The road to perfection is muddy

I love coffee. No joke. So, to come to South America and find all coffee Nescafe instant has been a slight letdown. Until I made my way to Buena Vista.

I said to friends and family that it is a town meant for the setting of novels, and I mean it. Brick paved streets with a plaza of the greenest grass I have ever seen. Winding trees and shade that made you want to stop time and just be.

But let me back up…

I had the opportunity to volunteer at a Christian retreat/camp for a group of private school junior highers. It harkened back to my heartstrings as a youth leader in Highlands, NC. These kids did not know me, so there wasn’t quite the bond, but a beautiful introduction to kids of another variety here in Bolivia.

The school used to cater primarily to children of missionaries, but as one of only two English-speaking private schools, it is now host to more Bolivians recognizing the need for bilingual education. The school actually follows the American school system schedule.

I have a whole post to make on the education system here in Montero, but to keep it brief: There are two sessions on the same campus serving all ages. There is zero separation of church and state, so the statue of Mary in the courtyard and the pictures of Jesus and the pope in the classroom where a different exposure for me … but that post is for another day.

I spent three days at camp about 50 km north of Montero. The backdrop of the Amboro Reserve and the Andes mountains actually stole your breath. Foothills and higher altitude took the flat plain region out of my line of sight and made me think of my mountains back in the states – only peppered with palms and cacti and flowers I have never seen and bird calls I wish I had recorded.

It rained. A lot. But that did not prevent a trip to the pool where a rhea wandered about under beach umbrellas. The grownups swung in hammocks under the shade and discussed food – it seemed like home.

I was working in the kitchen, where I learned a few things. A) The skill of the women who cook here is remarkable. B) I am quite a skilled cook myself, but felt as bumbling as my Spanish language skills around these women in the kitchen. C) I wished I had videoed them, peeling potatoes with such finesse. My grandfather could peel an apple with a paring knife in a single coil. What these women could do to a much pitted style of potato about the size of a new potato was remarkable.

I left eggshells in the eggs and watched them shake their head as I tried to quarter oranges. But, like my own ninos saying “at least she tries” when I played soccer with them, these skilled women of the kitchen shook their head and smiled at me and handed me a different knife every time I thought I had picked up the correct utensil to assist. Heck, I tried to sweep and was offered a more suitable broom. I resigned myself to washing dishes.

I had some time to myself as well, and kept trying unsuccessfully to capture with a camera lens what my own eyes could barely adjust to. I was trekking up the highway, when it suddenly occurred to me … Here I am in my 40s, having always desired to see the world, walking up a road in the middle of South America, literally, to capture a vista of the edge of the Andes. It was enough.

But it got better. On the last day the director arranged a ride for me into town as I kept saying when the rain stopped I was going to hike into town…. They dropped me off at the tourism office, where I learned how little my Spanish skills had actually advanced. But the dear, sweet man there understood "plantacion de café", and shook his head at the idea of me walking. One of the girls’ at camp indicated it was about 3 blocks from the plaza. Distance, like time here, does not translate well.

The man indicated I would leave the bricks, take a left and follow the dirt road. He said “Quatro” and I thought minutes, not kilometers. So, I ambled off. And followed the dirt road into what eventually I thought was a new town. There are no signs, there is no stopping. There IS learning how to control your bladder: A skill you must learn quickly here as most bathrooms you don’t WANT to use and very few come with toilet paper (a word of warning).

So, I walked. And kept walking. And walked some more. Until I was on a rock laden dirt path and finally saw a sign indicating “Cafetal” a word I heard the visitor bureau gentleman use. But it seemed like it was sending me to a hotel. I would stop and ask strangers sweeping the dirt pathways outside their homes. You would think “plantacion de café” should translate, but like with most I say, I was met with vacant stares until we made the motions for coffee, and then the light would come on, and they would say, “Oh, si, plantacion de café, si. Si!” And point that I was on the right road.

I finally made it. And in typical me fashion, could not find my translator, my money, my sunglasses or my water. I unpacked my backpack six times. At one point, I even thought I had lost my camera. Trusting me on the road by myself is like God entrusting children to me to raise. One has to shake their head in wonderment, but somehow it works.

The dearest man, Mario, took me on a tour of the plantation. Despite my very poor language skills, I understood most of the process. The one year plants producing fruit, the three-year plants... The machine the crushed the first casing. The 30-hour, low-temp process to remove the second casing. Finally, the roasting and grinding. AND I learned that the reason it is all instant coffee here is because of the money that is made from export.

It is like Fiji water sold in the US, but the people of Fiji having no clean water to drink.

Once the technical talk was done, he told me of the color, the smell, the layer of depth, the natural process with no chemicals -- only sun and water and beautiful fruit.

And then he made me a cup of perfection.

Delicious handpicked, hand roasted, hand packed, exquisite delight. Sabor.

I can’t say much, but I can utter, “Perfecto.” It was so beautiful I almost teared up over a demitasse cup of coffee. No joke.

So, yes, I may join my friends in sampling the ever expanding new seasonal craft beer with delight and joy, but I am pretty sure that I will never top that moment of café with Mario on a little plantation in Buena Vista, with the rain lightly falling, the mountains wrapped in passing clouds, and the aroma telling me that distant lands are actually tangible.

Bravado ran through me. Because of the rain I dared my first motor bike taxi ride. In the rain. In the mud. Over a rugged terrain. I was terrified. “Let the man driving the bike be in control” is the best advice I can give. So, I did. I let go of my fear and was delighted at all that could transpire in a single day on the road.