Cracked Cacao and Muddy Boots
MY FIRST TRIP TO PALANDA
On May 3rd, I took my first trip to Palanda with Byron and Pedro—two of the Roa brothers and firefighting companions. Byron is married to Claire, my partners in the wellness project that’s pulling me out of the design studio and into the mountains.
Even though I live in Vilcabamba, a place already known for its beauty, Palanda felt like entering another dimension. The drive itself was a joy—windows down, lungs wide open, the air getting thicker and richer as we ascended into the clouds. We passed waterfalls pouring straight from the cliffs, pulling over to collect ice-cold water by the side of the road. There’s something about being able to drink straight from the mountain that makes you feel like you're exactly where you're supposed to be.
After about two hours, we rolled into a small town—its name escapes me, but I remember it started with a V. It was the last bit of pavement before the road turned to rock and dirt. From there, the adventure kicked up a notch. Narrow, rain-carved roads hugged the mountainside, some barely a car's width, giving just a few feet between you and the edge. But if you’ve lived in Vilcabamba long enough, you stop sweating the cliffs and just enjoy the view.
We parked the truck in what was probably the flattest spot in the pueblo—the soccer field. It was already night, and before lugging supplies down to the finca, we cracked open a few beers, turned on the radio, and took a breath. Not long after, the vecinos (neighbors) started appearing—maybe curious, maybe just drawn in by the music. We offered beer, and before long, someone pulled out an old six string and we were swapping stories, singing baladas, and taking one too many shots of whiskey. What started as a “just one” quickly turned into a blurry, laughter-filled night.
Eventually, we strapped up, got the dogs, and started our descent to the house. The path down was steep and muddy, winding through the forest in the dark. It took about 15 minutes—not bad going down, but I already knew the climb back was going to be a different story.
The house we arrived at was beautifully simple. A real campo house made almost entirely of wood, with imperfect walls that let in the night air and glimpses of moonlight. I threw a mattress on the floor, ate some late-night food, and knocked out.
Morning was slow—no surprise. Coffee helped, and by mid-morning we were out in the fields, ready to harvest cacao. This was a first for me. I’ve worked on plenty of product design projects, but never like this—never with the mud between my toes and the actual plant in my hands.
The finca has two types of cacao, a red and yellow varieties, they are known as cacao criollo due to how they are grown (totally natural) and the highly aromatic smell it produces. When ripe, they’re hard—tougher than a sweet potato—and the machete work requires focus. These aren’t your dull hardware store blades; one wrong move and you’re short a finger. I started slowly, cautious. But after opening a few hundred, I found my rhythm—three solid hits and scoop. Inside the fruit, a layer of white, gooey sweetness surrounds each seed—delicious to eat. You don’t eat the seed itself. Although edible, at this stage it's not typically consumed; instead, the seed is collected, fermented, and later dried.
The harvest zone is no joke. We hiked 30 minutes downhill to the lowest row of cacao trees and started working our way up. Since hauling whole fruits uphill is madness, we opened them on the spot and filled buckets with seeds. Along the way, we cleared dead branches, removed infected fruit, and made sure the trees had space and light. It’s thoughtful work. Real work.
By the time we were done, we had two massive buckets—about 60 pounds each. Before hauling them out, Byron and Pedro showed me something wild: vanilla growing straight from the land. I'd never seen it in its raw form before. It grows like a long green bean, and when it opens, you see tiny shiny seeds inside. The smell? Unreal. Strong and sweet, completely different from its much subtler, softer flavor.
Then came the hardest part: the hike back up.
Pedro would have carried the bucket, no problem. But this felt like my initiation. Me and Byron each took a 60-pound or so bucket. Pedro grabbed the tools. The climb was brutal. I work out regularly, hike often—but this was a different level. The bucket digs into your shoulder, your legs scream with every lunge uphill, and the mud? That mud doesn’t play fair. Every slip, every slide, I was just trying to keep the bucket upright. Dropping it would’ve meant losing hours of work.
Somewhere between the sweat and the struggle, I realized how important this experience is—not just for the brand we’re building, but for me. This isn’t just “content.” This is context. I’m not designing labels from a screen. I’m living the product, breathing it in, tasting it raw. This is what I’ve always wanted: to build with intention, grounded in experience, learning as I go.
I’ll be back in Palanda soon. There’s more to learn—fermentation, drying, roasting. All the steps that turn these sticky, white seeds into the chocolate we all know. But for now, I’ll carry this memory with me. Muddy boots, sore shoulders, a bucket full of cacao—and the sense that this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
Out for now.
—Alan
Also, check out Mi Jardín—a soulful brand I’m helping shape from the roots up, blending organic ingredients with a story that’s pure magic.