It's not easy to admit when an apple gets the better of you. There I am, standing at the top of my ladder frustrated, exhausted, and trying to reach the last, highest apple I'll pick that day. I swear loudly, tug at it roughly and as it falls into my hand the branch which no longer has the weight of the apple holding it down rears back and slaps me fully across the face. Never again will I speak harshly to a piece of fruit, because I think it heard me.
This has been a week filled with first-time experiences for me. First time to do a full day of manual work. First time to talk to an apple. First time to get my arse kicked by a tree. Not that I have problems with manual labor, or conversations with fruit for that matter, I've just chosen occupations where daily injuries are usually at a minimum level. My body is not used to such treatment: I am battered and bruised, my back and shoulders are constantly sore, my hands look like they're about to fall off, my feet are falling off, and I'm having a surprisingly good time.
Every day this past week I've been up by six in the morning, which is easy to do when you're in bed by eight every night. As the sun rises, I drive to the orchard and soak up the beauty of the morning. I'm currently living in Marahau, a small community of about two hundred hippies living on the edge of the Abel Tasman National Park. Marahau consists of two streets, a kayak tour company, a bar, and the most stunning scenery that always manages to take my breath away. From there Carl and I drive over the hill to Riwaka, an even smaller "town" where the apples are waiting to be picked. Our crew consists of Neil, our Scottish foreman and a motley crew from Sweden, Germany, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, America and New Zealand. After general morning pleasantries I pop in my earphones, put my apple basket over my head and shoulders and head off to my row for the day.
Once I got over the pure exhaustion of the first few days, I realize how much I like apple picking. I show up and leave when I want, I get to be outside all day, I can listen to my music or chat to the other pickers, and I decide how much I'll make that day based on how hard I work. Sure picking apples can be menial and tedious, but I find that every day is different and full of challenges. Plus the sheer volume keeps it interesting. We get paid per bin, which is a giant wooden crate that must be filled to the brim. I can fit about one hundred apples in my bag, and each bin takes about twenty five bags. If I finish four bins that means I picked roughy ten thousand apples that day, which might explain why I've gone a bit loopy and entered into polite conversation with an inanimate object.
What amazes me even more is that I've never put much thought into where apples come from. As if they magically appear in the large bin in the supermarket, perfectly round and red, I have never really wondered who picked the fruit and vegetables I buy at the store. Who worked six days a week for minimum wage in rain or shine to bring me this crisp, delightful apple? And for that matter who milked the cow and harvested the coffee beans for my coffee? Who slaved in the paddies to bring me rice to accompany my vegetables bought at the market? Next time you go grocery shopping have a look where everything was from, and maybe offer up a small prayer of appreciation to the Gods that you were born on the receiving end of things, that you were born in a country of priviledge, and that you have the luxury to take these seemingly small things for granted. And if there are New Zealand apples there, I humbly ask that you offer up a smile for me and buy the Fugi, not the Braeburns, because I'll get paid more.
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