The Mysterious Fish of Baracoa

by Rebecca Reuter (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Cuba

The rhythmic swishing of the oars hitting the water is the only sound I hear as Antonio pulls the long, heavy wooden oars, attached to the boat with only a thin strip of fabric. We are cruising down the Rio Toa towards the Atlantic Ocean on a spontaneous expedition to catch a glimpse of a once a year natural phenomenon near Baracoa, Cuba. Yesterday, Mamí and I were sitting on the front porch of our casa particular drinking homemade lemonade when we were approached by a small gentleman wearing an oversized khaki sport coat and dark brown slacks. Miguel introduced himself as Baracoa’s historian. “I wrote a book,” he said, showing us a thin paperback book titled Baracoa: Where Cuba Begins, his name on the cover. “Where are you from?” Miguel asks. “Los Estados Unidos,” I replied. Mamí shared how she brought me to visit her birthplace, the town of Guantanamo and how it was her first time back to Cuba since 1961. “I always wanted to see Baracoa since before I left,” she said. “I wanted to show mi hija the beautiful beaches, she is a biologa marina and she wants to see fishes.” Miguel moved closer to me and whispered, “Do you know about the mysterious fish of Baracoa?” I shook my head. “It is called the Tetí and it comes once a year during el cuarto Menguante, waning half-moon. No one knows where they come from or where they are going. They are a delicacy to Baracoans,” he explained. When Rafael, our tour guide/driver, arrived this morning to take us to a waterfall outside of Baracoa, I asked him if he knew about the Tetí. “Yes, of course,” he said. “How do you eat them?” I asked. “We dry them and use them as a flavoring,” he explained. “Or we eat them fresh,” he gestures as if popping sunflower seeds into his mouth. “The main fishing for them happened a few days ago after the full moon. But maybe there are still some fishermen,” Rafael says. “Let’s go,” I say. Five miles outside of town, Rafael pulls into the parking lot of a restaurant with a large thatch-roofed building. He asks us to wait. His pace is quick as he returns. “Vamos,” he says, “todavía están pescando el Tetí,” he points in the direction of the river. The fishermen are still fishing for the Tetí. Between each swish of the oars, I listen for birds. I scan the tops of palm trees along the shoreline and into the thick understory. I am excited my trip to Cuba to explore my Cuban heritage has become an expedition. When conducting research as a marine biologist in the cold waters of Alaska, my attire is bright orange rain gear, no-slip, steel-toed rubber boots and layers of warm clothes. In Cuba, it is a purple t-shirt, khaki capris, and sandals. The wooden boat sits low in the water as Antonio navigates an elbow turn in the river. The river’s mouth comes into view. A few men are walking along a large sandbar towards a makeshift camp of driftwood tents topped with blue tarps. One is carrying a large white sack over his shoulder. Rafael says the bag must be filled with Tetí. I follow Rafael out of the boat, a smile across my face. We meet the fishermen. Rafael tells them I am a marine biologist. The man with the bag lowers it from his shoulder, he smiles as he places a few translucent, eel-like fish in my hands, no bigger than the tip of my index finger. Its blunt snout and tapered body resemble that of a goby. “Son bebitos,” I say, feeling tongue-tied for not knowing the word for larval fish in Spanish. Somehow Rafael knows what questions I want to ask the men. How do they catch the Teti? They use a net. How long is the season? Today was probably the last day. Do they sell the catch? The fish is for their family and neighbors. The fishermen laugh when I ask to take pictures. I laugh along realizing I am experiencing a version of what our historian friend described as a transcendent event.