Rain has been my constant, frustrating companion and patient teacher these last four weeks. Yesterday we had the blessed break of a sunny afternoon, but most days have been the gray of thick clouds and the brown of muddy paths. Winter here means rain and lots of it, but I can't help but attribute some of the excessive downpours to the chaos of climate change. I think about all of the rich farming regions of the world and how they are bewilderingly trying to adapt to less or more rain, like this village of farmers who dig their living out of the mud. I have been both despairing of and thankful for the rain these days, but I have been constantly reminded how important and defining the rain is for this region. I'm going to share a few stories of the reality of life here, on the rainy days.
Yesterday, I accompanied six campesinos to, literally, dig their living out of the mud. We were pulling out ñame, a giant white root that is probably in the yam family and the most common food here. The organization with which I'm working, SembrandoPaz, started a seed-saving project last year, in which they give out a sack of seed in agreement that the farmer will demonstrate that they have saved at least the same amount of seed at the end of the season. My job is to check in on the farmers to make sure they are “capando,” or pulling out the root to eat or sell but leaving the vine to grow seed. Because ñame grows best at high altitudes, this collective of farmers (12 in total) pooled their seeds to plant high up in the mountains. In other words, we set out early for a two hour trek, crossing the river twice and walking through a stream for at least half the time. We all rode, some mules, some donkeys. This was the only day in the last two weeks that the journey was possible, because of the mud and the swollen river. After a dry day and night, the river had decreased some, but it was still hip-deep where we crossed. We had to dismount for the last mile or so of the trip, to let the animals struggle up and down steep, muddy hill faces. We finally arrived to do the same steep, sliding work on the ñame fields. They are almost vertical faces, planted with vines. The work is to find where the vines enter the ground, cut off the vine, and dig/lever/haul out the root (average size was 10 pounds) with a pointed stick. After four hours of standing on the steep banks bent over digging and hauling out roots, the men (with my small contribution) had accumulated about 16 50-kilo sacks of ñame, about 1900 pounds in total. The animals hauled out 12 of those sacks and we walked out in our rain boots. Imagine, a donkey fighting for purchase on a muddy, vertical path, loaded with an additional 240 pounds of ñame, with us following them, urging them on. The work is downright hard, made even harder by the constant rains.
The day before, I had enjoyed my morning coffee watching out the front window at the road. The week before had been vacations for the schools, so many of the teenagers studying in Sincelejo had come home to visit. Because of near constant rain for three days, the river was neck deep in places and running fast. No trucks had been able to cross it, so the only way to get in or out was walking or riding. That morning, I watched about a hundred donkeys and horses, laden with sacks of yucca or ripe avocadoes, walking out. The crops had been ready to ship out but sat slowly spoiling as they waited for the trucks. I also watched the teenagers, after missing two days of classes, riding out with their backpacks.
Shipping things in is equally difficult. When the trucks can't get in, the local stores, who depend on the same few trucks for everything, slowly run out- of meat first, then cheese and sugar, even rice. A few folks went on donkeys to fetch their orders, which had gotten stuck downriver, returning with wet sacks of cigarettes and limp vegetables.
School was out for an extra week as well, since the teachers have to cross the river three times to reach the school. We scheduled a community meeting, but the rain came exactly ten minutes before and stayed for two hours. No one came, logically, because the road had turned into a swamp. Today was election day, and solid rain for four hours in the morning must have been discouraging for the politicians. I watched several people going to vote, walking with towels or plastic bags on their heads, carrying their shoes. Most rode, but many stayed home. (The ironic part was that the road was so bad that the government had to helicopter the vote-collectors in. You think they would realize that the road condition really is dire.) The rain is also discouraging or encouraging for the crops, depending on what is growing. It's impossible to predict how much it will rain a given rainy season (last year, for example, it rained for 10 months straight), so most farmers guess for the best. Right now, those who planted rice are delighted, while others with corn, sesame and ñame are worried. The crops are drowning, they say.
It's a tricky game- guessing when the rain will or won't come. When to do laundry, when to travel, when to order more rice, when to pick avocadoes. The other game that comes hand in hand is guessing when the electricity will go out. Usually it goes along with the rain, although sometimes on a sunny day it will blink out surprisingly. Today, I woke to rain for the next four hours, and had a hankering to do some rainy-day things- finish writing this blog post, for example, and bake bread. Unfortunately, both require electricity-for the computer and my toaster oven. I wondered for the first few hours if the power would go out, playing with the idea of putting bread to rise (if the power went out, I couldn't have even put it in the fridge to wait, since the fridge also turns off). When it didn't, I went ahead. I'm still crossing my fingers as it rises.
As I've said, I'm learning a lot. I'm learning not to try to get something done even though it looks like rain, because you might get stuck across the river overnight. I'm learning to ask people if they think it will keep raining. To take advantage of electricity when I have it. To give thanks that I bought a gas-not electric- stove. To understand why people miss meetings. To consider learning to cook bread over an open fire. To appreciate when the power goes out and the neighbors can't crank their soundsystem. To sit around and simply talk as the rain pounds on the tin or palm roof. To slow down, a little, although I'm not sure I'll ever learn that quite like the folks here.
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