Looking ravishing in all of my fruit-picking gear, right?
Literally the morning after drafting my last entry, I had a picking job. I was leisurely preparing my oatmeal around 0830hrs when Milan, the hostel owner, came in and asked if I wanted to work today. Staring at my bowl of plain, flavorless, and utterly pathetic oatmeal, I said yes without even knowing the details and was told to be ready in fifteen minutes.
I couldn’t help but be a bit giddy, maybe for the first time, hearing, “I told you so,” but only because it came from God with a little poke in the ribs. Decked out in my fruit picking-adventure gear, I clambered into what can only be known as the “death mobile,” complete with shag seat covers. I don’t know if it was a manual or if Milan just had to toggle the gear shift to trick the van into going, but once started and puttering along, there was a rather disconcerting clank occurring underneath our feet at regular intervals. Funny, doesn’t seem that long ago that I was praying for a lack of death in a car in the middle of nowhere…
There were eight of us total, six Frenchies, one German, and yours truly. Only the German and I spoke fluent English, quickly dissolving the fantasy of group bonding and instant friendship. The French backpackers didn’t seem particularly interested in socializing outside of their circle, anyway. Perhaps it was for the best as there wasn’t really time for chatting between pangs of agony.
We were essentially thrown into the job. None of us had experience picking tomatoes, and I never could have anticipated what devilish little fruits they are. I’m not one to shy away from hard work, very often stupidly volunteering for it, and was in fact pumped to spend a few months doing hard labor, being dirt-encrusted, and falling asleep from sheer exhaustion each night. Not to mention a hope that my “elephant that ate a whale” situation would be resolved, once and for all. I admit my obsession on the subject, but all I can say is that I’m trying to be all I can be…with a little less. After all, the less weight I have to carry while trekking around the world, the better.
Well, hard labor is exactly what I got. The trellised tomato paddock covered about an acre and consisted of rows of the tomato plants
I like to pretend I'm Oliver Twist or a poor Victorian maiden. It makes my plain oatmeal taste the slightest bit better.
spanning approximately 120 meters (approx. 394ft) long. We were instructed to use 21kg (46lb) capacity buckets to collect the tomatoes then haul them back to larger bins. The working conditions were as follows: In order to collect ripe tomatoes throughout the vine, you must bend or crouch down, leaning in to the vine and grunting profusely in order to coax out the villainous hidden fruits. It was likely, and even inevitable, that you will grab, step, or crouch upon a weed with razor sharp, inch long thorns, or for variety, stinging nettles. Sometimes, said implements of natural death will be strewn in amongst a variety of saw grass as tall I am, and as we all know, I am no petite Asian. If the aforementioned elements are present, then it is also likely that the trench in which you are working is filled ankle-deep with water, muck, and other unthinkable ingredients. The cruel Australian sun cackles as it attempts to crackle your skin and your resolve to not die.
And yet, in some ways this job was no different from my chair-butt-inducing office position in Ohio, or any other job really. Essentially, you have those who work hard and well, and those who don’t whether out of negligence or inability. First off, one must have an eye for detail in order to coax, as previously mentioned, the tomatoes out of their hiding spots. I first noticed, and the farmer secondly, that many of the rows picked by the French backpackers had a ton of ripe fruit still left on the vine. Although, in their defense, the farmer didn’t really speak up and he knew that they didn’t speak fluent English. Thus, his murmuring under the breath didn’t provide the constructive criticism required to improve. I believe that had it been better explained to them which specimens were considered ripe for picking, anything from green with a hint of pink to bright red, and that one must literally plunge him or herself into the vine to find said specimens, that they would have done their best to achieve satisfaction. Secondly, 5 of the 6 French backpackers were girls, and rather dainty. They could only lift a bucket filled to half capacity, and for unknown reasons, insisted on wearing tank tops and no head coverings. This simply CANNOT be done if you are spending hours in the hot sun. It seems counter-intuitive, but covering your skin with a breathable long-sleeve shirt and protecting your head with a hat is the best way to stave off death in such conditions. Wearing skimpy clothes is like drinking urine when stranded in the desert- you think it will help but will only end in misery. Their final shortcoming was that they were indeed dainty and dared not work in the trenches filled with water or thick with weeds. Le sigh. Guess who went in their stead?
Sweet sock tan and mangled leg. Alas, there goes my career as a calf-model.
Thus, we were all working hard given personal limitations. My lower back and thighs cursed me, for no matter how you might try to position yourself, you will inevitably feel pain constantly lunging and bending. Out of forgetfulness or utter idiocy, I didn’t wear my gloves leading to hands so encrusted in dirt and mud, then baked by the sun, that they cracked and bled. My arms and hands whimpered as I hauled one to two full buckets at a time back to the bins. Having been recruited last minute, I only had one liter of water and no lunch to last me seven hours of work. I often felt dizzy and lightheaded, but knew that the farmer would be rating our performance and prayed for as much stamina as possible.
Towards the end of the day, I noticed that the German, Charlie, was also standing
Groceries for two weeks! For two people? Well, I certainly won't be wanting for fiber...
and trying to stretch his back for extended periods of time. He asked me what time it was and I replied 1600hrs, and added an unfortunate insight that since the peak heat of the day was over, if the farmer was going to let us go for that reason, all hope was lost. He could have us working until sundown. Probably not the most encouraging thought to share, as evidenced by the grimace on Charlie’s face, and especially since he hadn’t eaten lunch either. Over our grumbling stomachs, we had discussed the experience of being broke on the road, and our hopes for future fruit picking gigs. I was happy to have a little fellowship to keep up morale. And then, I found myself asking if he had food to eat and offering him an allowance of my meager stash. In my head I was trying to calculate how to make a bag of rice and oatmeal last two people for two weeks. I seem to recall a Bible story of multiplication of loaves and fish…
These shoes used to be gray and yellow...
My last trench of the day was one the French had skipped because it was full of long grass and stinging weeds, water, and yes, it did look rather snakey. I shook my head and charged in. The water came up to my calves and my feet sank into thick, squidgy mud whose suction made an amazingly large fart noise as I took a step. I found myself giggling, then chortling, then laughing hysterically. Charlie looked over from the next row, as if concerned that I had gone crazy from heat exhaustion and dehydration, and I tried to explain between the sound and the ridiculousness of it all, I just found it funny. He smiled and said it just looked gross to him. And it was. It was an unsavory soup of rotting tomatoes, algae, mud, and probably something dead but goodness did the cool muck feel ever so good on my legs and I admit, I considered feigning a slip and fall in order to submerge my entire person in the festering stew. Then the farmer came to let us go for the day and while I thought, “He might have come a few minutes earlier and spared me soppy shoes,” I was also feeling rather giddy. God had given me exactly what I had asked of him, and pure joy at that. Plus, fart noises are funny.
As we walked back to the packing shed, I asked Charlie if he had a long-sleeve cotton shirt, as I had noticed him removing and donning
Dirt-encrusted wish, granted!
his heavy denim over-shirt several times during the day. He didn’t, of course, and I knew he didn’t have a cent to spare. Before I knew it, I found myself offering him the shirt off my back, rather the exact duplicate I had of it back at the hostel. One of the two shirts I had just purchased, with much grief and a good portion of my remaining monies, and I was giving it away. This may be why I will never be rich. He looked and me and asked what I wanted for it. I just smiled and said, “The way I figure it, since we’re working as a group, the happier and healthier everyone is, the better off we will all be.” And what can I say, I heart Germans.
The following morning, I rose at 4:45 to arrive at work by 6. I had to hunt down the French boy and Charlie couldn’t be found, nor has he been seen since. I suppose it was the first sign of the beginning of the end. We picked for seven hours without a lunch, only to be told at the end of the day that the farmer wasn’t happy with our work and was letting us go. Everyone was pretty devastated, as we felt we hadn’t been given a fair chance nor had the farmer ever expressed his concerns so that we could remedy our mistakes. But, two days of work provided enough money for a third week’s rent and some more food, meaning I could stick around for a better paying, less anguish-filled, position. The job had served its purpose.
Feet should never really look like this, and especially not for extended periods of time. "Toenails, please don't fall off!"
I trust that the Lord will continue to provide. I’m not worried, and not disappointed. Frankly, I’m not sure that my body could have handled another day in that paddock as my feet have felt like they’re asleep for the past two days (pins and needles), which is curious and only a slight bit worrisome. And, my thighs are so sore that it’s rather difficult to go to the toilet which is sort of dire when you are living on rice, beans, and lentils, ahem. But, I feel as if I’ve already lost a few kilograms thanks to the hard work, diet, and repercussions of said diet, so I’m pretty happy about that as well. So all in all, maybe Shepparton doesn’t suck so much after all, but she certainly is a tricksy minx. May she be well worth the effort. Although I could still do without being greeted by hairballs rolling down the hall.
Whew. oh man. I better buckle down, and prepare mentally. lol.