t was my turn to laugh. About 3 years ago Rohemon had stocked the pond with another variety of fish which, like Ikan Lele, grow fast and are good to eat. Those “other” fish had turned out to be some variety of carp or catfish which, in addition to fish food pellets also ate plants and paint chips, whose habit of writhing and wriggling in the water plant pots stirred up the dirt creating a muddy, murky swamp. I had gotten rid of them in much the same way as I was proposing we get rid of these monsters…by fattening them up for the kill.

The slaughter had begun with Rusnati catching and cooking one of those “others” for Curtis’s dinner. She spent hours chopping and muddling spices, onions, garlic, peppers to create “pecel” sauce. She slathered the fish in the sauce, letting it marinade and, finally, roasted it. The resulting fish dinner looked scrumptious, garnished with cucumber and tomato slices, accompanied by rice and vegetables. However the taste was different—think spicy campfire, dirt and fish guts with a whiff of lead-based paint. Curtis had managed to eat his—and mine, but…. He made me promise never to feed him our pond fish again.

However, what Rusnati, Rohemon, Sugiman and their families eat is their business.

“Better to give them to Rohemon,” I said. “Curtis doesn’t need to eat them.”

I went on to tell Rusnati about the fish spa we had been to in Kuala Lumpur. The one where fish nibbled the dead skin off our feet. “It would be good to get those kind of fish for the pond.” I mused.

“When I was young in the kampung, the “village.” Rusnati began, as she begins many stories of her childhood. “My father raised fish.”

“I know,” I said, hoping to hurry the story along. “You’ve told me.”

“We used to put our feet in the pond and the fish would bite at them.”

“They would?” I asked, brightening. The subject was getting interesting. “Banyak? A lot? Did the fish hurt?”

Rusanti laughed. “Oh no, we liked it.”

“Do you think, after the Ikan Lele are big enough to eat, we could try to find those kind of fish? The ones that nibbled on your feet?”

Rusnati thought, then nodded. “Munkin, maybe.”

Munkin, maybe could be good. Maybe this is the answer. Maybe when these nasty, slimy, sneaky, Monster Ikan Lele gone we can turn the pond into a fish spa, complete with colorful cushions to sit on and mood lighting…ugly

Munkin, maybe we should begin feeding these Monsters twice a day…or three times.

I can see it now: colorful pillows, candlelight, some wine, music and tiny, hungry minnows gently nibbling my feet...