That night, none of us could sleep. All ten of us where
lined up in the small shed, wide awake, overburdened by fleas and the heavy
smell of blankets. My side dug into the mud. Hugo was a mycologist. All night,
there was a hazy glow of boletus on the ceiling from his mushroom drying apparatus.
Frayed wires sparked as the rain continued. Everything was wet.
At dawn we walked a naked and cold path down to the water.
My wife and I waded in, secreted by fan-like tropical leaves and an outcropping
of granite. Ginger and ferns blanketed the sides of the stream.
That morning, we fielded concerns from the group. We gathered
in the main clearing where there was a circle of plastic chairs. Everyone
stood. The men wore sports jerseys, britches and large hats. The women wore aprons
over dresses and pulled back hair. Each man propped on a machete. It was an
ominous looking group – earnest folks unaccustomed to mindless chatter. We
spoke of the crops, the bugs, the town drunk, and the community money. Nothing
was settled directly; conversations tapered off and began anew. At the sound of
a distant hawk, the whole group would silence and listen.
The farmers fed us well, and their generosity was humbling.
We ate fish from the stream, squash blossom soup, fresh beans, and a tough
rooster. Each group was amazed at the strangeness of the other. They laughed
when my legs shook with fear out on the footbridge precariously drawn above a
rushing funnel of water. My wife played skits and captivated the children.
Most of the younger men are gone. They had headed north. Few
will return, and the ones that do are usually in trouble. Other men stayed
behind, contracting valuable farmland for poppy production. Federal police
guard the plots, and the neighbors are terrorized. Ancient indigenous routes,
once a contiguous passage from the cloud-heights to the sea, are now obstructed
by keep-out signs, fences and men with rifles. Every election cycle, the coffee
producers are preyed upon by the local electorate. Their houses are razed and
“weapons” confiscated.
Since I left, I think of the glowing fires that illuminated their
homes before dawn. I recall the smell of fresh tortillas, the soreness of
muscles, and the rain. I remember the awareness that comes from living outside.
The inability to hide. The raw truth of a person’s being when its essence is
distilled by hardship. More than anything, I remember the kindness of
strangers.
