Saturday, August 13, 2005
Turns out, we pick cherry slower than hell. Which isn't good for the farm, because if the cherry sits on the tree too long it over-ripens (becoming 'raisin') and is no good. This is also bad for us, because we get paid by the pound.
Most of the work we've been doing has been based on an hourly rate of $10. Our picking rate was $0.40 a pound. We picked about 100 pounds.
Let me break that down one time. Converting this to an hourly rate, we ended up making about $3.50 an hour. When we could have been making $10.
No, we will not be picking coffee cherry anymore. Which is unfortunate, because it is somewhat fun and addicting ("ooh look! That tree is covered in red! Let's go!"), and quite relaxing. As relaxing as it can be to stumble around and over slicked-up lava rocks with a basket filled with 20 pounds of coffee cherry around your neck.
So it goes. And get this-it's only three weeks until the plane leaves. With us on it. Crazy. And my passport? Still don't have it. It's somewhere on the east coast, I think. Supposedly it'll be in the mail by the 18th.
And let's not even mention (for mom's sake) the lack of consulting we've done with medical staff as to malarial prevention (I have many pills left over from last year-ish, but is it enough? That's the question!), and the non-itinerary hanging up on the fridge.
It's 615 pm on Saturday night. I am on the internet, drinking coffee while looking out the window and across this stupid subdivision at the sun sinking slowly into the ocean. On occasion I read a couple pages of "Dubliners" (J Joyce) while drooling over the collection of bound Kafka prose sitting to my left. Brooks and Dunn are requesting something country. Around me the world sleeps, wkaes, chats, drinks, eats, flees the falling rain, weep, laugh, contemplate the macabre the choices the ferns 10 feet from my eyes and the formation of clouds overhead.
Something is missing
This time, I'm searching.
Whaddya think, ma? Should I get another tattoo? I was thinking maybe in India or Mongolia. I am sure they have interesting methods for inserting ink into skin up in the land of the Mongols.
No, I am not mean to my mother. It's that damn brother of mine-I've gotta keep up!
This is a hell of a pot of coffee I made. Darn good shite
Marco Polo, eh? I quested for good books, but my library card is now over so I'll have to wait.
Yes, I have two traveling companions. The 19- and 22-year olds. I have not yet convinced them that they need to pay me to act as their guide....