La Madre de Valeria

Apparently the agronomist formerly employed by the Colegio is too often preoccupied with a propensity to alcohol, or suffering the aftermath of over-consumption the day after, to assist in the revitalization of this agricultural project we have undertaken. We roamed around the premises hoping that notorious small-town word-of-mouth would afford us with some agronomy-savvy somebody, and fate provided. Rumors began soaring around about “La Madre de Valeria”, which sounds striking similar to the English word Malaria. Confusion abounded, but after several sloppy Spanglish attempts, I finally figured out that Valeria was a Yachana Colegio student and her mother had some sort of garden in Coca.

Exhausted shock absorbers and worn-out brakes toted us out of the jungle and into the city of Coca, noted for its ill-famed oil evil-doers who’ve cut through the primary forest to provide all of us industrialized people with the precious flow of life. Coca is also getting a bit further North than the guide books entice travelers, stretching into the border with Colombia and reaching into hearsay of crime and kidnappings. To the contrary, we pulled into a well-equipped bus station, walked no more than a mile to a descent, cheap hostel with several panaderias luring us with their aromas along the way.

“La Madre de Valeria” advised a short taxi ride up the road where we perched ourselves atop a concrete block waiting for further instructions. A fancy white Toyota Tundra showed up and in we piled for a short jaunt across the street to a stunning, elegant wooded house, shaded by a smorgasbord of horticulture glistening after the afternoon’s rainshowers. Am I back in Fort Collins, CO? The gate was opened and two German Shepherds scurried up to greet us along with their two most recent puppy additions to the family. Over the next several hours I came to find out that La Madre de Valeria would be the front-runner in Greatest People I’ve met in Ecuador (second only to Fabio, perhaps). Still unconscious of her real name, this graceful woman began with an offering of fresh hot chocolate, made from the Cacao of her own farm and some warmed empanadas drizzled in a local honey that ran off my spoon like molten lava and dazzled my taste buds like carbonation. This is a woman I want to know, I thought. She escorted us around her half acre home garden, insisting on the tasting of every leaf, filled with tomato hybrids, four different kinds of orchids, a succulent section of cactus from all over the world, every herb known to man, and even some tobacco and coca that act as natural repellents (unfortunately, the leaves of those plants were rather unappetizing). After an hour or so of gardening galore, her husband shouts from the steps “la lluvia!” and we make our way back into the cozy comfort of her home for a seminar on seeds, passing around bowls of her most proudest possessions, a variety of colors, textures, ruggedness and ability.

We decided the trip was too good to pass another day in Coca without Paquita, her name, I finally discovered. Day 2 of our makeshift Agronomy conference included a trip to the family farm of six hectares where we toured the interwoven patterns of pineapples, cacao trees, coffee trees, papaya, banana, guanabana, orange, lemon, of course tasting each of the delicacies along the way.

Red Pineapple

Wandering through Paquita's Organic Farm in Coca

Cacao, that illustrious fruit with hidden gems inside which some genius decided to add a lot of sugar to and produce God’s greatest gift of chocolate, is quite different than I imagined. The chocolate goodness, which first of all tastes nothing like the Hershey’s bar at the gas station, can only be found once one has cracked the outer core and eaten through the fruity, slimy goodness off mush that resembles something like smashed banana innards. Needless to say, your hands get really dirty and spitting of seeds is highly recommended. Paquita had three different kinds of cacao growing on her property.

The unexpectedly peculiar innards of Cacao.

We trapsed through the organic section of the farm where I was attacked by a spiky plant by the name of Ortiga, through the yuca and onto the tree potatoes (which, yes, grow up the tree on a vine and drop to the ground like candies from a pinata) before heading back to the truck. As only the best of hosts will do, Paquita and her husband took us out to their third piece of property up on the hill overlooking the entire city of Coca before heading home. If you’re wondering where the money was procured to live such a splendid life of luxury in Ecuador, you may be saddened (as I was) to hear Paquita’s husband is an oil man for Halliburton. Ah, the irony.

Paquita sat with us through an explanation of the Agricultural Senior Project for the students, the land Yachana has, the crops we were thinking of growing, and the many questions we were troubled with. She filled our map with agroforestry and permaculture guidance, inter-cropping inventions, native variety options, and a bag full of seeds and leaves to take home for inspiration. She also packed a bag full of natural medicinal leaves which I was ordered to place in a bathtub of hot water and soak myself in as remedy for my unbelievable war zone of bug bites on my legs. If I had a bathtub, I would love to complete the mission – a bucket bath of tepid water may be my best shot.

All in all, the trip to Coca was a success as we’ve completed the map and planting plan for all nine teams of three students who are arriving tomorrow. They’re in for a bit of an agronomy surprise, just as we were when we set out to find “La Madre de Valeria”.