The Plantation Diaries

The Boys Take Charge

I left the finca 8 days after Don Beto’s death. The men were nervous about being left alone to run the plantation, but I insisted that they could handle it during my absence. They have shown themselves up to the task, and in fact, are thriving. The Saturday before I left, my friend Santiago came by to assist me with a meeting I held with the men. There was a lot to go over, and I needed a good translator. Santiago was a prince and stayed the full three hours.

I ended up putting Carlito and Evers in charge and they seem to sit a little straighter in their chairs when I made the announcement. They would make decisions collectively, take turns on their days off, and I would call in several times a week. I signed checks for the upcoming payrolls and left them with Martita at the bank. I set up a petty cash basket which Juana hides behind the cereal box for incidentals. Evers is taking driving lessons and so far, the truck has survived his enthusiasm. Don Roberto and Don Rafael, both farmers who rent land from us to grow corn, are also truck drivers. They have graciously volunteered to drive the truck for farm errands while I am gone. In return, they have an open invitation to Juana’s lunch and coffee whenever the mood strikes them. I take turns calling the men so as not to play favorites. Yesterday, I could hear Vigil in the background saying it was his turn to get the next call from the states.

Evers is halfway through completing the Broca traps and should make our goal of 500 by June. Carlito , Vigil, and Heraldo are digging 300 holes this week to plant our new Cuscatleco coffee trees. Juana’s kids have taken it upon themselves to watch over our Paulownia tree nursery under the watchful eye of their uncle Carlito.

 

Meanwhile, I am pursuing avenues to market our Tecapa Blue Coffee here in the states. It’s not as much fun and I miss the finca, but getting the word out is an important aspect of the finca’s future success. I am cold ALL the time! I took for granted that every day on the finca is one filled with sunshine and warmth. San Francisco, as many of you know, has a mind of its own when it comes to weather. To think I lived in Chicago for 15 years!

Sadly, it came to light that the driver and owner of the delivery truck that struck Don Beto are known to me. I had hoped they would offer some assistance to the family, even a few hundred dollars would make a substantial difference. The last I heard just prior to my leaving from several sources, is that the owner of the vehicle paid off the police to make it all go away and the family has been denied any help. The exact sum paid is not known, but all guesses suggest an amount of $1,000. The driver who we were told went to jail, never did, and is kept hidden away working on a distant finca.

It is a difficult pill for me to swallow being a part of this small community, yet still a foreigner when it comes to understanding, “how things are done.” The poor are afforded few rights, and their hardships quickly forgotten.

Circle of Friends

 All of us at La Finca would like to thank the many people who responded to Don Beto’s passing:

Connie Ormerod (Mama Concha)

Cara (humble-pie)

Mel Elliott

Sam Flowers

Duncan Proudfoot

Rob Larman

Jim Pinkevich

Don Seiple

Jon Ormerod

David (sunken-city)

Luigi

Carey Thornton

Mark Paschall

Steve Leighton

Linda Simi

Catherine Reuter-Lake

Bridgid Glass

Richard Glass

Richard Humphries

Laura Coffey

Bill Dugan

Tambopaxi

Lesley

Adam Johnson

Lenny Lind

Gary Speed

Gustavo Samayoa

Rafael Trigueros

Anna Fritch

Lester Smith

Santiago

Napo Sanchez

Pete Dracopolous

Nova Goldberg

Sr. Maldanado

Roberto Rosa

Debbie Stimmler

Doris Kranston

Humberto Medrano "Don Beto" 1950-2010

Life on the side of a volcano in rural El Salvador is not without its hazards and disappointments. We have experienced our share of scorpion bites, injuries, and illness. We have lost precious pets for reasons that at home, would be unacceptable. The coffee harvest suffered terribly this year from unusual weather, and the cacao was hit with a bout of black pod disease. Like anywhere in the world, you deal with your challenges.

But this past Monday, the 19th of April, left us stunned and heartbroken and we are still trying to find our way forward. It was a morning like any other. Carlito and Evers were busy in the new vivero filling bags with soil for the new coffee trees. Vigil, always a late starter, was finishing his tortillas and coffee while catching up on gossip with Juana. It was 7:10am and Beto had not shown up yet. When I asked after him, they all assumed he had missed the bus and would be here shortly. By 7:30, they were themselves wondering where he was when a white truck skidded up to front of the house. A man and a woman emerged asking for water. When I came out with two glasses, I immediately sensed something was wrong. Juana was crying and everyone was talking at once. They turned to me and told me that Beto had been hit by a truck on his way to work and did not survive.

It did not register in my mind. I kept thinking this was a good case of when the Spanish language floats beyond my comprehension. There must be a mistake, but my puzzled expression only evoked louder repetitions of the same statement. Beto was dead. The woman who I finally recognized as Beto’s partner, Senora Gladys, pleaded that they needed a coffin. The man accompanying her turned out to be from a funeral home and was offering me full funeral services, with candles and coffin included for $300. All eyes were pointed my way.

I went inside and called my cousin Gustavo for advice. He told me that I was not obligated to pay for the funeral, but they had done so on their own finca last year when they lost an employee. It was up to me. Gustavo said he would send his foreman, Olevidio over to make sure I had someone looking out for me. Carlito rushed in at that moment saying we needed to hurry as Beto was lying on the road and the police were waiting for us.

You don’t have much time to think under circumstances like this. But some heart driven ability kicks in enabling you to try your best. It took us only a few minutes to reach him. We came around a bend and there he was on our left, in a pool of blood. His body was ravaged by the impact of the truck, and we all gasped with fright. The police waved us to the side of the road, but would not let us near Beto until the health inspector arrived. Senora Gladys had thrown herself to the ground and was wailing hysterically while a crowd gathered.

When the inspector arrived, the police dragged Beto to the side of the road by his arms and legs. His head flopped over and suddenly he was staring at us with one side of his face missing. When the men let go of his arms and legs, they crumpled in distorted positions making it clear that his limbs were broken. I grabbed myself tight and let out a cry. Where was the dignity that should be afforded in such a tragic scene? Where was the ambulance with proper medics to cover him with a blanket and gently place him on a stretcher so they could whisk him away to examine him in privacy? We watched while the police took off his watch, removed his shoes and socks, counted the money in his wallet, and checked his cell phone for his last phone call (which happened to be to me). We believe he was trying to call me to tell me he was going to be late when the accident happened. The phone log said, "Nina Stephanie."

The police asked me if I had made my decision yet. No. I had barely come to realize this was all real. So Don Olevidio and I rushed into town to pick out the coffin and returned to the scene to take Beto home. Carlito, Vigil, Evers, and I picked Beto up and carried him to my truck. It was then that we realized his head was almost severed and Evers quickly threw a t-shirt over his face, but it was too late. His image was forever imprinted our minds. We could never forget.

I had never seen Don Beto’s home. I had always imagined a tidy home built of cinder blocks. He lived outside of town in a small canton a few miles from the finca. What I found was a shack of three rooms held together with corrugated tin. One imagines what is acceptable to us, never quite what is real. The men carried him into the house and laid him on a sponge mattress on the floor. The funeral director arrived a few minutes later and set up the coffin next to him. Evers volunteered to help change his clothes while Senora Gladys ironed a newly laundered shirt. I could have stayed in the room, but I decided it was too much, too many painful pictures already running through my mind. I did not want to see the rest of his body torn and bloodied. I needed to stay focused on the tasks at hand, and, yes, I was a little afraid.

While we waited, people began streaming up to the house. An unusual number of young men arrived, and I wondered if Beto had been a soccer coach on Sundays. When I asked Carlito and Vigil who they were, they told me they were Beto’s sons. After the fourth son was pointed out, I asked how many sons did Beto have. Carlito answered with twenty sons and six daughters. Vigil confirmed my amazed expression and noted this had been achieved with five or six women if he remembered correctly. I couldn’t quite believe them, but thought they certainly wouldn’t pick that moment for a tasteless joke. The following day, they were all in attendance at the burial with the exception of four that had passed away.

It occurred to me that Beto had never made of point of telling me this and I wondered if it was something he was proud of or embarrassed by. One should never be embarrassed by their children. They are a gift. But it begs the question of the responsibility to effectively raise so many children when you are poor. I noticed some of his offspring at the funeral seemed very detached and without tears. I wondered what kind of relationship they had had with their father, if any at all. I learned there was much squabbling amongst the clan and that they rarely speak to each other.

After Beto had been transferred to the coffin, we left the family to their wake which lasted through the night until the funeral procession the next morning. They invited us back that night, but we were emotionally spent. Early the next morning, the funeral director pulled up to the house to collect his payment which I had ready for him. We piled into the truck picking up more people from Tecapan and joined the procession following right behind the hearse. I say hearse, but it was an old pick-up truck fitted with a glass box on top of the truck bed that held the coffin inside. Attached to the sides were eight vases which people filled with flowers cut from the roadside. The truck had a speaker mounted to the top that played music announcing our presence as we passed from town to town. Our final destination was Beto’s birthplace, Santa Elena, forty-five minutes away. When we arrived in Santa Elena, we were a caravan of several vehicles and three large trucks brimming with people. We stopped in front of the church where everyone disembarked and thus began the one mile foot procession to the cemetery.

 

 Beto’s coffin was set on a cement platform just inside the cemetery gate so people could pay their last respects. The coffin had a window about 12 x 24 inches on the lid, with a similar sized door covering it. The family threw themselves on the glass in fits of hysteria. Senora Gladys who noticed I had my camera asked me to take his photo and then another with her standing next to him. It felt a little morbid to me, but it is a different culture and in the darkness of grief, she seemed to feel the need to hold on to every moment. I took the pictures. 

 

Some of the sons had dug the grave. There were no tidy carpets, shade tents, or flowers to hide the dirt. Just a deep dark hole with two ropes nearby. Six men lowered the coffin down, and the coffin bumped along the dirt walls. At one point, a corner became wedged and the lid started to open. I gasped and prayed. We saw a foot and then mercifully, the lid fell shut. Three men jumped in and took great pains to make sure the coffin sat at a straight angle. Above, the crowd issued directives. A little to the left, more to the right. Finally satisfied, the men took turns shoveling the dirt while the women tossed in personal effects and flowers. Someone had fashioned a cross with two pieces of wood and Beto’s name written in black marker. His youngest son pushed it in the earth and then fell to his knees in despair. I kept taking pictures, trying not to lose it myself.

 

It is Friday now and we are managing to remain strong. We are overly kind to each other and look for the slightest reason to smile. Evers slept soundly for the first time last night. I wasn’t aware that ever since Monday he had been suffering from nightmares. I bought him and everyone else sedatives at the pharmacy. I held a meeting today and told them that while Beto and I had some issues about his majordomo skills, he was a good man and we will all miss him terribly. I am leaving the finca for a month to promote Tecapa Blue Coffee, but promised we would hold a memorial for Beto when I returned. The men suggested we invite the families that farm land here as they too are in mourning. I added that perhaps we could get Don Jorge and his band of musicians to play some songs and Juana could cook up a big pot of her famous beans. They all became excited and I left them to their plans.

I used to tell Beto about this blog and the website for the coffee. I showed it to him several times and he always glowed when he saw his photo on my computer screen. I told him the whole world could see him. I don’t know if he ever completely understood the concept of the internet, but I think he thought it was pretty close to being on TV. He always left the room by saying, "Thanks be to God for our good future." Don Beto, you will always have a special place here on La Finca.

More Bottle Boys...

I can't help it. They are so eager and full of smiles to be earning a little money. Just had to add another photo.

Bottle Boys

The boys keep coming with their now valuable soda bottles for our Broca traps. See previous posting for full story!

Beetle Baiting

Hypothenemus hampei, otherwise known as the coffee boring beetle, or “Broca,” is a source of much concern for coffee farmers around the world. They are tiny black insects with a drill-like horn that enter young coffee beans. While they do not destroy a coffee cherry, and don't affect the flavor, they make for an unsightly hole-ridden bean. Throughout the history of coffee, infestation of the Broca has been so significant at times that farmers have literally abandoned their farms in frustration.

 
The female bores her hole, slips inside, and lays her eggs, up to 50 at a time. The larvae then feed from the coffee fruit until mature. Hundreds of Broca beetles can occupy a single tree. It is almost impossible to know if your crop has been affected until the coffee has been harvested, washed, and dried. The holes then become obvious and the beans must be discarded. A farmer may think a bumper crop is on the way, only to discover it is far less than he thought. Some farmers don't sort out these beans and then package them in their roasted, ground coffee. Once the beans are ground, the consumer cannot know the difference. 

I write all this as we too suffered from a Broca attack last year, on top of the hurricane (yes, it was a bad year indeed). While it was not significant, it got my attention. I remembered that we had several Broca traps that had been used periodically in years past. When I asked where they were, no one seemed to know. Evers came forward and said they had been thrown away in a hole. There were no explanations forthcoming as to why or when. I contained my anger and asked Evers to dig them up. He managed to produce 9 traps of the original 150 that were still in good shape. I can only imagine that Don Beto must have assumed we were cured forever of Broca attacks. This again doesn't bode well for his future, but that is for another day. 

Based on the acreage of our coffee, we actually need closer to 300 traps, and they are somewhat costly when you add the small bottles of pheromones that must be inserted into each trap. I contacted ProCafe, an organization that supports coffee growers in El Salvador. They suggested we make our own Broca traps from 2-liter soda bottles. They provided me with an instruction sheet with diagrams. This hit home as I am an advocate of recycling, a concept which barely exists here. Only soda cans and scrap metal are recycled now. Paper and plastic are casually thrown on the ground if a garbage receptacle is not nearby.  

I’ve written about the garbage problem before and how frustrating it is coming from the States, where you could be subject to $500 fines for throwing a gum wrapper out your car window. The small section of public road from town to the finca gates fills up quickly with rubbish -- everything from candy and chip wrappers, bottles, paper, and even shoes. We clean it ourselves every couple weeks as the mayor doesn’t seemed inclined to help out.

I showed the boys here the plans for the Broca traps and told them to put the word out that La Finca was collecting soda bottles. Two days went by and we collected four bottles. This wasn't working. I announced that bottles brought to the finca could be redeemed for a nickel each. Suddenly, we have had a flow of young boys marching up to the finca carrying large trash bags filled with empty 2-liter soda bottles! Good thing that I have a coin jar that is fairly full to pay these young entrepreneurs. At this rate, we should make our goal in time. We have 8 weeks to get the traps ready from the time the coffee trees bloom, which is right now!

 
The traps are fairly easy to construct. The soda bottles are cut in two with the top half inverted and pressed inside the bottom half. The pheromone bottle is set inside the lower half under the top portion, suspended over an inch of water. The units will need to be painted red to match the color of a coffee cherry and hung by wire every 20 meters. The Broca beetles, attracted by the red and then the pheromones, fly inside the bottle opening towards the bait, become trapped and drown in the water below. It is a far better method than using chemical pesticides to spray the fields. From what I have read, the chemicals used for this treatment are highly toxic requiring full jumpsuits, goggles, and gloves. Who does that? And who would want to drink their coffee?

As I write this, there are six more young boys at my door with bags of plastic bottles. Perhaps I can explain that besides earning their nickels, they are helping to clean up Tecapan. Change comes slowly here, but it begins with the young.

Tecapa Blue

 

Allow me to tip-toe back to my blog while no one is paying any attention, and pretend it hasn’t been 114 days since I last posted. I left off in the middle of coffee harvest back in December. What should have been a bumper crop took a turn for the worse, courtesy of Hurricane Ida. I thought we were immune from her destruction, but I was mistaken. The early rains of January, combined with the hurricane left us with less than half of our normal harvest.  

As the days of picking went by and I began to see the reality of what had occurred, it took all I had to keep going. I seriously contemplated hanging up my finca hat and heading back to California. As I wrangled with my decision, I called upon my cousin Licito for advice. He has grown coffee all his life and his father had employed Don Beto for a few years prior to my hiring him.  

Licito probed Don Beto with questions, and it soon became evident that Don Beto has been lax in his majordomo duties. It was an eye opener, reminding me how important it is to pay attention to every detail. While the poor harvest was more due to weather events, Don Beto’s negligence also played a part.  One devastating example, is how little shade pruning he did. Out of many acres of coffee that should have been pruned, he only completed four acres last year. The result was too much shade over the coffee, forcing the trees to become tall and leggy in an attempt to reach for the light.  

I had a meeting with Don Beto which was heated at times, both of us on the verge of severing our association. In the end, I gave him another chance, but things have changed a great deal. I doubt I will ever have complete confidence in him again and in all likelihood, there will be more changes down the road. 

As a result of these hardships, came a resurgence of commitment. I didn’t hang up my finca hat, as that would be a road I prefer not to travel. Instead, we decided to commit ourselves to working even harder this year through careful shade tending, planting 1,200 more trees, and building a nursery which will hold 8,000 baby trees starting next month.  

The coffee we harvested this past year was beautiful, and we have begun selling our coffee online in the states under the name of Tecapa Blue. The sales have gone well so far with the support of OUR FRIENDS of La Finca. It’s a mad scramble to de-husk, clean and sort, roast, bag, and then ship small quantities every month to San Francisco for our order fulfillment, but we are getting it done. I love the mornings when I drive back from the roaster with a carload of fresh roasted beans. The aroma is overpowering and the men are quite proud when they see the coffee in the shiny blue bags with our label. They find it hard to believe that it is traveling all the way to the United States. 

 

Am I pitching our coffee? You bet. There is a lot of love and hard work in this coffee. The boys weigh out hundred pound sacks that I take to the de-husker where Carmeno carries them up a ladder to drop them into a funnel. The machine gently shakes off the husk and the coffee is bagged and returned to the finca. Juana spends days hand sorting every bean to remove any defects. The coffee is then bagged again and driven to the roaster where Jacquin and I have detailed discussions about roasting temperatures. After roasting, the bags are sealed one by one on a hand operated sealer.  

Then comes the really fun part…..the red tape! I drive to the Coffee council to request my export papers (this is required for every shipment). Several documents are generated with official stamps to be taken to the Banco Reserva in order to acquire a Declaration of Goods. Next, I file a Prior Notice with the FDA, and reserve space on TACA air cargo. Once I present my shipment to TACA, it’s a four-step process with customs while they check and stamp your paperwork, release the drug-sniffing dog, and finally authorize your goods for shipping. I am handed my copy of my bill of lading, sigh with relief, and begin the two hour drive home. So all in all, $9.95 for a pound of coffee direct from our humble plantation is not such a bad deal! Give Tecapa Blue coffee a try...from Finca Los Angeles (Farm of the Angels).

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.