It was the South Korean’s last day. He’d been with us since the beginning, back when we were thinning fruit instead of picking it. For 3 months he had endured constant mockery and jibes against the quality and quanity of his work, but today the boss let him call Last Bucket. He filled his lungs and called out like a soccer comentator: “Last buckeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!” They let him do it twice.
Commercials in New Zealand are terrifying. Apparently they used to be much worse, until there was a public outcry. But man, when they’ve got a point, they really hit it home…
I used to read like mad right up until I declared English as my major. After I was forced to read certain books or else, reading sort of lost it’s appeal. Since being in New Zealand however, my reading has exploded. After work, I take a lawn chair out into the plum trees and enjoy the summer sun shine and everything (or everyone) that comes with it.
Horticulture is a tricky business. I’ve never been one to show any interest in our green friends and how they grow, but this cherry picking gig has forced me to take note. For instance, plants need water to grow, right? Everyone knows that drought is bad news; and therefore rain should always be welcomed with open arms.
Wrong, my friends and especially wrong when it comes to cherries. Picture a balloon filled with juice and mentally start filling that balloon up with water. As you pour in the water, the juice becomes diluted, and the balloon starts to swell. If the balloon fills with too much water, it pops. This is similar to what happens to ripe cherries when there is a particularly wet summer – like the one we’re experiencing in Central Otago right now. Every week since Christmas we’ve had at least one day per week of heavy rain. Not only does this make work damp and uncomfortable, but it totally destroys the ripe cherries. When looking up at a tree, the fruit looks beautifully ripe, but when I actually get up my ladder and take a closer look at the fruit, it’s all zombie cherries. Circular rings, the beginning of splits, form around the stem. Sometimes you can find decent cherries within a clump, yet other times, you can peel away the useless fruit only to find the cherries at the center are covered in blue and white mold. Even a perfect cherry from the top, may prove otherwise once you turn it upside-down. Huge splits on the base of the fruit can be quite revoltingly fascinating, but are totally worthless for export, thus worthless to me.
My typical rainy day begins with my alarm at 4:55 am. I can hear the rain pinging off the roof, so I wait an extra 5 minutes until 5 when my phone goes off with a message from my supervisor: No work til latter on. I’ll txt. I lay in bed for a while, listening to the rain lessening, and finally decide to get up when I receive a text saying we’ll begin work at 7. We start picking, and almost immediately the rain begins again. The boss has fires up the helicopter at least 4 times this morning as soon as the rain lets up, but as soon as he starts buzzing the trees to dry them off, the clouds open up and pour down on us again. Finally at 10, our supervisor calls it quits. We can go home, but can’t go very far. If the rain ever stops, we’ll be back out on our ladders again.
After so many days of working in wet clothes, with leaves and tree bits clinging to my hands and in between my fingers, I’ve gotten to the point where I can ignore the wet. I just concentrate on thinking, as I discriminate between the good and the rot: It could be worse; at least it’s not snow…
The first time I heard this song, I was in a bar in Wellington listening to a great cover band. When they started into this song, everyone in the bar immediately went nuts singing along, and every other time I’ve ever heard it, Kiwis react the same way to this song no matter the context. The closest American equivalent I can think of is “Don’t Stop Believing”.
Just about every orchard on the block has a helicopter. Rain damages the fruit, so after it rains, all the helicopters come out to dry off the trees. It’s really cool right until it flies overhead. Then it’s like spitting into a hurricane.
these are some b.f.c. the variety is called “titan”. i have no idea why…
rainbow grass.
Oh Tumblr, I feel as if we don’t know each other anymore.
I’m living and working on an orchard in Central Otago. It’s going alright.
My room at the Cottage seems like an addition. Instead of a proper foundation, there is a gap from the dirt to my floor. Sometimes I catch creatures unaware, and they scurry under the house when I open the door. In order to get to the main area of the house (kitchen, bathroom and TV room), I have to go outside and walk through the front door because my room is not connected. There are plum trees out the front door and sheep in the backyard. Rainbow colored grass grows beside the stoop. It’s completely silent at night except for sprinklers, sheep and Night Sounds.
One night I venture outside, but instead of turning right towards the main house, I freeze. The sidewalk is lit by the moon, and even through my sleepy, myopic gaze I can see something on the path. A comma with its curved tail sharply straightened into a snout scoots around the concrete. It shuffles from one side of the sidewalk to the other sampling whatever tasty items it finds in the flower beds. In the nighttime silence, its nibbling and soft padded paws are almost deafening. Completely unconcerned by my presence, it even allows itself to be pet before it trundles off across the gravel road into the orchard darkness.
