Month: September 2011

  • I Drink a Lot of Coffee

    4:45 am.  Neo wakes up and starts laughing, talking loudly, singing,etc.

    5:00 am.  Neo’s noise has woken Myles.  Myles proceeds to get Neo out of his cot (crib for you Americans).

    5:05 am.  Coffee Guy stumbles into the lounge before two little boys can destroy anything more.

    5:06 am.  Espresso machine is turned on.

    I drink a lot of coffee.

    In Burundi I’m referred to as a “Buyer” by the people in the coffee industry.  A Buyer is a person who can change lives and give hope to farmers and economies.  They are also the guy who disappoints and confuses.  Buyers have a whole world of politics and drama attached to each word said or conversation NOT had.

    That’s a whole lot of pressure.  And let’s be real, I’m not the world’s answer to coffee farmers woes.  I came to Burundi to make a difference in the lives of farmers.  I envisioned whole scale change and holistic renewal of rural communities!  To help be a part of the change needed in this desperate land full of potential sucked dry by decades of war and unrest.  But then coffee world politics and pressure creep in.  The day to day mountain of mundane and time consuming work and phone calls.  Fears begin to paralyze me.  I wake me up at night dreaming of soldiers, or was that really gun shots that woke me?  I fear driving to pick up samples because of all the police pulling people over.  And the pressure I sense of the looming wet season that will render the coffee less desirable if it sits much longer in storage before being shipped.

    It’s not quite 6 am and I’m feeling overwhelmed.  Thats when I know I need a drink.

    A double espresso, perhaps a six cup Chemex, but usually a couple macchiatos.  I read my Bible, make the boys oatmeal, and have a second cup. Perspective and focus return.

    We are here to make a difference.  It won’t happen overnight, or in three months.  Our vision is still the same. I just need to breathe, be patient, and realize that something bad or frustrating will happen today (yes, it will).  But that frustration will not define us or our hope for this place.

    Then I get to cup.  Slurp coffee 40 cups at a time.  On a good table I’ll find a coffee that blows my mind.  On those occasions I run up  and get Kristy, “You have got to try this lot!”  She spoils me rotten with her interest.  Affirms my excellent selection.  Cocks an eyebrow at my descriptor of a “creamy smooth body, delicate acidity with raspberry jam and a lime zest finish.”  My over-cupped self is happy to find an ear to declair the truths of this amazing cup to.  I’m not the first to discover this washing station in Kayanza called Gatare. But I am the first to taste this micro-lot and confirm that the farmers there really have something special.  I gave it an 89.  A score that will inevitably put this coffee into one of the best coffee shops in the world. A coffee shop willing to pay a little extra for a great coffee, willing to put a little more into the farmer’s pockets this year.  I go back down to my lab.  I have another 40 cups ready to go.

    I drink a lot of coffee.

    It’s our start at trying to make a difference.

    Coffee Guy

     

  • the chocolate pirates

    I’m up. In the middle of the night. This happens to me on and off, especially when I hear weird noises that may or may not be gunfire. All this wakefulness has gotten me thinking about our weirdest night in Burundi. We had been here a little over a month when I woke up in the middle of the night with my mommy radar going wild. I hadn’t heard anything that I could remember, I just knew I needed to check on the kids. When I did I had the shock of my life. I could not find those babies anywhere. The crib was empty. The bed was empty. I wandered around the house calling out their names and got no response. I felt like I was stuck in some really bad black and white old school movie scene dream. I could not believe that they were just gone! I thought once or twice about whether or not I was really awake, figured out that I was, then started screaming for them instead of  calling out their names nicely. I went to the front door and as I did I noticed it was slightly ajar.

    Outside, in the driveway, on the ground were both of my beautiful boys and the 60 year old night guard John. Myles had brought his entire bedroom outside, including his brother. All his blankets were on the ground and he and Night Guard John and Neo were having a picnic. A picnic that consisted entirely of one thing, my dark chocolate stash that I keep, scratch that, that I kept in the fridge. There they were, Neo on Night Guard John’s lap, all with a huge slab of chocolate in their hands. Night Guard John included. He was just polishing off a piece of my Lindt 70% and looked like a little kid with his hand caught in the candy jar.  Now, if you have been following along for while you might remember one of my many freak-outs about the price and availability of chocolate in Burundi. If not, let me fill you in. Chocolate is expensive here. Were talking it-can-be-$25-a-bar expensive AND be covered in an inch of dust from sitting on the shelf for a year. Or two. Or three.

    Luckily, I discovered them before they finished off my whole stash, and because I don’t want them to grow up with some strange complex regaurding dark chocolate (a complex their mother may or my not already have) I chose not to inflict bodily harm on my biggest little for chocolate pirating. As for sailing the seas unattended at night, well… now we lock every door between them and the front door. And we lock the front door twice.

    When I put them back in bed, after washing off their sticky brown fingers, I couldn’t help but feel like I had just been in a nightmare constructed especially for me. If the universe were ever going to go out and create my perfect nightmare, it would definatly include missing babies and missing chocolate.

    I’m off to bed. See you in the morning… if you happen to show up in the driveway for a picnic.

    Kristy

  • but somehow…

    In silence I can finally see you.

    This aloneness soothes my weary self away.

    Even though it’s just.one.minute.

    I’m bent like a twig before you,

    the Creator of all time.

     

    My minds eye wanders to love.

    Your love for this place.

    I can see it as clear as day, you love this land.

    You are chasing it down…

    like my baby, arms wide, running after a new friend.

     

    This no electricity, barely any running water,

    dusty, pot hole infested, people killing for no reason land.

    You hover over it.

    Aching to snatch it up from misery.

    To hold it close.

     

    Here the sun shines like a light chasers dream.

    Like my dream.

    The mountains are purple with it,

    the lake reflects it back boldly.

    You love this land and at first…

     

    I thought I didn’t.

    I thought I couldn’t.

    I was sure I wouldn’t…

    but somehow,

    I already do.

  • the Dino-my

    He’s a dinosaur. He’s a Myles. He’s a Dino-my, and the Dino-my rocks. End of story.

  • My open sore floor show

    Do you know those weeks that seem like ten thousand weeks all rolled into one? The ones where you look back on Sunday and can’t believe ALL OF THAT LIFE fit into one week? I just finished one of those. When last week began I didn’t have a five year old, and then suddenly I did. A tantrum throwing, I hate you yelling, sweet talking, cuddly love of a five year old. I also had a terrible horrible embarrassing THING on my face. I noticed an innocent zit on my chin before going to bed one night, but while I slept it turned into a monster the likes of which I have never seen. When I woke up, it was an open sore that had a pulse all it’s own. The monster would not heal. It refused, despite strict orders to myself not to even touch the darn thing. For one whole solid week it would leak and weep and leak some more until… my lymph nodes were swollen to the size of  jawbreakers. Then Saturday morning I woke up with tonsillitis too. The morning of Myles’ big birthday bash. Yeah, that’s right… I invited his WHOLE CLASS to our house plus other new friends, all so they had a front row seat at my open sore floor show.

    Somehow I got through it. I told myself to suck it up because this day was not about me… but inside I wanted to run away and cry and not let a soul see me. Instead I faced them… mostly by avoiding mirrors. Thirty kids, their parents and Myles’ teacher. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking it probably was not nearly as bad as I am describing, because “that Kristy” is such a drama queen… I can be, it’s true, but I am not exaggerating about this other BEING I was carrying around on my face.

    Early in the day it began to pour and our outdoor Star Wars party ended up inside. Just imagine thirty kids and their parents (and a few people without kids that I think are insanely brave for even setting foot in my house on that day) all inside. It was one big old Norwegian “Uff-Duh” and I woke up the next morning unable to swallow, with now golf ball sized lymph nodes and the friend on my face still naked as the day it was born. Ben called one of our great doctor friends from South Africa and asked him what to do. Then he zipped out like a hero and bought me some prescription antibiotics over the counter without a prescription for next to nothing. Ahh, I love Burundi. My open sore floor show is beginning to heal, but what a terrible awful no good tag along it has been.

    I have to make one observation after all this. Clearly something is in the water here, above and beyond just Cholera, because we seem to be striking out in the keeping healthy department early into the game. Maybe we need to eat more apples… if we can find some.

    Now I’m craving apples. Dang it!

  • Keep Calm…

    Luv,
    Kristy

  • The Bikes of Burundi

    The bicyclists of Burundi are amazing. They carry insanely disproportionate loads on the backs of their bikes. One day we saw an ENTIRE bedroom set on the back of a bike. A bed frame and two side tables. These “bike taxis” are everywhere used to transport everything. Often bikers get in accidents with cars, people, motorbikes and probably other things too.

    This (somewhat strange) video shows bikers on the road from Burundi’s coffee hills into the city where we live, Bujumbura. Cyclists take this route to and from the hills everyday transporting all sorts of things.

    Luv,
    Kristy

  • Truth and the Burundi Coffee Hills

    Truth and the Burundi Coffee Hills

    expat living, burundi coffee, coffee farmHere’s the bone rattling truth, and I bet you never guessed it… I’m finding Burundi to be a difficult place to live. Beautiful, but difficult. Even though we are among the 2% with electricity and we have a nice big bed to sleep in at night, it’s still not easy. Communication is so challenging that by the end of the day I want to curl up in a ball and cry… and sometimes I do. The whole family has not had a solid poo between us since we moved here. The shower trickles out every morning and the boy’s bath takes over an hour to fill… one quarter of the way. We have five sinks… and only 2 work. Zero toilet seats. One refrigerator that barely works. There is a sugar shortage, a beer shortage, a petrol shortage, a water shortage, and an electricity shortage. There is also a shortage on human beings who are not corrupt or “after something.” We see guns every day, they are everywhere. We hear grenades… every day. These things are not terrible travesties in themselves, but they add up. Like points on a board, all stacking up against our resilience. Slowly wearing down the resources of our being.

    Everywhere we go we are aware that we are different. In the coffee hills often the kids are too scared of “the mzungu babies” to play with the boys. But they will watch them. All.day.long. they will watch. For a short period of time this is ok, but when you live here it begins to get you bone-weary. Like living in a petri dish, hot and back lit for better viewing. I’ve begun to wonder if my children will grow up feeling like they are separate. different. or even, special. Is this place going to be positive or negative for them? Because if negative is the answer…. well. Or will it just be life, an existence normal to them but foreign to their parents.

    We have days of spirited hope, and days when we see the formation of dark clouds hovering just over our souls. On those days, the cloud hovering days, there is no place to escape it. No movie theatre. No shopping mall. No TV (that one’s our choice). No sushi. No refreshing distractions… instead we just have to look ourselves smack dab in the face.

    It helps to gather the troops… bring some America or South Africa our way in the form of our new expat friends, silly traditions, hamburgers… anything. Sometimes we make popcorn, watch a really American movie and talk to some really South African friends on Skype. I also love going to the houses of those who get a container of their things shipped here when they move. A whole big huge container. When you walk into their houses it’s like walking into a mini-America or a mini-England right down to the gas grill…. I LOVE it. I leave so refreshed from being in the presence of Ikea curtains (technically not American, but you know…) and Yankee candles.

    We spent TEN YEARS in South Africa and I never ever felt this separate, this distant, this DIFFERENT from the culture I am living in. Not ever. In fact there I became myself, I met who I really am on the southern tip of this beautiful continent. And it is the same continent I am on now… but man, it feels a world away.

    I already need a break. A bit of time. Time to wrap my head around life here. To slow down. To get out of the petri dish. To remember why we made this leap in the first place. To listen to the God who created me… to hear Him whisper,

    “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD,

    “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

    Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.

    You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

    Jeremiah 29:11-13


    I am cringing at the thought of posting this. It all sounds so whiny, but of course I’ll do it anyway.

    The evening rain is rolling in and here’s more from our beautiful Burundi coffee hills…

     

  • Burundi the beautiful

     

    Oh, Burundi.

    You are the fourth poorest nation in the world.

    Burundi.

    USAID says, “In general, Burundi is perceived as among the 25 most corrupt countries in the world.

    Petty corruption is widespread, with informal payments required to obtain most services, permits, or licenses.”

    And we FEEL that corruption every.single.day.

    Burundi.

    According to the International Monetary Fund approximately 80% of Burundians live in poverty and

    according to the World Food Programme, 57% of children under 5 years suffer from chronic malnutrition.

    Burundi

    Your coffee is so good! 93% of your export revenues come from selling coffee.

    Burundi

    According to a study done in 178 countries, your people have the lowest life satisfaction in the world.

    As a result of poverty you are almost entirely dependent on foreign aid.

    Burundi

    The life expectancy of your people is 58.78 years.

    Oh, Burundi…

    Only one in two of your children go to school, and approximately one in 15 adults has HIV/AIDS.

    Food, medicine, and electricity remain in short supply.

    Less than 2% of the population has electricity in its homes.

    Dear Burundi,

    Despite it all… there’s just something about you.

    Something very, very beautiful.

    With faith, honesty and love you will find your way back.

    Trust me, beautiful Burundi, you will.

    Do it for your children.

     

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