Alleluias, alligators, ‘allapang loollas’ all in a day’s work

Gaston de ROSAYRO

A good part of my childhood was spent in the happy hunting grounds of Crows’ Island, which borders the estuary where the Kelani River merges with the sea. It was then considered among our city’s pristine wetlands. In the company of more than a half-dozen cousins, friends and neighbourhood kids we would wander down to the Kelani river bank and spend some of the happiest times of our lives in that magical environment.

It stood out as an ideal habitat for wetland biodiversity, and was considered one of the most valuable conservation areas in Colombo. Even decades later we savour those untroubled memories, which still make our hearts throb with nostalgia. Who can forget the happy cries when we splashed and frolicked in the crystal clear aquaducts that flowed into the Kelani. The rapture of little boys in those bucolic surroundings is easy to understand. To us it was a complete and sheer fantasy world where we played and gambolled to our heart’s content.The ‘kirala kelle’ wetlands whose trees towered above the marshes making fascinating patches of sun and shadow on the river. They offered an abundance of its delicious fruit, the marsh apple, which could be eaten on the spot or taken home and squeezed to make a delicious and invigorating drink.

Yes our fishing and serpent expeditions to the river and its surrounding channels were always exciting. We fished with flexible kitul rods and lines. But when we ran out of patience our foraging force would plunge reed baskets and hand-held nets into the shallows. The catch proved bountiful. We clapped our hands in glee as the submerged reed baskets and cast-nets handled by dexterous little hands emerged with an assortment of writhing fresh-water fish. Some were for the table, but the more ornamental species such as cherry barbs, silver salmon and the beautiful shimmering ones we dubbed ‘Goldeninos’ were for our aquariums.

Fishing with throw-nets would certainly have been frowned upon as decidedly unsporting by true anglers. But it was efficacious and a delightful prospect to boot, primarily because of the surprise element the practice provided. One never knew what freshwater denizens would materialize from the woven traps.

Squeals of delight accompanied every haul as the dripping nets surfaced with an assortment of silvery, slithering aquatic species imaginable. “Onna, onna ... loolla (snakehead fish) ... grab that crab and those pink prawns...” And what a mixed mélange the catch comprised - catfish, snakehead, eel, carp and the prized pink prawns. The crustaceans, which turned an impossible red when cooked was a dish everyone enjoyed.

There were also mud-crabs and the occasional water snake, which I myself extracted with care from the nets and placed in a separate wicker basket for a serpentarium for which I was paid handsomely.

We did experience some painful moments as well. Many were the times when we suffered the painful infliction of a hunga (stinging cat-fish) bone into our palms. When that happened, we gritted our teeth and flung the still slithering catfish on to the grassy bank. Then we took refuge behind a large bush amid the mangroves and gave the wound the ‘oochikapips’ treatment, as I had so creatively dubbed it.

We all had irrefutable faith in the efficacy of the ancient, local curative properties of urinating on the swelling perforation caused by the fish’s stinging bone defence. It was a faith born of home-grown experience. We had tried it time and again and it had worked with almost miraculous efficacy. The relief was fast and incredibly therapeutic. The throbbing in your palm would subside within minutes of the application. You could have called it all-round-relief.

But mostly the place was our secret hideaway. We had made up a rumour that we had spotted a crocodile in the channel. That is why even the professional fishermen in the area gave the place a wide berth. But one of the gang had turned traitor. We knew that Amitha was not to be trusted but we never imagined he would sell our dream playground by the river and all of us down the river. Only we knew about its existence. But he had the temerity to lead a half dozen girls to our secluded retreat.

When we arrived at the sanctuary we found that the most promising fishing spot was being hogged by a gaggle of girls bathing in their undies. The clear water had been disturbed and we realised that instead of asking his entourage to bathe in the swimming area he had encouraged them to do the unthinkable. Our gang had always considered bathing in the fishing channel inviolable. We did not mind them swimming in their unmentionables, but splashing and muddying our forbidden fishing ground preserves was sacrilegious.

We first asked Amitha to leave the premises. If he did not comply he knew he would be pelted with mud pies all the way to Vystwyke Road , the frontier of civilisation. He was asked to stay at the end of the gravel road to accompany his feminine companions home. After all, even clubs formed by eleven-year-olds did have their own unwritten constitutions. We made our presence felt and the giggling gaggle all moved to the deep end of the pond. One of the girls shouted at us: “We are not coming out until you leave.”

My friend Collie, the cool one, gave us his characteristic ‘let-me-handle it’ wink. Ignoring the intruders he cast his hand net into the reed filled water and came up a great big ‘loolla’ (snake head). He swung the fish over his head a couple of times yelling: “Algy, hey Algy!” He then turned to the bevy of bathers huddled at the end of pond: “We did not come down here to watch you girls swim or make you get out of the pond in your undies. We only came here to feed Algy the crocodile!”

As the girls screamed and ran for their lives an elated Collie kept yelling: “Alleluia, Alleluia ...Allapang Loolla!”

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