Falls and fish tales
The roar of the Khone Falls beats against my ears; the Mekong River pouring its weight of water from Laos into Cambodia. While Thai tourists photograph each other holding bored babies, below me, agile fishermen clamber over sheer rocks and crevices, hurling delicate nets into the surging water as they and their ancestors have been doing for centuries. This wild area is their workplace.
The Si Phan Don (‘Four Thousand Islands’) region in the extreme south of the Peoples’ Republic of Laos, along with the neighbouring lake of Tonle Sap in Cambodia, represents one of the world’s richest freshwater fishing grounds. Around here, 90 per cent of dietary protein is from fish, but on a wider scale, wild fish capture represents a vital part of the Lao economy, contributing as much as eight per cent of GDP. Estimates indicate that the value of this activity to all Mekong riparian nations amounts to US$2billion a year, and that the lower Mekong region contributes 2.6 million tonnes of fish annually.
The old people are fond of saying that when they were young and felt hungry, they would build a fire next to the river and wait for the fish to jump into the cooking pots. They tell stories of rays as big as basket traps that could sting a cow drinking in the shallows. Now, while a few smaller rays are still found, the large ones are gone. Only six or so freshwater dolphins survive in a pool adjacent to the Cambodian border. And this dramatic loss of species, the old men say, has taken place in just the past 15 years.
Despite that, the number of species and size of the fish is still astonishing. Experts have identified 106 species, many of which take part in an annual migration triggered by the rise of the Mekong’s water level.
But like fishing grounds globally, the Mekong is increasingly threatened by overfishing and infrastructure developments planned for the immediate falls area and upstream. Locals tell me that already, the effort needed to catch fish for food had been supplanted by efforts to catch fish for cash.
‘We used to be able to live well by catching a few really big and delicious fish that we would sell for 45,000 kip [£3.30] per kilo,’ I’m told. ‘Now they are gone, we have to catch many, many kilos of cheaper fish just to live.’
River life
The Mekong’s ecosystem operates without heed to national boundaries. While individual nations try to exploit the river’s energy, the cumulative effects are felt by all those whose lives depend on the river: mainly the poor who fish.
Laos plans to build several dams across the main stream of the river and its major tributaries. All will, in some way, affect fishing up- and downstream. That they can do this has been seen by many as a failure of the regional organisations, particularly the Mekong River Commission, that are charged with safeguarding the river, not to mention the nationally focused environmental- and cumulative-impact studies that enable individual dams to be approved by disregarding transnational consequences.
The Si Phan Don region is a maze of islands interlaced with rocky and wild waterways known as hoos. Like other parts of secretive Laos, the area is ‘sensitive’, bordering Cambodia, and the proposed site of a controversial dam. It was difficult to find anyone brave enough to accompany me on anything other than tourist forays. Finally, Mr Phong (not his real name), a fisherman and proud of his area’s traditions, takes me in hand.
Despite the early onset of the wet season, the Mekong hasn’t yet risen, so the annual migration of big species from Cambodia has yet to start. Even so, the men 20 metres below us at the huge falls of Khone Phapheng are netting four- to five-kilogram fish. Others are constructing the fantastic traps that resemble rickety ski jumps known as li from trees and rattan. These traps can catch up to a tonne of fish a day in the peak season when the waters rise in June–July.
The li face upstream, catching the fish that fall back after failing to leap the rapids on their journey from Cambodia and channelling them into the chute-like structure, where they are caught on rattan mats. During the peak migration, the fishers and their families, of mixed Khmer and Khmu (indigenous Lao) ancestry, live in makeshift lean-tos near their li, ownership of which is passed down through generations.
We watch another fisherman set his sai chan, an ingenious trap with a door and counterweights that can catch fish weighing up to 25 kilograms. Quietly wading into the slippery rapids, he scans the jumble of rocks for the right spot. Gathering long pieces of timber from the bank, he builds a frame to secure the trap, wedging the wood between rocks before tying in the bamboo trap. Feeling around in the water, he hefts a series of stones until he finds one suitable to counterweight the tripwire and snap the trap door closed when nosed by a fish.
Dammed if you do
Later, at the market, I see the collected results of all this labour. A stern old lady waves her stick disdainfully, indicating that she wants to buy most of the catch. Her daughter lists the size and price of each fish, which are then placed, some still alive, into ice-filled baskets to be transported by road as far as the tourist centre of Luang Prabang, more than 1,200 kilometres away.
I buy a tray of small silver fish pressed in a bamboo lattice (pa mong) for 1,000 kip and watch the women rhythmically gut and splay the fish for smoking. The same fish will later be sold on for up to 50,000 kip, but for the industrious women of Si Phan Don, the profits are meagre. They also catch fish using a conical or square net (jib) and sell them to the rapidly expanding tourist guesthouses. It’s this tourism industry that is being used to defend the construction of what may prove to be the most destructive dam of all those planned in Laos.
The Mega First Corporation Berhad (MFCB) construction company, owned by the Malaysian Chinese Goh family, is behind the 300-megawatt Don Sahong dam. The plan is for an artfully named ‘run of the river’ hydropower dam across Hoo Sahong, the largest of two major hoos through which fish migrate upstream to spawn. At around 25 metres high, the dam wall will effectively block this major migratory channel.
Construction, originally slated to be completed this year, has been delayed. Thailand has reportedly declined to buy the electricity the dam will produce and the Cambodian government has apparently lodged letters of concern.
On paper, Laos has a rigorous and superficially transparent environment and social impact assessment (ESIA) process. However, in the case of the Don Sahong project, no documents have been released. I managed to secure a copy of both the ESIA report by PEC Konsult and Australian Power and Water and the critical review of that report.
The ESIA admits that the dam will likely finish off any remaining dolphins, as the power station will be situated adjacent to the pool where the last few individuals live. It’s also remarkably sanguine about the risks to the fish populations, the consultants proposing that other hoos are enlarged to facilitate migration. A fisheries expert who spoke to me on condition of anonymity was scathing in his assessment of this plan.
‘The proposed dam will block Hoo Sahong, the deepest channel on that section of the river, and the only place where migratory fish can easily pass at the peak of the dry season, when the water level of the Mekong is at its lowest,’ he said. ‘There are literally tonnes of fish coming up from Cambodia that use Hoo Sahong during the dry season. Much of the dry-season fisheries of southern Laos rely almost exclusively on Hoo Sahong as the main upstream migratory pathway. Hoo Sahong is also the main bi-directional migratory route for fishes all year round.’
The critical review report also observes that even if other channels are modified, fish will continue to follow their instincts. By mimicking the rapids, the turbines in Hoo Sahong will kill large numbers of fish as they follow primordial, hormonally driven behaviour. The ESIA proposes compensating fishing families for the loss of their traps, but not for the loss of their livelihoods, skills, knowledge and traditions.
Keep fishing
Khamphet Roger of Laos’ Department of Fisheries points at a map in his Vientiane office, and tells me that the fish will find another migration route. The dam will benefit the Lao people, who need the electricity and tourism, he says.
When I relay this to Phong, he spits in the dust. ‘Yes, the fishermen say to me that they will have refrigerators, TVs, fans and bigger boats. But I say, “Then what? Where will the fish be? How can you pay the bills for the electricity if there are no more fish? What will you do to feed your family? You will be hungry.”’
Later, Phong tells me a story. Nang Keow Diliwang (Big Moon) was married to a Lao fishermen. When her husband was tired and did not want to fish, she would sit in the stream with her legs apart. The fish would swim into her body, then she would waddle home and deposit the catch. Phong looks through his fingers to see if I am offended. ‘She took almost all of the fish,’ he says, giggling, suddenly coy. ‘So she had to stop.’
The dam will have the same effect, but there’s little chance of it being stopped. A repressive government ensures that public demonstrations of opposition are rare and what few environmental lobby groups exist have little power.
Phong sighs. ‘We will keep fishing,’ he says. ‘That is all we know.’
February 2010
The Si Phan Don (‘Four Thousand Islands’) region in the extreme south of the Peoples’ Republic of Laos, along with the neighbouring lake of Tonle Sap in Cambodia, represents one of the world’s richest freshwater fishing grounds. Around here, 90 per cent of dietary protein is from fish, but on a wider scale, wild fish capture represents a vital part of the Lao economy, contributing as much as eight per cent of GDP. Estimates indicate that the value of this activity to all Mekong riparian nations amounts to US$2billion a year, and that the lower Mekong region contributes 2.6 million tonnes of fish annually.
The old people are fond of saying that when they were young and felt hungry, they would build a fire next to the river and wait for the fish to jump into the cooking pots. They tell stories of rays as big as basket traps that could sting a cow drinking in the shallows. Now, while a few smaller rays are still found, the large ones are gone. Only six or so freshwater dolphins survive in a pool adjacent to the Cambodian border. And this dramatic loss of species, the old men say, has taken place in just the past 15 years.
Despite that, the number of species and size of the fish is still astonishing. Experts have identified 106 species, many of which take part in an annual migration triggered by the rise of the Mekong’s water level.
But like fishing grounds globally, the Mekong is increasingly threatened by overfishing and infrastructure developments planned for the immediate falls area and upstream. Locals tell me that already, the effort needed to catch fish for food had been supplanted by efforts to catch fish for cash.
‘We used to be able to live well by catching a few really big and delicious fish that we would sell for 45,000 kip [£3.30] per kilo,’ I’m told. ‘Now they are gone, we have to catch many, many kilos of cheaper fish just to live.’
River life
The Mekong’s ecosystem operates without heed to national boundaries. While individual nations try to exploit the river’s energy, the cumulative effects are felt by all those whose lives depend on the river: mainly the poor who fish.
Laos plans to build several dams across the main stream of the river and its major tributaries. All will, in some way, affect fishing up- and downstream. That they can do this has been seen by many as a failure of the regional organisations, particularly the Mekong River Commission, that are charged with safeguarding the river, not to mention the nationally focused environmental- and cumulative-impact studies that enable individual dams to be approved by disregarding transnational consequences.
The Si Phan Don region is a maze of islands interlaced with rocky and wild waterways known as hoos. Like other parts of secretive Laos, the area is ‘sensitive’, bordering Cambodia, and the proposed site of a controversial dam. It was difficult to find anyone brave enough to accompany me on anything other than tourist forays. Finally, Mr Phong (not his real name), a fisherman and proud of his area’s traditions, takes me in hand.
Despite the early onset of the wet season, the Mekong hasn’t yet risen, so the annual migration of big species from Cambodia has yet to start. Even so, the men 20 metres below us at the huge falls of Khone Phapheng are netting four- to five-kilogram fish. Others are constructing the fantastic traps that resemble rickety ski jumps known as li from trees and rattan. These traps can catch up to a tonne of fish a day in the peak season when the waters rise in June–July.
The li face upstream, catching the fish that fall back after failing to leap the rapids on their journey from Cambodia and channelling them into the chute-like structure, where they are caught on rattan mats. During the peak migration, the fishers and their families, of mixed Khmer and Khmu (indigenous Lao) ancestry, live in makeshift lean-tos near their li, ownership of which is passed down through generations.
We watch another fisherman set his sai chan, an ingenious trap with a door and counterweights that can catch fish weighing up to 25 kilograms. Quietly wading into the slippery rapids, he scans the jumble of rocks for the right spot. Gathering long pieces of timber from the bank, he builds a frame to secure the trap, wedging the wood between rocks before tying in the bamboo trap. Feeling around in the water, he hefts a series of stones until he finds one suitable to counterweight the tripwire and snap the trap door closed when nosed by a fish.
Dammed if you do
Later, at the market, I see the collected results of all this labour. A stern old lady waves her stick disdainfully, indicating that she wants to buy most of the catch. Her daughter lists the size and price of each fish, which are then placed, some still alive, into ice-filled baskets to be transported by road as far as the tourist centre of Luang Prabang, more than 1,200 kilometres away.
I buy a tray of small silver fish pressed in a bamboo lattice (pa mong) for 1,000 kip and watch the women rhythmically gut and splay the fish for smoking. The same fish will later be sold on for up to 50,000 kip, but for the industrious women of Si Phan Don, the profits are meagre. They also catch fish using a conical or square net (jib) and sell them to the rapidly expanding tourist guesthouses. It’s this tourism industry that is being used to defend the construction of what may prove to be the most destructive dam of all those planned in Laos.
The Mega First Corporation Berhad (MFCB) construction company, owned by the Malaysian Chinese Goh family, is behind the 300-megawatt Don Sahong dam. The plan is for an artfully named ‘run of the river’ hydropower dam across Hoo Sahong, the largest of two major hoos through which fish migrate upstream to spawn. At around 25 metres high, the dam wall will effectively block this major migratory channel.
Construction, originally slated to be completed this year, has been delayed. Thailand has reportedly declined to buy the electricity the dam will produce and the Cambodian government has apparently lodged letters of concern.
On paper, Laos has a rigorous and superficially transparent environment and social impact assessment (ESIA) process. However, in the case of the Don Sahong project, no documents have been released. I managed to secure a copy of both the ESIA report by PEC Konsult and Australian Power and Water and the critical review of that report.
The ESIA admits that the dam will likely finish off any remaining dolphins, as the power station will be situated adjacent to the pool where the last few individuals live. It’s also remarkably sanguine about the risks to the fish populations, the consultants proposing that other hoos are enlarged to facilitate migration. A fisheries expert who spoke to me on condition of anonymity was scathing in his assessment of this plan.
‘The proposed dam will block Hoo Sahong, the deepest channel on that section of the river, and the only place where migratory fish can easily pass at the peak of the dry season, when the water level of the Mekong is at its lowest,’ he said. ‘There are literally tonnes of fish coming up from Cambodia that use Hoo Sahong during the dry season. Much of the dry-season fisheries of southern Laos rely almost exclusively on Hoo Sahong as the main upstream migratory pathway. Hoo Sahong is also the main bi-directional migratory route for fishes all year round.’
The critical review report also observes that even if other channels are modified, fish will continue to follow their instincts. By mimicking the rapids, the turbines in Hoo Sahong will kill large numbers of fish as they follow primordial, hormonally driven behaviour. The ESIA proposes compensating fishing families for the loss of their traps, but not for the loss of their livelihoods, skills, knowledge and traditions.
Keep fishing
Khamphet Roger of Laos’ Department of Fisheries points at a map in his Vientiane office, and tells me that the fish will find another migration route. The dam will benefit the Lao people, who need the electricity and tourism, he says.
When I relay this to Phong, he spits in the dust. ‘Yes, the fishermen say to me that they will have refrigerators, TVs, fans and bigger boats. But I say, “Then what? Where will the fish be? How can you pay the bills for the electricity if there are no more fish? What will you do to feed your family? You will be hungry.”’
Later, Phong tells me a story. Nang Keow Diliwang (Big Moon) was married to a Lao fishermen. When her husband was tired and did not want to fish, she would sit in the stream with her legs apart. The fish would swim into her body, then she would waddle home and deposit the catch. Phong looks through his fingers to see if I am offended. ‘She took almost all of the fish,’ he says, giggling, suddenly coy. ‘So she had to stop.’
The dam will have the same effect, but there’s little chance of it being stopped. A repressive government ensures that public demonstrations of opposition are rare and what few environmental lobby groups exist have little power.
Phong sighs. ‘We will keep fishing,’ he says. ‘That is all we know.’
February 2010
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