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faytelumos · 1 year ago

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Into the Black With a Matchstick, pt5

I have no idea what the word count here is but this feels kinda long. @_@

Also, I am so sorry for all of the exposition; I am trying to make it gentle but it feels like a lot! I think we're at/almost at the hump of this story, though! :0

@c00kieknight, @hypersomnia-insomniac, @jxm-1up, @midnight--architect, @robinparravel

@thepotatoofnopes, @those-damn-snippets

@mr-orion, @tildeathiwillwrite, @thelazywitchphotographer

cw: some peril, descriptions of vertigo and vomiting

first previous

---

Ten minutes.

That was no time at all.

The Skel. What in the name of Creation were the Skel doing in this sector? Paxie was here to monitor smuggling, to discourage unlicensed vessels from flying, to report unusual star activity.

The squad of five ships were not equipped for a skirmish with them.

"All ships!" Paxie ordered across the emergency channel. "Spool FTL drives and make heading for nearest fallback position! Defensive power allocations!" Ten minutes. Ten minutes! If the ships weren't all ready in time, if the Earthlings couldn't get ready in time—

They had no FTL travel—

"Ready automated fighters to scramble!" they added hurriedly.

The Earthlings. What were they going to do about the Earthlings.

Kime was scrambling, and she clamored in a rush through the narrow hallway. Paxie got out of her way as she bumped and clawed her way to the shuttle.

"Admiral!" Klte hissed. They looked back towards the med bay to see it looking at them, its helmet already back on its head. "The Earthlings!"

"I know," Paxie barked affirmatively. They couldn't leave this ship behind. But there was no way for it to possibly travel fast enough to keep up.

"Admiral," Harrison said, stepping into the hall. His eyes were wide, and his skin was pale. Paxie worried for a moment he might faint again. "How do your faster than light engines work?" Paxie blinked. They had no idea. And why was this a question to ask? Surely there was no way for the Earthlings to make an FTL drive in ten minutes with the technology available on this ancient ship. "Do they dematerialize?" he asked. "Do you use wormholes? Is it a space deforming drive?"

"It-it warps the shape of space," Klte hissed. Harrison turned sharply to look at them. Ramirez stepped into the hall.

"Does the space around the ship remain unchanged?" Harrison asked. "Is it distorted inside of the rings?"

What was the Earthling talking about? How did he know how FTL drives worked if Earth didn't have them?

"No," Klte said, their voice almost awed. "No, it's distorted in a bubble through the rings and projectors." Harrison turned sharply to Paxie.

"Admiral, we have to move this ship onto the belly of one of your vessels," Harrison said. "If your ships have ferrous hulls, we can clamp onto you to avoid falling off. But we have to begin maneuvers now."

"That's out of the question," Paxie breathed, blanching. The risk of the ship falling out of alignment and crossing the warp barrier.... "If you fall away, your ship will be smeared across open space."

"And what are the chances of the incoming vessel killing us?" Ramirez asked. She was stoic again. The look in her eyes was... haunting. She had the focus of any Xoixe. Of any apex.

Paxie looked again to Harrison. To Klte.

"Unless you have a ship large enough to dock our vessel, we don't have time to think of another solution," Ramirez said. And Paxie didn't. This mission had been routine, and the Earthling's ship was too large and awkwardly shaped to store on any of the Xoixe craft.

They opened a channel to Captain Eme.

"Captain, prepare The Water's Kiss to align and attach to the Earthling vessel, belly-to-belly."

"A-Admiral?!" Eme choked.

Ramirez and Harrison both sprinted to a different room in the ship.

"They know the risk, Captain, and it was their idea."

"This species is completely suicidal," Eme gasped. Paxie considered the conversation Ramirez and Kime had just had.

"I'm inclined to agree," they breathed. Then they looked up to Klte. "Into the shuttle, we have to get back."

"Aye, sir," it said, already getting down on all eight and running headlong for the airlock.

Adina could hear Paxie making their massive way back to the shuttle from the gear room. John swore again, yanking on the thermal regulation layer, and Adina finally managed to get her damned cryo suit off of her body.

"What a fuckin' day," John gasped, getting the tight-fitting undersuit on and zipped up. Adina just laughed bitterly. She'd barely gotten two minutes with the damn IV before she had to yank it out of her arm again.

John shrugged the top half of his spacesuit on just as Adina heard the low-pitched thump of the outer airlock door sealing. A moment later, there was a deep clang as the alien shuttle detached. "Solstice!" Adina barked, yanking her thermal layer into place. The computer chimed. "Override collision controls and roll ship 180 degrees!"

"Right away, Doctor Adina Ramirez," the computer said in its slow, melodic, feminine voice. The ship immediately began to tilt.

"Shit," John hissed, stumbling as he stood on one leg, stepping into the bottom half of his suit.

Once John finished suiting up, he helped Adina get clamped down. They both waddled to the bridge.

"Which chair do I sit in?" Adina cried.

"How many sim hours did you log?" John asked. Adina stuttered, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to remember.

"Um, uh, uh, th-three hundred and f-forty!"

"You're on comms," John said, pointing to the first chair on the left. He took the one mounted facing forward, and she thanked whatever the fuck was left of God that it wasn't up to her to fly this thing.

There was already a hail request open, and when Adina answered it, she got video of the purpley-green Xoixe.

"Earthlings, you have six minutes before the Skel arrive!" the thing boomed. John swore.

"Adina, are you buckled in?"

"N-no!"

"Get buckled, we have to move!"

Adina stumbled and grasped, her breathing coming loud and hard. The buckle was large, made to be used even with the massive spacesuit gloves, and she was able to get strapped in even as the ship kept spinning.

"I'm in!"

The ship lurched downwards, and Adina squeezed her eyes shut against the vertigo.

"Collision shield disabled!" someone in the room on the alien ship cried.

"Away vessel successfully docked!" another announced.

"FTL fully spooled! Bubble zone partially obstructed!"

"Lieutenant Harrison, you have to move faster!" the alien captain cried. Adina could barely hear them over the sound of her breathing. She kept her eyes closed, trying not to remember how close the helmet was to her face, trying not to think about what would happen if they got stuck here or sliced apart in the warp bubble, trying not to think about how it felt like she was going to throw up again.

"If I hit you too hard, I'll bounce off and lose my alignment!" John yelled back over his shoulder.

"Harrison, we don't have time, I promise you will not bounce off of our hull!" the captain yelled back. "Clear the bubble zone, now!"

John swore loudly and Adina cried out when he punched the maneuvering thrusters. It felt like they were free-falling, the entire ship rushing down faster and faster, flinging her stomach into her lungs, and then they slammed to a stop so fast that Adina's teeth cracked shut.

"Bubble zone clear!"

"Engage drive!"

The entire ship seemed to yank to the right, like some kind of twisted roller coaster and rubber band hybrid. Then everything shuddered all at once, and then there was aching, deafening stillness.

Adina could hear her panicked breathing like it was blasting through an amp right next to her face. Her head was spinning like a top but she knew in her body the cabin was unnaturally still. Her breathing picked up — she heard it more than felt it — and suddenly she was scrambling at the latch of her helmet, her gloved fingers clawing at the bottom of her visor.

She got the helmet off in time, but forgot about the seat buckle. The channel was still open in front of her as she coughed up bile. Her ears were ringing. She didn't feel any better at all.

"Adina?" John said. He held her face in his gloved hands, suddenly standing next to her. "Hey, can you stand?" Adina closed her eyes. She would have shaken her head, but even the thought made her want to wretch again.

"N, hh, n, nn-nn...."

"Stay right here, then," John uttered, letting go of her. "We seem stable, so I'm gonna grab the IV again." Adina couldn't speak, and she couldn't move her head, so she just kept trying to breathe.

---

By the time Paxie got out of their suit, The Water's Kiss was well away from where it had come across the Earth vessel. Once again in open hallways, free of the environment suit, Paxie had abandoned propriety and sprinted for the command room.

They ran full-out, their claws scraping against the decks, their blood rushing. Everything was sharp. Their scales buzzed, and they were keenly aware of how hard their muscles were pumping to move them like this. Their body was alight, electrified. Their mind was focused, the Earthling pair their only thought.

They burst into the command room and slowed, their scales itching. They scraped their claws against the deck, panting hard, eyes snapping to the front of the bridge. There was an open channel, and Captain Ramirez was slumped in the display, breathing hard as Lieutenant Harrison worked around them.

Paxie relaxed, and the weight of fatigue settled over them. They padded heavily to the captain's chair. Eme flinched when they came into view and hurriedly vacated the seat. Paxie laid down in it, their chest heaving, and laid their claws down flat.

The Earthlings survived the initial jump. Good.

"Status report," Paxie huffed.

"The Earthling vessel is secured to the bottom hull, sir," Eme explained. "Our Ghost volunteered to engineer the dampener settings to keep them stable. We've evacuated the bottom two decks to keep our personnel from getting sick, but…." Eme glanced at the screen. Ramirez was trembling, and Harrison was wiping their face with the same thing they had given him earlier.

"She'll be okay," Lieutenant Harrison said. It felt all too familiar, to have Ramirez looking close to death and Harrison dismissing the matter. Perhaps it was another quirk of the species. Another avenue of their… self-destructive attitude. "We didn't suffer any damage during the maneuvers, thankfully," Harrison added. He stooped down to look into the feed from over Ramirez's shoulder. "We didn't hurt anything, did we?"

"N-no," Eme said. He was keeping his voice very proper. "No damage was sustained during maneuvers, and we did not have to scramble any automated fighters to escape." He looked again to Paxie. "All four vessels reported clean spool and initiation. We'll arrive at the fallback position five minutes behind them."

"It's going to be a long five minutes for them," Paxie mused. Maybe it felt closer than it was, but Paxie had been terrified the new aliens were going to get The Water's Kiss killed, or die in the retreat, themselves. If it was them waiting at the fallback position for a ship to arrive, they were sure they'd be inconsolably worried.

"Captain Ramirez, Lieutenant Harrison," Paxie said. Harrison looked up, but Ramirez only grunted. She was clearly in bad shape. And she wasn't getting better the way Harrison had. Paxie swallowed thickly and straightened up taller. "On behalf of the Interstellar Federation of Alliance, I, Admiral Uten Paxie, offer you and your species sanctuary. Under Article six of the Orphaned Body protocol, you all will be afforded medical care, nutrition, and housing without the need to prove citizenship of the Federation."

Harrison was staring at Paxie now. He curled one side of his lips upward, and chuffed softly. Ramirez seemed to be barely lucid. Paxie flattened their ears.

"As the commanding officer of this squadron, and your current head of authority, I'm authorizing an extended rest for the two of you," they went on. Harrison's expression went back to something more neutral. "You are both excused from any further duties for the day, and are not required to check in at a specific time."

Harrison nodded his head. He looked more serious now, more focused, the way Ramirez had earlier. He kept his hand on Ramirez's shoulder the entire time.

"Will do, Admiral," he said. He then gently patted Ramirez's shoulder. "We'll… hail you when we're feeling better."

"See that you do," Paxie said. "Rest well."

Harrison nodded again. Paxie nodded to the communications officer, who cut the feed. Then they took a long, deep breath.

"Announce ship-wide rest," they exhaled. "Keep half again extra medical staff on standby."

"Yes, sir," Eme said, opening the ship-wide channel.

---

Paxie roused with a start when their door chimed. They checked the time. It had been almost seven hours since rest had been announced. They still had another hour left.

They clambered up and out of their low bed, then padded over and hit the floor control for the door. It slid open, revealing a Qomo officer.

"The Earthlings have roused," it announced in the Xoixe language. "They've requested council with you and a highly skilled xenomedic at your convenience." Paxie quirked their jaw.

"Has something gone wrong? Are they injured?"

"No, sir," it said, "Captain Ramirez seems to be fairing better, already. But they wish to discuss the lives of their crew."

That was right. Ramirez and Harrison were the only crew members who had been thawed from their cryonic sleep, but there were more Earthlings than them on board. They would all need to be awoken as soon as possible. Keeping any creature in such a state, let alone for so terribly long, was absurdly inhumane.

"Very well. Rouse Ensign Kime and Lieutenant Tapide."

"Aye, sir."

Once Paxie was refreshed and the two xenomedics were gathered, the three entered the bridge. There was an open channel, already, and the second captain stood and relinquished the chair to Paxie. Paxie nodded their head and padded over, but they watched the feed distractedly.

Nobody was in frame. They could tell they were looking at a part of the ship near the helm station, but all there was to see was metal and wiring.

"Captain Ramirez?" Paxie said. They switched on the translation protocol when their words weren't repeated. "Lieutenant Harrison?"

There was a metal clatter. One of the Earthlings said something too quiet for the translation protocol to pick up. Then Harrison came into view. He looked pinker in the face now, and his eyes seemed clearer. He bore his teeth widely.

"Admiral, hi," he said. He was very close to the screen, and the untranslated version of his voice was loud. "How did you sleep?"

Paxie huffed a laugh.

"I think I should be asking you that," they said. "Is Captain Ramirez okay?"

"She's much better now," Harrison said, looking off-screen in the direction he'd come. Then he looked back to them. "She slept like a rock and got some water in her, so now she actually looks like a scientist."

"I can hear you!" Ramirez's voice shouted from off-screen. She sounded agressive, but Harrison was laughing, baring his teeth. Paxie quirked their ears. He didn't seem to be worried about confrontation or repercussions.

"Anyway, Admiral, we have a few questions," Harrison said, hiding his teeth again. He moved, and seemed to lower himself before the screen. Perhaps resting in that odd chair design. He was serious now. "We have around two hundred people on this vessel, six of which are presumed dead."

Paxie jolted, eyes wide. "What happened?" they demanded. "How long have they been dead?"

"They failed to wake from cryo sleep."

Paxie stared. Eight creatures had been awoken from cryo sleep? And only two of them had survived? They knew cryogenic stasis was cruel, but to be so dangerous?

"What is the state of the six individuals?" Lieutenant Tapide asked. She wasn't Xoixe, but a species with long, bright green and blue feathers across her body, small, delicate hands, and a smaller, more delicate voice.

"Once they fail to wake, the system re-suspends the body," Harrison explained. "The hope there is that they'll be preserved enough to resuscitate, if it's an option."

"Then they haven't been dead long enough to degrade?" Tapide asked. She was already going through information on her tablet beside Kime.

"That's the hope," Harrison said. He lowered his voice now, looking away. "We haven't exactly… checked on them. In person. But the computer says they're still viable."

Paxie felt a pang in their gut. Harrison wasn't looking at the feed now, and he had dropped his voice. Nobody knew the body language of these creatures yet, but this was not what they had observed as Harrison's normal demeanor.

Two hundred Earthlings. And six of them were possibly dead. What may have been a small wound to the Xoixe was a great blow to the Earthlings. No planet, no bearings, no familiar species, hunted in open space, and with barely enough of them left to survive.

Paxie rested their weight further back, dizzied with the idea. They could have very possibly witnessed an extinction event had the Earth ship not made it away with The Water's Kiss, had they not made such a risky and unsound exit plan. Not just the death of intelligent life, but the death of an intelligent species.

It was a difficult prospect to swallow.

"We're unable to dispatch a medpod to you during our jump," Tapide said. Paxie looked to her. She was especially unflappable among her people, they knew this, but it always took Paxie off-guard. "How accessible are your cryogenic compatriots?"

"Uh, well," Harrison said, glancing between Paxie, Kime, and Tapide. Paxie already knew Tapide would fit in the Earthling ship better than they did, but still not as well as the Earthlings. And since their spaces seemed to be made compact on purpose, they could only imagine what the stasis array looked like. "We would probably want to remove the pods from our stasis chamber. We can take them wherever you need to work on them once we've… landed?" Harrison raised his shoulders and twisted his hands to be downside-up, then relaxed again. "I don't know how it works."

"Once our jump is concluded, we can dock properly and shuttle your pods aboard," Paxie explained. "The Water's Kiss should have plenty of resources to evaluate your kin, and determine their revivability."

Harrison nodded, looking down. "Okay," he said. "How long until the jump is over?" Paxie turned and looked to the engineering station, manned by the off-rotation crew member. Eme knew their name, but Paxie didn't.

"We have another six hours," the engineer announced. Paxie didn't let it show how disappointed they were to hear that. They couldn't send or receive any messages while jumping, which meant they weren't going to get any further answers, and couldn't even consult command.

This was probably the worst First Contact in recorded history.

"Alright," Harrison said. He got to his feet again. "I guess we'll see you in six hours, then."

"Very well," Paxie said. "If you have further needs, do not hesitate to hail us again."

"Thanks," Harrison said, and he bore his teeth. He reached for the screen, but then stopped suddenly. "Oh, and before I forget," he said. "Thank you for sending the-the Ghost over."

Paxie tilted their head.

"The Ghost is there?"

Harrison raised the fur patches over his eyes.

"Oh," he said, turning to where he had come onscreen from. "Uh…." He glanced to the screen again.

Paxie heaved a long sigh. They hadn't cleared the Ghost to go aboard the Earthling vessel, but they supposed they hadn't specifically barred it, either. This Ghost wriggled through regulations like water through a leash.

The video feed blurred briefly, and then Harrison moved aside. A transparent, blue-gray mass waved into frame, seeming briefly to obscur the video with a sparse star field.

"Greetings, Admiral," the translation protocol said. Paxie withheld a laugh.

"Hello, Weak Force. You were supposed to wait to be introduced." Paxie couldn't help but notice their words weren't translated to the Earthling language, despite the translation protocol still being active.

"These creatures took my appearance with great grace," the automated voice said. "They understand better than we expected, and did not require coaching to comprehend me."

"Oh, that's good," Paxie said. When Harrison had… fainted, well…. Paxie wasn't worried now, because he seemed fine. But he would have been if Ramirez had been the one on screen, and Harrison remained hidden.

"Admiral," the voice said again. The blur on the video solidified somewhat, obscuring much of the background in a faint haze. "I have been searching through the data on this vessel, and I have discovered two important things." Paxie nodded for it to continue. "Number One: The Earthling vessel, The Solstice, had its course artificially altered, beyond the influence of celestial bodies or the intention of the crew." Paxie blinked, but before they could ask about it— "Number Two: These Earthlings are the species self-designated as Human, currently known as the Five-Fingered Ones, from the planet Areterra."

Areterra? Paxie knew that planet.

"They're from the same planet as the Mauilen," Kime gasped.

Paxie's eyes widened.

"That's excellent news," Paxie said. They looked to Tapide and Kime. "We'll need to adjust for environmental shift, but this should mean we know their chemical biology already."

"Correct, sir," Kime said, typing eagerly on her tablet. "We'll want to run tests first, but we should know then what medicines and foods will work for them."

"Admiral," the voice said. Paxie looked to the screen again. "It would be prudent for the Federation to treat the route alteration of this vessel as sabotage."

Paxie felt almost cold to hear those words. Sabotage. But it seemed as likely as anything else. But if these Humans were from Areterra, then there was more to know here.

Areterra's biological lexicon had no example of a species like the Humans. So there was less hope that their twenty-six million year mission clock was a malfunction. And it would cause some unprecedented administrative strife, assuming it was accurate. Did it mean they were truly an orphaned species then? Perhaps it was up to if they could survive the current climate of their planet? If it truly had been so long as that? Would the Mauilen have any responsibility over them, or would these two species be treated as entirely independent? Did the Maulien have any responsibility to home the remaining Humans and the method by which they rehabilitated their numbers, or was that weight solely on the Federation?

Paxie shook their head subtly. These were not questions for a patrol admiral.

"Thank you, Weak Force," Paxie said.

"Signing off," the voice said. The feed cut, then, leaving the bridge in silence.

"This is exciting," Kime uttered. Paxie wasn't so sure. And they couldn't help but wonder how old the Skel were, and if they were or had ever been capable of sabotage like this.

"Notify Gunnery Sergeant Appi," Paxie said. "When rest is concluded, she will be to meet me in my office."

#humans are space orcs #sci fi #writeblr #writing #Fayte writes #barely edited #and I mean it I am kinda impatient to post this #I think I'm almost done giving you guys information @_@#I am so sorry this feels like so much info dumping #I hope it's not getting lost in the long pauses

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hudsonespie · 4 years ago

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Part II: Fish Farming is Feeding the World, But at What Cost?

[Part I of this article may be found here. This piece appeared first in The New Yorker and is reproduced here courtesy of The Outlaw Ocean Project.]

In September 2019, Gambian lawmakers gathered in the stately but neglected hall of the National Assembly for an annual meeting, where James Gomez, minister of the country’s fisheries and water resources, insisted that “Gambian fisheries are thriving. ” Industrial fishing boats and plants represent the largest employer of Gambians in the country, including hundreds of deckhands, factory workers, truck drivers, and industry regulators. When a lawmaker asked him about the criticisms of the three fish-meal plants, including their voracious consumption of bonga, Gomez refused to engage. “Boats are not taking more than a sustainable amount,” he said, adding that Gambian waters even have enough fish to sustain two more plants.

Under the best circumstances, estimating the health of a nation’s fish stock is a murky science. Marine researchers like to say that counting fish is like counting trees, except they’re mostly invisible—below the surface—and constantly moving. Ad Corten, a Dutch fishing biologist, told me that the task is even tougher in a place like West Africa, where countries lack the funding to properly analyze their stocks. The only reliable assessments of fish stocks in the area have focussed on Mauritania, Corten said, and they show a sharp decline driven by the fish-meal industry. “Gambia is the worst of them all,” he said, noting that the fisheries ministry barely tracks how many fish are caught by licensed ships, much less the unlicensed ones. As fish stocks have been depleted, many wealthier nations have increased their marine policing, often by stepping up port inspections, imposing steep fines for violations, and using satellites to spot illicit activity at sea. They also have required industrial boats to carry mandatory observers and to install monitoring devices onboard. But Gambia, like many poorer countries, has historically lacked the political will, technical skill, and financial capacity to exert its authority offshore.

Still, though it has no police boats of its own, Gambia is trying to better protect its waters. In August 2019, I joined a secret patrol that the fisheries agency was conducting with the help of an international ocean conservation group called Sea Shepherd, which had brought—as surreptitiously as it could—a one-hundred-and-eighty-four-foot ship called the Sam Simon into the area. It’s equipped with extra fuel capacity, to allow for long patrols, and a doubly reinforced steel hull for ramming into other boats.

In Gambia, the nine miles of water closest to the shore have been reserved for local fishermen, but on any given day dozens of foreign trawlers are visible from the beach. Sea Shepherd’s mission was to find and board trespassers, or other vessels engaged in prohibited behaviors, such as shark finning or netting juvenile fish. In the past few years, the group has worked with African governments in Gabon, Liberia, Tanzania, Benin, and Namibia to conduct similar patrols. Some fisheries experts have criticized these collaborations as publicity stunts, but they have led to the arrest of more than fifty illegal fishing ships.

Barely a dozen local government officials had been informed about the Sea Shepherd mission. To avoid being spotted by fishermen, the group brought in several small speed boats at night and used them to spirit a dozen heavily armed Gambian Navy and fisheries officers out to the Sam Simon. We were joined on the patrol by two gruff private-security contractors from Israel, who were training the Gambian officers in military procedures for boarding ships. While we waited on the moonlit deck, one of the Gambian guards, dressed in a crisp blue-and-white camouflage uniform, showed me a music video on his phone by one of Gambia’s best-known rappers, ST Brikama Boyo. He translated the lyrics of a song, called “Fuwareyaa,” which means “poverty”: “People like us don’t have meat and the Chinese have taken our sea from us in Gunjur and now we don’t have fish.”

Three hours after we embarked, the foreign ships had all but vanished, in what appeared to be a coördinated flight from the forbidden waters. Sensing that word about the operation had gotten out, the Sam Simon’s captain changed plans. Instead of focussing on the smaller unlicensed ships close to land that were mostly from neighboring African countries, he would conduct surprise at-sea inspections of the fifty-five industrial ships that were licensed to be in Gambian waters. It was a bold move: marine officers would be boarding larger, well-financed ships, many of them with political connections in China and Gambia.

Less than an hour later, we pulled alongside the Lu Lao Yuan Yu 010, a hundred-and-thirty-four-foot electric-blue trawler streaked with rust, operated by a Chinese company called Qingdao Tangfeng Ocean Fishery, a company that supplies all three of Gambia’s fish-meal plants. A team of eight Gambian officers from the Sam Simon boarded the ship, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. One officer was so nervous that he forgot the bullhorn he was assigned to carry. Another officer’s sunglasses fell into the sea as he leaped onto the deck.

Onboard the Lu Lao Yuan Yu 010 were seven Chinese officers and a crew of four Gambians and thirty-five Senegalese. The Gambian marine officers soon began grilling the ship’s captain, a short man named Shenzhong Qui who wore a shirt smeared with fish guts. Below deck, ten African crew members in yellow gloves and stained smocks stood shoulder to shoulder on either side of a conveyor belt, sorting bonga, mackerel, and whitefish into pans. Nearby, the floor-to-ceiling rows of freezers were barely cold. Roaches scurried up the walls and across the floor, where some fish had been stepped on and squashed.

I spoke to one of the workers who told me his name was Lamin Jarju and agreed to step away from the line to talk. Though no one could hear us above the deafening ca-thunk, ca-thunk of the conveyor, he lowered his voice before explaining that the ship had been fishing within the nine-mile zone until the captain received a radioed warning from nearby ships that a policing effort was under way.

When I asked Jarju why he was willing to reveal the ship’s violation, he said, “Follow me.” He led me up two levels to the roof of the wheel room, where the captain works. He showed me a large nest of crumpled newspapers, clothing, and blankets, where, he said, several crew members had been sleeping for the past several weeks, ever since the captain hired more workers than the ship could accommodate. “They treat us like dogs,” Jarju said.

When I returned to the deck, an argument was escalating. A Gambian Navy lieutenant named Modou Jallow had discovered that the ship’s fishing log book was blank. All captains are required to maintain log books and keep detailed diaries that document where they go, how long they work, what gear they use, and what they catch. The lieutenant had issued an arrest order for the infraction and was yelling in Chinese at Captain Qui, who was incandescent with rage. “No one keeps that!” he shouted.

He was not wrong. Paperwork violations are common, especially on fishing boats working along the coast of West Africa, where countries don’t always provide clear guidance about their rules. Fishing-boat captains tend to view log books as tools of bribe-seeking bureaucrats or as statistical cudgels of conservationists bent on closing fishing grounds.

But the lack of proper logs makes it almost impossible to determine how quickly Gambia’s waters are being depleted. Scientists rely on biological surveys, scientific modelling and mandatory reports from fish dealers on shore to assess fish stocks. And they use log books to determine fishing locations, depths, dates, gear descriptions, and “fishing effort”—how long nets or lines are in the water relative to the quantity of fish caught.

Jallow ordered the fishing Captain to steer his ship back to port, and the argument moved from the upper deck down to the engine room, where the Captain claimed he needed a few hours to fix a pipe—enough time, the Sam Simon crew suspected, for the Captain to contact his bosses in China and ask them to call in a favor with high-level Gambian officials. Jallow, sensing a stalling tactic, smacked the Captain in the face. “You will make the fix in an hour!” Jallow shouted, grabbing the Captain by the throat. “And I will watch you do it.” Twenty minutes later, the Lu Lao Yuan Yu 010 was en route to shore.

Over the next several weeks, the Sam Simon inspected fourteen foreign ships, most of them Chinese and licensed to fish in Gambian waters, and arrested thirteen of them. Under arrest, ships are typically detained in port for several weeks and fined anywhere from five thousand to fifty thousand dollars. All but one vessel was charged with lacking a proper fishing-log book, and many were also fined for improper living conditions and for violating a law that stipulates Gambians must comprise twenty per cent of shipping crews on industrial vessels in national waters. On one Chinese-owned vessel, there weren’t enough boots for the deckhands, and one Senegalese worker was pricked by a catfish whisker while wearing flip flops. His swollen foot, oozing from the puncture wound, looked like a rotting eggplant. On another ship, eight workers slept in a space meant for two, a four-foot-tall steel-sided compartment directly above the engine room and dangerously hot. When high waves crashed onboard, the water flooded the makeshift cabin, where, the workers said, an electrical power strip had twice almost electrocuted them.

Back in Banjul, one rainy afternoon I sought out Manneh, the local Gambian journalist and environmental advocate. We met in the white-tiled lobby of the Laico Atlantic hotel, decorated with fake potted plants and thick yellow drapes. Pachelbel’s Canon played in an endless loop in the background, accompanied by the plinking of water dripping from the ceiling into half a dozen buckets. Manneh had recently returned to Gambia after a year in Cyprus, where he had fled after his father and brother had been arrested for political activism against Yahya Jammeh, a brutal autocrat who was eventually forced from power in 2017. Manneh, who told me that he hoped to become President one day, offered to take me to the Golden Lead factory.

The next day, Manneh returned in a Toyota Corolla he had hired for the difficult drive. Most of the road from the hotel to Golden Lead was dirt, which recent rains had turned into a treacherous slalom course of deep and almost impassable craters. The trip was about thirty miles, and took nearly two hours. Over the din of a missing muffler, he prepared me for the visit. “Cameras away,” he cautioned. “No saying anything critical about fish meal.” Just a week before my arrival that some of the same fishermen who had pulled up the plant’s wastewater pipe had apparently switched sides, attacking a team of European researchers who had come to photograph the facility, pelting them with rocks and rotten fish. Though they opposed the dumping and resented the export of their fish, some locals did not want foreign media publicizing Gambia’s problems.

We finally pulled up at the entrance of the plant, five hundred yards from the beach, behind a ten-foot wall of white corrugated metal. An acrid stench, like burning orange peels and rotting meat, assaulted us as soon as we got out of the car. Between the factory and the beach was a muddy patch of land, studded with palm trees and strewn with litter, where fishermen were repairing their boats in thatched-roof huts. The day’s catch lay on a set of folding tables, where women were cleaning, smoking, and drying it for sale. One of the women wore a hijab dripping wet from the surf. When I asked her about the catch, she shot me a dour look and tipped her basket toward me. It was barely half-full. “We can’t compete,” she said. Pointing at the factory, she added, “It all goes there.”

The Golden Lead plant consists of several football-field-size concrete buildings, and sixteen silos, where dried fish meal and chemicals were stored. Fish meal is relatively simple to make, and the process is highly mechanized, which means that plants the size of Golden Lead need only about a dozen men on the floor at any given time. Video footage clandestinely taken by a fishmeal worker inside Golden Lead reveals the plant is cavernous, dusty, hot, and dark. Sweating profusely, several men shovel shiny heaps of bonga into a steel funnel. A conveyor belt carries the fish into a vat, where a giant churning screw grinds it into a gooey paste, and then into a long cylindrical oven, where oil is extracted from the goo. The remaining substance is pulverized into a fine powder and dumped onto the floor in the middle of the warehouse, where it accumulates into a ten-foot-tall golden mound. After the powder cools, workers shovel it into fifty-kilogram plastic sacks stacked floor to ceiling. A shipping container holds four hundred bags, and the men fill roughly twenty to forty containers a day.

Near the entrance of Golden Lead, a dozen or so young men hustled from shore to plant with baskets on their heads, brimming with bonga. Nearby, standing under several gangly palm trees, a forty-two-year-old fisherman named Ebrima Jallow explained that the women pay more for a single basket, but Golden Lead buys in bulk and often pays for twenty baskets in advance—in cash. “The women can’t do that,” he said.

A few hundred yards away, Dawda Jack Jabang, the fifty-seven-year-old owner of the Treehouse Lodge, a deserted beachfront hotel and restaurant, stood in a side courtyard staring at the breaking waves. “I spent two good years working on this place,” he told me. “And overnight Golden Lead destroyed my life.” Hotel bookings have plummeted, and the plant’s odor at times is so noxious that patrons leave his restaurant before finishing their meal.

Golden Lead has hurt more than helped the local economy, Jabang said. But what about all of those young men hauling their baskets of fish to the factory? Jabang waved the question away dismissively: “This is not the employment we want. They’re turning us into donkeys and monkeys.”

The COVID-19 pandemic has highlighted the tenuousness of this employment landscape, as well as its corruption. In May, many of the migrant workers on fishing crews returned home to celebrate Eid just as borders were closing down. With workers unable to return to Gambia and new lockdown measures in place, Golden Lead and other plants suspended operation.

Or they were supposed to. Manneh obtained secret recordings in which Bamba Banja, of the Ministry of Fisheries, discussed bribes in exchange for allowing factories to operate during the lockdown. In October, Banja took a leave of absence after a police investigation found that, between 2018 and 2020, he had accepted ten thousand dollars in bribes from Chinese fisherman and companies, including Golden Lead.

On the day that I visited Golden Lead, I made my way down to the sprawling beach. I found Golden Lead’s new wastewater pipe, which was about 12 inches in diameter, already rusted, corroded and only slightly visible above the mounds of sand. The Chinese flag was gone. Kneeling down, I felt liquid flowing through it. Within minutes, a Gambian guard appeared and ordered me to leave the area.

The next day I headed to the country’s only international airport, located an hour away from the capital, Banjul, to catch my flight home. My luggage was light now that I’d thrown away the putrid-smelling clothes from my trip to the fish-meal plant. At one point during the drive, as we negotiated pothole after pothole, my taxi driver vented his frustration. “This,” he said, gesturing ahead of us, “is the road the fishmeal plant promised to pave.”

At the airport, I discovered my flight had been delayed by a flock of buzzards and gulls blocking the only runway. Several years earlier, the Gambian government had built a landfill close by, and scavenger birds descended in droves. While I waited among a dozen German and Australian tourists, I called Mustapha Manneh. I reached him at home, in the town of Kartong, seven miles from Gunjur.

Manneh told me he was standing in his front yard, looking out on a litter-strewn highway that connects the JXYG factory, a Chinese fish-meal plant, to Gambia’s largest port, in Banjul. In the few minutes we had been talking, he said, he had watched ten tractor-trailer trucks rattle by, kicking up thick clouds of dust as they went, each hauling a forty-foot-long shipping container full of fish meal. From Banjul, those containers would depart for Asia, Europe, and the United States.

“Every day,” Manneh said, “it’s more.”

Ian Urbina is the director of The Outlaw Ocean Project, a non-profit journalism organization based in Washington DC that focuses on environmental and human rights concerns at sea globally.

This article appears here courtesy of The Outlaw Ocean Project. Part I of this story may be found here.

from Storage Containers https://maritime-executive.com/article/part-ii-fish-farming-is-feeding-the-world-but-at-what-cost via http://www.rssmix.com/

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