Yachakuq of Coca

Today, I witnessed a young man gathering his first coca harvest. He worked among several older members of the community, a woven basket resting near his feet. At first, I thought he was simply helping. Then I noticed how often his eyes moved toward the man beside him before his hands returned to the plant. He was learning.

The older man showed him which leaves to select and how to take them without damaging the rest of the plant. Then he stepped back and let the young man try. His first movements were careful, almost hesitant. He examined each leaf longer than anyone else did, occasionally glancing sideways before deciding whether to gather it.

There was very little talking. Most of the teaching seemed to happen through watching and doing. Select. Gather. Look again. With each handful, his movements became a little more certain, and slowly the empty basket beside him began to fill.

At one point, he held up a leaf for the older man to inspect. The man looked at it, nodded, and returned to his own work. The young man's face changed immediately. It was only a small gesture, but I could see what that nod meant to him. He reached for the next leaf without looking over first.

I stayed longer than I intended, fascinated by the quiet exchange taking place among the plants. This harvest was producing more than what accumulated in the basket. With every leaf he gathered, the young man was also gathering experience, learning something that other hands had already learned before his.

By the time I continued down the road, his basket was noticeably fuller and his hands noticeably surer. I wondered how many first harvests begin this way, with someone standing close enough to show you what to look for, then gradually giving you enough space to discover that your own hands are beginning to know.