A fisherman’s

Yesterday

Trader Bob: A fisherman’s tale from the old condominium

RUSSELL U. PAUL relates an episode in the life of one of the islands of what used to be the New Hebrides. In a covering note to his story, he says: “The story is based on real happenings, but I have taken the liberty of writing it as fiction . . .I’m sure Trader Bob won’t mind . .

Trader Bob was underneath his World War 11 vintage jeep try ing to coax another 10 years of life out of it, the air was purple with Trader Bob’s language, and even the steely-eyed Blue Heeler dog was giving him a wide berth.

Suddenly a group of wild-eyed and excited islanders arrived and all started yelling and gesticulat ing towards the beach. “What the !*!*!* hell do you clowns want?” yelled Trader Bob, whose mood had not been im proved by having bumped his head on the underside of the jeep on his way out to have a look.

“Come quick Master Bob, full up fish long salt water, all mack erel a heap.” (Translation: Come quickly, there is a school of mackerel in the bay).

“Well, what the hell do you expect me to do, go down and have a talk with them?” ex claimed Trader Bob. “I could ask them if they mind if we eat a few of their company . . . Now look, why don’t you guys bugger off and ...”

Suddenly there was silence.

Trader Bob frowned. Why were they all grinning like idiots? Fun ny people, you swear and abuse them and they grin back at you.

One of the group cleared his throat, looked Trader Bob in the eye and asked in a quiet voice: “Have you still got the hand grenades and dynamite, like we used in the North before?”

“Now look here,” said Trader Bob, “Up North there are no people, here there are people everywhere and ...” then it hit him. People, fish, dynamite, hand grenades, equal fish,

money, profit.

“Half, half,” grinned Trader Bob, whose grin was now of the same calibre as those of his new

The dynamite was old, and so was the fuse

friends. “I give the dynamite, you pick up the fish.”

Trader Bob informed his wife he was off fishing. She, having been married to him for many years, and thankful for a respite from the non-stop swearing from under the jeep, gave her bles sing. Trader Bob commenced preparing his dynamite and hand grenades, the word went out and a crowd gathered, some

watching Trader Bob, others heading to the beach for the best vantage point. Now Trader Bob was nobody’s fool, the dynamite was old, the fuse cord was di lapidated, and the hand grenades were of dubious quality.

“I’ll just have to con some body else into lighting and

throwing this bomb,” he mused.

However, at the beach, when Trader Bob broached the subject of somebody else throwing the bomb, the grins and the new found friends were singularly lacking in enthusiasm.

Now Trader Bob had a lovely wife and a swarm of kids, much too nice to lose by killing himself for some lousy fish. Trader Bob began to sweat, the crowd were

getting restless, and he was in a spot. What to do?

Suddenly Trader Bob spied the lone local policeman, an amiable type, from another island up North, a man filled with his own importance as guardian of peo ple’s morals and the upholding of the law. However, he had one weakness. He liked whisky, and as it was illegal for the local population to drink spirits, he had to rely on his good friend Trader Bob to supply an illegal bottle. This Trader Bob would do, at a great profit, reminding: the man at all times what a good turn he was doing him.

Trader Bob beckoned the

policeman, explained the situa

tion and, seeing the horrified look on the policeman’s face when he saw the bomb, promised him a bottle of whisky and a bag; of fish. The policeman wavered.

Trader Bob said he would make it a bottle of Johnnie Walker instead of the usual jungle juice.

Islands trade store: Not all the fish is on the shelves

The policeman licked his lips, rolled his eyes and finally caved in.

Trader Bob explained the workings of the rather lethal bomb, patted his friend on the shoulder and discreetly put as much distance as possible bet ween himself and his mate. Even Trader Bob’s vicious Blue Heel er dog headed for the safety of the bush, knowing his master to be a fool but not anybody’s fool.

The hapless policeman stood in his moment of glory, praying to his ancestors and any gods who happened to be listening, lit the bomb and threw it. Now the man had a good throwing arm, and a fast pair of legs. The crowd, bunkered down in the surrounding reef and in the trees, roared their approval as he took off up the beach in a mad sprint.

The policeman threw himself in to a long shallow dive in the general direction of an old boat, which was the nearest shelter.

Trader Bob’s mad Blue Heeler, now caught up in the excitement, followed in similar fashion and the bomb went off.

And what a bomb. A great spout of water shot a hundred metres into the air, half the reef was blown up, and what seemed to be millions of dead fish were floating around. Trader Bob swears to this day that in the excitement the policeman even bit the dog.

The crowd took off to the water, swimming around gather ing the dead and stunned fish.

The piles of fish on the beach were getting bigger and more numerous. Trader Bob was doing a roaring business, a shilling for five fish, and no likelihood of ever finishing them all. Trader

'There’s 30 quid In it’

Bob cast a practised eye over the heaps of fish, did a quick calcu lation, subtracted the price of the promised bottle, and reckoned he would make at least 30 quid.

Now the little group of islands where Trader Bob lived were unusual in that they were ad ministered by both the British and French colonial govern ments. On Trader Bob’s island

there was a French District Agent, a short dapper little Fren chman, and an English District Agent, a pompous fool whose legacies in ineptitude were strewn across Africa and the Far East. It was these gentlemen’s job to know everything that went on around the place and to report on it, in triplicate if possible.

Trader Bob, it seems had sadly under-estimated the power of his bomb, and the noise of its explo sion travelled the three kilometres to the District Agency grounds. The French District Agent was the first to arrive at the beach, but he was a good chap and Trader Bob had enjoy ed many a social drink with him.

“What are you doing Bob,” asked the Frenchman, “a little bit of spearfishing?”

“That’s right,” said Trader Bob, “would you like some to take home?” Trader Bob filled a sack full of fish, had somebody put it in his car, shook hands with the Frenchman and pro mised to drop by for a drink.

Shortly after the British District Agent arrived, and he was not amused at what he saw.

“What the hell is going on here, you’ve gone too far this time Bob.”

“Belt up you pompous prick,” replied Trader Bob, who had no time for authority and feared no man. “I’ll give you a bag and you can go back to your siesta.”

The Englishman felt that his was a dignified post, and could never understand mad Aust ralians like Trader Bob who would not respect him and made him look an ass in front of the locals.

Gathering what remained of

his dignity, and having spied his

policeman in the crowd, the Dis trict Agent instructed the hapless man to take four fish as evidence and to immediately begin investi gations as to who threw the dyna mite. The District Agent then

departed.

Trader Bob and the crowd roared with laughter: The fool had instructed the very man who

threw the dynamite to conduct investigations.

“What the hell am I going to do now?” asked the policeman.

“Tell you what,” said Trader Bob, “tell him you have con ducted investigations and found out that it was George Rolland who threw the dynamite.”

George Rolland was Trader Bob’s friendly opposition trader, and Trader Bob reckoned he would appreciate the joke.

George Rolland was a Fren chman, and therefore under French law, and could not be touched by the British District Agent. The District Agent wrote a stiff note to his French collea-

An evasive policeman

gue demanding the arrest of the criminal Rolland. The French man, realising that his British counterpart had been had by Trader Bob, replied that he was investigating the matter and would be in touch. He hoped in the meantime that the matter would die.

The British District Agent de cided that something, apart from the millions of fish, was fishy about the whole affair, and his normally diligent policeman was being rather evasive about the matter.

In the meantime, there being no electricity, the District Agent had put the evidence in his kerosene ice box. Being still an noyed with Trader Bob he had instructed his wife not to shop at Trader Bob’s store and his chil dren not to play with Trader Bob’s children. As a result the fridge ran out of kerosene, the fish went bad, and his wife had to throw out all of their precious freezer goods. His wife burst into tears, accused him of being “a stupid old bore” and a blazing row ensued with threats of di vorce and “I'm going home to mother”. The District Agent muttered dire threats about what he was going to do to Trader Bob.

However, Trader Bob’s island was a lovely place, the matter was put in the “too hard” file, and life returned to normal.

Years later, Trader Bob went

for a business trip to the capital, where the District Agent was now stationed. After a busy day

of buying and selling produce,

Trader Bob sought a beer at the “club” to slake his thirst, catch up on gossip, and meet old friends.

The only other man at the bar was his old friend the District Agent, who still harbored suspi cion of Trader Bob over the fish

episode.

Trader Bob, always a

straightforward chap, strode up

to him and said; “Listen Richard, let’s forget the past. I’ll buy you a drink.” The District

Agent reluctantly agreed and

they began to put away the drinks. Several hours later, by now the very best of friends and well on their way to what pro mised to be a memorable night, the District Agent brought up the matter of the fish.

“Tell me Bob, I know every body was laughing at me and that Frenchman wouldn’t prosecute Rolland, who threw the dyna mite, was it you or him?”

“Neither,” said Trader Bob, “It was your policeman!” There was an incredulous silence, the man’s lips began to move, he clenched and unclenched his fists, sweat broke out on his brow, and Trader Bob thought that the man might be about to hit him.

“You !*!*!*”, bellowed the District Agent and they both roared with laughter. He called Trader Bob every name in the book, and they both roared with laughter again.

“You must come home right now and have dinner with the family,” insisted the District Agent. T'll ring the wife and tell her, she’s always felt bad about this.”

When they arrived at his home, and after Trader Bob had said hello to the wife and kids, the District Agent asked his wife what was for dinner.

“Fish,” she said and she never could understand why they just stood there and laughed until they cried.