The Wine Factory

Three weeks later, we are still in Blenheim, working in the wine-bottling factory.

It is getting colder in the mornings. I wonder whether they can feel it getting warmer back home - if they can feel the sun pulling away from here, as I can feel it ellipsing toward them. Yesterday, I saw a little maple tree turning orange in someone's garden, and it reminded me of home. At this time of year, back home, there would be school kids in the mornings, making footprints in the frost, and black crows, calling in the silence, flying against a white sky. I have to remind myself that it's March, and that by now, there are cherry blossoms starting to bloom back home. When I turn twenty-seven next week, it will be the first time in my life that I have celebrated my birthday in Autumn. 

Most days, we wake up in the middle of the night to go to work. At 4 a.m., the stars are still bright in the sky, and the world is quiet.

Getting out of bed is the hardest part of my day. The alarm comes out of the dark, startling me out of sleep (already? ). Everything around me is comfortable and soft; but I know that I have to get out of bed and get dressed, have to experience that cold air on my skin while I hurry to pull on jeans, socks, sweater. Deep breath. Steel myself for it.

Once I'm dressed, I'm fine.

Every morning, I make toast for two while John packs lunch, enough to keep us going through the long shift. It's strange, though: working in the vineyards, I was always hungry; now, I often have to remind myself to eat. Maybe it's the exhaustion, taking precedence.

The contractor picks us up at 4:30, and we drive around town for fifteen minutes, picking up other backpackers from their hostels. I most often work with Tina, from Ireland, Tim, from Wales, and Roberta, from Italy. People from all over the world work at the factory, though: Brazil, Japan, the Philippines, India, Sweden, Argentina, Taiwan. Not just backpackers, either. Most are permanent staff, in their 30s and 40s, and most have immigrated to New Zealand hoping to find a better life.

We relieve the night crew when we get to work. One of them is my flat mate, Alan, also from Ireland; and Maartin, from Belgium, works nights too, since John set him up with the job. Every day, I'm reminded that, although I work twelve hours a day, at least I don't work overnight. However, they always look surprisingly cheerful.

The factory is enormous and loud. It extends back into the distance like a Wal-Mart, and is about thirty feet tall at the peak. If you look at it the right way, you can tell that it's actually shaped just like a huge barn, on a concrete slab, built out of corrugated plastic, like a shed. Storeys-high towers of bottles, and stacks of pallets full of cases of wine, reach a kind of vanishing point so you can never quite see the back walls. Determined-looking men zoom around on fork lifts with flashing lights, honking their horns, leaving tire tracks of an inexplicable gray powder on the concrete floors.

The machinery is a symphony in itself. There is a different kind of alarm for everything that can go wrong, and they all sound insistently and repeatedly. The engines driving the conveyor belts, and the clanging of bottles, not to mention the music blasting, converge into a deafening rhythmic noise. Last week, the sound of the entire factory was overwhelmed by the terrifying, heart-stopping noise of 1,200 empty bottles falling fifteen feet onto the concrete floor. It was the loudest sound I've ever heard.

The wine sits in tankers outside - big, cylindrical, silver tanks just like the ones that carry fuel. It's brought into the factory with a hose, and hooked up to a machine called the Filler (no imagination there). Apparently, the Filler also washes and seals the bottles, but I guess that filling the bottles is its most important job. The empty bottles themselves are brought to the Filler by the De-Palletizer, where Tim works. It is very noisy: as each layer of empty bottles is pushed onto the belt, hundreds of them sound like reverberating instruments against each other.

The filled bottles then pass through the the Washer (currently broken) and the Labeler (constantly breaking down). Deepak, from India, works the label machine, and slips me new labels every day, which I collect on my bed-side table and intend to send home with a letter someday. John is in charge of the Box Machine and the Over Packer - so, in charge of making boxes and getting bottles into them. Then there's the Palletizer, which stacks all the cartons onto pallets and wraps them. In between, I fold dividers and slide them down between the bottles, before the boxes are sealed.

There are different shapes of bottles, different sizes of boxes, labels, and caps, so everything needs to be constantly adjusted. I often see John running back and forth with wrenches in his back pocket, tweaking his machines.

Sometimes, for one reason or another, the owners don't want the wine labeled or boxed yet, just bottled. That means we have to put the "Clean Skins" bottles onto pallets for storage. Usually, us girls will work the Clean Skins machine: Roberta, Tina, and myself. It's a wide belt, big enough for 14 x 14 bottles, and we have to work an overhead machine that hydraulics up and down to suck up the bottles, then swings around to deposit them onto the pallet.

Other times, when there isn't much else to do, we put stickers on the boxes ("case label"), make dividers, sweep, or hand-label bottles (usually little medallion stickers that say things like "International Wine Show: Silver Medal"). Sometimes we have to watch thousands of bottles go by, looking for crinkled or imperfect labels, which is the worst job ever; or we have to peel the bad labels off, which is the second worst job. Sometimes, when a machine is broken, we have to hand-load the bottles into the boxes, which I usually do with John. Yesterday, the two of us hand-loaded some 40,000 bottles into 6-packs, which was a real arm work-out, to say the least. This was during our 70th hour of work this week, and it took more than two hours: at quitting time, the night crew relieved us.

In New Zealand, they call coffee breaks "Smoke-O's." For awhile, I tried to hold onto my terminology and call them Coffees or Fifteens, but I've since surrendered. During my shift, I get three paid Smoke-O's and one half-hour lunch break, which means that I only have to work for two or three hours at a time. The staff lunch room has everything you could need: lockers, reading materials, couches, dining tables and chairs, a toaster, a microwave, a fridge, tea, coffee, sugar and milk, lots of dishes, and a dishwasher. It even has a warming cabinet where you can keep things like steak pies, which they eat a lot of here.

I would say that the worst part of the wine factory is the 12-hour shifts. We start at 5:00 a.m., and finish at 5:00 p.m. I am getting used to it now, but it is exhausting. I try to get as much sleep as I can, eight hours if possible, but that only leaves three hours of free time a day (I am not including the ride to and from work). That's barely enough time to shower and eat, never mind go to the shop for groceries, check e-mails, read, or stay on top of laundry. Most nights, we head to bed around 8:30 p.m.

The repetitive work isn't so bad, actually: we have music, and each other. It's easy work, and time passes.

But the best part of the wine factory is the people. Everyone is in the same boat, and everyone is unfailingly kind and cheerful (with the exception of Pam, the often psychotic, and occasionally sweet, supervisor). Deepak has invited us to his house to learn to make samosas and Indian bread. Marshall, a universally beloved Maori supervisor who radiates happiness, calm, and positivity, has taken such a shining to John that he's given him a family heirloom: a hand-carved bone necklace representing family, which he has asked John to pass on to his son someday. Tina and Roberta have become great friends of mine, and we chat and joke all day at work, which helps to pass the time.

I hope that some of these people will help me to celebrate my birthday next week, as well as Lindsay from Nova Scotia, the Irish lads, and Donelle, my cousin. I feel that this Saturday will be a special day for me, because of, or despite, the circumstances. I find it unbelievable that I will be 27: an age when all my family a generation ago were married with children, and here I am, living like a young adult, making plans to travel the world. Strange.

Getting older has shocked me, but it doesn't upset me.

I have the feeling that the best is yet to come.

It is Everywhere

Some people are like hobbits.

Hobbits want warmth and comfort above all - a well-stocked pantry, absolutely; perhaps books to enjoy, or a garden to tend; children, and loyal friends around us.

In this ideal, comfortable life, we have everything we can desire: we are comfortable and loved, and our happiness is shared with others. We can enjoy the simple pleasures of life, in our own homes and outside our back doors. We can read the morning newspaper over a cup of coffee, take a walk to visit a friend, cook a delicious meal, or improve our living space with a coat of paint or a jar of flowers. Our days pass in a routine that is wonderfully safe, with loved ones to keep us happy, and small tasks and hobbies to keep us busy. We could never desire more.

Or could we?

On the other hand, like hobbits, many people have at least a small portion of insatiable curiosity and a desire for adventure, as well. They seek the mountains and the cities, despite the danger and discomfort. I suppose that these are the characters who make it into stories, who play the heroes, in the stories of their own lives. But that is my supposition.

Other people desire other things, and pursue other dreams.

Our dreams give purpose and meaning to our lives, which is, perhaps, what we desire most.

Most of us are constantly reaching into the future, sure that obtaining this next desire will bring us real happiness. Maybe it's something material - possessions, say, to make us more comfortable; sometimes, we want to experience something, like falling in love, or becoming a grandparent. Many of us believe that, whatever happens in life, we will be happy in an afterlife.

Sometimes we don't know what we want. We might want something that we can't define.

I am sure that these questions have been present all through human history: What do we want? What is a good life? How should we live? How can we be happy?

Most of all: How did all of this get here, and why? What is the purpose of life?

At this last, the questions stop, and our minds are often repelled. These thoughts are too vast, too frustrating.

Where am I going with this?

When I was a child, I was raised in the Church, and I was taught that God was everywhere.

Nowadays, although I no longer consider myself religious, I realize that this idea - the possibility of a greater entity - has haunted my life. Don't get me wrong: the belief that there is a being in the sky who can see me at all times, and even hear my thoughts, seems to me a bit paranoid (no offense intended). But, a skeptic like myself must also admit that even science, for all of its merit, can't seem to find all of the answers, can't answer all of the questions.

As an adolescent, when I was feeling angry and guilty about my religious doubts, I was also spending a lot of time clashing with my parents and sister, worrying about the future, dealing with the magnified confrontations of my peers, and feeling genuine bewilderment about where I stood with the opposite sex. In a bid to escape, I would often sit by the river to clear my head. The sound of the rushing water was soothing, and the mossy green rainforest, simultaneously crumbling and expanding, reminded me of something that I felt I had once known, but had since forgotten. Sometimes, when the wind moved the cedar branches to resemble the slow arms of a conductor, it seemed to me that the forest around me was breathing.

I have felt this same sense of almost-knowledge at odd times throughout my life. For me, the idea of God - first introduced to me by a church that I have since rejected - has never been satisfactorily eradicated from my subconsciousness. Specifically, the idea of God's being everywhere is one that I have never been able to shake.

I am able to imagine that our existence on Earth is not, in fact, unique. I can easily believe that, throughout the rest of the universe, life has sprung up everywhere, independently and compulsorily, following the laws of science. I can believe, not that life is accidental, but that it is incidental; that life is the rule, not the exception; and that what seems miraculous to me is really a standard eventuality, a culmination of events which must be typical, in a universe full of carbon and hydrogen. Sometimes I can believe that my existence is biological and that my experience, though intense, is not singular and is actually relatively insignificant.

Insignificant: I do not say meaningless.

In unguarded moments, when the entire world gives me a sense of wonder, suddenly, small things - the opening of a flower for its own sake; the expressive shape of an old tree; the lazy mesmerizing flight of a white butterfly - in these moments, I remember that there is God is everywhere, and no amount of reason will dissuade me. In these moments, I experience a sudden clarity, and everything seems more real. Sounds are louder, colours are brighter. There is so much meaning I don't know what to do with it all.

There is meaning everywhere, if you look. Even the staunchest scientist would never deny the beauty and majesty present in life. It's not accidental, however incidental; there is always purpose: the purpose of life itself.

What is this more that I desire? .

What is it that I hope to find in the wet markets in Thailand, in the coral gardens in Indonesia? What will I see in the mountains, in the bottle-green rice paddies and the swaying palms? What will I feel, as I walk through cities of ten million souls?

I feel that something is everywhere. Life itself, and evidence of it; a feeling, a dream; something on the edge of my consciousness. Something that I might have known once, but have since forgotten. I can't define it, can't prove that it exists. I don't know if I will ever remember what it is, but, common though my experiences might be, I still want more. If all of life is only experience, then I guess that's really what I want, in the end: to see more of everything, to experience more of life. To make it all real, if only for a moment. To find happiness. To hold onto meaning, something that I am compelled to see in nature, and in others, and in all things in the wide world. I have to ask myself, What are the things I would most regret not doing, if this existence was ended now?

Most of us are like hobbits, I guess, wishing for nothing but a fireplace on a winter day, conversation in the evening and the kettle just beginning to sing.

Some of us are just the opposite, feeling confined by home and hearth, wishing for nothing but an unfamiliar road and the possibility of an adventure.

Regardless of what we want out of life - prestige, success; home, children; adventure; love - I know that we are all searching for the same thing - happiness. Meaning. And above all, whether we see it in our child's eyes or in the wonders of the world, maybe we all feel that something outside of ourselves will help to give our lives meaning. Maybe we are all searching for that almost-knowledge: a moment of understanding - a flash of empathy - a leap of imagination.   

It might not exist, true.

But in unguarded moments, I can't help searching everywhere for it.

72 Hours

I don't make a fuss at work that Friday - I just quit. I tell my boss it'll be my last day.

"Good," he says, and walks away (a little sulkily, I think).

John comes home from his twelvth 12-hour shift in a row, exhausted, but glad it's over. He will finally have days off this weekend, and obviously, after two 84-hour work weeks in a row, he needs them badly. We decide to celebrate and go out for dinner, and settle on a place called The Secret Garden, because the burgers are cheap and there is a hand-written sign saying, "Live Music Tonight."

The server leads us out to the back, where the music is coming from. There is an enormous white tent overhead, diffusing bright light onto tablecloths and wine glasses, and to the left, two big Maori guys play bluesy rock classics. The tent opens onto a courtyard-style garden, with lots of flowers and trees, a big chess set, enormous dominoes, and groups of people standing around, sipping drinks and talking, or studying the chess board, where two indie-type guys are having a game. I notice that some of the leaves are starting to chance colour.

We promptly order burgers and drinks (strong beer for him, local apple cider for me) and fall to talking.

I love a date on a Friday night.

Saturday night is the party. John knows two English girls from work who are leaving, and this is their goodbye party. We will take their empty room, and I will get their job as well.

So, I will start at the factory on Monday, and we'll be moving into the house this weekend, shared with three flatmates (all young guys from Ireland). The boys work at the factory too - but they work the night shift, so we'll never see them except for the weekends.

The party is wild, to say the least. One of the Irish lads is a bartender, and there is a list of cocktails to choose from, complete with ice, garnish, and a little umbrella. We invite the French guys from the hostel to come with us, and being French, they bring lots of wine and scout for girls to romance. I meet loads of people from the factory, including the boss, Pam, who is something of a bi-polar, tempermental-but-maternal soul, if the stories about her are true. She frightens me a little, but I manage to come out on her good side (for now). As the party rages on, chairs get broken, people dance, and everyone has one too many cocktails. I run around snapping photographs and meeting everyone.

John manages to stay up until midnight, before keeling over for lack of sleep and too much drink. I walk him home (a trifle grumpily, I'm afraid - I was having fun).

Sunday is moving day. We wake up groggily at 9:30 - so we only have half an hour to check out. Luckily, we don't own much, and we pack in rapid speed. No time for a shower or breakfast; we hand in our keys and pile up our stuff outside, waiting for our ride.

And then we wait.

And wait.

So, it turns out the English girls are a no-show. Xavier offers to drive us, though, and we accept gratefully.

When we pull up, I can smell the house before I can actually see it.

Outside, there is garbage piled up everywhere, swarming with fat black flies. Empty bottles, even a squashed egg carton, leaking raw egg; it looks like cats have ripped the bags open and spilled coffee grounds, tissue paper, plastic, and all manner of food waste onto the deck. A mountain of recycling dominates the front doorway, and when we open the door, we are greeted by a cascade of flies and stale cigarette smoke.

Xavier leaves us with an apologetic look.

The girls are still asleep, so we can't move in yet. We pile up our stuff in the hallway and step into the living room, where a disaster zone awaits.

I hardly need to describe the scene. I am sure you can imagine the tornado of flies zooming around the room; the piles of bottles and glasses; the floor sticky with spilled drinks; ashes and cigarette butts mixing with unspecified stains on the carpet; dishes on the couch; exploded beer bottles in the freezer.

We sit gingerly on the edge of the couch and wait. Home sweet home.

We spend all day cleaning up and moving in. I feel distinctly uncomfortable with the unclean state of the house, but the boys are too hung over to deal with anything except trying to exist. My first night in my new place, I have a bout of insomnia, wondering whether there is bodily fluid on the mattress underneath me and feeling like I can't breathe with the smoke so heavy in the air.

At 4 a.m., the alarm goes off, and I get ready for work. Sleepily, I make myself some toast and pack a lunch, pull on some jeans and tie up my hair. When we get picked up outside at 4:35, the stars are still bright in the sky.

I feel a little nervous starting a new job, but John is with me, so I feel better.

The factory is NOISY. Huge stacks, pallets of empty bottles, tower from floor to ceiling. The machines are enormous and loud, with metal belts pulling parades of bottles around to be washed, filled, sealed, labled, boxed, and stacked. They clang terribly against each other. Boys driving forklifts honk to each other as they zip around.

Being a backpacker, I'm certainly not trusted with the machines yet. Instead, I put lables on 3,250 wine boxes, fold cardboard dividers, sweep, and eventually, get introduced to the "Clearskins" machine, which is really easy to operate - only four buttons. I manage not to break a bottle.

With three 15-minute breaks and one half-hour lunch break, the day goes by surprisingly quickly.

Every day, from Monday to Saturday, I wake up at 4:00, start at 5:00, and work the "Clearskins" machine for a few hours before putting stickers on thousands of boxes, or peeling labels off wine bottles, or folding dividers, or cleaning. Once, I even get to work a fancy machine that makes champagne - but it's not as fun as it sounds. I see John across the room, with wrenches in his back pocket, fixing machines or joking around with the managers. They like him here - so I am immediately on good terms with everyone. Thanks, John.

I make some friends, too. Tina, from Ireland, and Roberta, from Italy, are the two girls I work with the most. We sing along to the radio as we work, and joke around, so the time passes easier. Pam still likes me too, and often yells things like, "Hey, put that under the table, dear!" So I guess we're friends.

On Saturday, at 4:30 p.m., I am finally trusted to put the dividers in the boxes for the first time. I realize that I have half an hour left of my long work week, and that I have spent seventy-two hours in this factory so far. Tomorrow is my first day off in what seems like a lifetime.

I figure that, with cheaper rent and this kind of money, we should be in Asia in no time.

After the Quake

By now the grapes have grown fat and dark, like oversized blueberries; we are dropping hundreds of bunches in each bay, tossing them over our shoulders and squashing them underfoot. By afternoon, I am sticky with grape juice. The sun beats down with the enormous heat of August in February, causing the roses to wilt and grow wild and give off a desperate smell. Some of the leaves have started to turn a beautiful burgundy, spreading outwards from the center in a pattern like a maple leaf. We net the scarce remaining fruit against the birds, stooping and fighting with branches. I pause now and then to let out a panicked, fluttering moth that has forgotten to waken. Enormous, shy spiders with long legs creep away from my monstrous gloves.

We pile into the van and head home, joking and laughing, speaking loudly over the roar of the open windows.

I don't hear about the earthquake until I'm back at the hostel.

If you didn't hear about it, then here is what happened: one of New Zealand's largest cities, Christchurch, was rocked by an enormous earthquake back in September; miraculously, no one was killed, and no one was even hurt. That's because the earthquake took place at three in the morning, and the epicenter was pretty far from town. We visited Christchurch about two months ago (see "Mountains, Gandalf, Mountains"), and couldn't help but notice the incredible damage the quake had caused. Exposed brick and rubble, closed businesses, and fenced-off areas were a mute testament to the quake.

But that was then.

According to the expert who's being interviewed on the news, it is not unprecedented for ongoing aftershocks to produce additional earthquakes. This is the case In Christchurch, where a second enormous earthquake has taken place, this time, at 1:30 in the afternoon, during the week, right downtown. "Unfortunate," "devastating": these are only words that don't begin to describe it.

The footage is horrible.

Buildings which were destabilized in the first quake have now been flattened, as if with dynamite. Christchurch Cathedral, for example, an enormous building made of stone, has collapsed, with people trapped inside - maybe alive. Corners of buildings have fallen down onto the streets, flattening parked cars. Entire blocks have been reduced to rubble. The death toll is rising steadily into the hundreds, and there are still people missing.

It is the single worst disaster to ever happen in New Zealand, and I am just a couple hundred kilometers away.

I call my mom to let her know I'm safe, then spend the evening watching the news with tears in my eyes. The expression of shock and bewilderment and grief in everyone's face haunts me. I see footage of people running around, trying to dig survivors out of the wreckage, or walking unbelieving, as if in a dream, covered in blood. It occurs to me that two of my friends are in Christchurch. It occurs to me that I could very well have been there. Or that this could happen in Victoria.

There are really no words to explain how this affects me, or why; but I imagine the grief the people of Christchurch must feel, their fears for their lost loved ones, and in the wake of the earthquake, I feel very upset and very sorry and very helpless.

***

A week later, the supermarket is almost empty. We didn't realize, but most of the supplies for all of the South Island came from Christchurch. That means there is no bread, onions, potatoes, canned corn, or other supplies.

But those in Christchurch are a lot worse off. In the city, there is still no water, sewage or electricity for many, and it still looks like a war zone downtown. There is a brigade of rescue workers still combing the crumbled buildings, hoping for a miracle; but the death toll has climbed to 161 - and is expected to reach at least 220 as more bodies are recovered from the wreckage.

Our life goes on, though.

John and I are moving out of the Lemon Tree, into a shared house with some other travelers. I will start working 12-hour shifts with him at the factory, and we hope to stay on like this for about eight weeks.

I hope it goes quickly...