The Food of the Gods | Page 8

being necessarily an indication of
ripeness.
[Illustration--Black and White Plate: Varieties of the Cacao.]
On breaking open the pod, the beans are seen clinging in a cluster
round a central fibre, the whole embedded in a white sticky pulp,
through which the red skin of the cacao-bean shows a delicate pink.
The pulp has the taste of acetic acid, refreshing in a hot climate, but
soon dries if exposed to the sun and air. The pod or husk is of a porous,
woody nature, from a quarter to half an inch thick, which, when thrown
aside on warm moist soil, rots in a day or two.
Much has been written of life on a cocoa estate; and all who have
enjoyed the proverbial hospitality of a West Indian or Ceylon planter,
highly praise the conditions of their life. The description of an estate in
the northern hills of Trinidad will serve as an example. The other
industry of this island is sugar, in cultivating which the coloured
labourers work in the broiling sun, as near to the steaming lagoon as
they may in safety venture. Later on in the season the long rows
between the stifling canes have to be hoed; then, when the time of
"crop" arrives, the huge mills in the usine are set in motion, and for the
longest possible hours of daylight the workers are in the field, loading
mule-cart or light railway with massive canes. In the yard around the
crushing-mills the shouting drivers bring their mule-teams to the mouth
of the hopper, and the canes are bundled into the crushing rollers with
lightning speed. The mills run on into the night, and the hours of sleep
are only those demanded by stern necessity, until the crop is safely
reaped and the last load of canes reduced to shredded megass and

dripping syrup.
But upon the cocoa estate there is lasting peace. From the railway on
the plain we climb the long valley, our strong-boned mule or lithe
Spanish horse taking the long slopes at a pleasant amble, standing to
cool in the ford of the river we cross and re-cross, or plucking the
young shoots of the graceful bamboos so often fringing our path.
Villages and straggling cottages, with palm thatch and adobe walls, are
passed, orange or bread-fruit shading the little garden, and perhaps a
mango towering over all. The proprietor is still at work on the
plantation, but his wife is preparing the evening meal, while the
children, almost naked, play in the sunshine.
[Illustration--Black and White Plate: The Home of the Cacao. (_One of
Messrs. Cadburys' Estates, Maracas, Trinidad._)]
The cacao-trees of neighbouring planters come right down to the ditch
by the roadside, and beneath dense foliage, on the long rows of stems
hang the bright glowing pods. Above all towers the bois immortelle,
called by the Spaniards la madre del cacao, "the mother of the cacao."
In January or February the immortelle sheds its leaves and bursts into a
crown of flame-coloured blossom. As we reach the shoulder of the hill,
and look down on the cacao-filled hollow, with the immortelle above
all, it is a sea of golden glory, an indescribably beautiful scene. Now
we note at the roadside a plant of dragon's blood, and if we peer among
the trees there is another just within sight; this, therefore, is the
boundary of two estates. At an opening in the trees a boy slides aside
the long bamboos which form the gateway, and a short canter along a
grass track brings us to the open savanna or pasture around the
homestead.
Here are grazing donkeys, mules, and cattle, while the chickens run
under the shrubs for shelter, reminding one of home. The house is
surrounded with crotons and other brilliant plants, beyond which is a
rose garden, the special pride of the planter's wife. If the sun has gone
down behind the western hills, the boys will come out and play cricket
in the hour before sunset. These savannas are the beauty-spots of a
country clothed in woodland from sea-shore to mountain-top.
[Illustration--Black and White Plate: Ortinola, Maracas, Trinidad.]
Next morning we are awaked by a blast from a conch-shell. It is 6.30,
and the mist still clings in the valley; the sun will not be over the hills

for another hour or more, so in the cool we join the labourers on the
mule-track to the higher land, and for a mile or more follow a stream
into the heart of the estate. If it is crop-time, the men will carry a
_goulet_--a hand of steel, mounted on a long bamboo--by the sharp
edges of which the pods are cut from the higher branches without
injury to the tree. Men and women all carry cutlasses, the one
instrument needful for