Giant air-breathing fish means big money for Amazon poachers

Pirarucu's skin can be used for shoes, bags and wallets and its flesh is wanted by restaurants

A fisherman carries a large pirarucu in Amazonas State, Brazil. AFP

Prized for its skin as much as its flesh, the pirarucu has long been a staple for indigenous people who hunt the air-breathing fish in lakes in the Javari Valley. AFP

But the freshwater pirarucu, which can grow to be larger than a man, is also wanted by poachers. AFP

Fishermen unload a catch of pirarucu in Fonte Boa, Brazil. AFP

Bushe Matis, co-ordinator of Univaja, the main indigenous organisation from the country's north-western region, talks with Thiago Arruda Mairum, an official from the Indigenous Working Center (CTI), a Brazilian NGO that defends indigenous people in Amazonia. AFP

In Brazil's Amazonas province, pirarucu harvesting is strictly regulated. AFP

Brazilian soldiers carry a pirarucu seized on a boat. Reuters

A boat transports pirarucu fish to a processing ship, in the San Raimundo settlement lake, in Carauari, Brazil. AP

In the Javari Valley which holds the country's second-largest protected Indigenous reserve, home to seven tribes including the Kanamari, only residents may hunt the fish. AFP

In 2017, a project was started in the Javari Valley with the help of CTI to ensure communities will be able to continue harvesting pirarucu for a long time to come. AFP

The freshwater pirarucu, a fish that can grow to be larger than a man, is wanted by poachers in a lawless part of the Amazon jungle where Brazil, Peru and Colombia meet.

Prized for its skin as much as its flesh, the pirarucu has long been a staple for Indigenous people who hunt the air-breathing fish in lakes in the Javari Valley.

But it has also become much sought-after by restaurants in Rio, Bogota and Lima – its rising popularity pushing up prices and raising the stakes for Amazon dwellers.

The growing appetite for pirarucu is blamed for the deaths last year of Indigenous rights defender Bruno Pereira and British journalist Dom Phillips at the hands of fish poachers who hid their bodies in the jungle.

In Brazil's Amazonas province, pirarucu harvesting is strictly regulated.

In the Javari Valley which holds the country's second-largest protected Indigenous reserve, home to seven tribes including the Kanamari, only residents may hunt it.

Yet, “they are stealing from us,” said Joao Filho Kanamari, an Amazon resident who takes his last name from his tribe which comes into regular conflict with intruders in pursuit of the fish.

For the Kanamari, the story of the pirarucu is that of “a tree leaf that fell into the water and became a giant fish”, tribal chief Mauro da Silva Kanamari told AFP.

The pirarucu, or Arapaima gigas, is one of the largest freshwater fish in the world.

With its pink, tapered tail, awkwardly flattened head and globular eyes, it reminiscent of a prehistoric monster.

An omnivore, the pirarucu can grow up to three metres long and weigh more than 200kg.

Caught with nets and harpoons, the giant fish is relatively easy to spot and kill as it needs to surface to breathe about every 20 minutes.

Known to locals as “the cow of the Amazon”, presumably for its ability to feed many at a time, the pirarucu is also versatile: its skin is used for exotic leather products such as shoes, bags and wallets.

Pirarucu scales, reputedly resistant to piranha teeth, are sold to tourists as key chains.

Subject to overfishing in the Brazilian Amazon, the pirarucu all but disappeared in the 1990s until the government introduced fishing restrictions.

Armed fishermen

In 2017, a project was started in the Javari Valley with the help of an Indigenous NGO called CTI to ensure the community will be able to continue harvesting pirarucu for a long time to come. Sustainably.

The project is managed by the Kanamari themselves, who have voluntarily limited their catches of pirarucu and agreed not to sell any for five years.

“The idea is that the natives can feed themselves, provide for their needs, all while protecting their territory,” said CTI spokesman Thiago Arruda.

The project also involves patrols to spot and report poachers – a risky endeavour that can bring the tribespeople in contact with illegal fishermen, who are often armed.

“The project is very important for us,” said Bushe Matis, co-ordinator of the Union of Indigenous Peoples of the Javari Valley (Univaja.)

“Before people fished like crazy. From now on we will take care of the lakes and fishing areas, so that we will always have fish in the future.”

A stocktake will occur within weeks, and if fish numbers have recovered sufficiently, the Kanamari will be able to start selling again.

But there are obstacles ahead: the community still has to set up a cold chain to get the fish safely to clients from all the way inside the bowels of the jungle, and decide how to split the proceeds.

Some fear the opening to sales could expose the Indigenous jungle dwellers to a new kind of risk.

According to one project promoter there is a danger of local politicians or businessmen “not necessarily well-intentioned and probably involved in illegal fishing networks” working their way into the system.