Fishing with Gaffey          <<Back to Articles

The day after Indonesian Independence Day (17 Aug) Rowan Brown and I were lucky enough to have the chance to fish with David Gaffey, an ex-pat Australian working for Freeport Indonesia, based at Tembagapura in the highlands of West Papua. We were to fish the lowlands for the day, chasing Barramundi and other saltwater fish. "Jo" is an Australian dentist that works for Freeport Mining Indonesia as a dentist. We travelled with her on this trip. This trip was only possible with the help of Freeport Mining Indonesia.

"Beep Beep..." announced the alarm at exactly three fifteen in the morning. I rolled over and let out a long groan, wishing that I had just one more minute of sleep. Jo sided with the alarm by calling out from her room on the other side of the apartment. The resulting noise didn't budge Rowan from his bed. Well, neither of us were in a bed, I was on the couch in the living room and Rowan was sprawled on the floor near the door next to the latest Harry Potter book. We both eventually staggered into an upright position and gathered up the pre-prepared gear.

            “You’d better be ready for Gaffy, nobody here is ever late. If he says he’ll be here at quarter to four, then he will be” remarked Jo. She continued as if part of the background noise “My reputation is on the line here, I teeded this up for you guys, remember?”

            I replied: “I know, Jo, we’re ready to go now. Get back to bed and don’t worry about it.”

            Right on time, a white Land Cruiser, virtually identical to all of its own kind throughout Tembagapura arrived. We carried all of the gear down the stairs and met Gaffy, grinning and very much alive. Obviously he was used to getting up at such ridiculous hours, we were struggling to stay awake at all. All of the rods and tackle were loaded into the back, while Rowan climbed into the rear seat and said nothing more; very odd for Mr Brown. I handed Gaffy his gift of Gin from Cairns then sat in the front and chatted to him as we left Tembagapura.

            Soon enough we arrived at the first checkpoint, which seemed to be unmanned.

            Gaffy remarked “They open at four AM, I guarantee they will not come out a single minute earlier. They’re probably asleep.”

            At exactly one minute past four, the door at the guard post creaked open and two men in blue military-style security uniforms stepped out, looking half-asleep. One demanded to see our identification, which we gave him. He swiped each of our cards, each swipe followed by a feeble “beep” from the attached computer. The words “Access granted,” as well as the time of day appeared on the screen. He gave us the cards back, wished us well and returned to the building hunched over and rubbing his eyes. We headed down the dirt road in the dark.

            “I have seen cuscus on this road before, just walking across” declared Gaffy.

            I asked him what they looked like.

            “Like cuscus!” he chuckled. “Well, I guess they are dark brown, almost grey. They are pretty slow moving, and docile. I don’t see many, maybe once every so many trips.”

            I replied “It’s amazing that when we stayed with the Kamoro the other day, that they have hunted their cuscus to extinction in the Iweka area.”

            Gaffey replied “The Papuans are a funny lot, no thought for conservation. They will eat today and starve tomorrow.”

            By now Rowan was asleep. I was struggling to keep my eyes open. We continued rumbling  down the wet, steep, snaking road until we reached Mile 50. The security guards there also wanted to see our ID. Once again the cards were swiped, and our travel times appeared on the screen. Curiously enough, they varied by up to a minute or so.

            The next mission was to collect the boat from the Sandvik depot, just out of Timika. After greeting the Security guards present there, which all seemed to know Gaffy by name, we drove into the main complex, basically a massive tin roof erected over a concrete floor. All sorts of mining related equipment sat in the shelter there. Gaffey’s boat sat there in its own bay, ready to go.

            As Gaffy fiddled around with various bits and pieces, I noticed huge numbers of South East Asian Toads gobbling up any insect to hit the floor under the lights. Clinging to a dividing wall were a number of Hawk Moths, their heavily camouflaged delta shaped wings hiding their bright orange abdomen and pink hindwings. When disturbed, they would shiver to warm up, then launch with a loud hum. Microhylid frogs called from the swamp just outside, their high pitched whistling calls interrupting the other rainforest sounds. Gaffy had lost the straps for the boat, and after a brief search decided that they had been moved.

            “Let’s go, we’ll just have to drive carefully” he grunted with slight annoyance in his tone.

            With that we headed off to Mile 0- the Freeport Port Site. I must have slept, because I opened my eyes on daybreak at the port. We were on a concrete pad, on one side were a heap of shipping containers while a number of Papuans waited next to a cyclone wire fence on the other side waiting to board a boat that was moored on a small, rundown jetty. Beyond the cyclone wire, tall mangroves reached for the sky. It was raining- sideways. Cool, humid conditions and strong winds made the fishing look uninviting to say the least.

            “It may clear up sooner or later” said Gaffy  “…Well, what do you want to do? Fish this or look for something else? I’m easy.”

            Rowan replied “Well... we came this far, after all. We should fish this. I don’t mind getting wet.”

            I agreed.

            A middle aged Papuan lady approached us with a woven plastic bag. Gaffy called her over and asked her a few questions in Bahasa Indonesia. She opened the bag and ran a wrinky hand through its contents.

            “She’s got prawns, not Cherabins but Banana prawns. Not bad either” called out Gaffy. “I might buy some... Nah stuff it, we’ll get some later maybe.”

            I was appointed the task of getting the boat off the trailer. After near killing myself on the greasy, steep ramp, I stood in the rain waiting for Gaffy to back the boat in. I made the discovery that the ramp was greasy enough for me to stand perfectly still and slide towards the water without moving a muscle. When the boat had come back far enough, I put a rock behind the wheel, as the brakes were not up to scratch. The boat slid off the rollers. Not a bad piece of equipment, either. It was built from a kit Gaffy and a friend had imported. Perfect for the task, it had a V-nose, casting platform, carpet and a wireless electric motor mounted on the front. A sounder and GPS were mounted near the tiller for easy viewing by the skipper. Gaffy parked the Toyota and joined us in the boat.

            I was not looking forward to the weather ahead. With a turn of the key, the engine came to life. We sped out into a network of channels, then finally, after negotiating obscure shortcuts here and there through the mangroves we entered the main river.

            Gaffey informed us: "We just have to pop in and see the army.”

            “The army?” I enquired

            “Yep, they have a small outpost here; a friend of mine drove past them without thinking and was fired upon. He had to surrender and turn back to see them.”

            We puttered towards a collection of Kamoro houses built up on stilts. We headed for a crude jetty jutting out onto the river. Gaffy handed me the rope, asking:

“Tie us up, would ya?”

            A young Papuan stood on the jetty looking at us with interest, a broad smile appearing on his face. Gaffy pointed at him.

            “Don’t throw it to ‘Old mate’ there, he won’t tie it up for you.”

            I tied the boat up, and Gaffey climbed out onto the jetty using a rough looking ladder than had been affixed to the side. Rowan and I followed. We were first greeted by a young White Bellied Sea Eagle, obviously a pet- it sat on a perch screeching at us, between screeches it would survey us with one of its glassy, intelligent eyes.

            Next, a young Indonesian soldier approached us. He was nice enough, but still very formal. Soon we were granted the “all clear,” so we walked back to the boat. On the way I noticed a small camouflage coloured shack among the coconut palms, about the size of a beachside bathing-box. It had corrugated iron walls and the front was green. It had an Arabic Mosque crudely painted on the doors.

            “I didn’t know Kamoro were Islamic.” I said to Gaffy.

            He replied “They’re not, the Mosque is for the soldiers.”

            Gaffy chatted to the young Kamoro man who was intently watching us. He seemed overly friendly, which meant he wanted something.

            “That cheap bloke wants some free lures. He’s seen me catch fish on lures before, I gave him one and he caught fish on it and now everyone wants them. Never give anything for free, you must always trade, it's their way of life."

            We had barely left the Kamoro village, and a canoe sped past, powered by its Freeport Mining issued outboard. Gaffey signalled them and they slowed down. They had gillnets on board, the floor of the boat was littered with a variety of fish. Forktailed Catfish, Bream, Croakers (Jewfish,) Barramundi, Threadfin Salmon and the weird Nursery Fish were all present. I was particularly fascinated by the Nursery Fish (Kurtus sp.) These fish are also found in far northern Australia. Apart from the odd hatchet-shape these fish have, the males have a hook on the head. This is used to carry bunches of eggs around, exposing them to oxygen rich water. We stopped for a look at their catch.

            Gaffy said: “Go on, pick one up- but don’t lose it over the side or we’ll have to pay for it.”

            Rowan reached into the canoe, lifting out the biggest Nursery Fish, which I photographed.

            We drove on, Gaffy pointed to a bank covered in mangroves.

            “See that bank over there? I remember one day a Crocodile took up residence there, a big bastard. A Papuan hunter decided he wanted it, so he came ashore nearby, crept through the mud, right up behind the croc and shot it – with a bow and arrow. Still the biggest I have seen here, around twelve feet long.”

            As we continued up a mangrove-fringed tributary we began to set up the gear. I had left Rowan’s baitcasting reel back at Tembagapura by accident, so we unpacked everything else and Gaffy lent Rowan a reel to use. I rigged up my custom 6-8kg “Barra Beast” rod with a Daiwa Millionaire 253A and 10kg braid. We stopped in the middle of the river and Gaffy set up his Minn Kota electric outboard, mounted on the front.

            "This is wireless, the driver has the remote control on the wrist.”

            He explained the buttons and handed me the remote to wear. It was just like a Velcro-attached wrist watch, with green rubber buttons. I started the motor and marvelled at how strange it was to be controlling a motor with no wires. We cruised parallel to the bank, flicking lures into the snags and mangrove roots.

            “Last Saturday, we caught and released around one hundred barra” commented Gaffy. "Also, I reckon there's Bull Sharks up this far. I've hung dead fish over the side and had them torn in half in one go. Whaddaya reckon?"

            Conditions were improving. The rain had stopped and the air was getting warmer. The mangroves towered high above us, taller than any I had seen in Australia. Perhaps the lack of wind here allowed them to grow so high. Epiphytes clustered on the branches, one common one was the peculiar Ant-House Plant, which has bulbous stems which are hollowed out for the purpose of attracting ants to colonise them. The ants in turn provide protection for the plant. Many orchids also sat perched on horizontal branches over the water. A large assortment of birds, many of which were too fast to be identified flicked through the branches. Overhead, many parrot species screeched their way across the sky. Green male Eclectus parrots, escorted by their bright red and blue mates periodically flew over. Sulphur Crested Cockatoos, Red Cheeked Parrots and an assortment of Lorikeets, Fig Parrots and all sorts of other unidentified parrots also rocketed through in small, noisy flocks.

            “Do you ever see Birds Of Paradise here?” I enquired.

            “Yeah, sometimes. You see all sorts of things here… “Oh, I’m on! Dammit, he’s spat it!” Gaffy's lure had just been smashed by a fish. Our hopes rose a tiny bit.

            Rowan cast at a snag and wound his Rapala lure down deep. His rod took on a curve. I thought he was snagged, but his line sliced upwards, and a small Barra half-jumped before coming in. Rowan hooted in delight.

            “He didn’t fight that much” he said, as he netted the half-metre fish and swung it aboard.

            "I thought you were snagged there for a second” I commented, genuinely proud of his effort.

            “Nah…” said Rowan “…I knew I had a fish on, I just didn’t say anything.”

            Rowan did what he does best,  posing with the fish for photos while we congratulated him on his first Barramundi.

            “Ha!” I announced “…I have taken Rowan fishing so many times back in Australia for Barra. I have caught them while he has been there, but we joked he may get his first one here, rather than back in Oz.”

            “Well, I have seen you catch barra by accident” proclaimed Rowan, full of pride himself. “And furthermore, we have only fished for them twice, only once you caught them” he added.

            Gaffy asked Rowan. “What do you want to do with it? We could keep it if you like, or fish for a bigger one”

            “I’ll let him go and try for a bigger one, besides, we have two already” Rowan replied.

            We continued for no more fish, we all had them hit our lures though. The next stop was another estuary nearby, which we sped over to, casting at a bank of mangrove roots with four metres of water underneath them.

            “We often get Fingermark here” commented Gaffy.

            Rowan cast at a stump against the bank, after I had a small bump on my lure. As soon as he twitched his lure, the head of a barra- mouth wide open inhaled the lure on the surface. Rowan yelled out in delight.

            “This one’s fighting much harder” he said.

            The fish stayed deep and did not jump at all. Eventually it was scooped up in the net, and Rowan was happier than ever. Being who he is, he could not resist having a go at me.

            “Where are all your barra?” he taunted.

            I ignored him, instead congratulating him, as I usually catch all the fish.

            “You’re not as much of an arsehole as I imagined. You congratulate me without any bite in your tone.”

            I joked “You've just used up all of my kindness points. No more mercy for you. I'll catch something better, you'll see.” I sincerely hoped I would.

            More photos were taken of this fish, just over two feet long, and it was put in the icebox. Gaffy’s electric motor was playing up by this stage; it would turn off without warning and not respond to commands.

            “I’ve had enough of this damn thing!” he screamed as he kicked it and roughhoused it into its holder. “Nothing but trouble, the first time it stuffed up we sent it back to Darwin and they said it was all OK. They didn’t even look at it properly.” He inspected it and found that the fine internal wires had worn through. He swore.

            We zipped across the massive expanse of muddy water to the other side of the river. Nypa palms occupied entire sections of bank, soccerball-like fruits loaded with brown seeds. Tall, towering mangrove forests also lined the banks here. By now it was hot and the sky was showing signs of clearing. We cast at a large log pile, and Gaffy’s lure was hit. Gaffey put loads of pressure on the fish, almost skipping it straight out of the water. It was a Pikey Bream, not a bad size but not what we were after.

            “Do you want to have a go at some Archerfish?” Asked Gaffy.

            “Yeah, I’ve never actually caught one. How big are they here?” I asked.

            “They get to about a kilo or so.” Replied Gaffy.

            We raced up the river, swerving sideways into a small side-creek. We continued along it, surrounded on either side by lush mangroves. A Mangrove Monitor (Varanus indicus) slipped into the water, swimming with only its green-flecked black head showing, crocodile style before dipping under in the slopping wake of the boat. We tied up to a log, with a massive row of Nypa palms to the right and a sunken tree to the left. We thought we could see archerfish, but weren’t sure. All of the surface cruising fish were just out of identification range, most would have been mullet. We cast for about half an hour for no result. We’d had enough of this creek, so we packed up and drove up another, the wake of the speeding boat slapping on the riverbank.

            The water in this creek was not as muddy, but still difficult to spot fish in. Archerfish gathered on a sunken branch that protruded out of the water. I cast at it and the biggest raced straight over and engulfed the lure, then spat it. I hooked this fish maybe three times and lost it each time. Gaffy had seen enough, so he elected to drive us out to the main river and have a last cast. As we met the main river, a canoe full of Kamoro sat against the bank, casting lures with handlines. As it turned out (not surprisingly) Gaffy had supplied them. They weren’t catching much, so we raced over to the other side of the massive river. A small (150m across) tributary met the main river next to an abrupt bank. I asked if we could troll the bank for a fish.

            “Looks like a good bank” Gaffy agreed, “We’ll have a couple of runs with the lures and see what’s there. It’s really deep along that edge.”

            I clipped on a deep diving Classic Barra in orange/gold and fed it out in the wake. The sounder showed the riverbank dropped vertically into over twenty metres of water. The entire way down there were sunken logs jutting out, each with a cluster of fish showing up. We made three passes of the bank, each time my lure was belted but did not hook up. On the final pass, the rod was nearly torn from my hands in a massive strike. Line continued to peel from the reel. I thought I may have hooked a Papuan Black or Spot Tailed Bass. It ran for deeper water as the others wound their lines in and Gaffy followed it. Gaffy suggested I may have hooked onto a big Giant Trevally, or GT for short.

            “Yeah, I’ve caught some big GTs in this river; my biggest was taken while casting for barra. It went twenty-six kilograms. You could have a big GT on here.”

            I sincerely hoped it wasn’t. Sure, I wanted to catch a big trevally, but where I live in Airlie Beach, big GTs are on tap. I was hoping the fish was a monster Black Bass or even a big Jewfish. There was even a possibility of a monster barra as it slugged down deep.

            Rowan called out to the fish: “C’mon, bust off. Earn your freedom” then laughed in sheer envy.

            An hour passed and we had been pulled around in circles and not seen the fish at all. I was hoping my ten kilogram line would hold. My arms were certainly feeling the pressure. Gaffy and Rowan called out:

            “Hurry up and land the thing, we haven’t got all day.”

            My answer, through gritted teeth got the message through that watching was far easier than hauling this monster in.

            Meanwhile, Gaffy fished about in a box and produced a video camera. Switching it on, he aimed it at me and started his own commentary. An interview followed to pass the time.

            After an hour and a half we finally got a view of the broad silver sides of the fish. When the stiff, forked tail broke the surface about fifteen metres away, I knew my adversary- a good GT. Although not what I wanted I was still happy to have got this far. More circling and tug-of war continued. Eventually, after the fish pulled out of range a few times, Gaffy locked his fish gripper into the GT's mouth and secured a rope around the tail wrist. The fish was heaved aboard, much to my relief. The lure clip had actually opened in the fight but somehow the fish stayed connected. I posed with the fish for photos before it was weighed- at 25kg (57 pound)- just short of Gaffy’s record 26kg GT. The fish was revived in the propeller wash. I thought about keeping it to trade with the Kamoro, but decided against it. Rowan had similar ideas, but unusually for him, kept his mouth shut until the fish was released. The fish swam into the murky water never to be seen again.

            Gaffy took his "short cut" back to Portsite. This involved racing full speed through a narrow tributary, dodging Nypa palms and mangroves. I ignored how close we were to striking objects, and if I was to die at least it would be in a nice place. Eventually we reached the army outpost once we made it to the main river.

            Making landfall, we were once again greeted by the young Papuan, still wearing his massive grin. It turned out his name was Titus. Gaffey spoke to him for a few minutes. Titus called out to an old man with greying, curly hair, watching the ground. The old man barely said a word, obviously trusting Titus to bargain for him. The old man was breathing through a massive, cone shaped cigarette, made of home-grown tobacco rolled in a green banana leaf. He quietly puffed away on it while listening to the proceedings. In Indonesian, Gaffy asked if they had canoe paddles.

            Turning to Rowan and I, Gaffy simply said “I collect carved paddles, these guys may have some here.”

            The old man produced a two and a half metre long paddle, carved from a single log and fire-hardened. The blade was wonderfully carved in a rough willow-leaf shape, pointed at the tip. A spine had been added for strength and the blade had been carved perfectly curved. Gaffy was not interested, as it was not a ceremonial paddle (for ceremonial paddling?) Rowan was fast to ask a price. Titus’ face lit up. He suggested one hundred and fifty thousand rupiah (about twenty Australian dollars.)

            Rowan immediately said “Deal.”

            The old man’s face lit up with joy. It cost me five thousand rupiah to take a series of photos of the old man and his paddle, which Titus grabbed off me with glee. The paddle was handed over and we wished the Kamoro well and continued our journey.

            “We’ll stop over at the Island on the way back. I wouldn’t mind a feed of mudcrabs” commented Gaffy.

            On the way to the “Island” we trolled a patch of deep oyster covered rocks known as “Barnacle Bill’s” for no result, except a jarring strike. We also cast at some snags in the aqua and grey coloured mine tailings for one missed strike from a barra. A light brown sea snake with chocolate coloured saddles came up for a breath under my rod tip and vanished once more into the milky swirling waters.

            As we sped up, the Portsite got closer and closer. We slowed as we approached a cluster of houses on stilts in the mud. These seem to be the typical Kamoro houses of the mangrove areas. We had seen plenty of them so far. Rubbish lay all over the ground as children played in the rapidly fading light. This was allegedly the “Island.” As the boat pulled up a crowd gathered. Adults and children alike ran out colourfully dressed in grubby clothes, with mudcrabs wrapped in mangrove and banana leaves and tied up with short lengths of twine. Immediately the bartering began. They obviously took Rowan and I for fools, trying to offload the less meaty female and damaged crabs first- who could blame them though? It’s not often that they get a chance to make a few rupiah on westerners so they try anything. Once they knew that we were not as stupid as we looked we were treated with a little more respect. Mudcrabs were being put in our hands, I inspected them and pushed many back into the hands they came from. The whole time, a young Kamoro sat next to me, as shy as they come, quietly asking me to buy his mudcrabs. We had to keep our resolve strong. Eventually we bought some crabs, five of them ranging in price from 10 500 to 21 000 rupiah. This was around $1.50 to $3.00 each, a tenth or less of the price for a single crab in Australia.

            We wished the Kamoro well and departed as the sun sank, arriving at the boat ramp in a few minutes. As Gaffy collected the car among the masses of shipping containers, Rowan and I took shots at targets with a catapult that lay on the ground.

            Soon the boat was on the trailer and we were on our way back to the storage facility- a half hour drive through swampland on a dirt track. The boat was hosed down, in the background were various noises coming from the jungle. Fireflies sped over the ground, flashing their green lights, illuminating large green circles on the road. Rowan had never seen one, so I caught one to show him. It was much bigger than any Australian species I had seen. In the light it was black and white striped- like a sunflower seed- only larger, almost as big as a cashew nut. It flickered its incredibly bright light in protest and let out a foul smell. We let it go.

            After the boat was stored away we drove up the mountain back to Tembagapura. Just before the first mine checkpoint at Mile 50, we spotted a large brown snake crossing the road. I yelled out to stop. Gaffy hit the brakes and backed up. The snake had gone- or so it seemed. A few minutes of searching revealed it was hiding next to the massive concrete base of a power pylon. I recognised it right away as a D’Albertis’ Python (Leiopython albertsii.) The body was honey brown with a jet black head. The lips had a zebra pattern of black and white. The entire body was coated with an opalescent sheen. I tailed the snake and after a frantic search we found the perfect thing to put it in- the mudcrab sack. Gaffy did not like the sound of me taking the snake in his car all the way back. I insisted, so with a bit of messing about, Gaffy grabbed thrashing and snapping snake behind the head and dumped it in the bag. I tied it up and we were on our way. For the first time, I noticed the calls of masses of Microhylid frogs beeping away in the forest. I badly wanted to look for them, but Gaffy didn’t want to catch the snake, so I didn’t ask about going on a frog hunt. We eventually arrived in Tembagapura and unloaded the gear. Jo was delighted with the crabs we brought back, and the photos of the fish we had caught, as well as the paddle.

            We immediately contacted Colin Tilbury to show him the snake. It was quite late at this stage. He seemed delighted to see the snake. Apparently he had never seen a D’Albertis’ Python this size- around 1.2 metres, or four feet long. We photographed it on a tree outside his house in the cold drizzle. Colin also had a species of Tarantula in a margarine container in the kitchen. He offered to show me, so I happily accepted and took many photos of it. I can’t understand the general human hatred of spiders. They’re not out to get you. They can be- well, they all are fascinating. This one was mostly chocolate brown. The first main segment of each leg was jet black. Not all that big, it had a leg span of around ten centimetres or so.

            In the distance I could hear more Microhylid frogs calling with a series of high pitched trills. Colin and I walked to their source and found that we were being followed by security. We told the security guard what we were looking for and he seemed unconcerned. The frogs were calling on the other side of somebody’s house, behind a security fence and up a steep slope deep in the moss forest. We decided against looking for them due to security risks, and also that it was midnight. Jo and I bid Colin farewell, leaving the snake with him to release where we found it.

To be continued...