The cashew juice and nut separator at the Rosa Maria Farms in Sanguem.
Photo Credits: The Goan
SANGUEM
The cashew yield had been abundant in the past, but since the last five years there has been a gradual decline in cashew yield across Sanguem taluka.
The trees, usually laden with promise in anticipation of the May harvest, stood sparsely adorned marking an abrupt and disheartening end to the season.
In Uguem and remote Netravali villages, the silence in the cashew orchards was deafening; the work was over, and the yield was negligible.
Harshad Phaldessai, a progressive farmer in Netravali-Sanguem, traced the stark reality on his three hectares of farm land.
“Just over four years ago,” he recounted, his voice tinged with weary resignation, “I harvested 50 quintals of cashew nuts. Last year, it plummeted to 38 quintals and this year, it was a mere 28 quintals."
"Our efforts to care for the land haven't wavered. It's the climate change, that's what's eating away at our production. And I fear this is a change we can't simply reverse; it might only worsen."
Adding to his woes was the dwindling production of cashew liquor, a significant source of income for many.
"The cost of production is also mounting," he lamented, the traditional distillation process becoming increasingly expensive and less rewarding.
Romualdo Fernandes, another farmer from Sanguem town, whose sprawling 1.5 lakh square metre orchard housed over 14,000 cashew plants, echoed Prabhudessai’s concerns.
“This year's yield is down by about 30% compared to last year," he said.
"Last year, I managed 26 quintals. This year, it is barely 20.5 quintals."
A flicker of relief crossed his face as he mentioned, "The only small comfort is the slight increase in cashew nut prices. Last year, we were offered around Rs 110 per kg and this year, the base rate has risen to Rs 163 per kg."
However, the marginal price hike offered little solace against the backdrop of a drastically reduced harvest.
"It doesn't compensate for the low yield," he emphasised, attributing the consistent decline to the erratic weather patterns.
"This year, in particular, unseasonal rains from October to January wreaked havoc, causing the flowers to drop prematurely. The heavy dew also contributed, killing the delicate blossoms before they could mature."
Romualdo Fernandes, who had been recognised as the best farmer the previous year for his meticulous management of Rosa Maria Farms, also highlighted the escalating farming costs.
"The daily wage for labourers has gone up to Rs 800," he pointed out, "and the cost of firewood for distillation is exorbitant. By the time we account for everything, there's hardly any income left."
Prabhudessai added another layer to the challenges, particularly for those farming near wildlife sanctuaries.
"Getting firewood has become an extreme hardship in these areas, severely impacting the distillation of cashew liquor."
The plight of small-time farmers was no different, often even more precarious.
Anil Kakodkar from Villian-Sanguem, who typically leased agricultural farms for seasonal plucking of cashew apples and liquor production, painted a grim picture.
"This year, we won't even recover half the lease amount we paid,” said Kakodkar.
He explained how the cashew season, which usually stretched until mid-May, had prematurely ended, leaving many farmers like him staring at significant losses as they returned empty-handed from the groves.
Josinho Dcosta, a prominent cashew liquor producer from Molcornem, highlighted a crucial difference between their industry and others like dairy farming.
"Unlike dairy, where the government procures milk directly from farmers, we are left to find our own buyers for the liquor,” he said.
He proposed a potential solution, suggesting, "The government should consider a system similar to dairy farming, where they procure cashew liquor from us and supply it to the liquor industries."
While no formal demands for compensation had been officially lodged, a unified voice resonated among the cashew farmers: they desperately needed government support, perhaps in the form of a support price, to weather this unprecedented crisis and safeguard their livelihoods.
The future, once promising with the bounty of the cashew, now loomed uncertain, casting a pall over the lives of those who had dedicated generations to nurturing these precious trees.
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Cashew once sustained livelihoods in Sanguem, Quepem
SANGUEM: For generations together, the lives of villagers residing in remote areas of Sanguem and Quepem talukas revolved around the rhythm of the cashew season.
The cashew season was more than just a crop; it was the lifeblood of the communities residing in the interiors of these twin talukas.
Families toiled together in cashew orchards. While elders meticulously sorted the harvested nuts, their weathered hands moving with practised ease, children would help their parents in the collection of cashew apples and firewood.
Incidentally, the income earned during this season would sustain them through the rest of the year, paying for food, clothing, and educational needs.
Chandan Unandkar, a local from Vaddem Sanguem, had witnessed countless cashew seasons.
His own grove, passed down through generations, had always provided for his family. He remembered the bountiful harvests of his youth, the trees laden with so many nuts that the branches seemed to bow in reverence.
But in recent years, a disquieting trend emerged. The yields were dwindling. The trees, once so generous, now bore fewer and fewer nuts. The feni production, too, had seen a decline, impacting another vital source of income.
The reasons were varied and whispered amongst the villagers – unpredictable weather patterns, new pests that ravaged the trees, and perhaps even the changing climate. Whatever the cause, the impact was undeniable.
The plight was even more acute for those who leased cashew farms for the season.
Unlike Chandan Unandkar and others with ancestral cashew orchards, these families invested their meagre savings upfront, hoping for a good harvest to recoup their expenses and earn a living.
The decreasing yields left them in a precarious situation, struggling to make ends meet and facing the daunting prospect of debt.
Carlito Martins from Uguem Sanguem was one such farmer. Every year, he would lease a small grove in Sanguem, pouring his heart and soul into nurturing the trees.
But the last few seasons had been disheartening. The income from the cashew nuts and the little feni he managed to produce barely covered the lease amount, leaving his family with little to survive on.
The villagers knew they could not solely rely on the dwindling cashew crop anymore and would have to switch to alternate crops for a livelihood.
