If you are wondering about the ‘Nl,’ above, it is not suggesting that we are in the Netherlands, but was typed by Pispirispis as she walked across my keyboard, and kept as a souvenir of her contribution to this letter. Why? Because Torsalino is not the only cat in command here any more. For reasons I won’t go into at this stage, all three cats … Torsalino, Pispirispis and Mafeluchis … now reside here with us.
I can’t pretend that they all groom each other and sleep together in a contented pile. Pispirispis hisses and growls every time she sees Torsalino, but then she does that with her own daughter, Mafeluchis, and even with Adriano, so no change there.
Torsalino!
Torsalino on the other hand, who has never seen a girl before, let alone a striking redhead, is enamoured with Mafeluchis, who is about twice as big as him. It is as though Tom Cruise has fallen in love with Nicole Kidman. Unfortunately she is not interested in the slightest. The fact that they are all neutered makes the whole thing academic anyway, but watching Torsalino gaze lovingly at the object of his desire whilst making conversational gurgles, all to no avail, reminds one of the tragedy of unrequited love.
Mafeluchis!
It is good, however, for him to have something to keep him busy since Brazil’s exit from the Copa America.
Second only to the World Cup in importance, and older, the Copa America is a big deal here and once again we were plunged into a yellow shirted, red yellow and blue striped world, in which the country would come to a standstill whenever Colombia was playing.
Our local bank managers fought to get Adriano wearing one of their supporters’ thingies, and the manager of Bancolombia won, personally tying, around his wrist, a branded tricolour ribbon on which was emblazoned “Vamos mi seleción”, which roughly translates as “Go Team”.
It was positively discreet compared to the surfeit of tattoos that disfigured so many of the world’s football stars. From perfectly formed athletes they seemed transformed into graffiti covered billboards. Some were so intricate their body parts resembled pages from a mediaeval illuminated manuscript, the product of massed monks labouring for months on end to cover every inch with flamboyant script, gargoyles and curlicues.
Personally, I blame David Beckham.
Torsalino’s possible involvement was mooted when his random directional integrity caught the notice of the Colombian selectors. His inability to walk in a straight line, let alone run in one, gave him unmatched evasive ability, and he was offered a slot in the starting line-up. Torsalino, however, didn’t feel he could support a Government that doesn’t support us coffee growers so declined. Added to which he doesn’t think he looks his best in yellow.
When Neymar of Brazil was banned for the remainder of the tournament, however, he did consider replacing him, and was even prepared to change his name to Torsalinho, but Brazil was defeated and normalcy returned.
As it has to Colombia since we lost to Argentina on penalties.
Unfortunately that ‘normalcy’ means crap coffee prices and an unhelpful, uncaring, untrustworthy Government.
Now I know that you have heard all this before, at least those of you who have been subjected to my Letters for some time, and believe me we find it more boring than you, but again it looks like we are going to have to fight to be heard.
The PIC … the subsidiary that we received when prices fell below sustainable levels … which we fought for in the last ‘Paros’, has been terminated, and none of the other promises made by the Government have been fulfilled. The price of oil is less than half of what it was yet fertilizer, a petrochemical by-product, is just as expensive as before. A strong US dollar is good for us, as coffee is traded in dollars, yet every time the dollar goes up, the coffee price goes down.
So a Monday or so ago, we joined 8,000 other cafeteros on a protest march through Armenia … no, not that Armenia, our Armenia. Those with good memories will remember that we get to Armenia from Pereira, driving through Cuba, not turning left to Stalingrad, and continuing on past Finland and Circassia.
Coffee farmers came from all over, some coming long distances in ‘chivas’, the multi-coloured highly decorated open buses, with hard seating, that serve the country roads.
It was a two-hour trek though the streets of Armenia, walking behind the banners of our respective towns, until we reached the Plaza Bolivar (every city and town has one) where we were addressed by the organisers from a stage constructed next to the cathedral. The outcome is, that if the government continues to ignore our plight and continues not to fulfil its promises, there will be another Paro (strike/blockade), maybe as early as July.
The march begins…
Maybe this suburban boy from Sydney will be back at the barricades facing tear gas and water cannon again.
Before the march set off we were having a coffee in an open-air café and shared a table with a tiny woman and her two companions. They were from the Valle de Cauca and had set off at 3am to get to Armenia for the protest. This woman was a coffee farmer and she had two very small ‘lotes’ that she had inherited some time ago from her father or her husband, I am not sure which. She said that she had not been able to afford to buy fertiliser and instead had gone and talked to all her coffee trees and apologised and told them that she prayed God would help them grow a good crop. “So how was it?” asked Adriano. It seems that God heard her and gave her the best ‘cosecha’ (harvest) she had ever had.
Coincidentally, two days after the protest, we were invited, along with about 60 of the bigger producers in Caldas, to Cenicafe, the Federación’s processing and world renowned research centre in Chinchiná, to attend a seminar on the likely impact of El Niño and the current state of play in the region concerning coffee pests and diseases.
They gave us coffee before, and sandwiches and juice afterwards, and there were lots of men in Federación Nacional de Cafeteros de Colombia (FNCC) shirts making sure we were all happy. I was tempted to ask them, and the experts who lectured us, if their salaries and pension contributions went down in line with the coffee price and if they shared the hardships endured by those who grew the crops without which they would have neither business nor jobs.
But I was too polite.
Love from him and me,
Barry
Pispirispis, not hissing and not growling
