"Oooh, yes. They'll have your fingers."
This is Gerupuk, Lombok: known for surfing and seaweed. The air is scented salty and sings with bird chirp and motor purr. One-armed fishing boats dot the bay. Beyond lie low grey hills and the Indian Ocean.
Bare-handed, Yani seizes a glistening green-black monster by the antennae, championing her catch. It snaps its tail fin. Snap! Snap!
Abin powders the lobsters with sand and sawdust. Then Yani wraps them in funnels of newspaper, like fish tacos. She sets them in a cardboard box. "They'll stay alive in these boxes for 24 hours," she says. "Enough time to get them to buyers in Mataram and Surabaya." In the box the lobsters agitate their sheaths, punching holes through the newspaper: their spiky, spindly, segmented legs and antennae creeping over the lip of the box.
I ask Abin if he has ever tried surfing. He hasn't. The seaweed farmers resting in the shade behind him also shake their heads. "I can't swim," says one. "I don't have a board," says two. "I'm scared of waves," says three. Yani's three-year-old daughter says nothing, but shreds a plastic bag between her milk teeth, spitting small wet pieces onto the sand.