We'd been driving for weeks through Costa Rica's rainforests and fields of green. We had taken the seats out of the back of our van, replaced them with a full-sized mattress, packed a travel bag, and left our home in Manuel Antonio for points unknown.
We'd seen rainbow eucalyptus trees and plantations of pineapple and sugar cane. We'd been to beaches where you couldn’t see another soul for as far as you could see. We'd even been on the slopes of several volcanos. But what came into view as we drove through the cloud forest in the north central mountains was more stunning than anything I had seen in a very long while.
We drove around a wide bend on the top of the mountain and there, below us, rolled a steep valley covered in coffee bushes shaded by banana trees. Mist fell into the deep ravine and a fine rain rained below us. Nestled at the bottom of the ravine sat a grass-roofed shack and just above it on the mountainside a spindly middle-aged man with a broad-brimmed straw hat swung a machete.
We pulled over and got out on the narrow stretch of road. I felt like I’d stepped into a National Geographic magazine.
The man was so far below us that we could not hear a sound he made. The land was so steep; I don’t know how he found a foothold to tend to the bushes. I walked to the edge to peer down and get a better view and noticed that I didn’t have to look far to see the bright red coffee beans. The round bushes grew all the way up the hillside to the edge of the road I was standing on. I picked a few of the shiny berries and put them in my pocket for a keepsake I knew would probably perish before I even got home. But, I couldn’t help myself. I love coffee.
I have roasted my own green beans in an old-fashioned popcorn popper—the kind you hold with a really long handle over an open fire. The smell of the roasting beans is rich and fragrant and when the heat gets high enough, the skins pop open. It sounds just like popcorn. You shake the pan until the popping stops and then open the pan and pour the popped beans into a big shallow bowl and take it outside into the wind. Then you swirl the bowl allowing the paper-thin skins to come to the surface and be blown away leaving only the dark-roasted coffee ready to be ground into something heaven sent.
Now, here I was looking down into a valley of coffee, in the rain, in the high mountains of one of my favorite coffee countries, Costa Rica.
I had a good friend who opened a little coffee shop near my home in The States. He traveled to countries in Central America where he purchased fair-trade coffee beans directly from the farmers. I was fortunate enough to be in on a coffee tasting he hosted when he first opened his shop and was mixing up his own special blend.
Little white cups of strong, black Joe lined the counter at the tasting. Each had simply a number before it and the idea was to rate each sample without knowing anything about its origin. After sampling probably twenty different cups, I chose my favorite. When the number were turned over I discovered I loved a Cost Rican coffee from the little town of Tirrazu.
Which brings me back to the mountainside and to my hungry belly.
Reluctantly, after soaking in as much of the view as humanly possible and taking pictures that could in no way do the scene justice, we climbed back in the car and made our way to a little lower elevation and a small town in search of a bite to eat. It was late afternoon and, though we were looking for a typical Costa Rican restaurant, the only thing we could find was Italian. It seemed a little odd in the rain forest and all, but we were thankful for a dry place to sit inside and get something to eat.
I ordered a plate of homemade pasta with ruby-red tomato sauce and a cup of local coffee. The waitress brought out a wooden stand with a linen bag hanging from it. She carefully poured ground coffee into the bag, put a small white mug underneath it, and poured hot water though the rich smelling beans. I watched and waited, enjoying the authenticity of the moment. When the cup was full, I pulled it from under the linen bag, added a little hot milk and raw, local sugar and sipped.
Oh, My!
What Joy!
I sipped again and savored the nutty, roasted flavor of the fresh beans.
I scarfed down the homemade ravioli and had a second cup of coffee, relaxing into a warm and satisfied feeling that seemed to envelope me.
When we rose from our little red-and-white-check covered table, I had to ask if I could buy a bag of the coffee I just savored.
You know where I am going with this by now, don’t you?
It was Tirrazu coffee, and I had some of the fresh beans still in my pocket!
I think maybe we get to request a copy of a little bit of earth when we get to Heaven. If that is true, the coffee plantation on the steep slopes of Tirrazu will be my pick!