How to Hunt an Eel in a Karen Village
- Rand Blimes
- Apr 30
- 4 min read
Note: This post is part of a series from a tiny village in northern Thailand called Mae La Oop, where I spent six weeks leading a semester-abroad program. There were no restaurants, no hotels, no tourist shops — just kind people, floor mats, and more amazing home-cooked meals than I thought one human could consume. My family and students lived with local host families, volunteered in the school, and worked alongside NGOs on grassroots development projects. It was challenging, immersive, and utterly unforgettable.
I balanced carefully on the thin, wet ridge of earth that divided one section of the rice field from another. Water and mud surrounded me, and any misstep would have sent me tumbling into the flooded fields.
A late afternoon breeze settled in but did nothing to lift the mist hanging over the deep green mountains. Bangkok, which now seemed a world away, had been sweltering. But here, in northern Thailand, it was cool—almost uncomfortably so.
But so beautiful.
A few steps in front of me walked my host. While I had to concentrate with every step, he moved casually, crouched slightly, scanning the paddies for signs of movement.
We were hunting eels.
Earlier that day, he’d jokingly asked if I liked to eat eel. I told him I’d tried them in Vietnam and quite liked them. His eyes lit up, and next thing I knew, we were walking the rice fields in search of dinner.
Suddenly, he dropped the bag he had slung over his shoulder, kicked off his sandals, and slid into the muddy water—careful not to trample the young rice plants.
He had seen something . . .
A Crash Course in Rice Fields
A quick primer: rice fields are divided into roughly rectangular plots, especially when built along terraced hillsides like the one we were in. Narrow ridges of raised earth divide the fields, and these are your “paths” (I use that word loosely here). When in use, each section of the field is flooded with about six inches of water. Below that is another six inches of soft mud. Below that is a stickier mud that will eventually hold your weight—but it will do its best to steal your shoes if you are foolish enough to wear any when you step in.
When my host stepped in, he sank to his knees, then, with one efficiently violent jab, he thrust his arm elbow-deep into the muck and held still. Apparently, the eels hide in the mud during the day, and he had spotted a telltale hole.
But he came up empty.
How to Hunt an Eel: Taking the Plunge
Now, apparently, it was my turn.
He pointed to another hole and motioned for me to go for it.
Now, I worried that the method was basically: insert arm into eel hole, eel bites, you pull arm out (now possibly minus a finger), and voilà—dinner.
But ego is a strong motivator. So, into the muddy water I went. The mud was cool and oddly pleasant as it squatted between my toes.
With an unsure, unpracticed, inefficient thrust, I worked my arm up the the elbow into the eel hole.
At first, nothing.
Then I felt it—a long . . . something . . . . brushed against my hand.
I made the exact noise you’d expect when something unidentified and slippery touches you in a dark, elbow-deep pit of mud. I tried to grab it. No luck.
But I was wrong about the method. The point of jamming your hand in isn’t to grab the eel—it’s to scare it, hoping it tries to escape out the emergency exit all eels equip their homes with.
A moment later, we spotted the eel gliding through the water. My host produced a long knife, closed in quickly, and with one deft motion, chopped its head off.
I am pretty sure my mouth dropped open. A Jedi wouldn't have done any better in taking that eel.
My host handed me a twig and I threaded the wriggling eel body oonto it. It continued to squirm for fifteen minutes.
As we walked, proud of our catch, I spotted another. I called out and pointed. My host took one look and said, “No. Snake!”
Wait. Snakes live in these paddies, too?
Poisonous snakes?
Do they hide in holes like eels?
I did what I always do in these moments: tried not to think about it and carried on.
We ended up catching two more eels and a frog before heading home. That night, we had green curried eel with plenty of lime. It was excellent—full of bones, yes—but rich and flavorful.
After dinner, I sat on the porch, sipping Milo and watching the light fade through a soft rain. The frogs began their nightly chorus in the paddies. Fireflies blinked into the dusk.
A perfect end to another day I got to live because travel.
Other posts in the Mae La Oop Series:
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