Through The Kangaroo Flat
Inside a particular room, the heat never dissipates, only circulates in to every nook and cranny, every crevice of one’s body, fuelling a cruel cycle of perspiration. From the corner of the room, a dim light shines. A man sits crossed legged a top his bed, eyes closed, hands together to represent a circle of unity; praying. Another man, dreams of life away from this place, lying flat on his back, giving his whole body a chance to cool over from the minimal fan blowing hot air. The night ahead is putrid; the following day forthcoming looks no more pleasant.
Outside, the pulse of music flows: melodic, deep and frightful. The air is tinged with the dreamy waves of smoke, where it collides with the misty water that falls to cool those sitting below. Conversation flows. People anticipate tomorrow’s exertion.
The kitchen is dimly lit, only to prevent a sensory attack, though a sorrow mood looms throughout. People move with a lack of will and energy, as though their legs are made of wood; the faces droop with a sort of numbness.
“It feels like the same thing every day” mutters one man.
“It is the same thing every day” replies a confirmer, “only the sun is a day older and we grow wiser from the pain”.
The sun has yet to rise above its fellow workers, as they deploy for the duties of the day. Where music once blurred, there now only sounds the hum of these workers, as they sip their coffee and bite in to their food. The car park a few metres away holds the two vehicles that will transport them across the dust filled salt plains that make up this land. The absence of the sun forms a quiet peace throughout, something that one man truly appreciates.
The car journey is long and full of bright lights. One man bounces from the suspension, every now and then hitting his head on the low ceiling, the middle man wears a round hat and gives off a meditative aura, another chain smokes. The radio flicks off. The driver motions for the front passenger to turn it back on. This happens several times. On the horizon, a glimpse of life protrudes.
There is a feeling of apprehension and fatigue as the cars drive up the dust track towards the seemingly endless rows of green. It’s not quite day, nor has it left the precipice of the night. The first car door is opened, followed by the next and the next. One’s left leg inches out, a twist of the hip and then the right leg swings out, a push through the legs and the stability of the right hand on the door, a straight stiff standing body is the result. The beginning is nigh.
How kind it was for Carroll to give us that metaphor. The crescent shape aslant in the sky, hangs against gravity above the horizon. The bright white gleams fervently, keeping its own identity from the red luminous sky. The workers are less aware of the heaven on offer, except one man who simply turns and stares, until he motions for others attention.
The air is cool at this early morning, and with no shadows to speak of, the workers begin their motion along the path towards their line of grass and trees. Suddenly the ground divides, where dust and dried tracks from the tractor once were, puddles and dew like grass are abundant. Trainers begin to soak. But no one complains. It is the least to worry. Each man walks, soldiering on to find their row.
Deep in to the line of trees, the smell of citrus grows. This smell will last until the sun becomes hellish. Two wide ladders, growing narrower as they climb, lie against a tree, each having their own row of trees. Spreading along the middle of the row are square metre bins, grey and blue, waiting to be loaded with oranges, to be consumed further along.
The man with the wide round hat stands lazily. Dressed in a buttoned shirt, blue work trousers and boots, he prepares to don his gloves and picking bag. Under a tree nearby, placed is his cool bag with refreshments and food. His partner has equal haste about him, leaning on one leg with his hand on one hip, sighing, but twisting his face in a determined fashion, none other than to complete the task.
Each orange droops teasingly from the tree, almost saying nonchalantly, ‘come and pick me’. Some trees are decorated more so than others, with them playing hide and seek amongst the leaves and snails. Each branch applies a trap, coming equipped with thorns, not in the least bit caring. Reaching in to the tree, moulding the hand round the fruit, twisting the wrist in order to twist the stem, then snapping the wrist forward pushing the fruit down and away from the tree; the fruit is put in the bag one after the other.
Frustration comes from one man while the other is calm. Still they fill bin after bin, and with each bin comes that little pocket of money. If happiness could be measured in bins of fruit, it would be high when the last bag of oranges rolls out over the filled bin.
When the sun edges over the top of the trees, forming less shadow, time slows a little and a whole new fiasco emerges. Where the air was once tolerable, it becomes sultry. Opportunistic flying insects take to landing on a nose or cheek with great ease, delighting in it. As one of the men reaches in to the tree, a fly of generous sizing nibbles at the leg on offer, and the battle ensues. Boomerang abilities keep the fly coming back, as much as the man waves his leg to and fro.
Sweat begins to glisten. The skin and the mouth become parched. Shoulders sag while legs drag. The last bags are thrown in to the bins, with new found energy produced to finish the load. Completing the day is as blissful as the morning sunrise.
Under the small canopy offered by one tree sit two tired men, relieved that their daily duties are nearly complete, only except for one man, who must drive his team back home. This man takes a cigarette and lights it, though doesn’t give the impression it is enjoyable, just a necessity of life, much like work. Once others arrive, the talk turns to the number of bins filled each. Some are quick, some are ample. Egos are retained nonetheless.
Winding down the windows allows the flies and heat to escape from the car. It is stifling to the core. The beauty from the early morning has been banished and replaced by the haze and dust swept horizon. It is ugly and uncomfortable, and no haven is close, not even the distant place that the men call home. Home is just a place on repeat, it never changes. It’s a stable base for the purpose to merely exist.
One dreams to escape, another smokes while one simply prays.
The life of an orange picker
