The Sal River

My name is Tome Azimiro Fernandes, from Tollecanto, velim, my age is sixty-seven years. Earlier since I was eight years old, I used to go to catch fish with my friend Avelin Fernandes. He would take me to the Agor and then at twenty I went to work on a ship. Even after coming back, I continued fishing at the Agor. I have a lot of nets. Let me tell you a story, my wife would tell our children when we were younger right after we got married that I used to get a lot of fish, I would put up the kantade and get lots of fish. A huge amount. Then the kids started saying take us along also one time and show us, we don’t believe you. So, one day I woke my three kids and got them to the big poi (pond). I put up the kantade, and my daughter at the time was small, Tilya, and my two boys were teenagers. Within half an hour the nets were full. We took the nets out and went home, the whole bathroom was full of fish. Then my kids started believing that their father used to catch lots of fish when he was younger. Another time I woke them up early in the morning at five. And took them fishing. That time we caught a lot of fish. In one of the nets there was a big crab, my son Sanford, he saw it, he was young then, and screamed “maaaami”. We ran to see what happened, then I caught the crab. Such a big crab, this fat. Then we took our nets out and went home. Again, the bathroom was full, lots of shewte, lots of goros, so many dhurio. Too much fish, talle and all different types of fish we caught, Tilya’s mother was so happy we caught so many fish, my three kids were also happy we caught so many fish. But now if we cast a net in the agor, you don’t see any fish at all, even it being our own agor. Not even once we caught fish. Why we didn’t catch also I’ll tell you. There are udd (otters) in the agor. The otters are more than thirty. In a day they eat so many shewte. For example, you consider four otters, so in a day if a otter eats one kilo of fish imagine a family, so it’s a loss for us. The whole ogor is unprofitable. Second, we’ve put up sluice gates they don’t work, one opened and they fish swam out, and we are in complete loss. And at night robbers/thieves used to come to the ogor to steal fish. One time we caught two thieves, we found that they caught twenty five godos from our pond. We handed them over to the police.

My name is Sebi D’silva, I am from Colleavaddo, Assolna (Goa, India). I am a traditional fisherman, now 61 years old, and I’ve been fishing since I was 8. After that, I went to the Gulf for work, but when I returned, I continued my fishing practice. I never left it. Back in our childhood, life was very poor. We didn’t have food for dinner, so out of necessity, we’d follow our father around, and watch what he was doing just to bring something home. (Here, the fisherman is referring to following his father and learning the different ways to catch fish.)

Then, with my effort, I went back to the Gulf again, came back, and continued fishing. Later, I went to a tharwar (ship), and after retiring, I still kept fishing. Up till today, I am still fishing. Throughout my life, I’ve caught countless fish. I’ve caught almost every type, like waagade, chonak, rauns, morio, pallu, tamshae... You can still find tamshae and pallu, but some fish have completely disappeared. For example, rauns (salmon), you won’t see them anymore, maybe once in a while in the market. Morio, very rarely – once in a blue moon, as they say. Now, all you get are shewtae, shetka, palva pettae – nothing else.

In Gill Net fishing, earlier we used to use soota kantade (cotton net) made from cotton. We’d cast the net in the river. At that time, the river had lots of fish, so we’d always catch plenty. There was never a time when we didn’t get any. Then, people from abroad started bringing in nylon nets, and after nylon, something called coolan came, followed by taas (another material used for gill nets). When we put up a gill net, it was almost guaranteed that we'd catch fish. In our time, we’d only put the gill net when the water was still, slack water. Now, nothing’s left, and people fish whenever they feel like it. There’s no proper system anymore. As long as they get fish, they’re happy.

Interviewer: How does the community and local authorities support the local fishermen?

Actually, the authorities here are good at offering lip service. They constantly roll out schemes for fishermen, but in reality, these schemes don’t benefit anyone. The reason is, to avail of these schemes, there’s a lot of paperwork involved. The government officials make it difficult for us – asking for things like a resident certificate, etc. But the fishermen are born here, live here, and will die here. They’ve always been residents. It’s good that the government has formalities in place, but it’s so hard to get all the paperwork done. People get fed up and then they don’t want to deal with the schemes. I’ve got all the paperwork – I can show you if you want. My younger son keeps track of the schemes and downloads the necessary forms if anyone needs them. But in reality, they can’t even access the schemes.

The local community here supports each other. For example, if someone knows how to do something and you need help, they’ll gladly assist. The community here is strong. When Covid hit, everything stopped. The people who were in the Gulf, their jobs went away. Some of them are still here, without work. There were people who had never even seen the river—they went straight from school to work. After losing their jobs, they had to survive. So, they turned to crab fishing and other types of fishing. That’s how they managed. Even now, there are still four or five boys who haven’t found work. They were in the Gulf, but because of Covid, they returned and are still here. It was fortunate that the river was available, otherwise, it would have been a problem.

Interviewer: And what about you? Did you survive because of the river?

Yes, the river saved me. From the beginning, I’ve survived on the river. Like I said, I started when I was 8, and little by little, we survived with it. Back then, a little money—ten rupees, twenty rupees – was a big thing. A fish like daatond could be sold for two or three rupees. Now, the same daatond goes for seven to eight hundred rupees. But we managed to survive at that standard. When I went to the Gulf, I survived on my own. Then, I worked on a boat, and my children were born. Now, my children also follow the same path. Whenever they come back, the ones who are abroad, they go to the river to fish and go on the boat. The moment they’re back, they just pick up the habit. Especially my oldest son – he says, “Let’s go!” and I tell him, “Wait, (susegad) let’s relax, we’ll go later.

I’m Remidios Crasto, a traditional fisherman, and since my birth, I’ve been brought up with stake fishing. At the age of ten, I used to go with our elders – uncles, relatives – to set up the stakes. When I was twelve, my father passed away, and it became difficult to feed ourselves. My mother would go to the riverbanks to collect some tesreo (clams) and other fish to feed us. At ten, I’d go with my father, who was a seaman. After he passed, at twelve, I realised the need to feed ourselves. So, together with my relatives, I went to set up the stakes, and that’s how we managed to feed ourselves. I kept this up until I was about twenty-eight, or twenty-nine, and then I tried working on a ship. Eventually, I became a seaman. Even after becoming a seaman, I didn’t stop with stake fishing. I kept the business alive.

Early in the morning, I used to go with my mother to catch crabs using the kobulem (a traditional crab-catching cage), and then I’d head off to school. After school, I’d go to St Anthony’s School, which was just two minutes away. We did all this, my mother and I, with effort. My mother, and not just her but the women of the Sal River, had to bring up their children. I’m not praising my mother, but like her, my relatives and neighbours in Ambelim, Mandarlelok, they’ve all worked hard to raise their children, many of whom have gone on to become doctors, engineers, and captains.

The Sal River is like a mother. It feeds its children by providing work in the village, here and there. The Sal River, if we go to the banks and set up a kobulem, or dig for clams, it helps us feed ourselves. Through stake fishing, we can feed an entire family. This is something the government needs to protect. A few years ago, when COVID hit, we faced many difficulties. But our community survived on the Sal River. And not just us, but even ordinary people – those who are not fishermen – would set up kobulem, kantade, catch fish, and sell it in the market to feed their families. The government needs to keep a close watch on the river and protect it. No one knows what the future holds. We’ve seen a lot of the river, but will our children get to see it too? We’ve experienced so much, but it’s time for us to go to the grave. The river will be needed by the children in the future.

During the COVID period, the fishermen and locals were selling a lot of fish. Baskets of fish to feed themselves. That’s when we realised the importance of our business, yet the government didn’t help us. It was the fishermen who helped many people survive. I’m not just talking about the Sal River fishermen, but the fishing community in general.

I can tell you about the difference in our catch compared to before, especially because of pollution. Shrimps breed on the riverbed, and the pollutants settle there. The pollutants, the muck, settle at the bottom. This forces the shrimp to move away, reducing their population. I’ll tell you how the pollution affects our catch. For example, with desilting, we noticed a change in the catch. At the desilted spots, the shrimp came back, showing the positive effect of cleaning the river. But pollution is still a big issue. Another example is the fishing jetty at Cutbon. I’ve questioned the authorities many times, but I’ve been dismissed with comments like, “What’s this crazy talk?” According to the MARPOL Act, which is an international agreement aimed at preventing pollution from ships, food waste cannot be dumped into the water. I’ll talk about food waste first. There are 50 to 100 trawlers here, and the government needs to inquire about where their food waste goes. According to the MARPOL Act, food waste mustn’t be dumped into the water. If it is, it should be three kilometres offshore. Upon reaching the port, food waste should be bagged and stored in a freezer, and port authorities collect it as wet garbage.

What really saddens me is the way oil waste is handled. I’m a cook, and I know that the oil from deep frying is never thrown into the water. As soon as we reach port, the chief cook is questioned about the oil. The cook is questioned first, not even the captain. They ask where the deep fry oil is, and if it’s not there, they ask where it was disposed of. There's even a record kept in the galley. Now, at Cutbon Jetty, so much oil is disposed of. Twice a month, the engine oil is changed, but where does it go? There’s no record. If you dig up the mud under the Cutbon Jetty, it’s black and full of muck. No one wants to take this mud, even if offered for free. It shows how much pollution is there. The mud smells foul, like it’s rotten. Once, someone took a sample of the mud, uploaded it to Facebook, and offered it for free, but no one took it. What I’m saying is, the government needs to keep a watchful eye on the river.

I’m Roy Barretto, the Chairperson of the Biodiversity Management Committee, which was formed about five years ago. Cavelossim falls under my jurisdiction.

We are born fishermen here, and I take pride in calling myself a fisherman because it is in our blood. Even in my younger days, I used to go fishing with my father. He was very well known for catching big fish, and we would catch most of our fish together. I must say, I miss my father, especially when I remember catching small fish called putin. Putin is like a crayfish and is the best bait for Pallu, Tambus, and Gobre. Gobre is a Grouper, Tambus is the Red Snapper, and Pallu is the Goatfish, commonly referred to as the river Goatfish.

That entire area was perfect for fishing—it was deep water, the best place for it. My father was also a toddy tapper. We would find time when the tide was low and stable, just before it rose. That was the best time for fishing. We used to catch six or seven big Pallu and sell most of them. Those were hard times, very difficult times. My mother would cross the river to a place called Kashet-Kasta, where we would sell most of our fish to the wealthy people there—the Kashet people. But the price was very low, though for us, it was still a significant amount. A good Pallu or Tambus, weighing about two kilos, would fetch around a hundred rupees back then—this was about 20 to 35 years ago. That was a good price. The money was sustainable, and we managed. Sundays were the best for fishing because it was my day off. On other days, I would catch Putin and give them to my father.

Where we are standing right now, just opposite my house, there used to be mangroves extending slightly into the river, bulging outwards. There were a lot of giant sea perch (Chonak) here. I have caught Chonak weighing around twenty kilos in this very spot, using live prawns as bait. We would cast our nets and catch big white prawns, which are now missing due to pollution. At present, you won’t find a single prawn here. We have lost many fish species in the River Sal because of pollution.

I became a chef purely through experience—I never studied to be one. The best way to cook fish is to grill it. In the old days, we would take coarse local salt, rub it on the fish, and light a fire using coconut leaves. We would place the fish on the fire, cover it with more coconut leaves, and let it cook. Within ten minutes, it would be done. Sometimes, if we didn’t have enough leaves, we would place the fish on banana leaves; otherwise, the outer part would get slightly burnt—but even the burnt bits tasted really good.

During low tide, we used to collect shells along the riverbank and light big fires using coconut leaves—there were plenty of them. We would then place all the kalvas (sea shells/oysters) on the fire. The taste was incredible—like a natural barbecue, truly out of this world. Even now, I can still recall that amazing flavour.