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Felix, my brother-in-law, and I had visited the Teacapán peninsula exactly
one week before, met more than a few of the interesting local folks, and
so this Saturday we planned to revisit some of the more colorful places,
spend time with new friends, and do some serious shrimp fishing with our
atarrayas (circular casting nets). We loaded the cargo shell of my high
wheeled one-ton pickup with necessary supplies —15 gallons of drinking water,
beans, rice, onions, tomatoes, cooking oil, chiles, 3 ice chests, and 5
cases of beer. Specially planned was a second visit to Mezcal, a rustic,
remote fishing camp beside a mammoth, sprawling wilderness estero, about
six miles east of lands end and the fishing pueblo of Teacapán. It’s a pleasant
drive south from Mazatlán. First, the drive across the long narrow bridge
that spans the river, and then to Villa Union, a 16th century Spanish Presidio
that predates the founding of Mazatlán. The town of Villa Union is a bustling
truckstop, a crossroads community where other highways stretch east to Durango,
and south to Tepic, Jalisco, and Guadalajara. Leaving the pueblo of Villa
Union, we passed groves of mango, papaya, oil palm, and olive trees, and
fields of corn and beans that eventually give way to a wild, impenetrable
growth of jade green chaparral of bushes, small trees, and meandering vines
that display red and gold blossoms. This dense growth of chaparral, commonly
seen in all of rural tropical Mexico, extends to the towering sheer rock
cliffs of the Sierra Madre on the eastern side of the road. Intermittent
clearings that allow for cultivated fields, ranchos, dwellings, roadside
businesses and small pueblos are all fully encroached on by the heavy growth
of chaparral. Groups of Crested Caracaras, Mexico’s national bird, a long
legged, dark brown falcon with a red face, hooked yellow beak, white crest,
and white banded markings on its tail and wings, busily partook of road
kill de jour, while several flights of black vultures wheeled around lazily
high above in the shimmering clear blue sky. Marshy areas and small ponds
were dotted by Snowy Egrets, that also randomly spaced themselves like patient
sentinels along the shoreline of the brackish esteros, joined by their larger
cousins, the noble and stately Huron-like, Great Egret. We arrived in the
hot, dusty pueblo of Escuinapa, and took the turn through town that leads
to Teacapán. Escuinapa, a wholesale shrimp, fish and beef distribution center,
takes its name from a word in ancient Indian dialect that translates into
“Waterdog.” It’s unknown exactly what critter the ancient Indian fishermen
meant to describe — otters, weasels, or possibly even the ubiquitous raccoon
named “Mapache” by the Aztecs, a name that has survived the ages and still
means “thief” or bandit. An appropriate, descriptive name for this five
fingered nighttime marauder that plundered the early Aztecs’ poultry pens
and grain stores. After leaving Escuinapa we drove past an unusual scene.
It was a small, carefully cultivated grove of “lodgepole” Eucalyptus trees.
Generally discouraged in |
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Mexico as being
a non-native Australian import, I could only muse how much better things
would be if Californians had had the wisdom to outlaw the genus Eucalyptus
about 170 years ago, about the same time they found out that Eucalyptus
wood was utterly worthless for making railroad ties. Esteros, grazing Brahman
cattle, and coconut groves began to dominate the landscape as we arrived
at Estacada (“stakes”), a bridge across a moderately large estero, our first
shrimp fishing destination, and the true entrance to the Teacapán peninsula.
The nostalgic and peaceful setting on the opposite side of the estero, mildly
reminiscent of an “Ole South” Louisiana Bayou, is a low whitewashed ramada
restaurant that stands at the waters´ edge, a few decrepit haciendas on
the opposite side of the rutted dirt track, with a backdrop of papaya trees
and coconut palms. We drove off the road, down the gently sloping bank and
almost to the edge of the murky sand colored water. A man named Carlos,
assisted by his two young daughters, was catching shrimp in repetitive casts
of his atarraya. The girls were thrilled, having the time of their lives,
laughing and squealing excitedly as they snatched up the wildly jumping,
tail snapping white shrimp that Carlos dumped on the ground after each cast.
Carlos’ daughters put the shrimp in a large white plastic bucket. They had
captured about 2 kilos, and Carlos said they had been net casting and tossing
out fishmeal to “chum” the shrimp, for only about 15 minutes. There were
two pangas on the estero under the bridge, each with a two man team, one
casting an atarraya while the other man maneuvered the boat. I removed my
shoes and socks, doubled, shoulder draped, and then separated the lead weighted
skirt of my tarraya in the prescribed manner, grasped the “horn” and half
of the net in my left hand, before wading out knee deep into the estero.
My first cast wasn’t perfect, but it did produce a dozen shrimp, some small
silver sided fish and a couple of Blue Crabs. Each successive cast, followed
by a slow, careful retrieval of the “pursestring” castnet produced some
shrimp, along with more small fish, and occasionally some Blue Crabs. The
fish and the pugnacious crabs were returned to the water, but the shrimp
were put into a plastic bucket. Carlos continued to cast his net in an 8
foot diameter perfect circle. I guess it was inevitable for Felix to make
comparisons, and eventually start making comments about my style, delivery,
etc., (heckling), and tips on how I could increase production. I was compelled
to remark that Carlos had probably been casting an atarraya in these esteros
since he was five years old. For the uninitiated (Felix included): imagine
a 2½ foot diameter pan, brim full of thick batter. Now, wade out in the
water and attempt to throw the pan of batter into a perfect 8 foot diameter
“pancake” that momentarily covers the water before it starts to sink. That’s
approximately what’s involved in casting the atarraya. To be continued next
month with tales of Caiman crocodiles prowling mangrove groves and an evening
panga excursion in the Grand estero. |
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