Pond Life
On the outskirts of Cuajimoloyas, Mexico, a small family looks after a series of ponds. I'm not sure why, but I'm glad they do it.
Tunes in this Episode
Hazlehurst - Pale Cricket
Dreamy Theme - Pale Cricket
Perfect Feeling - Jeff Stephens
Pond Life
A manmade pond takes some effort to maintain. The life within the pond, much like on land, just doesn’t know when to quit. It is life, concentrated, like a bouillon cube in a thimble, rich, but eventually overwhelming. I don’t blame the creatures living in the pond for their exuberance for consumption and reproduction, I blame the man who made the pond in the first place. And I don’t mean any the specific man, I mean the “man” who created the idea of the small, artificial, pond in the first place. I’m sure he had good reason, but if you’ve ever had to clean out the bottom of a pond, maybe you agree, it’s as gross as it is necessary.
Now, that doesn’t mean that I think the pond is a bad idea. I quite like them, in fact. In Mexico, for example, in the mountain town of Cuajimoloyas, just outside of Oaxaca, we stayed with a family who raised trout in a couple of artificial ponds, fed by a running stream. It was a setup requiring a great deal of “man’s’” effort, but without the help of a single man. It was a beautiful place, strange and amusing, and although we didn’t understand how it could ever be profitable, or even how it worked, we appreciated the pond in that setting, in all its Zapotec weirdness.
The place was a hybrid, equal parts campground, small restaurant, trout farm and trailhead. The town of Cuajimoloyas was about a fifteen-minute drive up some crazy dirt roads from the campground, but it seemed like most people preferred to walk. Perched near the top of a cloud forest as lush, green, and damp as a winter day in Western Oregon, the area has a dreamy and tranquil feel.
We arrived at the campground with little expectation, or information, really. We found some dry firewood, made our way to a suitably level spot to park our van, then had a chat with a woman who looked like she was in charge. There were no other campers, customers, or visitors of any kind. The only human souls around were three women running the place and us. One of the women looked to be about sixty. She was short, brown skinned, wearing about two thousand layers of clothing and a small, frumpy knitted cap. Her face, while still smooth in places showed hints of wrinkles which looked like journal entries for every grin, grimace, or mood she’d ever laid down. Another woman, who we assumed was the daughter of the sixty-year-old, was probably in her forties. She was also short and brown, and multi-layered in her dress, but her skin was smoother all around, having seen fewer summers, and possibly fewer moods. The two of them were both looking after the third woman, a small girl actually. Her name was Maria, she was five or six years old, hilarious, and beautiful. She became our friend, very quickly.
The setup was great. Surrounded by evergreen hills, and a few errant cows, two large concrete ponds had been built in a clearing. There were winding paths through the trees which separated the campsites from the ponds and a small foot bridge spanning the creek that fed them. We could hear it babbling from where we slept. The ponds were designed to capture water running downhill, as well as the trout who lived in it. A crazy patchwork of logs and netting were laid out over them to discourage wild animals from making off with free fish.
My wife and I were not exactly sure what the two adult women were up to, but they were up to it all day. We watched them fuss with netting, move the logs around, poke at the water intently, while chatting nonstop. I’m not sure we ever saw them feed any of the fish, and don’t know if that was even part of the program.
Honestly, when we were at the campground, we spent most of our time hanging out with little Maria. She wasn’t particularly interested in the ponds or the fish. She wanted to play. We normally spent our evenings playing with our dog, Pelé, but he also found a friend who lived at the campground, a filthy dog about his size who liked wrestling as much as he does. We were free to give Maria lots of attention, and she loved it.
One afternoon I asked the women about buying some trout to cook for dinner. The restaurant was closed for the season, but they said I could cook my own if they could catch a fish. I knew this task to be difficult, as hand-netting individual fish is never easy, especially in a pond so large and covered by netting. I thought, for sure, the two of them had a method worked out for catching them, though. If they did have a method, I couldn’t tell what it was. Their efforts looked to me, while admittedly an outsider, like the first time.
While Tiffany played hide and seek with Maria, and Pelé strained to hump his new pal, I tried to be useful but not pushy as the two short armed women stalked the edges of the pond with a handmade net.
Several attempts were made. First, the older woman took the net, a long stick with a hoop and a slightly less tattered bit of the same netting which covered the pond attached to the end of it, and plunged it wildly into the water. This scared the few fat fish nearby, driving them to the opposite side of the pond. Then, the younger woman took an almost literal stab at it, violently jabbing the net and frightening the fish back to the part of the pond where they were previously. After this, the two of them decided to work together.
Neither of them seemed to want my help. They chatted for a spell, then devised a plan. The older woman ripped a branch from a low tree and made her way to the opposite side of the pond from the younger woman who held the homemade net in the strike position. “Uno, dos, tres!” the older woman yelped, then started slapping the water above where the trout had congregated. Netting and logs were rumbling and tumbling beneath the pine branch, as wet needles flung droplets of water about like a priest blessing his congregation of not so enthusiastic worshipers. The younger woman was taking wild stabs at the darting fish, none of whom ever got close to the makeshift net.
Heavy droplets of water landed on my face, and neck as I watched in awe. The younger woman was soaked up to her elbows, cackling with each thrust of the net. Meanwhile, the older woman’s facial expression never changed, possibly not wanting this absurd fishing trip to add to her collection of wrinkles. I looked up to see Tiffany and Maria, doing forward rolls in the grass, while Pelé, panting heavily, but looking triumphant, had his forepaws wrapped around the midsection of his new campañero, proudly humping his face.
After about five minutes of this, without a word, the two of them gave up. They told me the fish were not in the mood for catching. I could appreciate the sentiment. I do the same thing with Pelé, often projecting my feelings about various projects onto his demeanor, saying foolish things like, Oh, he’s excited because he knows we’re going to a restaurant. The mood of the fish aligned nicely with the mood of the two women, and I didn’t blame either species for a lack of enthusiasm.
The logs and netting were reconstructed, covering the fish once again. It was impressive how quickly they relaxed, once the branch and net stopped slapping and stabbing the water.
The following day, the grandmother offered to sell us a basketful of beautiful mushrooms, harvested in the forest on her walk to work. It was either a consolation prize for the fish not being in the mood, or just a convenient way to make a few pesos doing something she enjoyed anyway.
It’s been said, the pond creature has no mind for the sea. This may be true. It may also be true that the forest mushroom has no mind for the pond, and thank the Zapotec god of rain for that! For if the mushroom had a mind for being hard to find and difficult to catch, we’d all be in trouble.
We never did learn how they harvest all the fish when it came time to sell them. I guessed that it involved draining the big pond. Once drained, I would imagine somebody has to clean it. It’s been over two years since we visited that dreamy place. Maria is probably seven or eight years old now, and exactly the right size for that unpleasant gig. I wonder if she is on the job yet? There’s no question, it’s a job which needs doing. I hope they are well. While I have no way of knowing, I think their odds are good. With three generations of women, putting their backs into the endless work of maintaining two manmade ponds, too many fish to count, and more than enough mushrooms to go around – the math seems about right.