I stare out the bus window, transfixed by the winding countryside.
My mother and I are visiting either yet another cousin or yet another best friend in the middle of nowhere. We hopped on the bus at a terminal near my aunt Mana’s apartment, and had been riding it out to the countryside for the better part of an hour.
The sprawling city faded slowly, as if traveling back through time. We started as ants in the midst of modern glass and steel skyscrapers, slowly working our way through outcroppings of shorter concrete skyscrapers. The term ‘skyscraper’ started becoming generous as buildings grew shorter and shorter the further we traveled. Eventually, the buildings were content to tower only one or two stories tall. Abruptly, the things I considered buildings stopped.
Different kinds of structures took their place. These were shacks, small and squat, cobbled together from corrugated tin, old lumber and twine. Doors and windows ceased to exist, giving way to simple empty holes. Floors were made of the dirt the shacks were assembled on. Wildlife previously restricted to chubby pigeons and translucent lizards now milled around in the streets in the form of dogs, goats, a few pigs and multitudes of chickens.
My mother walks purposefully as we disembark, her eyes straight ahead and her camera bag safely tucked underneath her arm. We weave through clusters of dirty, bronze-skinned Brazilians in torn clothing, walking straight up to one particularly innocuous shack. My mom calls out a name, and an older, apron-clad woman rushes out the door-hole.
It’s still early in the visit to Brazil, and my Portuguese is lacking. I make pleasant, forced conversation with the woman for a few minutes at my mom’s request, but we soon run out of shared vocabulary. My mother picks up the thread, and I’m left twiddling my thumbs in the center of the three-room shack.
To call them rooms is a bit of an overstatement. There are three rough partitions – one with a set of pots and pans and a small table, one with a set of beds, and another that I can’t quite see in. Curtains hang from beams strewn across the ceiling, offering some measure of privacy to some of the beds. The older woman notices my boredom and takes me by the hand.
We walk out to her backyard, a small area fenced in with rusted wire and rotting logs. The yard is alive with fascinating creatures of all shapes and sizes; I don’t even notice when the woman releases my hand and retreats back inside with my mother.
I’m fascinated by the chickens, which come up to my knees. They emit the strangest little sounds and move around haltingly, as if perpetually caught in some scandalous act. I’m strangely compelled to try and hold one – for some reason, they seem like the kind of animal I’d like to hold. I put out my arms and give chase.
My mom would later report that she and her friend would sit and watch the doorway throughout their entire conversation. Every two minutes or so a chicken would run past, clucking frantically. A second or two later, I would run by, arms extended, a determined look on my face. This continued for the better part of an hour.
It was eventually time to go, and my mom called my name from the doorway. I dragged my feet walking back to her, unsuccessful in my chicken-holding endeavors. Her friend took me by the hand as I approached and led me to a small shed to the side of the house. She reached in and pulled out three fuzzy, dazed-looking chicks, handing them to me. I was overcome with joy to the point of being unable to speak, contenting myself by simply holding the chicks in my arms, feeling them settle in. My mom laughed, started bidding her friend farewell and then moved to put the chicks back. Her friend slapped my mom’s hand away.
“They’re his now!”
I bounced up and down, looking up at my mom expectantly. I angled the chicks upward so that they looked her in the eyes too. She gave me a quizzical look back, and then shot her friend a playfully angry look. “How the hell are we going to get them back to Mana’s?”
Her friend called on her son, and gave him instructions. He grabbed a bag big enough for two chicks to ride in, stuffed them in and then took the third and placed it gently in the breast pocket of his torn button-down shirt. He winked at me and followed us to the bus terminal.
We rode the bus back into town. I sat by my new friend, staring at his twitching breast pocket. Every now and then a dazed chick head would emerge and look around, as if playing peek-a-boo with me while drunk. I would cover my mouth to keep from laughing and drawing attention the bus driver’s attention, instead contenting myself to giggle under my breath. My friend would notice, smile, and put a single finger on the chick’s head, pushing it back down into his pocket. He’d wink at me, and the cycle would start anew.
I slosh through the waist-deep green tide pool, trailing my right hand on the black sponge-like reef. The sand squishes between my toes, and I start to sink gently if I stay in place for too long. Ever so often something catches my eye in a pocket of the reef – an interestingly shaped clump of seaweed, brine shrimp swimming around a small pocket, some snails trekking from saltwater puddle to saltwater puddle.
A particularly large pocket in the reef beckons. I look inside, but the light of day can’t quite reach the back of it. I stick my hand in.
A rush of overwhelming pain radiates from my index finger. The pain hits so quickly that I’m numb with shock before I can yell.
I pull my finger out of the hole and a flat crab the size of my hand comes with; it locked on to my probing finger with the longer and sharper of its two claws. Blood wells up from underneath the pincers.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII”
I try to grab for the crab’s pincer in an attempt to open it but the crab waves its other pincer at me menacingly, daring me to be that stupid. I stop reaching for the crab, content to simply continue to stare and scream. My mind races, trying desperately to come up with ways of getting this stupid crab off. I act on the only option I can conceive of.
I wave my hand back and forth above my head frantically, trying to fling the crab away. Blood splatters everywhere, and the crab turns into a makeshift flag. It seems to enjoy the ride. I bring my arm down and start crying during my breaks from screaming.
My uncle runs over from shore, yelling at me to hold out my hand. He grabs the crab in that skillful way all fishermen have acquired, holding its second pincer safely at bay. He smiles at me. I stop screaming and I offer a teary smile back.
He then breaks the crab’s arm off and throws its body into the sea.
I stare at the still-clamped stump of a pincer on my finger and start screaming all over again.
My mother, grandmother and I walk alongside an outlet of the Amazon in a city called Olinda. Beautiful architecture captures my mom’s attention, adorning the lefthand side of the street. The sluggish, brown Amazon and the street vendors lining it on the right side of the street capture my attention. My grandmother happily narrates to both of us as we walk along.
I stop cold at a street vendor standing next to a display rack. The thin, grizzled man has hung a variety of clear bags from the rack, each containing a particularly striking fish in crystal clear water. The fish take on all shapes and sizes, from beautiful, complacent angel fish to electric eels writhing in their strange, clear confinement. I build up some courage and try talking to the street vendor in broken Portuguese.
I learn that the man wakes up every morning and paddles his canoe back and forth across the river. He drags a net behind him, and when he gets back to shore he takes everything he catches in the net and puts it in clean water to sell throughout the day. When he sells everything, he goes home.
My mother and grandmother are now by my side again, having continued walking for a bit after I stopped. My grandmother bends down, eager to pounce on this prime opportunity to spoil her grandson. “Which would you like?”
My eyes light up.
We come home with six or seven bags of beautifully-colored, interestingly-shaped fish. Unprepared for such an occasion, my grandmother scours her cabinets for a suitably-sized container. She brings out a gigantic, flower-covered glass bowl big enough for all of them.
I dutifully fill the bowl to its brim with tap water and dump all of the fish in at once. They appear confused, slowly bumping into each other and the sides of the bowl as they reorient themselves to their new surroundings. I watch them swim sluggishly for hours, until it’s time for bed.
I wake up the next morning and scurry over to the bowl. A single eel looks back at me, leering. Little chunks of uneaten fish line the bottom of the tank.
