The Plantation Diaries

Running With Corn

Everyone on the finca is exhausted and dreaming of sleep. Nino woke us all at 4 this morning when a family of armadillos marched across his path sending him up on his hind legs neighing with everything he had. We all ran to see the armored family scamper off on their stubby little legs. Vigil was extremely agitated since armadillo soup is his favorite. 

We returned to bed when not more than ten minutes later, a large open-bed truck pulled up to the house amid the darkness. Our corn pick-up had arrived. I turned the exterior lights on, while the men dressed and started organizing the corn sacks. I made a large pot of extra strong coffee. I thought, I’ll just see them off and then I can crawl back to bed for a few hours.

The bags weigh 200lbs, and yet every man seems to able to manage them. They have a method where two men pick up the sack at either end. One swings it up in the air where it lands on the back of the other man with a thud. The bearer then trots while bent in half to his destination . I don’t know they managed 113 (final count) bags this morning, but they did. They took a long break, all of them sweating and stripped down to their shorts. Evers was assigned to ride to Usulutan with the truck to monitor the weighing. I suddenly felt a pang of quilt and decided I should go too. Evers had only had three hours sleep and he could easily miss a few hundred pounds in his delirious state.

 
We arrived at the buyer’s warehouse at 7:30. There were already trucks lined up, but we had an appointment, so we were first in line. Senor Prado, who represents the corn factory up in the capital shook my hand and said he needed to do a humidity test. I reminded him that Don Beto had already been by yesterday to do just that and we had agreed to a firm price. As I was talking to him, I noticed four of his men had stuck small PVC tubes into several of the bags to extract a sampling of kernels. They stood in a circle shaking the corn in their palms. I heard whispers of “humedo.” I looked at Prado and told him our corn had been drying on the stalk longer than anyone in the area, and it was as dry as desert sand. I actually tried to say that in Spanish. He didn’t understand, but he got the gist of my tone.

I took a headcount of all the people involved from our workers to Prado’s. Forty-two men and me. I put my smile in my pocket as these were experienced hagglers, and I felt a little out of my element.  The men started unloading our corn which made me a little nervous as I did not yet have a firm confirmation on the price. I was wondering if I was going to get taken advantage of. I found Prado again and pushed the topic of the price. He shrugged a little and told me to wait. I found Evers and told him to stop the unloading of the corn. Prado’s father showed up at that moment who turned out to be a blessing. He was very courteous excusing his son’s abruptness and grabbed a humidity tester from his car. He went through the same motions with the  PVC tube, put it all in the machine, and turned it on. 9 out of a possible 14. Very dry. We shook hands on the price and proceeded.

 
Prado invited me to sit down next to Jose who was in charge of weighing so I might take my own tally. The men stacked two to three sacks on the scale, and then we all carefully watched until the beam reached its equilibrium and floated in mid-air. 400 pounds, 423, 398, 450, 324….Don Juan, driver of the truck, corrected Jose several times and I gave him a wink. “I may not know how to read, but I know my numbers,” he said. Total weight came to 15,903 pounds.

 

 

Prado and I added up the weights independently until we both arrived at the same figure. Not an easy task on a tiny hand-held calculator which is all they had. He wrote me out a check and Evers and I headed to the bank. The teller disappeared with my check and then presented the cash wrapped in brown paper. He nodded to a guard who said he would accompany me to my car. It wasn’t that much money, but I wasn’t going to argue. Usulutan is known for being a shady town.

The afternoon was spent shuttling just-picked cherries, wet beans, dry beans, almost dry beans, and pulp. By the end of the day, the patio is bean free, the corn is sold, money stuffed under the mattress (just kidding), and the men can sleep in their beds tonight. It is a small break from what is our new routine for the weeks ahead.

 

 

Bringing in the Harvest

We managed to bring in 13,000lbs of coffee cherries last week and 9,000lbs of corn. It’s been hard work and the men have worked tirelessly. Up at 5am, toiling all day, taking turns sleeping with the coffee and corn, and working the past two Sundays. They do it all with a smile. I keep them plied in coffee, pastries, Juana’s beans, and the occasional pizza.  

We bagged Monday and Tuesday's beans as they passed the dryness test yesterday with cousin Licito’s humidity tester. The burlap sacks will now be stored in the hacienda where they can stay dry and protected. I imagine by the time harvest is over, the sacks will spill out of the corridor and into the bedrooms and living room.

Beto took a sample of the corn to Usulutan yesterday so the buyer could inspect it. It also passed the dryness test and we have arranged for a large truck to haul it away tomorrow. There are over 90 sacks sitting behind the house. We normally squirrel away the corn and sell it later in the year at the higher price. This year, we need the sale in order to cover the cost of the coffee harvest. A few dollars less, but we are grateful to have it.

The earthquakes have started up again. Most are small gentle tremblers barely worth taking note of. On Friday, we had a 3.1 that brought out the critters that hide behind these old walls. As hard as I try, I cannot eradicate every creature that prefers the house to the jungle.  For some reason, the quakes disturb their nests, and they come running to pay me a visit. Which is how I managed to get bit once again by a scorpion. A few hours after the quake, I was walking through my bedroom in flip flops when I felt a horrific sting in the arch of my foot. I screamed, Evers came running, and we spent five minutes on our hands and knees with a flashlight until we found the little devil. Evers slashed him into a hundred pieces with his machete while I monitored my bite. Okay, lots of pain, but only a little numbness….I’ll live. I spent the weekend hobbling around with a tender foot, and by Sunday afternoon, I was fine. I think I’m developing a resistance to the toxin.

Yesterday morning, I noticed a small burlap bag that I keep on the floor by the window had been moved. I was about to grab it when I saw something dark and furry behind it. Taking a careful peek, I found a very large tarantula. Could I be getting used to all this? I forgot to scream as I was more impressed that he had managed to move the bag (which gives you some indication of his size). I called for Vigil who showed up with a broom. His eyesight is poor and he missed several times sending the spider fleeing in all directions. Now I was worried we would lose sight of him and I would not be able to sleep in my room. I called for Evers who at 22, has excellent eyesight. He made quick work of the spider, again, slashing him in little pieces. I really don't know why they insist on making mincemeat other than they enjoy watching all the bits jump around. I read that this that happens because messages to move sent by the brain, are still pulsating in the dismembered parts. It only stops when the electrical pulse gives out. Explanations aside, I told Ever's from now on, to take all spiders and scorpions outside where I don't have to watch. It's enough to give one a good old-fashioned nightmare.

It  is sometimes stressful to live with these kind of creatures. I never walk barefoot, never reach for anything in dark corners, shake out my clothes before putting them on, and keep a constant vigil everywhere I go. It is not exactly an inviting attraction for potential guests!

Ever’s wife Marisol is only 6 weeks away from her due date. She had a serious fall not long ago while out working in their bean field. She spent a few days in the hospital and recovered, but we all told Evers to keep her away from the fields. She and their daughter Wendy still come to visit us on the finca most days to bring Evers lunch. We are all hoping for an easy delivery since she is such a tiny thing.  

I am joining the Women’s Coffee Alliance, a non-for-profit organization consisting of women coffee producers. They pool their harvest together and are able to sell it at a higher market price. Each producer contributes $2.00 per quintale which goes towards building homes for families in need. I can’t think of a better group to be a part of.

Coffee Harvest

Today marks the first day the finca is harvesting coffee under its own steam, a day that five years ago seemed so far away. There have been many milestones these past weeks which left little energy to blog. It was simply enough to get through it all.

 
I did finally get my DUI, export license, and every possible legal document needed to get us underway. It meant many days up in the capital scurrying around to different government offices, combined with the four drive up and back. But it's done! The finca coffee has been officially registered under the name, "Tecapa Blue," representing the Tecapa-Chinameca coffee region of Eastern El Salvador. We sent off another shipment of coffee to Chicago, and got a nice write-up in the Chicago Tribune. The coffee was packaged in the fabric bags made by the local women here in Tecapan and woven by the men of San Sebastian. Doing a little math the other day, I calculated that every time someone purchases a 1lb. bag of Tecapa Blue, they are making a difference in the lives of approximately 318 people. I heard yesterday, the coffee is selling well in Chi-town and my buyer is quite happy.

The four thousand cacao trees I planted 3 and half years ago are finally producing. It will not be a great yield yet, but the majority of trees are bearing fruit, and some are quite impressive. Another long-awaited venture requiring all my patience and turning a deaf ear to endless advice that would have had me going in a dozen directions. It's best to let nature take care of its own sometimes.

The women showed up at 6am this morning to begin the harvest, and many brought their children who are off for the holidays. Beto took roll and emphasized how important it was this year to only pick ripe red cherries. No green would be allowed. He explained the entire harvest will exported to the US for the first time, and the quality of the beans is highly important. The women balked at first, but came around at the thought that this could only mean something good in the future.

The women bring their breakfast with them, and that is the first order of the day. They sit on the ground in groups having coffee, sweet bread, and tortillas while catching up on the local gossip. There is plenty of that at the moment, as Tecapan is in the middle of their week-long fiesta and someone was murdered late last night. A young man of 23 was found outside the mayor's office with his throat slit. I was up last night and remembered hearing a siren, perhaps an ambulance which is not a normal sound in this quiet littlte town. The fiesta is usually a happy time and tonight is the final celebration with five bands and dancing until the wee hours of the morning. I am planning to attend, but will make sure I'm safely back on the finca before it gets too late.

After breakfast, the women strapped their baskets to their waists held by a sling around their neck. Beto called the women in the order they showed up. I was surprised to find out how well planned the work is. I was always under the impression that the pickers just worked an area, harvesting which ever tree suited them. The coffee trees like most crops are planted in evenly spaced rows. Beto assigned one women at the beginning of every row. That would be their work line for the day. Meanwhile the children ran around delighted to have such open spaces to play. Their only task in helping their mothers, was to carry spare empty sacks and water bottles. We do not employ child labor here!

Before walking away from the field this morning, I turned around to see the tops of coffee trees dancing and shaking while the women invisibly picked the beans. It made me think of a harvest dance and even the trees could join in. I'm sure if I was a tree, I would dance a little myself at the thought of being free of all those beans. I could look forward to a period of rest. After all, this was a hard year with the early rains and hurricane Ida.

Senor Leonardo has agreed to help me create an incentive plan for Beto and the boys, and I am ever so grateful. He is a clever man with a gentle hand, and the boys are already very fond of him. I introduced the general concept to Beto this morning, since I am requiring his assistance in mapping and collecting data from this years harvest. When I told him that these efforts would ultimately reward him and the men, a big smile broke out on his face. He suddenly seemed energized and praised the idea. He said he was looking forward to working with Senor Leonardo. Do I sense a slight touch of relief from Beto that he would rather work with a man? I know the men are loyal and would do anything for me, but in a machismo world, perhaps some things are very slow to change.

 

The thirteen women that showed up today returned to the hacienda around 1pm this afternoon with bulging sacks. In total, they picked 2,055lbs. I know I was impressed and we are expecting more women tomorrow. A few seemed to have missed the announcement about not picking green beans and Beto took them aside to clarify the new guidelines. It took two trips to the mill and the men have just returned with the washed coffee. Evers, who fashioned three rakes from a felled tree has begun the job of spreading the beans over our new cement patio.

 
  
Evers, Vigil, Carlito, and Mario all took turns sleeping in the corn field last night. The finca corn has been picked from the stalks and left in big piles until the thresher arrives on Friday. They make an easy target to steal, so the boys are guarding the corn 24/7. I made four potfuls of coffee last night and sent them packing with pan dulce.

The men made beds from the bean vines and I have to admit, they were very soft when I tested them this morning. I wondered if I could have made it through the night sleeping in a corn field. I doubt it. Their campfire was still smoking from last night and a nearby tree held an assortment of bottles, blankets, clothing, and bags of tortillas hung from the branches. When the men came back to house this morning to wash up, they reported they caught seven suspicious characters hovering near the field with sacks.

 
December, I think, is the best month here on the finca. Aside from the coffee harvest, and the fiesta in town, all the families that rent land to grow corn and beans have been camping out here while working their patch of land. There are endless trucks passing by the house to cart the corn, husks, and beans off to market. The humidity is gone along with the intense heat and mosquitoes. My poinsettia trees are in full bloom and stand 10 feet tall. The tanks are full of water for the upcoming dry season, and we will be able to begin the coffee and cacao nursery. It is a time to be grateful and wear a smile. 

Looking back

I lost Gracie a few months ago. A scorpion or spider wandered in her cage. She screamed suddenly and by the time I reached her, she was hanging upside down, one claw desperately hanging from her perch. I reached in and gently took her out. I held her close to my face and a few minutes later, she died.

My son had bought Gracie for my birthday, so it was even harder to say goodbye to her. Just a common green parrot, but she was a great friend. She loved to play on my desk disturbing everything in her path, and shaking her head up and down in satisfaction when I scolded her.

I kept her in a shoebox for a few days and finally let Vigil bury her far away on the finca so the dogs would never find her. I'm such a sentimentalist, and it is sometimes hard to be tough in the cycle of life that comes and goes here on the finca.

Ever's little girl Wendy celebrated her third birthday a few weeks ago. Evers asked if he could borrow my camera to take pictures at their house during the party. I didn't really feel comfortable letting him take the camera, so I offered to stop by and take the photos myself. When I arrived, he immediately came outside and I sensed he didn't want me to come inside. That's when I noticed while moving my way to the entrance, that the floor was dirt and they had no furniture other than a rickety wooden table. I pretended as though I didn't see any of it and just concentrated on taking pictures of Wendy while she batted at her pinata, and blew out her candles. I stayed for cake and coffee and then drove home. Evers told me last week, they are expecting another child in January. With any luck, I will be here to bring them home from the hospital as I did with Wendy.

This Sunday, I rode Nino around the finca. I found out the other day, that no one had ridden him in almost two months. Where did the time go? Evers escorted me and we spent an hour visiting with all the families that grow corn. Most of them have bent their corn stalks in half now to finish the drying process. The beans are almost all planted and if you look closely, you can see the first leaves emerging from the ground.

Seeing the corn so close to harvest, I realize it is coming up on a year since I came down here. Three seasons have passed with the busiest one just ahead. My previous trips down here were always for a few weeks at a time, so I missed a lot. It seems ages ago when I first walked on this land during a visit with my mother and sister in 1994. I remember feeling this strange pull, but quickly dismissed it as a silly daydream. At the time, I was married with a very conventional life in Chicago.

When my mother first approached me about running the finca, I initially laughed at such a far-fetched notion. It seemed impossible. How could I suddenly change gears, move to a foreign country, learn a new language, grow coffee, and live on an abandoned plantation alone? I guess my mother knew me well. I remember saying the words, "okay, I'll do it," to her and within moments, my life had shifted. I didn't know if I would succeed, but I had to try.

I asked myself, "What's it's going to be Steph? Stay safe, go back to your job, date, marry again, be conventional...or, maybe, just maybe, take a risk and see what you are made of." I really didn't want to admit that I had already made up my mind.

Initially, this seemed like a romantic adventure. Go live on the side of a volcano and whip 200 acres into shape. Five years later, it has become so much more than I ever imagined. The land romanced me as though I had been here before sometime in the past. I never felt I had to get to know the place like you do a new neighborhood. I put one foot in front of the other and never questioned it. The answers will come, and they have. Help has come from many sources. People have been generous and have gone out of their way to clear my path. For every challenge, there has been at least one person who eased the burden so that I might continue.

The initial and still important goal of turning a piece of land around, and allowing it yield a profitable bounty once more, has been eclipsed by the changes in the lives of a few. This really is a little speck on the globe that nobody would know about if I didn't write my thoughts down every now and then. In the big picture, it's minuscule compared to what's going in the rest of world.

But it is amazing to me when I look around at the people whose livelihood depends on this land now. Bringing it back to life has given at least 30 families a sense of well-being and security. Someone is running the show again, and the days of my great grandfather weave their way through tomorrow. I will always be grateful for this sobering time in my life when I was able to strip away the fluff to what matters the most, those human connections we make while we are here. I shall also be glad to pass on the baton one day. If there are any younger members of our clan out there interested in getting their feet wet, come on down.

Cabañas

Every week, or most weeks, I make the drive from the finca to the capital for meetings. I get through the two hour drive by passing certain landmarks along the way. The Esso station where I fill up and get a latte and pan dulce, the River Lempa, Zacatecaluca, the big Western Union sign hanging from the overpass, the camel-back volcano off to my right, the Texaco station for a quick pit-stop, the recycled glass factory, and finally the last bend in the road when the capital reveals itself.

The River Lempa divided the country during the civil war, with the Eastern side occupied by the Guerrillas. I've been told, it was their goal divide the country in two permanently. The finca would have belonged to East El Salvador. What a thought. The country is small enough as it is.

A bridge was built before the war spanning the river which spills out to the Pacific Ocean. The bridge was an exact replica of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, right down to the orange paint. It was blown up during the conflict and a new bridge was built, but not a replica. The only memory of the miniature Golden Gate is a torn chunk of metal with traces of orange paint at the base of the northern end.

I was late yesterday and rushing to my meeting. I knew the Lempa was coming up in a few minutes, checking it off my mental list of being one-fifth of the way to the capital. Arriving at the small town before the bridge, the traffic was at a halt. I immediately assumed an accident. No one seemed to know what the trouble was until a bus driver went to investigate. When he returned, he told me is was a political disturbance. A few minutes later, several police trucks showed up. I couldn't see a thing as the cars, trucks, cows, and oxen were blocking my view. Forty minutes later, we started moving. When I finally crossed the bridge, I found several hundred people standing peacefully in protest carrying signs and sheet banners. One young man threw a handout in my car as the police whistled at him to get out of the way.

The paper said something about Cabanas and had photos of people that looked like they had been killed. I stuffed it away thinking I would try to see if anyone knew what it was about. I remember feeling very annoyed at the delay, but after seeing all those faces in quiet protest, I wished them luck.

Throughout the day, I showed the paper to people. I found it a little odd that no one took much interest and had very little to say about it. Well, those people on the bridge certainly had something on their minds, I thought.

This afternoon, I did a little research and did not like what I found. Cabanas refers to one of the fourteen departments (or states) in this country. It is in the northern region and suffers from extreme poverty. There is no tourism or industry. In fact, when looking for hotels or restaurants to promote for my website, Gateway El Salvador, Cabanas drew a big blank. A good friend said they are in the process of building a new highway that will run parallel to the other two highways in the northern region in an attempt to bring life to this part of the country. Someone else mentioned they were only building the road to give access to the gold mine.

I was vaguely aware that there is a gold mine here in El Salvador (El Dorado). Only last week an acquaintance in the U.S. asked for my help as he has stocks with The Pacific Rim Mining Company, that is trying to go forth with operations. After a few inquiries, I was told to tell my friend to sell his stocks. Apparently the mine is a hot subject that might never get off the ground. The process of extracting the gold destroys the environment for at least two hundred years and contaminates the water table by cyanide leaching.

The local citizens concerned about their environment and drinking water have banded together in protest. They are regularly threatened and only last week, a very vocal individual was found shot and dumped in the bottom of a well. The crimes are attributed by officials as gang squabbles and unrelated to the mine.

The prior administration who initially was banking on a lucrative arrangement, suddenly backed away from issuing the needed permits just prior to the presidential election. Pacific Rim who has lost millions of dollars in exploration costs, has filed a 77$ million dollar arbitration claim in the CAFTA courts against El Salvador. The new administration reportedly has little to say so far on the subject, but they have only been in office a few months.

It was a troubling discovery that I would never had known about had these people not took a stand on the Lempa bridge yesterday. It was not comforting to know that only an hour away, people are being attacked, threatened, and shot, with very little being done about it. I make it a rule to stay away from politics as there are so many sides to a story, but just one death is one too many in a country that has already suffered such losses.

Not to be dismissive, but it was a strange sight today to see the boys come back this afternoon with ripe coffee. They picked about 50lbs. in cherry and Beto warned it will be like this from here on out. Don Mario was sitting on the ground rolling a short piece of wide bamboo over the cherries like a rolling pin. Back and forth, back and forth as the beans separated themselves from the fruit. Vigil, never one to over exert himself, put his cherries in a large wide bucket and walked on them just like stomping on grapes. It was amusing at first, but I could see that these laborious methods will never do with my limited staff.

I am meeting with the new beneficio tomorrow morning to see what arrangements can be made for getting the beans washed. A beneficio will normally wash and dry your beans for a set price. I only want to wash and then bring our beans and the pulp back to the finca, so it will require a little haggling to come up with a price both sides can agree on.

Funny, I used to dream about things like a remodeled kitchen, a new computer, those designer shoes I saw in the window, a new sofa, or a dress. Now...I just think about things like coffee mill machines, a small earth mover, a paved road, and water, water, water.

El Nino

Just when I thought I had mastered the basics of growing coffee, El Nino has walked into my life leaving me a bit bamboozled. We normally begin harvesting in December. A trickle at first with a dozen women from town that spikes mid-month with 35 to 40 pickers. They are harried days and everyone is excited and exhausted.

A few days ago, Don Beto came to me to say that there are ripe coffee cherries that need to be picked. It didn't sink in at first and I brushed it off to my recent illness. Don Beto confirmed his statement saying that it happens sometimes. I don't think he has ever heard of the El Nino effect. Later that afternoon, I saw a blurb online which is how I became aware of Senor Nino's presence. I never paid much attention at home, but farming coffee sheds a whole new light on the subject.

It started a few months ago and is expected to last through the first quarter of 2010. With it comes warmer Pacific waters, excessive rainfall along the Caribbean coast of Latin America, and irregular drought episodes along the Pacific coast. I was vaguely aware that there had been dry periods, but being my first time here for the entire rainy season, I did not have any past references on what is considered normal.

I was aware the harvest will be slightly less this year. It rained early, the flowers bloomed, and the rain stopped for several weeks. Many of the blooms withered while the others struggled to transform themselves to coffee cherries. The beans are strong and beautiful, but I have noticed that almost every tree is showing signs of ripening.

There is a lot to do this year as we will be processing all the coffee in-house. I thought I still had months to prepare and suddenly Beto and I are spending our night-times thoughts on the logistics ahead of us. We need to expand the sun patio and that work will begin next week. Drying 15,000lbs. of coffee takes up a lot of space even if it's not all at once.

With the rainy season not officially over until the end of October (but who knows, that may end early this year), drying the coffee becomes a major concern. It means bringing the beans in every afternoon or at the first sign of rain and then putting it back out in the morning. Hopefully, if the coffee ripens at a slow pace, we will be able to manage this additional daily task.

The beneficio just down the road where I was planning to take the beans to separate the pulp does not open until December. I am meeting with another one next week as an alternate. He is twice the distance, but the only other game in town. I hope one day, we can have our own beneficio in-house. The new generation of coffee processing machines require less water, but come at a hefty price of $10,000. It's on the wish list.

The silver lining...I can begin exporting sooner. My buyer in Chicago wants fabric bags for the coffee. I visited the town of San Sebastion a few weeks ago where men in their 70's weave cloth on giant looms. There are only a dozen or so left and it has been difficult to pass the trade to the younger generation. I brought home some sample fabric and had a local woman sew up a bag yesterday. It was perfectly made and she wants .20 a bag for her labor. Sold. She is now working on her first one hundred bags.

Back

I'm afraid to even look at the date of the last blog. I know it's been a long time. Even here, so far away from everything, it is easy to get caught up with daily life. The quiet moments to reflect are few and far between these days, and once the rhythm of writing about ones day is broken, it is so hard to get back again.

When I left off, I was in the throes of paperwork madness in an effort to export coffee to Chicago. There were two more days of nightmares to wade through including a perky drug-sniffing Cocker Spaniel named Bingo at the airport. When the clerk at the TACA freight office stamped my air-bill and handed me the final and last document, it was hard to believe it was all over. The boxes flew the next day and arrived in Chicago on the 4th of July. The coffee has all but sold out, and I have another order.

I was spent after a month of learning the ropes of exporting which probably had something to do with the silence these past weeks. That, and a very nasty cold which has had me down for three weeks. Yesterday, for the first time, I recognized myself. This is not a rabbit hole I wish to fall down into again.

Does anyone remember those electric fly swatters that looks like a tennis racket? I used to have one when I lived in Chicago and they were great during the summer for frying up loads of mosquitos. I found one down here last year, used it for a while, and then forgot about it. I pulled it out yesterday to see if it still worked and then left it by my desk. Well...my $3.50 purchase sort of saved my life tonight.

I was going through my closet while hunting down a particular black dress to wear tomorrow for my cacao meeting. I have about 8 black dresses and I was flipping through them, I noticed a grayish spot on one of the dresses. I went back to it and was about to rub my finger on it when I realized it wasn't a spot at all, but a very large black scorpion. I grabbed a flashlight and my handy-dandy electric tennis racket/bug fryer and yelled out for Vigil and Evers in case I wasn't successful. If I got bit, I really wasn't sure if I could drive myself to the hospital before whatever was going happen to me would begin. I nudged the scorpion and he fell onto the racket with my finger pushing the "on" button. He danced and sparked, his nasty little tail swinging around madly, and then he was still. Evers and Vigil were so amused by it all, they wanted to look for another one, just like kids. I gave the racket and jerking scorpion to them to get rid of outside. I told Evers and he, Juana, and I are going to take everything out of the closet and give it a good shake tomorrow afternoon.

There has been an influx of critters, but only because I bought a shop-vac and had Evers vacuum the attic and then spray. The critters fled their cozy quarters and headed downstairs. I had not thought to check the closet for new tenants until tonight.

Coffee Woes

Today was just as mortifying as all previous journeys to the capital in my effort to obtain my export license. The only difference was that I fully expected road blocks at every turn, and I was not disappointed. Our first stop was the "Hacienda" (equivalent of the IRS) to get my EVA registration card so I can dutifully pay my share of taxes. We were told it was a simple process and should be in and out in ten minutes. We were handed a pre-printed form listing all the requirements which were impressive. Copies of phone, water, and electric bills, bank statements, my NIT (a simpler form of the DUI which I actually have), and the all elusive DUI. In the end, after consulting with three different associates, we were told that I would have to obtain a power-of-attorney from my mother in San Francisco stating she will authorize me to act as an exporter since I do not have my DUI.

We immediately phoned the Consulate General in San Francisco who was expecting her that morning to take care of her name issue (Concha vs. Concepcion) and politely asked him if he would also create this new document. He agreed.

Next, we drove to the coffee council and there waiting for us, was my temporary export license for Saturday's shipment of coffee to Chicago. A big victory, but the issue of the previous stop was weighing on our minds. The coffee council told us we should head over the Central Reserve Bank to pay the export duty of $19. They said this should only take a few minutes and I did not need a DUI.

The clerk was borderline unfriendly and right off the bat, told me that I had the wrong kind of NIT. I needed a NIT that had "Importer/Exporter" stamped on it. The NIT office was three blocks away. The NIT office was closed for lunch when we arrived and had to wait 45 minutes. That actually went quite smoothly, but the fee was $.46 and we would need to pay it at a bank and bring back the receipt first. Not again! My uncle pleaded, and the administrator took pity on us accepting my change.

We flew back to the Central Reserve Bank with my new NIT ready to pay the duty. The clerk then pulled out three forms. We made it through the first two and then came the next brick wall. Form three required me to have a bill of sale printed by a recognized registered printing company. I think it was at that moment, my uncle and I temporarily lost our momentum and simultaneously sagged in our chairs. Will this ever stop?

We picked up our new stack of forms and left in search of a printer. Fortunately, a friend knew just the person. For $20, he will print up 50 "Bill of Sale" forms in triplicate with his official registry number and have them ready Friday morning as soon as I have my EVA from the Hacienda. My uncle said we should head back the Hacienda to make sure we had everything covered. This time, we actually had a extremely helpful young lady take care of us, presenting us with yet another form and a addendum to the power-of-attorney. For once, the timing was on our side as just at that moment, my mother was sitting with the Consulate General in San Francisco. We made a quick call and he agreed to make the changes.

If anyone is confused, join the club. I was constantly asking my uncle where we were in the process as I had lost track early in the morning. Just like the day I went to the cargo terminal a few months ago to pick up a simple package that was mailed to me, I felt that zombie-like state coming on. Just spin me, point me in the right direction, and tell me where to sign.

We left the Hacienda, ran some errands and made the long drive back here to the finca. It's now 10pm. Tomorrow we are boxing up the coffee and driving it to the airport on Friday morning after we run around the capital to pick up the last of the documents. Evers is coming along to guard the coffee. I haven't told him yet and he is going to be thrilled. He has never seen the capital. I just hope he remembers to watch the coffee.

What's in a Name?

For all new parents, let this be a lesson on filling out your child's birth certificate!

My mother was born "Concepcion Gracelia Samayoa Quiros". For some reason which she has conveniently blamed on my deceased father, she wrote her name as "Concha Samayoa" on my birth certificate. A name she hated and only used by her brothers to tease her when she was a child.

My father who was born in Denmark, was christened Benth, the Danish version of "Ben." So his birth certificate along with my mother's do not match what is on mine. Ben and Concha do not sync with Ben and Concepcion.

In order to get my export license to sell coffee stateside, I must first obtain my Salvadoran identity which is available to me as a matter-of-course because my mother is Salvadoran. The document is called a DUI, not to be confused with the other form of DUI (drinking under the influence), equally nightmarish.

My uncle and I drove to DUI Central in San Salvador last week, only to be told of the obvious name discrepancy which I secretly hoped they would not notice. They told us we could get my mother's birth certificate amended at the local town hall back in Santiago de Maria and bring it back. That proved fruitless. The city hall told us we needed an attorney to add "Concha" to her list of names. None were willing and those that were, wanted close to $300 for their seal of approval. We found out later, that would not have worked anyway.

In the meantime, we headed over the Coffee Council to see what steps are needed to obtain an export permit. It's endless. The folks at the council were very helpful, especially Senor Tomas Bonilla who has taken great steps to make it happen for me.

We explained the problem getting my DUI, and Senor Bonilla said they could possibly issue a one-time permit for my shipment leaving this Saturday bound for Chicago. We would need to register the name of the coffee first at the Registry of Names. We headed over there where they would not accept my application without my DUI. I finally put it in my uncle's name and can change it later. The fee was $20, but you have to go to a bank to pay the fee and then return to the office with your receipt. Who thought of this one? It took two and half hours, and we were presented with a one-inch stack of stapled documents.

We made several other stops in the city and our last was to pick up some papaya trees for the finca. The Taiwanese government is sponsoring a special program with papayas. I signed up and they gave me 25 free trees to try out to be followed by several hundred if they adapt to the area.

Nuve who recently had puppies has not been the best mother. Less than attentive, 2 of the 6 puppies expired, one disappeared, and one was given to Samuel (son of Juanita). I was told about the dead puppies on Friday morning by Vigil, but Beto said they had been given away. A lot of double talk. The puppies were in a frightful state as Carlito was convinced they had fleas, and had doused them in a powder turning them bright purple. I had a home for the two remaining pups and before anything else happened to them, I told Beto to deliver them to their new homes right away. I suggested he use the large blue plastic box in the greenhouse that the papaya trees had come in to transport the puppies. I had told Juana to put the box in the first greenhouse near the house until I could find time to have them planted. She put them in the second greenhouse near the animal pens. When I went with Beto to retrieve the box which was sitting on the ground, something looked out of place. I did a double take and realized I had 25 black bags with soil and no papaya trees. My three remaining rabbits which I have been asking the guys to sell for the past two months had papaya for breakfast. I was mortified as I had signed for the trees and how would I explain they were gobbled up overnight. I yelled at Beto to fetch a corn sack, round up the rabbits, and get rid of them that instant. Don't sell them, set them free, or keep them around for dinner. Take them to the restaurant in town and fill all the rabbit tunnels with rocks. It took all five guys to round up the rabbits and Beto finally took off. The puppies were crying and the corn sack was jumping around in the back of the truck as he pulled away.

After Beto returned, my uncle and I headed back to San Salvador which is 75 miles each way. We were headed to Ministry of Foreign Affairs in hopes of getting some help with my DUI. The first clerk took a cursory glance and told us we had to go to court where I could present my case before a judge to testify that my mother is also known as "Concha." My uncle kept pushing and got the attention of Senora Genoveva who immediately took an interest in my case. She spoke perfect English and ushered us to their in-house attorney. After an hour of examining all my documents, he declared that the Consulate General in San Francisco would have to create an Apostille stating that my mother is known to the world as "Concha", attach it to my birth certificate, and have it sent to him. Since my father is dead, my uncle and I can swear under oath, that "Benth" is also known as "Ben."

We called my mother in SF and told her what she needed to do. She would have to obtain a fresh copy of my birth certificate as the attorney told me my copy was too worn. I gave her the number of the Consulate General and told her to arrange a time to meet with him. He told her in addition to my birth certificate, she would need to present her birth certificate, her passport, and two Spanish speaking witnesses with proper ID's, not related, to swear to her "Concha" identity. This set my mother a bit over the edge as she does not know any Spanish speaking people in SF that are not family. We set the SF relatives on alert to find two people post haste and headed back to the coffee council.

The coffee council told me I would need to write a letter of appeal first for their in-house attorney to decide if they would issue me the temporary export permit. We had to wait until today for their decision.

This morning, Monday, we made the drive once again in high spirits as they called and said they were working on the papers. When we arrived, they presented a pile of forms that needed to be completed and then emailed to them, but could not be done in their office. We headed to a mall with a cyber cafe, completed the forms, and waited until 2pm when we were told to call them back. In the meantime, my mother called to say she could not find her birth certificate. I had a copy which we had scanned and sent to the Consulate General in SF as a pdf attachment. They never got it, and later that day, we ended up faxing it. We checked in with my mother again, who had not yet found the two witnesses who are supposed to present themselves tomorrow morning. I couldn't' believe she didn't know anyone and found myself near tears as we headed back to Tecapan. I browsed through my phone book and suddenly came across the name of an acquaintance in SF that I had not spoken to in over a year. Could I do it? With no shame, I called him up and asked him for the big favor. Would he pick up my mother, be a witness, and bring along another one? Fortunately, he knows the Consulate General, understood my predicament, and was more than willing to help out.

On the way home, the Consulate General called me and said he had not used an Apostille in over 20 years. My mother would have to take the documents that he was going to create to the U.S. courthouse in SF to have them authenticated. Oh boy, I thought, Mom will freeze up at this one. My uncle, always so quick to come up with solutions, called Genoveva at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She told us not to worry. She would call the Consulate General herself and get it straightened out. As far as I know, everyone is meeting there on Wednesday at 1pm for the Concha pow-wow. A close friend of mine is arriving here on Friday and will be bringing the precious documents. We've hired a guard.

Tomorrow, my uncle and I are headed back to the capital. Fingers crossed, angels hovering, we will return home having registered with the tax board, Ministry of Agriculture, and have the temporary export license in our hands. Nothing so far has gone as planned, and I doubt tomorrow will be an exception. I don't really care at this point how many more hoops we need to jump through, as long as we succeed.

If anyone has read this far, I should like to say that this is not normally how I would have handled this shipment of goods. In other words, finalizing a sale before having my ducks in a row. I can only defend myself by saying that I was promised the use of an export permit by a close friend which proved to have been revoked pending some past due payments, and I had no idea of how difficult it would be to get my DUI. You live and learn. The upside, once I have all the documents, it should only take another two weeks.

In the shipment of coffee headed for Chicago are 75lbs. of green coffee. They have been pre-sold by my buyer and I would like the end user to know that they boys here on La Finca have been sorting them bean by bean for the past two days. This is normally handled by a sorting machine. The one locally available, is down for repairs. There are always broken bits, a few darker beans, and some whitish ones that must be removed to ensure uniformity in high quality coffee. It's tedious work and I made sure Juana kept the boys supplied with endless cups of coffee and pastries. They seemed quite happy to take a break from the fields.

So that's it for now. Wish me luck again!

The Learning Curve