My wife and I enjoy traveling to places where we have some sort of personal connection, especially in the Caribbean. We journeyed for several years to the remote pacific town of Dominical in far southwestern Costa Rica. My sister in-laws parents had boldly settled there 30 years prior, building basic cabinas and villas for rent. Then in Puerto Rico we were the guests of my wife’s stepmother’s aunt, a retired octogenarian Neuroradiologist. Then after reading “A Trip to the Beach”, a book chronicling a couples adventures establishing Blanchard’s Restaurant, we simply had to travel to Anguilla to have dinner there.
In 2001 we traveled to Jamaica with our two small children. There we were hosted by an old family friend of a teacher at the Waldorf School that our children attended. It was a tenuous connection, but she made us welcome in her hilltop home overlooking cool Mandeville, located in the elevated central plateau of Jamaica. A widow, she lived in the sprawling house alone, except for her two Dobermans and an elderly Jamaican caretaker. The single story Caribbean style house’s windows seemed securely barred, the front door armored. Nonetheless, the central portion of the house had an additional iron gate which was secured at night. And she slept with a pistol.
She clearly still quietly mourned her husband, “Dickie”. He had developed cancer, and then died suddenly in a tragic ambulance crash while being transported through the mountains of Jamaica to hospital for a relatively minor medical emergency. She invited us to be guests at his beloved beach cottage at Alligator Pond, on the south central coast. She no longer went there.
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| Alligator Pond Beach, Jamaica |
Alligator pond is a very small fishing village 16 miles due south of Mandeville. Today Google maps claims it is a 40 minute trip. I know it took much longer than that at the time. You had to descend 2000 feet to sea level on roads that were windy and in disrepair, guided by ambiguous signage, and everyone else was driving on the wrong side of the road.
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| Alligator Pond, Jamaica |
My first impression of Alligator Pond was of dust, desiccation, shacks and corrugated metal. The town spills out to the sea on a fairly narrow plain at the base of a looming 650 foot high plateau only 1 mile away.
A dirt highway to Dickie’s beachfront cottage was ¾ mile east of Alligator Pond. It was a simple two room, one shower cinderblock structure separated from the sea by a generous stretch of dark sand. A painted concrete floor, clean whitewashed walls and no screens in the large windows added to the airy feel.
A concrete patio was in front, bordered by the swimming pool to the side. A thatched gazebo provided shade over the patio table and four chairs. The swimming pool was filled with cold water from the artesian spring that flowed under the property. The same artesian spring then bubbled out into the sea 100 feet in front of the house. The spring was charged by rain falling on the high overlooking plateau. The water was gentled through miles of porous limestone, which was capped by impermeable chert . It was thus delivered under pressure to the arid plain below
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| Alligator Pond Fishing Boat in front of Cottage |
The cottage came with a local caretaker couple. On our arrival, the husband was busy filling the pool. He eyed the children, and was not shy about letting us know he was not going to be cleaning sand tracked from the beach out of his pristine pool.
The wife was making dinner preparations. She was pleased that we were interested in local cuisine, and escorted us back to the town for supplies. With her help we purchased fresh bread, fruit and sundries from various vendors. She then took us to the ocean front, where she bartered for lobster. Colorful fishing boats lined the beachfront, pulled up on to the sand. It was definitely a third world experience for us white folks from the burbs, and we were very grateful for her presence. During our stay at Alligator pond, we never saw another white face.
While Dickie’s cottage was on a quiet dirt road paralleling the coast, in a peaceful neighborhood, there was one blaring exception. About four houses towards town, on the side of the road opposite the beach, was a house occupied by a group of young Jamaican men. They had set up enormous speakers in the yard, which starting in the afternoon, would radiate reggae music nonstop until late at night.
One of our adjacent neighbors was a retired Episcopal priest who had lived in the states. He and his wife had returned to their hometown and had built an idyllic open Caribbean home surrounded by edible landscaping. We were having lunch there when the music again intruded through the windows. I asked him if something could be done. He shook his head helplessly, and revealed that it was said that they might be gang members from Kingston. He then remarked quietly “But Dickie would have taken care of it. Dickie could have.”
One morning, three days into our stay, we were eating breakfast. I noticed that the kids had only eaten their fruit. I instructed them to at least eat their scrambled eggs. There ensued much amusement. What I had thought were scrambled eggs and kippered herring was in fact Ackees and saltfish, a salted cod.
The combination has been popularly dubbed the Jamaican national dish. In fact, only the ackee fruit is officially recognized by the government, and that is as the “national fruit”. The combination is indisputably popular. It is indeed ironic that neither is a native of Jamaica.
Salt cod’s introduction to the Caribbean is attributed to the slave trade. The cod had been exploited off the now depleted Grand Banks off Nova Scotia for at least 500 years by Native Americans, Vikings, and then the 16th century Basque fleets. The once fertile fishing grounds provided copious supplies of inexpensive cod that could be shipped to the Caribbean to feed the slaves. The salted cod were then traded for molasses, tobacco or slaves.
Ackees introduction about the same time is similarly attributed to the slave trade. The ackee fruit tree is indigenous to West Africa, and was probably brought to Jamaica in the 18th century by slaves.
The ackee fruit is borne by a tropical evergreen that can grow 30 to 40 feet tall. The 3 inch long leathery pear shaped capsules are yellow with a bright scarlet flush. When it matures it splits open into three lobes revealing the 3 edible arils and 3 shiny black seeds.
Nutritionally it is described as “rich in essential fatty acids, vitamin A, zinc, and protein.” Culinarily, I would describe it as bland. Visually, prepared ackee is light yellow and shaped like small fish roe cases. For its ability to be a vehicle for other flavors (hence the salt cod) I could favorably compare it to tofu, but since I like ackee, and loath tofu, I won’t.
The ackee fruit needs to be prepared carefully. It contains a water soluble toxin capable of producing a syndrome called “Jamaican vomiting sickness” or even more prosaically “Ackee poisoning”. It features vomiting, seizures, hypoglycemia, and even death. Careful rinsing of the ripe fruit in changes of water will prevent this.
As I recall, the recipe was simple. The prepared ackee and cooked salt cod are added to sautéed onions, sweet and hot peppers. Serve with johnnycake, wash it down with Ginger beer and rum, and you are there, mon.
The salt cod does need to be soaked for 24 hours in several changes of water. Some recipes claim this is to just reduce the salt to tolerable levels. In fact, usually one can get a lot of the salt out with multiple changes of water in a 10 minute gentle simmer. But you are still left with a piece of fish jerky. The long refrigerated soak gently rehydrates and softens the fish. Then all it needs is a quick parboil till flaky (no more than 10 minutes).
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| Alligator Pond Fishing Boats |
Today, Alligator pond is still described as quiet fishing village, though astoundingly, it now hosts a trendy beachside seafood restaurant called “Little Ochie”. Reassuringly however, some of the reviews posted online about local accommodations complain about the primitive conditions encountered. A journey on Goggle maps shows Dickie’s beachside cottage, unenlarged, unimproved, and still perfect. I guess one way or the other, Dickie has taken care of it.
Wick Hunt
