Under the Coffee Tree

I push my favourite goats along the rocky path with the stick. As they turn to eat some sweet grass, the Imam astride his mule mutters a complaint from beneath his black turban. An angry sun heats my naked shoulders and the top of my feet. My throat burns for the water promised ahead.

Allah, please show me the way I came before.

The mule stops and the Imam smacks its rump with his fly stick. A whiff of jasmin draws me, and here are the rocks I piled two moons ago. Allah, be praised, the goats remember!

“Holy one, look. Kaldi's goats know it. See how they hurry to their special trees!”

****

Despite his marathon training, in the thin air Charlie gasps as he studies his hand-held GPS. He compares the co-ordinates with the trail on the map and a satisfied smile creases the dusty features beneath his wide-brimmed bush hat. Exactly 490 metres to go to the waypoint he had plotted. He casts his eyes across the mountains to the dusty haze above the ancient city of Harrar. Feeling the intense sun on his back Charlie takes a long draft of the chilled coffee in his thermos and offers some to his aquiline guide.

“Haile, there should be a gully off to our right.”

“Yes, Mister Charlie. I see it. The stones that the old man spoke of are here. Be careful. This way is only fit for goats!”

****

My hand grips the mule's halter as we approach the four trees, perched on this small shelf in the gully where the rains collect. I see dark green shiny leaves and the brightest white delicate flowers. And yes, there are the strange bitter tasting red berries that my goats love.

“Look, holy one. How the goats race to the trees! Now we must wait until the sun is lower. They will eat until all are gone.”

The goats nuzzle under the trees as if suckling at a mother's belly. The Imam lifts himself grunting off the mule's back and I help him to sit. I scoop water from the small pool as the goats eat their fill.

****

Charlie carefully frames the shot in the viewfinder of his Nikon. The gnarled tree trunks must be at least half a metre in diameter, like no other coffee tree he has ever seen. The wispy upper branches carry few leaves and the occasional flower bud. Zooming in on one of the trees, his heart leaps.

“Hey, man it's still cropping! I gotta tell Schultz in Seattle. Haile, you take us some cuttings.”

“But, mister Charlie, these trees are sacred to the local people, do you think...?”

“How about I pay you another fifty and we keep this between us?”

****

I shake the Imam awake. In front of me the goats are dancing, skipping around on the grass and kicking their back feet in the air.

“What sorcery is this? Allah u akbar! These beasts are bewitched. We must leave this place.”

“But, holy one. These berries bring life to men too. See the goats. We must harvest the seeds, and grow more.”

Slowly the fear leaves the Imam's eyes.

“Now I see this is Allah's will. Kaldi, you must speak to no-one of this place, do you understand.”

“No of course. If it is Allah's will.”

I must tell all my brothers to be silent. We will keep this secret for Allah. And for this holy man. And for myself. And my family. And no-one else. For ever.

****

In thirty seconds Charlie's satphone has connected and a female voice answers.

“Starbucks executive suite, Good Morning, how can I help you?”

“Charlie from Ethiopia for Howard Schultz, please. He's expecting my call.”

“One moment please, I'm putting you through...”

Ten seconds later, and a firm male voice crosses the continents,“Schultz.”

“Hey, Howard. I've found 'em. It's unbelievable. They must be four hundred goddam years old. I'll upload the jaypeg's as soon as we switch to data. We got cuttings too.”

“Great work, Charlie. Look after them. And don't tell anyone. Not even your mom!”

“KaldiCafe. I gotta hand it to you Howard. Once this stuff is out in four years, it'll be bigger than Frapuccino.”

But the phone line has gone dead. Charlie's two minutes with the man are up.

Reshouldering his pack, he turns to follow his guide. As the sun moves down to the horizon he can just hear a distant muezzin calling to prayer.