Doesn’t living 24/7 in the ocean keep fish clean, you ask? Not exactly. While they don’t need to hit the showers like we do after two sets of tennis, they still need to have their dead skin and scales removed, as well as tiny parasites that live on their bodies and inside their mouths. Left unattended, the parasites will multiply and eventually kill the fish.

Without the benefit of hands (or Waterpiks), getting rid of parasites can be a bit challenging, to say the least. But fish have worked out an effective system that’s mutually beneficial to themselves and their designated hygienists: cleaning stations! These distinct areas can be located right on a coral reef head, under it (especially with shrimps), between outcroppings, underneath clumps of floating seaweed or right out in public, in the water column. The “client” fish receives a first-rate spit-and-polish job, while the cleaner gets a free meal. It’s a beautiful thing — and it’s a classic example of symbiosis, or mutualism, an ecological interaction that benefits both the party of the first part and the party of the second part.

Tiger Grouper at a cleaning station.

Snorkelers and new divers are always amazed when they realize they’ve stumbled upon such a set-up. (And trust us, it’s a sight to behold: large groupers saying “ahh!” as tiny dentists dart in and out of their gaping gobs; parrotfish hovering statue-still on a 45º angle while slender yellow fish work their magic like Tinkerbell.) Fish great and small, turtles and even sharks come in for regular cleanings, and the specific attractive behaviors will vary depending on the species. The most common cleaning fish in these parts are wrasses and gobies, but shrimps are also experts at removing parasites, bacteria and dead skin, and occasionally catfish have been known to perform ablutions. (But beware the saber-toothed blenny, who mimics cleaner fish but in fact feeds on healthy scales and mucus.)

You may wonder how the groomers find their clients without the benefit of social networking. Actually, there are a few different ways, and they involve some complex behaviors that we usually associate with humans and primates (kind of like the fish equivalent of a secret handshake). Sometimes the cleaner advertises his services, typically by sporting a “uniform” that serves as a signal to potential customers (which is doubly clever, says a new study, as it also helps the fish avoid being eaten by their clients, which is never a good business model).

When a potential “host” approaches a cleaning station, he will open its mouth wide or position himself in a way that indicated he needs cleaning. Sometimes hosts congregate and perform specific movements together to attract the attention of the cleaner fish. Apparently those moves save their lives, as somehow this further signals to the potential predator that these small fry are off the menu.

Scientists have long wondered about this interaction, so an Australian researcher, Karen Cheney, and her colleagues recently decided to test the “uniform” theory, which holds that colors and body patterns are what set cleaners apart. And with some creative testing methods, including painting fake fish and attempting to lure clients, they discovered that the color theory holds water, so to speak, and that cleaner fish are more likely to sport a dark side stripe accentuated by patches of blue and yellow.

Giant anemones are a favorite home to several kinds of cleaners.

Shrimp are a whole other matter. Take the Banded Coral Shrimp, for instance. None of this “flashing some tacky blue and yellow costume and waiting around in the open water for just anyone to come in and ask for a clean-up job” for him. This highly specialized cleaner of larger fishes sleeps by day, and then as the sun goes down, begins his patient wait until his discerning clientele come swimming by under the cover of night. And his way of attracting business is stage-worthy: this crafty cleaner performs a discreet dance in which he shakes his white antennae and banded body — while hanging upside-down under a small coral head.

Divers love to get in on the cleaning action. You’ve heard of a French manicure. Well, Barbara and I have both gotten what’s known in the biz as a Pederson Manicure. And you, too, can get a professional nail job while snorkeling or whiling away the last three minutes of your dive doing your shallow-water safety stop. Search out an anemone (Barbara looks for corkscrew anemones like the ones in these photos) then gently place your hand in front of it and wait. (You’ve got at least three minutes of bubble time before you come up, so why not?) In pretty short order, one or possibly several Pederson cleaner shrimp will show up, climb onto your fingers and get busy clearing out the dead skin around the fingernails — and whatever else may be on your fingers. Sometimes cleaner gobies will join in and clean up and down your entire hand. And while we have never done this, we’ve seen other, more adventurous (or dirtier) divers who’ve found a cleaning station remove the regulator from their mouth, open wide and invite cleaner shrimp to come in and clean their teeth!

Close-up of Pederson cleaner shrimp

Once you know what you’re looking for, you’ll not only never miss a cleaning station again, but you’ll no doubt seek them out. And yet, as common as they are, trying to find and photograph the creatures for this article presented Barbara with a couple of serious challenges. First, she said, coming upon fish being cleaned without disturbing them is a lot tricky than you’d think. And then she confronted the added difficulty of finding those teeny, tiny cleaner shrimps as they hid in various anemones. We’re talking about creatures ranging in length from an inch or two down to less than a quarter-inch! Barbara claims she needs bifocals in her dive mask, but I think she did a pretty amazing job with these photos. And you should see her nails: divine!

New-York based Suzanne Gerber writes about scuba, travel and health for a variety of publications.

Avid underwater photographer Barbara Shively discovered Grand Turk diving in 1997 and has returned every year. It is her passion to share the coral reefs’ beauty through her photographs, many of which can be viewed and purchased at http://shivelygallery.com. A variety of her prints are on sale at Art Provo, located in The Regent Village, Providenciales.

For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple and wrong.
H. L. Mencken

During our travels virtually everyone we meet has heard of the Arawaks and the Caribs. James Michener’s hugely popular novel established these as the Caribbean’s native peoples and forged the dichotomy of peaceful Indian and fierce cannibal. In doing so he followed a literary tradition that traces its roots to the 16th century. Indeed, the story of the “nice Indians versus the mean Indians” has been repeated so many times that it must be correct, right?
The next question always seems to be “Where did they come from?” Because most of the Bahama islands are off the east coast of Florida, people often assume that the native peoples must have come from there. They are surprised to learn that the native peoples of the Caribbean Islands (including Bahamas and Turks & Caicos) can trace their ancestry all the way to mainland South America, thousands of kilometers distant. There is virtually no evidence for any migrations from Florida into the islands. Our audiences liked the idea that the native peoples came from “Amazonia,” as it gave the islands a more exotic ambience, especially when headhunters were added in!
Getting from South America to the Turks & Caicos sounded like a nearly impossible task (in fact, getting to the Turks & Caicos as recently as 30 years ago was a nearly impossible task). However, archaeologists had a simple explanation, and we will start with that. This is the (hi)story we have recounted innumerable times with complete scientific confidence. After we tell the story, we will explain why it is wrong in our next essay, in the next issue of Times of the Islands. Our final caveat: archaeologists have assigned specific names to the peoples who occupied the islands, but for our purposes it is sufficient to think of the migrants as Island Arawaks.

Arawak hunter eating a meal in a cave.

Dr. Peter T. Sinelli is an Instructor of Anthropology at the University of Central Florida, Orlando. Dr. William Keegan is Curator of Caribbean Archaeology at the Florida Museum of Natural History, University of Florida, Gainesville.

Stoplight Parrotfish supermale

It doesn’t matter whether you call them perroquetfeu, loro colorado, Budião-Vermelh, sparysoma szmaragdowa, or parrotfish, these beautiful creatures are among the most beloved in the underwater menagerie. Nor does it matter whether you speak French, Spanish, Portuguese, Polish or English. It’s not hard to puzzle out how the parrotfish got its avian appellation: those bright colors and prominent, beak-like teeth.

Stoplight Parrotfish initial phase

Front and center

Redband parrotfish varied colors and patterns

Nocturnal nests

Redtail Parrotfish various stages

Sex lives of Parrotfish
Unlike homo sapiens, who have countless ways to court and romance, scarus ceruleus have but two styles of reproduction. Parrotfish spawn year-round, though they seem to favor summer months. (And one fussy variety, the Redbill, does it only in the afternoon. Don’t ask.) Of the two basic reproduction “techniques,” the first requires large assemblies, where mostly males move away from their feeding grounds into 65 to 70 foot water. Periodically, 4 to 13 males will leave the pack and swim upward, releasing into the water both eggs and sperm (technically called milt, which is a fluid containing the sperm). The second technique (the more romantic one, in our book) involves one male and one female swimming upward together in the water column, circling each other, then releasing egg and sperm in a cloud that resembles milk. A day later this will hatch, and out will swim more females than male, though they are indistinguishable at this stage. Some males will mature into small adults and be called primary males. Others will grow larger and be called secondary, which tend to be solitary and dominate a sexual territory—and their very own “harem.”
Perhaps the most fascinating thing about our friend the sparysoma szmaragdowa is this whole sex-change business. Parrotfish are born with both sets of sex organs and can start off as either gender. Those born male will stay male, though they’ll never become what’s called a dominant male. Interestingly, that role is played by fish that start off female and morph into a supermale (usually when male populations begin to dwindle). These large fish, called terminal-phase males, have bright, distinctive markings and colors, which attract the females. (In courtship, the supermales’ colors grow even more brilliant.) Sex change in parrotfish ensures there will always be a male to reproduce with all the females. And that’s important to the species and to us, because who could imagine coral reefs without its brightly colored birds?

New-York based Suzanne Gerber writes about scuba, travel and health for a variety of publications.

Avid underwater photographer Barbara Shively discovered Grand Turk diving in 1997 and has returned every year. It is her passion to share the coral reefs’ beauty through her photographs, many of which can be viewed and purchased at http://shivelygallery.com. A variety of her prints are on sale at Art Provo, located in The Regent Village, Providenciales.

Story & Photos By Joost Morsink

One of the most unique and important archaeological sites in the Caribbean is located on the south shore of Middle Caicos. Various archaeologists have worked at the site since 1912, continuously trying to answer new questions with new techniques. In May and June 2010, I returned to Middle Caicos to investigate salt production on Armstrong Pond. We were living at the Turks & Caicos National Trust research facility in Bambarra, and greatly appreciate the assistance of their Director Ethlyn Gibbs, and permission to conduct the research granted by Wesley Clerveaux and Eric Salamanca of the Department of Environmental and Coastal Resources.

The site, known as MC-6, is a 3.5 km trek through the bush. Although a trail had been cut and partially maintained, it was mostly reclaimed by dense vegetation. We spent six eventful days re-cutting the trail, eventually losing it just north of the pond where Hurricane Ike had particularly devastating consequences. Working in the pouring rain, swarmed by the worst mosquitoes in living memory on Middle, breaking a machete on a particularly hard tree, and at first-go missing the pond to the east, we eventually reached our destination. Although we cursed the days spent clearing the trail, we were rewarded by the discovery of the site and the desolate salina of incomparable beauty.

Armstrong Pond, Middle Caicos

Fieldwork this summer
To understand the exact relationship between salt and MC-6, we needed to look at Armstrong Pond and the settlement in more detail. In previous research, it was always assumed that salt was produced approximately 500 years ago, but information on Armstrong Pond’s past was not available. Furthermore, the stone circles that surround the plaza at MC-6 were considered houses or storage facilities for salt and salted fish, but detailed excavation data was also lacking. These two locations, the pond and the stone circles, were targeted this year for study.
At Armstrong Pond, over 50 cores were taken from the middle of the pond. We had to walk into the pond with a corer and push it into the sediment. Because the corer was made of transparent plastic, we could analyze the sediments immediately and photograph them in their original context. The idea behind the coring was to investigate the history of the pond, because the lower sediments in the core were deposited earlier than the sediments on top. By going down in the deposits, you can go back through time and see what happened in the past.
Another quality of sediments is really important for this sort of analysis. Different sediments, like clay, silt or sand, settle in different circumstances and give information on previous environments. Clay and silt depositions only settle when the body of water is barely moving, and especially clay is only expected in circumstances without any currents. The larger fractions, such as sand and small rocks, will only deposit while water is still flowing. In other words, clay and silt are only expected in relatively stable environments, while sand suggests a more dynamic context.
Armstrong Pond is today disconnected from the sea and water input is dependent on rainwater and the filtration of sea water through the subsoil. Both inputs are under relatively low velocity, which was underlined by the clay and silty top-layer in all the cores across the pond. However, in most cores from Armstrong Pond, we found multiple layers of sand. These layers of sand must have been deposited at times when water was flowing into the pond and water levels were higher as they are now. Hurricanes can cause significant short-term increases of water tables, but it is also possible that the water table was structurally higher for a period of time. Dating the different layers, which is planned for 2011, will illuminate the time-line of these events.
Archaeological excavations at the settlement were focused on the stone structures and were aimed at explaining the original function of these structures. All locations were carefully recorded and artifacts were collected in 10 cm levels to describe the chronology. This principle works the same as for the sediments in the pond, where older artifacts are located in the lower levels of the excavations. Separating the artifacts in different levels enables us to discuss changes through time based on the artifacts that were found.
The settlement was full of artifacts. We encountered numerous pottery sherds, fauna material and pieces of coral and shell that were obviously modified after their use as tools. Some pottery, known as Palmetto Ware, was locally produced, but other styles, such as Meillacan, Ostionan and Chican pottery came from Hispaniola. These pottery sherds had little pieces of volcanic rock in them and because volcanoes are absent in the Bahamian archipelago, these needed to have come from elsewhere. The pottery sherds are clear evidence for contact with Hispaniola and other islands.
Most faunal material was fish bones, but birds, iguanas, hutias (small rodents that were endemic to the Caribbean) and turtles were also represented. This shows that Lucayan people had a large variety in their diet and although fishing practices were common, other resources were not untouched. The Spanish have mentioned that iguanas and hutias were exclusive foods for chiefs and commoners, which suggests that MC-6 was inhabited by elites and that special dinners were prepared and consumed here.
Lucayan people, as many other groups in the Caribbean, used shell and coral as tools. The lip of Queen Conch, for example, could be used as an ax to prepare gardens and chop down trees. Bivalves, such as Codakia orbicularis, could be used as scoops for food, shell net weights or scrapers for pottery making. The rough outside of coral could be used for modifying wood or grinding corn and manioc, staple foods in Lucayan diets. Besides these functional roles, shell was also used for decorative purposes and beads, shell inlays in wooden artifacts, and decorative pieces were found as well.
Good archaeological practice means that old assumptions and new hypotheses are constantly questioned and tested. Despite the obvious geographical relation between MC-6, the Caicos Bank and Armstrong Pond, we cannot assume that people were using salt to preserve fish without strong archaeological evidence. This summer’s project focused specifically on the availability and use of salt as an economic resource at this prehistoric site. The recovered data allows us to make more detailed statements about the practices of the people living at MC-6 and how they used resources from their environment to make a living. Finally, the excavations will also shed light on the importance of salt in prehistory, as this “white gold” has been neglected in many archaeological studies in the Caribbean region.

Joost Morsink is a Ph.D. student from the Netherlands, studying Caribbean Archaeology at the University of Florida. This research was funded by the National Science Foundation with a Doctoral Dissertation Improvement Grant.

By Suzanne Gerber ~ Photos & Captions By Barbara Shively

Like the denizens of Lady Gaga’s demi-monde, the creatures who come out at night on the coral reef are a psychedelic parade of colors, shapes and textures. A nighttime visit to the reef is an entirely different experience than what you find during daylight hours. Hard corals that resemble stones by day become flamboyant showgirls by moonlight, as they shimmy and shake their boa-like tentacles to feed in the evening sea. Like nocturnal club kids, critters that are shy and elusive in the stark light of the sun let their hair down after dark. Introverted cliques of cardinal, squirrel and soldierfish become wild and wooly under cover of darkness. Crustaceans as a group are almost totally transformed. Reclusive crabs, octopi and certain species of lobsters come out of their closets to cruise the reef in search of dinner, a midnight snack, or perchance just a surreptitious hook-up.

Giant star coral and orange cup coral

Regal slipper lobster foraging after dark

Scrawled filefish sleep at night without changing colors

Caribbean octopus hunts its prey at night

Rare photo of Golden Crinoid walking at night along a vertical wall

Channel Clinging crab munching on dinner in spite of diver's light

New York-based Suzanne Gerber writes about scuba, travel and health for a variety of publications.

Avid underwater photographer Barbara Shively discovered Grand Turk diving in 1997 and has returned every year. It is her passion to share the coral reefs’ beauty through her photographs, many of which can be viewed and purchased at http://shivelygallery.com. A variety of her prints are on sale at Art Provo, located in The Regent Village, Providenciales.

I would have liked the job of being the person to give fish their names. Yet I doubt I could have come up with such a terrific roster of appellations, ranging from the playful (clownfish) to inspiring (stargazer) to humorous (oldwife) to poetic (barramundi) to romantic (kissing gourami) to downright confusing (spiny dogfish?!).

Longspine squirrelfish

Diving and snorkeling in the pristine waters surrounding the Turks & Caicos Islands, you can’t help but notice the hundreds — maybe thousands — of, well, big-eyed red fish congregating in small to largish schools on most reefs. There are scores of species of Cardinalfish, most of which hide out in shallow reef areas ranging from four feet in depth to well over 100. A few species live synergistically with tube sponges and anemones. You wouldn’t guess it from Barbara’s terrific close-ups, but these little creatures (measuring just one to three inches) are not usually approachable by humans. When they feel threatened, they beat a hasty retreat under rocks and into crevices. But they’re not always so discriminating. One species is known to take cover inside of conch shells—often with the owner still inside.
Ranging in hue from brilliant red to light pink (and occasionally greenish, yellow-brown and silver), the Cardinalfish may stand out like a sore thumb to us, but his nocturnal nature is part of his intelligent design. In low light, he’s practically invisible to other fish (who don’t see the full spectrum we see). Conversely, his large eyes give him a competitive edge on his rivals in seeking out the tiny fish and crustaceans he so adores.

Squirrelfish

Blackbar Soldierfish

Thanks to George Burgess of the Florida Museum of Natural Hisory for his valuable input to this article.

In Hispaniola both Indians and Spaniards have two kinds of bread.
One sort is made of maíz, which is a grain, and the other of cassava.
Maize is grain that is borne on an ear about six to eight inches long.
This ear or spike is covered with grains almost as large as chickpeas.
Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, 1526

When I first met Simon Forbes he was dancing to scratched Reggae and Calypso records at Emanuel Hall’s store in Bambarra. And man, can that man dance! In those days, Hall had one of the few stand-alone generators on the island. It may seem surprising, but electricity didn’t arrive on Middle Caicos until the early 1980s — (a fact that fuels romanticized archaeological remembrances of working at night by kerosene lantern.)

Simon would never claim to be of Taíno descent. So what could my research possibly have to do with him? What does Simon’s dancing have to do with global climate change? And why eat the grits? Simply stated, what most fascinates me is tracing historical connections; teasing out those aspects of the past that have created the present, and are likely to influence the future.

Legacy maize field near Bas Limbe, Haiti

The reason that this particular plot of land was so productive is because the original inhabitants of the island lived there for about 200 years (circa AD 1300–1500) and their refuse (garbage, night soils, etc.) had greatly enriched the fertility of the otherwise sandy soil (called “whitelands” due to its light color and lack of fertility). The site has over a meter of very dark, organically enriched soil (along with artifacts from the original inhabitants) that extends to a depth of over one meter. Although it may be hard to envision, there is a definite connection between the remote past and the present. On other islands, Mayaguana for example, we have found that the “native” vegetation is far more luxuriant on Indian sites. Furthermore, throughout the Turks & Caicos, Shaun Sullivan found that archaeological sites are almost always found in Guinea grass patches (a grass introduced from Africa as cattle fodder) because this grass pioneers disturbed (formerly agricultural) landscapes. In essence, the modern landscape is the product of human activities going back thousands of years.

The historical thread is that the land Simon farmed was superior to the surrounding whitelands because the garbage of native peoples had enriched the soil. In addition, it was Amerindians who first cultivated many of his crops. This is a classic example of how much of what we do today is a legacy of the past. About 20 years ago the Florida Museum of Natural History developed a museum exhibit called “Better than Gold.” The point was that Amerindian plants transformed European cultures in more profound ways than did shiny metal.

Maize (Zea mays) is perhaps the most important crop in history. The British called it “Indian” or “Guinea” corn because the word corn means “small bit.” The Taínos called it maíz. The ancestors of maize are apparently wild grains related to teosinte and tripsacum, with small ears the size of a person’s thumb. It is possible that modern corn developed when humans carried this grain south from Mexico into Central and Andean South America where those related species crossbred. Cobs found in caves inhabited by people southeast of Mexico City date to 5,000 BC. Recent evidence from the study of pollen, phytoliths and starch grains suggests that humans in Central America began managing maize up to 10,000 years ago, and that it was brought into the Caribbean islands about 4,000 years ago.

The early races did not look much like modern varieties, and it may seem odd that people focused their attention on a plant that produced a small number of grains that required special collection methods and processing. Yet we now know that a wide variety of small-seeded grains (including wheat, rice, millet, sorghum, chenopodium, and amaranth) were cultivated at early dates to supplement what were otherwise foraging economies (more popularly known as hunter-gatherers). In the early variety of maize each kernel was covered by a cupule so it was necessary to winnow the collected seed to remove this inedible covering. Through human manipulation the kernels eventually became “naked” with only a surrounding husk.

Despite its humble beginnings, maize has transformed our world. When you go to the cinema or watch a movie at home you must eat popcorn. High fructose corn syrup is used to sweeten foods and soft drinks, and along with the corn oil used to fry foods, are major contributors to obesity. When you put gasoline in your car, up to 10% is ethanol distilled from maize. The steaks you just grilled are probably corn-fed beef, and cattle are significant contributors to global warming (methane). Cornstarch and corn meal are used to produce a wide variety of products, and maize agriculture receives billions of tax dollars in subsidies from the U.S. government every year. Maize can produce incredible yields per acre, but also requires enormous inputs of water (irrigation), fertilizer (nitrates) and pesticides, all of which degrade our environment. Moreover, maize yields were increased by creating a sterile hybrid, so farmers must buy their seed every year from the companies that hold the patents. In sum, maize has become the perfect storm.

We cannot blame the crop for its unintended consequences. Few plants have been so amenable to human manipulation. Maize now serves a vast number of purposes, is grown in a wide variety of environments, comes in a bewildering number of colors (check out blue corn tortilla chips), and is a component of almost everything we eat, drink or drive. Moreover, it has even been converted to entertainment. Because it can be grown at such a high density, corn mazes, more properly maize mazes, have become hugely popular during the Halloween season.

There are more than 300 races of maize. The plants range in size from two to twenty feet tall, with eight to 48 leaves, one to fifteen stalks from a single seed, and ears that range from thumb-sized to two feet in length. The basic classification recognizes “dents” with a softer kernel (95% of all maize), “flints” with a hard starch, “sweet” with a higher sugar content, “floury” with soft and mealy starch, “waxy” composed entirely of amelopectin, and “pop” which is a very hard flint — the water in the starch steam-pressures the endosperm to explode when heated.

Maize is a highly nutritious food, and contains more protein than any other cultigen. It has essentially the same nutritional content as breast milk, and has long served as a weaning food. It contributed to the rapid growth of human populations throughout much of the Americas, and was the staple crop for the Maya and Aztec. The one missing amino acid is lysine, which is found in beans. In Mexico, at the time of the European invasion, most gardens contained the perfect food combination; the “three Mary’s”: corn (maíz), beans and squash.

In the past, maize was people food. Today, nearly 80% of the harvest goes to feed cattle and fuel automobiles. Both of these uses have contributed substantially to global warming. Boy and girl cows have stomachs that evolved to digest grasses. You can feed them corn, and they will mature faster and she produces more milk, but they cannot completely digest the proteins in maize. The resulting “cow patties” are loaded with methane gas. Methane is the most egregious of greenhouse gasses, and cattle, not cars, are the main contributor to global warming. Maybe we should follow the advice of Chick-Fil-A and “eat mor chiken” (but this raises a whole number of other issues). In addition, the U.S. government has promoted the use of ethanol as an alternative fuel for cars, and corn growers now benefit from a number of subsidies. Yet, ethanol is a far less efficient fuel than gasoline, and the quantities of water, fertilizer, fuel for farm vehicles and the processing required to produce this fuel have never been fully disclosed. The use of ethanol may actually contribute to global warming. And recent commentaries have asked whether we should grow corn to feed cars or to feed people?

Enough gloom and doom; there is nothing quite like the original product. While conducting a survey of North Caicos years ago, our local guide stopped in his family farm and roasted several ears of corn on an open fire. When I peeled back the husk I found that several rows had popped. This was the only time I was ever treated to popcorn on the cob! Had this corn been allowed to fully ripen it would have been ground into the porridge that we call grits.

There are only a few places in the world where you can still get “legacy” corn. Middle and North Caicos are two of those places (we have colleagues doing DNA studies to trace the heritage). There is a world of difference in taste and nutritional value between legacy and modern varieties. We suggest you be a “locavore” (eat locally grown foods). Visit Daniel’s Café in Conch Bar, Middle Caicos, for a traditional grits breakfast on Saturdays, or buy these locally grown and hand-ground grits at the Middle Caicos Co-op on the second Saturday of each month at the Graceway Supermarket in Provo. You will experience a unique connection to the past, not to mention that there is nothing quite as tasty as Middle Caicos grits.

Dr. William Keegan is Curator of Caribbean Archaeology at the Florida Museum of Natural History, University of Florida, Gainesville, FL.

Middle Caicos Grits

Landscaping is an almost unknown term in Middle Caicos, but small “farms” are found throughout the island where crops of cassava, okra, sweet potato, pigeon peas and corn still flourish. Home is where the heart is when it comes to Caicos corn . . . it is a beloved treat at all stages with new corn roasted on open fires and the favourful local grits sparking up all kinds of home cooking.

North Caicos kitchen

Once cleaned and fanned, the grits are kept cool and fresh, ready to purchase at the Conch Bar Artisan Studio & Outlet. Local chefs use these grits to the delight of patrons. Daniel Forbes’ special, at Daniel’s Café in Middle Caicos is Conch and Grits, a treat that brings the flavor of the ocean to this simple dish. In a world of fast food, these wonderful grits, a labour of love and time, offer a taste sensation that is long remembered.

Miss Joycelyn’s Plain Grits Recipe

Use 3 cups water, salt to taste, 2 teaspoons butter, and 1 cup grits. Put water, salt and butter in medium pot and bring to a full boil. Add grits and stir thoroughly. Cover and cook over medium heat for 15 – 20 minutes. Check grits after 10 minutes – if too stiff, add more water (¼ cup – ½ cup). When cooked grits will be smooth and even. Serve as a side dish with more butter, salt and pepper.

Popular local options: Cook local beans, fry with butter and onion, and add to grits while cooking or chop and wash salt beef and add to pot with water, then boil with grits.

Courtesy, Sara Forbes – Conch Bar Artisan Studio and Outlet
649 946 4132 or middlecaicos@tciway.tc

By Suzanne Gerber
Photos By Barbara Shiveley

No, you’re not confused: There are anemones in your garden, and there are sea anemones in the ocean. In fact, the ornately colored sea anemone (uh-NEM-uh-nee) is so called because of the striking resemblance it bears to its colorful terrestrial namesake.

As beautiful and delicate as they may be, anemones are actually highly poisonous predatory creatures. These marine animals, which attach to rocks or corals by an adhesive pedal disc, or foot, spend most of their life laying in wait for unsuspecting fish to swim close enough to get ensnared in their venom-filled tentacles. Of the 1,000 species of anemones found in shallow coastal waters (and occasionally in deeper water) across the globe, a handful has the ability to move — though they’ll never set any speed records. At best they can travel four inches an hour. Some creep along on their suction foot. Others appear to be somersaulting. Still others locomote by flexing their bodies.

Watching them in motion can be fun. Barbara recalls seeing a golden crinoid traversing the side of a nearly vertical wall one night last summer on Grand Turk. “I knew anemones could move,” she says, “but I didn’t realize they could change neighborhoods!”

Giant anemone on Turks & Caicos reef

Sea anemones come in all sizes, shapes and colors, but in the waters surrounding the TCI, we tend to see the tubular-tentacled species that Barbara has so beautifully captured for this story. The tentacles serve two purposes. Not only do they protect the animal, but they are what it uses to catch food. Those undulating “fingers” that we divers and snorkelers admire from a distance are studded with microscopic stinging capsules (called nematocysts), and at the slightest touch or provocation will eject a harpoon-like filament that paralyzes its prey with a poisonous neurotoxin. (This is what gives the anemone that sticky feeling.) Favorite victims — er, meals — include fish, mussels, zooplankton, shrimp and worms. On the flip side of the food chain, sea anemones have very few predators themselves: mostly just nudibranchs, snails, sea stars and certain fish, like the Tompot Blenny.

Green-tipped giant anemone on Turks & Caicos reef

Solid purple giant anemone on Turks & Caicos reef

The late Claude Lévi-Strauss dispeled the notion of “us” and “them”.

By Bill Keegan and Betsy Carlson

I have sought a human society reduced to its most basic expression.  Claude Levi-Strauss, Triste Tropiques, 1955

Keegan was a teaching assistant for “Introduction to Biological Anthropology” at Florida Atlantic University in 1980.  At the time the university was attempting to boost admissions by offering special tuition to the burgeoning retiree population around Boca Raton. The first day of class there were about 80 people in the room, all listening intently as the professor explained that we would be studying genetics, human evolution, and biological diversity in our species. Eventually, one of the older women in the class raised her hand and asked, “When are we going to study primitive behavior, bizarre marriage practices and mating rituals?” The professor gently explained that this was not our subject. “But I thought this was an anthropology class!” The next class had only about 20 students, and the blue hair adorned a decidedly younger audience.

The Taino frog goddess

The older crowd apparently didn’t get the memo. By this time, the French anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss had spent nearly 50 years attempting to dispel the notion of the “primitive mind,” and he did so by studying myths (The Savage Mind, 1962, University of Chicago Press).  We decided to write this essay because he was one of the most important figures in anthropology for the past century. He passed away on October 20, 2009 at the age of 100.

The majority of Lévi-Strauss’ work focused on the stories related to him by the native peoples of the Amazonian rainforest in Brazil. When he began his field research in the 1930s, the prevailing attitude was that the primitive mind was different from our own. These simple people faced a daily struggle for survival, and therefore lacked our appreciation of logic and formal thought. There were strong paternalistic and colonialist attitudes at work, especially in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. These savages needed Western civilization to drag them into the modern era. Yet by looking just below the surface, we find that they are in every way as sophisticated intellectually, and the notion of Thomas Hobbes (The Leviathan, 1660) that their lives are “nasty, brutish and short” is just not correct. There is a richness in their arts that rivals our own.

Monsieur le professeur Lévi-Strauss pioneered a philosophical approach in anthropology known as “Structuralism” (Structural Anthropology, 1958, Penguin Press). Structuralism proposed that there are universal structures, pairs of opposites that underlie all human thought and are common to all human societies. In other words, there is no “us” vs. “them.” there is only “us.” Because of this, Lévi-Strauss rejected the notion that so-called “primitive” peoples were any less sophisticated than us, and that their belief systems (“myths”) are the product of rational thinking and subtle logic. This may not appear to be the same logic that we use, but that is because our interpretations often are based on superficial characteristics of which we have little direct knowledge.

The instances of universal structures seem to far outweigh the notion that all people think differently (especially “primitive” people). Is not the Taíno origin story in which the human hero (Deminán) stole yucca and fishes (human foods) from the supreme deity (Yaya) repeated in most mythologies? We are very fortunate that Christopher Columbus sent the Jeronomite friar Ramón Pané to study the religion of the Macorix peoples who lived on the north coast of Hispaniola. Pané’s account has been taken as representative of all Taíno beliefs. These myths have been interpreted using Structuralist principles (see Cave of the Jagua, Antonio Stevens-Arroyo, 2006, University of Scranton Press).

One aspect of Structuralism deals with “totemism,” in which human social groups identify themselves by certain animals (think sports teams). A favorite saying attributed to Lévi-Strauss with regard to animals is that “some animals are good to think, while others are good to eat.” Taíno beliefs are replete with imagery and stories that capture animals that “are good to think. Macocel, a lizard whose eyes did not blink, guarded the cave from which humans emerged in Taíno mythology. A supreme Taíno deity is Anacaona — the “frog-lady” — and the frog, which is a symbol of female fertility, is pervasive in Taíno decorative arts.

We recognize a three-part division of the Taíno world into sky, land and subterranean waters. Creatures and features that bridge these realms are given particular importance in the mythology. Thus, seabirds that pass from sky to land and water (e.g., pelicans), reptiles that pass from water to land (e.g., sea turtles), and caves that form a portal from the land to subterranean waters all figure prominently. According to the Taínos, the first humans emerged from caves, and often were returned there at death. The three realms of sky, land and water are united by an invisible “tree of life” that springs forth as the axis mundi in the center of the village.

Wooden seat shaped like sea turtle

Lévi-Strauss recognized that the way that a village was arranged could hold clues to human consciousness. The circular arrangement of Taíno villages can be likened to the ripples on a pond; the central plaza is a charged political space, the surrounding houses (caneye) are a closed domestic space, the adjacent fields (conuco) represent man’s control over nature, and the encompassing forest (abeybuco) is the non-cultural world of nature and at night the domain of the spirits (opía).

The archaeologists who excavated the Golden Rock site on St. Eustatius in the Lesser Antilles (circa AD 900) noted very distinctive stains in the ground that outlined the structure of the houses. They concluded that the houses were shaped to look like the carapace of a sea turtle, which fits with the symbolic identity of turtles with life.  Such interpretations may at times seem fanciful, but they add to the richness in interpretation proposed for past societies.

In later life Lévi-Strauss argued that music had largely replaced mythology in the modern world. Music tells the same stories and we enjoy hearing them over and over again. The story is reinforced by a repeating melody and harmonics, and everyone knows that it is time to get out of the water when Dvorak’s first symphony starts to play (the theme music from the movie “Jaws”). We see, read and hear the same themes (structures) repeated in cinema, books, and music, and often these are very basic human constructs:  good vs. evil, life vs. death, love vs. hate, nature vs. culture (this last dichotomy was described in Lévi-Straussian terminology as “raw” vs. “cooked”). The image can be as subtle as who is wearing the white hat, and the passages are often decidedly predictable — the action hero always gets beat to a pulp, and is on the verge of death, before overcoming their antagonist in the final scene.

Lévi-Strauss’ critics claimed that he did not pay enough attention to local history and experience. Their “poststructuralism” rejected the idea that universal laws were what shaped human consciousness. His reply would be that much of what we think is subconscious. But even his critics admit that there are underlying structures to all art. A notable recent example is The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown, 2003, Doubleday). The key is finding the hidden messages, and having the skills to interpret them. What we hope is that there are sufficient similarities between us and them (structuralism), that we can detect the underlying meanings as they intended or subconsciously transmitted according to their particular representational system (poststructuralism).

So let us pause for the moment and mark the passing of one of the greatest intellectuals of the 20th century. A man who was equally comfortable in the ivory tower and in the Brazilian rainforest. In our Western religious traditions death marks a transition of “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Although Lévi-Strauss has passed to ashes, he left us the honey.

1 Claude Lévi-Strauss, From Honey to Ashes, Harper and Row, 1973.

Dr. Bill Keegan is Curator of Caribbean Archaeology at the Florida Museum of Natural History, University of Florida, Gainesville, Florida. Dr. Betsy Carlson is Senior Archaeologist with Southeastern Archaeological Research, Inc. (SEARCH) in Jonesville, Florida, and affiliate faculty at the Florida Museum of Natural History. They are the authors of Talking Taino, published by The University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, ISBN – 13: 978-0-8173-5508-1.

The large, colorful, sociable Angelfish is on the “A” list in fish popularity.

Story By Suzanne Gerber ~ Photos & Captions By Barbara Shiveley

When your dive or snorkeling buddy draws an imaginary ring over his head, he’s not telling you that he’s lost — or gone cuckoo. He’s signaling one of the most popular reef fish in the ocean, the flamboyant angelfish. Some fish master the art of camouflage for protection; if angelfish had to rely on that trick to survive, they’d be dead fast. With their bright, vibrant color patterns and big, round, skinny bodies, they’re among the most delightfully conspicuous residents of the coral reef. Found throughout the Caribbean, Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific oceans, they are also one of the most popular among underwater visitors of every nationality. And because they’re approachable, photogenic, and often curious about us, Barbara and I often find ourselves hot on their trail.

A Queen Angelfish peeks out from behind a coral head.

Here in the Caribbean we are most familiar with six varieties — the Queen, Blue, Gray, Pygmy and French Angelfish, as well as the dramatic black-and-yellow Rock Beauty — yet there are 75 to 85 different species in the rest of the world. When I first started diving the western Pacific and Indian oceans and compiled a “fish wish list,” at least five of my most-sought-after critters were exotic and stunning angels, like the Emperor.

It’s easy to spot most varieties of Angelfish: they’re basically round in appearance (sometimes playfully described as pancake-like), with eyes that seem to see, register and follow us. And most have small but full, almost puckered lips, often painted a prominent gray or white.

Why are they called Angels? I’ve heard a few explanations: The ring on some species’ heads resembles a halo; their fins spread in all directions, like an angel’s wings; and they drift through the water in an almost heavenly way. The Queen derives her royal appellation from the blue-ringed black spot on her head that resembles a crown. They are closely related to Butterflyfish, another “flashy” reef fish with scores of varieties. But scientists distinguish Angelfish from Butterflyfish by their rough spines, which cover their gill and help explain their Greek name, Pomacanthidae (poma meaning “cover,” and akantha for “thorn”).

French Angelfish

The three Caribbean species have some similarities, as well as distinct differences. Pygmy Angels, as you’d likely guess, are the smallest, averaging just three inches, and the largest specimens, the French and Gray, can be up to 24 inches. The Pygmy, also called the Cherubfish, is deep blue in color with pale yellow fins and is the rarest in these waters because they live in considerably deeper quarters than their larger cousins. The regal Queen, who can grow up to 18 inches, is usually an intense blue with yellow markings on her fins and that black and blue spot on the top of her head. She is always just begging for a photo op. Blue Angelfish looks a lot like Queens but are a lighter shade of blue and yellow and don’t have the “crown.” (But they are uppity, frequently mating with Queens.) The Gray Angelfish is indeed gray, with yellow fins. People sometimes confused Grays with French Angelfish, who looks like someone hit the color-enhancer button and painted the drab Gray a much deeper shade of black and added more hue to his yellow scale tips and the yellow around its eye. And then, in the “which of these things is not like the other” category, there’s the sweet Rock Beauty: black with a yellow head, chest and underbelly. Not only does she look markedly different, but her behavior stands out in contrast: where the French, Gray, Blue and Queen have been called everything from friendly and fearless to pests and hams, the Rock Beauty is adorably shy (though when they curl their bodies around a crack in the reef and face you, they make fantastic photos!).

Angelfish normally form pairs or small groups. Some mate for life; others form “harems,” with one male presiding over several females. And as with many fish species, Angelfish are hermaphrodites, and if the dominant male of a harem is removed, one of the “wives” will morph into a functional male to take his place.

Terrific munchers — you can actually hear them chomping in the water — Angels enjoy a diverse diet, at least by fish standards. They dine on sponges, algae, small crustaceans, sea fans, soft corals, and even the occasional unlucky jellyfish. Mostly, though, they prefer sponges, a menu selection that is fairly uncommon for fish (as opposed to turtles), owing to sponges’ indigestible innards and nasty-tasting outside layer. Perhaps as an adaptive measure, Angelfish have evolved a protracted jaw with specialized teeth as well as the talent to secrete a thick mucus coating around bits of sponge. This ability gives them an edge in the highly competitive eco-system.

Gray Angelfish

In the Caribbean, French Angelfish (Pomacanthus paru) are favorites among snorkelers and divers, both for their good looks and great personality. They, too, feed mainly on sponges, as well as the occasional gorgonian, tunicate and algae. Divers get a kick out of watching them as they take deep gouges out of sponges, leaving V-shaped scars with their rabbit-like teeth. On the flip side of the food chain, their large size, as well as their ability to dart defensively into narrow crevices, prevents all but the largest reef predators, like big grouper and sharks, from attacking.

Frenchies mate for life, and together the fiercely territorial pair will patrol their turf, which can be an area as big as a football field. Potential space invaders are chased off by an enraged Frenchie. It’s a sight to behold, as the fish leans to one side and charges like a tipsy bull. The couple spends half their time foraging for food and the other half “carouseling” — circling each other head to tail, an act that both resolidifies their bond after time apart and wards off couple-busting rogue bachelors. Though they are admirably monogamous, Frenchies aren’t overly romantic. Their mating ritual is anything but flirtatious: toward dusk during mating season (April to September, usually peaking in July), they form an arc and rise up in the water column, pressing their bellies together until they reach an angelic climax, at which time sperm and between 25,000 and 75,000 eggs are released. Many won’t make it, however, because of many plankton-munching predators.

Juveniles who do survive are put to work early, working in cleaning stations. Young’uns attract clients by setting up shop at prominent outcroppings, small patch reefs, or depressions in a rocky area. They let other fish know they’re open for business by wriggling their brightly colored bodies like a flag and either hovering just above the reef or settling onto it. The juvies’ job is to inspect their clients for parasites and then remove them by eating them. It makes for compelling video to capture fish waiting in turn for their cleaning, like the line at the carwash on the first warm spring day. Occasionally fish-fights break out over who’s where in the queue, so keep your camera at the ready.

While it is a universal underwater hand sign to indicate Angelfish with the “halo” signal mentioned earlier, I came up with my own sign for Frenchies a number of years ago. A beautiful pair was carouseling just outside my buddy’s periphery, and my halo signal wasn’t doing the trick, probably because he was looking for the blue and yellow glow of a Queen. Thinking fast, I pressed my index and middle fingers to my lips, waved them away, blew out through my regulator, then returned my fingers to my mouth and flicked them again. Back on the boat, I asked him if he saw those two big Frenchies. “I did,” he said, “but what in the world was that hand signal?” “Well,” I responded, “there’s no sign for French Angelfish, so I invented one: I was smoking.” He thought I was nuts, but to this day, we use that same sign when we as a couple bump into a couple of them.