Like Jerry Seinfeld, I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker. For some reason, in El Salvador I always felt a need to explain this. Perhaps it came across as an oddity, or perhaps it smacked of rejecting hospitality. Whatever the case, I did feel a need to explain it, although my fractured explanation generally seemed to satisfy whatever suspicions or wounded feelings may have existed: When I was a child, my parents used to say that coffee was a drink for grown-ups. I still feel like a kid in a lot of ways, so I’m not ready to be a regular coffee drinker.
 |
| Gustavo cleans up after making some coffee. |
As I traveled with Gustavo, Hector, and Maria Teresa to visit people in the community, we were always offered coffee. They always accepted. As often as not, Gustavo would take it upon himself to gather some wood, go out to the kitchen, and boil the water. It took a few visits for me to understand that it was not simply that Gustavo likes coffee. (He does.) Making and drinking coffee gave the visits some structure and some rhythm. There was never an awkward dynamic that I could sense, no feeling that “we have come to bring you a little food, and now we’ll stay for a while on top of that.” We visited and were offered coffee. Of course, since that took time to make, we could chat. (Well, they could chat and I could try really hard to look like I understood the conversation.) Drinking the coffee left more time for chatting. In the course of that time, Gustavo, Maria Teresa, or Hector would have the opportunity to hear the stories of the people we visited, and sometimes to learn of particular needs that had arisen. When the coffee was done, we could amble out without a sense that we had worn out our welcome or overburdened our hosts.
 |
| Coffee planted on steep terrain above San Ramon |
Nestled here and there above San Ramon, in communities like Las Nubes, are coffee fields. We are not talking about large and lucrative estates here, but fields large enough to be profitable for somebody. That somebody does not, apparently, live in the community. The men and women of the community sometimes have opportunities to work in these fields, especially when it is time to harvest the beans. When I was there for a brief trip in March, we saw a group of youngish men heading into the field with one of those canister-backpacks. They told us it was full of pesticides. I don’t know what it was or if it was toxic to humans, but they certainly were not wearing anything protective. In July, I did not see anyone working in those fields, and the beans were not ready for harvest yet. One family that we visited – one of the highest up the volcano – lived near such a field. Maria Teresa told me that the mother in the family would work in the field at harvest time, picking what she could and carrying the load down the steep hillside.
In recent years, coffee has been one of the products most visible in the much towards fairer trade conditions. Coffee is not just a drink; the conditions of its growth, harvest, and sale are intimately related to issues like international trade agreements, urbanization, and migration. Even absent trade regulations, Fair Trade coffee, while not required, is at the very least often available to US consumers.[1] As with most agricultural products, I don’t think much about where coffee comes from. It comes from Dunkin’ Donuts, that’s where it comes from. So, it is always good to be reminded otherwise. Seeing the lives of the people who would be harvesting that coffee is a goad, reminding me that if I do get coffee, I should be concerned about where it comes from.
Crispaz grants space for artisans to sell their goods, and in addition to handcrafted clothing, bags, and woodwork, they sell small bags of fairly traded coffee. Elisabeth always had it prepared in the mornings, and finally, one morning when my energy was low, I decided to have a cup. While we have established that I am no connoisseur, I am willing to say that it was the tastiest cup of coffee that I have ever had. I suppose that if I had grown up with that coffee, I might be a regular coffee drinker today.
[1] See for instance Clawson, Julie A. Everyday Justice: The Global Impact of Our Daily Choices. (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Press, 2009), 31-52.
No comments:
Post a Comment