The crew hauled in the strangest fishing lure I'd ever seen, a large palm leaf encrusted with barnacles. Then again, panau fishing is a pretty unique method of catching fish, and practised in Sarawak only by the Melanau people, a coastal race of fisherfolk.

We were about an hour-and-a-half away from shore. There was green water beneath us of an unknown depth and an uneasy current. A sea snake swam out from under the boat and vanished into a sun-spangled sea. Musa shuddered and instructed the boat driver to move on. He wasn't planning to dive into the water with sea snakes about. A man of gentle demeanor and quiet authority, Musa was dark from days at sea and muscular from the exercise panau fishing brought. Yet, he was also surprisingly considerate of his visitors - my photographer friend and me.

He appeared to be the man in charge, if not by seniority, then by his relatively fluent English. We had first met him on the market jetty at Mukah - a friend of his had helped us find a boat and crew to go panau fishing with. We were relieved to discover that his boat was of a decent size, about 12 metres long. It gave us room to stay out of the crew's way when they worked.

The wooden boat, manned by a crew of eight, was slightly larger and more powerful than usual. According to Musa, it was powered by a sixty-horsepower diesel engine, in an experiment to see if it would be better then the normal forty-horsepower boats.

Musa, carrying on in the footsteps of his father, had been panau fishing for eleven years now. Much of the business is kept in the family, and the crew were all relatives of his. He told us fishing was much more arduous in his father's time.

Then, boats had used sails to reach the fishing grounds and, if the wind died, they had to use paddles. Now, engine-powered boats enabled them to go further out to sea. Yet, they can start later in the morning and return the same afternoon with some certainty of having fresh fish to sell in the market.

Musa was rusty with his English, having learnt it at school but not used it much since. Yet he persevered with it to accommodate us. Such courtesy was part of the Melanau's communal nature and it surfaced in many different forms.

The hat episode was one prime example. Having lost mine just the day before, I had come on board without one, and fully armed myself with sunglasses, a scarf and lots of sunblock.

Unknown to me, the crew decided among themselves that I needed a hat - which caused a small flurry in the cabin as they searched their belongings for something I could use. The most presentable thing they came up with was a hat of some uncertain pedigree, but it was the newest and cleanest one they had.

The next worry was whether or not it smelt too strongly of fish, so somebody gave it a quick salt-water rinse. Then they worried about how to give it to me. Musa eventually got the job, since he spoke the best English!

So by the time the hat made its appearance before me, there hung in the background an anxious crew watching and wondering whether I was going to snub it or not. The hat was as much a surprise as it was damp, but the gesture was made in such good faith, it was a pleasure to put it on. Meanwhile, my photographer and the rest of the crew, keeled over with pent-up laughter.

It was hard to fix the age of the older crew members, they all had such weather-beaten faces, Abdullah was clearly the youngest - his was the most unlined face, and he looked in his late teens. He too spoke English.

This was not the first time that they had visitors aboard. Apparently, they had earlier taken out journalists and film crews from Asia and Europe, and had tales to tell of people being hugely seasick although panau fishing is usually best done in calm waters. The boat chugged on, and navigated by the triangulation of landmarks.

The sea was heaving gently but there were no whitecaps. Along the way, the crew had untied a couple of ten metre poles and set up the net. It hung over one side of the boat, a giant V with a net between. This was called the idus and the search for fish began.

Where we had only seen waves, the crew saw floats - markers laid down on a previous trip to mark the position of the fishing lures. In the past, the floats were made from stems of palm trees like the nipah which grows in coastal mudflats. Today, while stems are still used, so are plastic bottles and styrofoam- a stark reflection of the times.

They pulled up one of these till they came to a soggy nipah palm frond, which in turn was attached to a weight. From the boat, eyes searched into the green water for signs of schooling fish which have a tendency to shelter under the palm fronds. panau fishing usually catches ikan duay hitam (black pomfret) or jamah, occasionally some others.

A cry went up - fish were spotted. The net was dipped into the water as Musa and another slipped on their diving masks. The boat operator manoeuvred the craft to move the net close to the lure and below the fish. The two divers then dove in after the school and herded them swiftly into the net. Once the fish were in, four men heaved the net up.

The operation was over in seconds. Glittering fish lay twitching in the net. The divers pulled the lure out of the net and clambered back aboard.

The fish were tipped out and loaded into styrofoam iceboxes kept in the hold. By then, the boat was moving on in search of the next marker. The operation was repeated several times but when the boat reached clearer water, a different technique was employed. When a shoal was spotted, instead of using the idus, a large cast net was used.

It was so big, it had to be paid out by three men. The water was too clear, said Musa. The fish would be able to see the idus and avoid it, which was why the cast net, or jala, was used.

By lunchtime, there was plenty of fresh fish to choose from to make umai - the traditional fisherman's lunch of raw fish, spiced with chilli and sour fruit like assam or lime, and eaten with sago pearls they called sagok.

Watching it being prepared on the deck was an experience. The crew were as scrupulously disciplined in preparing lunch as they were with the fishing itself. They worked quietly, effectively, almost intuitively. Abdullah started scaling a small bucket of fish. Musa took these over and filleted them with a practised hand that was a pleasure to watch. Though we had brought our own lunches, we happily traded them for a share of umai and sagok.

The fishing continued around the preparations for lunch. When he was needed, others filled in. It was a little past noon when the crew took a quick break to eat. A generous plate of umai was set before us. Although it was a simple working man's lunch which we ate with our hands, umai is considered a Melanau delicacy. It was refreshingly light and tangy, almost like the taste of sunshine and sea. Its moistness and flavour contrasted with crunchy handfuls of toasted sago pearls tossed into the mouth with each helping of umai. It was a meal flavoured with the day's fishing adventure, laughter and new friends made over the waves. For a long time after we left them with their day's catch, the warmth of their sharing lingered delightfully, like the first intoxicating taste of umai

The Kelabit Connection

Footloose In Sarawak

Pun Ritai's Home Page