Landing, scaling, and hawking

Barbados is a small island, about 430 square km of land and 97 km of coastline. Though what small is exactly is incredibly relative - and political. Why is only land counted? In the world of international affairs, smallness and remoteness is often equated with insignificance and vulnerability. Some small island nations classify themselves as "Large Ocean States," to push back against the default continental value judgment of land over water. This terminology shift emphasizes the unique importance of marine resources for island nations, and points out the fact that an island nation’s sovereign territory expands far beyond its land borders. For example, the total maritime area of Barbados is 186,898 square km, well over 400 times larger than the land. (See Hume et al, 2021 for more data on the usage of this!)

The national symbol of Barbados is the flying fish, which can be found on stamps, money, posters, and murals. Though it is eaten elsewhere in the region, Bajans catch and eat more of this little fish than anywhere else in the world. Flying fish and coucou, which is a sort of savory pudding of cornmeal and okra, is the national dish. Before cooking, the processor must separate the head, spine, and tail from the meat of the fish, and then remove the side bones to create an edible filet. Boning fish swiftly and skillfully is a source of pride and professional competition amongst the flying fish processors, who are primarily women. Each year during flying fish season which runs November to July, an entire workforce of women mobilizes across the island to debone (process) the loads of fish coming in before they go to the hawkers to sell.

A metal doorway inside the Oistings fish market leads to a long room filled with tables for boning flying fish. Sitting empty in the off-season, this room will be filled with activity come November.

Everyone I have spoken with has said 2022 was a wretched season for flying fish. I'm not sure the reason for these low catches, but the anxiety it provokes in the fishing community is clear. The women who work in these processing halls come back every year, and many of them have for their entire working careers. Used to being able to sustain themselves on a single season of tireless work, many women are now looking for employment in gas stations or other service industry jobs in the off season to make up for lower earnings. Because they are seasonal workers and categorized as "self employed" by the government, accessing unemployment insurance or other forms of social protection is much harder for the processors than for other seasonal workers on the island, like those in the tourism sector.

Even though the flying fish season has ended, the fish markets are never closed. Other catches like mahi-mahi, snapper, triggerfish, marlin, and even small tuna arrive on the docks most mornings, packed in ice and stowed in the holds of fishing boats. (A note for clarity: It seems that the flying fish season operates a little differently than the other fisheries, especially with regard to how processing happens. The rest of these notes are based only on my observations of these other, non-flying fish systems.)

This boat is crewed by two men, and will stay out at sea for a week at a time. Friends gather to observe the catch.

The unloaded fish are then sold to hawkers (sellers), who select their fish based on family ties and long-standing professional and personal relationships. A hawker whose nephew is a fisher, for instance, will get first pick of the haul. Most fish must be paid for up-front by the hawkers, but marlin is purchased on credit and paid for after a day of selling. Processors (both men and women, maybe a more balanced mix than in the flying fish season) then skin, scale, and debone the fish according to the species. The markets are organized into stalls, each with multiple hawkers operating independently and 1-2 processors. I’m not yet clear on the financial relationship between the hawkers and processors here.

The hawkers are almost all women, and their job constitutes a complex and ever-changing blend of economics, math, and relationship building. They have to build and maintain a base of customers, who return based on a series of factors: quality of the product and cut, personality of the hawker, price, and availability of different fish types. They all insist that yes, the way the fish is cut is incredibly important to the outcome of the dish. They must also keep up their relationships with each fishing boat, and make choices about what to buy, from who, and how much.

Each day, the hawkers must calculate the price of the fish based on the dock price and ice costs. If she runs out of a certain type of fish, then she must decide whether to tell the customer to come back tomorrow, or refer them to another stall. (This can be an important judgment call, as client loyalty is paramount but market relationships are too). "It's a career", a seller named Diana expressed emphatically, "and it requires knowing a lot of people". Her daughter Kim works with her at the market, along with her 87 year-old mother who has been selling fish for 70 years.

Chunks of marlin waiting to be sold sit on countertops surrounding the central processing table.

Below is a slideshow of some of the fish types I observed at the market:

Though not typically out on the water, women in Barbados perform the bulk of the essential post-harvest tasks. Processors enable these fish to be eaten by consumers, adding value to the product. Hawkers are the lynchpin middlemen of the operation, managing relationships on both sides to keep the market functioning.

I have been learning a lot about the concerns and challenges that women face in this industry, but I will save that for another post. Thank you for reading, and support your local seafood industry! This is hard work, at all steps of the value chain! Diana recommends sautéing a fresh filet of fish with a squeeze of lime and some salt, and maybe a few fresh chillies.

Grace