Life, death and the space between bean plants

Don Joel is one of my favorite people. He has been since I first met him in 2008. It was only my third day in Monteverde, and I remember feeling overwhelmed about the task ahead of me: get to know, to the extent possible, an entire community, how they go about their daily lives, what makes them tick, and how they visualize their place in this world. Put this way, an anthropological investigation is nothing short of daunting. To be fair, nobody ever gets to know an entire community, nor develops complete understandings about any one aspect of it. Nevertheless, we can gain insights into minute and macro details about other peoples’ lives, and we can then relate these observations to a theoretical framework of academic interest.

“Where is San Luis?” I asked a friend.

“Just go this way, and then turn right at the fork.”

Easy enough. On my way I gave a ride to a man, who would later become a friend. I told him I was interested in agricultural production, and that was that. “You have to meet Don Joel”, he told me. “He is very brave.” Indeed, that was that. Not two minutes had passed when I saw this tall, lanky figure walking slowly and crookedly down the steep gravel road that transverses San Luis. With a big sack over his shoulder and a machete in his hand, Don Joel was followed by two little dogs (one of which, was soon to be christened “Chicharron” (pork rind) by Kate). Our mutual acquaintance introduced us to one another, and we decided to meet the very next morning at his plot of land.

The next morning we met at his 2 hectare plot. He showed me around, pointing out all of his crops and the areas of land that he was letting go fallow or those that would soon be transformed by him. “I only work with machete and shovel. No chemicals or nothing. People are lazy and use them [chemicals] and they don’t know that they hurt the soil. “Look” he said, picking up an earth worm, “this means the soil is healthy. No chemicals, nothing! Just machete and shovel!”

The first month of our relationship, he would occasionally ask me “why are you here?” To this I would reply that I wanted to learn about how they produced their food and how they were impacted by the presence of eco-tourism. “Oh, yeah, yeah” he would say, and then jump into a poem or joke. We would clear the ground for planting beans, pick coffee, pick beans, pick corn, clear the weeds around his potatoes, visit his neighbors and drink coffee, clear more ground, fix some of his tools, chop some wood, tell jokes. I was 25, he was 83.

It’s been two years since we met and we are closer than ever. I have changed from being someone whose presence he didn’t quite understand (but certainly appreciated) to someone who is known as “Don Joel’s helper” or “farmhand”.

Several weeks ago, I posted a blog entry on “Covering beans”. In it, I detailed the last bit of work Don Joel and I have carried out. As we were clearing the brush, he would stop to tell me that he wasn’t peeing properly. Two days later, he stopped coming to work. He finally acquiesced to his wife’s and sons’ plea to visit the clinic, and he was sent down to the hospital in Puntarenas (a two hour drive, much of which is down a very bumpy, unpaved road).

Not knowing that he was in the hospital, I went to look for him one day at his house. I found his oldest son and his wife at their house. I asked them if I could visit Don Joel at the hospital the next day, and we all decided to go. Being a public hospital, only one person could visit him at a time. So we all took turns. I joked around with two of his sons and one of his daughters while we waited outside the hospital. Eventually my turn to see him came. I found him curled up on his bed, looking cleaner than ever, but also very low in spirits. “Oh my friend, you came! Let me tell you that I am pretty much locked up here like a prisoner! I don’t like being here. I want to go work and plant and pick the coffee!” He was very sad, leaving me feeling the same. At this point, he still had high fevers during the night, but most of his pain was relieved with a catheter. Despite his run down condition, he still managed to break out his naughty smile and share with me a fanciful story: “Listen my friend; I am going to tell you a legitimate story that is true, so pay attention. I was lying here the other day, when I heard some scratching on the window. I turned and found an armadillo trying to break into my room!! Ha, ha, ha!”

What? An armadillo? Don Joel was on the fourth floor!

After sharing this with me, he turned back into a somber tone. “Listen, I want to ask you for a favor and you and God will know if you can help me. I want to request that you come pick me up from the hospital when I am free to go. Let me tell you that the ambulance is so painful to ride in. I don’t want to ride on that horse again!” (It’s not a horse. It’s a Toyota land cruiser, but it is bumpy as hell).

“Of course I’ll come get you.”

Five days later, accompanied by his second oldest son, Chepe, I was able to fulfill my promise. When he saw me, he threw his arm around me and started to cry. “I’m so happy you came. Let me tell you that I was a prisoner in there. The food they gave, well, not even a mutt would touch!”
At 85, this was the first time he had ever been in a hospital.

The drive up was of mixed emotions. He alternated, laughing first about the witch in owl’s form that paid him a visit the previous day, to crying because he was finally “free”, to thanking God and wishing me many blessings for being his “helper”.  As we ascended the mountain, Don Joel asked us what time it was.  Before Chepe could look at his watch, Don Joel peered out the window, scanned the sky, and said "Oh, it's 3:00." Chepe checked his watch, only to confirm that it was indeed 3:00.

As we got to San Luis, we stopped several times so people could greet him. Back at his house, the stream of friends and relatives kept on flowing through the doorway of his house.

As I left that day he thanked me a asked me not to forget him or his plot of land. “Help Chepe” (his second oldest son, the one who work the plot of land with him).

The following Saturday, I went to help Chepe pick some coffee. Arriving before Chepe, I walked to the clearing where Don Joel and I planted the beans. What a sight! The 2,000 sq meters were covered in these thin green plants, standing about a foot tall. It was a challenge walking through the land, given that the beans covered everything. They looked strong and healthy, and if the weather stays true, then I am sure the harvest will be bountiful.

Back up to meet Chepe, I passed by another plot of land where I had helped two other men plant their beans. While the plants looked nice, they were scattered here and there. In around the same amount of land, Don Joel probably had three times as many plants growing strong.

The morning went by fast. Chepe, his son and I joked, talked about Don Joel, and picked around 100 lbs of coffee beans. Two days later, I walked down to Don Joel’s to pay him a visit. I found him sitting on his bed, looking nice and clean. “How are you?”

“Well here, struggling.” The previous night he had had a panic attack. He was trembling and crying, saying that he didn’t want to die, asking to see his son, Chepe and me.

“Yeah I cried like a girl” he said, “but I am fine now.”

I told him that he shouldn’t worry about anything, that we were there to take care of him and that he should just relax. He nodded, but then said that he was worried that his land would get neglected. I mentioned that Chepe and I had just worked there and I mentioned the bean plants.

“Well, how are they doing?” he asked, glancing down and back up to me, eagerly waiting for a response, and with the intimation of a smile.

“Oh you won’t believe how they are doing! They are big and strong and bright green. And man it is hard to walk through them!”

At this point he let out his typical high-pitched laugh. “Ha ha ha! You see, nobody can plant beans like I do. People are always amazed at how tight they grown. Not one more bean plant can fit in there!”

“Well how do you do it?”

“You saw me do it!” He mimicked the motion of tossing bunches of beans on the ground, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. “See? Ha ha ha!”

I told him that indeed, no other section of bean plants was as nice as the one we did. He nodded and smiled.  I said, “Remember this when you get worried. Remember your work, your family and friends. Remember that I am here to help you. Don’t worry, you are fine.”

“Yeah, I am fine” he said. “But I still want to work.”

Don Joel taking his lunch break.  He will share his coffee with the dogs, who lap it up like Starbucks junkies.

Chicharon

Don Joel taking a break in the small shed on his plot of land