We three children were excited. We had never been fishing before, although we had seen our father’s fisherman’s box of tackle. We knew that he had several rods, and reels, too, and we had practiced reeling in the line. John and I were going to use one of those rods and reels, and I think Peter, who was only four years old, had a makeshift rod, a half-rod, really, with a short line attached to it. My mother refused to fish. She was going to be the security guard, she said, though, at the time, we didn’t question what she meant by this.
For this outing, my father had purchased some worms from our tiny village shop, so we were all set for a lovely day trying our hands at fishing. A real adventure.
When we reached the water, a river about 20ft. wide, we three children were told that we had to be very quiet. Otherwise, the fish would know we were there and wouldn’t come towards our baited hooks. We had strict instructions not to get into the water, too, although, we knew by then that there would be little danger of our catching bilharzia, because the river was running relatively fast. The minute snails, in which live the parasitic worms which cause the illness bilharzia in humans, can thrive only in very still waters.
I recall quite clearly the fact that my mother wasn’t thrilled with this expedition. Far from it. Right from the beginning, she refused point blank to fish. Instead, she sat underneath a nearby tree, alternately reading a book and watching us, whilst she held, clenched in her hand, a large axe. As a city girl born and raised in England, she probably viewed this excursion as sheer madness. After all, our family was new to Africa, and she was not very happy about the prospect of various animals, which could be hiding in the long grass all around us. So, there she stayed, seated on the ground, on a cloth of some kind, under the shade of a tree, where she clutched that axe as if our lives depended upon it.
Next, we three children didn’t want to dig out from the tin can, any of the squirming worms and put one onto our respective hooks. It was gross. The thought of doing so made me feel quite sick. John and Peter weren’t any better than me in this respect. So, my father was kept busy running backwards and forwards between the three of us, adding bait, which we sometimes lost almost immediately. I don’t think he had much time for his own fishing, in the end. It was an exhausting exercise, and my mother certainly wasn’t going to let go of her axe, to help. In any case, I can’t imagine her ever being able to pick out a juicy morsel from the can of massed worms, let alone pierce this living creature with a metal hook. She was squeamish at the best of times.
