It's All About the Beans

Just as the end of October in Indiana evokes images of colorful falling leaves and weekend football games, my new residence in the foothills of the Chiriquí highlands, has a distinct end-of-October feel. At the height of the rainy season, the community is vigorously working to plant beans in the recently fallow fields. It’s almost as if this year's bean harvest will bring prosperity to the humble agricultural community. It all begins with the annual siembra or sowing period.

Although Panama's climate allows for three harvests in a year’s time, it is more practical to rotate the traditional crops of corn and beans, allowing for two harvests a year with brief fallow periods in between. Indiana, too, has its fair share of corn and beans. The locals, surprised that mi lugar or my place has the same crops, commonly ask me the beginning to end agricultural process used in the United States. I envision combines working in the fields and answer in ignorance, “Pura maquina. Pure machine.”

Despite my ignorance to agricultural practices in the States, I am now well versed in Panama’s campo agriculture. It starts with a machete, gancho, and a fallow field. A gancho is a curved stick held in the opposite hand as the machete and used to clear the freshly cut monte or brush and grass. By tirando la mocha, literally throwing the machete, one must clear the overgrown pasture to a reasonable height. It’s a repetitive process of swinging the machete and removing the freshly cut grass with the gancho, slowly clearing the field one swift stroke at a time.

The dexterity and skill the local farmers use while clearing a brush-field plot are astonishing. The amount of land I clear in three or four strokes is equivalent to one of their proficient swings. Manuel, a good friend of mine and competent farmer, always jokes that Panamanians are given a machete at birth to cut their own umbilical cord. Of course he is exaggerating, but they do begin using machetes at an early age. Manuel’s three year-old son carries a dulled machete around the house, emulating his papá.

Shortly after clearing the plot of overgrown grasses and dried corn stalks, it’s time to sembrar or plant. To plant, one must tackle the land with a new tool, the coa. A coa resembles a javelin, a long stick with a small metal point at the end, and is used to make small holes in the ground. The process is tedious. With the beans in a small plastic bucket, called a coco, secured around the waist, one makes a hole in the ground with the coa and drops three beans into the hole. Move one small step forward and do it again. This is a straightforward yet laborious method of planting. Although the locals accomplish this task with grace, I can assure you that it’s not as simple as they make it look.

I’m now competent with a coa, but I vividly remember my first day planting beans. It was a work junta. Nine men, nine coas, a couple hundred pounds of seeds, and the common goal to plant the seeds. My hands, uncallused, were quick to blister with each puncture that I put into the ground. I quietly cursed the cattle that had recently feasted in this plot, compacting the ground. The morning sun was hot and the breeze stagnant. The beans stuck to my sweaty hands, making it nearly impossible to drop them three feet into the little hole. Even if I could have accurately dropped the beans, there were still grass and brush preventing a direct drop. In parts, the incline grew steep, making it difficult to walk, much less manage a coa. On top of this, I was trying to hold my end of the conversation in Spanish. It was a trying day, but with each day of planting, I became more adept to the task.

From October to March, porotos or beans are the economy of my new residence. Of course in an agricultural community, crops are a stronghold on the job force. Jobs include throwing a machete, planting beans, fertilizing, fumigating, harvesting, taking the beans to market, among others. On average, a day’s work will earn you $5 and lunch. Some pay $4 with three meals, others up to $7 without food. There isn’t a fixed rate, but by comparison in the States, it doesn’t amount to much. In the past year, I’ve learned to explain basic economic principles using beans as commodity instead of money. Farmers often give me a blank stare as I talk about the market in terms of dollars, but they’ll understand the same explanation in terms of beans.

Equally important as the economic significance of beans, is the camaraderie it generates. A misty afternoon in October, men sit around planning who’s going to help who. Many times money doesn’t trade hands; simply, I’ll help you sembrar Wednesday if you help me Thursday. As they work, the men salomar, a mix between a shout and a yodel, from one hillside to the next. The work is difficult, but often referred to as a juego or game. They joke and salomar throughout the day to help the time pass.

February comes around, men, women, and children will arrancar or pull the bean plants from the ground. Grouped together the plants are placed roots up, drying under the summer sun. Once dried and collected from the field, the dried pods, laying on a wire mesh, can now be hit with a stick in order to free the beans from the pods. The beans fall through the mesh into a saco or sack. After separating the basura or trash, they are ready to take to market. A good harvest will yield twenty beans for every one planted.

The magical process of turning one bean into many allows us to enjoy baked beans at a summer picnic or chili on a cool fall night. It’s easy to enjoy the end product, but we often forget the process that brings us the product. Beans are often more than a tasty meal, in some cases, they are a way of life.