... so i travelled around the nether-regions of Guatemala seeing what this 'Fair Trade Organic' coffee-growing is all about, it was awesome and confronting ...
Los Diarios de Guatemala by Dan Wilcox.
Earlier this
year, a group of passionate coffee geeks assembled for a truly fantastic voyage
to the verdant lands of Guatemala .
The story goes a
little something like this…
Monday January 28th, Un Viaje Bueno:
I roll into the Wellington travel doctor
for the last of a rather painful series of jabs, these should hopefully protect
me from rabies, hepatitis and a few other gnarly candidates for potential
ruining of trip. I make sure to stock up
on emergency supplies; malaria pills, diarrhoea pills, sleeping bag liner,
money belt, padlock and the mandatory insect repellent. I am now G.I. Joe;
fully equipped with a survival pack and kung-fu chop arm-swinging action.
Incidentally, none of these will come in handy whatsoever.
I get my American
dollars and head to the airport for the first leg of my journey, stopping for a
quick dip in Lyall Bay beforehand as I have not had a chance to shower in 3
days (being smelly at the beginning of a journey is a bad bad thing, this will
only increase astronomically as the ensuing days of transit take their toll on
personal hygiene).
I board my flight
to Auckland
without a hitch, other than the fact that my shorts are still soaking wet.
In Auckland , I meet my travel companions; Justin Purser
(representative of Trade Aid and the organiser of our journey), Guy
Griffith-Jones (owner and roaster at Christchurch ’s
C4 Coffee), Liv Doogue and Rene Macauley (Manager and Roaster respectively at
Peoples Coffee). I was going to get to know these people very closely so I
decided to keep my mildly offensive humour withheld in case I needed them to
stretcher me through the jungle at a later date.
Monday January 28th, (again) Transit:
Most of this day
is spent traversing the air space between Auckland and Los Angeles, thankfully
it is still Tuesday by the time we reach LAX due to crossing the time line (it
is here that disorientation begins to take place, I am beginning to feel like
Alice as she falls down the rabbit hole or perhaps Dorothy as she finds herself
plonked at the other end of the rainbow).
Since we have a
few hours to kill before our next flight, we decide to hit up some fine
espresso at Intelligentsia Café on Abbott-Kinney a couple of blocks back from Venice Beach
The joint is
sprawling with hipsters engulfed in Facebook updates and Twitter feeds on their
stock-standard MacBook Pro’s. I observe as they hurriedly Instagram their
coffees and snacks; I’m sure that the world is dying to know what the
painted-on pants bourgeoisie are lining their stomachs with. A horde of
fixed-gear bicycles sit chained outside in an area well-known for thieving
hobos.
Speaking of
joints; there is a shop across the road called the Green House Smoke Shop. They
sell a dazzling array of colourful glass pipes and other wacky paraphernalia
associated with California ’s
relatively recent medical marijuana phenomenon. I enter the shop and discuss
the culture of dodgy doctors-turned-peddlers and the resulting statistics of
liberal drug legislation around the world. A disturbing image of cuddling up to
tough guys and gangsters in a small concrete cell flashes across my mind and I
decide not to venture any further into this bizarre world. I’m already quite
disoriented enough and the trip has only just begun.
We eat at a nice
restaurant across the road, sampling a wide array of mouth-watering delicacies
before ambling our way down to Venice Beach
As it was after
dark on a Tuesday night, Venice Beach Guatemala , by comparison the
Guatemalan government make JFK and his cronies look like saints.
We caught a
shuttle back to the airport and were confronted by yet another craziness:
American airport security and customs. If the “land of the free” were a body,
then it bears the mind of a bi-polar hypochondriac. Perhaps not without reason though. With its
incredibly lax gun control laws and the right to bear arms, America is
infested with a plague of amateur soldiers with no weaponry skills and no
common enemy. Upon discovery of an object strapped to the side of my chest, I
was invited to a private cell to undress down to my underpants. When they
discovered it was a money belt containing no explosives, they asked me a few
questions and thankfully I was not probed any further.
Tuesday January 29th, Touchdown:
After a 12 hour
flight to Los Angeles and a 5 hour flight to San Salvador , I am
starting to feel an intense sleep-deprivation-induced surrealism creeping over
me. Due to my exceptional height and my tendency towards over-excitedness, I
have not slept a wink.
Walking through
the San
Salvador Airport Alice at the Tea Party.
Upon the brash
realisation that I am an ethnic minority, I quickly whip out an old copy of a
Latin-American phrasebook and inquire “Don-day ay-stah lah sir-vee-see-oh?” …This
is met by blank looks. I point to my nether regions and wrinkle up my face.
“Oh!” they say, “El bano!” …Thankfully
this is neither an insult nor a command to strip-search me. I am guided to the
toilets and begin to re-consider buying an out-dated translation book from a dusty
Wellington second-hand
store.
Our trip to San Salvador is brief
with only a 3 hour stopover. This greatly disappoints an avid surfer like me
due to the fact that this country is a mecca for prime waves, warm water and
gorgeous tanned women with cute accents. My quest for a wife and waves will
have to wait until later; I am here in search of coffee after all…
The flight to Guatemala City is so
short that it seems the wheels had barely left the tarmac by the time we are
lined up in Guatemalan customs. There are no questions asked, no bags searched,
my passport is hurriedly stamped and I am an official visitor to Guatemala . This
rushed transaction is initially alarming until I remember that Guatemala is
generally an exit, not a point of entry. Mexican and Colombian drug cartels use
this country as a land-based corridor between markets. There is no comparative
market for drugs here in Guatemala
because the people here have no money to buy cocaine, heroin or marijuana. The
majority of citizens barely and rarely have enough money to feed their family.
Nonetheless, we roll our way safely through the winding maze of hills decked with billboards showing wealthy smiling gringos and politicians sporting paper-thin grins towards the ancient and breath-taking beauty of Antigua.
Antigua:
Antigua was the
capital city of Guatemala until 1773 when the great Santa Marta quakes brought
much of the stone-built city to rubble. It is a quaint little city where
advertising is outlawed and you will be surprised as you peer into one of the
little stone villas to see the familiar golden arches of a stock-standard
McDonalds franchise hidden within. The impressive Volcan De Agua towers over the city providing a spectacular
backdrop to the cobblestone-paved arena of bustling street vendors and
wide-eyed tourists.
Antigua is a
tourist hotspot. Three separate children approach me within half an hour
offering ganja. Old women decked in traditional Mayan garb are peddling their
woven wares on every street corner. Despite their persistence I am a relatively
seasoned traveller and avoid any eye contact with them and refrain from
offering any suggestion of interest. However, our travelling partner Guy is too
polite, he is followed around for nearly an hour by an old woman that we refer
to as ‘his girlfriend’ from here on.
Wednesday January 30th, The Long and Winding Road:
After what will
be my only 8 hour sleep in this country, we head back into Guatemala City and
catch a bus to Coban. The road seems to wind infinitely upwards and soon I am
pretty certain that I will be able to see New Zealand from wherever we are
heading. Coban is a bustling place full of beeping cars, trucks, horses and
guys dressed as cowboys with gold teeth. For some reason, the dental service is
incredibly cheap in Guatemala and there is a strange industry for dental
tourism here. However, it seems that no-one here brushes their teeth, perhaps
in anticipation of sporting a shiny pair of grills like characters from some impoverished
version of an American rap music video.We eat at a
restaurant that serves a few reasonably exotic meals and I leap towards the
ever-indigenous choice of maize tortillas, black beans, rice and chicken. This
is a crucial error. Although I savour this meal as some exotic and wild
culinary experience, this same concoction will serve as breakfast, lunch and
dinner for most of the remainder of my journey.
Nestled in the
comfort of a relatively fancy hotel (i.e. running water, soap, towels, glass
windows), I am serenaded throughout the night by truck engines, car horns,
random sequential explosions, dogs barking, mucho screaming en Española and finally an almighty
cacophony of roosters. This is the desensitising lullaby that will ensure
awakening in a zombie-like state night after night etc.
Thursday January 31st, La
Cosecha (The Harvest):
My roommate Rene
and I awake as fresh as a pair of two-week-old turds and stumble out of our
hotel into the dark street where we met the others.
Two 4WD utes pull
up outside to whisk us away to our destination (when I say ‘whisk’, I mean
crawl at a pace of 30kmph in the wrong lane most of the time). The sun has not
yet fully risen and through the broken windshield I can only see the occasional
glare of fluorescent lights advertising Gallo
(pronounced guy-yo), the local cerveza.
As light creeps over the towering mountains and into the valleys surrounding
us, I can make out shapes of shanties containing the most ghetto housing I have
ever seen. What lies before me are villages of half-built homes without
windows. Old people with machetes strapped to their waists walk the filthy
litter-laden streets (there is no money for rubbish or recycling services)
carrying sacks of wood or local produce that equal their own body weight.
Children walk these dusty dirt roads alongside their fathers toward the
plantations where they will spend the day hacking, picking and packing their
way to a paltry pay packet in order to secure a meagre meal of black beans.
I later learned
of a family so poor that even black beans were unaffordable: ‘We had a bad drought once that meant for two years we
essentially didn’t have any food as we just couldn’t grow any. My father went
and found sorghum seeds that are not meant for human consumption – they’re used
to grow a kind of sorghum used for making brooms. Mum would cook them, and
would give us children one tortilla each. We’d put salt on it, and eat it, and
that would be our food for the day. For two years we starved, and then after
the rains came back and we finally got a good bean harvest again we got sick
from eating beans because our stomachs had shrunk so much’. - Adolfo Armando
Velasquez.
After what seems like an eternity, we pull up on the side of
a road to stretch our legs and have something to eat. Our guide Marvin Lopez
Garcia (manager of APODIP coffee co-operative) explains to us that this very
place was named ‘Devils Corner’; because the turn in the road was so sharp,
thieves used to use this spot as a place to come down and extort money from the
locals. Countless people were murdered here. This was hair-raising to say the
least, but we later came to learn that blood was shed on many of the paths that
we would walk throughout our journey.
Anyway, breakfast: The first course is me, I had totally
forgotten my insect repellent and I could hear my expensive malaria pills
taunting me from my hotel that lay somewhere far in the distance. I begin to
mentally prepare myself for nights of cold sweats and violent dysentery; on the
outside I am cool about it, but on the inside I am a crumbling heap of cry.
Further
down this rambling road to nowhere, I begin to smell the toxic fumes of burning
rubbish. We pass through small villages where people are burning these fires
inside their rudimentary homes. The walls and ceilings are lined with thick
carbon remnants. There is no power in many of these areas so fire is your
friend when you need sanitary water, food or warmth.
A
young local lad jumps on the back of the ute and we begin the arduous climb up
the perilous slopes that lead to the source of our interest: Fair Trade Organic
Specialty Coffee.
Finally,
after hours of traversing ass-numbing mountainous stretches of plantations
housing corn, sugar cane, cardamom and rubber trees, we arrive at the end of
the road. We are welcomed by dozens of wide-open eyes staring in disbelief at
this travelling circus of hairless white yetis. A makeshift soccer pitch (Futbol is everywhere; although the
Guatemalan national team rarely achieve much at an international level, people
are mad about the game. Real Madrid and Barcelona seem to be the favourites
here... Even Churches have their own soccer fields) is covered in a gigantic
black tarpaulin, upon the tarpaulin lies thousands upon thousands of drying
coffee beans in pergamino (still in
the husk that acts as a protective layer for the bean).
As an avid coffee
fanatic, this is an almost religious experience, it is as though I had first
laid eyes upon the Shroud of Turin – something I had seen in photos but had
never witnessed personally. After a few awkward greetings with the locals (even
my pitiful command of Española was
worthless here as the locals only spoke an indigenous Mayan dialect named Q’eqchi’), I make like a true tourist
and snap photos of this site from every angle. From the handmade coffee rake to
the intricately handmade fabric of the women’s clothing, everything is new and
exciting and begs to be captured on film.
People
are generally pretty sketchy about gringos taking their photo in Guatemala. I
guess that (as in any other country) it is polite to ask first. Just because
they’re tiny and sound funny, it doesn’t mean that they’re animals. I used my
time in Guatemala to master drive-by shootings, strictly photographically
speaking that is…
La Primera Plantacion:
We are
lead up the hill through the lush forest to a plantation belonging to a farmer
named Don Mateo Juc. Mateo is getting
old and has a machete that nearly equals his height. Despite his age, he nimbly
darts through the scrub up the nearly-vertical hillside and returns with a
handful of the first Guatemalan coffee cherries I was to see. They are varied
in size and he explains that there are between six and seven varieties of
Arabica that are grown on this small plot of land. These range from Maragogype
cherries that are twice as big as any others to the tiny rotund Peaberry
cherries (known locally as Caracol or
snail-shell).
Mateo
explains the lengthy and difficult process of growing certified Organic coffee:
There are so many tasks to be completed and so many obstacles to overcome.
In
order to become a certified organic coffee farmer, Mateo and others like him
have to strip the entire land back to free it of inorganic material. You can imagine
how much effort it takes for an impoverished highland farmer to clear the land
of trees etc. without the use of expensive machinery or chemicals.
After
clearing, organically certified seedlings must be nurtured in an organically
certified site and planted here. These will take three years to grow before any
fruit will be harvested. Anything that is used to treat these plants must be
organic; the pulp from the cherries is mixed with other organic materials to
act as fertiliser, the plants and weeds surrounding the coffee trees must be
cut by hand. Mateo also hangs
small bottles of un-distilled alcohol on the coffee trees; this attracts and
subsequently kills broca, a bug that
can seriously ravage coffee cherries. Using native plants such as banana, cardamom
and plantain help to create natural barriers; these provide further
fertilisation and aid in combatting erosion.
The
farmers must undertake programs of sustainable growth; these include practices
that prevent erosion, soil nutrition deficiency and involve regular crop
rotation. These are just some of the issues surrounding the organic farming
process.
In a
land that is rife with illiteracy, it is tremendously difficult for many
farmers to maintain the self-auditing that is required and fill out the certification
forms for their crops. Here, schooling is only provided in the youngest years
of a child’s life. It is costly to send a child to primary, secondary or
tertiary educational institution. Amongst the troubles one must face in
everyday life such as poverty, illness and travel expenses, one can seldom
afford education when they are faced with the very real threats of starvation,
disability or death.
This
is one of the extremely grim dilemmas facing farming communities in
‘developing’ countries around the world. The truth is that the farmers do not
want their children to work on the coffee farms when they grow up. Their desire
is for their children to find work in a more sustainable industry. Coffee
farming is too much hard work; it is too dependent upon factors over which they
have no control; stock markets, climate change, consumer demand and roya (a viral coffee-rust that is
decimating coffee plantations worldwide). Retirement is not an option in these
areas where one must fight with life and limb in order to survive. In order to
escape this lifestyle, one must become educated in order to find other
occupations. This is just not possible in much of this country.
Although
organically-grown coffee still pays a premium 25% greater than conventional
coffee, this is not enough to cover the added costs involved in its production.
So I ask Don Mateo why he bothers
with it, to which he replies that it is an ecologically ethical choice. His is
a sentiment echoed by the other communities I would come to visit. This strikes
me deeply as being an incredibly altruistic pursuit. In spite of the multiple
grave dangers that bear down upon these people, they are not going to risk the
wellbeing of future generations for immediate comfort.
Guaya’b:
- It
is here that I must note an important principle among the Mayan people; that of
Guaya’b. Guaya’b is a way of life where one does not exist independently of
their community. It is the spirit of giving. If one farmer has a bumper harvest
of plantain, they will give their excess crop to a neighbour that needs
plantain. In this way, when a community is centred on the premise of giving
away excess, one is constantly receiving ones needs. This is how these people
survive in such harsh conditions, it is a treasure in which they are rich in
comparison to western society and a belief that I and many others see as being
an ultimate truth, an irreversible law of the land.
Anyway…
After
a couple of hours of generous conversation with Don Mateo via our lovely translator
Jenny, we are guided to Mateo’s house where we are shown their solar-dryer
where they dry the beans once they have been de-pulped.
Don Mateo’s wife
emerged from their house wearing what looks like a quarantine suit whilst
carrying what looks like a watering-can with smoke billowing out.
Because the
income from coffee is so fickle, Mateo’s wife produces miel (honey) to offset the risks involved. There are many factors
that can lead to a low income from coffee; these include climate change, roya (coffee leaf rust), broca (an insect that eats coffee
cherries), theft, extortion, ill heath, and low market prices and so on.
After
exchanging greetings with the local turkeys, pigs and super-skinny chickens, we
are invited to join some of the farmers in a meal of pollo (chicken) and chayohtli (a type of squash) soup served alongside some cacao
y azucar (a very watery brew of home-grown cocoa and sugar) and the
ever-present mais tortillas. Despite the fact that there is VERY little flesh
on the chicken and that the brew is rather lacking in flavour, their kind
offerings are accepted with much gratitude from us hungry gringos. Considering
that everything in front of us is grown and prepared on site and with such
meagre resources, this meal is incredibly heart-warming and I am overcome by
the generosity of our humble hosts.
We are invited to the main community hall where the entire
village is gathered to hear what we have to say and to voice their concerns.
They are all amazed by the fact we have travelled so far to
visit them and are very grateful for our support. We explain why we’re there,
offer our gratitude for their services and pledge our on-going support for
their work. As much as this pleases them, there seems to be something of an
uncomfortable air that hangs over our hosts. Finally, a farmer poses a question
which leaves me rather stuck for a reply; “Why is it that we work so much
harder every year to grow better coffee but despite our efforts, the price that
we are offered for our coffee has fallen?”
- It is not easy to explain with any sense of justice that
their pay is dependent upon a bunch of white-collar workers on Wall Street. Nor
can we offer any advice of how to better this situation.
Unfortunately the visit of the travelling gringos brings no
immediate solution to their worries but we are all happy nonetheless. I play
some futbol with the local chico’s and make the entire community laugh
hysterically as I score a goal and run around the field with my shirt folded
over my head.
Now that I’ve beaten the local lads at their own game and
eaten their food, my job is done; it is time to leave. A mother carrying a
small infant clambers onto the dusty back of our ute as we start the engine. I
decide to offer my seat to the pair and mount the carriage for our long and
arduous trip home. There is certainly no better way to enjoy the sights and
smells of such a beautiful country than to be standing high on the cab of a ute
as it speeds through the delightfully fragrant fields of coconuts, sugar,
cardamom and corn.
We continue on
our merry way back down the treacherous mountain slopes towards Coban. Every
vehicle on these roads is packed with as many people as can possibly fit, some
hanging from the side or sitting on the roof. I kinda feel like one of the
locals riding in this style…
- It is here that
I must note that I am 6’3” and most of the citizens of Guatemala (especially
the predominant Mayans) stand about 4’0” so it is quite a spectacle for the
smaller communities to witness a giant dusty gringo riding atop a truck.
APODIP:
Before we arrive
back at our hotel, we stop at the APODIP (Asociacion
de Productores Organicos para el Desarollos Integral de Polochic) Coffee
Co-op headquarters in La Tinta where a new meeting house has been built with
the assistance of Trade Aid New Zealand. Trade Aid supports these farming
communities by assisting to secure grants whereby they can build greatly-needed
storehouses, meeting rooms or purchase tools such as de-pulpers or roasters
which can greatly increase their output and fetch better prices for their
coffee.
Justin and Rene
had been here a few years ago at the onset of this building project and because
they have returned, the co-op manager Marvin Lopez Garcia decides that it is
time for the official unveiling. Although the builders are still banging nails
into the structure, it is a heart-warming moment to see how the efforts of just
a few humble Kiwis can so greatly benefit such a large number of impoverished
people.
I arrive back at the hotel absolutely covered in dust with a
smile half a foot wide.
Friday February 1st,
Chikaq:
The following day
we visit the Chikaq community (also members of APODIP) where we are introduced
to some of the amazing women at the forefront of coffee processing in this
area. Here they de-pulp their coffee and dry it in a solar dryer, thus
demanding a much better price for the beans as they have already been
processed. We also meet one of the infamous coyotes,
these are cowboy coffee-buyers who set up camp in villages during the harvest
and buy any coffee they can get their hands on for whatever price they choose.
This guy does not want his photo taken at all. They are often disliked in these
communities for their pitiful offerings in exchange for coffee but some farmers
need money immediately and the coyotes
are the only ones able to provide this in many circumstances. Most of the
coffee bought by the coyotes is of
poor quality and is often sold to the larger coffee corporations for a
pittance.
The coyotes are very unhappy with the
increasing presence of coffee co-ops such as APODIP, mainly because the co-ops
are assisting farmers to produce a better crop and thereby demanding higher
prices where the coyotes used to have
free reign and could charge as little as they wanted for coffee of any
standard. The communities are generally welcoming towards co-ops because of the
support and growth opportunities provided.
The lovely Chikaq women serve us with a delicious
meal of mais (maize), pollo (chicken) and carne de res (beef)
alongside the ever-present tortilla.
It is rather funny when they bring out a bottle of Ron Botran (local rum) for the gringos at lunchtime, they must have
known that Guy was with us.
One of the locals
I meet has been practising his English and me my Española during this visit. He is a great chap with gold teeth and
a wicked smile so I give him a Caffe L’affare t-shirt and take a quick photo
before I have to jump back in the truck.
Our driver is beeping at me to hurry
up so I shake the guys hand, thank the women and gesture to shake the hand of
the community president when my nostrils suddenly explode with a torrent of
blood! Everyone screams. I shake the hand of el presidente and run to the truck… Talk about a dramatic exit.
From here we head
to Guatemala City and enjoy the creature comforts of Western cuisine a la crepes at a strangely upmarket
restaurant named Saul, named after Guatemalan fashion guru and entrepreneur
Saul E. Mendez who owns the franchise. It is AMAZING to eat clean, expensive
food. I am feeling unashamedly rich at this moment.
Saturday February 2nd, La
Ciudad:
We are welcomed at the door by a bunch of slick-haired twenty-something
males. We walk into the room full of more slick-haired males and two gorgeous
girls dancing on tables in rather skimpy attire. They are the only women
present and they are the only ones dancing. One of the men approaches Rene and
informs him that one of the young ladies wants to dance with him. Rene is a
happily married man but has no wedding ring, I however, am single, yet I am
wearing a ring on my wedding finger for some reason (this is the explanation I
have given myself to explain why he was asked to dance instead of me). Rene is
not at all keen but I use my size advantage to force him to do so. The young
lady does not look like she has any interest in Rene whatsoever (I assume that
she is a prostitute) and poor Rene dances like a red, sweaty statue. Needless
to say, as soon as this insanely awkward yet delightfully entertaining
spectacle is over, we gap it faster than Speedy Gonzales. Andale, andale. Hilarious.
Sunday February 3rd - Wednesday
February 6th, Jacaltenango:
From Xela we begin
the long drive to Jacaltenango, a small community nestled high up in the hills.
We choose to stop for refreshments at the village closest to the Mexican border
because it is the last chance before climbing hours into the hills. When we
disembark from the vehicle to stretch our legs, the whole village stops what
they’re doing and stares at us muttering under their breath. I have seldom felt
so uncomfortable. This is the main stop on the drug-trafficking highway and it
is quickly decided to move on while all of our limbs are intact.
When we arrive in
Jacaltenango, there is some sort of travelling fiesta where the quiet town is
transformed into a bustling marketplace full of imitation brand-label wares,
fly-infested street food and the most annoyingly noisy children toys.
We sleep very
little during our three nights here due to the on-going festivities, the local
penchant for horn-blowing at ungodly hours and the standard pre-dawn chorus of
dogs and roosters.
Jacaltenango is
the base for a coffee and honey co-operative named Guaya’b.
They are more
advanced than APODIP in that they have both honey and coffee processing plants
and warehouses that are open to all of the co-op members for use. We visit the
coffee warehouse where all of the coffee is stored throughout the harvest
season. Outside, there are de-pulping machines, wet-mills, water runs, a large
traditional concrete sun-drying patio being constantly raked and a large wood
fire-heated rotation dryer adjacent to the warehouse. The benefit of a rotation
dryer is that coffee can be dried even when it is raining and it is
comparatively low in labour demands. The set-backs are that the coffee is dried
more quickly than patio-drying, this results in a slightly poorer tasting
coffee. However, because Guaya’b has
332 producers all wanting to use these amenities, there is no leeway for
perfectionist attitudes, these people are struggling to make ends meet and a
fine line is walked between providing specialty-quality coffee and providing
for the needs of the co-op members.
The Guaya’b co-op manager Lucas Silvestre
Garcia takes us to visit some beautiful coffee plantations and some that are
severely affected by roya. Roya has been present in the Americas
for at least two decades. The farmers found ways to combat the leaf rust but a
new strain has decimated the plantations. Next year’s crop will yield less than
fifty to seventy percent of the current year’s total. This is a continual trend
that is rapidly worsening due to climate change. No-one knows how to
successfully overcome the issues presented by roya and it is spreading rapidly, especially around coastal areas.
Not only is this presenting a formidable challenge to coffee producers but it
has and will continue to adversely affect the price of coffee worldwide. All of
the farmers I speak to say that they do not want their children to farm coffee,
it is too labour-intensive and with very little recompense.
Coffee is a
beverage that is highly romanticized and doted upon around the globe. It is
seen as a daily essential for wealthy westerners and it is steeped in ritual.
Here in Guatemala, it is an ingrained way of life, a profession that is passed
down from one generation to the next. However, behind the rich aroma and
complex flavours lies a grim prospect: Coffee farmers are desperate for their
children to seek other professions. The intensive labour and low reward is
seldom enough to cover the bare essentials for wellbeing. Education is a luxury
that is seldom affordable, there are numerous deaths resulting from
easily-curable health issues and the future is not looking bright with the
looming prospect of climate change threatening to wipe out entire coffee
plantations.
On Tuesday
afternoon, we roast some of the coffees that we have collected in a small 100gm
Probat sample roaster.. We are keen to taste the fruits of the local labour but
we find ourselves set back by the fact that there is no kettle on the premises.
Thankfully, Guy and Rene take it upon themselves to purchase a kettle and we
run a small cupping session with the Guaya’b
staff members.
After the cupping
session, we are invited to visit an elderly couple as they demonstrate the work
involved in processing 60kg of coffee cherries through an old hand-powered
de-pulper. Being a somewhat generous and fit young man, I offer to assist in
the long and arduous process of vigorously cranking the handle and
ever-so-slowly de-pulping the cherries.
While all of this
is going on, the elderly couple’s family members approach us offering to sell
something-or-other. I’m rather pre-occupied with my task and ignore the offer.
After totally exhausting my arms and returning to the vehicle en route to
dinner, I am shown the items that were sold to one of our group members:
There lay a large
greenstone adze and an intricately-carved bone statue. These had been excavated
from the temple of this family’s ancestors. Although “genuine artefacts” are
sold throughout Guatemala, these are indeed genuine. The father of the family
had lost his job and the family had no food or money. Driven by desperation,
these ancient priceless heirlooms were sold for a paltry NZ$150.00. This
affects me deeply and tears pour from my eyes uncontrollably.
El Camino a Barillas:
We leave
Jacaltenango with dwindling energy reserves and begin our journey towards the
municipality of Santa Cruz Barillas in Huehuetenango. Through prior research, we
learned that the Government of Guatemala had recently paved the road all the
way through. This is not the case as it turns out. This stretch of road had
been plagued with landslides, slips and generally poor maintenance making it a
treacherous and sometimes impassable thoroughfare. Sadly, nothing has changed.
What was expected to be a three hour journey becomes ten hours of gruelling
gut-wrenching potholes and bypasses. What happened? Why was it officially
stated that the road had been paved?!
… Apparently the
government body that won the previous election had demanded that the
inhabitants of this stretch of land should vote for them. When they refused to
do so, the government paid all of the contractors the sum of money that had
been allocated for this task and sent them home without so much as fixing one
pothole.
Along this route
we see some breath-taking scenery. We are also stopped several times by young
boys standing in the middle of the road with shovels. They had been filling the
innumerable potholes with rocks and would try to stop vehicles in order to ask
for a quetzale or two in exchange for
their work. Some vehicles would stop, others would not. I often wondered if the
all-too-common makeshift graves that scattered the roadsides were the unceremonious
reminders of boys filling the gaps left by their government.
Once we arrive in
Barillas, we all promptly develop a wonderful strain of stomach upset (except
for Justin, who has developed an immune system to rival Wolverine from The
X-Men). At one point I take four indigestion pills and drink a glass of water.
Five minutes later, I deposit four indigestion pills and a glass of water into el bano. The roosters and dogs and evangelists
all vocally celebrate our arrival throughout the night.
Thursday February 7th, Fatiga:
I rise from my
fleeting slumber feeling as limber as a log and lump myself
into the back of the truck for another journey into the unknown. We traverse
the most amazing countryside until we arrive in some strange jungle-clad
village. I am totally exhausted by this point. My eyes can hardly open. My
limbs are weak and my writing is barely legible.
More farms. More
farmers. More coffee plants. More roya.
More poverty. More stomach-turning. More corruption. A beautiful bridge stands
proudly over the glorious Rio Yula San
Juan stretching almost to the
other side of the river, almost. As
we plod precariously over the handmade swing bridge that hangs above the rapids
of this mighty river we are told that this bridge has suffered the same fate as
the road from Jacaltenango. The contractors were paid and sent home before the
last two metres of bridge were connected… All of this just to spite the locals
that did not vote for the current political pirates in power.
I feel like I’ve
seen enough. I am wiped out. However, we drive to the house of a farmer named
Mario whose coffee mill had been paid for by Oxfam, this is slightly
heartening. He also has a pool filled with live fish which provides food for
his family throughout the year. This is also slightly heartening. Then comes a
bizarre moment: Mario and his farmer friends ask what we do with the coffee
once we’ve bought it…
“Well,” I say “we
roast it.”
“And then what do
you do with it?” he replies (in his local dialect Cuanjobal of course).
“Hmmm, mainly
Chemex, V60, espresso, then a few other non-pressurized brew methods are
developing” says Rene the roaster from Peoples Coffee.
“Are these recipes
to cook the coffee?” asks Mario.
… It is now that
the penny drops. These people have never tasted coffee. They have no idea what we do with the coffee.
They cannot comprehend the fact that we spend an entire Guatemalan coffee
farmer’s daily wage on a cup of coffee several times a day.
We have no idea
that each coffee we drink uses all of the beans grown from one coffee tree.
On the way out of
this lovely little place, I decide to go for a swim in the crystal-clear and
amazingly picturesque river. I remember something about the Guatemalan Penis
Fish, a fish that swims up your urethra and gives birth to offspring that eat
you from the inside. I had been told to wear a condom if I went swimming in
fresh water. Oh well, it is REALLY refreshing and beautiful while it lasts.
Luckily I return
to Barillas without any aquatic life invading my nether regions and I retire to
my bed for another broken night’s sleep.
Friday February 8th, Café
con Manos de Mujer:
We make our final
plantation visit, this time thankfully not so far from Barillas. I am
absolutely and utterly wiped out by this stage. The day brings more tales of
hope and despair in equal measure:
We meet several
women who grow and harvest coffee for Café
con Manos de Mujer (Coffee grown by the hands of women). This is an
enterprise run by ASOBAGRI that consists solely of women who are often widowed,
abandoned or abused. In a place with very few women’s rights and no official
welfare system, Café con Manos de Mujer sells
coffee on behalf of the women who plant, grow, nourish, harvest and process
their coffee.
One of the women
we meet, Sebastiana Martinez, had lost her partner when he was swept away
whilst carrying a sack of coffee through a flooding river. She has eight
children and is roughly a ripe old age of thirty. A typical day consists of
waking at 5am to milk the cows, grinding the corn to make tortillas, feeding
her children, sending them to early childhood school (early education is free
but becomes unaffordable thereafter), watering the seedlings in the nursery,
picking coffee cherries, sorting and processing the cherries, preparing dinner,
feeding the children, cleaning and mending their clothes, picking the corn,
drying the corn, filling in the organic certification audit forms and perhaps
getting a few hours’ sleep if the family is healthy.
Politica de Tierra Quemada:
Guatemala has been plagued by political unrest and uprising.
It is import to mention the 36 year civil war as this was hugely transformative
in the country:
- “In 1944, the "October Revolutionaries" took
control of the government. They instituted liberal economic
reform, benefiting and politically strengthening the civil and labour rights of
the urban working class and the peasants. Elsewhere, a
group of leftist students,
professionals, and liberal-democratic government coalitions were led by Juan José Arévalo and Jacobo Arbenz Guzmán. Decree 900,
passed in 1952, ordered the redistribution of fallow land on large
estates—threatening the interests of the landowning elite.
As a consequence, the U.S. government ordered the Central Intelligence Agency to
launch Operation PBSUCCESS (1953–54) and halt
Guatemala's “communist revolt", as perceived by the corporate fruit
companies, such as United Fruit, and the U.S. State Department. The CIA chose
right-wing Guatemalan Army Colonel Carlos Castillo Armas to lead an
"insurrection" in the 1954 Guatemalan coup d'état. Upon deposing
the Árbenz Guzmán government, Castillo Armas began to dissolve a decade of
social and economic reform and legislative progress, and banned labour
unions and left-wing political parties, a
disenfranchisement that radicalized left-wing Guatemalans.
A series of military coups d’état followed,
featuring fraudulent elections selecting only military personnel as possible
candidates. Aggravating the general poverty and political repression motivating
the civil war was the socio-economic discrimination and racism practiced
against the Guatemala's indigenous peoples,
such as the Maya; many later fought in the civil war. Although the
dark-skinned native Guatemalans constitute more than half of the national
populace, they were landless, whilst the landlord upper
classes of the oligarchy, white-skinned descendants of European immigrants
to Guatemala, controlled most of the land.
On 13 November 1960, a group of left-wing junior military
officers of the Escuela Politécnica national military academy,
revolted against the autocratic government (1958–63) of General Ydigoras
Fuentes, who usurped power in 1958, after the assassination of the
incumbent Colonel Castillo Armas. The survivors of the failed revolt
hid in the hills, and later established communication with the Cuban
government of Fidel Castro. Those surviving officers then established
an insurgent movement known as the MR-13 (Movimiento Revolucionario 13
Noviembre), named after the date of the officers’ revolt. Through the early
phase of the conflict, the MR-13 was a principle component of the insurgent
movement in Guatemala.
In 1963, the MR-13 merged with the PGT (Guatemalan Labour Party; composed and
led by middle-class intellectuals and
students), as part of a consortium which synchronized the activities and
movements of the insurgents, known as the FAR or Rebel Armed Forces. The operational
base of the insurgency during this period was the mountainous Oriente (East),
the south-eastern region of the country, comprising Izabal, Puerto
Barrios, and Zacapa. The government subsequently initiated a series of
rural counterinsurgency operations to dismantle these guerrilla strongholds.” –
Wikipedia.
Many members of Café con Manos de Mujer are survivors of
this conflict that have suffered tremendous losses including some who have lost
their entire families as a result of the “Scorched Earth” policy.
- The Guatemalan
government knew that the rebels were hiding in the hills and believed that they
were being supported by the indigenous highland communities. Thus they decided
to implement a tactic whereby soldiers were sent to kill every living thing in
these communities and burn everything in the area to ashes. Entire communities
were wiped out. The hills were ablaze and the air was thick with the smell of
burning bodies. Some Mayans were able to trek across the border into Mexico and
some have since returned.
This particular
area of the Mayan Q’anjob’al
community was totally erased during that period. The repercussions of this
horrendous atrocity are still very present and the echoes of the war which
ended in 1996 still reverberate throughout the valleys.
The strength and
determined resolve of these amazing women is like none that I have ever
encountered.
ASOBAGRI:
Shortly after I
began my occupation as a coffee roaster, on September 20, 2011, I learned that
ASOBAGRI (Asociacion Barillense de
Agricultores) - one of our Guatemalan suppliers, had been grimly affected
by a huge landslide.
As if I haven’t
already witnessed enough for one day in my fragile state, we visit the old
ASOBAGRI co-op headquarters on our return to Barillas:
In 2006, with the
aid of fair trade and non-governmental organisations, ASOBAGRI had built two
warehouses and an impressive administrative headquarters. This investment
immediately raised the average coffee farmers’ income by 40% - 185%.
The huge
landslide destroyed four homes, buried both of the warehouses and absolutely
wrecked the headquarters. Fifteen people were killed; some of whom still remain
buried within this mobile hillside.
Our guide and
co-op manager Mr Baltazar Francisco Miguel points
out his office and the remains of his old car that lies partially submerged.
The fondness of his memories and the sadness of their demise are evident in his
eyes.
I whisper a quiet
prayer for the victims of this unfortunate event and we make our sombre return
to Barillas where we meet the board members of ASOBAGRI in the new headquarters
– a converted hotel building.
At this meeting,
I am so fatigued that I introduce myself as a female coffee roaster named New
Zealand who lives in a place called Caffe L’affare. Despite my
pathetically-botched attempt to introduce myself en Española, my greeting is met with appreciative and understanding
smiles.
We retire to the
hotel to close our eyes and enjoy the cacophony of sounds throughout the night
and prepare ourselves for the day of travel that lies ahead.
Saturday February 9th, El
Tatuaje:
We have two
options for our return to Xela; either board the chicken bus (named thus
because it is a regular occurrence for passengers to bring caged chickens,
livestock and other such market-bound produce aboard the vehicle) or hire a
van. The chicken buses are cheap but are also often filled with pickpockets and
it is not unusual to see a man with a semi-automatic shotgun on-board for
security measures.
Because we are
all thoroughly exhausted and the trip is ten hours long, we choose the latter option
in the hope that we will have a peaceful and comfortable journey. The van is
literally held together with tape. The driver brings his three young cousins
with him and they play loud reggaeton throughout the journey. Although this is
the much better alternative to the fearsome chicken bus, we are all at wits
end. Our churning stomachs, the winding roads and the innumerable potholes make
the option to rest impossible. Nevertheless, we make it back to Xela safe and
sound.
During our
previous stop in Xela, I met a beautiful tattooist whose wife and daughter
spent their entire days in the tattoo parlour with him. I am keen to bring a
souvenir back home but I don’t have any space in my bags and I’m not particularly
enthusiastic about buying any of the usual Guatemalan tourist wares. To mark
this incredibly amazing journey, I hurriedly sketch a wreath of coffee cherries
and leaves and spent the last of my money on having this design tattooed upon
my chest, close to my heart. Surprisingly, this totally fixes my digestive
problems.
Sunday February 10th, Amara
Todos Siempre:
The following
day, we head back to Guatemala City to light some firecrackers, engage in some
urban Guatemalan culture and board our flights out of here.
I had witnessed
so much in so little time. I had traversed a third of this spectacular country.
I had made friends, shared smiles, tears and stomach upsets with some wonderful
people. I am still alive and well and I am desperately looking forward to
drinking some clean water from a tap and being close to my family again.
I had seen and
heard some of the most awful and fantastic things during my trip, things that I
could not have believed such as meeting people with the ability to call
volcanoes (?!). I had been raised to the highest peaks of inspiration and
lowered to troughs of depression that were previously inconceivable.
Monday February 11th, Adios:
As my flight
leaves the runway and I bid farewell to this spectacular country that has been
such a warm host to this relatively wealthy foreigner, I feel a great onus now
rests upon my shoulders. I don’t want to be a poverty tourist; a flashing
camera, a consumer and subsequently an abandoner. I have no desire to carry the fruits of cheap
labour back to my country. However, this is my line of trade; roasting the very
seeds of the fruits of cheap labour.
How can I help
these sorely impoverished people? How can I lighten the load of immense burdens
that severely afflict these humble, loving and strong people?
Is it mine to
carry the task of improving life for the thirteen million inhabitants of
Guatemala or have these people given me a gift to bring back to my own land?
I begin to
reflect upon the faces of the souls I have come to meet. These are smiling
faces, loving faces with bright eyes and a shining spirit. They are happy
people. They are content.
Perhaps it is
they who have the gift to offer me?
Wednesday February 13th, Mi
Casa:
I return to the
verdant flourishing lands of Aotearoa, to this safe haven and liberal fortress
of wellbeing, to this land abundant in riches and freedom.
I return to the
worldwide web, the land of seven billion souls.
- I read more
complaints and angry sentiments in one minute than I had observed in three
weeks as I trawl through the Facebook feed of impulsive rants.
I observe an
unhappy society - A society torn by minute differences, pitiful petty upsets
and selfish spoilt individuals, not all of them; but many individuals...
Individuals.
As I reflect on
this document I observe the repetitive references to communities, to
co-operatives. I observe the number of truly happy souls both here at home and
back there in that strange land.
The thoughts of
non-governmental organisations, charitable foundations, stock market exchanges,
free trade agreements, trade embargoes, international political relations,
guerrilla warfare, coups, uprisings and all of these complex and grandiose
movements spin my head until my thoughts spiral down from the stars of fancy
imaginings to the one person that matters: Me.
My thoughts turn
to the inspirational quotes of John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi;
“Ask not what your
country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.”
“You must be the change you want to see in the world.”
- Although rhetoric alone is not enough to make change, I
realise that I have to do whatever I can, whenever I can, to bring about the
happiness and contentment that I wish to see in the lives of others, and that
this is only dependent upon my own self in every decision and movement that I
make, no matter how small.
Fairness and justice are not states that can be enforced on
one another. They are not gifts that can be sent out with every five dollar
donation. They are not able to be purchased through Fair Trade organisations.
The quality of life that we seek for ourselves and for
others is entirely determined by how we lead our own lives and how we treat
others. I truly believe that if we are actively aware and seeking the good
pleasure of others, then that light will shine so brightly that others cannot
help but become attracted to it and in turn come to reflect it themselves.
- This is the spirit of Guaya’b, this is the gift that we
can all own and therefore begin to share with others until it erodes all of the
corruption, the fear, the hatred, the inequality and the abuse that occurs
within all of us.
It may take a long time for my little spark to set fire to
the hearts of foreign governments but I know that such a brief visit to
Guatemala has already set me alight.
“Where there is love, nothing is too much trouble and there
is always time.”
- Abdu'l-Bahá.
- Abdu'l-Bahá.
FIN.
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