Coconut Water

coconut water

the closest grocery store is a warehouse.
you enter through the wide open loading dock,
up a set of concrete steps,
or via the steep ramp that folks use
to cart purchases
back to their vehicles.

the cars here are mostly old,
patched together by committed,  
creative owners,
in collaboration with backyard mechanics,
and the parking lot smells of burning oil
and leaking gasoline.  

the warehouse ceiling
has rows of fans
to keep the air moving,
and bright industrial lamps
so that you can see the merchandise,
which is generally organized,
and often stacked high and deep.

they feature everything from hardware
to frozen butchered chicken,
and we find almost all of the items
that we were seeking.

produce, on the other hand, is rough.

with daily temperatures
breaking into the nineties,
and above,
fresh greens require refrigeration,
which limits both selection
and availability.

fresh fruits, however,
are abundant,
and the neighborhood
fruit stand,
on the corner,
at the crossroads,
is the next stop. 

the local fare is luscious,
inexpensive and ready to eat.

we choose pineapple, banana,
and plantain,
with machete-cut stems
still attached,

ripe avocado,
super sweet watermelon,
fat fleshed kukumba,
and brightly coloured mangos,
are also part of the daily diet,

which includes coconut rice,
delicious cooked beans
with spices and sweet onions,
and home made tortillas

cooked on
an intergenerational comal,
placed upon the small
four burner gas stove,
that you light with an old
long neck butane lighter,
that no longer has gas,
but does provide the spark
that is missing from the stove,
in keeping with belizian ingenuity,
and a culture of scarcity
that reuses
and re-purposes everything.

there is very little wasted here.  
they also have no issue
with dropping unwanted material
on the side of the road,
and so empty lots,
in the brightest of neighborhoods,
function as a convenient dump.  

such sites are also, often,
the source of a pair of cinder blocks
and some plywood,
for an addition to the bookcase,

or a piece of pipe
to extend the backyard clothes line.

i also learned that
"we don't do laundry in the evening,
because there is no dryer at night." 

baby sophia
manages to remain in the cart,
without issue,
as long as she can
open and smell
fragment shampoo bottles,
help re-stock the spice shelf,
and start a conversation
with everyone who passes by.  

her one moment
of piercing impatience
was quickly resolved,
as her father held her,
while conversing with a neighbor,
and her grandfather
roamed the aisles
to finish their quest. 

on the way home
we stopped
at a remarkable coconut water stand
that features a truckload
of fresh coconuts,

piled under a portable picnic tent,
and a family of three,
engaged in an assembly line
of impeccable product production.

the oldest girl child
peels the husk from the nut,
then places the coconut
upon a well-worn stump,
and removes the top
with a single blow
of her machete.

she then hands it to her brother,
who deftly removes the meat
with an ice cream scoop,
and pours the clear milk
into a pitcher.

when the pitcher is full,
he hands it to the younger girl,
who runs the fresh coconut water
through a strainer,
and into a funnel,
in order to fill a plastic bottle
that is then capped
and placed into an ice chest. 

we purchased two bottles
of ice cold coconut water
for four belizian dollars,
drank one immediately,
and set the other aside
to take with us
on our impending picnic
at a riverside spot in the jungle,
an hour's drive to the west. 

it was the sweetest,
most delicious,
and most cooling beverage
to my recollection,
and i was moved by my immediate,
visceral connection,

to trees
swaying in the carribean breeze,
waves
crashing on the shores,
the bright songs of seabirds,

and to a process of harvesting
and preparing
a life sustaining beverage,
dating back to the dawn
of five fingered creatures,
living in harmony on the continent,

who like these descendants before me,
would eat, or trade,
the creamy flesh,
carve the shells into vessels
and objects of art,
use the husks for weaving,
starting fires
and fertilizer.

we are all still living from the land
and sea, here on turtle island.

travelling to the market,
to trade the fruits of our labor,
for the fruits that sustain us, 

enjoying time with family,
friends and neighbors, 

recording these moments
in words,
music,
and images, 

to carry back to our lovers, 
share with our communities,
maintain as part
of the art
and history of our tribe. 

like cool
fresh
coconut water, 
straight from the tree, 

it is the natural world 
that sustains
you and me, 

and drinking its bounty
sets us all free...

---

Jeffrey Bowen // Belize, July 2018