Latest update April 19th, 2024 12:59 AM
Jan 06, 2019 Consumer Concerns, Features / Columnists
By Dennis Nichols
Well, 2019 is here, and some of us are feeling uncomfortable with the rhetoric emanating from our political leaders and parliamentary representatives. The next three months to two years could see unprecedented intrigue, and the dawn of a new political/economic era. But for now I’ll take it easy with this rustic reminiscence of riverine life in the Northwest region. I call this episode ‘Of cabbages and kin’. It has nothing to do with the novel by O. Henry set in a fictitious Central American banana republic more than 100 years ago.
I had my first taste of ‘swamp cabbage’ about one year after taking up a teaching post at St. Dominic’s School on the Aruka River in 1976; still a hinterland novice and ignorant of the customs and mannerisms of the native population. One such trait was the deference shown to those perceived as somehow more civilized than the native Amerindians. So the first time I asked about what was termed poor man cabbage, I was cautioned that it was an inferior substitute for ‘head’ cabbage , and that maybe I, as a coastland teacher, should refrain from eating it.
I just about did the opposite. By then, my mouth and salivary glands were itching for deer, labba, bush cow, and accouri stew; my eyes watered for ‘pepper’pot – a version I’d never tasted before, and my throat, after the initial jolt, warmed to Paiwari and Fly. It wasn’t long before I demanded to taste this ‘cabbage’, and got it. The first encounter with my taste buds was a curry entrée which followed cassava bread just off the roof, and coffee just out the mill.
At the time I wasn’t quite sure what kind of cabbage my friends were talking about and had offered me; possibly a Spanish variety out of Venezuela. Its taste was rather bland, being overwhelmed by the pungent curry I thought, but it went down well. It was not the thin, shredded pieces I’d been accustomed to, but smaller, thicker, more rectangular bits. I said I liked it, and wouldn’t mind trying some with my own cuisine. The cost, I was told, was either negotiable or negligible. I asked about its cultivation, and only then learnt that it grew wild – manicole wild.
Now decades later I have become aware that any tropical palm tree can deliver the stuff considered a delicacy in many parts of the world – the heart of palm, or cabbage, eaten raw, preserved, or cooked. Although I’d heard mainly about the ite and manicole trees, it appears that any variety of palm will do, including coconut, awara, kokerite, etc. The heart is simply the inner core of growing buds inside the upper part of the palm trunk. If I remember rightly, it is layered and fibrous, but the innermost parts are softer and edible.
Its composition, colour, texture, (when chopped up) and method of preparing, no doubt make it similar in appearance to regular cabbage, which I guess is the reason it is so called, and why I refer to the latter as its kin. But of course they are very dissimilar relatives. Cabbages belong to the family Brassicaceae, while palms are from the family known as Arecaceae. But since their similarities are complemented by their edibility, then, why not?
Back on the river I was told that there were some Amerindian men who specialized in harvesting this cabbage, and that I should get in touch with one La Cruz. I found him, a squat, muscular fellow in his thirties with long, glistening, black hair, and an incongruously-disarming smile. His demeanour turned shyly awkward when I asked him to procure some cabbage for me. His eyes implored a denial that I should condescend to eat ‘poor Buck man food’. Anyway, he brought it, and I purchased it from him. I can’t remember how much it cost, but it wasn’t expensive. La Cruz appeared hesitant in taking it, but I insisted. He smiled dutifully and left.
I later found out that it was hard work felling a tree and extracting its heart in the dense, humid jungle. I often wondered why some honest, hardworking people, don’t seem to value their labour enough for financial gain. Some Warrau Amerindians sold beautifully-crafted paddles and matapees for ridiculously low prices to persons who were practically their kin. Then I noticed something. Although obviously of Amerindian stock, many buyers were of mixed ethnicity, and just as obviously displayed a condescending attitude towards the craftsmen whom they no doubt imagined were at least socially inferior.
Anyway, I became a fairly regular ‘cabbage’ user, and would occasionally eat it raw, but preferred it cooked. Then I started thinking, why, with the abundance of palm trees in the region, couldn’t the North West residents initiate an economic venture? They could take their produce to the capital or sell it to hucksters on the steamer which plied the Georgetown-Kumaka route, similar to what they did with yams, sweet potato, corn, and ginger.
With urban dwellers, it may have taken a while to cultivate a taste for heart of palm; nevertheless I saw it as an acceptable substitute and complement to the traditional cabbage. With input/assistance from the Central and Local Government, proper advertising and marketing, it seemed a worthwhile venture, but it didn’t happen quite that way.
In 1983, a cuisine-savvy Frenchman, businessman Pierre Saint-Arroman, who later served as France’s Honorary Consul in Georgetown, got into business. He saw heart of palm’s potential for an exotic European niche market, and in 1987 founded Amazon Caribbean Guyana Ltd., AMCAR. The company cans and bottles what was once referred to as swamp cabbage, and is now touted as ‘millionaire’s salad’ – a delicacy, especially in Saint-Arroman’s homeland. (If only I had an entrepreneurial will and a millionaire’s wallet!)
Like traditional headed cabbage, heart of palm is nutritionally-rich in several vitamins as well as being an excellent source of fibre. It is said to be low in fat, cholesterol, and calories, and can also be prepared in a variety of ways. My favourite would have to be a rich stew of succulent, lightly-cooked heart of palm with tomatoes, sweet pepper, and fresh morocut. I got something close enough to that on the Aruka.
Many years ago, after leaving the North West District in 1984, I came across a few cans of heart of palm in a Georgetown supermarket. I removed one from the shelf, looked at it wonderingly, and smiled wryly. A few years later when I was in the United States, a friend of mine cooked me a treat – a dish of, you guessed it, heart of palm. It tasted as good as what I remembered on the Aruka River. I sighed.
Guyana’s heartland for me is not Georgetown. It could be the North West, where flourishes the heart of palm.
Where is the BETTER MANAGEMENT/RENEGOTIATION OF THE OIL CONTRACTS you promised Jagdeo?
Apr 19, 2024
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