David Korte Photographs

My line swings into the current of the lagoon channel, heading for the sea.  For a moment, it feels as though there is no resistance, like hooking a big leaf at the mercy of the current.  Then it dives deep and fastens to the sand bottom, immobile as a cinderblock.  It is no easy effort to pull free, then the weightless drifting again.  As it nears the channel edge, it suctions to the steep drop of sand below the water; and again, a struggle to pull free.  Then I see a disc flutter into the shallows.  A wave recedes and it is exposed, tail thrashing wildly like an agitated snake in search of a target.  A pair of eyes rivet on me as I pull it to beach.

A stingray hovers in the shallow waters at the edge of a lagoon channel before diving back out of sight. Living only in fresh or brackish waters, the freshwater stingray, Urogymna ukpam, is nearly extinct in Nigeria and Cameroon.  Gabonese waters hold one of the last sustainable populations of this species.

I need to turn it over to remove the hook, but my approach sends the tail thrashing again, a barb looking dangerously sharp protruding halfway down the length of tail.  Pressing the tail into the sand with my shoe, I hold it firm while I dislodge the hook and carry the trembling platter to the water’s edge.  Turning to face me, it waits for the next wave and is soon swept back with the current where it careens into the stained lagoon water, disappearing to the depths.

Heavy rains the previous day and night have been filling the lagoons along the coast to capacity, and several breakthroughs have spilled the coffee-colored waters out to sea.  The nutrient-rich waters, along with the fish nurseries, turtles, and the occasional crocodile have flushed to sea, sculpting deep pockets of the amber waters along the coast upstream from each breakthrough.

Carpe Rouge

Today was turning into a brilliant day.  Blue skies speckled with white clouds lie before me as I motor along the laterite track, heading for Mike’s Bay with the intention of placing a camera trap at a location discovered last week with Dave Chippendale, whose car was gratefully borrowed to me during Dave and Ruth’s adventure in Ethiopia.  Turning onto the sand track, I engaged the 4WD for traction in the rutted and partly submerged trail across the savanna.  Several kilometers ahead I could see the strip of coastal forest and was soon presented with three sand tracks from which to choose.  Not quite remembering the turn at this point, I chose the middle track which eventually brought me to Jardin des Elephants, a beautiful patch of palm forest diffusing the harsh sun and tempering the breezes from the sea.  Understandable why many of our neighbors spend weekends camping at this secluded location.  A quick walk to the beach to get my bearings: Point Pedras shimmered on the coastline two kilometers downstream, and Mikes Bay trailhead maybe a kilometer up.

Aubry’s softshell turtle plods along the beach after being flushed out of a lagoon in a breakthrough.

A breakthrough was in progress a few hundred meters this side of Point Pedras, piquing my curiosity for a closer look.  Remembering the option of a third track, I returned to vehicle and entered the coastal forest between Jardin des Elephants and Point Pedras, another beautiful access to beach about 500 meters from the breakthrough.

12 kilos of Carpe Rouge from Mike’s Bay, along the coast of the Atlantic Ocean

There was a smell of methane in the air.  Probably the lagoon waters, thick with leaves and other decaying vegetation churning at thousands of gallons per minute into the sea, was releasing the vapors into the ocean breeze.  I cast a popper into the frothing rapids, but this was hopeless as it traveled too quickly for any fish to recognize.  The pools in the ocean upstream were a much better proposition and I found a constricted underwater pass where I could throw a baited hook with lead-weight across the pool to the sea-side, hoping to entice fish patrolling the edges of the pools.  As it was midday and hot, I didn’t have much hope of action.  I was watching a softshell turtle trudging lazily along the surf when I noticed my line moving with the prevailing current.  Thinking I had hooked into a rolling sunken log, I began retrieving line, then saw the line reverse direction.  With no tension on the line, this mystery left me puzzled.  Deciding to reel in my bait and try again, I continued my retrieve, finally connecting with a surprise tug on the line, then nothing.  Evidently, the fish was approaching into the deep water pool just out from the beach, requiring that I reel in quickly to take in the slack as it approached.  Finally the fish realized there was a problem and began running back out to sea, stripping off 30 meters of line at a run.  This it did four, maybe five times, as I cranked the fish into the surf between runs, only to have it bolt again when it reached sand.  After 15 minutes of back and forth struggles, the fish was finally close enough to the beach that I could pull it into a breaking wave, and as the wave receded, the fish was left in the sand.  It was an enormous carpe rouge, a beautiful orange and green predator fish usually found lurking in the darkwater brackish pools along the coast.  Weighing in at more than 12 kilos, it was indeed large but will grow much larger.  It was an ordeal to schlep this fish back to the car, and I decided to place the camera trap another day, when I didn’t have a cargo of fresh fish.

OK, so just now, I see this young man, maybe nine years old, maybe not.  He is creeping along the drive of my neighbors, sneaking among the trees, eyes fixed on something beyond.  He is carrying a handful of mangoes.  This is common today, for the mangoes are ripe and dropping.  The elephants have arrived from the surrounding forests to partake in this sweet feast.  The young man, or boy, looks intent on sneaking up to a target.  I know what is about to happen, so I grab my camera and dart out through the kitchen door, around the back of the house.  One of the large male elephants is feeding peacefully in the garden, heading slowly toward a large mango tree.

Soon, I see mangoes flying through the air, one bouncing off the elephant’s back.  The elephant turns in surprise to see more mangoes coming his way, and spots the boy behind the sporting activity.  With a trumpet and flapping ears, the elephant charges the boy, who is now running off at great speed, laughing.  Judging by the look on the boy’s face, he has discovered a great new sport.

In a way, this is a good thing.  Now, when the elephant has finally had enough of this harassment and charges after us, we will understand why.  I sincerely hope that no harm comes to the residents of Yenzi as a result of elephant behavior.  But considering the behavior of some of our residents, it appears the elephants will not be to blame.

Approaching a drifted log on the beach, I was surprised by what I initially thought was a bat bursting forth in front of my face.  This moth had been hiding perfectly camouflaged within the eroding end of the beached log.  As large as my hand, it fluttered erratically into the sea breeze before coming to rest on the beach.  Beautifully subtle shades of velvet-brown resembled tree-rings, and a pair of eyes looked out ominously as if to frighten any  nearby predators.  Resting momentarily exposed on the glaring sands of the beach, it soon lifted off, whisked away on a wind gust to disappear into the shadows of the coastal vegetation.

The usual gathering of sunbirds, bulbuls, doves, weaverbirds, kingfishers and parrots were out entertaining  on a brilliant Thursday afternoon.  A staccato black and white pattern flutters across the garden, disappearing into a thicket at the end of the drive.  I thought maybe the Pin-tailed Whydah was back, a little chickadee-like bird dragging an oversize ribbon of black tail too long to manage.  But no, this had a long white tail, and slightly larger.  Not knowing what was perched in our garden, I went out for a closer look and was surprised to see the African Paradise flycatcher pass me by on its way to another tree in the garden.  With an unusual flight pattern, more like a gallup through the air, it flutters and swoops across the garden, its long tail flowing behind in a blur of white.  An energetic little bird, it rarely pauses long enough for a picture before it is off again to another bush on a search for insects.

And now today, as I write my little story, it comes back to visit, perhaps to remind me of its beauty, poking among the vines of passion fruit, hovering in a flash of black and white.  It sits long enough for me to make another picture before traipsing off through the treetops.

It was the crack of branches that drew my attention to the kitchen window.  The familiar sound signaled the approach of an elephant.  Stepping outside to figure its location, I was surprised to see two large bulls facing off in the back garden.  They were totally preoccupied with each other, sparring across the garden, leaving trampled hedges and furrows of crumpled grass in their wake.  I followed them for awhile, watching from behind a bush here, a tree there, then behind our neighbor’s car, cautious to not divert attention from their rivalry.  The care with which they placed tusks against faces suggested a friendly challenge.  The click of ivory and low grumbling to the accompaniment of snapping and crunching vegetation was soundtrack for the ballet of the giants as they pirouette in a slow-motion pas de deux across the garden and on into the evening.

I have been trying to score a few dinners of fresh fish, now that my photography assignment is mostly completed.  I think the season hasn’t quite begun, for I am not seeing much action.  Last week, Shell dug a breakthrough between a lagoon and the sea, probably to relieve pressure on the network of lagoons.  The lagoons have been slowly filling to capacity with the few rains we have been getting.  Breakthroughs always seem to attract fish.  I  tried bait-fishing last Sunday for the first time, with a little tilapia I caught in the lagoon.  Using a bait rig I got from Andrew Caselin before he left Gamba, I add an old 4-ounce lead jigging lure (missing its treble hook) to sink the rig to the sea-floor, tying it all together with some 150 lb. test monofilament.  This contraption I hurled out into the mouth of the breakthrough, where the coffee-colored lagoon waters boil up against the incoming surf.  The bait-set was slowly tumbling out to sea, and probably sitting in 2 to 3 meters of water depth.  This is boring, I was thinking, as I am used to lobbing poppers and spoons across the breakthrough while walking back and forth along the channel. Twenty minutes into my boredom, however, my pole is nearly ripped from my arms, the drag screaming as I see my 65 lb. test braided line cutting through the surf in a beeline straight out to sea.  Suddenly I am thinking I need to slow this down or will lose all 300 yards of newly-replaced line.  I am hastily cranking down on the drag as the line disappears into surf 100 meters out and still running.  Perhaps I should try to break the line to salvage what is left.  I consider this option, but the fish is now slowing a little, then stops and appears to turn on itself.  Suddenly the line goes slack and I fear it may have bitten through the line.  Reeling in what is left, I see that the monofilament has been severed slightly back of the hook.  Classic shark behavior, I am told by two of the fishermen here in camp.

Today, I am back to using a musky monstrosity I found in the sale bin of an outfitting store in the US.  The jointed, rapala-type temptation shimmies through the water, sporting a pair of dasterdly-looking treble hooks.  Being nearly a foot long, it is not very aerodynamic, and tumbles into the surf less than 30 meters offshore.  It is like repeatedly throwing a softball into the wind, and after 20 minutes of this, my arm is going numb.  Three more casts, I tell myself, and I will look for another lure.  I am bringing in cast number 2, passing over a deep pool immediately beyond the breaking surf, and the line suddenly goes taut, a twenty-meter sprint up the coastline before the fish turns back in a zig-zag effort to head out to sea.  It is fighting the incoming breakers as well as the drag on the line and soon rolls out of the sea, spent, onto the beach.  It is a cassava croaker, called “bar” here in Gabon, 6.5 kilos.  I try a few more casts, in case I’ve come across a school of bar, but my arm tells me school has been dismissed.

4-kilo rouge and 6.5-kilo bar, paradise in the background.

Back at the breakthrough channel, sprays of tiny baitfish skip across the surface, likely retreating from some predator fish below.  I try pulling a popper across the channel and succeed in bringing some fish to the surface, but they don’t follow, so I change out to a small 16cm rapala, already full of toothmarks.  A few minutes of sneaking this lure along the bottom of the channel proves fatal for a scrappy 4 kilo rouge, battering its way into the lagoon on the incoming tidal surge before I can pull it onto a sandbar.  A few more casts to settle the line back on the reel and I am ready to leave.  The 500 meter slog back to Terminal jetty proves taxing in the soft sand with 10 kilos of fish.  From there, with the bar strapped to the back of my bicycle and the rouge hanging from the handlebars, I am headed back to Yenzi.