Sunday (or the one in which Eli's ass becomes very, very sore)

Sunday was, without a doubt, the biggest adventure day of the trip. The day started off innocuously enough (showereatbus, as always), and our first stop--NACAS, an award-winning coffee growers' association and processing plant--was, while interesting, not hugely thrilling. We got a tour of the processing facility, seeing mostly drying vats, and an explanation of why the organization is necessary--it's a way for the growers to control their coffee longer, to add more value themselves, and thus increase their profit. If the 33 small growers weren't members of NACAS, they would have to contract out the processing done at the NACAS plant, and that would be a substantial hit to their bottom line. The economies of scale provided by the association, though, allow them to avoid this pitfall.

We should have known things were going to get interesting when, in order to get to our next stop, we were told to pile into the back of seven pickup trucks. From NACAS, the gringo parade (because that's really what we were) made it's way on some windy rural roads to the offices which house NACAS's ddatabase but also serve as community center with a large meeting space and classrooms with computers and the internet. It was built by the community for the community, and might serve as a sort of model for a project we might undertake in Najayo.

After the community center, though, things got interesting. We had been told that we were going up into the mountains to see one of the growers' farms and to have a traditional campesino lunch. The mountains had been visible in the background all day (our journey had gradually taken us toward them), but we hadn't seen any roads going up them. But don't worry, there was one--a rugged, dirt, pot hole-laden, switchback-foregoing, straight-up-the-side-of-the-mountain-so-you-better-hang-on-unless-you-want-to-fall-out-the-back sort of road. Riding up was, umm, to call it just uncomfortable would be an understatement. I think the discomfort of the situation was best summed up by my truck bed-mate Justin, who said, while hanging onto the side rail for dear life, "I've spent a lot of time in pick-up trucks [and he has--another great quote from Justin, which explians at least in part why he has spent so much time in pick-up trucks, came on the ride down: "I'm not gonna lie. The reason I like hunting is I like killing things. I'm not wasteful or anything--I eat what I kill--but the reason I like hunting is I like killing things. It's fun."], but this has got to be the worst one ever."

The views, though, were absolutely amazing. We stopped a couple times to take photos (I know I keep teasing you with references to pictures, I'm sorry) of the view down the mountain and of the lake below, and it was breathtaking in the literal meaning of the word--I actually gasped a couple times. It was one of the most gorgeous views I have ever seen in my life.

Once we got up to the top (45 minutes, about 500 vertical meters, and a billion potholes--and corresponding ass bruises--later), lunch was incredible: huge vats of rice and beans, pollo Americano and pollo campesino (which are differentiated not by preparation but by how they live their lives: American-style chickens are kept cooped up, campesino-style chickens are free range), some absolutely incredible goat, an actual salad that wasn't all cabbage, plantains, and fresh avocadoes (which are actually out-of-season right now, so they weren't quite as good as I hoped--that was the only disappointment of the meal). I think pretty much everyone went back for seconds, despite feeling like we're eating about six meals a day on this trip.

The farm itself really just blended right into the forest. I guess that on some subconscious level I was expecting a clearing, or a tiered system, or something to differentiate the growing operation from the surrounding wild, but that just wasn't the case. The avocadoes, plantains, mangoes, and--of course--coffee, as well as various other crops, are all just grown in the wild. It must make the process of picking a bit more difficult, especially since much of the farm is located on a fairly steep section of mountainside. It's also a space that is quite exposed during hurricane season; a few years ago a large section of mountainside directly below the road was washed out by an especially strong storm. Farming here, it seems, is not for the faint of heart.

The ride down further bruised my ass, and to add insult to injury on the way back to NACAS it began to rain. Although you wouldn't know it from the postcard-perfect weather we had experienced so far on the trip, it is the rainy season here. Our pickup driver pulled over and passed us a tarp out the cab window, which we used to cover up and stay dry while it rained. Upon returning to NACAS and getting back on the bus we were mercilessly made fun of for this (I don't think the word "pussy" was ever explicitly used, only implied), but what were we supposed to do, turn it down?

Perhaps the best part of the drive back, once we got off the mountains and, eventually, onto paved roads, was the way people reacted to Yuma, who was standing up and looking over the top of our pickup's cab. Almost everyone waved to him, and one group of girls who must have impeccable taste in men hollered "I love you" as we drove by. The gringo parade, it seems, was a real hit.

That was it for the day, but it was more than enough. I think when we boarded the bus we were all happy to return to padded seats, and when we got back to the Pads' complex we were all more than ready to eat, relax, and pass out.