Roberto Kuyumjian’s paternal and maternal grandparents fled Armenia during the Turkish genocide of 1.5 million Christian Armenians in the early 1900’s. With tears in her eyes and overtaken by emotion, his grandmother would tell the story of her escape, as a child rolled up inside a burlap bag. Armenia, the first nation to adopt Christianity as a state religion, nearly disappeared as a country when half of its population was wiped out by Ottoman Turks. Many found respite in the western free world. Brazil, its friendly populace, warm weather and vast territory gladly embraced amongst others, Armenian immigrants. Three generations later Roberto and his Brazilian wife enjoy the bounties of a free society and a rich heritage in not least of which, coffee plays its part. Dalva grew up on a coffee farm in town called Formiga where coffee farms blanket the landscape, migrant workers flood town during harvest and rambunctious coffee barons brashly sport their latest wheeled acquisitions. Dalva favors a fireside brew, made from freshly roasted beans, fine ground, steeped in pre-boiling water in a pan, cloth filtered, served in demitasses with a chunk of fresh farmer’s cheese to boot. Roberto does not have much use for coffee for his own enjoyment, yet not a visit to his home goes unattended by the rich brew. Incidentally, in his thriving human relations business, he encourages managers to take time to talk to their subordinates in an informal setting, preferably and most appropriately around a “cafezinho”, the ubiquitous Brazilian brew. So, Life…Coffee…Simple.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
School Time
As I walk out the door I can hear the screaming engine of the intercity bus coming up the mile long incline on the last stretch of the only road linking Santa Fe, a community of campesinos, to Santiago, a prosperous crossways along the PanAmerican highway in Western Panama. It is seven in the morning, I’ll try not to miss the bus today. The next one comes in half an hour. I wouldn’t mind walking a mile or two to town except that it is uphill. By the time I got up there I would be sweaty and I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee. So I run, wave, run some more and hop in.
It is early for the working crowd but not for the learning crowd. Five middle school kids take the front seats, all impeccably dressed in blue and white uniforms. Quietly and well behaved they look out the windows as if enjoying the breathtaking scenery.
Santa Fé is a pueblo. Campesinos tend their farms during the week and come to town on the weekend for groceries. There is a church and school sitting side by side. Then, across the street, a grocery store, shrewdly run by a Chinese woman. Beside it, another store, cooperatively managed by Cooperativa La Esperanza de los Campesinos, a farmer’s coop and my hosts for the week.
The bus makes its final stop at the school. The students dutifully pay five cents for the fare, step out, make a split second flattered stop to pose for my camera and off they go. Free enterprise, cooperativism, education andworship, all is well in this remote community nestled in the dramatic mountains of Panama. They too like me, enjoy pursuit of happiness, hopes of a better future and betterment of their lives. I pay my fare and walk to the grocery store where I pay another five cents to enjoy my first cup of coffee of the day. Coffee, yes coffee. Coffee generates the economy of this community and I am there to help them improve the quality of their coffee. How about a second cup! It’s school time.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Sunday, November 07, 2004
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