| Crabilitos, Amigos! |
by Jerry Messerschmidt
The sun had barely peered over the jungle from its place of nightly concealment when the giant crabs were sighted emerging from the depths of the cool earth. Armed with the weapons of warfare and as much Gringo bravado as we could muster, we prepared to mount our first all out offensive.
It was just yesterday that I had seen the huge plowed out shrimp beds for the first time. There were three in all, newly constructed beds of about three square acres each, lined up in a clear-cut portion of the jungle. We were about 5 miles south of Zihuatanejo, Mexico, near a long stretch of beach called Playa Blanca.
We took our positions and checked our weapons before the impending assault. We were here at the invitation of Rafael Javier Castrejon Lopez, a native of Zihuatanejo and consultant for the newly formed shrimp harvesting company. While touring the construction site the day before with David Rice, an ex-pat from Portland, Oregon we noticed that there were literally hundreds of land crabs foraging for food in and around the now dry shrimp beds. Never straying more than five or six feet from the safety and comfort of their burrows.
These crabs, with bodies the size of a man’s closed fist, were of a variety I had never before seen. Crabs are never appealingly pretty creatures, but all that I had previously seen had at least been symmetrical. These were not; their two front claws did not match. One claw was a plain crab- colored blue grey and it was as narrow as a split twig. The other claw was a large unwieldy lump, outlined in brilliant blue and red.
After moving to Zihuatanejo from the North Western United States we had all given up on even the thought of feasting once again on Dungeness Crabs, fresh from the ocean. Spying these large blue tinted creatures it occurred to us that perhaps these land crabs would equal that north Pacific gourmet delight. Well, why not? A crab’s a crab we concluded. Hence our compelling reason to greet the sun on this auspicious morning.
Once in position we dropped our packs and discarded any unnecessary items of clothing. We each checked our weapons for the final time. Ron Gainer, also from Portland, swung his caveman club like a golfer taking practice swings from the tee. David, who held a long stick with a metal hook fastened to the end, parried with an invisible opponent. And I, armed with a net attached to a long aluminum pole used for cleaning swimming pools, made menacing passes through the air. We were ready to strike. The first shrimp bed awaited, but it wasn’t shrimp we were after...it was the crab we sought.
The word finally came down the ranks to charge. And charge we did. Heroically lead by Javier, armed only with his bare hands and an empty flour sack, we clamored down the six-foot embankment into the bowels of the first dry shrimp bed. Literally hundreds of the critters waited silently, claws tensed in the classic crab fighting stances…but then as we drew close enough to see the whites of their eyes…smoothly and quietly and without warning…they disappeared into the earth as one. The Gringos were astonished, one moment hordes of the little blighters, the next nothing but a deserted pocked marked field. Not one of the enemy had been captured or even touched. The first encounter had clearly gone to the amour encased infidels.
With the taste of defeat fresh on our palates, a gloomy hush fell over the mostly Gringo combatants. We gathered at the far end of the now empty shrimp bed to plan the assault on the next bed. This time it would be different. This time we would employ Guerrilla tactics. We would use stealth and basic creep and sneak techniques. It was a simple plan but sure to succeed. Staying low to the ground, we advanced to the embankment and slithered down the opposite side, like large clumsy iguanas. Watching us intently the critters held fast, probably struck dumb by our bumbling advance. Then on Javier’s order we pounced on the nearest inhabitants. As the dust cleared and the cries of “take ‘em alive” and “viva tequila” faded into echoes…two of the enemy had been captured and secured in Javier’s flour sack. Not exactly a rousing victory, but we had faced the hordes and prevailed. The warm glow of having successfully tested one’s manhood rushed through our bodies. The laughter, the back slapping, the butt patting, the verbal banter…clears signs of male bonding. A most glorious moment.
This was no time to rest on our laurels. One shrimp bed remained and was our last hope to take the day. We gathered again to plan our last approach. Various plans were presented and heated debates ensued but ultimately all were discounted. Then an inspired stroke of genius hit us. We voted (three to one) that Javier go in alone. What better choice? He was born and raised at the edge of the jungle, schooled and practiced in the ancient art of catch and sack. Javier could be…one with the crab.
Courageously he went forth into the claws of danger. As he disappeared over the crest of that last embankment, each of us silently wished that we could have gone in his place. However we knew Javier was truly the best of us. The minutes crawled by like hours as we waited. No sound issued from the recesses of the shrimp bed, only little dust devils spun by the wind danced their silent ballet in the distance. Then suddenly Javier appeared atop the embankment and triumphantly thrust his sack over his head for all to see…the sack was full!
Well not quite full as we discovered upon arriving at the house of Julian Smith, the fifth member of our small expeditionary force. Julian, a Canadian, had been unable to join us that splendid day because of a baby-sitting obligation with his 4-year-old Mexican daughter. He had agreed, however, to keep the fire going under the crab pot in the event we met with some measure of success. All in all we had captured and sacked twelve of the creatures.
Buckets of water and scrub brushes were hurriedly found and the process of cleaning the crabs began. Javier, who had been awarded a field promotion to Vice Admiral of Crabilitos because of his singular heroics at the last shrimp bed, instructed us Gringos in the fundamentals of Wash and Brush. Unlike the crabs of the great northwest fresh from the ocean, these land varieties must be thoroughly cleaned prior to their entrance into the boiling cauldron. As we dropped our glistening prizes into the slightly salted water, the egg timer was set for three minutes. When the alarm sounded, the crabs were removed from the pot, stacked on a platter and placed in the shade of the patio to cool.
Now the process of cracking the shells had to be considered. After a search of car trunks, kitchen drawers and forgotten toolboxes came an assortment of pliers, vice grips and channel locks. Not the culinary tools of choice but were very workable. Once cracked we used a collection of pointed objects, tooth picks, nail files, carpenter nails and a discarded claw or two, to pry every morsel of meat from deep within the crevices of the shells. As we worked, we took the opportunity to taste the hard earned delicacy. We were pleased to discover that it was as wonderful as the coveted Dungeness Crab of the northern seas. Some quick calculations determined that we had about a kilo of crab meat and yes, there would be enough for a crab feed fiesta the next day for all to enjoy.
We sat quietly for a time rehashing the day’s activity, content with the satisfying exhaustion of accomplishment. We laughingly marveled that this astonishing feat, one kilo of crab meat, had taken five grown men more than twelve hours to achieve.
But then…what else do we have to do?
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