tirsdag 19. juni 2012

Bean there, done that. My day as a coffee miller

View of the sorting machine. At the end of the tray there are three bags, one for each grade. The tray is constantly shaking, and Ernie adjusts the angel and speed so that the best beans end at the right side (from here). Here he makes sure that the bag contains exactly 50 kg.
For a man whose guidebooks can become dogeared already before the trip has started, this feels a bit strange, but: The best experiences can come as a result that you did not check your Lonely Planet (or Rough Guides, Moon, Bradt, or whatever you prefer).

This time it came because I rather trusted local advice. The locals were wrong. Lonely Planet were right, but that I only found out later.

Thankfully. Because this mistake resulted in one of the highlights of my trip to Costa Rica.

The info papers at the language school Montaña Linda (the same papers that told about the waterfall at the property of the excentric coffee farmer Nano) also recommended a coffee plantation that does guided tours, Finca Cristina in the next village, Paraíso.

Coffee plantations are everywhere in the Orosi valley. The sketch meticulous rows of green in the hillsides, or can be seen in the deep behind bushes, banana trees and shadow trees.

But that's all you get to see. Therefore I decided to take the 07.15 bus towards  Cartago, and hailed a taxi for the last kilometers.
The beans at Finca Cristina are shadegrown. Juan prunes the trees.

The gate was closed. Three or fore dogs came running and started to bark. I could see no one else. I was on a gravel road quite far outside of town, the taxi had left, and other cars would be rare out here. Luckily, after a few minutes a woman came out.

- Do you have a tour today? I asked.

- No, she replied.

- But come in, she added, to my great relief.

Then I was introduced to Ernie Carman, an american with white Hemingway beard, cap, and as much as seven adopted street dogs constantly around. He stood by the sorting-machine, in a clamor that would have made factory workers strike.

Machines do almost everything in a modern coffee mill. One machine squeeze the pulp from the recently harvested beans and another one rinses the slime before they are washed and dried. 

When they are dry, and the farmer decide that the time and price is right, they are sorted. That's a fully automatic phase - a phase where no human hand needs to touch the beans on their way to the bag. They are sucked from the storehouse to a peeler, and from there to another machine that cleans the last remains of the shells, before they wiggle their way over the sorting machine and into one of the three bags at the end: 1. grade, 2. grade (that is run back into the machine for another sorting) and 3. grade.

Even later, and yet again when the farmer finds the time and/or the price right, the beans are burned and - sometimes, if they aren't sold whole - grinded.
"The washing board" sorts coffee by the same principle as the gold washing of old.

Ernie made sure the bags were replaced before they filled ut, put an empty one in place, and took time to show me around the factory.

Few coffee plantations have the hardware to do the full prosess like Finca Cristina does. It makes Ernie and his wife Linda get a better price for their crop. But the farm is really too small to make the investment pay.

- I bought this as a total wreck and repaired it myself, he said of the gigantic, two story sorting machine. 

- New it would cost 30.000 dollars. That's way too much. I would have to produce 50.000 bags of coffee for it to pay back. It would have taken me 50 years, he said. 

After a while, he started asking me to help with small favors. I was sent up on the planks, high under the ceiling, to shuffle beans into the sorting machine, and when the last bean had been sorted into its bag, he asked me to climb up and turn if off.

- There is a small teddy by the button, he guided.

After each bag had been filled and found to be at least 50 kilos, he stitched them. And together we piled them on the floor.
- Bring your camera and follow me, said Ernie. Then he showed me the new guest in the shed: a porcupine. - It sleeps here, he said. - And your dogs? - I think they have learned by now.

Ernie sighed.

- The first six bags, he said. The order was 150.

That is also among the best things about travelling. You can see, sometimes maybe even participate and gain an even better insight in the local culture. But at the same time you can move on, long before the new and exiting has become a daily struggle and the hard life begins.
50 kilos, a little more and never less. Ernie fills the last grams to be on the safe side.
PS! In Lonely Planet they get it right: Finca Cristina is only open on reservation. So that's the truth. It's only that sometimes it pays off to be wrong.
A deserved break. Some of the seven street dogs are around.

torsdag 24. mai 2012

The mist-ery of Tatev


Armenia is a country of spectacularly situated houses of worship. And the Tatev Monastery might just be the most spectacular of them all. 

The pictures on the web leave no doubt:

Creative commons-bilde av Alexander Naumov
Tatev on a clear day. Wikimedia Commons: Alexander Naumov
The monastery complex, that was built as early as 895-906 AD, has been put so dramatically in nature - balancing right above a vertical cliff - that the myth about how it got its name, gets an extra potency.

It says that the architect could not manage to climb down after he completed the cupola of the main church, and that in his desperation he shouted: "Togh astvats indz ta-tev" meaning "may God give me wings".

As a tourist in Armenia you can easily overdose on churces. But the photos left me without doubt. I was going to see Tatev.

That made the town Goris only 35 kilometers away a natural base. Bradt Guides describes it as "the most attractive town of southern Armenia", but everything is relative. At least when the fog and drizzle lay thicker than the smoke from old Soviet lorries in a long uphill.

That makes Goris a dirty, dismal town of Poor Armenia, with packs of skinny street dogs and wheel tracks as dirt stains on the asphalt. At night things gets even gloomier. Deserted streets with dreary apartment blocks, barely any street lights, and mud, gravel and pot-holed asphalt. At least, one of the restaurants was open. It looked like a class room decorated for a graduation ceremony. Then it was goodnight. That comes early on a foggy autumn day in Goris. Luckily.

An almost clear moment in the city park of Goris.
So what do you do, when the fog is as tight as a sausage also next morning? There can be no views from Tatev in such conditions.

I went nonetheless. What else could i do? Stay in Goris? 

The taxi driver did not hesitate. He was stearing past loose rocks and landslides, rolling down windy hills without railings with switch for the the gas engine on "off". I was crossing my fingers for two things: That we would stay on the road, and that the sky would clear.

One of my wishes came true. But at we reached Tatev, the clouds laid just as low as ever, if not lower.

Before long I was not so sure if it really mattered. Because the atmosphere was just as tight.

Tatev in fog. The main church's cupola is just visible.

An empty monastery, now almost invisible. Empty stone halls with no lights. Moist khachkars lying on the ground or leaning to the walls.

And the church had a mass. Red candles burning in a bin, two priests with deep voices and the same number of choir boys answering in high-pitched voices. .The smell of incence. And outside the fog was so thick that grey balls of it drift in every time someone opens the door. As incence too.

And the chanting. Clear. For the priests I guess that's more important that what the panoramic views look like.

You should also read my blog about Armenia's traditional memorial stones, khachkars

The market in Goris. Ladas are still the most popular car...
One of the lovely side streets of Goris.

onsdag 23. mai 2012

Orosi Valley: Real Nano tourism

High above the Orosi valley lives Nano, the hospitality himself.
God must have been in a rabid mood when he created Orosi. Here, there are almost no such thing as a level space; the landscape is like a green mural painted on the steep walls of the valley. The only way to get some overview of the dirt roads, coffee plantations and minor settlements, is actually to view it from great height on the other side of the walley.

That way you can point out most places in the vicinity. But not the house of the man that this post is about. Even then his house escapes from view.
The coffee farmer Nano lives in a house he has built himself, high up one of the  side valleys that wind steeply up from the centre of Orosi. Even the canyon's only almost-sight (except Nano himself), a 30 meter high waterfall, drops down from its edge almost a hundred meters below the two story house.

At Nano's place bold hillsides quiet the sounds of cars, dogs and the bustle from town. It is not a place where the average car tourist in the Orosi valley stops by.
Landscape near the Orosi valley. Steep, as everywhere in the area.

If you stay one week at the Montaña Linda language school, priorities becomes different. Then you most likely have no rental car and seven mornings or afternoons to kill. You have time for the small sights, those spots that never make it into the guidebooks.

Sometimes, those are the very places that result in the fondest memories. At least, that's the case with Nano.

I doubt that he has a lot of education. Rich he is not. That puts no limit to the hospitality he shows visiting gringos.

Already in the cross of two paths at the opposite side of the brook, Nano comes out to meet us, together with two of the three dogs that share his forest paradise (like "all" Costaricans he have found them on the street).

He invites us to sit around one of the tables on the terrasse, offers bananas (from bunches hanging from hooks under the roof) and coffee, before he begins his routine.

He talks like a rapid while gesticulating with two hands that clearly show that he is a man of the earth. He tells about bananas (- There are 500 types of them in the world. On my farm alone I have 10.), animals, nature and history, and browses through a pile of coffee bags informing us which ones are good and which ones are not, but in dire need of milk, sugar or whisky before consumption.

- Export, says Nano about coffee made from first grade beans.

- Pffhhssss, he whistles to the worst bags, pointing thumbs down.

Peasants like him drink only fourth grade coffee - made from beans that were harvested while still green (finally they have to be picked, and laid in the sun in a last attempt to mature them) - and that has a sour taste. Therefore sugar is added to the coffee already in the bag.

- I drink Rey. It's fourth grade, but OK. We should have had whisky, that makes it better, but I am out of it, he smiles.

After that deeply personal introduction to coffee he show us around his house. It is huge, with two bedrooms downstairs and three upstairs, all of the top rooms complete with bunk beds with matresses.

- That was to little use. The cats have slept in them, he laughs.

Kitchen, the only place with running water.
His plan is to open a hostel. He just have to finish building the house. Complete with all the cons that tourists need although he himself can manage perfectly well without. Like tap water in the bathroom, not only in the washing-up area in the kitchen. And electric power. That he will get from solar panels or a mini power station in the creek, as it will be way to expensive to lay cables all the way from the valley floor.

- For me it's not necessary. But for the tourists it is, he explains.

It has become too late for any work this afternoon. Instead Nano finds cues and we move the protection from his billiard table.

We are deep in the woods, inside imprenetable native forest and bold plantations. A chicken sits in the tree outside. We play billiard on a table that is almost level.

- Feliz navidad, Nano says every time one of us miss spectacularly. When it is time for the black ball, he lets me win.

I have my doubts regarding his hostel, so far away from and above roads and civilization. The same goes with his business skills. But one thing is clear: It would be hard to find a kinder host.

Nano makes a fire in the kitchen, to make coffee.

This could very well be Orosi's only billiard hall.

A clearing in the hills where he intend to plant coffee.

mandag 6. februar 2012

Italy at its friendliest: Pietrapertosa

Pietrapertosa west and Pietrapertosa east. The castle is on the clifftop, centre.

Your Italy and our Italia is not the same thing, writes Beppe Severgnini in his "insider's guide" to Italians, "La Bella Figura". I am not the one to argue. But I think that there is at least one point where gli italiani and the Italians of our preconseptions meet, at least the way I read Severgnini: The Italians thrive making exceptions. Sometimes this will lead to frustration, but more often than not their exceptions tend to manifest themselves through generosity and helpfulness. 

Americans - and Englishmen, Swedes, Germans, Norwegians, Danish, Dutch and whatever - seem to dream about meeting this contagious warmth among the rolling hills, vines and cypresses of Tuscany. I'm sure they can, too. From time to time. But a welcome has a tendency of becoming less effusive when it is repeated, repeated and repeated, for Americans, Englishmen, Swedes, Norwegians... After a while the tourist stop being an exception.

That makes the Italian south a better prospect. Not better as in gentler scenery, richer art and more elegant towns. If cypresses in the pastel light of morning mist is what you seek, you'd better go to your Tuscany.

What I mean by better, is more hearty. With more time to make all those exceptions that Italy is made of. (And less money; the formula time=money should be re-written: time≠money - the more money, the less time.)

The road to Pietrapertosa. View towards Castelmezzano.
As in Pietrapertosa, a town of 1342 inhabitants at 1088 meters above sea level in Basilicata, one of the poorest regions in Italy. 

From the autostrada all I can see is the peaks of Dolomiti Lucane, in the distance they look like a bewitched bar graph. As soon as I have turned around the last hairpin curve, I find that those steep dolomites is Pietrapertosa. The village in clinging so tightly to the rock that the cliffs almost form the forth wall of the houses.

Not many tourists come here. And maybe that's why the welcome is so warm. 

Street view in Pietrapertosa.
It feels like I have already said hello to half the village when I'm finally in my room - not at the albergo diffuso, Le Costellazioni, as planned, but that's too long a story.

I'll just say that at that point I had been sitting on a plastic chair at the tobacconist while he had called Alberto, the postman who manage Le Costellazioni in cooperative with the rest of the house owners, but Alberto could not help because the hotel was closed, the houses cold, and this is in March at more than 1000 above sea level; but nevertheless: Alberto had in his turn called the teacher Teresa, because Teresa has a house. And ten minutes later she arrives to the small kiosk where we are waiting, and leads us to a house with five beds, two living rooms, a bath, kitchen and Chopin in the CD player. The rent is 30 euro for one night.

Later Alberto drives me around town in his car to show me where to find what. Then I have dinner.

On my way home I pass Zamby's Bar. It is remarkably crowded for a Sunday in a town of 1300 people. I enter.

- In the north the work, here we drink. There are no work anyway, says Domenico, one of the men I meet in the bar. We have walked outside, because his friend Aldo has brought his dog, a gigantic 18 months old German shephard.

- Tomorrow you are not going to any restaurant. Tomorrow you will have lunch at my place, Aldo invites.

Facade in Pietrapertosa.
He is a mason, but this Monday he will take the day off.

- Long weekend, he jokes.

Next morning, white snow has sprinkled the mountains to the west and south. I stroll around town, criss-crossing the maze of stairs and portals. Many houses are abandoned, other places I can hear chickens clucking from inside almost hidden nettings. The place smells of wood and coal, the winter smell of the Italian south.

Not much is happening in Pietrapertosa. The Norman castle has been closed for repair for years, the abbey is locked, but on a point to the north of town at least someone has made Volo dell' Angelo: a zip line to the next village (!) Castelmezzano, another cluster of houses almost as dramatically situated - and just as Pietrapertosa a member of the organization The most beautiful villages of Italy.

The zip lin is closed for winter (In 2012 it opens 29 April), but Pietrapertosa will do for me. The village and the mountains. The cliffs look like molars in grandpa's mouth, a jaw full of holes, and the holes are filled with buildings. Three places the village break through the rock walls, and the stairs meet small roads on the other side.

Zamby's Bar is a meeting place both day and night.

My shoes are wet and my feet are cold when I enter Zamby's Bar. Aldo is sitting by a table playing cards. I talk to a man and his old father while I'm drinking coffee.

Then Aldo comes up to me. He buys prosecco, refusing to let me pay.

- In the south we are hospitable, he says pouring us another round.

After three or four glasses we go home to his house. He lives with his parents just by the piazza. He is 37 and has ten siblings. Some live abroad, one of his sisters lives in Switzerland after marrying last August. We flicker through the photo book from their wedding, it shows a well-built woman and a flimsy Swiss. Aldo's mother (72) is in charge at the kitchen, his 83 year old father is sitting by the window.

- What do you want to eat? Pasta? Aldo enquires.

I don't know what to answer. This is no à la carte-restaurant, I say. But oh no. Yes it is.

Aldo and his mother put salami, cheese, squares of bacon, dried blacks olives, two types of sausage, salted spicy bacon, pizza margherita and pizza bianco (thick, that thin pizza in the restaurants is nothing, claims Aldo) and bread on the table. Aldo pops the plastic cap off a bottle of homemade wine, while his mother puts sausages packed into aluminum in the embers in front of the owen, and puts pecorino cheese on a rack over the fire.

Scorching hot sausages.

Thin pizza is for sissies!

We munch scorching spicy sausage and melted goat cheese, swallowing it with bread, pizza and wine. Delicious! 

- You can't eat like this in a restaurant, Aldo grins.

When Vito comes we are chock full. Vito is a teacher, but in summers and weekends he manages the Volo dell' Angelo. We drink grappa and coffee, then we go out.

The fog has set, but we go on with our plan. Vito and Aldo want to show me the castle. Truth be told, it is closed, but who cares? When you have guests... We clamber over the fences, climb up the scaffoldings and balance up the stone stairs that the Normans cut into the rock. Sometimes I can glimpse the ochre tiles 200 meters below. The grappa, redwine and prosecco musserende make my legs sway, but I manage. We all manage. No one falls. We don't see much either, but that doesn't matter much. 

For I am going back, right? Hopefully, I will be a very welcome exception also the second time around. 

Pietrapertosa just after sunset.
View towards Castelmezzano.