Tea Time

At 6 am in Gurué, the fog is so thick it settles in puddles in the corners of your eyes. The mountains about the tea covered foothills slowly appear as the morning sun strengthens. And somewhere in those hills, a group of youth planted cabbage and carrots and tomatoes, and waited for their periodic visit from the NGO representatives that enabled them to do so.

Along the road to visit this new and informal youth farming operation, I am struck yet again by how many babies I see. It seems everyone who is not a male over the age of 10 has a baby strapped to their body. A woman walking down the road carries a considerable load of firewood on her head, simultaneously breast-feeding her child. A woman bends over her modest garden, and the tiny living package on her back doesn’t budge. A woman rides a bicycle alongside our car, a warm ball of baby smooshed to her back and soundly sleeping. It’s a wonder they ever learn to walk at all, but they must, for soon there will be brothers and sisters to carry.

Black, green, and red tea all come from the same plant. Green tea is achieved by clipping just the tips of the youngest tea leaves on these stout bushes. Black comes from more mature leaves, and red incorporates stems into the mix. We drove through rolling, tiered acres of this worldly commodity, an oasis of cool green, until we were on the other side, back in the bush, where we were greeted by a group of smiling, singing, barefoot and brightly swathed African children who paraded us down a path through scratchy dry grass and yellow flowers until we arrived at the plot of land they had recently planted with seeds given to them by World Vision employees. A manual water pump was installed at a nearby stream, and the children were briefed in very basic soil conservation methods, in particular mulching. The idea is to create ownership of the garden, and a sense of identity for these children, many of whom are orphans, by uniting them in an effort that can supplement their diet and enhance their nutrition. They were very taken with us, and I with them. They were what I always hoped and feared when I imagined Africa. Happiness, bright colorful beauty, and tradition in a setting which is ever-unforgiving of weakness, of mistakes.

For one night, I’m back in Quelimane, with the 5 o’clock call to prayer and dust so abundant I smell it on my skin and crunch it into my food long after I’m off the street. Tomorrow begins the journey to Zimbabwe.We will drive 9 hours to the border, sleep in Chimoio, and cross first thing on Tuesday morning to arrive at a 2 day farming training. Here’s hoping that the border patrol will be friendly, i.e. modestly bribable.