I had been living on the island for about six months when I decided to try my hand at cooking local food. I knew how to prepare lasagna, beef stew, macaroni and cheese and many other comfort food dishes that my mother prepared for me as a child, but this was not practical for Caye life since most of the ingredients were difficult to obtain. The local food consisted of mainly fish, which Mom never cooked fish, not wanting the smell to permeate our home, so the only place I at fish in the United States was in restaurants. I was going to have to start from the beginning.

I had acquired a boyfriend after not too long on the Caye, which is an almost unavoidable condition when you live on an island in the Caribbean. There are a number of reasons for this, including the fact that the men of the islands are very charming, they LOVE women and are quite proficient in the art of sweet-talking. In addition, the Caye men, for the most part, have well-sculpted bodies and are very strong, attributes which are in their favor when pursuing the a woman. The reality of the situation of a single woman living on the Caye is that it is much easier to have a man in her life to keep an endless barrage of potential suitors, who without any doubt, know a woman would never choose to live alone, and to help in daily life, which has many physically strenuous aspects. So aside from the standard romantic reasons I chose my boyfriend, I was thinking rationally.

All Caye men can cook. This is set in stone. Ask any one of them. The main reason for this is that they are fishermen and when they are on a fishing trip out at sea, they must cook for themselves. Also, many of them were required to share in the household duties as children and this included cooking. Not only can they cook, they also can cook very well. My particular Caye man was a diver and on many occasions he spent weeks on a boat catching fish and packing them on ice aboard the boat. He was very particular about how his food was prepared, not allowing me near the stove for quite some time, which was actually quite fine by me, and on a regular basis, he prepared the most amazing meals I have ever tasted. I watched and learned and over time my skills at cooking local food surpassed even his, although he would never admit it. I had the added advantage of combining my knowledge of my mother’s cooking with what I learned from him.

This particular day I decided that I would cook the rice while he was out fishing and when he came home, he could prepare his catch of the day. We had no oven, only a four burner table top stove, as did all but the most prosperous residents on the island. Rice is the mainstay of any Caribbean meal. There always had to be rice, even if there were potatoes…rice was a MUST!    There is only one kind of rice, flour, and most every food item on the island. I used to joke that there is only one kind of man on the Caye too. When you went to one of the little shops, the rice was measured from a hundred pound sack into an appropriate plastic bag, which was then weighed on a scale hanging from the ceiling. The bag was then tied in a knot and used again on the next trip to the shop. Most of the time the rice was clean, with only a few brown kernels and tiny black stones that had to be picked out by hand. The rice was then rinsed with water to clean off any remaining dust. Sometimes the rice was very dirty and no matter how many times you rinsed and scrubbed it, there was a slight taste of earth when you ate it.

This particular day the rice was very nice, and I went home with my one pound bag and the intention of cooking a delicious pot full. Now, the best rice is cooked in coconut milk. In fact I could eat a plate of coconut rice with nothing else, it is so delicious. In order to make the coconut milk I would have to first grate a mature coconut, but even before that I had find one. Luckily there were two or three that day that had fallen in the year, which had about a dozen, very tall coconut trees. I learned very soon after arriving on the island not to walk under a coconut tree, because if one fell on our head…well you can imagine. I picked up my coconut and readied myself for the next stop. I had to husk the coconut and remove the meat from the shell. I had watched it done many times and I was determined do it right. One way to remove the husk is with a machete, a method I have not to this day mastered. A more practical way is with a husking stick, preferably made of iron, but can be made out of hard wood. The stick is usually about five feet long and approximately two inches in diameter and has a flat point on the top. Approximately half of the stick is buried in the ground to secure it and the remaining part protrudes straight up. My boyfriend had carved a wooden stick which resided in the back yard. I took a coconut from our pile, held it high and thumped it on the stick so the point penetrated the husk. Next I pushed on the husk, while it was still on the stick, to tear it off. About one third of the husk came off so I repeated the process two more times. There is an art involved in tempering the pressure one exerts during this process so that you don’t end up impaled by the stick.

I then threw the husk in the husk pile to be burned at a later date when there was no breeze and the sand flies and mosquitoes appear. The husk smoke is the most effect insect deterrent and I can recall calm nights when the air was thick with smoke, but no bugs. Oddly enough the husk pile attracts mosquitoes prior to burning and must be placed far from the house.

Now I was ready to remove the shell from the meat. If you are good with a machete you can chip it off so that you are only left with a round piece of coconut meat, the water still inside. It is a proud feat for a Caye man to chip a coconut in one piece. I however, being inept with a machete, had to use a hammer to break the shell, hopefully, into large pieces. Yes, I did get lucky this time. I discarded the water since; it is the water of the green, not the mature, coconut which is excellent and delicious to drink, a good source of iron and a mixer for local rum, if you are so inclined.

Finally I was in possession of pieces of coconut shell, lined with sweet coconut meat. The trick to separating the two is to use a table knife, not a sharp one if you value your fingers. The procedure is to wedge the knife between the shell and meat and, if you are very lucky, the meat pops away; if not, you have to keep prying it off in small pieces. When all the meat was removed, I tossed the shell into the husk pile for future use.

I washed the pieces of coconut and then faced the task of grating the coconut. The best coconut milk is made from meat that is grated on a local contraption, consisting of a wooden frame, about 12 inches wide and 24 inches high. A handle made up of the sides of the frame that extend about three inched past the top, attached to a cross piece completes the primitive, but effective, kitchen accessory. A thin sheet of metal is attached to the frame with small nails and holes are made with a large nail in as many places as possible on the sheet. The underside of these holes, where the metal is slight pushed out; provides a sharp surface on which to grate the coconut meat. The finer the grated coconut, the richer the milk and this tool does the job better than even the best food processor.

The downside is that if you do not know the correct technique, your fingers will end up grated along with the coconut. You must know the coconut and how easily it will break, based on how thick, large and dry each piece is, so you can exert exactly the correct amount of pressure to safely complete the task. It is truly an art which I have mastered, but not right away, if you get my drift.

When you have finished grating, you then determine how much coconut milk you need for your recipe. I was cooking one pound of rice, so I only needed the milk from one coconut. On the islands, we do not measure the amount of liquid we need, but rather just determine. The once I poured the warm, not hot, water in my bowl I squeezed the grated coconut and watched the water turn milky white. Placing a strainer over another bowl, I began to squeeze the now milk through the strainer which was left with only the fine, dry grated coconut. At this point it is called coconut trash and can be discarded as it has little or no taste or use, although some would disagree, since they use it for purposes not known to Caye folk, such as pig feed. If you have a mosquito fire going you can sprinkle it on top and get some good smoke.

I poured the milk over the rice, brought it to almost a boil, lowered the flame to the lowest setting and placed the cover on the pot. It would only be about twenty five minutes until my first pot of coconut rice was ready to eat. About 15 minutes later the boyfriend arrived home, smelled my cooking and approached the stove. I was so happy that my first attempt at Caribbean cuisine was going to be a smashing success. He lifted the top and said, “Oh, you cooked oats,” in an approving tone.

“No, dear, its rice,” I explained as walked over to take a look. What lie inside the pot was a mass of white, custard-like mush.

“How much coconut milk did you use,” he asked?

“I just poured in the whole bowl. I only covered the rice about 2-3 inches.”

“My love”, he attempted to console me, “you only cover the rice by this much,” holding two fingers together. He laughed affectionately and went on to explain that what I had created is what they call rice lab.

We ended up having a delicious meal that night, consisting of coconut milk rice, fresh fish and ripe plantain…at the local restaurant.

Every day was wash day on the Caye.  Lines of freshly laundered clothes waving in the warm Caribbean breeze could be seen in most yards on the island and if the clothes were left out until late afternoon, when the sun was no longer shining on them, they naturally became soft.  For me, doing laundry was a rather pleasant experience, but I have made it a habit to enjoy every aspect of my life, no matter how tedious, as it is part of my life.. With the proper set up, washing clothes by hand can be done very efficiently, not requiring too much thought and concentration, leaving room in the mind for loftier meditations while achieving the goal of clean clothes. In 1986 I rented a one bedroom wooden house on stilts for $150 US per month. The house, separated from the Caribbean Sea by only a narrow sandy street, was located on Caye Caulker, Belize; a little island off the Belize mainland, measuring one mile long and three blocks wide.

The back yard of the house was inhabited by the largest Breadfruit tree on the island, which stood approximately forty feet high and offered shade to my house and the one next door, all through the day. In addition, we had an abundant supply of breadfruit for about six months out of the year. If you have never had the pleasure of tasting breadfruit yet, let me attempt to describe the experience; although it is nearly impossible to accurately describe the taste of something from one person to the next. How do we know it even tastes the same to everyone? I might say I enjoy eating a certain food and you might too, but in reality we might be having totally different taste experiences. In truth, our likes and dislikes of food may change over time so if we say something is delicious today and next year we do not care for it anymore, what can we conclude is the deciding factors in deliciousness?

Ripe Breadfruit is oblong and green, with little brown nubs all over the surface and may grow to the size of a football. When preparing Breadfruit, the skin is cut off and the core cut out. This must be done very quickly as the meat will oxidize and turn brown, therefore, as it is cut into thin, about one quarter inch, crescent-shaped slices, it must be placed in salted water until the cooking process begins. Ideally, the slices will be fried in fresh coconut oil and when they are done, get ready for a treat. The taste is similar to a potato, yet slightly sweeter. Alternatively, Breadfruit can be cut in cubes and stewed in coconut milk which is so delicious one cannot believe it. I will say, as an absolute truth, that most soups and stews made with coconut milk are awe inspiring to the taste buds.

However, we must continue from the kitchen to the yard as we are speaking of washing clothes. I had a terrific setup for doing laundry by hand. My laundry area consisted of a five foot long stone counter with an indentation that was a sink and a hole in the lowest point for water to drain on the sandy ground below. The laundry area was covered by a zinc roof and was sheltered by my dearly loved Breadfruit tree. While washing I faced the windward side of the island, offering a breeze to cool me off while I worked and a view of the passersby on the street thirty feet away at the end of my front yard.

Caye Caulker sits above the world’s largest underwater cave. The roof of the limestone cave is the bottom of a fresh water table beneath the entire island and even out into the sea. Therefore, in order to get fresh water, the islanders need not dig a well more than about eleven feet, sometimes less and sometimes a bit more. When I first moved to the island, I learned to haul water from the well with a bucket tied to a rope, which some residents still do, but over time my landlord installed an electric water pump and we moved into the up to date age of running water. Somehow the lack of modern conveniences never seemed to be a hardship; we just self-adjusted to the life style. Perhaps it was the beauty of the island and the freedom one experiences living there that removes the need for luxury to in an environment filled with stress and competition. Of course once modernization occurred, even if more backward than what we left in our native countries, we appreciated the progress.

The Caye residents do not use the fresh ground water for drinking though; instead most homes have rainwater vats in the yard. The village also constructed a public cement vat for those who did not have their own supply of rainwater. The vat in my yard was the tradition type, constructed of boards, lined up vertically to create a circular container that was banded with metal straps so tightly that water could not escape. The vat, which stood about twelve feet high and six feet in diameter, had a spout at the bottom from which the delicious rainwater could be obtained. The vat was located under the mighty Breadfruit tree, whose shade kept the water cool all year round.

While living on the Caye I ran a small breakfast restaurant from my house, which served coffee and homemade fruit crepes with yogurt and granola. Many of my customers claimed that y coffee was the best they ever had. Since I used Mexican instant Nescafe, I must attribute the excellent taste of the coffee to the rainwater with which I used to make it.

Before we go any further, I feel must give a little background and elaborate on the auspicious place the pig tail bucket has in Caye life. It is one of the most useful possessions one can have when living on the island. Before refrigerators were common, which wasn’t that long ago, the pig tail bucket was used for hauling ice from the Fisherman’s cooperative at the back of the island to be used in coolers to preserve food and chill beverages. In addition buckets were used in shops for keeping rainwater in the house, storing bulk, dry food items, such as rice and dried beans, the everyday staple of the Belizean diet. Buckets were also used as seats and in some case as hand drums, if no real drums were available. In my case I used the buckets for laundry, but I often thought that the pig tail bucket should have been one of the symbols decorating the Belizean currency.

I began the laundry process by filling two five gallon buckets with water, one for soaking and the other for rinsing; the stone counter top was used for scrubbing and wringing. All in all it was very refreshing to stand outside on a warm day and work in the water and the clothes got very clean in the process. However this story is not about the process of washing clothes by hand as much as it is about how I learned.

My neighbor, Miss Magdalena was well into her nineties in 1985 when I first arrived on the Caye, but her mind was sharp; only her body told how long she had lived on this earth. She must have been a beautiful, strong young woman and that aura still remained as a reminder to others of the countenance of her younger days. At that time in her life, her daily activity was sitting on the verandah in the front of the house in the morning and then moving to the side of the house, in the shade of the breadfruit tree in the afternoon.

There I found her each morning as I washed and as I did, she offered her wisdom on subject of laundry. Turn the jeans inside out so they don’t fade and the pockets dry, she exclaimed. She was not satisfied until I did and I dared not brave her disapproval, not from fear, but out of respect for such a woman. Ring the clothes out more so they do not drip and all of the soap is out, good advice actually. Hang the dark clothes in the shade and the light ones in the sun, it all made such perfect sense.

Her food was brought each day by her granddaughter, but frequently she had no appetite for the rich, savory rice, beans and stew chicken, so once her granddaughter left I heard, Psst, Psst. When I looked over she would be signaling with her finger to come over so she could give me the plate of food that in her younger years would have satisfied her. It became a ritual, whenever she didn’t want the food she called me over to get her plate. Me no want all this food, but they want me to eat, but me no hungry. I took the plate and emptied it into my dog’s dish, without her knowing, of course, and brought back the unwashed plate so that the family would think that she had eaten. Of course, she did eat some days and others she did not. My puppy was quite grateful on the days when she didn’t.

Some days I sat on her step and we talked. One such afternoon, as she sat on the little porch of the side door under the shade of the Breadfruit tree, she told me, Me no want no more man. My son de look for the next man for me, but me no want no more man. I explained to her that I understood entirely. Another day told me her story. I was a fisherwoman in my younger days. I would get up early, go fishing, clean and deliver me fish to the Fisherman’s Cooperative, come home, wash and cook before my husband even cleaned his fish. I helped form the Co-op she stated proudly.

I left the island for a year and when I returned, the house was empty and she had passed away, but not without imparting her knowledge and wisdom to me. Many times I looked for her as I hung my clothes. The house had been renovated for her great granddaughter and the verandah was new and freshly painted, but every so often, just for a moment, I looked up and saw the old porch and Miss Magdalena, sensing her approving nod as I glanced at my laundry blowing in the warm Caribbean breeze.