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FISHING FOR SIERRA LEONE It's hard to argue mysticism versus logic, but it was an okay response to non- believers. Cobus was happy running his security company in Freetown. It ptotected NGOs, businesses, and individuals. It hadn't turned a profit yet, but there were new inquiries every day, new clients, and hope. More and more foreigners showed up at Paddy's Bar, and these people knew that any busin ess venture here needed securi ty, especially in this place where people were focused on diamonds. With peace on the horizon and thousands of armed rebels and soldiers wi thout jobs, crime was rapidly replacing warfa re as the growth industry of the day. Cobus was also going through a transformation. He had come here to kill people; he was armed and prepared to land in a generic African cesspool to "sort things out." Now he used those skills to help businesses, aid organizations, and investors to conduct their business. He'd also set his sights on a higher goal: tourism, and once again fish played a big part in it. We were just seven degrees north of the equator. The coastline was fl at, with fetid mangroves that led into dense secondary jungle. Further inland were small hills and weathered mountains-nothing to really attract the backpacker or intrepid tourist. The government had set up a number of game parks and reserves-at least on paper. Cobus knew that the real riches of Sierra Leone were under the ocean, and he knew that tourism-or the money generated by it-could help put Sierra Leone back on its feet. People could pay big dollars for catch-and-release fishing in a pristine envitonment. He wanted me to go ro see the secret SpOt where we would find "Big Silver." We rolled the boat into the water and within the few minutes it took to get ready the warm, sunny day became a black maelstrom of horizontal rain, lightning, and large waves. We waited a piece for the storm to pass; then it was a perfect trop ical day. I couldn't help but think that it was an exact mirror of the political situation. The trip to the islands took us past the coastline and beaches south of Freetown. The scenery transformed into vistas of light endless golden crescents of beach interrupted by rocky points set off by curtains of palms and anchored by the dark green forested mountains that rose behind them. Fresh water flowed from rivers, herons flew over the jungles, and there was not a soul in sight. It was the view that greeted the Portuguese 500 years ago. If you didn't know the horror within, you would assume this was somewhere in the Caribbean. Previous explorers had remarked on the native fisherman's pristine li festy le and resistance to change here. In fact, these people, along with other slaves from Africa, could be found living the same lifestyle they had when they landed in the United States, where they were called Gullah, a contraction of the word Ngola or Angola. They can still be found on the Sea Islands of South Carolina. It was easy to understand why they were so firmly fixed in their idyllic lifestyle. The bas ics were close at hand: fish, coconuts, subsistence crops, and easy access to the mainland. Their dwellings were rustic and neat, constructed of stick frames tied together with grass rope and "mudded" into tiny rwo- and three-room houses topped off with thatch. Each village was carefully swept, the fishing nets were hung to dry, the cooking fires tended to. As Cobus and I cruised the ti ny islands, the villagers came out and ran along the shore, waving to us. They called out and laughed with excitement. We stopped a passing canoe and traded rwo beers for a large fish. We landed on Buki next to rwo small houses thar were built by a Frenchman who had married a local girl. In accordance with local custom, we checked in with the chief and discussed niceties. We made sure he got a beer and an invitation to dinner. In response, he offered to have his boys make a fire and cook our fish for us. There was ev idence of a rebel attack on the houses. The RUF had commandeered a navy boat and some canoes and stripped the place down to the sinks and toilets. Even the lightbulbs were stolen. Four Western-looking rooms had only the concrete bed supportS. The boys buil r a fire and, with wooden mortar and pestle, pounded salt and pepper into a fine powder to season our dinner. We sat under the stars and enjoyed the large-scaled fish , called a j umbo by the locals. Cobus's AK leaned against the wall as we talked about his dreams. They centered on the hunt for "Big Silver," Megalops atlanticw--the 200-plus-pound tarpon that lived in abundance here. To be more exact, Cobus was fishing for a select group of fishermen who would spare no expense and brave any danger or discomfort to catch an International Game Fish Association-class tarpon on regular fly tackle. The race had been on to catch a man-sized record holder on tiny fl y-fishing tace ever since the first world- record tarpon was caught in 1958 at a paltry 125 pounds. Cobus knew this was the place. He loved the SpOrt and knew how to treat his guests right. He'd build a main base that would feature a casino and eco-tours and then take the serious fishermen out for some real fishi ng. Since 199 1, 15 world records for tarpon had been set in the area from the Sherbro River Out to the islands. There was a perfect combin ation of temperature, depth, and nutrients, and absolutely no one was disrupting any part of the life cycle of th is mass ive fish. Fishermen have such respect for tarpon that they are a strictly catch-and-release species . It wasn't unusual to catch a 300-pounder, or to get an average of six strikes a 76 b I u e Subscribe today 1-877-BLUE-MAG day. There were also barracudas, snappers, groupers, jacks, sharks, and bream. The best fish ing was from February to May, JUSt before the rainy season. Cobus thought he could also fly people in on his ultralight to show them the unpopulated beaches, flowe ring rainforest canopies, exoric birds, and uncataloged orchids; forests of odd granite domes and an escarpment 130 kilometers inland that divided the cooler 500-meter highlands from the lowlands with dramatic waterfalls. Farther inland were herds of elephants, pygmy hippos, monkeys, apes, and feral pigs. It was a world lost to ten years of war and awaiting rediscovery. Cobus made a sweeping gesture with his arm tOward the beach and rocks. "This is where I want to build the base camp. From here we wi ll take the boat out fishing to a satellite camp on the Turtle Islands." The idea of a remOte thatched hut on a d eserted island did have a magical appeal, even if I couldn't care less about fishi ng. It was more about that odd Western idea of exploring, of being the first, of turning 180 d egrees without seeing another person. It was about adventure. • THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM ROBERT YOUNG PELTON'S MOST RECENT BOOK, THE HUNTER, THE HAMMER AND HEAVEN, ABOUT HIS EXPERIENCES IN SIERRA LEONE, CHECHNYA AND BOUGAINVILLE, PUBLISHED BY LYONS PRESS. WWW.COMEBACKALlVE.COM ~BLUE.COM Check out some of blue Editor-at-Large Robert Young Pelton·s other adventures in Afghanistan. Algeria and Columbia on our website at www.blue.com clothing for all conditions toll free - 1 866 269 431 8 WWW.ULTRANECTAR.COM ~ - -,;.,jf ~ .,

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