Cocoa and Chocolate
The Planter's Life.
Few who go to the tropics escape their fascination, and of those that are young, few return to colder climes. Some become overseers, others, more fortunate, own the estates they manage. It is inadvisable for the inexperienced to start on the enterprise of buying and planting an estate with less capital than two or three thousand pounds; but, once established, a cacao plantation may be looked upon as a permanent investment, which will continue to bear and give a good yield as long as it receives proper attention.
In the recently published Letters of Anthony Farley the writer tells how Farley encounters in South America an old college friend of his, who in his early days was on the high road to a brilliant political career. Here he is, a planter. He explains:
"My mother was Spanish; her brother owned this place. When he died it came to me."
"How did your uncle hold it through the various revolutions?"
"Nothing simpler. He became an American citizen. When trouble threatened he made a bee-line for the United States Consulate. I'm British, of course. Well, just when I had decided upon a political life, I found it necessary to come here to straighten things out. One month lengthened itself into a year. I grew fascinated. Here I felt a sense of immense usefulness. On the mountain side my coffee-trees flourished; down in the valley grew cacao."
"I grow mine on undulations."
"You needn't, you know, so long as you drain."
"Yes, but draining on the flat is the devil."
"Anyhow, I always liked animals—you haven't seen my pigs yet—and horses and mules need careful tending. A cable arrived one morning announcing an impending dissolution. I felt like an unwilling bridegroom called to marry an ugly bride. I invited my soul. Here, thought I to myself, are animals and foodstuffs—good, honest food at that. If I go back it is only to fill people's bellies with political east wind.
"To come to the point, I decided to grow coffee and cacao. I cabled infinite regrets. The decision once made, I was happy as a sandboy. J'y suis, j'y reste, said I to myself, said I. Nor have I ever cast one longing look behind."[8]
This is fiction, but I think it is true that very few, if any, who become planters in the tropics ever return permanently to England. The hospitality of the planters is proverbial: there must be something good and free about the planter's life to produce men so genial and generous. There is a picture that I often recall, and never without pleasure. A young planter and I had, with the help of more or less willing mules, climbed over the hills from one valley to the next. The valley we had left is noted for its beauty, but to me it had become familiar; the other valley I saw now for the first time. The sides were steep and covered with trees, and I could only see one dwelling in the valley. We reached this by a circuitous path through cacao trees. Approaching it as we did, the bungalow seemed completely cut off from the rest of the world. We were welcomed by the planter and his wife, and by those of the children who were not shy. I have never seen more chubby or jolly kiddies, and I know from the sweetness of the children that their mother must have given them unremitting attention. I wondered indeed if she ever left them for a moment. I knew, too, from the situation of the bungalow in the heart of the hills that visitors were not likely to be frequent. The planter's life is splendid for a man who likes open air and nature, but I had sometimes thought that their wives would not find the life so good. I was mistaken. When we came away, after riding some distance, through a gap in the cacao we saw across the valley a group of happy children. They saw us, and all of them, even the shy ones, waved us adieux.
CARTING CACAO TO RAILWAY STATION, CEYLON.
THE CARENAGE, GRENADA.