I had never met Patrice Medor before this Sunday, 19 July. We were mutually unaware of each other’s existence; he, having always been in the east, and myself from down south. Our warm conversation had lasted barely a quarter of an hour on my purpose of approaching him when he said he had an intuition this morning. He was driving in the direction of Saint-Julien Church when a rare thought crossed his mind: he would be meeting someone to “place his picture in a newspaper.”

Impossible to know what special algorithm has operated and still more improbable that the meeting would be between the two of us. Be it as it might, Patrice, like all men of the land – gardeners, planters, cultivators and farmers – breathe endurance, discipline and quiet pride. He is 35 and he wanted to share his story with a greater audience. He has had regular schooling at the Rajiv Gandhi Primary School in Riche-Mare, not far from his native Argy. He left the formal education system after Form III at Byron College.

From a very short period as a mason, he turned over a new leaf to join the university of harder studies under the guidance of his father, a traditional vegetable crop producer. The latter advised: “Le trésor se trouve dans la terre, mon fils.” (The treasure is in the earth, my son). He knew that was no joke and, in reality, he would find the reward of his labour.

So, Patrice invested his energy, kept his morale high while learning the language of the land, the perfect harmony of the climate or the imperfect stress of the weather, and the dryness or dampness of the soil. Still, the weather could be favourable for the crops, meaning Patrice has to face all its vagaries.

Patrice has been practising the science and art of crop production on a five-acre rented plot of land legated by his late father. He follows the universal principle of not sowing seeds in shallow soil. They would dry under the sun or rot if sown too deep in damp ground. He grows a large variety of vegetable crops. He has also invested in aquaponic production, and the lettuces he offers for sale are all similar, clean, soft, with a weight that does not betray the expectations of his clients every Sunday after the early morning mass in Saint-Julien Church.

His clients and himself are like family, judging from the greetings exchanged on both sides. He has, for all, a special way of prompting them to gauge for themselves the quality and competitive prices offered. To the lady who hesitates, he says the potatoes are palatable as a well-dressed salad and the long margoze are as sour, therefore as good as the small ones. He is patient, listens and then, as a master in good communication techniques, the message goes and comes back with an impact: he has made a sale.

Patrice tells me his wife is engaged in the sale of vegetables at Bel-Air market, and a visit there is worthwhile. For the sake of easing the life of elderly families especially, he also sells those items he does not grow for practical reasons, pumpkins, for example. The morning market is over and soon the worshippers rush to their cars as they had rushed to his.

It’s almost a ritual that would last as long as Patrice would give them an extraordinary service: they get all the vegetables they need and wouldn’t have to bother looking for the same in crowded outlets during the week. They come from the neighbouring villages of Bonne-Mère, Saint-Julien, Lallmatie, BonAccueil, the once Happy Village of Fuel Sugar Estate with its five or six families, and even from Central Flacq.

So, I tell him his dad was right. There is a reward for hard work. And he has seen truth in his father’s wisdom. At the end of our conversation, we realised our chemistry had worked: he was expecting someone to write about him, a gentleman vegetable producer and seller.