The Monk of Mokha
about how Americans like Mokhtar Alkhanshali—U.S. citizens who maintain strong ties to the countries of their ancestors and who, through entrepreneurial zeal and dogged labor, create indispensable bridges between the developed and developing worlds, between nations that produce and those that consume. And how these bridgemakers exquisitely and brav
... See moreDave Eggers • The Monk of Mokha
This highlight is basically a microcosm of the whole book, so you can read it and decide if this story sounds like it's for you.
Any given cup of coffee, then, might have been touched by twenty hands, from farm to cup, yet these cups only cost two or three dollars. Even a four-dollar cup was miraculous, given how many people were involved, and how much individual human attention and expertise was lavished on the beans dissolved in that four-dollar cup. So much human attentio
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Coffee is an expense I never question. I will look for free trade wherever possible.
Mokhtar told him they had been speaking Arabic. “Arabic, huh?” the officer said, and his eyes seemed to register, for a moment, that he was onto something potentially serious. “You mind if I see your IDs?”
Dave Eggers • The Monk of Mokha
You want to know how privileged I am? The first thing I thought I'd want to say back is, "Sure, officer, how about I do one better and hand you a pilot's license?"
exertion.
Dave Eggers • The Monk of Mokha
What a weird job
badly wanted in on the rapidly expanding market for coffee, and they saw Brazil as a perfect environment for growing
Dave Eggers • The Monk of Mokha
Apparently Khaldi was far afield with his sheep, allowing them to graze on any vegetation they could find. Every night he slept near them, and all was peaceful until late one night, when he expected them to be resting, he found that his sheep were still up and about. More than up and about—they were jumping, prancing, braying. Khaldi was mystified.
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What a wonderful origin story. Incidentally, this is very similar to how I utilized coffee. I'd prepare a pot of coffee so I could stay up and write papers in college. I'd get the papers completed and spend the rest of the night "jumping, prancing, braying." I may have made it too strong.
Mokhtar continued to go into tribal areas, hours or days from Sana’a, and every time he packed his dagger, and a SIG Sauer pistol. His driver had a semiautomatic rifle. When he was in more troubled or unknown districts, he brought along another man who carried an AK-47 and a grenade. None of this was unusual. There were twenty-five million people i
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I do not want to live in a society where adult males freely choose to carry guns. I want to live where it is patently obvious that guns are unnecessary to everyone.
Mokhtar and Nurideen got out and pushed the taxi backward. They laughed. They couldn’t help it. “Been nice knowing you,” Mokhtar said. He figured the odds of survival were about sixty–forty. As they pushed the taxi, Mokhtar noticed a propane tank attached to the trunk. This was common in Yemen, given the gasoline shortages—drivers rigged their engi
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These war torn countries always come with fatalistic stories like this. We only hear the tales from the survivors.
Mokhtar walked out of his captivity in bright camaraderie with his former jailers.