Peter W Fong's tale of carping in Tokyo...


Once upon a time, my family moved from Missoula, Montana, a small town in the American West, to Tokyo, Japan. For a certain type of angler, this might have constituted a tragedy, but I resolved to keep my head up. So what if 11.7 million people had packed themselves into a place not much bigger than the average cattle ranch?

On an atlas, Tokyo was a convergence of rivers and bays. As long as there was water, I told myself, I could fish. And during our first week in the city, I proved this fact by hooking a feisty 4lb carp in the trickle of fresh water that irrigated the nearest park. No one else appeared to be fishing, although a school of a dozen or more cruised in plain sight. I’d been hoping for a strike from one of the red-and-white beauties, but my fish was a drab gold with big smooth scales.

Both my kids were with me, and we drew a little crowd of silent spectators before releasing the carp. Later, several locals expressed surprise that I was not arrested. For what? I asked. For harassing the sacred koi.

It turned out that the socially acceptable place to fish was on the big Tama River, just downstream from the sewage treatment plant. There, every weekend, a line of flyfishermen formed on both banks, with those in the know preferring the upwind side. The carp were savvy and selective, typically refusing all but the most faithful bread-crust imitations.

One Saturday afternoon, after a long week of rain, I rode my bike down to the Tama, my flybox filled with blonde caddis and white millers. It was a beautifully sunny day, and the riverside park thrummed with the happy sounds of urban residents taking the air.

At my first stop, below the treatment plant, the colourful carp were rising by the dozens. A sort of sustained rise, with their big rubbery lips open like funnels. I wondered what the fish could be filtering from the flow. Drowned insects? Grass seed and flower petals? And then I noticed their implausible targets. Human excrement.

I looked around, to see if anybody else had noticed. The turd hatch. But life in Tokyo proceeded as usual. The customary parade of joggers and cyclers and strollers. A shirtless old man in gym shorts and beach thongs, practicing the French horn. A young couple dallying on a sun-drenched footbridge, the girl kicking off her platform sandals, to gain traction.

I could hear the carp slurping and sloshing as they fed. A few yards downstream, a trio of patient anglers sat dunking riceballs under quill bobbers, to no avail. A bit farther down, the members of a girls’ soccer team were dabbling their feet in the water.

I climbed back on my bike and fled upstream. At the second spot where I usually fished, a big eddy across from a television factory, there were no rises. Then again, there was no hatch.