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I was halfway between Kitale and Nairobi
when the engine started knocking. As I eased over to the side of
the road, an unlucky wisp of smoke snaked up from under the hood.
This was a disappointing development, not just because I was smack
in the middle of nowhere, but because I was on my way to the biggest
coffee auction in Kenya. A few days earlier I’d caught wind
of a young farmer who was bringing his first crop out for bids,
and if the wind was to believed, these particular beans had a promising
future in the cup. Naturally, I’d dropped what I was doing
and hit the road.
Now I was stranded. There was no one else on the road, but I was
surrounded by coffee fields, and where there are fields, there are
farmers. I spotted a small house in the distance, so I grabbed my
pack, trotted down the grassy embankment, and headed into the fields.
The coffee trees were strong and ambitious, nearly ten feet tall,
and the cherries were a deep, luscious red. I plucked one as I walked
and stuck my thumb into it, gently peeling away the fruit and the
parchment to find firm, green beans within. Lucky farmer.
The lady of the house was standing on the front porch when I arrived.
She was a lovely old woman, clothes thick with the dust of the fields,
lily-white hair tied at the nape of her neck. She looked out at
the fields as I approached. “What do you think?” she
asked.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, then offered, “My
name’s Scooter.”
“I know who you are,” she grinned. Guess I’ve
got something of a reputation among the farmers.
She invited me to come inside and rest, and, my options being somewhat
limited, I accepted. I took a seat at the kitchen table and she
brought me a freshly-brewed cup of coffee. The aroma was heady,
and the intense flavor fulfilled the promise of those trees outside.
It was a strong, classic Kenyan with bright citrus tones. As I savored
that first sip, the old woman smiled.
“It’s my son’s first crop,” she said proudly.
As soon as she said it, I realized this was the coffee I’d
been chasing. I sighed.
“He’s gone to the auction?” I asked.
Just then I heard the unmistakable sound of a diesel engine firing
up somewhere behind the house. The old woman nodded, and through
the front window I saw an old cargo truck rumble past, heading down
the lane and toward the highway.
“He’s going to sell it all,” she beamed.
“In that case,” I said quickly, “I’ll have
to ask you to excuse me.”
I stood up, pushed the brim of my hat back and strode to the door.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” I said. The old woman
just chuckled.
I came out of the front door like a shot. Now, I’m not one
to boast, but the truth is I can move awfully fast when I’m
chasing something worth catching, and that afternoon, with the rich
flavor of that cup still on my tongue, I ran with the wind. By the
time the truck reached the end of the lane, I was right beside it.
Without breaking stride, I leapt up, caught the passenger’s
side door, and pulled myself up to the runningboard.
The young driver was, understandably, a bit shocked to look over
and discover me hanging from the side of his truck as he rolled
to a stop. I tipped my hat.
“I was wondering if I might catch a ride,” I panted.
He stared at me for a moment, then slowly smiled. “Hey,”
he said, “I know who you are!”
Like I said, I guess I’ve got a reputation.
Needless to say, I didn’t let anybody outbid me at the auction
that day. Some things are worth going the extra mile, as it were,
and for me, getting the best cup of coffee into your hands is one
of them. Enjoy.
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