Read Online Seeds of Plenty by Jennifer Juo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Juo
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rice paddies. Politics and war had forced them to face each other, all the space that kept them at a distance collapsed, leaving them trapped in a thirteen hundred square foot house with paper walls.
The worst part of it, Winston knew, was that he and only he witnessed the effect of this dramatic social change on his father. Born and bred an aristocrat, his father had never worked a day in his life. He was an intellectual, trained in the classical sense as a Chinese poet-scholar. Outside of his aristocratic world, he was useless, and Winston saw this. That was what broke their relationship, Winston knew. Instead of getting a job, his father continued hanging out at teahouses in Taiwan, reciting poetry with other aristocrat exiles from China as they slid further into poverty.
***
Winston returned to Simeon’s village. If he could just get Simeon to adopt the seeds, all the others would follow once they saw the bounty of his harvest. He peered into Simeon’s hut. Bare of furniture, he only saw some woven mats, cooking pots, and the bag of Cole Agribusiness seeds—still unopened. Simeon welcomed them warmly, inviting them to stay for dinner. But it made Winston question Simeon’s friendliness and enthusiasm. He wondered whether he had misunderstood Simeon’s intentions. The man may have just wanted to be friends out of curiosity rather than because of any real interest in the seeds. Winston felt a kind of desperation. He knew time was running out, and Simeon was his only “lead” so far. They had been coming here for over six months now, and neither Simeon nor anyone else had adopted the seeds.
Winston noticed Simeon and his family sitting on plain wooden stools under the tree while the rest of the village crouched on cane mats. Next to them, over a fire, a blackened clay pot simmered with a pepper chicken stew. Simeon’s wife served the stew and gari on enamel plates. Richard refrained from eating and advised Winston, “As a rule, never eat the food the locals serve. It will upset your stomach. Trust me.” But the stew smelled appetizing to Winston, sick of eating Spam and tuna fish out of tins on these trips. He accepted the food, rolling the starchy gari into a ball and dipping it into the red sauce of the stew, relishing the spicy and flavorful taste.
“You like it?” Simeon watched as Winston gnawed on a chicken head from the stew.
“Yes, very good, much better than English food. In China, we eat chicken heads too, and feet. Considered delicacies.”
“Is dat right?” Simeon said. “One day, I want to visit your country.”
After dinner, Winston washed his hands, stained orange from the palm oil sauce, in a small bowl of water. As the sun began to set, the women washed the plates in large basins of water on the ground while the children played with the chickens and goats in the twilight, and the men talked.
“Sorry I no find time dis week to clear de bush to plant your seeds,” Simeon said. The chief was sitting on the front porch of his house next door, pretending not to pay attention but listening all the same.
“He go be scared of de bush-souls,” the chief suddenly yelled from his porch. “De forest dere is sacred, you hear? Our bush-souls go live dere.”
“Sacred? I didn’t realize,” Winston said.
“Our village has been guarding de forest for many generations. No one can cut a tree dere. We use de forest for offerings to de spirits,” Simeon explained.
“But is there a way around it?” Winston knew from his own experience with Chinese superstitions, there was always a way around it, a visit to a shaman or something. He also wondered if this was just an excuse put up for the foreigner. He knew the locals practiced slash and burn agriculture, cutting and burning new forest for farming while letting the jungle takeover the old farm land.
“Maybe, but why should we do what you tell us, eh?” the chief said.
“I want to tell you a story,” Winston said. “My people, the
The worst part of it, Winston knew, was that he and only he witnessed the effect of this dramatic social change on his father. Born and bred an aristocrat, his father had never worked a day in his life. He was an intellectual, trained in the classical sense as a Chinese poet-scholar. Outside of his aristocratic world, he was useless, and Winston saw this. That was what broke their relationship, Winston knew. Instead of getting a job, his father continued hanging out at teahouses in Taiwan, reciting poetry with other aristocrat exiles from China as they slid further into poverty.
***
Winston returned to Simeon’s village. If he could just get Simeon to adopt the seeds, all the others would follow once they saw the bounty of his harvest. He peered into Simeon’s hut. Bare of furniture, he only saw some woven mats, cooking pots, and the bag of Cole Agribusiness seeds—still unopened. Simeon welcomed them warmly, inviting them to stay for dinner. But it made Winston question Simeon’s friendliness and enthusiasm. He wondered whether he had misunderstood Simeon’s intentions. The man may have just wanted to be friends out of curiosity rather than because of any real interest in the seeds. Winston felt a kind of desperation. He knew time was running out, and Simeon was his only “lead” so far. They had been coming here for over six months now, and neither Simeon nor anyone else had adopted the seeds.
Winston noticed Simeon and his family sitting on plain wooden stools under the tree while the rest of the village crouched on cane mats. Next to them, over a fire, a blackened clay pot simmered with a pepper chicken stew. Simeon’s wife served the stew and gari on enamel plates. Richard refrained from eating and advised Winston, “As a rule, never eat the food the locals serve. It will upset your stomach. Trust me.” But the stew smelled appetizing to Winston, sick of eating Spam and tuna fish out of tins on these trips. He accepted the food, rolling the starchy gari into a ball and dipping it into the red sauce of the stew, relishing the spicy and flavorful taste.
“You like it?” Simeon watched as Winston gnawed on a chicken head from the stew.
“Yes, very good, much better than English food. In China, we eat chicken heads too, and feet. Considered delicacies.”
“Is dat right?” Simeon said. “One day, I want to visit your country.”
After dinner, Winston washed his hands, stained orange from the palm oil sauce, in a small bowl of water. As the sun began to set, the women washed the plates in large basins of water on the ground while the children played with the chickens and goats in the twilight, and the men talked.
“Sorry I no find time dis week to clear de bush to plant your seeds,” Simeon said. The chief was sitting on the front porch of his house next door, pretending not to pay attention but listening all the same.
“He go be scared of de bush-souls,” the chief suddenly yelled from his porch. “De forest dere is sacred, you hear? Our bush-souls go live dere.”
“Sacred? I didn’t realize,” Winston said.
“Our village has been guarding de forest for many generations. No one can cut a tree dere. We use de forest for offerings to de spirits,” Simeon explained.
“But is there a way around it?” Winston knew from his own experience with Chinese superstitions, there was always a way around it, a visit to a shaman or something. He also wondered if this was just an excuse put up for the foreigner. He knew the locals practiced slash and burn agriculture, cutting and burning new forest for farming while letting the jungle takeover the old farm land.
“Maybe, but why should we do what you tell us, eh?” the chief said.
“I want to tell you a story,” Winston said. “My people, the
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