I admire the trio of tiny squirrels scampering up the Julie mango trees, in the early morning sunshine, with the distant curtains of metallic mist looming above the lush Northern Range.
Bushy tails erect, dark eyes alert, the charming creatures emerge just after dawn each day, looking for fresh fallen fruits, and launching their brisk rounds in the rain-washed garden. They race through the sprawling, symmetrical canopy of the centuries-old samaan giant that dominates the muddy grounds and provides a cool refuge for dozens of tropical songbirds, humming insects, cascading ferns and big bromeliads.
Darting among the tallest branches, the squirrels flit as chirping, dark brown daredevils, dashing from drooping branches to the fat heads of pink feathery blossoms, ignoring my gasps and the predatory caracaras and majestic falcons that glide in to survey the animated landscape, which is a street away from a noisy Trinidad highway that never sleeps. By early evening as the rain/ “five o’clock” tree, monkey pod or “suar” prepares to drop thousands of stamen filaments, fold its leaves and tuck itself in for the night, the rodents disappear, back to their warm, hidden dens and cosy nests.
Later that day, as I read the Stabroek News October 22, 2019 editorial on the recent disheartening disclosure, by Agriculture Minister, Noel Holder, of Guyana’s astounding $10.9B snack bill, I recalled the said logo of the Georgetown-based Squirrel manufacturing company that produced a wonderful range of such foods during the self-sufficiency heyday of the late 1970s and1980s, when scarcity of foreign exchange and the reduction of distant imports motivated our proud people to grow, buy, eat and promote local.
According to Minister Holder, the current bill for foreign jams and jellies is now about $40M, peanut butter imports account for $227M and our preference for boxed juices that are more Concord grape than grizzled Grass Hook grapefruit, cost us an incredible $1B alone. It is enough to make me choke.
I remember the other famous firm started by Rash Beharry, subsequently moved from Queenstown to the namesake village of Adventure on the Essequibo Coast, that perfected and sold pineapple and guava jams and jellies, plus marmalades. Another city firm, loved for its peanut butter, was called Omai long before the lucrative gold mine opened. Now, I wonder why and how we went from being the region’s promised “food basket” to an absolute “basket case?” Why haven’t subsequent Governments encouraged Guyanese entrepreneurs and granted special incentives such as tax breaks and concessions to protect and stimulate farming and agro-processing industries? How come our own is not promoted at all State events, and in local restaurants and eating houses?
I think of how horrified, the homemade snack selling queens of my youth, like the gentle Miss “Gata” short for “Agatha,” would have been at the modern preference for processed and “outside” stuff. A true Guyanese matron, Miss “Gata appeared larger than life to us growing and usually hungry children, as she moved slowly behind the small canteen at the Dolphin Primary School in Charlestown.
The broad, impassive face below the multi-hued head tie, was dotted with numerous spots, hinting to her advanced age and indigenous and mixed ancestry, as she patiently tended to us, a mixed, noisy bunch drawn from the poor, adjoining neighbourhoods, never turning away a hungry soul who beseeched with big eyes, sometimes bare hands, a growling stomach and even emptier pockets and purses.
At the front of the little “tuck shop,” stood the many glass jars with their tantalising display of pickles, preserves and treats all made by her from fresh fruits and local ingredients. I can still savour the salty, surprising crunch of green papaw sliced in crisp, cold curves, the sour sweetness of the half-ripe mango arcs suspended in spiced vinegar decorated with scary chunks of burning pepper, and the generous tang of the time-softened sizzling gooseberries crammed into the salivating mouth, relieved by a welcome icicle of frozen juice.
Glistening slices of reddened fruit soaked in syrup, caramelised “sugar cakes” of grated and thinly chipped coconut, and satisfying balls of tart or hot tamarind neatly wrapped in pieces of cellophane, competed for our few coins and rapt attention. Another of her creations was simply termed the “lump” by pupils, since it was a transparent, molasses-infused candy oval that one could suck on for endless hours, with due intermission, of course, for classes and strict, spectacled teachers.
In the evenings, like the rest of the community, my siblings and I eagerly looked out for the tiny figure of Miss Vera, bearing a giant basket of home cooked goodies, which she sold at the corner of Hill Street and the Punt Trench Dam, renamed Independence Boulevard, where the estate boats laden with sugar cane had once travelled in between the ranges of immigrant “loogies,” before the waterway was filled in.
We would run and crowd around, before she settled on the low stool set next to the electricity pole. Miss Vera’s white head wrap gleamed against her smooth skin, as she whipped off the spotless towels to reveal bowls of “pholourie” or the savoury, split peas and flour spheres complete with smoking “sour,” the giant “egg balls” wrapped in golden jackets of crushed cassava, the painstakingly hand-cut “chicken foot” or popular “sal sev” that became an ubiquitous and tempting national snack, and the fragrant pans of popular “pone” be it juicy pumpkin, solid cassava or stretchy sweet potato, with the complex mix of spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, mace and even black pepper. It did not occur to us to question how Miss Vera, of African descent, was able to cook some of the finest Indian-derived delicacies.
After Miss Vera passed and was mourned by adults and children alike, another of snack royalty, we nicknamed “The Pone Lady” walked from house to house hawking the varieties of desserts she had finished in the communal bakery, to support herself and invalid husband. Over the years, other neighbours would set up their little glass cases outside the gates, offering their selections of “mithai,” and warm chunks of thick creamy fudge, carefully rolled and cut into neat squares. We helped turn and beat the fudge into silken, smooth shape, and were rewarded with the scrapings from the “karahi” or “kadai” the deep, circular metal cooking pot used for everything from curries to custards.
Inspired by the “snack queens” and “self-help” spirit that characterised the country, my younger sister and I combed through our battered second-hand copy of the earliest edition of the classic collection, “What’s cooking in Guyana” published by the Carnegie School of Home Economics to test and master recipes, from pastries, to preserves and party appetisers. We sewed and embroidered, whether kitchen towels and pillowcases in our spare time, fashioned rag mats to order, toiling late into the night and often by candlelight when the blackouts increased, and cheerfully dried our carambola, mango and dunks version of banned prunes, raisins and currants, in between seasons of sunlight, studying, school and chores.
Decades on, when I had children of my own outside of my South American birthplace, I roasted the red-skinned peanuts I had grown up with and whipped up a batch of honey-flavoured “nut butter” from memory, fed them the occasional snack of seasoned plantain, breadfruit and cassava chips, of which there were never enough, and laughed heartily when I was reminded more than once, that I was just another “Burnham pickney.”
ID and her family enjoy gifts, from visiting relatives, of Amy’s delightful Pomeroon “mocha” coffee with its distinctive cocoa blend, the rare tub of Aranaputa organic peanut butter from the North Rupununi, and “genuine” Pomeroon cassareep although she wonders why it contains caramel and God forbid, sodium benzoate.
