I have officially been picking fruit for 4 days now. I never knew there were so many ways to be violated by a tree. I’ve been whipped in the face, snapped on the ass, poked in the eye, scratched like a post in a litter of kittens, and am possibly suffering from a concussion due to pears dropping on my head.
So far, the fruit picking experience is a bit rough. The first night I moved to the farm, I spent hours in the summer-camp style latrine spewing fire from both ends due to causes unknown, although, the McDonald’s and goon, also known as wine from a box, were plausible suspects. Why you ask would one drink wine from a box? I don’t know but I can guarantee I won’t be doing it again. Nothing like mopping your own vomit up with toilet paper at one in the morning to welcome you home.
After sticking my feet in the sink to rinse of the splashback and staggering to my room, innards ravaged of all their contents, I fell asleep for a blessed five hours before getting a knock on the door, “You want to work today? Be ready in 20 minutes!” I had fallen asleep with my contacts in, my mouth and throat were dry and irritated, and I’d never felt so dehydrated in my life. So much for Sunday being a day of rest, and recovery.
After this trip, I think that if I hear an American complaining about immigrants stealing heir jobs, I’m going to ask if they really want to be the ones scrubbing toilets or laboring in the hot fields all day, because I’ll have done a lot of both and frankly, thank goodness someone is willing to do it. Most of the whinging folk wouldn’t last a week. I know, because I’ve had my own doubts.
We start work at 0630hrs and usually finish by 1500 or 1600hrs. At some point during the day the temperature normally soars above 35 degrees celsius, and the sun punishes you for daring to exist in its presence. All the pickers wear a bag on the front of their bodies, like a giant kangaroo pouch, with criss crossed straps in back. When filled, the bag weighs in excess of 21kg, and the straps bite and tear at the lower neck, even as the weight of the bag gradually decreases your height with its gravitational pull to the earth. With this bag, you climb up and down an industrial ladder no fewer than 20 times per tree, frisking the branches for ample fruits. And yes, it’s just as dirty as I made it sound right there because at the end if the day you are covered in a film of your own sweat, fruit juice, and dirt on your upper body while your legs and feet are covered in mud, possibly manure, and a fair bit of blood.
Being a perfectionist does not work to my advantage as a fruit picker. Pickers are paid for he number of bins they pick. A bin is approximately 1.5m cubed, and is paid out at approximately 40$. And it’s not just any fruit that goes in the bin. Each day, the gangers, or overseers, set a certain size that must be picked and anything smaller will be thrown out of he bin. Any fruit with a bruise or mark on it will be thrown out. In some cases, if the fruit isn’t the designated color, it is thrown out. If it’s supposed to have the stem and doesn’t, it’s thrown out.
Today was by far the worst day yet. I was fending off the Korean rage all day as I started the day waiting for an hour and a half to be moved to a new section of trees that hadn’t been picked clean the day before. Every second counts since ideally, one would pick 4 bins a day to make a decent wage. Then, I was moved to a new section and picked a bin, then moved to another. My assigned ganger, Ashwyn, told me that there were large fruits I hadn’t picked and I had to go get at least one more bag to put in my bin. Then he mentioned he thought I was going slower today. Here’s where I start smiling whilst attempting to think kind and gracious thoughts. He wants me to try and do more than two bins today, which is the most I have managed up til now. There is nothing worse you can do to a perfectionist and over-achiever than give hem a goal which they may not meet. Let me tell you, I busted my butt but when 1500hrs rolled around I was struggling to fill my second bin because I couldn’t find anymore sizeable fruits on the trees. Then tractor driver John comes around and says there are lots of pickable fruits and gives me a sample size of an acceptably sized fruit. It was WAY smaller than I had considered eligible, and no one had cared to point out that we were picking a smaller size today. My bin was full in 15 minutes and I staggered out of the paddock, after being told by Ashwyn that I had to come back to those trees tomorrow and finish picking the good fruit. My feet have felt asleep for the past week and I’m pretty sure a few toenails are going to fall off. My calves are covered in gauges and bruises, not to mention the constant ache. My deltoids hurt to the touch and I’m getting an absurd sock tan. After taxes and the contractor cut, I’m making maybe 50$ a day at current pace. It’s pretty hard times in Dianaland.
Everyday, I try to remember to thank God for where I am and especially when I get a tree full of good fruit. I make up little songs of praise, and ditties about fruit, all balanced with curses of the wretched trees when the branches get abusive. And at the end of the day, I come home to the likeness of a prison camp, complete with a cement block room and saggy cot whose mattress may or may not have a small burrowing rodent living in it. As much as the idea disturbs me, the unseen critter is my only friend for the moment. Despite trying to be clever and enthralling, I have failed thus far. The lovely Italian boys don’t seem that interested in my broken Italian, or maybe just can’t understand my horrible accent. My Scottish roommate doesn’t talk much and seems rather discontent most of the time. The Germans clique with the Germans, the Asians with the Asians, and the Irish with the Irish. Meal times are utterly reminiscent of high school as I look from table to table and everyone avoids eye contact until I finally just sit in the corner, by myself, with a book. I fire guns, piggyback full grown men, camp in the outback, and pack my whole life in a bag set for far away lands, but give me the old cafeteria scenario and I quake every time. Sigh.
When we were camping, John and I lay in the tent and had our usual bed time chat. John was glad I was happy, which I truly was, but I contested that even when unhappy I could hide it pretty well. John said it was obvious when someone was in misery. I guess that’s true but I now parley that one must care to observe and so here, my misery goes unnoticed. Plus I go out to a field when I cry. And then write self-pitying blogs. Sigh.
Is life really so awful? No. In perspective, I’m still in Australia, get to look at pretty Italian and German boys if not converse with them, and after three months will have buns of steel. But even in great and grand adventures, there are times of loneliness and heartache, and while snakes, spiders, and compost toilets concern me not, this solitude is my wilderness. It will be good to relinquish the barriers I’ve built over so many years, to admit I’m utterly flawed and often weak and feel no shame for it, and to have some safe space in another’s heart in which I may snuggle up and forget the question of who I am, because they’ll see. I have a handful of friends who afford such utter peace of mind and I thank God everyday that one is coming to join me in my travels at the end of this year. Until then i smile and cherish small happy moments, and remember that there’s always a bright side, another day to do better, and hope found in grace. And my 1/4 Life Crisis playlist. Oh and a giant jar of off brand Nutella which I have now slathered on an apple, rice cake, and finally finished feigning excuses to eat it, scooped and licked directly off the knife.
Think of me when you eat peaches and pears and Nutella and see someone sitting by themselves. We can’t all be social butterflies but sometimes, we’re quite worth the effort of your approach.
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