Bruno and the Lobster

I was surprised by his happiness. As the medical student nervously and awkwardly put a drip into my right arm Bruno excitedly introduced himself.

"Haloo friend!" he yelped from his bed by the window. I responded in English, thinking he spoke it. Bruno just looked at me like a dog that had been shown a card trick.*

Three days earlier I was as happy as Bruno.

Three days earlier I was having a beer at Ponta Grossa. I had asked almost every North Eastern Brazilian I had met to recommend me a small coastal village. There are hundreds dotted along the coast in the North East, but only a handful are frequented by tourists. For my last few days in Brasil I wanted real Brasil.

It took me a couple of hot and difficult travel days to get to Ponta Grossa . No tourists. Only fisherman and their families, sand and sea, palms and me.

I was sitting on the beach having a beer and chatting to some fishermen. They usually return mid morning from fishing and fill the remainder of the day with beer.

I should clarify something at this point. The fishermen catch lobster, not fish. However I will continue to call them fishermen not Lobstermen for we are not species specific when we call a fisherman a fisherman. A fisherman who catches tuna is not a Tunaman. A fisherman who catches cod is not a Codman. If the description fits in each case perhaps those who catch Jewfish can be called Jewmen, and those who catch Flathead can be called Flatheadmen. Lobstermen, no. For the purposes of this story I will continue to use fishermen to refer to the men who catch lobster.

Whilst drinking I asked them about their jobs. Read; their lives. Before I got any of my answers I asked another bigger question.

¨Can I come out with you guys when you go out next?¨

The brothers, Jorge and Joachim enthusiastically answered yes and told me to meet them on the beach in the Madrugada.

There is a word in Portuguese, (and Spanish) that English needs. Madrugada refers to the time of the night that is not quite morning. The time of the morning that is not quite night. The in-between time. When you have a flight and are not sure whether to stay up for it or wake up for it, it is in the Madrugada. When you tell a story about looking for a souvlaki after drinking till late (or early), the word Madrugada helps.

I did not sleep very well that night, stirred by anticipation. I woke at 3am (madrugada, remember?) with beer still bubbling behind my eyes. I got out of bed and drank a cold black coffee I had saved from the day before. Torch in hand I spotted my way down to the beach whilst stuffing coconut cake in my mouth. It was a particularly dry one and was sticking to the roof of my mouth.

The sand was wet from the overnight rain, still spitting. It was dark and cold I doubted what I was about to do. I in fact had little idea of what I was about to do.

They were not very specific about where they wanted to meet me. They just said ¨the beach¨. When I questioned them "where on the beach?" They repeated, "the beach", as if I was asking them which is Leonardo di Caprio´s second worst film. So, I wondered, as I paced along the cold sand in the dark, where the fuck they were hiding. Before I could doubt myself anymore, before I had a chance to return to the safety of my bed, two dogs came running toward me barking aggressively. Before they could attack me I ran toward faint voices at the waters edge.

Jorge and Joachim were rigging up their small boat, whilst laughing at me running from their dogs. Ankle deep in rotting seaweed they were lashing the boom to the mast. Their boat is very small. Made for two experienced fisherman, no more. It was made by a man in the village who makes all of the boats that line the foreshore. The mast is made from a single tree and is delightfully wonky. The sails are adorable, patches and all. We begin to roll the boat down to the water on palm tree trunks, still dark. We unrolled the canvas sail, threw some salt water on it and sailed toward the rising sun eating watermelon.
















Jorge and Joachim have 35 lobster pots set all over the bay. They go out about 4 days each week to recover and reset traps. They use small homemade lobster pots about the size of a bar fridge. If the wind is sufficient we will be able to recover 15 lobster pots and then do some lobster diving at the outer reef.

Sadly, the day was almost windless. However we did make it quite a way out to sea. The land was out of sight in every direction. It is quite a feeling being on a home made boat the size of a bed with no land in sight, at least for me. We dotted from pot to pot recovering a few lobsters here and there. Difficult now. Difficult now they repeated every time we hauled an empty pot in. Most of the lobsters that they recover are small. Although they are the tastiest, they are not valued on the export market. Jorge and Joachim´s family has only one source of income; lobster for export. The large lobsters that they catch will get sent to Japan or the USA. They will earn the less than 10USD per kilo. On this day we would only get one lobster big enough for export. They eat the rest.

"Why is it difficult?" I ask.

"There are not as many Lobsters are there was when I was young." Joachim awnsered. Stupid question I guess.

We got to about 12 pots that day, 10 lobsters in total. There was not enough wind to take out to the outer reef to dive for more, so instead we jumped into the water to see if there was anything around down below. I put on my dive mask and one flipper. Jorge put on his mask and the other flipper. We swam around for a bit and dove for the sandy bottom. I was surprised how deep Jorge could go. He was easily making it to about 10 meters, but would stop and shoot up to the surface when he got there. The was about 20m of water, clear all the way. They told me that we would not have much chance of finding any lobsters unless there was reef or rock.

There was no reef or rock so we started to make our way back to shore.

Then the gentle sea breeze dropped to a sunny stillness. The glassy water surrounded us to the horizon in every direction. No problem, time for another swim in the 27 degree water.

We dove again and I spotted a solitary toilet sized rock on the otherwise sandy bottom. It was quite deep, but I had enough breath to swim over to it. I of course expected to see nothing. Even If I did spot a lobster I would have no idea what to do. Oh well, I had a look anyway.

It is pretty obvious really. Rocks don´t generally have bright red feelers. Did this lobster really think he was being clever hiding behind the only rock around? Is there a correlation between delicious and cunning?

As I said, I had no idea what to do, but It can´t be that complicated. I swam around the other side of the rock; face off.

Without really thinking I just grabbed him in my hand by both feelers. As soon as I did he flipped and flapped like crazy trying to get away. I couldn't´t believe how strong he was! This little thing had enough power to actually pull me along. Still, I was able to swim him to the surface. I surfaced to the sight of Jorge and Joachim freaking out with joy, partly because they though I was dead under there and partly because I bagged them a big lobster.

Half fluke, half luck, half stupidity. The lobster did his fair share of damage to my hand, I of course forgot about those hundreds of little spikes on their feelers. I learned later you are meant to use a cloth or glove. Of course, it didn´t bother me one bit. I was the happiest boy in the world. I was healthy, on a boat, in the sun, on the water with a fresh lobster in my hand. Did I tell you I caught the lobster all by myself?


















It took us two or three hours to sail back to shore, another hour to de-rig and haul the little boat above the tide line. We walked along the sand back to Jorge and Joachim´s house where a small truck was waiting. The handed over the one lobster that was fit for export (mine!) and we headed inside. We boiled them alive and sat on the floor. Renata, their mother, put a bowl of ten lobsters in front of me. I pushed it into the middle of the floor for everyone to eat. They pushed it back to me.

¨Aren´t you guys hungry?¨ I asked.

¨Yes, but we are having chicken.¨ Jorge replied.

Confused, I said ¨But, lobster is better than chicken, there is more than enough for all of us!¨

¨We don´t like lobster.¨ Said Jorge. ¨We eat lobster every day. Today we have chicken for the first time in a week.¨

I sat for one hour eating lobster. I ate all the bits until I was sore. On the television in the room there was a story about David Blaine´s breath hold stunt. Renata called him crazy and the brothers agreed that there was no way he was going to do it. I disagreed. Turns out they were right and I was wrong.
















What was the outcome? Best experience so far, by far. Happiness is perspective. I took part in Jorge and Joachim´s daily routine and was elated. Three days later Bruno showed me what else happiness can be.

Bruno is 25 and has meningitis. Bruno has a wife and a 5 year old daughter. There is a photo of her on his bedside table and on the wall above his bed. He has large gaping wounds where his buttocks meet his legs. He has three brothers and three sisters.



Five years prior, whilst his wife was pregnant he lost the use of his legs. He watches Brazilian soap operas all day and listens to the radio. He has a catheter inserted into his penis. He really likes the food in the hospital, particularly the beef, which the nurse calls ¨shoe meat¨. He loves the beans which are served cold, but most of all he loves the pineapple jelly.

He wears a nappy, and when he shits I smell it. I know that the nurses will come soon and carry him to the bathroom naked. They will remove his nappy and wash his open wounds of faeces. All the while, he continues to talk to me through the bathroom wall.

Bruno likes it in hospital. He can not afford to pay for the care that he gets here at home. He essentially lives here. His wife works two jobs and visits him on Sundays with their daughter. He will probably never leave.

Three days earlier my understanding of happiness was being redefined at sea. Then again as I lay sad in a public hospital in Rio de Janeiro with a tropical disease, Bruno was redefining my understanding of happiness in a much more poweful way.

I spent three days in the ward with Bruno. Tests never revealed what I had. A first they suspected Malaria or Dengue but my blood test showed negative. I may have ingested a tropical parasite whilst in the Amazon. I may have had a typhoid like virus. I was very sick for the first two days, after some rest and drugs I was fit to leave. I had flight to Spain and I wanted to leave.

I never thought I would ever say that about Brazil.

Sure, it is corny, but before I finish, I would like to thank the staff at the University Hospital in Rio. Working with limited resources the manage to run their hospital with professionalism and kindness and they are to be applauded.

*Stolen from Bill Hicks. RIP.