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Book rate November 29th, 2020 by

Benjamin Franklin was appointed the first Postmaster General of the United States, during the second Continental Congress. He had experience, having been Deputy Postmaster General for all the American colonies under the British (1753-1774). But even in 1775, Franklin was one of the most respected of the founding fathers, and older than most of the others; he could have rejected the mail job. But he took it in part because he saw that a postal service would knit the States together. As a printer, writer and publisher, Franklin also understood the strategic advantage of the post for newspapers, and he established a special, low rate for publications. Newspapers could be sent through the mail for just a penny, or a penny and a half, while a letter could cost the fat sum of 25 cents. For its first 50 years, the post office was largely a newspaper delivery system, owned by the federal government, but financed by the sale of postage.

During the American Civil War (1861-1865), Abraham Lincoln’s postmaster general, Montgomery Blair, added to Franklin’s ideal by guaranteeing mail delivery at a uniform rate of postage, even to the new, distant states out west. Blair was clearly a visionary who also proposed the first international postal conference (held in Paris in 1863) and created the postal money order, to cut down on cash going through the mails, to avoid robberies. In recognition of these achievements, on 12 July 1864, Confederate General Jubal Early burned down Blair’s home in Silver Springs, Maryland.

During the Great Depression, president Franklin Roosevelt introduced a special “book rate,” endowed with a subsidy from Congress in 1933, to allow anyone to mail any publication at a special, low fee. A book could go across the country for a few cents.

I had my first brush with the book rate as a little boy, when my mom sent me to the post office alone with a package. “Be sure and tell them it’s a book, and they will charge you less,” mom said.

I handed the clerk the book, wrapped in brown paper. I hesitated and added, “It’s a book.”

“Alright dear,” she said. “Then that will be …” and she quoted me some ridiculous price, low enough to surprise even a kid.

The book rate lives on in the USA, now called the “Media Mail Service”, in recognition that a nation should promote information and learning.

Now, in 2020, educational materials are increasingly shared online, not through the postal system. Millions of smallholders in Southern countries now have a smart phone, and are online for the first time, getting an unprecedented amount of information, from sports, and science to nonsense.

Fortunately, there is a lot of free educational material online. Wikipedia is well written, by citizen scholars. Respected British newspaper, The Guardian, posts online stories for anyone to read, as does the BBC, the Smithsonian Institution and many others. And Access Agriculture has posted over 200 well-researched training videos for farmers, for free, in over 80 languages. The spirit of the book rate lives on.

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Further reading

Boorstin, Daniel J. 1958 The Americans: The Colonial Experience. New York: Vintage Books. 434 pp.

For some history of the US postal service, see: https://about.usps.com/who-we-are/postal-history/

Photo credits

Benjamin Franklin. Colored aquatint by P. M. Alix, 1790, after C. P. A. van Loo. From the Wellcome Library. https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4f/Portrait_of_Benjamin_Franklin._Wellcome_L0017902.jpg

Smallholders reading, by Paul Van Mele, Bangladesh, 2013.


Thanks to Keith Andrews for suggesting the book rate as a topic and for reading an earlier version of this story. Thanks also to Paul Van Mele for his insightful comments.

The poor get richer and healthier, finally October 25th, 2020 by

Recent papers on the Global Burden of Disease (GBD) study for 2019 show that before 2000, the economy of wealthy countries grew at a faster rate than poor ones. But things are changing. Since the turn of the millennium, poorer countries have become healthier and wealthier at a faster rate. Wealth was long been linked with lower birth rates. “The rich get richer and the poor get children,” wrote F Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby, a novel first published in 1925. Yet birth rates are declining in poor countries and people are living longer, healthier lives.

From 2000 to 2019, the poorest fifth of countries added an average of nine healthy years to the life of each person, while the wealthiest 20% of countries added just two years. Articles in the prestigious medical journal, The Lancet, attribute the change to increased investments by governments in women and children, in health, development and education, as part of efforts to meet the United Nation’s Millennium Goals.

Measuring health improvements in populations used to be an inexact science. Since the introduction of disability-adjusted life-years (DALY), or years lost to death or disability, it’s become easier to monitor changes. According to the study, DALYs declined worldwide from 1990-2010 by 2.3% per year. In other words, people got healthier. The annual decline increased to 4.0% from 2010 to 2019, thanks largely to reductions in incidence of major diseases that kill children, such as lower respiratory infections, diarrhea and meningitis by more than 60% between 1990 and 2019. New treatments also meant that the health impact of other infectious diseases declined. The number of people with HIV/AIDS peaked in 2004 and has fallen ever since.

Despite on-going news reports about health crises, global health has steadily improved over the past 30 years. When the DALY is statistically adjusted for age (as people live longer), some of the poorest countries see an average yearly decline of 2% in the rate of death and disability. Good news for the people of Ethiopia, Angola, Burundi, Malawi, Sudan, Myanmar, Laos and Bangladesh, for example, and a powerful reminder that lives are improving.

Population growth is slowing. The world’s population is estimated to peak in 2064 at 9.73 billion, and to decline to 8.79 billion by 2100. Girls and women are spending more years in school and contraception is easier to get.

As middle-income countries develop and urbanize, improving their well-being will depend less on combatting infectious disease, and more on adopting healthier diets, getting exercise, and reducing tobacco use. For countries that are still poor, continued improvements in health will demand “doubling down on policies and strategies that stimulate economic growth, expand access to primary and secondary schooling and improve the status of women (Lancet 2020; 396: 1135).”

It is fashionable in some circles to mock the efforts of formal development. But government and international investments in health and education are improving the lives of poor people in measurable ways.

Further reading

Abubakar, Ibrahim 2020 The future of migration, human populations, and global health in the Anthropocene. The Lancet 396: 1133-1134.

Murray, Christopher J. L. and collaborators 2020 Five insights from the Global Burden of Disease Study 2019. The Lancet 396: 1135-1159.

Murray, Christopher J. L. and collaborators 2020 Global burden of 369 diseases and injuries in 204 countries and territories, 1990–2019: A systematic analysis for the Global Burden of Disease Study 2019. The Lancet 396: 1204.1222.

Learning to teach June 7th, 2020 by

Versión en español a continuación

A really good teacher will teach you both subject matter and how to explain it to others. Elías Sánchez mentored thousands of Central Americans in organic agriculture. He started his adult life as a rural schoolteacher because he wanted to help people. But he soon realized that rural people needed agricultural training as much as the usual school subjects, so he studied agronomy and became an extension agent. When he found government bureaucracy too limiting, he started a teaching farm called Loma Linda, in Santa Lucía, in a pine-covered canyon in the mountains above Tegucigalpa, Honduras. That’s where I met him, in the late 1980s.

Loma Linda had dormitories, a classroom and a dining hall, where 30 farmers could come in to take a five-day course, usually paid for by NGOs or development projects. These were the days when donors were generous with NGOs in Honduras.

In the short course, don ElĂ­as, as everyone called him, taught an effective alternative to slash-and-burn agriculture. Don ElĂ­as expected people to make radical changes in how they farmed, after attending his course.  At the time, the forests on the steep hillsides were rapidly disappearing as people cut and burned trees, brush and crop residues before planting maize fields. The smoke was so thick in the springtime that every year the Tegucigalpa airport had to close because pilots couldn’t see the runway. There was also widespread soil erosion.

Don Elías taught his adult students how to build terraces, plant vegetables, fruits and grains, to make compost and natural remedies for pests and diseases. Thousands of smallholders from all over Honduras took don Elías’ course and slowly began to burn less, and to use organic fertilizer. He was pretty convincing; I’ve made compost ever since taking his course.

Don Elías realized that his audience didn’t see manure as fertilizer. Honduran smallholders would let manure pile up in the corral, and never think of spreading it on nearby maize fields. He held long discussions with the farmers to define organic matter (as anything living or that had once been alive, or came from a plant or animal). Then he taught them that any organic matter could be made into fertilizer. He kept his explanations simple and avoided pedantic words.

During the course we would eat fresh vegetables from the teaching farm for lunch, then get our hands dirty, making new compost heaps and spreading fertilizer from ones that were ready to use. “Compost needs two things,” don ElĂ­as would say: “water and air.” He taught that rain usually provided enough water, and by making compost above ground, air could circulate, as long as you didn’t pack the material.  But for good measure he would heap the organic matter around a thick wooden pole, which he would then pull out, to leave an air hole. Don Elias said that you could make compost in a pit, but it was more work. He did advise us to scrape the leaves and other debris off of the soil surface, so the compost was in contact with the dirt, where the soil-dwelling bacteria would help to start the decomposition.

Don Elías knew that the smallholders already worked hard, so his innovations had to be easy to use. Compost heaps could be left until they decomposed into rich, black earth. Turning wasn’t necessary. He taught people to make compost in the field, so they wouldn’t have to carry the materials very far.

I recalled ElĂ­as Sánchez last week, when I dug up one of our compost pits at home (a perfect quarantine activity). We don’t make compost piles, because we live in the city and our compost includes some ugly garbage. Sometimes we cover the pits with soil and grow something on top (a trick I learned from a farmer in Mali: Playing with rabbits).  Although our compost pit is unlike the compost piles that don ElĂ­as used to make, ours followed all his basic principles.

1) It was made from organic matter.

2) It had air pockets, from cardboard boxes I left in it, which in due time decomposed.

3) It had water. While digging it out I found a couple of teaspoons I had accidentally tossed out with the dishwater. Soapy water may kill beneficial microorganisms, so I won’t try it again. Even after thirty years I’m still learning.

4) I didn’t work too hard on this compost pit. I never did turn it.

The compost was worth it, rich and black, full of earthworms, retaining moisture for several days once we spread it on the soil. Don ElĂ­as would have been pleased. He would also be pleased that many farmers, teaching farms and organizations in Latin America have adopted his ideas about organic agriculture.

To be a good mentor, teach the basic principles of subjects that students want to learn about. Show people how to make a prototype and then encourage them to keep on experimenting. Innovations need to be adapted if they’re going to be used for a lifetime.

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Thanks to Keith Andrews, Eric Boa and Paul Van Mele for excellent comments on a previous version of this story.


Por Jeff Bentley, 7 de junio del 2020

Un buen profesor no solo te enseña la materia sino cómo explicarla también. Elías Sánchez fue mentor de miles de centroamericanos en la agricultura orgánica. Empezó su vida adulta como maestro de escuela rural porque quería ayudar a la gente. Pero pronto se dio cuenta de que la gente del campo necesitaba aprender más de la agricultura, así que estudió agronomía y se hizo un extensionista. Cuando se dio cuenta de que la burocracia gubernamental era demasiado limitante, comenzó una granja de aprendizaje llamada Loma Linda, en Santa Lucía, en un cañón cubierto de pinos en las montañas cerca de Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Allí es donde lo conocí, a finales de los 80.

Loma Linda tenĂ­a dormitorios, un aula y un comedor, donde 30 agricultores podĂ­an entrar para tomar un curso de cinco dĂ­as, normalmente pagado por una ONG o por proyectos de desarrollo. Eran los dĂ­as en que los donantes eran generosos con las ONGs en Honduras.

En el curso corto, don ElĂ­as, como todos le llamaban, enseñaba una alternativa eficaz a la agricultura de tala y quema. Don ElĂ­as esperaba que la gente hiciera cambios radicales en la forma de cultivar, despuĂ©s de asistir a su curso.  En ese momento, los bosques de las escarpadas laderas estaban desapareciendo rápidamente, ya que la gente cortaba y quemaba árboles, matorrales y rastrojos antes de sembrar milpa. El humo era tan espeso en la primavera que cada año el aeropuerto de Tegucigalpa tenĂ­a que cerrar porque los pilotos no podĂ­an ver la pista. TambiĂ©n se produjo bastante erosiĂłn del suelo.

Don Elías enseñó a sus alumnos adultos a construir terrazas, a sembrar verduras, frutas y granos, a hacer abono y remedios naturales para las plagas y enfermedades. Miles de pequeños agricultores de toda Honduras tomaron el curso de don Elías y poco a poco empezaron a quemar menos, y a usar fertilizante orgánico. El fue bastante convincente; he hecho compost desde que tomé su curso.

Don Elías se dio cuenta de que su público no veía el estiércol como fertilizante. Los pequeños propietarios hondureños dejaban el estiércol apilado en el corral y nunca pensaban en esparcirlo en los maizales cercanos. Mantuvo largas discusiones con los agricultores para definir la materia orgánica (como cualquier cosa viviente o que alguna vez estuvo viva, o que salga de una planta o animal). Luego les enseñó que cualquier materia orgánica podía convertirse en fertilizante. Mantenía sus explicaciones simples y evitaba las palabras pedantes.

Durante el curso almorzábamos hortalizas frescas de la finca, luego nos ensuciábamos las manos, haciendo nuevas aboneras y esparciendo el fertilizante de las que estaban listas para usar. “El abono necesita dos cosas”, decĂ­a don ElĂ­as: “agua y aire”. Enseñó que la lluvia usualmente daba suficiente agua, y al hacer abono en cima la tierra, el aire podĂ­a circular, si no se empacara el material.  Pero por si acaso, hacĂ­a la abonera alrededor de un grueso poste de madera, que luego sacaba, para dejar un agujero de aire. Don ElĂ­as dijo que se podĂ­a hacer abono bajo tierra, pero era más trabajo. Nos aconsejĂł que raspáramos las hojas y otros desechos de la superficie del suelo, para que el abono estuviera en contacto con la tierra, donde las bacterias que viven en el suelo ayudarĂ­an a iniciar la descomposiciĂłn.

Don Elías sabía que los pequeños agricultores ya trabajaban duro, así que sus innovaciones tenían que ser fáciles de usar. Se podían dejar la abonera hasta que se descompusieran en una tierra rica y negra. No era necesario moverla. Enseñó a la gente a hacer compost en el campo, para que no tuvieran que llevar los materiales muy lejos.

RecordĂ© a ElĂ­as Sánchez la semana pasada, cuando desenterrĂ© una de nuestras aboneras en casa (una perfecta actividad de cuarentena). No hacemos abonera sobre el suelo, porque vivimos en la ciudad y nuestro abono incluye alguna basura fea. Hacemos el abono en una fosa que a veces tapamos con tierra y cultivamos algo encima (un truco que aprendĂ­ de un agricultor en Mali: Playing with rabbits).  Aunque nuestra abonera enterrada no es como las que don ElĂ­as solĂ­a hacer sobre el suelo, la nuestra seguĂ­a todos sus principios básicos.

1) Estaba hecha de materia orgánica.

2) TenĂ­a bolsones de aire, de cajas de cartĂłn que metĂ­, que con el tiempo se descompusieron.

3) Tenía agua. Mientras desenterraba el composte encontré un par de cucharaditas que había tirado accidentalmente con el agua lavar los trastos. El agua jabonosa puede matar a los microorganismos buenos, así que no lo intentaré de nuevo. Incluso después de treinta años todavía estoy aprendiendo.

4) No trabajé muy duro en esta abonera. Nunca la movía.

El abono valió la pena, rico y negro, lleno de lombrices, reteniendo la humedad durante varios días una vez que lo esparcimos en el suelo. Don Elías habría estado encantado. También estaría contento de que muchos agricultores, fincas educativas y organizaciones en América Latina hayan adoptado sus ideas sobre la agricultura orgánica.

Para ser un buen mentor, enseña los principios básicos de las materias que los estudiantes quieren aprender. Mostrar a la gente cómo hacer un prototipo y luego animarlos a seguir experimentando. Los alumnos tienen que adueñarse de las innovaciones, para seguir adaptándolas toda la vida.

Historias sobre temas parecidos  

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Videos relacionados

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Gracias a Keith Andrews, Eric Boa y Paul Van Mele por sus excelentes comentarios sobre una versiĂłn previa de esta historia.

A long walk home April 12th, 2020 by

In Bolivia, a draconian shutdown went into place almost as soon as the first coronavirus cases were reported in the country in March. When the universities were shut, one 20-year old student, José Andrés Romero, tried to stay on in the city of Sucre, where he had been studying building construction. He was working part-time as a welder’s assistant, but when his employer closed shop, José Andrés could no longer afford the rent on his room. Then he ran out of food.

The buses had been stopped, so José Andrés would have to walk home, to his grandfather’s house in the village of Motaya, 90 kilometers away.

Just leaving the city was a challenge. In Bolivia we are only allowed out of the house one morning a week; everyone is assigned a day from Monday to Friday, depending on the last number of one’s national ID. When it was José Andrés’s turn to leave his room, on a Wednesday, he left at 7:40, carrying water and cooked pasta, the last of his provisions.

He avoided the road most of the time, taking short cuts. He wasn’t very sure of the path, so he used the GPS on his phone to guide him. After running out of water, he drank from a stagnant pond, which made him vomit. Weakened, and with no houses in sight, José Andrés kept walking. The mountains and the canyons blocked his phone signal most of the way. Then he remembered what his grandmother had taught him, that the stars set in the west, and this helped guide his way.

At 11 at night, when José Andrés climbed to a ridge, he saw the lights of the town of Presto, near his village, and he also got a phone signal. He called his cousin, who came with a friend on motorcycles to pick José Andrés up from the road. It was one in the morning on Thursday when they got home.

The municipality put José Andrés in quarantine for two weeks, but his family will feed him, and then he will be able to help with the farm work and wait out the quarantine.

This story puts a face on what is blandly called rural-urban migration. One of the most viable strategies for rural migrants is to go to the city after graduating from high school, to attend university. Young people from the countryside work their way through school and after graduation build a career in the city. These hardworking, resourceful kids are the future of their country. Yet they are so under-appreciated that national leaders can close their universities and shut down the bus system, without even offering the students the dignity of a ride home.  



Strawberry fields once again March 15th, 2020 by

Vea la versión en español a continuación

Like many Bolivians, Diego Ramírez never thought about remaining in the village where he was born, and starting a business on his family’s small farm. As a kid, he loved picking fruit on his grandparents’ small strawberry patch in the village of Ucuchi, and swimming with his friends in a pond fed with spring water, but he had to leave home at a young age to attend high school in the small city of Sacaba, and then he went on to study computer science at the university (UMSS) in the big city of Cochabamba, where he found work after graduation.

Years later, Diego’s dad called his seven children together to tell them that he was selling their grandparents’ farm. It made sense. The grandparents had died, and the land had been idle for about 15 years. Yet, it struck Diego as a tragedy, so he said “I’ll farm it.” Some people thought he was joking. In Ucuchi, people were leaving agriculture, not getting into it. Many had migrated to Bolivia’s eastern lowlands or to foreign countries, so many of the fields in Ucuchi were abandoned. It was not the sort of place that people like Diego normally return to.

When Diego decided to revive his family farm two years ago, he turned to the Internet for inspiration. Although strawberries have been grown for many years in Ucuchi, and they are a profitable crop around Cochabamba, Diego learned of a commercial strawberry farm in Santo Domingo, Santiago, in neighboring Chile, that gave advice and sold plants. Santo Domingo is 2450 km from Cochabamba, but Diego was so serious about strawberries that he went there over a weekend and brought back 500 strawberry plants. Crucially, he also learned about new technologies like drip irrigation, and planting in raised beds covered with plastic sheeting. Encouraged by his new knowledge, he found dealers in Cochabamba who sold drip irrigation equipment and he installed it, along with plastic mulch, a common method in modern strawberry production.

Diego was inclined towards producing strawberries agroecologically, so he contacted the Agrecol Andes Foundation which was then organizing an association of ecological farmers in Sacaba, the small city where Diego lives (half way between the farm and the big city of Cochabamba). In that way Diego became a certified ecological farmer under the SPG PAS (Participatory Guaranty System, Agroecological Farmers of Sacaba).  Diego learned to make his own biol (a fermented solution of cow dung that fertilizes the soil and adds beneficial microbes to it). Now he mixes biol into the drip irrigation tank, fertilizing the strawberries one drop at a time.

Diego also makes his own organic sprays, like sulfur-lime brew and Bordeaux mix. He applies these solutions every two weeks to control powdery mildew, a common fungal disease, thrips (a small insect pest), red mites, and damping off. I was impressed. A lot of people talk about organic sprays, but few make their own. “It’s not that hard,” Diego shrugged, when I asked him where he found the time.

Diego finds the time to do a lot of admirable things. He has a natural flair for marketing and has designed his own packing boxes of thin cardboard, which he had printed in La Paz. His customers receive their fruit in a handsome box, rather than in a plastic bag, where fruit is easily damaged. He sells direct to customers who come to his farm, and at agroecological fairs and in stores that sell ecological products.

Diego still does his day job in the city, while also being active in community politics in Ucuchi. He also tends a small field of potatoes and he is planting fruit trees and prickly pear on the rocky slopes above his strawberry field. Diego has also started a farmers’ association with his neighbors, ten men and ten women, including mature adults and young people who are still in university.

The association members grow various crops, not just strawberries. Diego is teaching them to grow strawberries organically and to use drip irrigation. To encourage people to use these methods he has created his own demonstration plots. He has divided his grandparents’ strawberry field into three areas: one with his modern system, one with local varieties grown the old way on bare soil, with flood irrigation, and a third part with modern varieties grown the old way. The modern varieties do poorly when grown the way that Diego’s grandparents used. And Diego says the old way is too much work, mainly because of the weeding, irrigation, pests and diseases.

Ucuchi is an attractive village in the hills, with electricity, running water, a primary school and a small hospital. It is just off the main highway between Cochabamba and Santa Cruz, an hour from the city of Cochabamba where you can buy or sell almost anything. Partly because of these advantages, some young people are returning to Ucuchi. Organic strawberries are hard to grow, and rare in Bolivia. But a unique product, like organic strawberries, and inspired leadership can help to stem the flow of migration, while showing that there are ways for young people to start a viable business in the countryside. Diego clearly loves being back in his home village, stopping his pickup truck to chat with people passing by on the village lanes. He also brings his own family to the farm on weekends, where he has put a new tile roof on his grandparents’ old adobe farm house.

Agriculture is more than making a profit. It is also about family history, community, and finding work that is satisfying and creative.

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Por Jeff Bentley, 15 de marzo del 2019

Como muchos bolivianos, Diego Ramírez nunca pensó en quedarse en la comunidad donde nació, y empezar un emprendimiento agrícola en las pequeñas chacras de su familia. Diego cuenta que de niño le encantaba recoger fruta en la pequeña parcela de frutillas de sus abuelos en la comunidad de Ucuchi, y nadar con sus amigos en una poza de riego, llena de agua de manantial, pero de joven tuvo que vivir en la ciudad pequeña de Sacaba para estudiar en colegio. Luego se fue a estudiar a la Universidad UMSS, la carrera de ingeniería de sistemas. Culminado los estudios, empezó a trabajar en la ciudad de Cochabamba.

Años más tarde, el padre de Diego llamĂł a sus siete hijos para decirles que estaba vendiendo el terreno de sus abuelos. TenĂ­a sentido. Los abuelos habĂ­an fallecido, y nadie habĂ­a trabajado la tierra durante unos 15 años. Sin embargo, a Diego le pareciĂł una tragedia, asĂ­ que dijo: “Yo la voy a trabajar”. Algunos pensaron que era un chiste. En Ucuchi, la gente estaba en plan de dejar la agricultura, no meterse en ella. PreferĂ­an emigrar al Oriente de Bolivia y muchos se habĂ­an ido del paĂ­s. Por esta razĂłn muchas de las parcelas están abandonadas. No es el tipo de lugar al que la gente como Diego normalmente regresa.

Cuando Diego decidió revivir su finca familiar ya hace dos años, buscó inspiración en el Internet. Aunque la frutilla es un cultivo ancestral de la comunidad de Ucuchi y muy rentable en Cochabamba, Diego se enteró de una empresa productora de frutillas en Santo Domingo, Santiago, en el vecino país de Chile, que daba consejos y vendía plantas. Santo Domingo está a 2450 km de Cochabamba, pero Diego se tomó tan en serio las frutillas que fue allí un fin de semana y trajo 500 plantas de frutillas. Crucialmente, también aprendió sobre el cultivo tecnificado de frutillas, aplicando el riego por goteo y plantado en camas tapadas con plástico. Movido por sus nuevos conocimientos, buscó distribuidores en Cochabamba que vendían equipos de riego por goteo y los instaló, junto con el mulch plástico, un método común en la producción moderna de fresas.

Diego se inclinó más en la producción agroecológica para producir frutillas, así que se contactó con la Fundación Agrecol Andes que estaba organizando una asociación de productores ecológicos en Sacaba, la pequeña ciudad donde Diego vive, a medio camino entre su terreno y la ciudad grande de Cochabamba. Diego ya tiene certificación de productor ecológico con SPG PAS (Sistema Participativo de Garantía Productores Agroecológicos Sacaba), Diego aprendió a hacer su propio biol (una solución fermentada de estiércol de vaca que fertiliza el suelo mientras añade microbios buenos). Ahora mezcla el biol en el tanque de riego por goteo, fertilizando las frutillas una gota a la vez.

Diego tambiĂ©n hace sus propias soluciones orgánicas, como el sulfocálcico y el caldo bordelĂ©s. Fumiga estas preparaciones cada dos semanas para controlar el oĂ­dium, los thrips (un pequeño insecto), la arañuela roja, y la pudriciĂłn de cuello. Me impresionĂł. Mucha gente habla de aplicaciones orgánicos, pero pocos hacen las suyas. “No es tan difĂ­cil”, Diego dijo cuando le preguntĂ© de dĂłnde hallaba el tiempo.

Diego encuentra tiempo para hacer muchas cosas admirables. Tiene un talento natural para el marketing y ha diseñado sus propias cajas de cartón delgado, que ha hecho imprimir en La Paz. Sus clientes reciben la fruta en una bonita caja, en lugar de en una bolsa de plástico, donde la fruta se daña fácilmente. Vende directamente a los clientes que vienen a la misma parcela, en las ferias agroecológicas y en tiendas que comercializan productos ecológicos.

Diego todavía hace su trabajo normal en la ciudad, mientras que también tiene una cartera en la comunidad de Ucuchi. También cultiva una pequeña chacra de papas y está plantando árboles frutales y tunas en las laderas pedregosas arriba de su frutillar. Diego también ha iniciado una asociación de agricultores con sus vecinos, diez hombres y diez mujeres, incluidos adultos mayores y jóvenes que todavía están en la universidad.

Los miembros de la asociación cultivan diversos cultivos, no sólo frutillas. Diego les enseña a cultivar frutillas orgánicamente y a usar el riego por goteo. Para animar a la gente a usar estos métodos, ha creado sus propias parcelas de demostración. Ha dividido el frutillar de sus abuelos en tres áreas: una con su sistema moderno, tecnificado, otra con variedades locales cultivadas al estilo antiguo en suelo desnudo, con riego por inundación, y una tercera parte con variedades modernas cultivadas a la manera antigua. Las variedades modernas no rinden bien cuando se cultivan al estilo de los abuelos. Y Diego dice que la forma antigua es mucho trabajo, principalmente por el desmalezado, el riego y las enfermedades además de las plagas.

Ucuchi es una atractiva comunidad en las faldas del cerro, con electricidad, agua potable, una escuela primaria y un pequeño hospital. Está justo al lado de la carretera principal a Santa Cruz, a una hora de la ciudad de Cochabamba donde se puede comprar o vender casi cualquier cosa. En parte por estas ventajas, algunos jóvenes se están volviendo a la comunidad de Ucuchi. Las frutillas orgánicas son difíciles de cultivar, y son raras en Bolivia. Pero un producto único, como las frutillas orgánicas, y un liderazgo inspirado pueden ayudar a frenar el flujo de la migración, al mismo tiempo de mostrar que hay maneras viables para que los jóvenes empiecen con un emprendimiento personal en el campo. A Diego le encanta estar de vuelta en su comunidad: para su camioneta para charlar con la gente que pasa por los caminos del pueblo. También trae a su propia familia a la finca los fines de semana, donde ha puesto un nuevo techo de tejas en la vieja casa de adobe de sus abuelos.

La agricultura es más que la búsqueda de lucro. También se trata de la tradición familiar, la comunidad y de sentirse realizado con un trabajo satisfactorio y creativo.

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