Finca Monte Carlo

I have checked off one more item from my lifetime to-do list: to visit a coffee plantation, to taste the cherries, and see from whence my favorite beverage comes. Tucked into the mountains about two hours from Huatulco, Finca Monte Carlo is a lovely, family-owned operation, that I visited last weekend with Gary (the Englishman's Englishman), Caryl (my American boss), Celia (a French teacher) and Yulma (a Mexican linguistics professor).
We set off from Huatulco in a rattling camioneta, traveling by highway for the first 15 minutes or so, then turning onto a twisting dirt road that led higher into the mountains, which our driver casually navigated with one hand, the other clutching a faded red scarf kept pressed to his cheek. Since it seemed to serve no practical purpose, I was mildly concerned that it was some sort of good-luck charm, which I hoped would prove unnecessary. In any case, we went high and deep into the jungle for another 45 minutes and when the trees opened up enough to permit a view, we could see the browning of the dry season fading the previously lush hillsides. Having arrived at the end of the wet season, it had seemed difficult to imagine these rolling waves of greenery looking anything but impossibly verdant, but the branches were noticeably barer, patches of grey and dusty beige appearing on the slopes, large dried fronds and leaves crinkling and collapsing into powder beneath our wheels.
Eventually, after much swaying, bouncing and jarring, we arrived at a little puebla, dominated by a central church, half crumbling colonial stonework, half modern reconstruction. We uncoiled our cramped limbs from the seats and each other, paid the driver the startlingly small sum of 25 pesos each ($2.50US; not only that, a taxi ride within Huatulco is always and only 20 pesos, no matter where you go), and waited for our host to pick us up. Gary and I had to heed a call of nature, and a few minutes of walking and asking led us back to the church and the kiosko outside; sanitarios on the bottom, and the top half a bandstand, a somewhat odd arrangement, especially given the conditions below. The toilets, unlike the rest of the tidy, pleasant village, I fantasized as only being cleaned once a year in some ritual celebration involving the local priest and burning herbs, the rest of the time superstitiously left alone for fear of offending the local spirits. The stench was truly awful. In any case, by the time we'd escaped the noisome altar, after quickly pouring out our offerings, a battered but healthy white pick-up truck had arrived, driven by our host and owner of the finca, Efrain (spelling uncertain, forgot to check). Gary, Yulma and I hopped in the back, helped a dusty brown tree frog to hop out, Celia and Caryl got in up front, and we were off up a dirt road again. More twisty mountain bouncing, this time steeper and more gravelly. We forded two streams, and after perhaps half an hour of climbing, finally came to the gates of the plantation.
Just beyond the gates is the plantation house, a beautiful building that had obviously seen better days, but nevertheless maintained with love and care. Large, sprawling and open, the front half of its two stories are painted a peaceful brick red, flowers and palms and other nameless (to me) plants cluster around and over it, cobbled paths and patio embracing it. All its many windows and doors were open to the cooler air of the mountains, though it was still warm and sunny. Inside and out, the furnishings are clearly the collection of careful and tasteful generations; nothing is new, but all are of a time and character where quality and uniqueness were valued. On the walls are many pieces of art, from paintings to framed prints to a compelling woodcut in the stairwell, done by Ephrain's grandmother.
We were shown to our rooms on the top floor, each furnished with beautiful hardwood dressers, tables and beds, but the most stunning feature up there is the spacious gallery commanding a view of the compound and the mountains sloping away into green mistiness and clouds. Yes, the elevation is that high. After settling in (i.e. dropping our bags on our beds of choice), we got a short tour of the house, then came out onto the veranda, for, unsurprisingly, coffee. Our hosts, Efrain and his wife, Ana Berta, were animated and friendly, peppering us with questions and stories. I say "us," but as usual, I mostly sat and listened, as it was all in Spanish. I was pleased to be able to follow the general thread of the conversation, but by the time I gathered the words to say something, the moment was gone. It doesn't bother me though; I already know and understand more Spanish after not quite two months here than I ever learned of Polish in two and a half years, so I'm content with my progress.
Several cups and some oatmeal-like cookies later (biscuits to Gary, galletas here), we went to tour the grounds while lunch/dinner was being prepared. Efrain began by talking expansively about the big stump at the head of the short, cobbled drive, where he'd had to cut down an enormous tree. Not only had it been rotting, and thus a danger, but it also had been interfering with his satellite reception. Two birds with one saw. Then up the grassy track by an old stone aqueduct, fed from a large tank, in turn fed from the river we'd crossed. This provided all the water for the plantation, not only for plants, but for drinking, washing, and cleaning. Wonderfully clear and cool, it was a quiet rushing noise that threaded through our visit whenever we cared to stop and listen.
Back down the track, and through a wire gate, past a stand of three-story tall bamboo and we were walking among the coffee bushes. They really look more like small trees, with slender trunks from which branches begin sprouting about halfway up, heavy with dark, glossy, almost poisonous-looking leaves. At the base of the leaf stems is where the cherries grow; in a couple of weeks is harvest time, and then they will be a deep, translucent red, but for now they were still green and hard, like tiny Granny Smiths'. A few ripe ones were found for us to sample: a little disappointing. They were sweet, but without a terribly distinctive flavor and the two beans in each cherry leave little room for the whitish flesh anyway. I don't know what I'd expected, but something more, something that hinted at the flavors to come, and I didn't find it. The bushes themselves grow beneath a canopy of much larger trees, leaving it cool and shady where we walked and their gnarled branches were another cause for wonder and admiration. It wasn't quite clear to me as Efrain talked whether it was a completely organic operation, but they had lined the path and mingled with the bushes other plants, whose purpose was to discourage pests and protect the coffee, and from what I understood, it seemed to be working well.
Further back, we visited the children's cemetery, a family plot, maybe ten or twelve stone tombs, with a lime tree at one corner. Efrian and Ana Berta picked some fruit for us to take home with us, and there was nothing strange about it.
After the coffee bushes, we walked back to the compound, where we saw part of the processing facilities. Huge stone tanks like giants' bathtubs, one of which was currently home to large goldfish and tilapia, where the beans would be washed. Stretching out in front of them, several enormous tiers of flat, red-painted concrete where the beans would then be spread to dry over the course of four or five days. At opposite ends of the farthest one, were two basketball hoops, netless, their wooden backboards fading. This was also the largest open space we'd seen since leaving the puebla, and the view of the green mountains, the peaks rising behind us cloud-wreathed, the ones across the valley below us rolling away in mistier shades, was truly breathtaking.
We took a short turn around the back garden and through some other outbuildings, now clean and bare concrete, but soon to be full of people and coffee, roasting and grinding, and ended back on the veranda. Gary and Yulma and I had brought a bottle of mezcal, and when Efrian heard of this, nothing would do but that I bring it out and he his so that we might compare the two. I had been in charge of purchasing, and knowing no better, went with the pretty, tri-colored bottle, aptly named El Tri. Efrian's came in a large, clear, label-less bottle, produced in Puebla, north of us. He poured first, we toasted and drank; it was fiery and strong, with hints of smoke and unfamiliar aftertastes. Later, we poured the El Tri, and it was generally agreed that it was fine, smoother perhaps, but completely lacking in character.
All of that was made inconsequential by the meal that arrived on the table. Plate after platter after bowl came out, and we fell to with ravenous good will. First, a rich cream and asparagus soup, which held at bay the slight chill beginning to develop in the air. Next, large, thick handmade tortillas, each the size of a dinner plate, and shortly after rice tossed with oil and a little onion, thick cuts of beef tender and flavorful, a fresh lettuce and tomato salad (which sounds plain, but it's actually very difficult to find fresh lettuce here; I think there are infrequent shipments to Huatulco's markets, and if you don't buy it right away, the heads quickly wilt, so this was a pleasant surprise), mole and chicken tamales, bread, juice, the ever-present, always useful dish of limes, a dish of pickled jalapenos and sliced carrots, and of course, plenty of coffee. We gorged. There's really no other word for it. As we ate, it began to rain, a common occurence in the mountains, but it only served to make us feel cozier and snug, deep under the roof of the veranda, wrapped by well-tended gardens, the jungle beyond, filling ourselves with good food and company.
After, we sat and chatted, then drifted away one by one to nap and digest. I ended up in the hammock on the gallery outside my room, where I quickly dozed off without so much as cracking my book. When I woke, the sun was well behind the mountains, and I swung lazily, watching the flitter of bats across a clear, purplish sky, wishing them good hunting. At last, my bladder roused me, so I went downstairs and out to the toilet, and found Caryl on the veranda reading. She challenged me to a game of Scrabble, which I couldn't refuse. However, she had the Spanish edition, and even though she's my boss, I have to say I would have won if she hadn't insisted that the double l, the double r, and the n with the accent, all of which she played, keep their inflated point values, despite being used as regular, single English letters. But no matter.
The others arrived as we were finishing, then Efrian and Ana Berta brought out bowls of potato chips, cubes of queso fresco and green olives, Celia and Caryl broke out the wine they'd brought, and we fell to snacking and chatting once more. So passed our evening, and despite the naps we'd had, everyone went to bed early, all of us gone by eleven o'clock.
In the morning, after we'd all arisen, breakfast was served, just as overwhelming as the dinner the night before. In addition to the coffee, we had bread and tortillas, fresh fruit with yogurt, oats and honey, poached eggs topped with a mild sauce and bacon, black beans, and a fresh salsa. The sun was bright, the air already warm and inviting, bees and flies and ants and birds going about their business, the compound's dogs basking or barking or begging unobtrusively at the edge of the veranda. What better way to spend a Sunday morning?
After breakfast, after digestion and unhurried discussion, we decided to go swimming. This was a matter merely of walking five minute down the road to where the river crossed it. A small, swift stream cascading over pale boulders, cutting down the mountainside in a series of steep falls and small pools, a largish one of which spread out just before the road. Deep enough to swim, cold enough that Gary had to be dunked (he was really asking for it, I swear), surrounded by overhanging trees and bushes, and pure enough to drink. The force of the current was so strong that it was essentially a forever pool, the kind some people spend thousands of dollars on, but here nature had provided, and we spent a long time swimming against it, or trying to hang on to the rocks where it pounded down on the upstream edge. Eventually, the cold won out, which meant time to do some basking of our own on the boulders by the falls from the road, and so our afternoon passed, from sun-warmed rock to mountain-born water and back again.
When the sun was no longer high and direct (a period of three hours or so, I think) we made our way slowly back to the compound. It's possible that the thinner mountain air was affecting us, but we'd also exerted ourselves a great deal, so when, shortly after our return, lunch was served, we were ready and more than. This meal was a noodle and tomato soup, chicken and potatoes, more rice, more salsa, toast and tortillas, and then a green squash, almost like zucchini, cut lengthwise, topped with ham and cheese, baked and served on a bed of chopped lettuce. And of course, coffee.
And sadly, that was the end of our stay. Half an hour later, we were packed and climbing back into the pickup. Efrain and Ana Berta drove us down to the puebla, where we had to negotiate for a taxi in the fading light of sunset, small children giggling and creeping closer to stare at the gringos. We had no real choice but to pay almost three times as much for the return trip, so we did. The driver of this camioneta was younger than the first, but he negotiated the winding dirt road with the same one-handed nonchalance, though it was full dark by now. I closed my eyes and let the jungle night slip by me unremarked. When at last he dropped us off in La Crucecita, the finca and the weekend were already fading into memory, hurried along by the now-intrusive sounds of Huatulco. What had seemed a small, sleepy town on the coast when I first arrived, now felt all too urban and busy, loud and bustling even on a Sunday evening. But it was home, and pleasant for all that, even if no one will make me breakfast in the morning. Caryl, Celia and I made our goodbyes to Yulma and Gary, and headed up the street to our neighborhood. I left them at the Y-fork that separates our streets, walked the last few feet to my building, up the stairs, and into the stuffiness of an apartment unused for a couple days. Laid down on the sofa, tried not to count the hours before I had to return to work, reminded myself I love my job, and promised I would go back soon.

When in Huatulco, drive as the Huatulquenos do

What follows are my observations on driving in Huatulco only. Not to be construed as applying to Mexican drivers as a whole, since I have no road experience outside my little corner of the country. Just as East Coast drivers are different from West Coast drivers are different from Southern drivers, rural from urban or suburban, I assume it's likely a similar variety exists in Mexico. However, here in Huatulco, these are the prevailing rules of the road:
1. Obey the posted speed limit, except when: a) you want to go faster; b) you want to go slower; c) you didn't see it.
2. Stay in your own lane, except when: a) you are trying to avoid a pothole; b) you are passing somebody; c) it feels better in the center; d) you weren't paying attention; e) you see somebody you know and have to swerve to wave at them.
3. Come to a complete stop at all stop signs, except when: a) you are sure you can beat the traffic; b) nobody is around; c) pedestrians are crossing in front of you (in which case, slow way down, but keep moving so they don't know if they should go or not).
4. Use your horn: a) when the light turns green; b) just before the light turns green; c) to attract passengers (if you are a taxi driver); c) to say hello to friends; d) to say goodbye to friends; e) to let your friend know you are there to pick them up (if the first five or six blasts don't work, keep trying. Only losers quit); f) to let scooter riders know you are there, but only when you're right behind them or passing; g) your stereo has stopped working and you need to keep the beat to the song you're singing.
5. Do not go the wrong way down a one-way street, except when: a) you made a mistake; b) you're driving backwards; c) you only have to go three or four blocks; d) someone else is coming the correct way.
6. Use your blinkers: a) all the time; b)never.
7. Leave a courteous amount of distance between you and the car ahead, except when: a) you are at a stop light/sign; b) you are in motion.
8. When parking, make sure you do one or more of the following: a) park headfirst and leave the back sticking out in the street; b) pass the spot, drive a block or more, then back up till you reach it, at which point do a); c) double park in front of a scooter, so it can't get out; d) if you are in a lot, angle your car to cover at least two spots; e) stop wherever you are and get out, you'll just be a minute.