Coffee Country Part Deux

The asphalt roads fall to deepened shoulders of sodden, sticky clay. Splayed along the way, the wafting scent of incense and coffee spills to the messy red walk, ode of the shops that roast their fresh beans in an hour-long ceremony. Jimmá is the heart of coffee country. The plant finds its way to ornamental gardens weighed by their over-born fruits and peaks out from every shaded seclusion. I do indeed take advantage of the 25-cent espresso of unmarked brand, drinking amply with every meal.

Most all that I know here is gleaned through Andrew. With a taste for fine whisky, he wonkishly maneuvers this foreign land, adroitly calling out requests in Amharic. Together we boyishly enjoy the world cup and with infinite patience he fields my endless queries. With his help, we made our way to Jimma University for our first meeting with the research team.

In a hard, downward pull, the Ethiopians yank my extended hand towards the earth, drawing my shoulder forward in a joyous half hug. This common greeting bespeaks of the open culture that pervades this country. No crime deters their openness and stands in stark contrast to any other experience I have known. I often see men walking arm-in-arm and in our meetings, one professor massaged the shoulders of his seated colleague.

 After some powerpoints and lengthy talks, we moved to a truck that took us higher uphill. There we found our first farmer plot. His small cottage ground was overrun with weeds. Towards the back, a few rows of trial corn eked out a spot among the furor of vegetation. As we posed further questions, four young ones straggled along, faces of flies and runny noses, serious until prompted otherwise. Eventually I managed to let on take a picture of his father with my camera and bid my adieu as we moved along to our second farmer run trial. The second’s elaborate clay home upstaged the first’s. The reddish clay of the walls ran smooth, and the sharp lines of the house were elegantly angled. Run by a thinnish, rather scrawny man, the farm was much more tamed. In his tree hung columns built to house bees. Cabbage and khat grew along the property’s borders. Yet, despite his attention to detail, the eager weeds choked down the all else in his carefully prepared beds.

Before dinner, Andrew and I sat talking behind the hotel. Excitedly we calculated and hypothesized, his insight sparking questions and answers simultaneously. Slowly our talks descended to banal matters until finally, before the frenzy of football madness, finally erased all thoughts of higher matters. For now, soccer reigns over our evenings, but with our work borne bare in a short tour of struggling crops, our real task will soon take precedent over coffee shops and more innocent meanderings.