Year: 2011

  • It ain’t pretty…

    I hate this construction project, and I just wanted you to know. I am trying to learn French, a new city, how to drive like an insane person, and where to buy things while parenting two non-stop-action-packed boys… and then I come home to the banging pounding mess that is our house. Scratch that, we don’t come home, we often ARE home. Trying to work, parent, be, love inside a complete mess. Our house, where I am constantly dodging nails in tiny feet and where I am never ever hardly ever ALONE. You know that classic line, “Someone’s always watching”? Well, it’s totally true.

    The thing is, if I could appreciate the aesthetic of the project, that would be one thing. I would be able to hold on to the thought of the finished product, but I do not. I don’t like it, at all. Each day something uglier appears. A toilet set skew (REALLY skew) into the cement, brand new (ugly) light fixtures with paint all over them, a crooked window, a rain gutter that runs in 20 directions along the ground, a newly installed sink that is about really to fall off the wall and almost does every time you touch it, cement detailing that is indescribably ugly, varnished bricks with dripping white paint in between them… at this point I just want them out. Out. Out. Instead of SITTING AROUND all day long doing two hours of work in ten.

    I realize I am now officially the downer of the blogging world.

    The end.

    Kristy

  • What’s in your cup?

    Whats in your cup?

    My parents blast through freshly ground coffee in their Bunn Automatic.  12 cups in just over a minute.  While some snobbier coffee specialists may scoff at such heresy, I find myself every second year or so happily slurping down my second cup before registering that I’m fully awake and in the strange land of Wisconsin.

    That said, I can’t rightly remember the last “drip” coffee I’ve had.  I’m more your slow brewed Chemex, or double macchiato kinda guy.  Forever  the zealous apostle of the French Press for all home coffee drinkers.  Ideally speaking, we’d all have a home ceramic burr grinder and a La Marzocco or Clover.  The reality, however, is the before mentioned freshly ground espresso or pour-over devices are, well, maybe not in the budget or interest of most.  So most people will probably stick to the good ol’ Bunn or God forgive you if you do, instant coffee.

    Regardless of method, I wonder how many people know what they are drinking?  Coffee.  Yes, uh huh.  Any idea of the washing station? From what country?  What continent even?

    Now I know we aren’t all coffee zealots.  But the worth of the cup is in the people.

    A stretch you say?

    I think not.  The reason we’re in Burundi is a complex yet simple one.  We love coffee, individuals, God, family, and potential (not always in that order… in fact in no particular order, or if that offends, you could assume your favorite was written first) I think they are all combined, linked and fully integrated.  That is why we are here.  That is why it matters that you know what is in your cup.

    Perhaps if you knew that you were drinking a cup of fully washed AA Burundi Musema washing station coffee and that it  supplied 800 families with their only means of income.  Or that by drinking that coffee you not only made their life livable, but sustainable.  Don’t stop there.  Because of they premium they received for selling their coffee as specialty they are now interacting and learning from  key individuals that are influencing their whole way of thinking, crop growing, child raising and exposure to the Gospel… yeah that’s right, to Jesus. Because that’s important to us. Would that make the cup taste better?  Motivate you to drink more?  Or perhaps inspire you to dream of the important things in your life and dare you to face your fears and journey toward them?

    It took us a while.  We’re still working on them.  OK, we’ll probably never really get there.  Wherever “there” is.

    Integrating these passions.  Loving each.  Frustrated by them all.  Attempting to live them authentically in Burundi.

    Thats why we’re here and why I care whats in your cup.

    Coffee Guy

     

     

  • A Letter to Myself.

    There are moments of regret…


    When the evils of my humanity

    eclipse my most precious task,

    motherhood.

    Sad, so sad.

    Why will I not

    just.embrace.it.all.

    Stop fighting, loosen up!

    They are transitioning too.

    Have you forgotten?

    Your uncertainty becomes their fear.

    Woman, they know you.

    They feel it all.

    Embrace them, be their safe place.

    Believe the best…

    of everyone.

    Laugh more.

    Stop being drained…

    by these gifts. Your gifts.

    He’s climbing on the table?

    He’s painting in wet cement?

    Time to jump on some tables,

    and paint in some wet cement!

    Quit.taking.yourself.so.damn.seriously.

    You’ll get wrinkles.

    BIG ones.

    You are not the woulda.coulda.shoulda kind.

    Never have been, why start now?

    You have the strength

    but you forget…

    it reaches far beyond

    getting.

    through.

    the.

    day.

    Find it,

    and go play.

  • In The Burundi Coffee Hills

    Let me begin by saying…

    These are the people,
    this is the moment,
    here.we.are.

    I have been feeling as if I owe you, big time. I feel like I owe you lots of images like this one. Images that allow you to see for yourself what the families who grow coffee in Burundi look like.

    Here’s your coffee, freshly picked and still in the cherry. This coffee is honey processed, which means it is picked, left unwashed to preserve every bit of flavor, and then sun dried on these tables.

    Here specialty coffee is being hand sorted. Which means it is being picked through to remove any defects. This coffee will be hand sorted five times. When picked, before being washed, after being fermented, after drying, and after dry milling (which removes the parchment).

    This scale is where a farmer’s lot is determined. Their ripe red cherries are weighed and a price is determined. The price for red cherries? About $.50 a kilo, or $.50 for 2.2 pounds. How can we get the farmers more money? If Ben finds during cupping that the quality of a certian lot is superior enough to be sold as speciality coffee, the farmer who grew it will get a bonus at the end of the season of double or triple per kilo and the coffee will be sold to the likes of Stumptown and Bean There.

    What if Ben wasn’t cupping to find these lots? More and more of the coffee would be sold as commodity lots to big coffee exporters who would turn around and sell it to the likes of Folgers and Maxwell House. They would then mix it with other commodity coffees and the people who drink it would never even know that they were drinking a Burundi coffee, or that the farmer only got $.50 a kilo.

    Of course, the kids are the heart breaking part. Without education, electricity, running water and proper nutrition what hope of a better life than their parent’s can they have?

    If their parents get more for their crop that is a good start to a better life, if the extra funds are managed correctly. But, as we all know, money does not solve everything.

    All that said, I have to tell you… the coffee hills are not a hopeless place. In fact, they are just the opposite. They seem filled with hope. The hope of the harvest and the strength that community living can bring.

    Being in the hills is an amazing experience. As an mzungu (white person) it is not easy to blend and we do become the village entertainment, but I suppose it’s the least we can do!

    I love this moment, this little kiddo in the oversized t-shirt was so scared of the white people and of our cameras, but once our good friend Wesley from Cooked In Africa Films showed him his picture he was all smiles. I do love film, but God bless digital!

    The hills reminded my why we made this leap and what it is all for…

    These are the people,
    this is the moment,
    here.we.are.

    That’s all for now,
    Kristy

  • Drivin’ ’round town…

    Please don’t tell any of the AK47 toting police officers in town that we did this. They don’t seem to like our cameras. At all. What you are seeing is me dropping Ben at a government coffee cupping lab, driving around and then picking him back up. Quality isn’t great, but hope you can still get a glimpse of what it’s like here. Enjoy!

     

    Driving Around Bujumbura from longmilescoffee on Vimeo.

  • the foreigners

    undefinedMy mind goes blank when I think of ways to describe this world to you. Completely blank. There are no words, which is why it is my temptation to just go silent. I am fighting it. For me, for you, for everyone. Finding a way to communicate to you how different this life is from the one I was living three weeks ago seems impossible to do. How do I tell you about the streets filled with bicycles, motorbikes, trucks, cars, and people on foot. How do I tell you what it’s like to navigate these roads… roads FULL of people. FULL of bike taxis. FULL of potholes.  I nearly run SOMEONE off the road every day. On Friday, Ben did run someone off the road. Once I get where I am aiming to go, chances are I will be surrounded the minute I pull up. Surrounded by people wanting money, wanting to sell something, wanting to look at me.

    wanting.
    wanting.
    wanting.

    Once inside the shop, I struggle again. How do I buy something when I don’t speak any French? I can’t even count to ten in French yet, let alone tell someone I want “100 grams of meat.” There are not very many places here where you take things right off the shelves either, instead you tell the guy behind the counter what you are after. Which means communicating. In French.

    I need to learn French. Fast. I feel completely arrogant entering a place and asking “English? English?” as if it is not my responsibility to communicate in the language set before me. I wish there was an injection, a shot, and that in one piercing blow I would know every single one of these words that are all so foreign to me.

    There is also the small challenge of being white in a black world. Let’s be honest, we all talk about being color blind, but nobody really is. Everywhere we go we are stared at and shouted after. Chants of “Mzungu! Mzungu!” (white person) follow us throughout the day. I have never had people shout, whisper and boldly speak my differences out loud. Daily. All day long. There are also special prices, just for Mzungus. Prices that just happen to be double or triple the price any local would get. At first it feels like a festering injustice. Like racism… and then it just begins to feel normal.

    In addition to the external stresses of living here, there are a few internal ones too. We have moved into a construction site. Literally. The house is under construction. This means some men, women and even two children mix cement, pound, yell, bang, and STARE all day long.

    As we celebrate the first Carlson birthday in Burundi, Ben’s, I have realized just how foreign the way WE live is to those around us. Cocoa powder? No way. Icing sugar? You would have to fly to Nairobi for it, or so our house helper says. Cinnamon? What’s that? I used THREE of my precious Lindt 70% dark chocolate bars to make Ben a birthday cake today. These bars cost about $3 in America, $6 in South Africa, and (if you could even find them) a whopping $25 here. We live in a foreign land, but more glaring than that, I am realizing just how foreign we are.

    Love,

    the foreigners

  • Coffee Cupping

    Yesterday Myles and Neo and I followed Ben to his coffee lab. We did our best to destroy his lab and his coffee cupping notes, but we also managed to shoot a little. If you ever wondered what coffee cupping looks like… well, lets be real, you probably never have. But, we made a video for you anyways!

    Cupping is done to assess the quality of the coffee. The more good lots Ben finds, the better the price he can get for the farmers who produced it.

    Here are the steps to a proper cupping….

    a. husk
    b. roast
    c. grind
    d. smell
    e. brew
    f. break the crust
    g. smell
    h. slurp
    i. spit
    j. take notes

    Do that for 21 lots of coffee (five cups for each lot) a day and you might be able to keep up with our Coffee Guy.

    Untitled from longmilescoffee on Vimeo.

  • You moved your family where?

    We have a great big hope. But this week it seems like a great big stinky bog is attempting to snatch away our hope and our joy along with it.

    Burundi can swoop in and make you question things.

    Things like your sanity at bringing your family… To where?
    Or, will our vision for holistic change take root amongst these coffee farmers?

    Or on a more base level will the combination of: wild boys, construction at our new home, people EVERYWHERE, tripping-surging electricity, internet that promised the world and gave us dile-up, non stop cupping by me, cameras, one car (ie one camera girl stuck in constructionvill), and no French drive us over the edge?

    My optimism has threatened to give way to “frustration,” or other words could be used. A friend and local videographer said “so the honeymoon is over.” I don’t think we took that package.

    Kristy calls this rose-colored optimism (especially with time) “unrealistic.” I like to think “why not?” “Why couldn’t we do that?” I love possibility. We are living on potential and faith doing exactly what we asked for.

    That’s how I ended up in coffee. That’s why I see so much hope in individuals.

    Plus, I’m here to hunt for the best coffee in the country, in all of Africa! And to authenticly and naturally make a holistic difference in people’s lives. How? I really don’t know to be honest. Its a process. Its more being willing to follow God, and less “out of my way I’m a big deal.” What I do know is the last lot of Bwayi I cupped yesterday was near tear producing sweetness. High grown, farmer loved, hand picked, 100% arabica goodness.

    So are we in a bog? No, says Mr. Optimism, we’re just finding our way in the worlds second poorest country. Still, I give myself the permission to ask “I moved my family where?”

    Welcome to Burundi Carlson family.

    Coffee guy

  • Tomorrow We Jump…

    … and I just wanted you to know.

    It has been a fight, a gigantic BATTLE to get to this point.

    We are sick (literally) and tired.

    This journey has catapulted me beyond any tiredness I have ever known.


    Tonight I cried in the hollow space of our little house.

    I walked around the empty rooms and the memories made me ache.

    To my core.

    So much has happened in that little space.

     

    The babies,

    the parties (oh the parties!),

    the big huge meals, sharing our table with people we love.

    It has been a place of refuge for us.

    Our first home. The perfect place.

     

    But now it’s time to let go, to let someone else make beautiful memories there.

    We’ve got a whole new adventure waiting….

    See you in Burundi!

    Kristy

     

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