Young Tree Coffee

In the olden days of Los Frios the entire town owned a single pair of shoes. When someone needed to go into the nearby city of San Juan they would take the single pair of shoes sling them around their shoulders by the laces and walk to the city. After crossing miles of rough terrain on foot they would reach the final river before entering the city. The rivers name translates from Spanish into English as, ”Wash your feet here.” There the traveler would wash his feet, put the shoes on, and strut proudly into town wearing the borrowed shoes.

I finally saw him swaggering in with an overstuffed camping pack on his back.

Saturday, September 5, 2009 9:45am I stood near the window of the cafe on the second floor overlooking the waiting area at Caribe Tours. Byron would be showing up any minute now. Eight-thirty had turned into nine and finally almost ten o’clock I was beginning to wonder what had happened to him. I went out front to smoke a cigarette finished up and walked back inside the air conditioned terminal to the waiting area on the first floor. At about eight minutes until ten I finally saw him swaggering in with an overstuffed camping pack on his back. As soon as he removed the floppy brown brimmed hat I was absolutely sure.

A couple of German tourists held him up at the airport, he explained. They split a cab into the city so he could drop them off at Pension Quisqueya where he recommended they stay. The fare for the couple came to six hundred Dominican Pesos, they only had eight US Dollars not even enough to cover half of what they owed, no Euros, nothing, just their word. “We can send you money.” They promised. The card he gave them had printed on it, Byron Holcomb, Young Tree Coffee. It would be nice if they would. With just minutes to spare we boarded up the next bus heading North toward San Juan making our way to Los Frios.

A single electric bulb sent sharp deep golden rays shining from the slats in the windows of Antonio’s house.

Saturday, September 5, 2009 6:30pm At near sunset Antonio, Byron’s farm manager and good friend, led us to the edge of one property near his house where the cell phone reception is clearest. The golden light was spilling onto Byron, Antonio, and all of the children following close behind. Another man showed up and the three of them discussed matters of the farm.

The sunset view from where they all stood looked over Byron’s property in the valley below. You could see the tall shade trees in a dense thicket which formed part of his farm. After wards the sun went down and the misty clouds made ghosts of everyone. A single electric bulb sent sharp deep golden rays shining from the slats in the windows of Antonio’s house. Eventually we walked back in the dark Byron lighting up the path with his blueish LED headlamp.

His broken leg was propped up on the couch covered with a blanket

Sunday, September 6, 2009 6:00pm “Euplina is telling me about the way things used to be in Los Frios.” Byron spoke with a wide grin on his face between one of her stories. I was listening politely but do could not understand most of what she was saying I continued eating the dinner that she had cooked for us rice and beans, boiled plantains and yukka. After dinner we all joined Lin, Euplinas husband, in their living room. His broken leg was propped up on the couch covered with a blanket, underneath crude looking bolts and screws were driven deep into the bone like someone had built a scaffolding around his limb with an erector set.

The couple who appeared to be in their sixties recounted old stories about Los Frios concerned that they might bore us. Byron however could spend hours with Lin and Euplina, and he has, having lived in Los Frios for two years as a Peace Corp volunteer. “The first time I met Lin,” Byron likes telling this story, “I thought he was going to shoot me.”

some older people complain about the passing of the olden days, they say back then there was no delinquency in society.

These days Lin who used to break wild horses and mules is recovering from a motorcycle accident from six months ago on one of the muddy steep roads. Euplina offered to heat up some milk for us then disappeared into the kitchen. Byron is like a son to them and he admires and respects them as if they were his own mother and father. He laughed again translating what Euplina had just told him, “She says that some older people complain about the passing of the olden days, they say back then there was no delinquency in society. But she also says, there wasn’t much of anything else either.”

Monday, September 7, 2009 9:00am Antonio was busy pulling up a plant from the ground, it is a tuber or root called rabano it grows the way potatoes do. “He planted this particular root because I like it so much.” Byron proudly told me, “Whenever Antonio pulls up anything he plants two or three more.” After inspecting the root they throw most of it away. “The rats have eaten it.”

I watched as Antonio hacked away at the thickest branch of the rabano that he had pulled up holding it in the air with one hand slicing off arm length pieces with wedge shaped incisions at either end. The machete was then driven into the ground to dig a shallow hole to insert the branch. Scattered around I could see where other branches had been planted some rabano, mostly yukka, another root that is planted in the same manner.

Our synthetic woven sacks and tin buckets used to collect the coffee were placed on the ground, filled with what we had picked all morning.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009 1:00pm We had been picking coffee all morning, eight workers in a pack scouring each tree by hand, careful to leave the unripe cherries, picking only those that were ready or beyond ready. When coffee is left beyond its optimal time to be picked as a red cherry it will eventually dry on the branch in the sun, it gets shriveled up like a raisin becoming black and hard. Our synthetic woven sacks and tin buckets used to collect the coffee were placed on the ground, filled with what we had picked all morning.

The meal that morning was similar to what we had at every meal on the job, boiled plantains and yukka, rice and beans. For the most part we ate quietly, resting. Byron showed up after most of us had already started eating. “¿Como tú ta?” He asked, everyone replied, “bien” or “muy bien” One of the workers then explained in Spanish how bien is always the answer you will always hear from a Dominican when you ask how they are doing.

Local wisdom dictates that it is best to accept the present state and focus on moving forward. “I learned that lesson early on” Byron later told me about an experience he had years ago. He was visiting, sending his condolences to a Dominican family, friends of his from the area and there they were getting ready to bury the deceased when he greeted them. He says he was shocked and surprised that they could answer him saying things were good.

like rice crispy cereal, a steady smoldering snap, crackle, pop.

Thursday, September 10, 2009 1:45pm There were a million tiny pine trees all sprouting tiny little pine needles in a single tassel on a single branch each separated by the tiny round pot it grew in. In a single glance the whole life of the pine flashed before my eyes, trees at every stage of life. A bed of pine cones was laid out in the sun to harvest their seeds they crackled like rice crispy cereal, a steady smoldering snap, crackle, pop.

I returned from wandering around the property and found Byron again. “How much longer?” I asked wondering when the Sur Futuro coffee meeting would be finishing up. ”Two more hours.” he said confidently. “Really?” I asked as more of a question of the existence of an itinerary at all. “It is always two more hours when you are in the Dominican Republic.” He qualified.

Running my hands through my hair it felt course and dry, dusty and ridged.

Thursday, September 10, 2009 5:00pm Traveling up the steep clay and mud road on the bed of a four wheel drive pick-up truck there were about seven people in the back and a few more crammed into the cab. A young man on a motorcycle by the side of the road got the attention of one of the passengers sitting in the back sliding his pointed index finger along the bottom of his neck. The young woman began sobbing.

We got off the truck at Lin’s house he sat a plastic lawn chair on his patio resting his broken leg upon a second chair. It looked like an infection had been spreading. The day before he had to have it re-set because it was not lined up correctly, painfully it had been rebroken. Byron spoke for awhile explaining the significance of the Sur Futuro meeting we were just returning from. Running my hands through my hair it felt course and dry, dusty and ridged.

Lin had already heard about the death, the news of which was just reaching the young woman on the truck. Her younger sister who had been living in the United States was tragically shot when a gun accidentally went off. Lin’s father, Ramoncito a shrinking man with leathery skin who had been quietly standing nearby now joined the conversation. “Machetes are for planting yukka, guns are only for killing.” Byron translated for me.

The sun was setting making the clouds a pinkish salmon tangerine color against the clear blue patches of sky.

Thursday, September 10, 2009 6:50pm We climbed the steep hill to the top where Boliviar’s house is. From up here there is an unobstructed view of the mountains except for the tops of the pine trees and a few small bushes that form a green fence around the small dirt yard. The sun was setting making the clouds a pinkish salmon tangerine color against the clear blue patches of sky. We sat down on five simple wooden chairs Boliviar, his wife, his daughter, Byron, and myself, leaving his young boy standing by curiously watching the conversation.

It was about a copy of a birth certificate that Byron needs to square away some legal paperwork concerning land he has purchased. Byron and Boliviar dance around the subject as I watch a rooster poking his head out of a sack in the shack that is their kitchen wiggling in vain for his freedom as flames dance in the fire pit nearby. On the way back Byron was counting the amount of times has had to ask Boliviar about this paperwork while I was counted the pine tree lined peaks in the distance.

the conversation eventually turned to the weather, the flooding to be more accurate.

Friday, September 18, 2009 9:00pm “I have some terrible news,” he began. I ran into Byron a week after we had returned from the Dominican Republic. This sounded serious, I thought someone had died. “Well, not terrible” he clarified. We had run into each other at the Castleberry Hill art stroll in Southwest downtown Atlanta. “That makes it sounds like something really bad happened.” I was a bit relieved. He continued, ”I got laid off from Counter Culture.” He was still absorbing the shock of it. “What happened?” I asked, this seemed so unexpected. He explained that the company came to the decision to cut four full time positions and he happened to be one of them. He had already begun to tap his network of contacts in search of a new job.

There was not much else to say about the subject that would help and the conversation eventually turned to the weather, the flooding to be more accurate. “The Krog Street tunnel was completely under water.” Someone else in the group was saying. “One poor guy had just moved his family back into their home in cabbage town after finally finishing months of repairs from last years tornado.” His house was now a disaster once again, he has decided to call it quits, sell it for cheap, and move out.

In the DR till November 24th Byrons status update reads. It takes foresight to endure present hardship for an uncertain future yield. In environments so removed from rituals of perseverence time is perceived as a unit that mournfully slips away. “There is no such thing as not enough time.” Byron told me before he left to spend seven weeks back in Los Frios patiently harvesting this years crop of coffee. Agriculture, it is said, provided the means for civilization, that uniquely human phenomenon. Perhaps farming was the first step, the very first human act of faith, it seems an appropriate place to start again. (a)

www.youngtreecoffee.com

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