Now that I have been in New Zealand for several months - five, to be exact - I can't help but ask myself what I am writing, in my many entries here. Oh, I have relayed my travel stories, sure: here is an outline of everything I have done, what I have seen; but maybe you are getting bored of anecdotes and descriptions of scenery.
In my first entry, "Weeks Away," I described my sense of baffled, terrified excitement on the eve of my journey. I had never been overseas, had never really done this thing, this "traveling," which always seemed to me remote and ideal and abstract when I heard my peers speaking of it.
Now I'm here, and I'm doing it, and it's no longer very intimidating, just day-to-day. I understand, now, about hostels and road trips, tenting, farm work and very long holidays, and finally, what it means to meet other travelers - that brief intense flame, gone instantly. I understand homesickness and I understand travel sickness.
I think New Zealand was a good choice to 'get my feet wet', though. It has whetted my appetite for more sights, now that I have seen some of this isolated country on the other end of the world. And it does seem, really, to be all country. New Zealand is essentially miles and miles of empty country: just livestock grazing in endless fields; and little belts of wood, or native bush; and distant oceans of hills, like the shapes of giants sleeping under grass - here a face, here a shoulder; there are muddy canals that run through little settlements, with unpronounceable names, and little weather-worn shops; always, poplar and fig trees edge the horizon, as if cut from paper; everywhere, tangles of flowering flax plants leading down onto beaches. . . and a big sky; despite the mountains, the sky always seems so dominant, seeming to press down on you in its enormity, always exposing you to the distance of the farthest clouds.
But there I go describing the scenery again. Well, fine; it has certainly earned a place in my heart. The country has always held a place there. It's the Shire, really: "the fields, little rivers." Even the smell (ocean, hay) reminds me of Pender, and of golden summers.
Sure, New Zealand has its differences; but it is, essentially, very familiar. When I first arrived, I delighted in new birds, new trees; there were accents, and different road signs, different stars, and a hundred little things to remind me that I was not at home. I think that the novelty has worn off, though. Now I begin to realize that New Zealand is about as close as I could have come to visiting another piece of Canada on the other end of the world. So much of it looks just like BC, and so much looks like California. The little towns are so much like Langford, built for motorists and families that shop in bulk.
I seem to be back where I started, thirsting for something more, something foreign. For isn't that the point of traveling? To cast yourself into unknown and unfamiliar scenes - to put yourself outside of what is normal, what is comfortable?
A few months ago, part of me worried that I wasn't really making it, here in New Zealand. I was homesick and confused. What if I have spent my entire life so far dreaming of traveling the world, only to find that I wasn't really cut out for it? So much, I longed for my life back. I missed strolling through my pretty home city, with its flowers and its buzzing shops, the double-decker buses, the crowds, the picturesque harbour, everything familiar and easy. I no longer remembered the dirty pavement, the homeless, the smell. I could see only the park, flowers rambling up the trunks of trees, and the beach, joggers and dog-walkers on the boardwalk, and the gabled houses, brightly painted, stone walls crawling with ivy. I missed sitting in the pub with my friends. As Christmas came, I missed my family, and felt that I had abandoned them to their cozy traditions; and there was a bitterness in my throat as I longed for the winter, and the familiar smells of good things to eat, and the sound of their laughter.
So much, I longed for a life of my own, a life like that. I wanted a comfortable home, a garden, my books around me, a good kitchen where I could learn to bake bread. I wanted a dog to keep me company on long walks through the country. I wanted to get my Master's degree and become a librarian, and to learn to speak French, and to join a book club. I wanted to get married someday and to have children of my own, people who would fill my life as I grew old, and fill my house with their laughter.
It took several weeks, but eventually I came round. I realize, now, how much I want those things - but I realize how much I want something else first. To give up on my dream of travel would leave me feeling defeated and disappointed in myself.
No, I want to see things with my own eyes: I want to walk through open-air markets full of exotic fruit, and see street signs written in unfamiliar characters, and people dressed in strange costumes, and buildings of unusual design. I want to witness the landscapes of the world - rice paddies, mountains, plains. More than anything, I think, I want to see the idols of my imagination: the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids of Egypt, The canals of Venice, the vistas of the Himalayas, the African grasslands, the Amazon jungle, the streets of London and New York City.
It is as though I am riding on a pendulum swinging.
And so this trip has served its purpose. I have begun to learn something about myself, although it is hard to describe what. I am learning, I guess, finally, what I want out of life. I am learning that I want it all, and that my time is short. I will be twenty-seven next month: time, maybe, for a family and a career; but I am of an immature mind, perhaps. My thirst to see the world has not even begun to be satiated.
So we will extend our plane tickets, and stay until September after all. We will stay here in Blenheim for several months, and work, and save money. We will wait for the seasons to change, and then we will buy plane tickets to Southeast Asia, and ramble on somewhere very unusual to us, somewhere where we don't understand the language, and where there exists a long tradition, which we have never been a part of. Even a few weeks, a glimpse of that world, I think will be enough for now.
I want to go home more than I want to stay here - I admit it. But I want to go elsewhere much more than I want to go home.
Cape Farewell, New Zealand
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Homesick
When I was a kid, we used to spend time on Pender Island every summer. My family had a property there that had been passed down for generations: my great-grandfather lived there, at the turn of the century, I think; and my grandfather, and his siblings after him; and my mother, aunts and uncles, too, had all spent their childhoods there before me (and before my siblings, and all nineteen of my younger first cousins). Once a year, the whole lot of us would spend a weekend there together, camping on the lawn. We called it The Reunion.
The property was gorgeous. Maybe I'm biased, but everyone who saw it said so. When I was really small, it was still part of a working farm, with cow fields and a big rambling barn; but, for most of my memory, "Pender" has always been just a few acres on a grassy hill, running down toward the ocean. The property lay on the corner of a bay (called, incidentally, Brackett Bay, after my family), so there was a beach on two sides. Across the bay there was a marina, with lots of docks full of sailboats, a pub, a store that sold ice cream, and an outdoor swimming pool, where we could swim all day for $2.00 if the ocean was too cold (which it was). At night you could hear the music and laughter from the pub coming clear across the water, but we never minded. We were making noise and laughter of our own.
The bees were always humming in the clover and the daisies, and my grandma would fret a little, telling the smaller cousins to be mindful of playing barefoot. We'd pitch our tents in the shade of the ancient, gnarled fruit trees, which I called the Orchard. A country driveway ran down to the Cabin, where my Great-uncle Lyall would stay, and all the way to the Big House on the corner cliff, where my Great-aunt Mildred lived. To the right, a stone-slab staircase led into the water at high tide, and a wooden bridge led to the wharf, where we fished; and all along the front was a rocky beach, facing east. There was an old wooden gate that closed with a peg, and all around it grew periwinkles and sweet-peas, and daffodils in the spring. The beach was littered with bleached driftwood, and faced the sunrise and the full moon.
I talk about the property in the past tense because it isn't ours anymore. When my great-aunt Mildred died, there was a technical problem with her will, so the property was sold last year, to general heartbreak. My grandfather, great-uncle, mother, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins: everyone, I think, mourned deeply the day we lost Pender.
Today, I am thinning grapes in New Zealand, but my heart is on Pender.
The sun is shining through the leaves of the grapevine; I can hear silence and the metallic sound of the shears going snip, snip: I am counting my bunches, but I am remembering the sea-life on the side of the dock, under the water. I remember the starfish, bright purple, all twisted together so they no longer resembled stars. When you touched them they were scaly and hard. There were clumps of algae and shiny black mussels, and anemones of all colours, which we would use as worms for fishing. My mother taught us how to do that, I think.
The thing I will miss the most about Pender is how happy it made my mother to be there, surrounded by her cousins and uncles, siblings and children, nieces and nephews and parents. She would wander on the beach, "beach-combing," she said, maybe thinking about her childhood as she walked, looking for arrowheads or bits of china. In those moments her name suited her best: Adrienne, "Of the Sea."
It made my grandpa happy too. He would lay the crab traps, to the especial excitement of all the little boys. We would watch him pulling up the ropes, his face checkered under his shady straw hat, his brown hands squeezing the water out a little, so that it fell, in shining drops, back into the black ocean. Eventually, deep down, you could see a murky shape coming up; slowly, the trap emerged from the depths until it was suddenly out, with a whoosh of escaping water, and Grandpa set it matter-of-factly onto the dock, full of moving, angry, rust-coloured crabs.
Once, when my father pulled up the trap, there was nothing in it but an enormous sea-star with more than twenty legs. It was soft and defenseless had thousands of waving tentacles, and my dad threw it like a Frisbee as far as he could back into the ocean.
"Alieda!" my boss barks at me. I am brought to reality, and turn.
"Yeah?"
"Why do you have," he looks at my leg. "A starfish tattoo?"
"Um," I falter. "On the island where I grew up, the beaches are covered in these purple starfish." I stop and he waits expectantly, but there is really nothing else to say.
"So it's your national sea animal!" he yells.
"Yeah," I say. "I guess so."
"Nice!" he yells and keeps walking.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Snip, snip.
I remember that there used to be an abandoned fishing boat in the bay, half-sunken, half-afloat, the paint peeling and the green of the ocean seeping into the wood. It was called the Charmer, which we thought funny, my siblings and I, because it wasn't charming at all. It was hideous and a little scary. We thought that it might be haunted, actually, since we often heard strange noises coming from it. The noises were inexplicable. They were not the creakings of an old, abandoned boat, but deliberate, alive sounds. Some thing lived in that boat. Maybe something sinister.
We dared each other to swim over to the boat and touch it, but no one ever would.
One day, while I was reading in the Orchard, someone resolutely paddled the canoe over to the haunted boat, and discovered, not a ghost, but a family of sea otters living in it.
My grandma laughed when we told her about the otters and said "Oh! My gull!" She always said gull instead of God, like a seagull. My gull.
My grandma used to make us treasure hunts. She would print out clues on coloured slips of paper, one clue leading to another, and all the cousins would race from one to another, anticipating the end of the treasure hunt. We would usually let a few of the younger ones find a clue, and the older ones would read it out loud.
Finally we would get to the last clue: "X Marks The Spot." and we'd race to the beach, where there was, inevitably, a shovel plunged into the sand in the middle of a giant X. My brother would start digging and soon, he'd hit something solid. The little ones were too impatient to wait for the shovel and they'd leap into the hole, scrabbling with their hands, pulling at the treasure chest.
It was a real treasure chest too. It was rounded on top and had metal spines holding it together. Grandma would fill it with candy, all different kinds.
Wait.
Someone is throwing grapes at me.
For awhile now I've been suspicious, but now I'm sure. They sting a little, and as the next one hits my leg I can see it's my boss. He grins when I look over and I feel a little lost. What is he doing? Is he like, flirting with me? I smile at him, more confused than friendly, and finish my row. Now the boss is playing rock, paper, scissors with one of the English boys. The loser has to do five push-ups. The boss loses and he does his five push-ups quickly, clapping in between to show he's really strong, or something. Next he systematically approaches every guy, to see who will do five push-ups.
When it's my turn, I tell him I can't do push-ups. He tells me I can do five star-jumps instead, but I think he's kidding so I say no thanks.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Snip, snip.
I remember the purple phosphorescence in the water at night, and the full moon rising over us. At night we would play games in the lantern-light, cards or dice, and moths would flap around our ears, searching for their mate, and we would eat chips out of big plastic bowls. Later, we would lie in the darkness and watch for shooting stars, and sometimes there would be fireworks at the marina. In the morning, there would be an enormous pancake breakfast for everyone, with sausages and coffee.
One morning, when we were fishing, there was an enormous bald eagle watching us from the top of a cedar tree. We were only catching little perch and throwing them back, but they would always be a little dazed from being out of the water too long, and they would sort of float there for a minute. I remember we would think, Oh no, this one's dead-- but then it would seem to blink and shake itself down into the water.
Anyway this bald eagle was watching and waiting for that moment. And someone threw his fish back, and suddenly the shadow of the eagle blocked the sun and it dove down to grab that fish and skim it out of the water.
At least three or four times we fed that eagle that way.
"Fly, birdies!" screams the boss, laughing manically, and a girl screams.
He's found a birds' nest, and he kills the chicks one by one, stepping on them. Some of the boys laugh. I feel a little sick.
A little while later I think I can hear the distressed cries of the parent bird returning to the nest.
I try to think about Pender, but the boss has put on loud music and it has reached 39.C. I have been working for five hours without a break and my back hurts.
It's funny, I've been here in New Zealand for five months now, but I haven't really felt homesick like I do today. Sure, I've missed my friends, I've missed walking downtown and my family, my job and my apartment, but not really. Not like I miss Pender. Not like I miss those golden, green summer days of my childhood, and my grandfather's twinkling blue eyes, and my mother's happiness, and my grandma saying "Oh! My gull." I miss those sweet-peas growing wild and tangled over the gate, and the rutted driveway, and the dilapidated buildings of the old farm, where we would find strange rusted tools, wagon wheels, tractors, sleeping bats, an old carriage and once, a buck deer, sleeping in a patch of sun. I miss the blackberries on the side of the road and walking down to the store to buy an ice-cream. I miss the excitement of the early morning ferry, the sunshine glancing off the water, each of us straining near the front of the boat saying, "There it is! There's Pender!" as soon as we saw an island with the right shape.
I am here in New Zealand, and I am having the time of my life.
But today, even though I guess it's gone now, I am sure homesick for Pender.
The property was gorgeous. Maybe I'm biased, but everyone who saw it said so. When I was really small, it was still part of a working farm, with cow fields and a big rambling barn; but, for most of my memory, "Pender" has always been just a few acres on a grassy hill, running down toward the ocean. The property lay on the corner of a bay (called, incidentally, Brackett Bay, after my family), so there was a beach on two sides. Across the bay there was a marina, with lots of docks full of sailboats, a pub, a store that sold ice cream, and an outdoor swimming pool, where we could swim all day for $2.00 if the ocean was too cold (which it was). At night you could hear the music and laughter from the pub coming clear across the water, but we never minded. We were making noise and laughter of our own.
 |
| The Cabin |
The bees were always humming in the clover and the daisies, and my grandma would fret a little, telling the smaller cousins to be mindful of playing barefoot. We'd pitch our tents in the shade of the ancient, gnarled fruit trees, which I called the Orchard. A country driveway ran down to the Cabin, where my Great-uncle Lyall would stay, and all the way to the Big House on the corner cliff, where my Great-aunt Mildred lived. To the right, a stone-slab staircase led into the water at high tide, and a wooden bridge led to the wharf, where we fished; and all along the front was a rocky beach, facing east. There was an old wooden gate that closed with a peg, and all around it grew periwinkles and sweet-peas, and daffodils in the spring. The beach was littered with bleached driftwood, and faced the sunrise and the full moon.
 |
| The Dock |
Today, I am thinning grapes in New Zealand, but my heart is on Pender.
The sun is shining through the leaves of the grapevine; I can hear silence and the metallic sound of the shears going snip, snip: I am counting my bunches, but I am remembering the sea-life on the side of the dock, under the water. I remember the starfish, bright purple, all twisted together so they no longer resembled stars. When you touched them they were scaly and hard. There were clumps of algae and shiny black mussels, and anemones of all colours, which we would use as worms for fishing. My mother taught us how to do that, I think.
The thing I will miss the most about Pender is how happy it made my mother to be there, surrounded by her cousins and uncles, siblings and children, nieces and nephews and parents. She would wander on the beach, "beach-combing," she said, maybe thinking about her childhood as she walked, looking for arrowheads or bits of china. In those moments her name suited her best: Adrienne, "Of the Sea."
It made my grandpa happy too. He would lay the crab traps, to the especial excitement of all the little boys. We would watch him pulling up the ropes, his face checkered under his shady straw hat, his brown hands squeezing the water out a little, so that it fell, in shining drops, back into the black ocean. Eventually, deep down, you could see a murky shape coming up; slowly, the trap emerged from the depths until it was suddenly out, with a whoosh of escaping water, and Grandpa set it matter-of-factly onto the dock, full of moving, angry, rust-coloured crabs.
 |
| My drawing of a rock crab |
"Alieda!" my boss barks at me. I am brought to reality, and turn.
"Yeah?"
"Why do you have," he looks at my leg. "A starfish tattoo?"
"Um," I falter. "On the island where I grew up, the beaches are covered in these purple starfish." I stop and he waits expectantly, but there is really nothing else to say.
"So it's your national sea animal!" he yells.
"Yeah," I say. "I guess so."
"Nice!" he yells and keeps walking.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Snip, snip.
I remember that there used to be an abandoned fishing boat in the bay, half-sunken, half-afloat, the paint peeling and the green of the ocean seeping into the wood. It was called the Charmer, which we thought funny, my siblings and I, because it wasn't charming at all. It was hideous and a little scary. We thought that it might be haunted, actually, since we often heard strange noises coming from it. The noises were inexplicable. They were not the creakings of an old, abandoned boat, but deliberate, alive sounds. Some thing lived in that boat. Maybe something sinister.
We dared each other to swim over to the boat and touch it, but no one ever would.
One day, while I was reading in the Orchard, someone resolutely paddled the canoe over to the haunted boat, and discovered, not a ghost, but a family of sea otters living in it.
 |
| Painting of the Haunted Boat |
My grandma laughed when we told her about the otters and said "Oh! My gull!" She always said gull instead of God, like a seagull. My gull.
My grandma used to make us treasure hunts. She would print out clues on coloured slips of paper, one clue leading to another, and all the cousins would race from one to another, anticipating the end of the treasure hunt. We would usually let a few of the younger ones find a clue, and the older ones would read it out loud.
Finally we would get to the last clue: "X Marks The Spot." and we'd race to the beach, where there was, inevitably, a shovel plunged into the sand in the middle of a giant X. My brother would start digging and soon, he'd hit something solid. The little ones were too impatient to wait for the shovel and they'd leap into the hole, scrabbling with their hands, pulling at the treasure chest.
It was a real treasure chest too. It was rounded on top and had metal spines holding it together. Grandma would fill it with candy, all different kinds.
Wait.
Someone is throwing grapes at me.
For awhile now I've been suspicious, but now I'm sure. They sting a little, and as the next one hits my leg I can see it's my boss. He grins when I look over and I feel a little lost. What is he doing? Is he like, flirting with me? I smile at him, more confused than friendly, and finish my row. Now the boss is playing rock, paper, scissors with one of the English boys. The loser has to do five push-ups. The boss loses and he does his five push-ups quickly, clapping in between to show he's really strong, or something. Next he systematically approaches every guy, to see who will do five push-ups.
When it's my turn, I tell him I can't do push-ups. He tells me I can do five star-jumps instead, but I think he's kidding so I say no thanks.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Snip, snip.
I remember the purple phosphorescence in the water at night, and the full moon rising over us. At night we would play games in the lantern-light, cards or dice, and moths would flap around our ears, searching for their mate, and we would eat chips out of big plastic bowls. Later, we would lie in the darkness and watch for shooting stars, and sometimes there would be fireworks at the marina. In the morning, there would be an enormous pancake breakfast for everyone, with sausages and coffee.
One morning, when we were fishing, there was an enormous bald eagle watching us from the top of a cedar tree. We were only catching little perch and throwing them back, but they would always be a little dazed from being out of the water too long, and they would sort of float there for a minute. I remember we would think, Oh no, this one's dead-- but then it would seem to blink and shake itself down into the water.
Anyway this bald eagle was watching and waiting for that moment. And someone threw his fish back, and suddenly the shadow of the eagle blocked the sun and it dove down to grab that fish and skim it out of the water.
At least three or four times we fed that eagle that way.
"Fly, birdies!" screams the boss, laughing manically, and a girl screams.
He's found a birds' nest, and he kills the chicks one by one, stepping on them. Some of the boys laugh. I feel a little sick.
A little while later I think I can hear the distressed cries of the parent bird returning to the nest.
I try to think about Pender, but the boss has put on loud music and it has reached 39.C. I have been working for five hours without a break and my back hurts.
It's funny, I've been here in New Zealand for five months now, but I haven't really felt homesick like I do today. Sure, I've missed my friends, I've missed walking downtown and my family, my job and my apartment, but not really. Not like I miss Pender. Not like I miss those golden, green summer days of my childhood, and my grandfather's twinkling blue eyes, and my mother's happiness, and my grandma saying "Oh! My gull." I miss those sweet-peas growing wild and tangled over the gate, and the rutted driveway, and the dilapidated buildings of the old farm, where we would find strange rusted tools, wagon wheels, tractors, sleeping bats, an old carriage and once, a buck deer, sleeping in a patch of sun. I miss the blackberries on the side of the road and walking down to the store to buy an ice-cream. I miss the excitement of the early morning ferry, the sunshine glancing off the water, each of us straining near the front of the boat saying, "There it is! There's Pender!" as soon as we saw an island with the right shape.
I am here in New Zealand, and I am having the time of my life.
But today, even though I guess it's gone now, I am sure homesick for Pender.
 |
| The Gate |
Monday, February 7, 2011
A Dream of Vietnam
There is something to said for Mondays.
Today, for me, it's a fresh start. My back feels much better, first of all. The weather has turned deliciously cool, which is a great relief; and, better still, the boss seems to have felt sorry for me, because he's moved me to an hourly wage (with a different supervisor) this week. Thank my stars.
I drive south with the new crew, in the opposite direction from where I have been working all this time. The road twists through bare yellow hills that seem to roll and peak, like an ocean; they are unlike any I have seen in Canada, all pushed together in frantic creases and folds.
All day long, it's easy work. We work in pairs, taking just six bunches per plant, and after a few hours the boss stops us all for a long break. Everyone lies around, drinking water or just staring at the clouds. In the afternoon, I actually feel confident enough to plug in an audio book. I listen to The Secret Garden and chant to myself: one, two, three, four, five, six, completely relaxed. We're finished the vineyard by 1:00.
The rain starts when I get back to the hostel, small drops that kiss my cheeks. I love a good summer rain (when I'm not working in it), so after my shower I go for a walk, into town to get a coffee. Then I decide to hit up the library, hoping to take out a travel guide on Southeast Asia.
See, John and I have been talking about going on a trip, and although we haven't decided exactly where, we have settled on Southeast Asia for a start. We have even thought about stopping in Australia, to see Sydney and maybe go diving in the Great Barrier Reef. That would definitely tick off a box on my Life To Do List. From there we could possibly travel north to Darwin, where the flights to Bali are very cheap. Once in Indonesia, flights from Jakarta to Singapore are about $50, and from there we could travel through Malaysia and into Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. We guess that this might take a month at least.
All day, I daydream about this trip, trying to calculate costs and planning grand adventures. I hope we at least see Vietnam, which for some reason appeals to me beyond anything. But Indonesia comes a close second.
Whatever happens, this dream will certainly get me through the next few months of working.
If I make it to Asia, it will all be worth it.
Today, for me, it's a fresh start. My back feels much better, first of all. The weather has turned deliciously cool, which is a great relief; and, better still, the boss seems to have felt sorry for me, because he's moved me to an hourly wage (with a different supervisor) this week. Thank my stars.
I drive south with the new crew, in the opposite direction from where I have been working all this time. The road twists through bare yellow hills that seem to roll and peak, like an ocean; they are unlike any I have seen in Canada, all pushed together in frantic creases and folds.
All day long, it's easy work. We work in pairs, taking just six bunches per plant, and after a few hours the boss stops us all for a long break. Everyone lies around, drinking water or just staring at the clouds. In the afternoon, I actually feel confident enough to plug in an audio book. I listen to The Secret Garden and chant to myself: one, two, three, four, five, six, completely relaxed. We're finished the vineyard by 1:00.
The rain starts when I get back to the hostel, small drops that kiss my cheeks. I love a good summer rain (when I'm not working in it), so after my shower I go for a walk, into town to get a coffee. Then I decide to hit up the library, hoping to take out a travel guide on Southeast Asia.
See, John and I have been talking about going on a trip, and although we haven't decided exactly where, we have settled on Southeast Asia for a start. We have even thought about stopping in Australia, to see Sydney and maybe go diving in the Great Barrier Reef. That would definitely tick off a box on my Life To Do List. From there we could possibly travel north to Darwin, where the flights to Bali are very cheap. Once in Indonesia, flights from Jakarta to Singapore are about $50, and from there we could travel through Malaysia and into Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. We guess that this might take a month at least.
All day, I daydream about this trip, trying to calculate costs and planning grand adventures. I hope we at least see Vietnam, which for some reason appeals to me beyond anything. But Indonesia comes a close second.
Whatever happens, this dream will certainly get me through the next few months of working.
If I make it to Asia, it will all be worth it.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Blues, Brews, & BBQs
New Zealand has some great beer. The hops are grown right here on the South Island, and Kiwi culture definitely embraces a beer-and-barbecue on a hot summer's day-- and it shows. On Saturday, crowds of erratically-dressed participants stream toward the fair grounds in Blenheim for the annual "Blues, Brews, & BBQs" beer festival.
There are prizes for good costumes, and it sure adds to the bizarre atmosphere. We see colourful superheros, cowboys with stuffed horses, lifeguards, soldiers, human-sized candies, video-game characters, and many of the barely-dressed. We see hats, body paint, sparkles, chaps, and wigs; there's cardboard clothing, bubble-wrap clothing, and clothing that may have fit ten years ago.
Four of us walk among them: myself and John, dressed down in sandals and straw hats; Rodolph, from Toulouse, France; and Maartin, from Belgium, wearing a vest and fedora. At noon, the heat is nearly unbearable. It radiates up from the pavement, making the air shimmer. I can't wait to sit in the shade, sipping cold beer and listening to the music.
We're checked at the door-- twice for I.D., and once for illegal substances (I think). Eventually, some officials tag us with arm bracelets and give us each a little beer mug (it's a souvenir), and we enter the festival proper. There is a lot to see. Besides the colourful and rowdy crowd, there are two music stages, probably fifteen beer tents, lots of BBQ stalls, and an enormous "shade tent" that dominates most of the field. The shade tent was sponsored by the Cancer Society, so you can get free ice water and free sunscreen there, but, ironically, lots of people are smoking anyway.
The deal is that you can taste any beer for free, but to fill your little handle, it's $4 or $5. Throughout the day, I try as many kinds of beer as they'll let me: pilsners, lagers, stouts, pale ales, honey browns, and IPAs. We go back for seconds of King Cobra, a double-fermented beer that is amazingly crisp considering it's 8%. Between beers, we lounge in the shade tent or join the crowds around the blues-rock stage, where there's always people dancing to that steel-string sound. We all join in, unembarrassed, just having a good time. Our glasses sweat in the sun. Later, we rest in the shade tent with hundreds of others. The grass feels cool and soft and I pick little spears absentmindedly as I sit laughing with the others. As if in revenge, it leaves imprints of itself on my legs whenever I stand up to refill my mug.
Before we know it, it's already 6:00. The festival is winding down, so we head back to the hostel, where a party is just starting up. The idea is to get to know each other, and everyone is meant to cook something from his or her home country to share with the others. John and I have decided to make grilled salmon and corn-on-the-cob.
It is quite a sight. We employ every table in the hostel to make an enormous banquet table, to seat thirty-five. Everyone participates, and soon there are crowds of bottles and plates on every surface. Someone starts a drinking game, and someone else starts a ping-pong competition. We all make an effort to meet new people and learn their names. As the sun sets, the crowd gets louder. Everyone tells his life story, and there's lots of playful argument and joking around.
At midnight, most of the hostel heads downtown to the night club. John and I stay behind to sleep. I can hear everyone walking down the street all the way to town, and if I wanted to, I could follow them just by the noise. In the darkness, I sink into the cool pillow and fall instantly asleep. The long, hot day has taken its toll on me (not to mention a little too much beer).
****
I have agreed to clean the hostel on the weekends in exchange for two nights' accommodation each week. So, on Sunday morning, I get up at 8:30, thirsty and with a headache, to face this enormous task. First I brush my teeth and have a cup of tea to get the taste of the brewery out of my mouth, but then I take serious stock.
Not surprisingly, the entire hostel is a disaster zone. Outside, every surface is covered in mess, including the ping-pong table and the ground. There are empty bottles and dishes everywhere. There are bottle caps, cigarette butts, and plastic bags; plates with ketchup, chicken bones, and corn cobs; spilled sticky puddles and melted candles in which ashtrays have been overturned. In the kitchen, piles of greasy pans clutter the sinks, which are full of standing brown water. Food has been left out, and everywhere, highways of sugar ants have invaded.
This is a terrible job for a hangover.
I start outside, filling an entire garbage bin with empty bottles and another with garbage. Then I collect all the dishes, scrape out the food, and get to work. The sinks have been clogged with some kind of matter, maybe vegetable, so that's my first task; then I fill them with hot soapy water and do load after saucy, crumby, sticky load of someone else's dishes. I kill the ants without mercy and wipe everything down, even the ping-pong table.
A couple of hungover Germans crankily ask me how long I'll be in the kitchen, they're hungry. I put down the greasy pan and tell them to wait, they can cook when the floor is mopped. They roll their eyes and mutter. I change beds, clean toilets, vacuum, and mop the entire place. I even have to clean the BBQ.
By eleven, I'm finally done. I feel disgusting, like I'm sweating out all that beer; I shower gratefully as John makes me Egg-in-the-Nest for breakfast. The cranky Germans get their chance to cook too. Of course, they leave their pans for someone else to wash tomorrow morning. Children. I ask them if these dishes belong to them, and they grouchily come over and wash them, leaving a pan-load of congealed egg in the drain. I leave it there: I've had enough for one day.
All day, I just try to make it. It is the hottest day I've experienced in New Zealand yet, and very humid. You can taste the heat when you breathe, like in a sauna. Sweat trickles down my skin as I lie in bed, hoping for a breeze. We listen to music and fan ourselves with newspapers. I hang the laundry out to dry, and drink cold apple juice from the freezer. Several times in the day, I get up and take an ice-cold shower just to survive.
When the darkness comes, it seems to be only a fraction cooler. John and I alternately read the newspapers, and swat heavy black flies with them.
I feel vastly recovered from my too-fun Saturday, but I still dread facing the week.
Come to think of it, after what happened last week, I wonder if I even still have a job!
There are prizes for good costumes, and it sure adds to the bizarre atmosphere. We see colourful superheros, cowboys with stuffed horses, lifeguards, soldiers, human-sized candies, video-game characters, and many of the barely-dressed. We see hats, body paint, sparkles, chaps, and wigs; there's cardboard clothing, bubble-wrap clothing, and clothing that may have fit ten years ago.
Four of us walk among them: myself and John, dressed down in sandals and straw hats; Rodolph, from Toulouse, France; and Maartin, from Belgium, wearing a vest and fedora. At noon, the heat is nearly unbearable. It radiates up from the pavement, making the air shimmer. I can't wait to sit in the shade, sipping cold beer and listening to the music.
We're checked at the door-- twice for I.D., and once for illegal substances (I think). Eventually, some officials tag us with arm bracelets and give us each a little beer mug (it's a souvenir), and we enter the festival proper. There is a lot to see. Besides the colourful and rowdy crowd, there are two music stages, probably fifteen beer tents, lots of BBQ stalls, and an enormous "shade tent" that dominates most of the field. The shade tent was sponsored by the Cancer Society, so you can get free ice water and free sunscreen there, but, ironically, lots of people are smoking anyway.
The deal is that you can taste any beer for free, but to fill your little handle, it's $4 or $5. Throughout the day, I try as many kinds of beer as they'll let me: pilsners, lagers, stouts, pale ales, honey browns, and IPAs. We go back for seconds of King Cobra, a double-fermented beer that is amazingly crisp considering it's 8%. Between beers, we lounge in the shade tent or join the crowds around the blues-rock stage, where there's always people dancing to that steel-string sound. We all join in, unembarrassed, just having a good time. Our glasses sweat in the sun. Later, we rest in the shade tent with hundreds of others. The grass feels cool and soft and I pick little spears absentmindedly as I sit laughing with the others. As if in revenge, it leaves imprints of itself on my legs whenever I stand up to refill my mug.
Before we know it, it's already 6:00. The festival is winding down, so we head back to the hostel, where a party is just starting up. The idea is to get to know each other, and everyone is meant to cook something from his or her home country to share with the others. John and I have decided to make grilled salmon and corn-on-the-cob.
It is quite a sight. We employ every table in the hostel to make an enormous banquet table, to seat thirty-five. Everyone participates, and soon there are crowds of bottles and plates on every surface. Someone starts a drinking game, and someone else starts a ping-pong competition. We all make an effort to meet new people and learn their names. As the sun sets, the crowd gets louder. Everyone tells his life story, and there's lots of playful argument and joking around.
At midnight, most of the hostel heads downtown to the night club. John and I stay behind to sleep. I can hear everyone walking down the street all the way to town, and if I wanted to, I could follow them just by the noise. In the darkness, I sink into the cool pillow and fall instantly asleep. The long, hot day has taken its toll on me (not to mention a little too much beer).
****
I have agreed to clean the hostel on the weekends in exchange for two nights' accommodation each week. So, on Sunday morning, I get up at 8:30, thirsty and with a headache, to face this enormous task. First I brush my teeth and have a cup of tea to get the taste of the brewery out of my mouth, but then I take serious stock.
Not surprisingly, the entire hostel is a disaster zone. Outside, every surface is covered in mess, including the ping-pong table and the ground. There are empty bottles and dishes everywhere. There are bottle caps, cigarette butts, and plastic bags; plates with ketchup, chicken bones, and corn cobs; spilled sticky puddles and melted candles in which ashtrays have been overturned. In the kitchen, piles of greasy pans clutter the sinks, which are full of standing brown water. Food has been left out, and everywhere, highways of sugar ants have invaded.
This is a terrible job for a hangover.
I start outside, filling an entire garbage bin with empty bottles and another with garbage. Then I collect all the dishes, scrape out the food, and get to work. The sinks have been clogged with some kind of matter, maybe vegetable, so that's my first task; then I fill them with hot soapy water and do load after saucy, crumby, sticky load of someone else's dishes. I kill the ants without mercy and wipe everything down, even the ping-pong table.
A couple of hungover Germans crankily ask me how long I'll be in the kitchen, they're hungry. I put down the greasy pan and tell them to wait, they can cook when the floor is mopped. They roll their eyes and mutter. I change beds, clean toilets, vacuum, and mop the entire place. I even have to clean the BBQ.
By eleven, I'm finally done. I feel disgusting, like I'm sweating out all that beer; I shower gratefully as John makes me Egg-in-the-Nest for breakfast. The cranky Germans get their chance to cook too. Of course, they leave their pans for someone else to wash tomorrow morning. Children. I ask them if these dishes belong to them, and they grouchily come over and wash them, leaving a pan-load of congealed egg in the drain. I leave it there: I've had enough for one day.
All day, I just try to make it. It is the hottest day I've experienced in New Zealand yet, and very humid. You can taste the heat when you breathe, like in a sauna. Sweat trickles down my skin as I lie in bed, hoping for a breeze. We listen to music and fan ourselves with newspapers. I hang the laundry out to dry, and drink cold apple juice from the freezer. Several times in the day, I get up and take an ice-cold shower just to survive.
When the darkness comes, it seems to be only a fraction cooler. John and I alternately read the newspapers, and swat heavy black flies with them.
I feel vastly recovered from my too-fun Saturday, but I still dread facing the week.
Come to think of it, after what happened last week, I wonder if I even still have a job!
Friday, February 4, 2011
Just a Little Faster
"That's bullshit," says Lindsay, when I tell her my position. Earlier that day, I had started a new job, thinning grapes on contract. All day, I had struggled to cut enough grapes from the right cordons at the right speed. My boss keeps at me, telling me to go faster-- but I'm going as fast as I can. Do I just suck at the work?
"No one does it properly," she assures me. "It's impossible!" she gathers her dishes together to make dinner. "Just cut 'em quick," she continues, arranging things on the counter. "Cut anything. Cut the right amount, that's all they ever check. They never," she points a knife at me, "check where you cut 'em from."
"So... just be sloppy?" I ask, feeling more cheerful.
"Oh, yeah," she says, chopping vegetables. "Even the vineyard owner, he once saw me hunting in the vines for the right cordon. He goes, 'You'll never make money that way. Just cut what you can see.'"
"Hmm."
"Yeah. Dude. Trust me. You'll be fine. Besides," she adds. "The only reason Martin tells you to go faster is because he likes you. He's just trying to help."
She should know what she's talking about, I guess: she's worked for Tony for weeks. I resolve to cut whatever grapes I can see the next day, to be as fast as possible, if not as accurate as I could be. Six or seven of us hang around at a picnic table at the back, eating dinner and drinking beer. A few of the other girls who have just started work, like me, have the same problem and Lindsay gives them the same advice. "Like," she embellishes, "you know sometimes there are bigger bunches? Just cut them in half. That's two." I slowly unwind. My back is sunburned, my nails are dirty, and I can't wash the smell of the grapevine spray out of my skin. I'm utterly exhausted.
All for less than a hundred dollars.
Next morning, I wake up just as tired. I pack a lunch (although I have no idea if I'll have time to eat), two litres of water, sunscreen, and gardening gloves. I pile into the van with the German girls, and we head out toward the vineyard. It's pretty far out-- almost on the way to Nelson-- and it's enormous. We literally drive for ten minutes on a gravel road, past endless grapevines, little streams, terraced hills and weeping willows, from the entrance all the way to the block. You could probably see us for miles, fifteen or twenty vehicles stirring up great clouds of white dust.
I'm assigned three rows and get started. I have to cut three bunches off each cordon, which is usually nine bunches a plant. Once in awhile, a plant will have only one or two cordons, though, so I have to be careful; but I learn to spot these pretty quickly. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. I clip along at a good pace. I actually think this to myself: "Wow, I'm clipping along at a good pace." I'm not too careful. I sort of try to get the grapes from all over the plant, but not necessarily. I definitely don't care which cordons they come from. I just make sure there's nine.
I finish the first row and move on. After a bit, I see my boss coming up the row, checking my work.
I try not to feel nervous.
"Alieda," he says. It sounds ominous, like a bark.
"Yeah?"
"Your work is good," he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Really? My work is good? Ha! "There's just one thing," he continues.
I look at him and smile a little. "Just a little faster?" I hedge.
"Bingo," he says. He points to the end of the row. "I want you to finish this row in an hour and a quarter. That's eleven-thirty. Okay? You can do it. Just think: I'm from Canada. I have a leaf on my flag! I can do anything!"
"Right."
"If you were American, I'd have my doubts. But you're all right." He walks away, looking almost cheerful. "Eleven thirty!" he shouts as he goes, but I'm already clipping at high speed.
I finish with ten minutes to spare, and move onto my third row, feeling safe. I've cut five or six bays by the time he finds me.
"Hey," he says, pleased. "You've finished ahead of schedule! Bonus for you eh?" It's the first time I've seen him really smile. He consults his watch. "Okay," he says. "You need to cut a hundred and twenty plants an hour. That means," he squints. "You have till... ten-past-one to finish this row. Quarter-past at the latest. Okay?"
"Okay," I say, and get clipping. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. I cut the first bunches I clasp eyes on, and sometimes I cut big ones in half. That's two.
I'm doing really shotty work, I know, but I guess that's what he wants.
At one o'clock, I have just ten plants left. I feel good, knowing I'm going to finish in time. So this, I think, is how I was supposed to be working all along.
All of a sudden, to my shock, a van pulls up to the end of the row. I see Lindsay and several others from the hostel inside. They flap their hands at me a bit. Are they waving me over? What's going on?
I jog over, feeling a little bewildered. "Hey," I say to the driver. "What's going on?"
"We're going to a new block," says the boss' wife.
"Oh!" I say.
"You have to finish your row," she says, and then, like I was a squashed bug: "Everyone is waiting for you."
Oh, no.
I panic, running back to my row to finish. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine. Several others get out of the van to help me out. In a minute, it's finished, and I see she's right: the entire caravan of vans is pulled up in a row, engines running, waiting.
How humiliating.
So we drive to the next bay, and I can't believe I was the last one. Last, out of fifty people! But I thought I was on time! I was ahead of schedule! I beat myself up a little, then take the opportunity to chug some water and eat my PB & J. We step out of the van and into the crowd, everyone milling around, waiting for the boss to brief us.
"There she is," says the boss' wife, an ugly look on her face.
"Hey," says the boss loudly, spotting me and pointing. "Alieda, come here. Everyone, this is Alieda." I hunch my shoulders and step forward, stomach flopping. I haven't felt like this since grade two, in Mrs. Hanson's class. "Move back so everyone can see her," he says to Lindsay, who shoots me an apologetic look and steps back.
"How humiliating," I say around my last mouthful of sandwich, as nonchalantly as possible.
"Alieda was the last to finish today!" he announces. "So we're gonna embarrass her. Everyone point an laugh if you want to."
I look around and see fifty faces. Everyone looks a bit confused, like they can't believe this is happening to me. I take a sarcastic little bow and step back. I can hear a roaring in my head, like a rush of blood. Lindsay looks horrified and I think I might cry, but I smile instead, although I'm furious.
I move to my assigned rows and notice the feet behind and in front of me. I try to keep in pace. I think I'm ahead of some of them.
"Alieda," shouts my boss and I look. He makes a gesture like he's backslapping his own hand. I roll my eyes and plod on, chest aching with the weight of my anger.
I finish three rows in the afternoon, back stiff from stooping, more sunburned than ever, thirsty, hot, dirty, sweaty, and cranky. I've had nothing to eat or drink all day but a sandwich and a little water. I have been pointed at, laughed at, yelled at, humiliated and left behind. I feel sorry for myself the entire way home.
Did I mention my back hurts?
By the time John gets home, one side of my back is swollen and sore to the touch. An old injury from the book store has seized up, rearing its ugly head. It hurts in every position, even after John kindly massages the knots around the slipped disc.
The chiropractor will cost more than $100, which is all the money I've earned from the day's work.
I resolve to find a new job.
The next day I call in sick.
"No one does it properly," she assures me. "It's impossible!" she gathers her dishes together to make dinner. "Just cut 'em quick," she continues, arranging things on the counter. "Cut anything. Cut the right amount, that's all they ever check. They never," she points a knife at me, "check where you cut 'em from."
"So... just be sloppy?" I ask, feeling more cheerful.
"Oh, yeah," she says, chopping vegetables. "Even the vineyard owner, he once saw me hunting in the vines for the right cordon. He goes, 'You'll never make money that way. Just cut what you can see.'"
"Hmm."
"Yeah. Dude. Trust me. You'll be fine. Besides," she adds. "The only reason Martin tells you to go faster is because he likes you. He's just trying to help."
She should know what she's talking about, I guess: she's worked for Tony for weeks. I resolve to cut whatever grapes I can see the next day, to be as fast as possible, if not as accurate as I could be. Six or seven of us hang around at a picnic table at the back, eating dinner and drinking beer. A few of the other girls who have just started work, like me, have the same problem and Lindsay gives them the same advice. "Like," she embellishes, "you know sometimes there are bigger bunches? Just cut them in half. That's two." I slowly unwind. My back is sunburned, my nails are dirty, and I can't wash the smell of the grapevine spray out of my skin. I'm utterly exhausted.
All for less than a hundred dollars.
Next morning, I wake up just as tired. I pack a lunch (although I have no idea if I'll have time to eat), two litres of water, sunscreen, and gardening gloves. I pile into the van with the German girls, and we head out toward the vineyard. It's pretty far out-- almost on the way to Nelson-- and it's enormous. We literally drive for ten minutes on a gravel road, past endless grapevines, little streams, terraced hills and weeping willows, from the entrance all the way to the block. You could probably see us for miles, fifteen or twenty vehicles stirring up great clouds of white dust.
I'm assigned three rows and get started. I have to cut three bunches off each cordon, which is usually nine bunches a plant. Once in awhile, a plant will have only one or two cordons, though, so I have to be careful; but I learn to spot these pretty quickly. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. I clip along at a good pace. I actually think this to myself: "Wow, I'm clipping along at a good pace." I'm not too careful. I sort of try to get the grapes from all over the plant, but not necessarily. I definitely don't care which cordons they come from. I just make sure there's nine.
I finish the first row and move on. After a bit, I see my boss coming up the row, checking my work.
I try not to feel nervous.
"Alieda," he says. It sounds ominous, like a bark.
"Yeah?"
"Your work is good," he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Really? My work is good? Ha! "There's just one thing," he continues.
I look at him and smile a little. "Just a little faster?" I hedge.
"Bingo," he says. He points to the end of the row. "I want you to finish this row in an hour and a quarter. That's eleven-thirty. Okay? You can do it. Just think: I'm from Canada. I have a leaf on my flag! I can do anything!"
"Right."
"If you were American, I'd have my doubts. But you're all right." He walks away, looking almost cheerful. "Eleven thirty!" he shouts as he goes, but I'm already clipping at high speed.
I finish with ten minutes to spare, and move onto my third row, feeling safe. I've cut five or six bays by the time he finds me.
"Hey," he says, pleased. "You've finished ahead of schedule! Bonus for you eh?" It's the first time I've seen him really smile. He consults his watch. "Okay," he says. "You need to cut a hundred and twenty plants an hour. That means," he squints. "You have till... ten-past-one to finish this row. Quarter-past at the latest. Okay?"
"Okay," I say, and get clipping. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. I cut the first bunches I clasp eyes on, and sometimes I cut big ones in half. That's two.
I'm doing really shotty work, I know, but I guess that's what he wants.
At one o'clock, I have just ten plants left. I feel good, knowing I'm going to finish in time. So this, I think, is how I was supposed to be working all along.
All of a sudden, to my shock, a van pulls up to the end of the row. I see Lindsay and several others from the hostel inside. They flap their hands at me a bit. Are they waving me over? What's going on?
I jog over, feeling a little bewildered. "Hey," I say to the driver. "What's going on?"
"We're going to a new block," says the boss' wife.
"Oh!" I say.
"You have to finish your row," she says, and then, like I was a squashed bug: "Everyone is waiting for you."
Oh, no.
I panic, running back to my row to finish. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine. Several others get out of the van to help me out. In a minute, it's finished, and I see she's right: the entire caravan of vans is pulled up in a row, engines running, waiting.
How humiliating.
So we drive to the next bay, and I can't believe I was the last one. Last, out of fifty people! But I thought I was on time! I was ahead of schedule! I beat myself up a little, then take the opportunity to chug some water and eat my PB & J. We step out of the van and into the crowd, everyone milling around, waiting for the boss to brief us.
"There she is," says the boss' wife, an ugly look on her face.
"Hey," says the boss loudly, spotting me and pointing. "Alieda, come here. Everyone, this is Alieda." I hunch my shoulders and step forward, stomach flopping. I haven't felt like this since grade two, in Mrs. Hanson's class. "Move back so everyone can see her," he says to Lindsay, who shoots me an apologetic look and steps back.
"How humiliating," I say around my last mouthful of sandwich, as nonchalantly as possible.
"Alieda was the last to finish today!" he announces. "So we're gonna embarrass her. Everyone point an laugh if you want to."
I look around and see fifty faces. Everyone looks a bit confused, like they can't believe this is happening to me. I take a sarcastic little bow and step back. I can hear a roaring in my head, like a rush of blood. Lindsay looks horrified and I think I might cry, but I smile instead, although I'm furious.
I move to my assigned rows and notice the feet behind and in front of me. I try to keep in pace. I think I'm ahead of some of them.
"Alieda," shouts my boss and I look. He makes a gesture like he's backslapping his own hand. I roll my eyes and plod on, chest aching with the weight of my anger.
I finish three rows in the afternoon, back stiff from stooping, more sunburned than ever, thirsty, hot, dirty, sweaty, and cranky. I've had nothing to eat or drink all day but a sandwich and a little water. I have been pointed at, laughed at, yelled at, humiliated and left behind. I feel sorry for myself the entire way home.
Did I mention my back hurts?
By the time John gets home, one side of my back is swollen and sore to the touch. An old injury from the book store has seized up, rearing its ugly head. It hurts in every position, even after John kindly massages the knots around the slipped disc.
The chiropractor will cost more than $100, which is all the money I've earned from the day's work.
I resolve to find a new job.
The next day I call in sick.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Paid by the Plant
I'm getting ready for bed, anticipating an early start, when there is a knock on the door, and someone calls my name. It's Rodolph and Xavier, as well as several others from the vineyard crew.
"There is no more work," they tell me. "There is a sign... 'the vineyard owner pulled the plug.'"
"Wait, what? What do you mean?"
I take a minute to let this sink in. I suppose I always knew that the work could end suddenly. That's just the nature of the work: the backpackers come and go, the work does too. It shouldn't be so surprising, I suppose.
But I was enjoying my job. My boss was nice, the work was simple, and the crew was awesome. I had begun to enjoy the long vineyard rows, the slow process of thinning, the warm sunshine. I had discovered free audio books online, and was listening to a book a week at work. What could be easier?
Well, I think, it's over now. Disappointed, I go to bed-- but first, I speak to the hostel owner, who assures me that, with luck, she will be able to find me more work in a day or two. So, all is not lost. Maybe I will get work at the bottling factory, with John, packaging wine for 12 hours a day, surrounded by noisy machinery. I shudder. But, still, it would be better than nothing.
Late the following morning, I wake to another knock at the door. It's Karen (who looks rather surprised to see me in pajamas so late in the day). She says she's found me work: more fruit thinning. But, she warns me, this job is On Contract. That means, she says, I will be paid per plant I finish. If I can't make at least minimum wage, I'll be canned.
Gulp.
But, for the moment, it's a warm day, and I spend it lazily, doing laundry (hanging the clothes outside in the sunshine to dry), reading in the shade (a rather dry biography of Charlotte Bronte) and grocery shopping. By the time John comes home from work, there is a pasta bake in the oven and clean folded laundry on the bed, reminiscent of our Wellington days.
As usual, John and I spend the evening with our "group": Lindsay, from Nova Scotia; Xavier and Rodolph, from France; Martin, from Belgium; Bernhard, from Germany; and Megan, from Manchester. The eight of us crowd around a picnic table with salads and cold drinks, talking about our jobs and our countries, joking with each other about the Lemon Tree and New Zealand, and groaning at the thought of another day in the fields and factories tomorrow.
I have a knot of nervousness in my stomach about the contract work. What if I can't go fast enough? Martin was fired only yesterday for being too slow. That could be me.
John and I wake together, eating eggs on toast and making sandwiches for the day, sipping tea, packing our bags, and jostling others for a sink to brush our teeth. Two German girls, Lea and Selina, have agreed to drive me to work in exchange for a bit of gas money. We're meant to meet up with the rest of the crew at a petrol station at 6:45.
When we arrive, it's a gong show. There are fifteen or twenty vehicles, and at least forty backpackers standing around, waiting for instructions. After the necessary paperwork is handed around, and after a lot of shouting by the foreman, everyone piles into their respective vans again. We leave the petrol station in a long caravan. The girls' van, a crappy old thing from the early '80s, chokes into gear and eventually takes its place at the back of the line.
We navigate okay through several roundabouts, but on the highway, we fall behind. The van can't do more than 80 km/h, and soon, there are other vehicles passing us at 100 and 120 km/h. Eventually, we can't see the others at all.
We're lost.
By a miracle of chance, we pull into what happens to be the right vineyard. There are thousands of vineyards in Marlborough, but somehow we manage to drive into an enormous estate, find a winery, and ask someone for directions. We call Karen and she gives us the boss' phone number. I feel a little mortified. He sends someone to collect us and drives us, to our surprise, just across the field to where the crew are still setting up.
Crisis averted.
The boss tells us that we have to cut 12 bunches of grapes per plant for the first 300, and the contract is 100 plants per hour. That's 1200 bunches per hour, or 20 per minute. My name is on the row, and the grapes need to be left in a pile, so the boss can check my work later. I have to do it both correctly and quickly.
There is no way.
Sure enough, within two hours, the boss informs me that I'm forty or fifty plants behind schedule. "You're gonna have to pick up the pace, Canada," he says. "Just a little faster. Okay?"
"I'll try," I grumble. (I though I was going fast.)
Somehow I pull reserves of speed from somewhere inside of me (the terror of unemployment), and finish my row in an hour and a half. At one point, I uncover a large birds' nest with two baby birds inside, their mouths frozen open. I'm startled and cry out, but they don't move. I can't be sure they're alive. I don't have time to stare: have to go faster, have to go faster.
"That's all right," the boss says when I'm finished. "You're all right now."
For the afternoon, it's only 9 bunches per plant, so I think it'll be easier. Unfortunately, I have managed to lose my gloves and my snips (I think I left them on the grass while I drank 2 solid litres of water), so I'm now stuck with bare hands and rusty garden clips.
I finish my row by the end of the day, fingernails cracked and dirty, the smell of the vines in my clothes, sweat and dirt streaking my skin. The sun is relentless, and there are almost no shadows.
"How many did you finish?" asks the boss as I drag myself towards the van.
"One row plus fourteen plants," I tell him, uncertain whether this will be enough.
He consults his chart, does some quick math, and gives me a grimace.
"You'll need to go just a little faster," he tells me. "You were close, though. Tomorrow: a little faster, okay?"
Just a little faster.
"There is no more work," they tell me. "There is a sign... 'the vineyard owner pulled the plug.'"
"Wait, what? What do you mean?"
I take a minute to let this sink in. I suppose I always knew that the work could end suddenly. That's just the nature of the work: the backpackers come and go, the work does too. It shouldn't be so surprising, I suppose.
But I was enjoying my job. My boss was nice, the work was simple, and the crew was awesome. I had begun to enjoy the long vineyard rows, the slow process of thinning, the warm sunshine. I had discovered free audio books online, and was listening to a book a week at work. What could be easier?
Well, I think, it's over now. Disappointed, I go to bed-- but first, I speak to the hostel owner, who assures me that, with luck, she will be able to find me more work in a day or two. So, all is not lost. Maybe I will get work at the bottling factory, with John, packaging wine for 12 hours a day, surrounded by noisy machinery. I shudder. But, still, it would be better than nothing.
Late the following morning, I wake to another knock at the door. It's Karen (who looks rather surprised to see me in pajamas so late in the day). She says she's found me work: more fruit thinning. But, she warns me, this job is On Contract. That means, she says, I will be paid per plant I finish. If I can't make at least minimum wage, I'll be canned.
Gulp.
But, for the moment, it's a warm day, and I spend it lazily, doing laundry (hanging the clothes outside in the sunshine to dry), reading in the shade (a rather dry biography of Charlotte Bronte) and grocery shopping. By the time John comes home from work, there is a pasta bake in the oven and clean folded laundry on the bed, reminiscent of our Wellington days.
As usual, John and I spend the evening with our "group": Lindsay, from Nova Scotia; Xavier and Rodolph, from France; Martin, from Belgium; Bernhard, from Germany; and Megan, from Manchester. The eight of us crowd around a picnic table with salads and cold drinks, talking about our jobs and our countries, joking with each other about the Lemon Tree and New Zealand, and groaning at the thought of another day in the fields and factories tomorrow.
I have a knot of nervousness in my stomach about the contract work. What if I can't go fast enough? Martin was fired only yesterday for being too slow. That could be me.
John and I wake together, eating eggs on toast and making sandwiches for the day, sipping tea, packing our bags, and jostling others for a sink to brush our teeth. Two German girls, Lea and Selina, have agreed to drive me to work in exchange for a bit of gas money. We're meant to meet up with the rest of the crew at a petrol station at 6:45.
When we arrive, it's a gong show. There are fifteen or twenty vehicles, and at least forty backpackers standing around, waiting for instructions. After the necessary paperwork is handed around, and after a lot of shouting by the foreman, everyone piles into their respective vans again. We leave the petrol station in a long caravan. The girls' van, a crappy old thing from the early '80s, chokes into gear and eventually takes its place at the back of the line.
We navigate okay through several roundabouts, but on the highway, we fall behind. The van can't do more than 80 km/h, and soon, there are other vehicles passing us at 100 and 120 km/h. Eventually, we can't see the others at all.
We're lost.
By a miracle of chance, we pull into what happens to be the right vineyard. There are thousands of vineyards in Marlborough, but somehow we manage to drive into an enormous estate, find a winery, and ask someone for directions. We call Karen and she gives us the boss' phone number. I feel a little mortified. He sends someone to collect us and drives us, to our surprise, just across the field to where the crew are still setting up.
Crisis averted.
The boss tells us that we have to cut 12 bunches of grapes per plant for the first 300, and the contract is 100 plants per hour. That's 1200 bunches per hour, or 20 per minute. My name is on the row, and the grapes need to be left in a pile, so the boss can check my work later. I have to do it both correctly and quickly.
There is no way.
Sure enough, within two hours, the boss informs me that I'm forty or fifty plants behind schedule. "You're gonna have to pick up the pace, Canada," he says. "Just a little faster. Okay?"
"I'll try," I grumble. (I though I was going fast.)
Somehow I pull reserves of speed from somewhere inside of me (the terror of unemployment), and finish my row in an hour and a half. At one point, I uncover a large birds' nest with two baby birds inside, their mouths frozen open. I'm startled and cry out, but they don't move. I can't be sure they're alive. I don't have time to stare: have to go faster, have to go faster.
"That's all right," the boss says when I'm finished. "You're all right now."
For the afternoon, it's only 9 bunches per plant, so I think it'll be easier. Unfortunately, I have managed to lose my gloves and my snips (I think I left them on the grass while I drank 2 solid litres of water), so I'm now stuck with bare hands and rusty garden clips.
I finish my row by the end of the day, fingernails cracked and dirty, the smell of the vines in my clothes, sweat and dirt streaking my skin. The sun is relentless, and there are almost no shadows.
"How many did you finish?" asks the boss as I drag myself towards the van.
"One row plus fourteen plants," I tell him, uncertain whether this will be enough.
He consults his chart, does some quick math, and gives me a grimace.
"You'll need to go just a little faster," he tells me. "You were close, though. Tomorrow: a little faster, okay?"
Just a little faster.
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