“Was that Setswana?”
“No, Lozi; it’s what we speak in my village.”
I had him talking, so I asked how he became a fishing guide. He described his mentor, Mr. Jackson, an immense, red-faced South African who pioneered sport fishing on the Chobe.
“I always follow him in my little canoe, you know, because I had never seen anyone fish with a reel and line, and he was always trying for tigerfish. We never like tigerfish because they are not as good to eat, and they destroy nets.”
I lifted the rod just enough to feel the weight shift and settle on the river bottom.
“One day he came to me in his big boat. He knew my father was a schoolteacher and I had some education. We fished for many years, and he taught me about these damn motors that always break and these reels that tangle.”
Batsi smiled and drained his water. “When it was time to practice my exams for university, I went fishing instead. Now I am the guide.”
His hand wandered to the starched collar of his spotless shirt.
“Where’s Mr. Jackson?”
“He is dead.” He stated, matter-of-factly.
After that we were silent for a while. Batsi stared across his river. I kept imagining subtle pickups, as if there were walleye down there among the crocodiles.
“Big fish. Five, six kilos.” Batsi’s voice was flat and my hands shook.
When the strike came there was no subtlety; the stout rod buckled. My excitement harmonized with the shrill drag, and then it went silent. The line came back hookless; the snap at the end of the leader was arrow straight.
“Big fish. Five, six kilos.” Batsi’s voice was flat and my hands shook. It was the strongest freshwater fish I had ever experienced. I pictured that mount over the bar, all muscle, armor, and teeth.
All I landed that day was a catfish. It struck on the last few casts before dusk, and Batsi gave a rare smile as the pot-bellied gray fish burped in the air.
“Can I take this to my friends?” He asked.
“Sure.”
Batsi motored to the Namibian bank where another young man squatted beside a row of mokorros, plucking fish from a net. The man was crouched in the dense reeds at the edge of the river, his bare feet ankle deep in soft mud. Batsi stood tall behind the transom in his slacks, clean shirt, and sunglasses. As he idled to shore, a knot of young boys appeared from the dense forest, wearing only shredded, sun-bleached shorts. Three of them splashed out to grab the bow. The 16-foot fiberglass V-hull came to rest amid the hand-carved wooden boats that bobbed in its diminishing wake.
As the young man and Batsi spoke, I again noticed the dynamics of his voice in his native language. He sounded commanding, brash, self-assured. His mother tongue bore little resemblance to his English, which was flat, quiet, and an octave lower. Batsi handed off the fish, which the man immediately passed to one of the boys. We motored away without a parting word.