Coffee in the clouds

On Wednesday night, Tom and Jo came for a two-week stay -- and on Thursday afternoon, we left for a long weekend in the mountains of southern Chiapas, in the coffee-growing region.

Airport joy! Wednesday night before our trip began.

The main coffee-growing region in Chiapas is in the southeast corner of the state. We had planned to spend a night in Tapachula on the way there so as to avoid driving at night, and then continue the next day.

But as often happens, difficulties arose. First, a bloqueo stopped all traffic on the highway in both directions. The protest had to do with workers not being paid and was predicted to last 2 hours, 4 hours, 8 hours, or 2 days, depending on whom you asked. The government would need to meet with the protesters to make an acuerdo (agreement), and who knew how long that would take?

This was our second experience with a bloqueo, so we felt like old hands. We enjoyed, at least initially, the camaraderie with the other travelers and had a few nice chats. It was interesting how calm everyone was, how accepting of the delay; people even expressed sympathy for the protesters. (We tried to imagine what would happen if people blocked I-15; could scarcely imagine a scenario without teargas and violence.)

Bloqueo! It was too dark to get a good picture of this banner,
and without the smell of burning tires it's difficult to
communicate the atmosphere of mild excitement
and nausea.

Around midnight, the bloqueo unblocked, which was fortunate because we had already investigated a couple of hotels along the highway and were prepared to spend the night in the car rather than stay in one of them. We found a decent place in Tapachula, went to bed around 2 (?), and got up early to head up into the mountains.

The finca (plantation) we planned to go to was only about 30 miles from Tapachula, but it took several hours to get there. "Rough" is an understated description of the road, which was mostly unpaved.

As we climbed out of the car, we heard a
hissing sound. Can you spot the bolt
that impaled our tire?

But it was so beautiful there, and the accommodations (for tourists like ourselves) were perfect.

This finca, like many in the region, was founded by Germans in the 19th century. (The Mexican government asked Germans to immigrate there to develop the coffee industry.) So our cabañas were like little chalets in the sky. And there was plenty of German beer and Mexicalemanic kitsch. Tiny Mexican flags sharing table vases with tiny German flags was only the beginning....

At the restaurant.

We were practically the only guests, so
none of the 12-year-olds among us
was self-conscious.

We got in some much-needed yodeling practice, too.

We got a tour that explained coffee production, from the picking of the coffee uvas ("grapes") to the point where the dried coffee is transported out of the mountains for roasting.

The coffee is shade-grown, high-altitude...this is the best
kind, we're told. Strictly gourmet.

See? Shade.

Our guide is from Guatemala, as are
most of the pickers at the finca.

This bag of uvas has a lot of unripe (green
colored) ones. They'll get sorted out and will
be used when ripe, but they'll never
make the big-time, gourmet-bean-wise. 

This machine brushes the skin off,
so that the gold coffee bean inside is separated
from the squishy uva outside.

The beans are washing. Good ones will sink,
less-good ones will float....the separation
into various grades of fanciness
happens repeatedly as the
beans are washed and re-washed.

Papa and Oscar just had to reach in!

Most of the machines, like this still-functioning drying
machine, were brought over from Germany in the 1920s.
(The diameter of this wheel is about 6 feet. The machines
were disassembled and carried up the mountains by mule.)

This is the machine shop, where they make and repair parts
for these amazing old machines.

We don't have pictures of the most impressive and humbling part of this process: the labor of the people who pick the beans. We were at the plant's loading dock at the end of the day when the pickers are returning with their bags of beans. The group of pickers included elderly men and children; the bags they carry can weigh more than 200 pounds. The workers keep track of which sacks of bean are theirs either by writing their name on the sack or, more commonly, tying a piece of fabric of a particular color on the bag. (It seems that many can't write their name.) Most of the pickers are seasonal workers from Guatemala who come and live for four months or so in the company housing (and shop at the company store, and send their kids to the company school, and are treated at the company clinic). Es una comunidad, people said. On a walk later the next night we saw how many little settlements are perched in various places in the nooks and crannies of the mountain tops; we saw one little hillock--clearly the only place that got cell phone reception--where a group of young men were all standing in a clutch, phoning home. Dos meses más  (two more months) I heard one say.

All the children, all the vaccines.

So now we know that coffee is far too cheap.

We drank a LOT of it there; it was flowing freely.

"Doctor, doctor! What can I do? Every time I drink a cup of
shade-grown, high-altitude coffee, I get a sharp pain
in my eye! What can I do??" --
-- "Take the spoon out of the cup."

We had a great time. Some of us really, really didn't want to leave.

The sky was out there, not up there.

Our cabin is on the right.

The porch of our cabin.

Everything was very tidy and, well, very German. (Imagine
the labor required to keep it thus. It seems like the jungle
will swallow you in 5 minutes if you don't keep moving.)

I like the topiary.

They also grow flowers for selling
within Mexico. 

Flower curtain.

This little cobra-like flower wanted to
join us for a cup of coffee on the porch.

These birds are quite big....

Adiós. Auf Wiedersehen.