Life unfolds in Vuelta Larga . . .
The other day I stopped at the one store in town (sugar, rice, rum) to
talk weather with the boys. Marino gave a look to the sky, saw the dark
clouds billowing over the ridge from the south, and told me flatly that
there would be no rain, because the rains only come from the North -
from the Atlantic, forty miles away. He’s a local, and I trust his
experience.
But only with the disaffected confidence of one to whom a bit of rain
means no great change in the day’s schedule. Morning: tend the garden.
Afternoon: avoid the heat. Evening: visit. It rained just in time for
the evening.
Yesterday that comfy state of affairs was thrown a curveball by the
arrival of tropical disease A. And tropical storm B. And the
continuing maintenance of tropical export C. As in Cocoa. That
morning, Leóncio and his sons were putting on their boots and
sharpening their machetes, getting set to run up the slopes and finish
the most recent cocoa harvest before the rain could soak the beans. I
laced up my own boots and got ready to join them, wishing that I hadn’t
promised my help before the unidentified flu had shown up to drain my
batteries.
It was a quick slog up above the riverbed to the low cocoa understory.
The storm was turning the trail into a clay-lined creek as we passed a
trio of Haitian migrant workers. They were smiling through the wetness,
and when we could no longer see them, we could still hear the rhythmic
thudding of their machetes separating the fruit from the tree, the shell
from the beans.
Leóncio’s plot was on a steep slope, and I began to work at one of the
stances created by a toppled coconut tree. The rain came on. I was
beat. When I gave a few coughs, Javier came over and looked closely at
me. “Take a rest over there,” he said, indicating the trunk of a palm.
As I crouched, leaning against the tree, I looked out and saw the sheets
of rain driving a few feet away. Under the wide fronds, though, I was
drying out.
On either side of the river, dozens of farmers were bringing in their
crop, in the same way as Leóncio, whose eighty-year face had grown a
stubble that I could see was collecting raindrops. I, the gringo, was
feeling vaguely like a sick, wet wombat. I knew there’d be days like
these when I signed up for the Peace Corps.
My respect for my new neighbors grows by leaps on days like these.
The other day I stopped at the one store in town (sugar, rice, rum) to
talk weather with the boys. Marino gave a look to the sky, saw the dark
clouds billowing over the ridge from the south, and told me flatly that
there would be no rain, because the rains only come from the North -
from the Atlantic, forty miles away. He’s a local, and I trust his
experience.
But only with the disaffected confidence of one to whom a bit of rain
means no great change in the day’s schedule. Morning: tend the garden.
Afternoon: avoid the heat. Evening: visit. It rained just in time for
the evening.
Yesterday that comfy state of affairs was thrown a curveball by the
arrival of tropical disease A. And tropical storm B. And the
continuing maintenance of tropical export C. As in Cocoa. That
morning, Leóncio and his sons were putting on their boots and
sharpening their machetes, getting set to run up the slopes and finish
the most recent cocoa harvest before the rain could soak the beans. I
laced up my own boots and got ready to join them, wishing that I hadn’t
promised my help before the unidentified flu had shown up to drain my
batteries.
It was a quick slog up above the riverbed to the low cocoa understory.
The storm was turning the trail into a clay-lined creek as we passed a
trio of Haitian migrant workers. They were smiling through the wetness,
and when we could no longer see them, we could still hear the rhythmic
thudding of their machetes separating the fruit from the tree, the shell
from the beans.
Leóncio’s plot was on a steep slope, and I began to work at one of the
stances created by a toppled coconut tree. The rain came on. I was
beat. When I gave a few coughs, Javier came over and looked closely at
me. “Take a rest over there,” he said, indicating the trunk of a palm.
As I crouched, leaning against the tree, I looked out and saw the sheets
of rain driving a few feet away. Under the wide fronds, though, I was
drying out.
On either side of the river, dozens of farmers were bringing in their
crop, in the same way as Leóncio, whose eighty-year face had grown a
stubble that I could see was collecting raindrops. I, the gringo, was
feeling vaguely like a sick, wet wombat. I knew there’d be days like
these when I signed up for the Peace Corps.
My respect for my new neighbors grows by leaps on days like these.
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