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The Odyssey of Juan Bean

by Dede Ryan

"Life, she is very good," mused Juan Bean, his thoughts formed in the same syncopated rhythm as the language of his native Colombian land. Even in the heat of the day, a cool southwest wind caressed him as the equatorial sun turned his skin an ever deepening shade of brownish red. Juan often longed for adventure, and today he looked out as far as he could see from his perch in the high branches of the coffee tree. While the horizon beckoned seductively, he sighed, intoxicated by the fragrance of the small white flowers and the beauty of the familiar fruit that surrounded him.

"Soon the coffee berries will be ready for their long journey," said the coffee grower as he reached up and broke a single fruit free from its tether. He observed its color; rubbed the bean between his fingers and rolled it in the palm of his hand, releasing some of the oil onto his own skin. He lifted the warmed nugget to his nose and inhaled deeply, eyes closed in reverence. "Soon," he repeated, then pausing a moment, his coffee-colored eyes opened as he added, "but not quite yet."

As the grower looked up, satisfied, Juan looked down, puzzled at the odd man standing below, smelling the fruit of the tree above.

Seven subsequent sunrises later, the coffee grower returned to the same location in his plantation, to the same tree, to the same branch. Plucking a bean close to the shriveled and brown stem that remained from one week before, the coffee grower repeated his ritual, noting its color, rubbing the bean, releasing its oil, and inhaling its fragrance. This time the coffee grower smiled in deep appreciation. "The journey is about to begin," he said. Juan looked down at the smiling coffee grower, unable to understand the full weight of his words.

The next day, just after the sun had chased the moon to the place where it slept, the coffee grower was joined at the tree by four others who looked just like him. They wore loose khaki-colored, long-sleeved cotton shirts over nearly matching woven-cotton pants, like something out of a Banana Republic catalog, but authentically stained with dust and sweat. All five had well-worn leather sandals, wide-brimmed straw hats, and each was draped from the shoulders with a huge cotton mail-sack that rested on one hip.

As quickly as they arrived, before Juan could yawn, there was a rustling of activity in the deep green leaves. While three pickers worked the low-hanging fruit, two others leaned rickety, three-legged wooden ladders against the tree, climbed to the top rungs, and began capturing the highest nuggets. They skillfully avoided the white flowers which would turn into green fruit in anywhere from six to nine more months. They also carefully passed over any clusters of unripened fruit. The pickers were only after the ripe red cherries, and would return to the same tree several times in the future as the other fruit matured.

Juan was most excited by the two pickers on ladders, for he estimated that he was within their reach. "This is it," he said to himself. "Today begins my adventure." The picking was swift and painless, the umbilical cord severed with a small "pop." Juan found himself floating momentarily in mid-air, then landing-out of breath but unhurt-among others much like himself. "But I am just Juan Bean," he thought to himself. "What possible difference can I make to the Big World outside this plantation?"

Hours later, in the heat and humidity of the mid-day sun, the pickers descended the ladders and dumped their bags, pregnant with beans, into the waiting bed of a rusted blue, decades-old Ford pick-up truck. After a brief rest and lunch with the driver, the pickers returned to their ladders, while the truck, with Juan in the back, pulled away from the tree and turned onto two tire-sized ruts in a winding dirt and gravel road.

Bumping along the hills and valleys of the plantation, Juan was turned and tossed, shaken to the very core of his bean. He finally worked his way from the middle of the pile to the surface, where he could look up at the cloudless Colombian sky. Every coffee bean contains two seeds and, in Juan's case, one throbbed for excitement and adventure while the other longed for the familiarity and security of the tree limb where he had lived all his life.

When Juan and the pick-up arrived at their destination, there was not much time to wonder what would happen next. The truck bed was quickly backed up to a waiting expanse of sturdy cotton netting and the harvest was unceremoniously dumped. Two men, dressed just like the pickers but without the cotton sacks, attacked the pile of coffee beans with stiff bamboo rakes. Juan again was jiggled and jostled until he and the other beans were spread evenly in layers just two- or three-beans deep. There Juan would rest for about two weeks, while his outer layers were dried by the intense sun and shriveled around the two beans he held inside. Later the hull would be removed by milling machines, leaving Juan's beans naked and vulnerable.

No longer Juan, but two Juans, the beans were next surveyed by an electronic eye, sorted by size and color into specific grades, and then bagged for trading and export to roasters. Juan was excited about the prospect of being loaded onto a big ship, especially when he heard someone say it was headed for North America.

But as the journey progressed, it was long, and dark, with no view of the sky, and Juan found both his beans anxious to set foot on dry land. "I am a homesick, seasick coffee bean," thought Juan in 2002 as he sailed the ocean blue.

Finally hauled ashore weeks later in Los Angeles, California, the excitement among the beans was palpable. "I might be the next California Raisin," boasted Juan to his sack mates, visions of Hollywood dancing in his head. "I know I will finally realize my true potential. At long last, my voice will be heard." From the wharf in California, the bags of beans were loaded onto trucks and railcars that dispersed them like so many dandelion seeds scattered across the country...

At a small but fragrant coffee shop in Boise, Idaho, the espresso machine exhales like Darth Vader, as a dozen coffee aficionados engage in their morning rituals. John, a regular, is at a small table that overlooks the street and sidewalk. He is sipping his skinny latte with hazelnut foam, contemplating life on both sides of the window. He tips the cup and closes his eyes as steam rises from the rich Colombian blend, making his face warm and moist. His pulse quickens as he drinks. His mind is transported far, far away to the high branches of a tree in a small South American village where the plantation is the center of the universe. A place where time is measured not in minutes and seconds by the hands of a watch, but by months and years and the color of a single bean. Although John is content in the safe and familiar surroundings of his life in the coffee shop, as he takes another swallow, he becomes equally aware of his desire for adventure. To be where he has never been. To learn what he does not know. It was as though a coffee bean, in a liquid voice with a syncopated rhythm, was calling softly to him, "Life, she is very good."