Work in the mountains can be brutal. Spiteful at times, particularly in October, that month which lies at the tail end of the reaping season. At this juncture, the farm managers and supervisors morph into creatures that could be likened unto beasts. All the berries must be reaped. Quotas must be met lest percentages from the paltry wages be cut. Mansu knows this and so, during those final weeks, he thinks only of berry picking. This morning was no different. Long before the first rays of sun peeked through the thick mountain vegetation to kiss and cancel the fog, Mansu was already sauntering along the tortuous farm road, going to meet his daily quota.
Briskly, stealthily, he made the three-kilometer trek to the coffee farm to harvest berries. It is a place abuzz with the sounds of critters and insects. It’s been his job for over thirty years now. He is approaching forty and only started doing full-time seasonal work after dropping out of junior high school.
There was a light drizzle that morning when he arrived on the farm. Only a few pickers were present when he came over the steep dirt hill. Some of his co-workers were sitting around, waiting in trepidation for that martinet of a manager to arrive. Captain Whip they called him. He would be the last to arrive. It was enshrined in the farm’s unwritten laws. To arrive after him meant losing half a day's wage. None present could afford, for the little they had to be taken away. Despite this, there was always that one person to show up a minute or two late.
Bull, popped in while the group was taking instructions from Captain Whip. The manager did not bother with the fifty percent deduction that morning. He merely sent him home and told him not to return next season. Or the season after that.
A bit of gloom descended on the gang of workers as they watched Bull beg and bawl as the guards hauled him through the gate. Mansu, for his part, remained focused. He was even a bit self-congratulatory. He did something that had not been done before. that season, he had met his quota every reaping day. This one would be no different for he already resolved to go out on a high. And while many of his fellow pickers recoiled whenever Captain Whip passed by, Mansu built up his resolve. He smiled throughout, remaining placid amid the buzzing of the highland insects. Every so often they pricked him, gnawed at his flesh. Every so often a critter was disturbed in the middle of the picking. A Mansu of yesteryear would have been startled, but he remained stolid; his eye on the prize.
Very few people know anything about picking. Sometimes there are bugs around. Lots of bugs. They bite. They sting. Sometimes it is hard to get to the beans. In good times, those ones are often left to rot. On those days when one is able to reach one's quota with little hassle, it is possible to avoid the far-out berries. On those days though that the quota falls short, one has to reach for said way out ones. Though the season would end that day, the season of easy picking had, for the most part, passes. At least a fortnight before.
All morning Mansu went around those hard-to-reach ones. Lunch came and ended when finally he realized that there was no getting around them any longer if he wanted to reach his quota. A deep breath and steady exhales pushed the man forward. Slowly, steadily, he went for a ripe healthy bunch. Through a crown of thorns, he placed his hand carefully. And carefully the thorns made their lines on him. And relentlessly, the bugs bit him. Despite this Mansu remained placid. Calmly, deftly, he picked one berry after the next. The thorns tore and the bugs bit but steadily he breathed. Placid he remained. That last reach he reached and grabbed for those hard-to-reach berries saw the resolve hold fast as he gently plucked that last handful of berries and placed them in his basket.
Apart of him wanted to weep as he crossed the finish line cocksure and calm. It was the last day. It was not the time for tears. Thus, his pleasant demeanor bubbled up and hung around his person like a halo. Mansu, holding the basket, looked so Zen. The bugs bit. The thorns ripped, but calm he remained. He went to weigh his basket and smiled a little more knowing, deep in his belly that his quota had been met. Here is what equanimity looks like his demeanor told the world. There be resilience in a smile that became wider still when Captain Whip told him once more that the quota had been reached.
