A Visit to a Brazilian Coffee Plantation

My uncle's plantation

My cousin Atònio woke me up this morning. It was only nine but I could already feel the heat of Brazil. He told me to come downstairs to join the rest of the family for a light breakfast and some coffee. Before I went downstairs for breakfast, I looked out the window in my room. This window provides an incredible view of the sprawling coffee fields that surround the house. From this window, I could see that the slaves were already busy at work; weeding, cutting, and sweating. There was not a single cloud in the sky and the sun beat down on the black earth.

As I made my way downstairs I accidently ran into one of the slaves that work in the house. She looked at me with terror, fearing that I might punish her for not noticing me. I told her not to worry, but she still radiated fear. I can only imagine what my uncle would do to her if he was in my position. I then helped her pick up the laundry she was carrying and made my way towards the dining room.

My Aunt Carlota greeted me when I walked into the room. She asked how I slept and if the slaves provided me with everything I needed. I gave her a positive answer and praised the hospitality of the slaves. My answer pleased her and she told me that the slaves of this plantation are disciplined to be the most respectful and proper slaves in Brazil. The word discipline makes me cringe. I saw the way my uncle disciplines the slaves and it is not a pleasant sight. I saw my first whipping yesterday, and the face of that slave still haunts me.

At breakfast, joining my aunt and I were also my cousins Ema, Célia, Mariana, and Atònio. Atònio told me that my uncle and my eldest cousin Paulo are already out in the fields overseeing the slaves. He told me that we can join them after breakfast. For the rest of the breakfast, my aunt and the girls pressed me on what the latest fashion trends are in Lisbon. I told them I do not pay attention to what the women are wearing.

I arrived in Rio three days ago. The date was January 13, 1837. I came from Lisbon to visit my aunt and uncle. My father told me it would be good for me to experience plantation life in Brazil. I was actually born in Brazil in 1817. My family lived in Brazil, with my father working as a minister for King João. When the King left in 1821, my family left with him. My father’s brother stayed in Brazil, due to his booming success as a coffee plantation owner.

Business sure is booming for my uncle. Coffee has become quite the money maker. His large possession of African slaves aids greatly to this successful business and his growing income. A large majority of his slaves come from Angola. They are an interesting group of people. Occasionally I hear them speaks their native language. It sounds so strange when compared to European languages. They also have very unique customs. My cousins often talk about how the slaves practice witchcraft and black magic. Celia and Mariana told me that they once secretly watched one of the rituals the slaves practice. They claimed that the slaves killed a chicken, while chanting in their native language.

Anyways, after breakfast my cousin and I made our way out to the field to join my uncle. As we walked through the field I saw the large number of slaves busy at work. Sweat ran down their faces. Women had their babies on their back. Old men slowly moved from plant to plant. I saw on slave wrapping their hand in a bandage due to a fresh cut, along with the many, on their hand.

We found my uncle napping under a shady tree, whip still in his hand. He woke up a four this morning to have an early start. He knew the heat could be unbearable today, so he wanted his slaves to start early because he knew they would slow down drastically by midday. This logic made sense to me, I was only standing and sweat ran down my face and back. I could not even imagine gathering coffee in this heat.

We then roused my uncle from his nap. He was happy to see me out in the fields. He told me this is his pride and joy. But before we knew it, he noticed a slave moving very slowly. The slave was a young man, about my age. He went up the slave and yelled at him. He threatened the slave with the whip and fear seized the slave. The slave then moved faster than ever before. When the slave made his way past us, I looked at his back. Scars were all over it. It made me feel sick.

Now, I am back in the house for lunch. My uncle invited me back into the fields for the afternoon. I declined his request. When I am out in that field all I can think about are the slaves. I look at their backs and see scars. I see sweat. I see a down-trodden group of people. I see injustice.

Image used:

"NYPL Digital Gallery Detail ID 1248398." NYPL Digital Gallery Home. Web. 27 Feb. 2011. .