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It’s a question I heard often
enough when I was growing up, and now, as I stood waist deep in
a crocodile-infested river, I could hear my father’s voice
echoing in my mind: “Scooter, what on earth have you got yourself
into?”
I’d arrived in Peru three days prior. Some of the world’s
best arabicas have been coming out of South America for the last
few years, and I was on the hunt for something fresh and unique.
In a cozy little coffee shop on the streets of Moyobamba, I’d
crossed paths with Lazaro, a mountain guide who just happened to
know about a secluded plantation on the steep slopes of the Andes.
He seemed to know his coffee, so when he said the beans were worth
cupping, I’d signed on. The next morning, on rented ponies,
we hit the trail and headed into the wilderness.
Suddenly, I saw Lazaro’s pony stop short about twenty yards
ahead. I prodded my own pony forward to see what he was looking
at, and my heart sank. The rough path we’d been following
disappeared over a muddy cliff, and a lazy, foaming river swirled
before us. The bridge had been washed out. The river didn’t
look deep, and it wasn’t a far drop into the water, but the
ponies would never be able to make it up the other side.
Lazaro put his hand to his brow and scanned the opposite bank. “Fausto,”
he said. He pointed across to the other side, where a burly, gray-haired
man was standing beside a looming pile of freshly-hewn logs.
Fausto spotted us and shouted something we couldn’t quite
make out. Before we could respond, he pulled his shirt off and dove
headlong into the water. We watched in silence as he swam across,
and I jumped down from my mount to give him a hand as he pulled
himself up the muddy bank.
“A storm?” asked Lazaro.
“Two days ago,” replied Fausto. He turned and indicated
the stack of wood on the opposite bank. “It happens often.
We are always ready to rebuild.”
“How long?” I asked. I had a plane to catch the next
day.
“Some men are coming down,” said Fausto. “If we
waste no time, we can have something sturdy enough by morning.”
The two men looked at me, waiting for an answer. I hesitated, not
wanting to turn back, but unsure whether it was worth the trouble
to continue.
Then, slowly, a grin crept across Fausto’s face. He stepped
forward and looked me in the eyes. “You,” he said, “are
a bridge builder.”
The words struck a chord within me. “I’ll do what I
can,” I responded. I had come here for a reason, after all,
and there was no reason to let a few thousand gallons of water stand
in my way.
We tied the ponies to a tree, splashed down into the river and waded
across. Soon, a small army arrived from the plantation, and they
immediately fell to their task with a familiar efficiency.
That was this morning. Now, late in the afternoon, I stood waist
deep in the water, holding a support pole in position while the
crew above me hammered away. Fausto had warned that there were crocs
in the water, but he assured me that if I didn’t step directly
on them, I’d be all right.
Scooter, what on earth have you got yourself into?
When the sun went down, torches were lit, and the work continued.
I lent a hand where I could, carrying lumber, steadying support
beams, pounding nails.
Against all odds, we had ourselves a bridge before midnight. It
would require a little shoring up over the next few days, but it
was solid enough to get the ponies across. Two hours later, I rode
on to the plantation with the triumphant workmen.
There was a meal waiting for us, and a bonfire, too. We ate under
the stars and regaled the cooks with exaggerated stories of the
day’s accomplishment. Fausto recounted how I wrestled a trio
of crocodiles with my bare hands and sent them whimpering down the
river. I didn’t remember that, exactly, but who was I was
to argue with Fausto?
Soon enough, a cup of hot coffee found it’s way into my hands.
It was strong and dark, with a medium acidity and a sweet, full-bodied
finish. As I sipped it, I thought about Fausto’s declaration
by the river. He said I was a “bridge builder.” I’d
never thought about it that way, but he was right. A friendly cup
of hot coffee can bring people together in a way that nothing else
can, and that’s the sort of bridge we’re building at
Scooter’s every day. When it comes to that, you can count
me in.
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