It's July and the driest time of the year in this narrow rainforest valley. The Gurah River from the jungle meets the Alas River snaking its way south between the two mountain ranges. Then spreads out into a miniature delta behind Ketambe village. The rain hasn't come for over a week now and the once raging current has slowed to a trickle over the round, riverbed stones.
Tonight the usually empty blackness behind the house, where we know the river to be, is spotted with pinpoints of light hovering like fireflies. Our young nieces next door drag grandma into the backyard pointing in excitement. "Fishermen!"
Down at the rocky shore more and more people gather to watch or join in. Beams of light from head-torches bouncing as they make their way into the water. They move and stack stones, manipulating the direction of the stream to drive fish through bottlenecks, then wade through the shallows with nets scooping up the exposed fish. Some have lit small fires to rest by. A large group of women sit around the flames chatting, their haul safe in buckets beside them. Smoke wafts through the air, illuminated by the lights of the village.
Safar sits in the darkness watching and reminiscing about his childhood. The best memories always seem to involve fishing. It's mostly quiet as people focus on outsmarting the wriggling creatures. The usual white noise from the rushing river is gone. Here a cicada whistle reverberates through the air. There a steady "plonk-splash, plonk-splash" of stones being rearranged. Occasionally in the distance a call to a friend. The night sails by. Then slowly, one by one, people gather their catch and wander back home.
