In New Zealand, in the agricultural districts, most of the hostels specialize in finding work for backpackers. The owner takes a lot of time and effort networking with employers throughout the region, who may be in need of unskilled workers to plant, prune, or harvest. It is not long before the owner of The Lemon Tree finds us work at a wine bottling factory: the night shift. We both accept. Later on, though, she tells me that, if I prefer, I could cut up apricots for jam during the day instead, and she will try to find me vineyard work soon. I agree: I would rather work during the day, and outside.
When John heads off to work at 4:00, I feel a little alone in the crowded kitchen. No one is speaking English, and everyone seems to have lots of friends. I head to bed and read my book until I'm sleepy, which isn't long, because it's a really boring book-- but that's another story. I wake soon afterward, when John comes home after midnight. I move over and he climbs into my bunk with me-- even though it's pretty dangerously narrow and high, with no railing. To be on the safe side, I sleep near the wall.
Next day, at about eight in the morning, me and several other backpackers get picked up from the hostel in a rusty, loud, diesel van. We're taken to a kind of factory where we stand around giant crates of apricots and pit them for jam. Many of them are moldy, and we're not wearing gloves-- if you know me then you know my suspicion of, and disdain for, overdue food. Still, we're told to cut the moldy pieces away and save the rest. In almost complete silence, sixteen of us cut open and de-pit three and a half tonnes of apricots, playing word games or making conversation now and then to stave off the boredom. After several hours my hands are orange. Once in maybe ten or twenty apricots, especially near the bottom of the crates, opening the fruit reveals a couple of dark, squirming earwigs inside, doing God knows what in there. I seem to be disturbing their party. Every time it happens, despite the frequency of the occurrence and the fact that earwigs are basically harmless, I panic a little and drop whatever I'm holding, pruning knife, apricot pit, whatever. I can't help it. Mold and earwigs, all in one environment. Great.
On the plus side, we are allowed to pick out a jar of anything from the factory to take home, and they make everything from ketchup and apple sauce to raspberry jam. I choose some jam (but not apricot, if I ever see another apricot I'll die) and accept $100 in an envelope for my day's work.
Back at the hostel, I find a note on my bed: "Hey Lid / had to go to work / back same time tonight / Love you / John."
I find myself unexpectedly alone again, and make spaghetti bolognese with the leftover wine. While I'm eating, two girls approach me and ask where I'm from-- in decidedly North American accents. It turns out they're from Nova Scotia. We click instantly, and spend the evening playing cards and watching television together, laughing. At one point, the hostel owner lets me know she's found me work for the following day: thinning grapes. I'll be picked up at 5:30 a.m., so, somewhat reluctantly-- I'm having so much fun!-- I decide to go to bed early.
I guess a part of me is waiting for John to come home from the factory, and all night, my ears strain through my sleep. I wake in the dark now and then, listening. Suddenly, my alarm goes off at 4:30, and he still hasn't arrived. I can't believe it. I even check his bed with a flashlight. What could have happened? Could he have forgotten the door code? I check outside too, but he's not on the porch, and I feel a little silly. After all, he got home perfectly well the night before.
As I make myself toast and something for lunch, I keep an eye on the clock and start to really worry. Does he work with dangerous machinery at the factory? Could he have been hurt? Is he in the hospital this moment, and here I am, getting ready for work, unaware? Could that be possible?
At twenty past five, I realize that he is at least five hours late from work, and scribble him a note on my way out the door: John / I have to go to work this morning / Please call the cell when you get home / it is 5:30 a.m. I'm worried. / Love Liddy.
As I creep into the dorm to put the note on my bed, something stirs in the upper bunk, and John says, a little incredulously, "Liddy? What are you doing?"
I shine the light so we can see each other. I am immensely relieved. "There you are," I sigh; then, in answer to his question: "I have to go to work." I briefly explain about the grape thinning job. John looks exhausted. I have never seen him so tired, actually: there are deep lines under his eyes, and his cheeks look swollen.
"What happened?" I ask, touching his face.
"Twelve hour shift," he explains flatly. "Sorry, Lid. They didn't tell me. I really expected to be home at midnight."
"Wow."
"Yeah," he says. "And I'm going in again tonight."
There is a pause while I absorb this. "So," I say. "You'll be leaving for work when I get home."
"Yeah," he says. "And it's another late one, so you'll be leaving again when I get home tomorrow."
I feel a kind of dismay, but I'm almost late for my 5:30 pick-up, so I give him a hug and leave hurriedly-- relieved, anyway, that he isn't hurt or anything.
****
Outside, on the curb, seven of us huddle in the pre-dawn dark. The sky is a deep blue, with a few pale yellow stars still shining brightly, seeming to hang randomly in the sky. Venus, I think; and, not for the first time, I miss the northern stars. Once in awhile a big truck will scream by, an impression of headlights, engine noise, and the smell of manure.
Finally, a white van pulls up and we all take our cue. We pile in, murmuring "Good morning" to the driver, a big Maori guy who seems friendly enough and introduces himself as John. He drives us out of town, away from the shops and onto the highway, into the endless fields of grapes: those same green valleys I recognize from weeks ago, when we toured the vineyards with John and Medellee. As the sky warms up in the east, I can see the same indigo mountains all around, their craggy spines dramatic against the lightening sky. The warm light of the sunrise touches them slowly, warm ocher colouring the heights and throwing the deep blue folds into contrasting shadows.
Over the course of the day, I get to know my co-workers from the hostel. Two guys speak to each other in guttural French, rolling their r's at the back of their throats and saying "oui" like Canadiennes. They are Rudolph and Xavier, from the south of France. Three guys speak to each other in lisping, nasal German, but quickly switch to English so I can overhear their conversation. One of them, Daniel, has the best English I have heard from a German in awhile; we talk about Herman Hesse and Buddhism at one point, sitting in the shade on our break. And there is Bernhard, my partner, with a squashed straw hat and an enormous smile.
My job is easy: I walk up and down the endless rows, cutting a designated number of grapes from each plant-- being always careful to cut the second growth, and to cut equally from each cane. The number changes all the time, but still, after the first day, the work gets quickly tedious. I listen to all the music on my iPod (somewhat recovered now), in alphabetic order, and try to avoid the glare of the sun. After two days, I have dark tan-lines on my back, outlining my sports bra.
One evening, I discover the amazing potential of file sharing-- not over the internet. The bandwidth in New Zealand is invariably slow-- too slow to download anything substantial-- but Rudolph offers me a choice of hundreds of movies and albums he's got on his laptop, and Daniel offers me lots of audio books. The transfer is quick and painless. Next day, in the vineyard, I listen to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows-- which lasts, I might add, for about four straight working days.
The days fly by. I wake early, go to work, and get home at 2:30. Hot and sleepy, I usually have a cold shower straightaway. Then I might wander down to the library to check out a book, or spread out a blanket in the back yard and read in the shade. John gets switched to day shifts-- thank god. So we are able to eat dinner together again, at least. In the evenings, he reads me The Hobbit (I bug him to do the voices).
Then the weather turns. One day, the rain starts up while I'm working, and to my surprise, the boss ends the day early, saying it's no fun working when it's wet. At the hostel, I make myself a cup of tea and a bowl of popcorn, and watch a movie in bed all afternoon. A private room has opened up as well, so later in the afternoon, I move all of our stuff. It will be nice to have some privacy for once, and the room also comes with a fridge and TV.
Next day, it's still cloudy, but the rain has stopped.
Well, not really. It actually rains most of the day: the kind you can't exactly see, but you can feel it on your skin; it clouds up your glasses and makes all the leaves and grass wet. Sometimes it really starts coming down and the boss halts the work, but then the rain stops again pretty quickly and we get back to it.
Walking through long wet grass, and shaking wet leaves, it's no wonder I'm pretty miserable by lunch-time. My shoes are so wet, I can wring water from them. Actually, all of my clothes are cold and wet, and my hands, which have been in wet gloves for six hours, are clammy and wrinkled. Throughout the afternoon, the wind picks up, driving the rain down the back of my neck. I shudder and plod on.
The boss was right. It's not fun working when it's wet.
At the hostel, I get into dry clothes and get into bed, feeling cozy and in a surprisingly good mood. Then I remember I have to work again tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes all too soon. When my alarm goes off at 4:30 the following morning, I really can't believe it. It feels like I've only slept an hour. It's still the middle of the night. My bed is warm and comfortable, and the wonderful, seductive pull of sleep is still just inches away. I hope against hope that, for some wild reason, I won't have to go to work after all. But I get dressed anyway, fumbling around in the dark.
Then I look outside. It's pouring rain out there. My heart lifts, and I wonder if my hopes may have come true. After all, the boss wouldn't make us work in this weather-- not after he'd seen how miserable we'd been in the rain. The water is pouring from the roof, pounding down from the sky, bouncing onto the picnic tables and dripping from the trees. I smile.
When our ride doesn't show up, I climb back into bed and snuggle down into the pillow with a contented sigh. John pulls me close to him, and I sleep in, even after he's left for work.
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