reprinted from REFLECTIONS United Nations Society of Writers Journal September 2003

 
    The summer I returned from teaching in the Czech Republic, first to Deal Island on the Chesapeake Bay, then to my home in Bridgehampton, Long Island, part of the culture shock was an acute awareness of excess--supermarket shelves stocked to the point of bewilderment; people busily consuming and discarding. I remember lunch in a School cafeteria. The woman at the checkout counter handed me a pile of paper napkins. I had been unable to throw away the extras, which were perfectly usable. I put them in my purse.

     Later, in the Hamptons, where I had been born during a simpler time, the feeling of greed, of people taking more than they needed, reached critical mass. Yet these excesses seemed to mask another story--one of scarcity and depletion.

     The other theme revealed itself through small events. For the first of 15 summers on Deal Island I did not bring back crab cakes for Christmas. Why? Because there were very few crabs in the Chesapeake that year. Friends vacationing in Newfoundland returned with news about the closing of Georges Banks to fishing.

     Despite the opulence around me I noted chilling titles in the newspapers: "The Last Salmon Run" by Katherine Ransel in the Times; the United Nations report that the fish supply in the oceans was declining while the world's population and it appetite for fish was growing. The dark news was everywhere. The deteriorating food supply from the sea was global. In the midst of all this the memory of a particular day spent replenishing a small mountain brook with seed fish kept resurfacing. 

     I am at the bus stop in Vodnany. An early morning rendezvous here can be bleak but this day the cold cement buildings become peripheral while I happily anticipate a chance to go to the Sumava. The Sumava Mountains in southern Bohemia are magical. They are a country of pointed firs; the land of pure streams, bright green moss, reflective ponds and melancholy mystery. It is the place where fairy tales were born. The Czechs keep it that way.

     The rucksack's packed but not too heavy--two salami and cheese sandwiches, paper napkins, a camera, extra film. There are no fast food stops here, no roadside telephone booths. In fact, leaving town by car is a luxury. I usually travel by bicycle, bus or train.

     The School car arrives promptly. One of my best students, Zdenek Machek, is at the wheel. He is translating for the day. Next to him is the School's driving instructor, Jiri Janousek.

     We drive for about an hour. Mr. Janousek answers my questions in Czech waving his hands to keep Zdenek on the road. He grabs the wheel anxiously and instructs continuously. I find it nerve-wracking but Zdenek doesn't skip a beat with his translations. I ask the driving instructor's name and the spelling. He hands me his driver's license accompanied by a tale of his having been another kind of teacher. Due to trouble with the Communists, however, he has had to learn a new profession. These experiences are quite common. Here there are many disenfranchised men in their late 50's and early 60's whose careers were either destroyed or aborted because their intelligence or politics threatened the Communists.

     Eventually we turn onto a dirt road on the edge of the Sumava. Another student, Pavel Hurcala form Slovakia, comes for his driving lesson. Pavel seems underdressed for the cold, vulnerable without gloves. These boys never complain.

Moody beauty

     Zdenek and I enter the woods. They are splendid, filled with moody beauty. Green moss covers the rocks. We pass tiny still ponds that mirror the trees. After one false climb, we re-route ourselves and find the group of students who are working in the mountain brook.

     Below us, a group of boys in khaki slickers walk in the brisk-flowing water behind a long pole affixed to a three-foot square piece of aluminum. A cord connected to a gas-powered generator trails behind them on the water. One boy moves the pole from side to side, covering the width of the narrow brook. Another carries a bucket and a long-handled dip net. They keep their eyes peeled for young Pstruh. The pole apparatus will stun the fish slightly so that the young fisherman can catch and place them in the bucket. Later, they will be transported to a larger experimental pond belonging to the Fishing School. There the fish will grow for the next two years until they become mature.

     The objective is to catch all of the fingerlings that were planted in the brook last year. Once caught the boys will replenish the brook with seed fish from their hatcheries.

     Jan Souhrada, a thoughtful professor of Economics and Environmental Studies at the School, explains the process through Zdenek. According to Souhrada, all must be reported to the Ministry of Agriculture. "We must obtain a permit. We must document exactly how many fish we extract from the Potok…when, where and what kind. We must declare how many of the Pstruh are males or females. We also must declare what we do with the fish, whether we are catching them to eat or to hatch eggs from."

     I photograph the boys at work. The morning light is perfect. By the time we reach the wood's edge where the fry wait in tubs for placement it has begun to snow.

     The sky has darkened. enormous flakes swirl around us--typical March weather in the Sumava. On a rolling hillside to the north a farmer sprays weed killer on his rye grass. Professor Souhrada excuses himself and walks up the hill to speak with the farmer. If the spraying is done correctly there is usually no problem. If the wrong insecticide is used, or if it is applied incorrectly, the little fish now inhabiting the brook will be killed.

Democracy is complicated

     Returning, Souhrada explains, "If we can prove that their (the farmer's) methods have killed our fish then they must pay us for the damage. The Czech Department of Agriculture is very strict about this kind of thing. Last year they weren't careful and had to pay us. The correct weed spray is very expensive." Apparently years ago, before the Velvet Revolution of 1989, the government paid for the spray. Now the farmer must pay. This tempts him to use cheaper, more dangerous, chemicals. Transitional democracy is complicated.

     The snow thickens and the wind picks up. We pile into the truck that brought the boys from their School to the Sumava. It's huge with two rows of wooden benches for seating. There is a wood stove in the back for heat. It is the first time that I have seen a live stove used to heat the inside of a truck. It seems a little dangerous, but in the careful hands of the Czechs I doubt there will be an accident. I share my sandwiches and a large bucket of rolls are passed around with some water.

     Stove blazing, we return to the road where my car awaits. Drivers are exchanged. I return to Vodnany, keeping the small, albeit imperfect model of sustainable living deep inside me. The lesson: replace what we remove -- a lesson learned best when in touch with what you are removing.

     As to the global problem, I don't know who is at fault. I don't think anyone else does either. It's easier to blame others than to take personal responsibility. I do know though, that I loved the little Pstruh that day in the Sumava. I could see them, touch them and I cared whether they survived.

     I'd also welcome the chance to return to the Blanice Restaurant in Vodnany some day soon to savor a nicely roasted trout for dinner.



Mary Ellen Rooney is writer/photographer and International Teacher of Business English. Her journalism has appeared in the New York Times, Newsday Sunday Magazine, International Educator and Print Magazine. Her fiction was featured in Lips Unsealed, an anthology of women’s writing published by Capra Press. She is currently working on a photojournalism project centered on her UN work in Central Asia.

Mary Ellen sings in the Society's tenor section.