The annotated budak

Why are the fish biting?

My fragile duck is always glad that members of the subfamily Serrasalminae (Characidae, order Characiformes) are not found in this region. Well, at least the carnivorous members, for large Colossoma 3 ft long have been sighted in Singapore's reservoirs, presumably thriving on the fallen fruit of the overhanging forest just as they would have done in their native Amazon and Orinoco river basins. Closely related to the Serrasalminids (which means saw-toothed salmon, indicating that the original describer was clearly unfamiliar with salmon) are the popular aquarium fishes known as tetras (Characidae), freshwater hatchetfish (Gasteropelecidae) and pencilfish (Lebiasinidae). Though rarely reaching more than a couple of inches in length, the smaller characins share their cousins' toothy jaws and meat-loving habits. Scale up a neon tetra from an inch to about half-a-foot and I wager you'll end up with a creature that will chew off the nuchal humps of hybrid monster cichlids and your fingers to boot.

Despite their legendary ferocity, piranhas (genera Pygocentrus, Serrasalmus, Pristobrycon, Pygopristis and Catoprion – the last being a monotypic genus with a silverdollar-like creature that eats the scales of other fish) have a reputation that probably precedes reality. A 1980s B-movie (directed by non other than James "Titanic" Cameron) depicted bioengineered piranhas that are able to fly around like foot-long avian gremlins and have an unhealthy appetite for women in bikinis. The only thing worse than this ichthyological atrocity is an upcoming remake where an aquatic tremor unleashes a school of prehistoric piranhas in an Arizona lake.

However, authenticated cases of fatalities directly caused by piranha attacks are as rare as the mokele mbembe, and it is thought that incidents of supposed human consumption stem from fish helping themselves to an already drowned or otherwise dispatched individual. Non fatal attacks that merely involved getting pieces of your lower limbs bitten off are believed to be the result of stupid naked apes blundering into the breeding territories of spawning pairs. Turning the table, the natives of piranha-infested regions are known to have a taste for the meaty fish and are said to have relatively little fear of the schooling biters compared to the real risk of encountering the business end of a freshwater stingray. 

That said, it's still probably a good idea not to dangle your duck finger over murky South American rivers or dip your arm into an aquarium housing a specimen or more. And even if the piranhas are sated, exposed ducks stand a chance of an intimate session with a little fish that will wriggle into your member and give you a bloody blowjob from the inside out.

Perhaps the most result of piranha-human relations is by Jan H. Mol of the University of Suriname who investigated attacks on humans by Serralsalmus rhombeus in the tiny South American banana republic. Writing in Studies on Neotropical Fauna and Environment, December 2006; 41 (3): 189-195, Mol reminds us that piranhas are rightly more dangerous out of water, with most bites taking place when netted fish are flapping and gnashing their teeth at random on boats.

Mol examined three sites where piranha attacks had been documented: two isolated Amerindian villages and a recreational park by the Suriname River. He obtained demographic data from municipal records; scoured historical records of attacks since 1923; interviewed victims and eyewitnesses; analysed and fished the waters at the attack locales.

In both Amerindian villages, piranha attacks were found to be correlated with periods of high human population growth.  At one village, Donderkamp, all attacks took place in a 50x20 m area near a river landing stage, with no known attacks of bathers up- or downstream of the landing stage.  The species implicated was confirmed by the recovery of part of a human toe from the stomach of a 25 cm S. rhombeus 3 hours after an attack at the same fishing location. One victim was singled out as a visitor from the capital, Paramaribo, who ignored a prominent "warning-piranhas" sign and was bitten in his big toe the moment he entered the water. The bulk of attacks took place in the low-water (dry) season.

At the recreational park, the attacks also began only in the dry season, 6 months after the park opened. Mol reports that guests were spilling food in the river, attracting small characins, including piranhas, which then started to take chunks of out bathers. Juvenile piranhas caused superficial wounds, but full-grown fish produced more impressive scars ("muscle tissue removed to the bone," remarks Mol coolly) that would last a lifetime and offer endless fodder for outrageous grandfatherly tales.

The seasonal nature of piranha attacks at all three sites was perceptible. Mol suggests that low-water conditions where large numbers of fish are concentrated in increasingly smaller pools represent a particular risk. The mere presence of S. rhombeus is insufficient to denote the possibility of attacks; Mol notes that bathers in neighbouring French Guiana have never encountered attacks even in places where the species is common. For his part, he claims to have suffered no woe from piranhas "in 15 years of field work... often wading for hours through piranha-infested' streams and catching piranhas with hook and line while bathing in the river."

This observation is shared by natives in the know. Amerindians in Guyana would, Mol recounts, use old sacking to protect their legs when entering dry-season pools. Menstruating women would also be barred from bathing in the river.

Elsewhere, piranha attacks have been linked to human disturbance of brooding parents, but the Suriname attacks took place after the breeding season and Mol suggests that high post-spawning populations of young and hungry fish, coupled with the corresponding surge in human activity such as bathing and gutting of fish by the river (piranhas are attracted to splashing and the sound of objects falling into the water), created conditions highly amenable to the maceration of manmeat by Serralsalmid  mandibles. One also detects a veritable sigh of academic weariness in Mol's concluding declaration that questions the wisdom of setting up recreational parks with bathing zones right along rivers full of potentially hazardous fishes. But who knows? It might just be somebody's idea of an extreme sport or a great set for a reality show spin-off to be called "Fish Factor".... 

Genetic manipulation for better performance

From The force that through. Now, if only they could insert into our genome the intercoursal proclivities of ladybirds....

In other news, Malaysialand shows again that it boleh!

It's somewhat disjunctively surreal to see common mynas (Acridotheres tristis) foraging in pairs by the roadside Down Under, and even in the cool farmlands of New Zealand's North Island. In Australia, some good news is emerging in the realm of urban avian ecology, but this article unfortunately fails to point out that mynas are hardly natives of the Antipodean continent, but feathered counterparts of the cane toads (Bufo marinus) that are threatening a legacy of lost species across their adopted land.

Still on feathered topics, it's still a good time to catch wintering migrants from Siberia at Sungei Buloh, where wheezy whimbrels, plump plovers, snivelling sandpipers and longshanks red (above) and green are feeding with a frenzy on the mudflats at low tide. It's just a shame that their time here reveals little of the splendid plumage that these waders boast during their time up north. Breeding Pacific Golden Plovers (far right), for instance, are a handsome black and gold, while curlew sandpipers, which are drab and dull in Singapore, become richly rufous when courting. Even the perky little Mongolian plovers (left) put on a cheeky mask and robin redbreast when they want to get laid and laying. More pictures here.

Sandpipers of all shapes and shanks are common visitors and residents at Sungei Buloh, but one member of the family faces an uncertain future, and may well vanish before anything is known about the function of its funny-looking beak. Ditto that obscene attempt at inoculating porn-star values into the innocent minds of unsuspecting children by erecting a personality cult sustained by claims of divine anointment and repeated appeals for devout offerings. Just as hurricanes and terrorist airstrikes are unquestionable signs of divine impatience with people who are not straight-laced wasps, so must the predicted decline of these conniving birds be an indication that neither bird nor beast deserve a place in the promised land of faithful men.

Meanwhile, Bob the silent croc (who seems to be eating well) plows his trade beneath the bridge spanning Sungei Buloh Besar, while his lounge lizard cousins stick to higher ground. There seem to be quite a few very large (2-3 m long) water monitors hanging around the Visitor Centre, and I am sure indignant letters to the press will soon appear calling for the destruction of these horrid scaley beasts which must not be allowed to share the same space as  smooth-skin naked apes.

The poor man was sitting tight on his chair, nursing a surely luke-warm drink, trying to prevent his ears from dropping off and rolling into the gutter. At some point, he must have pulled himself away and rushed to the nearest pick-up joint, fretting over the vital dimensions of girth and reach, seeking perhaps the reassurance of wenches who would not question his endurance and thereafter making a molehill out of his mileage.

Thanks for the cheer and company.

Sisters' Island revisited

The year's first low tides brought the Beachfleas and Wildfilms crew back to Sisters' Island, where we combed the shallow lagoon for countless marine creatures before somebody decides to clean up all the living coral rock and beds of seaweed to put in a place a pristine, uncluttered sandy shore fit only for millionaire tourists.

My duck found the above foot-long fish lying on the sand and was told this is a species of flathead (Cymbacephalus nematophthalmus). It does nothing but lie motionless on the seabed waiting to be caught in the talons of fishing ducks for small prey. I think it's called flathead because it's so resistant to moving that it ends up getting stepped on by wandering beach monkeys and wading ducks.

Weaving its way around the coral rubble was a little worm-like pipefish (Hippichthys sp.). Close relatives of the seahorses, these fish are an afront to the time-honoured family values cherished by our upright neo-Confucianist society; instead of forming well-defined nuclear families onto which the state can offload its socio-economic obligations, female pipefish, after a wanton courtship dance, produce a string of eggs which are attached to the male's belly. The poor guy nurses the spawn until they hatch into minibeans, even while the lady carries out further exploits with other fellows; surely there is no better example of the moral bankruptcy of the Darwinian struggle for survival! The fish on the right was rather excitable; it got so worked up at seeing my duck that it leaped onto a small sandbank and got stuck there, allowing me to peck at it take its photo. It's some species of wrasse (probably Halichoeres bicolor), a relative of the Napoleon wrasse, big kok-tau fish so beloved by Chinese seafood fans that diners have no qualms about getting their share of the fish before they run out. Like the pipefish, wrasses (Labridae) represent another threat to the conservative bedrock of this island state; many species are protogynous, meaning they can change their sex from female to male. Outrageous! And worse, they even have two types of males: proper men not afraid to display their masculinity as well as girly men who pretend to be female in order to sneak a bite of the ladies' cherries when the real guys are not looking.

Scampering over the exposed rock clusters are centimetre-long long-jawed intertidal spiders (Desis sp.), one of which tried to clamber up my sunburnt duck and almost received the same ugly fate as its blood-sucking cousin.  During high tide, they hide in air pockets in submerged cavities. On the right are a couple of spider food (Halovelia sea skaters) making whoopee. Belonging to the bug order Hemiptera, sea skaters are rare marine representatives of the insect world, with the genus Halobates living on the open ocean.

Many crabs were sunning themselves in the late afternoon light. Unfortunately, most of them, especially the big-clawed swimming crabs, were rather rude, so I threatened to hand them over the man- and crabeating crabbygirl who would grind them up for molecular analysis, drown them in alcohol or simply tear their limbs apart with her bare hands just to show 'em who's boss.

And in line with the aspirations of the Southern Islands' new target demographic, a bottle of bubbly accompanied this outing to welcome the new year and toast the would-be resort dwellers who will enjoy unfettered views of soddy oil tankers and hulking barges amidst a cloud of sandflies and thieving monkeys by lifeless beaches unfit for the likes of anemones, clownfish and such low class ilk.

More pictures here, while Joseph Lai offers a botanical survey of the island. The monkey met a seasnake and got into a tangle with an octopussy but claims she's too lazy to upload her pictures. Next time, I'll throw the crab at her...

Big boat

If I had known that non-aquatic ducks who would need a pail to stay afloat could qualify as a volunteer crew member for the East Indiaman Götheborg, this bird would have signed-up for a cruise from Canton to Changi if offered half the chance (especially since there is a surfeit of youthful Swedes onboard). Unfortunately, the voyage also involves a whole lot of climbing and messing around with knots and knutes, and my duck, though no prude, isn't particularly fond of being strung up in unwieldy entanglements. Pirates on the high seas are another risk; tired of being fucked by effete sparrows, it's likely that longshored buccaneers wanting some real action would make much ado out of prim and proper poultry. And besides, the original version of the boat sank....

Happily, Siva appears to have emerged non the worse after three weeks on the singular flotilla apart from a rather pronounced Swedish accent and non-stop replays of Mamma Mia (mutineers, on the other hand, get a choice of the plank or a lifetime of Roxette); the only landlubbering lack he suffered was the palpable absence of a rabid simian on his shoulder. Every sailor surely needs a sidekick; a creature to whom one can give a hearty kick in the side should the occasion (or simply the whim) call for it.

Götheborg (also spelled as Göteborg) is a city, the second-largest, in Sweden after Stockholm. The town's name means "castle of the goths", which serves as a reminder of its war-mongering, blood-thirsty, damsel-distressing, monkey-wrenching past some 1,000 years ago, when bleached blokes wearing horny hats and flaxen plaids partied and plundered all the way to Greenland. At some point, they succumbed to the smörgåsbord of civilisation and gave up pillaging for the pleasure of meatballs, tacky bourgeois furniture and unabashed free lurving. A little later, the eponymous ship was commissioned by the Swedish East India Company (no relation to any fashion label) as a merchantman charged with importing tea, fine China, silk and peidu mamas from the exotic Orient.

On the return leg of its third trip in 1745, just two days before the courtesan Madame de Pompadour (whose breasts were said to have been the model for the champagne coupe) officially became the mistress of King Louis XV, the vessel had an unexpected appointment with Davy Jone's Locker, sinking within sight of the harbour. There were no casualties and the ship had a well-deserved slumber until the late 1980s, when some people who clearly preferred history to geography thought it would be a swell idea to rebuild the boat and sail it all the way to China again (in other words a not-too-well-hidden excuse to have parties at every port of call).

The rebuilt Götheborg is almost a carbon copy of the 18th century original. Modern maritime rules, however, made it essential to incorporate two diesel-powered propellers, satellite navigation and communications systems and SAM capabilities and fire-fighting gear beneath the veneer of oak and pine. According to Siva, vessels entering Singapore's crowded port waters are not permitted to use windpower so the Götheborg came to its berth at the Harbourfront Promenade by Vivocity with sails furled. Permission to fly a little Jolly Roger was also not granted due to protests by IPOS and RIAS. And unlike their scurvy-laden predecessors, contemporary crew members enjoy onboard luxuries such as washing machines, lavatories, fridges and a party suite with saunas and jacuzzis for three. Siva also revealed that contrary to the maximum speed of 8 knots stated in the official literature, the ship has actually been zhnged to hit the waves at a puke-inducing 11.

A reasonable first impression for visiting non-aquatic fowl is that the vessel is strewn with equipment for hanging deposed dictators several times over. The tightly-woven miles of hemp (which is the strongest known natural fibre) are preserved with tar (which seeps out surreptitiously to infuse the deck with sulphurous highs) and strengthened with sticky beeswax for greater adhesive power. The coils form the very lifeline of the voyage, allowing the crew to master the sails that hang from the yards that jut out perpendicular to the towering masts. The immense network of ropes and supporting structures (collectively known as the rigging), each with a specific function and bewildering Swedish names, allow the mariners to control the angle of the sails and manipulate the surface area exposed to the tradewinds to catch the full force of the breeze or if necessary, prevent tacking (imbalance) or damage to the masts by too strong a gale.

Climbing up the rig and fiddling with the sails and yards are key tasks  for the members of every 4-hour watch. A harness and safety line are modern concessions to safety, as the ascending crew would have their backs to the wide open. Other shipmates would form teams on the deck to manoeuvre the sail into its required position by pulling on the ropes and securing them to pins on a rail. A closely-related task is reefing, whereby rows of crew ascend to a yard and bind together (using what else but reef knots) corresponding reef bands (small strips of canvas that line the sail at vertical intervals) to lower the surface area of the sail. This dizzy work goes on regardless of weather and time, making night shifts in the open sea an adventure of nocturnal vertigo.

Really heavy-duty tasks, like yard bracing or anchor winching, is done with the aid of a capstan. This is a wooden shaft that spans the main deck and the gun deck below. Ropes are secured around the shaft and wound by pushing against a spike of bars that protrude out from the shaft on both decks. To picture this, think of the rotating device used to summon the kraken in a recent girly movie. According to Siva, it's a tradition for birthday boys and girls to be bound naked to the capstan and pelted with rotten herring for a day sit on the capstan for a celebratory round. 

While most visitors slid and slobbered on the tarry deck, good connections brought us to the lower levels below the gun deck where barrels of Jamaican rum were stowed and a multinational bacchanal was taking place for a quick peek into the private lives of not-too ancient mariners. Hannah, for instance, is a mere babe (in both senses of the word) beside ageing apes and decaying ducks (guess how old young she is, the winner gets a date with my duck).

The Götheborg sets sail for Chennai on 14 January but is open for visitors till 9 January. Tickets cost $10. Please try to avoid the error made by the monkey (shown here gleefully brandishing her ticket before discovering that she could have gotten a free tour) of misgendering topknotted crew members, even if they are tall, bosomy and share your pants size – I imagine there isn't a barbershop onboard. Sadly, neither are Swedish massages available in the galleys...

Visitors to Vivocity today would also have had the chance of observing Singaporeans engaged in the passionate pastime of giving their all for a cheap deal. The steal in this case is a $50 Vivocity shopping voucher given to free-spending folks who present credit card charge slips amounting to at least $450. Redemption only starts at 8 pm and is limited to the first 200 customers in the queue, so I imagine some of these latter-day Jobs and their hapless kin – fully equipped with newspapers, packed lunches and toilet breaks in regimented turns – have been soaking in the idle air since breakfast. I suppose this is true family values at work, where the draw of a dollar involves the mere cost of a long day at the mall for your entire nuclear clan. But then, it's likely that such an ordeal is barely one at all for some...

In other news, my unredeemed duck is currently two-thirds through Trilobites: Eyewitness to Evolution (which was acquired after a chance encounter with a hardcover edition at Page One), a recommendation by the crabbygirl whom one may not ask certain questions on pain of some really crabby punishment. Unfortunately, there isn't actually much information on these Paleozoic rugrats (for meatier stuff, go for Levi-Setti, which I bought at Borders while overhearing another patron complain aloud that the shop lacks textbooks) save a guide through their basic biramous anatomy (if I remember nothing else, I hope at least glabella and pygidium stick) and an insightful chapter on their tremendous eyepower (which, however, did them little good in the survival stakes). But the book is still rather recommendable, really. Woven around the wondrous tales of discovery and trails of pyrite are extended excursions into the arcane world of fossil-hunting, paleotaxonomy (monroeae and quasimodo are but two monikers bestowed by trilobite describers with an eye for anatomical counterpoint) and the world of natural history museums behind the public galleries, where the perished are published and crucibles of creation can give rise to evolutionary battlegrounds of explosive consequences. And the nature of science is itself – its self-begetting cycle of synthesis and reevaluation – is recapitulated by Fortey who reminds us that "as we learn more, we think of new questions to ask." And far from there being any last word or resort to agents beyond the realm of science, Fortey sees the work of scientists as a "continuous spirit of moving optimism". All questions in science, he notes, are but "journeys towards the right answer," endeavours of hope that find more joy in the endless pursuit of knowledge than the unlikely thud of dead certainly.