Chicken Shit

The Kid tells us that it’s time for the local coffee farmers to put in their annual order for chicken shit. Are we interested in having some at roughly one dollar per bag for our finca? Yes, of course, I tell him; we’ll take 10 bags, and he orders another 15 for himself. Pecos is unimpressed, not sure why we’re so excited about having some of this concentrated, nitrogen-rich, powdered, pure-gold manure for our plantings. We’re told that the truck from a poultry farm several hours away near San Jose will show up this week or next; no one is ever sure as to which day.

Then yesterday Marcos called us on the phone, saying something in an urgent tone about the pulperia and dos momentos. That much I could understand: the store in two minutes. The Kid was away but had left the brakeless jeep here for our local use, so we jumped in it and drove down to the village. Ah yes, the chicken manure had arrived. Our joint 25-bag order was dumped on a plastic tarp near the community hall. Other piles stood nearby. The scene was rather odiferous – in a good way – as local Ticos hoisted their bags on their shoulders to either carry bags home individually or to toss into a pick-up truck or on the back of a dirt bike. No problemo for us, we had the jeep with its open sides and all metal interior. I was excited; Pecos was not. He had said when I placed the order that he wasn’t keen on moving manure around and that if he had to help, he would for sure wear his work gloves and old clothes and probably a scarf tied around his face to avoid the smell. Here he was, glove-less, scarf-less and frowning.

Our bags were covered with crawling mini-centipedes, hundreds of them on each sack, and Pecos bravely brushed them off the top one with a stick. We each grabbed an end to hoist it into the back of the high-wheeled jeep – to no avail. These three-foot tall, manure-packed bags were heavy! I couldn’t lift my end higher than my chest to hoist it in and Pecos clearly was struggling with his own end. No way that he could lift a bag on his own. Our Tico friends, however, were hoisting their own bags as if they were lightweight, leaning into each insect-covered bag with their shoulders and then standing upright with the bag easily slung onboard and held lightly with one hand, smiling all the while.

Marcos came over and quickly jumped in to help us as other Ticos smiled understandingly. He slung each bag up quickly and tossed it in the back of the jeep, where Pecos tugged with all of his might to move each bag into position. First they loaded 15 bags for The Kid and took them down to his finca while I visited with a few people at the pulperia. As Pecos drove away he leaned far forward to avoid any of the creepy-crawlies that were now running all over the inside of the open jeep.

When they came back I jumped up front, too, for the hauling to our finca – and quickly regretted it. The centipedes were still in the jeep. Marcos shared my seat and nonchalantly brushed the wandering insects off while he talked. The air was thick and dusty with manure. Marcos and Pecos quickly unloaded the bags onto a few logs near our construction site and we and the centipedes gave Marcos a ride back to town. Outside the pulperia, a few locals still lingered, telling us how good the manure is for their coffee crops and how a little goes a long way. This we understood. 