farm

August 19, 2010

farm: (n) a tract of land, usually with a house, barn, silo, etc., on which crops and often livestock are raised for livelihood.

Jake is a coffee farmer now, well kind of. He and 2 other families are co-owners of a coffee farm, or finca, in Pina Batel, a village just outside of La Union. While cleaning up my classroom to go home for the night, Andrea knocked on my door to pass along an invitation from Jake and Mr. Perdomo, our principal and one of Jakes co-owners, to visit the finca. I guess lesson planning will have to wait one more night. We made a trip home first to change out of our school clothes and into something more suitable for hiking through a coffee field. I of course slipped into my yellow rain boots, just to be safe.

The truck pulled up to a house up a hill from the "main" road. The house and shell of a coffee processing facility sat below the fields of coffee trees, which all came with the purchase of the finca. Jake gave us the grand tour beginning with a brief overview of how the processing of the coffee works then up the hill through the fields. I highly underestimated the size of this finca and the distance we would be hiking. Up through the first field full of green coffee cherries we spotted a few random red cherries here and there. When they are red, they are ripe and ready to pick. However, if they are red this early and the rest of the plant is not red, the bean is probably bad.



Continuing on our hike up a narrow path, over a stream, up a muddy slope, we reached a high point which offered a fantastic view of another part of the finca and a view of the approaching storm. Surprise surprise, another storm. It has literally rained every day since we arrived in La Union. The typical pattern is sun in the morning, early afternoon, and just about the time we need to walk home from school it rains, and rains for the rest of the night. Despite the threatening weather in the distance we continued our hike. We ducked under a giant tree which had fallen down or been cut down, I'm not really sure, and walked up another muddy path, another stream, some more coffee plants… Concluding in what was the most tropical looking coffee field I have ever seen.

Towering overhead were giant shade trees. The field sloped gently upward before disappearing into the thick, dark foliage. Jake told us that this is where the most work has been done, and has yet to be done. Because of the abundance of rain and the lack of maintenance before the finca was purchased, the coffee trees and other plants are completely overgrown. After the next harvest the coffee trees in this section will likely be cut down to the trunk. It will take about 2 or 3 years for them to grow back into producing trees again. Everything in me wanted to explore this upper section of the finca until the rain began. Thunder was mumbling in the distance and the air was foggy. Surely the cloud was descending down the mountain, time to go.

There was no escaping the rain, but we wondered what our chances were of being struck by lightning as it shot through sky around us. We slid down the muddy slopes of the mountain and finally reached our starting point. Taking shelter in the coffee processing, I'm not even sure what to call it, shed? Anyway Mr. Perdomo, who had disappeared at some point along our journey, rendezvoused with us there. I inquired again about how the coffee process works. The cherries are picked from the tree when the field is full of red cherries. They are dumped into the first tank where a machine de-pulps the cherry and spits out the seed. The seed is then sent to a second tank for washing. It spends a significant amount of time being washed then travels down a canal looking thing to another tank. All of this is being explained to me in Spanish, a language I have significantly improved in but have yet to master. So I have no idea what happens at the last tank, but afterwards the coffee is spread out on a concrete patio to dry in the sun. Here, in La Union, most coffee is roasted over a fire. Somewhere in town, so I am told, there is an actual roaster which I am very interested in seeing. Conversation continued on in Spanish. Of the 4 of us, Jake, Andrea, Mr. Perdomo and me, I speak the least amount of Spanish. I stopped trying to translate in my head and wondered around taking pictures.

"Le gusta café?" Mr. Perdomo asked if I like coffee. Of course I like coffee. I had yet to have coffee in Honduras. I have only been having coffee as a special occasion treat since my days in architecture school where coffee flowed thicker than my own blood through my veins. Soaking wet we jumped into the truck and drove back down the mountain into La Union. My yellow rain boots were covered in mud and still Mr. Perdomo insisted that I leave them on as I walked into his house. I can't imagine tracking this much mud into my house in the states, I would be scrubbing carpet for the rest of my life. Here in Honduras though houses either have a tile, cement or mud floor, and the only time you remove your shoes is for a shower or to sleep. His wife served us coffee and cookies around the dining room table. The coffee was from the coffee compound that Mr. Perdomo owns just outside of La Union. Before we could pour a second cup it was time for Andrea and me to return home for dinner. We were gifted a bag of coffee for our house before we said our goodbye and walked home in the rain.