Photo StoryPublished : Aug 08, 2022Updated : Sep 30, 2024
As forest-dependent communities transition towards more contemporary ways of living, the phasing out of age-old, sustainable fishing practices destroys the once wild forest streams of the Andaman Islands
Text and photos by: Sumer Rao
As forest-dependent communities transition towards more contemporary ways of living, the phasing out of age-old, sustainable fishing practices destroys the once wild forest streams of the Andaman Islands
At the crack of dawn, on the outskirts of Webi, a sleepy village on Middle Andaman Island, Saw Athaeung crouches over his buh, a traditional fishing trap. He’s attempting last-minute repairs to its cylindrical bamboo mesh. Athaeung practices an age-old fishing technique he learnt from his father, who was an expert bamboo craftsman like most members of the Andaman Karen community. Originally a forest-dependent people from Myanmar (erstwhile Burma), the Karen migrated to the Andaman Islands between 1925 and 1927 to work as labourers in the islands’ then burgeoning timber industry. The ecological similarities between their native landscape and the Andaman forests helped them transition and adapt to their new home. Here, their vast knowledge of traditional medicinal and nutritional uses of flora and skills such as woodworking remained relevant. The buh sits at the intersection of this knowledge and skill and was once an integral part of a foraging-fishing lifestyle. This lifestyle was centred around responsible use of resources and understanding that extracting resources from wild spaces must be managed if they are to continue to provide. The buh’s high selectivity and non-invasive method of capture permits the safe release of undersized fish and allows them to reach maturity and eventually breed. This makes it sustainable and separates it from most fishing gear utilised today.
With the transition towards more contemporary ways of living, island communities are rapidly losing such sustainable practices. This loss is symbolic of a changing relationship between people and their forests. The buh is a relic from a time not long ago, and Athaeung remains one of the last few from the community to still fish with it.
After weeks of uninterrupted sunshine, I am to accompany Athaeung on an overnight fishing trip to document his use of the ingenious yet disappearing bamboo trap. The surrounding evergreen forests harbour an emerald, vein-like network of perennial and intermittent streams, which carry a surprising diversity and abundance of native fish and crustaceans. These streams have long supported traditional fishers like Athaeung, whose fishing practices are intrinsic to maintaining long-term livelihoods. In recent years, however, these freshwater habitats have been plagued by illegal and highly detrimental fishing methods, like poisoning, where sections of forest streams are loaded with insecticides to quickly and indiscriminately catch large quantities of fish. For the people who rely on poison, it is an avenue to make fast money with little regard for the impact on fragile ecosystems. “The use of poison is depleting fish stocks,” says Athaeung, “I have to travel further and further into the forest to reach some of the last still-viable sites. This wasn’t the case ten years ago….”
Over the previous few days, I had the privilege of watching Athaeung build a new buh (3) to replace an older one, which, after years of use, had weathered to the point of no return. Crafted using locally harvested bamboo (1) and cane and woven together using salvaged fishing rope (2), the buh is a sustainable fishing method, owing to its high selectivity. Drawn in by bait loaded in the trap’s main chamber, fish are guided into the buh by inward-facing teeth, which lead to an opening just wide enough for them to enter. Once inside, the sharpened ends keep fish from exiting the same way. Accumulated fish are later removed by untying the trap’s base, which also serves as a lid.
Athaeung looks around to ensure he has all he needs for a night in the forest — two buhs, a few handfuls of rice, a woven basket, hooks, a fishing line, and the ever-faithful dao (a local machete). He loads his equipment onto both sides of a cane rod. Exhaling sharply, he lifts his scanty provisions and signals to me to follow.
Five weary hours later, Athaeung halts abruptly and places his supplies down before darting off into the undergrowth. “Charra!” he exclaims, setting to work with his dao, gently cleaving off a section of a termite mound (1) and placing it into a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. “Termites make good bait for predatory freshwater fish,” he explains, “Bee larvae work best, but termites are a close second.” Bait selection for the buh is subject to the species being targeted. Traps placed in brackish waters to catch freshwater eels (genus Anguilla) are usually baited with the invasive giant African snail (Achatina fulica), which has replaced native snail species (2) as preferred bait, owing to their ever-increasing abundance. Athaeung recalls fishing for monkey prawn (Macrobrachium lar) using grated coconut as bait. “We’d manage upwards of 3 kg of prawn in a single night,” he tells me. “With all the poison being used in the streams today, it’s no surprise those days are long behind us.”
Many island settler communities now use agricultural insecticides to catch large quantities of freshwater fish and prawns to sell in local markets. This method is especially predominant along intermittent streams during the dry season, as water levels drop and fish are forced to aggregate in pools.
“I have witnessed the rampant abuse of Polidol in the islands’ forest streams, from South to Little Andaman and even as far as Great Nicobar,” says Dr Manish Chandi, a research scholar at the Andaman and Nicobar Environment Team. “This is a hugely detrimental activity which poses a threat not just to the islands’ unique freshwater biodiversity and the livelihoods of sustenance fishers, but also to human health, through the consumption of poisoned fish. While greater vigilance from appropriate authorities is required to curb this issue, the importance of education and raising awareness amongst the general public cannot be overstated,” he adds.
Athaeung begins preparing his bait for use. He burns the cleaved-off termite mound until its exterior is charred (1) and then breaks it into smaller pieces to place inside the trap’s main chamber. Burning ensures that most insects retreat to the interior (2). Athaeung believes the potent burnt smell also draws predatory fish from a greater distance upstream.
We’re after one the most sought-after local freshwater fish species, the brown dwarf snakehead (Channa gachua), known as kaala maachi or nya li in Karen. “When fishing for kaala maachi the placement of the buh is key,” he says. “These fish utilise underwater features like submerged logs, roots, and crevices to wait for unsuspecting prey. You’re not likely to catch many fish if you place the buh in a clear pool without vegetation and debris”. Rocks are positioned around the buh to keep it submerged, and debris is used to camouflage the trap, leaving only the mouth open and allowing it to blend into the benthos (stream floor). Traps are left submerged overnight and collected the next day.
The following morning, there is a flurry of activity as Athaeung lifts the first buh out of the water. The main chamber is full of brown dwarf snakeheads, their greenish-black scales glistening in the light. Athaeung flashes a toothy grin. “This is a good catch. Let’s hope the other buh did just as well.” We collect the second trap, also brimming with fish, and return to camp before embarking on our long journey home. Adapted to life in hypoxic conditions, snakeheads (genus Channa) can survive out of water for considerable periods of time. The fish are transported back alive while still inside the traps, with strategic stops to dip the buhs in water to help tide their tenants over.
Hours later, we’re greeted by his grandchildren, eagerly waiting to look at and help segregate the catch. As word-of-mouth spreads, members of the community drop by to buy fish. According to traditional Karen medicine, kaala maachi is a great source of iron and is used as a nutritional supplement for anaemia.
An Andaman keelback (Xenocrophis tytleri), a common endemic water snake, had hitchhiked in the buh, entering it the same way as the fish (1). While most fishing gear causes significant bycatch (capture and mortality of non-target species), animals like snakes and juvenile fish that enter the buh are released unharmed. The snake was allowed to disappear into the bushes (2). Similarly, undersized juvenile brown dwarf snakeheads were released into a nearby stream. For Athaeung, fishing in the forest has always been a way of life, and he understands the importance of not depleting fish stocks.
Today, Athaeung is one of few remaining fishers using a buh. Across the Andaman Islands, the use of agricultural insecticides to catch freshwater fish and prawns by poisoning sections of forest streams is growing exponentially. “Poison kills indiscriminately,” says Athaeung. “Fish of all sizes, prawns, snakes, and sometimes even the birds which scavenge on the poisoned fish…nothing makes it. It becomes challenging because there just aren’t enough fish left.”
This article is part of a WWF India-Dakshin Foundation initiative to document wildlife and conservation issues from the Andaman Islands.
About the contributor
Sumer Rao
is a marine biologist and dive professional who works with WWF India’s marine conservation programme. His research interests lie in coral reefs and their management, movement ecology and traditional fisheries.
