. Let alone the process of obtaining the permit! From a certain official it had to be. The fishing license he issued to us is now one of the strange souvenirs that we sometimes bring home from our fishing trips.
Finally I have cast my line into this small forest lake. They say that there are carp in here. In the end, I was able to prove them neither right nor wrong. But does it really matter so much after all? - When you have come all that way, whether you catch or not will only make a small difference in the total experience.

Scene V: Canal fishing in Germany. A few years ago, I started to get a kick out of this type of fishing. Rowing baits 180 yards into the off-limits territory of an industrial port on the other bank. Baiting up with 30lbs of particles, piling in boilies by the kilo. Five ounces of lead at the end of the line, and another two ounces under the rod tip, so that the barges won't lift my line as they cross it. Real barges, I mean, measuring a hundred feet and more. And then the constant rattle and hum of some nearby generators. It never gets dark: After dusk, sunlight is replaced by orange industry lanterns. Behind my bivvy, railway station loudspeakers regularly announce incoming trains. My camp is pitched on a dangerously sloped stretch of bleak and barren waterside. The canal is seamed by a band of loose rocks, which require a balancing act every time one walks along the bank. An army of rats will be my company again next night. But out there, somewhere over on the other side, they are: bluish-green water monsters, submersed in the forgotten depths of this old canal. And one of these nights, I will catch the king of your clan... This is serious carp fishing, my friends, and none of that "everyone-can-do-it" business!

Scene VI: Canal fishing in England. The water is maybe two rod lengths wide. I stretch in the high grass on the bank as my light float lazily drifts on the calm surface. A warm summer breeze is blowing across the fields.

Fishing is slow. I reel in, lean my rod onto a bush and ask one of the passing houseboat skippers if I can accompany him for a while. Sure, he says, hop on. Soon, we reach a lock. We steer through its open gates, which we need to close by hand. Then we open the upper gates, and a rush of water fills the lock. Slowly, the little boat raises a couple of feet, and is soon ready to move on. I bid farewell to the skipper and thank him for the lift. As I walk back through the fields to the spot where I had been fishing, I can't help but wonder. This is lovely. And this is canal fishing, too.

Scene VII: Just the other day, I was chatting with a cab driver as we inch our way through the Buenos Aires rush hour. Fisherman talk. "Big carp," he says, "about 100 kilometers up the River Parana." - "How big?" The car turns out to be too small to accommodate the ensuing gesture. "I might give it a try some time", I reply. And I am serious.

After all, this is the way I like it: Carp around the world!