The Secret Lives of Cocoa Farmers

The leaves rustled under our feet as the smallest one ran around with the large banana leaf tightly wrapped around his waist.

"You look like a girl! Stop that foolishness and come back to work!" we yelled out.

The cocoa farm is a distant memory, but maman's sweet voice calling out for us to return to the barn to finish eating our pickles still tugs at my heartstrings. That day I had already harvested my fifth cocoa pod; always the most helpful, I knew I couldn't go back to school yet. The hooked blade that simmered in the unrelenting rays of the sun glistened, almost blinding me, I couldn't help but stare at Simon in a daze. He was one of the older recruits, and so handsome. I watched the drop of sweat slowly descend from the high arch of his brow to the wide bridge of his nose where it chose to remain and behold the grace and beauty of its stately shape. He hacked away at the yellow and green clusters of the pods and thinly protective flowers at the trunk of our favorite tree, it was the most fertile! I always wondered... if plants are alive, do they feel pain in some unique way we don't understand?

Come the next month, maybe two, time passed differently where I lived, the identical days began to meld, one into another. The blue jays were preparing to put on a concerto for us and we listened as though in the Opera, all the while snacking on the last jar of olives in the ice box.

"Mon Dieu! Eat! You are so skinny!" maman yelled out as she pinched my arm. I winced, then she softened, "It won't always be like this ma cherie", she threw her arms up in disappointment and pursed her lips. I was still waiting for a portion of my allowance and my new dress, but I didn't gather the courage to remind her at the moment. She worked harder than the rest of us, and, our adorable seven year old thorn-in-the-neck, Hugo, was still waiting for his bicycle, after all that is what they promised him and his maman last year. The proverbial Santa did not come around often enough.

No matter how much time had passed by, Simon wouldn't have noticed if my new dress had been big, fluffy, and yellow, with marigolds sewn into it! His English skills made him a top pick for a school in another city where people got the well-conditioned office jobs, with cherry wood desks and email. He kept his head down and worked hard until the chance would present itself. We didn't pray to the same Deity, but I know that he must have been as nervous as I used to feel expressing my hopes and dreams to my own. Some of us may be more mature or skilled or smart, but the vulnerable moment of speaking to the higher powers is truly an equalizer.

We had worked hard to amass savings and gain the trust of the community and management that had entrusted maman with this business.

"67 cents? What is that converted?" maman thought out-loud as she kept tabs on everything gained by each day. Bookkeeping is a marketable skill, I thought resentfully.

"All this time and work, and we have nothing short of a month's job of a corrupt bounty hunter, or a lady of the night," I dared blurt out, but maman only kept her eyes on her papers, she did not slap me despite feeling indignant at my crass comparison. Like a blundering fool, I wondered if I would have to work there until the ripe age of eighty, by then it would be too late to see the world. I felt like my days were numbered.

One day, feeling similarly dejected as the year before, approaching my 15th birthday, in the late afternoon there was a video crew traipsing around our region.

"Maman, who are they?" I inquired as I stared at the freshly pressed white linen shirts approaching our space.

"They are investigating the stakeholders of our operations. Comprends?"

"Non."

"Just run through our process with them, be nice ma cherie."

Sighing, annoyed, and not feeling social, I interjected amidst their conversations in their foreign languages, "Well come on, don't be scared, we don't bite," I gestured at them to follow me as I threw around a few English phrases for effect.

I signaled for the kids to stop their lunch break so that we could show the film crew what we do after the harvest. The foreign men and women looked neat, they were clean and polished, and didn't look like they would be adept at handling our arduous work atmosphere. Maybe I was wrong, maybe they could, after all, I can't take everything at face value, as I learned the hard way. For the first hour, it was exhilarating to officially present our work to foreigners who were anxious to record our experience. What I couldn't control was the outcome, the consequences, and the way others would see us from all over the world. As time passed by, I noticed that they held a serious, almost inhuman, face expression throughout the entire time we were trying to represent our work. They never described what they were doing it for, and how we would benefit from their film. Perhaps, we were lost in translation.

The sun began to set on the blazing horizon, minutes melted into hours, and I began to lose my patience. I stepped away for a moment, only to return to them filming Hugo crying! I ran towards Hugo to see what had happened, anger building a nest in my throat. I felt I was ready to shout at them, a feature quite uncharacteristic of me. Maman found me in time. The camera crew had stuck their cameras in his face and instigated this discomfort, without removing the pointed objects from Hugo's face. I turned red, and maman shooed me away from the scene.

She tried to lighten the mood, "Follow me friends! So, here the massive cocoa pods are dropped into the beautifully adorned baskets, our girls design them quite nicely, don't you think?" the crowd was as silent as a funeral.

"And then the real fun is splitting them to get each individual tiny, cute bean out of them. Isn't that right, Hugo? You always like this part. Remember that time you almost tasted them, and I told you how bitter and unpleasant it would be?"

Rubbing his eyes and holding back tears, trying to recover and engage in her monologue, little Hugo commented, "Yes, you promised us the real chocolate after we process that month's supply." She smirked and moved on.

"Here we ready the beans for fermentation, and what happens to the beans everyone?"

"They turn brown!" everyone chanted in unison, "Then we dry them."

I separated myself from the scholarly session diving into the secret lives of chocolate beans, the after-school special seemed too childish for me at that point. It was all too repetitive, and I realized I was ready to grow in a different direction. As I approached the top of the hill for the full view of the field and the film crew, the location where I could spy on them and brood resentfully, I heard someone approaching.

His piercing blue eyes made an impression, not necessarily warm and kind like Simon's, but ... poignant. His skin had been fair, but I could see the marks the sun had left on his face, he almost reminded me of those American movie stars from the 1950s; handsome wide smile with brilliant white teeth, and fine blonde hair, gelled back. In the heat, I wondered what business anyone had adding such a thick layer of gel to their hair, but his confidence was overpowering. He looked stately, like he knew himself and, in turn, the world.

Once he spoke, his thick Russian accent shone through, it wasn't like anything I had heard before, even when we encountered some Slavic neighbors while maman and I still lived in a small village in Belgium.

"I am guessing you are dying to get out of this boring place, right?" he phrased his question awkwardly, trying to emulate my attitude on the surface given his impression of me.

"What would you know about it?" I sneered, while seated in the lotus position, frowning, and staring back at the village from atop my hill and picking at the weed in front of me.

His laugh seemed to reverberate within me and the entirety of the hill, and then he stated, as a matter of fact, "You can leave anytime you want, you know."

"Right," I retorted impatiently.

"... with me, now, who can say anything?"

It was forward, carelessly expressed, and perhaps inappropriate. He was essentially suggesting I leave maman. Sensing my desperation, he boldly crossed that line.

I don't remember why, or how I bought into the web of lies that I heard after that offer, but I remember it like as though I was in a trance. I packed the meager number of things I had managed to care about and simply walked out, right under maman's nose. Years later, I sought her forgiveness, and, to my surprise, she was more than understanding.

Fighting my gut feeling while walking out was akin to overcoming the institutional inertia of my trappings while entering another; I put my fate in the hands of a stranger who adroitly fooled me into thinking he was my savior. Essentially, I left with a Russian man who was part of a film crew, that never fully divulged their goals nor brought us spotlight, which in retrospect, had it been integral, would have benefited Simon, Hugo, maman, and everyone who worked for such farms. It may have been shameless curiosity and entertainment for the masses cloaked under the umbrella of goodwill and investigation. I cannot comment.

The next year was a haze; I traveled as his guest, his daughter, his friend, his little cousin, I took on many names and roles. Under his guidance, and my full cooperation, we did not remain in one place until we reached his hometown. He made promises, and I saw towns I had never seen before. Sure, it was interesting, even exciting at first, until the novelty wore off and I realized that I didn't know who I was and where I was truly headed, and that no-one knew or cared. I would always be the girl working the chocolate farm, savoring every ounce of sweetness to be gifted to the world, never to return to me. What would be of little Hugo, or Simon, or the rest? I never found out.

Kiril had many moods, many names, and more money that he cared to store in any one bank.

It did not truly hit me until we arrived at an eatery in a cold and deserted mountainous town, our destination, and I watched, quietly, as the beautiful waitress took his order of the most decadent dessert, plat du'jour, a slice of chocolate cake. The slice was drizzled with caramel and brought on a plate that was most fitting for a queen; a Renaissance era, special handcrafted plate. As I watched the slice of mouthwatering chocolate cake approaching our table, holding the gaze and enthrallment of the consumerist elite, I began to cry.

Disclaimer: Though I am in not in the best position to write from the perspective of a life I have not experienced, I attempt to understand and express the voice of another. I think as writers, it is our business to explore and improve upon the way we put the spotlight on another person's experience/perspective.

Thank you.