Dear Robert:
This is another story that we could call it personal. Thanks for the chance of letting people abroad know more about the way farmers in developing countries grow the stuff.
The old van bounces over potholes af all sizes on its way from Satipo to Pangoa in the upper jungle of Junin. The ride up to Satipo was fortunately uneventful despite several rumors that the Reds* were stopping buses to ask for quotas. Now we must put up with three more hours on the road, but this time over dirt. As we advance muddling through the green sea, I can see whole chunks of forest devoid of trees -something which is a shocking sight.
"OK, the men out! someone yells. Then I realize we have stopped at an army checkpoint. God, Fatherland, Courage is the motto I read on the walls. We are ordered to make a line and, as we pass, a lieutenat flanked by several soldiers, their Kalashnikovs at the ready, check our papers.
When my turn comes, I hand him my documents. He stops for a minute and look at me. "What business do you have here?" he asks. Considering this is the umpteenth time I go through this routine, my temper starts to flare. I imagine what would happen if I told the officer to go to the deeper parts and chase the Shining Path instead. But it is better to be prudent. "I'm a coffee dealer." He looks at the other side of my ID. I suppose he wants to see if I have the seals tha prove that I have voted in the latest elections. Obviously the terrorists wouldn't have them. "Are you a coffee grower?" His question is funny to say the least. Before I can answer, he quickly retuns my papers. "Next!"
The van finally clears the base. Suddenly two gray nd green Russian-made MI-7 choppers roarrhead. I think I did well in being patient Now myn thoughts turn to the activities ahead. Surely Virgilio, Uncle Roque and all the others must be waiting. I lower my right hand and caress the slightly protruding swelling on my stomach. Several times during my trips, I have made the same thing to make sure the money is still there. With no banks in Pangoa, I had decided early during my first coffee season back in '98 that I'd run the risk every now and then of taking the money with me. This, I thought, was the only way to save.
"You going to Mazamari?" the rough voice scares me for a moment. A
nativo, from the Ashaninka tribe, is sitting next and he is observing me carefully. He's wearing their traditional orange
Cushma that looks like a poncho to me. I hesitate wondering if I should break one of my rules of never making traveling friends. Mazamari is a drab town midway through my journey. There is a Special Police Unit, the
Sinchis, as well as an airport there. This makes me feel a little more trustful.
"No, I'm going to San Martin de Pangoa." His dark face lightens. "Pangoa. You buy coffee?" I suppose he has seen me somewhere. After all these places can barely be called towns, and here everybody knows everybody else. Anyway, I'd rather send him the wrong track just in case. "Actually, I buy for NEGUSA", I lie mentioning a big coffee firm. He laughs earthily while he pats me on the shoulder. "Ya, ya, NEGUSA, big firm, good, good." I think this is an unexpected chance to make some business although Ashaninkas are known for a subsistence level agriculture only. Anyway, I decide to try, "Do you want to sell your coffee,
paisa? I could give two more points than anybody in town." He gets serious and, for a moment, I think that perhaps he's had such a bad experience with coffee buyers that this is his way to say no. Or perhaps he hasn't understood. Often I've had problems with my Lima accent because it's too fast for people around here. Suddenly he pull me down and softly wisphers. "I have no coffee. Husband of my daughter, eldest, sold everything. He really bad." He looks disappointed but then he laughs as if he had just told me a joke. I laugh too. Suddenly I find him quite amusing.
We pass several chacras. I see yucca, oranges, bananas, but no coffee. This altitude is too low for coffee although it used to be more than enough twenty years ago. The climate has definitely changed. The farmers keep saying that the tronqueros are to blame because they are out to deforest the jungle. However, farmers themselves have laid waste to large areas by burning and felling.
Finally we reach Mazamari. My
nativo friend leaves giving me lots of "secret" advice on how to deal with other Ashaninkas. He even advises me to go visit his uncle who is a chief of a
comunidad on the Ene River. He may have coffee and decide to sell provided I take a couple of bags of canned tuna. I thank him profusely knowing that his uncle lives too far away and the prospect of entering a "red" zone would be tantamount to committing suicide. Fortunately the van doesn't stay too long in Mazamari. Somebody else has taken the place of my
nativo friend, but I definitely do not want another companion with whom to talk. So I close my eyes and feign sleep.
I can't help thinking about the price. In Satipo people were nervous. I heard that coffee had fallen really badly. I've never paid attention to rumors, so I didn't care much about the "bad" news. I try to think of the more urgent tasks. Midway through the week, Uncle Roque called to say that a farmer had come to offer her load; he said it was more than a hundred sacs. I calculated that at 70 kilos per sac and four soles a kilo, I'd need S/. 28,000 or about $8,000. Yeah, I'd have enough this time. Another thing that worries me is the responsibility I've taken with a group of farmers who want help to sell their coffee at fairer prices. I don't know how to go about this yet. In Lima, I talked to Jose, my buyer, but his idea was to buy their coffee the traditional way, that is, by giving them a price less than satisfying.
I open my eyes. We are crossing the Chavini bridge. Ten minutes and we'll be in Pangoa. I breathe deeply and cross myself. I look up and see the pair of choppers, clearly visible against the azure sky coming back from, I hope, having bombed the Shining Path. Now I must think of myself.
*Another name for the Shining Path -the terrorist organization that follows Mao's line of Communism.
Jaime Alberto Galarza Castañeda
