On the Trail of Southern Spain’s 3,000 year old Tuna hunt
It’s a good hour before sunrise as our party of six board a Blackfin powerboat. A thin mist of rain dissipates as the first light of dawn emerges from the brooding clouds in the distance. Our vessel cleaves through thankfully still waters as we leave the port of Barbate in southern Spain. A cool poniente wind (the local name for the onshore wind that blows east from the Atlantic) means that today, there will be tuna.
As we cross out of the port into open water, the Rif mountains of northern Morocco strike a seductive silhouette in the distance. We are cruising the area where the waters of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean mix, between the “Pillars of Hercules” formed by Jebel Musa in Morocco and the Rock of Gibraltar: the ne plus ultra of antiquity, the end of the known world. Immediately behind us to my right, visible beyond the sandstone cliffs of Barbate, the lighthouse of Trafalgar glimmers silent in the distance. Here the Spanish Armada suffered crushing defeat in 1805 battling against the English navy commanded by Admiral Nelson, whose bravery was so revered that when he died in the fray his men pickled him in a barrel of brandy to preserve his body for a hero’s funeral back in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
This morning we’re here to bear witness to another battle, an encounter between man and nature that has endured for an astounding three thousand years, in one of Europe’s most unique maritime exploits, the tuna hunt. Every year, schools of bluefin tuna (Thunnus thynnus) migrate from the chilly waters of the North Atlantic, passing through the Straits of Gibraltar to spawn in the more temperate waters of the Mediterranean. This occurrence was well known to the seafaring Phoenicians and their Roman successors, with the former credited for inventing an intricate net system to lure and trap the tuna. It was the Moors, however, who dominated the region for centuries and maintained this tradition, and who gave the name that has stuck to this day, the Almadraba (from the Arabic المضربة meaning, “the place to strike”). Today, with the threat of stocks being depleted by overfishing through destructive industrial methods, the Almadraba enjoys protected status by the European Union. EU regulations allow the fishermen of this coast to hunt the tuna using the same techniques as their ancestors before them, for one month each year, from the end of April until the beginning of June.
Four towns in Spain’s Cádiz province maintain the Almadraba tradition, each Spring setting up these aquatic labyrinths ahead of the official opening of the season. Towns with peculiar names belying their Phoenician, Roman and Moorish past: Tarifa, Zahara de los Atunes, Barbate and Conil de la Frontera.
Our boat (the only of its kind with permission to approach the almadrabas which are otherwise off-limits to those not in the industry) heads to the Zahara Almadraba and as we pull up we observe the fisherman divided into three separate boats already in a “U” formation, slowly pitching and bobbing in the water, encircling a closed area in which dozens of bluefin tuna have swum into the labyrinthine nets that will mean their final dance of death. On one side, the boat with the “kill” team. Two divers suit up, and don their masks to plunge into the frigid waters with long lance looking instruments in hand. These are captive bolt charges used to shoot the individual tuna much in the same way as cattle are slaughtered. On the other side, the “haul” boat, fitted with cranes to lift these magnificent specimens, weighing up to 300kg, from the water and into a cooling tank in the boat’s hold for preservation until returning to harbour. Anything that isn’t a tuna of a minimum size is eventually released into the open water. The hardy, sunburnt and battle scarred fishermen are a mix of ages, and most have participated in the annual catch since early adulthood, mentored by their forefathers and mentoring the next generation. It is quite a spectacle to see the levantá (the “raising” of the tuna from the nets) from this close up, and it’s not difficult to imagine what the scene must have been like not so long ago when the tuna were harpooned and hauled out by hand. We watch fixated as the fishermen gesticulate, shout, signal, and curse, well, like sailors, as the divers do their work and the haul team do theirs, lifting out one, two or even three specimens at a time.
The hunt’s fame extends into the literary world, and none other than Miguel de Cervantes, a few short years after penning Don Quijote, wrote of Zahara’s fishermen in “La Ilustre Fregona”:
“At last the world beheld in Carriazo [the story’s main character] a virtuous “picaro” [a rogue, scoundrel]….more than moderately clever, he passed through every stage of picaresque craft until he earned his master’s degree in the tuna fisheries of Zahara. One cannot call himself a picaro unless you’ve completed two full terms at the academy of fishing!”
Back on dry land, we have some time to kill before the boats come back to harbour, so we head to the port’s café where there are many masters and even some doctoral candidates drinking their carajillos (black coffee with a shot of firewater for punch), playing the loudest slot machines known to man and munching down toasts slathered with manteca (lard). On the walls are strung up old buoys, antique nets, hooks, and posters showing the image of La Virgen del Carmen, in a mournful gaze : the Virgin Mary, patroness of fishermen.
We’re at the port to watch the boats returning from the almadrabas, cargo holds full of recently caught tuna ready to transfer into the warehouse for processing. Tuna are lifted from the boat by crane, into the (very sanitized) processing floor, where inside we’re told we’re not allowed to take photos. Whish is a shame, because I can assure you this was quite a sight. Each individual tuna is carved up, preparing different cuts that will be sold for consumption in some of Spain’s best restaurants. Some specimens are marked for overnight delivery to the Tokyo market where these prime bluefin are literally worth their weight in gold, and then some. Nothing is wasted. Chainsaws come out, the floor becomes slippery with blood, and swashbuckling tuna butchers worthy of an homage by Cervantes make quick work with knife skills equal to any teppanyaki chef I’ve ever seen. From start to finish each tuna is carved up in seven minutes.
The task of experiencing this millenary tradition from sea to table culminates in finding a great table for lunch. While there’s the celebrated Campero, Barbate’s first gastronomic restaurant to focus almost entirely on Almadraba-caught tuna, and largely responsible for putting this tiny enclave on the map, we opt for the unvarnished atmosphere of La Peña el Atún, run and managed by the members of the local fishermen’s cofradía (brotherhood). Inside el Atún, the all-female team of servers are dashing in and out of the bustling kitchen, hauling plates of fresh bluefin tuna from this season’s catch: a la plancha or encebollado (grilled, or stewed in onion sauce), along with tuna heart, tuna tongue, tuna roe, all presented in a variety of preparations, with nods to the Japanese in the form of tuna sashimi and tataki, newer staples now on the menu. The Japanese for years have invested heavily in maintaining the Almadraba tradition and represent the largest single purchaser after the Spanish, accounting for more than 30% of the total annual consumption. This relationship has benefitted both parties. Japanese tuna cognoscenti have helped introduce in Barbate more modern techniques of sacrificing and storage, to preserve the final product in the most optimal conditions, in exchange for first dibs on some of the “best” specimens.
The day ends a few minutes’ drive down coastal roads from Barbate to watch the sun set at Baelo Claudia, the remains of what was once a significant Roman fishing colony right on the beach of Bolonia, with its ancient columns, and excavated salting and curing pits offering testimony to the area’s enduring ancient maritime traditions. Thankfully for all of us, the Almadraba provides one of Spain’s gastronomic highlights and is proof a great story is waiting to be told behind every fantastic meal.
Sebastian reports he won’t be pursuing his master’s thesis in Zahara roguery anytime soon, but experience has taught us few of Spain’s adventures escape his net. You can find him knocking back the occasional carajillo with the fishermen of Barbate, or you can contact him directly to get planning your next Spanish jaunt.
