Lombok

“Peat is very good for fish,” so fishermen tell me.

They say that the hole left behind after fire has burned through the underground layers of peatland is called “lombok.” The surface of peat is composed of a dense matrix of wet leaves and roots. After an underground peat fire has run its course, the network of roots and leaves collapses inward. Sudden downpours occur frequently in the tropics, and it is not long before rainwater fills the hole. Red tannin from surrounding rainforest trees colors the water an orange-red hue. Upon becoming filled with water, the farmers would find fish swimming in the pond, although none had been brought in.

The earth is not empty. Within the waterlogged, moist ground of Indonesia’s peatlands, endemic, eel-like fish can swim through the earth. Species such as harumei, haruan, and some catfish have adapted specialized respiratory systems to survive in low-oxygen peat swamps. Their bodies are long and cylindrical, with small fins, and black-red skin. They coat their bodies with a layer of mucus to burrow into the cooler mud. Their lungs have long adapted to the poorly oxygenated environments of acidic peat water, and they can survive for days in mud and moist soil.

Architects who build on peatlands mention to me that when they excavate the soil for concrete foundations, they often uncover fish. Even miles away from the river, the soft soil carries species that can burrow underground to escape the heat. Unlike more stable ground, peat resists being read as an inert soil. It is a living system.

In deep forests where peat can reach over 12 meters deep, fishermen have even claimed that they could read the fertility of the land by the color of the fish in the water. They say that fish that live deep in the blackwater swamps have darker bodies and indicate the presence of sour land, or “tanah masem.”

After interviews and talks with scientists from the local university, I had accompanied professors and teachers to these restaurants. In the small roadside eateries, or warungs, and the larger restaurants in the city, nila and harumei occupied equal spots in the menu’s offerings. One of the professors had grimaced slightly at my order of Nila. He, instead, ordered a plate of harumei.

I later learned about the introduction of “nila,” or tiplapia, to the river ecosystems in Borneo. Since the early 1970’s, the government has been importing “nila” in response to food shortages. “Nila” is cheap, hardy, and has a firm flesh that travels well to markets. Yet, unlike the fish species endemic to Borneo, the body of the nila fish is covered with thick, bony scales. While it can swim in muddy waters and survive in low-oxygen environments, it cannot cover itself with mucus and escape underground. It spawns and breeds aggressively, outcompeting native species for both food and resources, gradually disrupting the relationship between fish and soil and displacing the fish that once moved through it.