The World in Your Hand
I won't look at my breakfast blueberries the same way again.
My daughter worked two weeks at a blueberry plantation to pick up some extra money. She wanted a temporary job where she had to use her hands. She would have preferred picking grapes, but the transportation logistics (again) have made it impossible so far. This job came along, with someone who would drive her every day, so she took it.
There, she spent some time in the blueberry rows, but most of her time was spent in the selection shed. She came away with several things. That she would prefer working in the sun, even in the heat; that she doesn't want to select another blueberry; and the friendships she made.
There were people there from Spain, Morocco, Romania, and Senegal, at the least. Seven languages or more were spoken or known by the different people. Habits, customs, religions, were all different, so were work habits. There were different types of people, from religious Muslims who sometimes listened to podcasts of the Koran being read, to lazy migrants who would smoke in the field (absolutely forbidden because of the danger of fire) and stand and eat blueberries one by one from a bunch they had just picked, to a hard working ex-convict who had fallen into the wrong ways because he had been a hyperactive child, and society had classed him as a troublemaker without another thought.
She made friends with the ex-convict first. He and another friend were the ones who picked her up every day. The ex-con was, essentially, a good person, who had gone against the law once. He was one of the hardest working people there, hyperactive, and intelligent. But his hyperactivity had turned the teachers against him; he had dropped out and was classed as undesirable. His friend was doing a temporary job while leaving curriculums around. He dropped the blueberries as soon as he was offered a permanent job with a decent salary.
Then, there were two or three Romanians. One was lazier and slower than a sloth sleeping in a tree, and would smoke and eat the blueberries he was supposed to pick. He was let go after jokingly insulting the wife of another Romanian, and getting into a holy fight with him, sticks included. The Senegalese worked mainly in the field, as well, picking quickly and sometimes exchanging conversation in French with the Moroccan women. He may have been here legally, or he may not. Whatever, the story of his arrival in Spain is probably a novel in itself. At least, at the blueberry farm, he was earning minimum wage, which is more than some places will pay.
There were some other Spaniards, including a woman who was biased against the other nationals, especially the Moroccans, because they were obviously Muslim. She treated them with some disdain, and was annoyed whenever they listened to the Koran being read.
Then, there were the Moroccan women who became her friends. They would talk about where they were from, how to say things in Arabic, the meanings of their names, their families, and their customs. One of them was only a year older than my daughter, yet already was married and had children. She had majored in Economics at university in Morocco and had worked at a bank there, but now was living in Spain, picking blueberries. Another woman, older, had her twenty year old son working with her before classes begin next month. He, too, was studying Economics, but at the university in Santiago, and was making some extra money for the school year. On Friday, they brought for lunch a traditional bowl of couscous, and invited her to join them. They explained it was a tradition to make a large bowl every Friday, with enough quantity for the entire family, then everyone would sit and eat from the same bowl. She found them beautifully warm people, friendly and hospitable.
So, the next time you buy fruit, whether at the supermarket, the green grocer's or the market stall, remember there is a story behind the hands that picked it and put it in its box. It's not just a kilo of apples, or 250 grams of blueberries, or a half kilo of plums. It's people from different places, with different stories, and different origins. It's a microcosm of the world, in a few pieces of juicy fruit.
My daughter worked two weeks at a blueberry plantation to pick up some extra money. She wanted a temporary job where she had to use her hands. She would have preferred picking grapes, but the transportation logistics (again) have made it impossible so far. This job came along, with someone who would drive her every day, so she took it.
There, she spent some time in the blueberry rows, but most of her time was spent in the selection shed. She came away with several things. That she would prefer working in the sun, even in the heat; that she doesn't want to select another blueberry; and the friendships she made.
There were people there from Spain, Morocco, Romania, and Senegal, at the least. Seven languages or more were spoken or known by the different people. Habits, customs, religions, were all different, so were work habits. There were different types of people, from religious Muslims who sometimes listened to podcasts of the Koran being read, to lazy migrants who would smoke in the field (absolutely forbidden because of the danger of fire) and stand and eat blueberries one by one from a bunch they had just picked, to a hard working ex-convict who had fallen into the wrong ways because he had been a hyperactive child, and society had classed him as a troublemaker without another thought.
She made friends with the ex-convict first. He and another friend were the ones who picked her up every day. The ex-con was, essentially, a good person, who had gone against the law once. He was one of the hardest working people there, hyperactive, and intelligent. But his hyperactivity had turned the teachers against him; he had dropped out and was classed as undesirable. His friend was doing a temporary job while leaving curriculums around. He dropped the blueberries as soon as he was offered a permanent job with a decent salary.
Then, there were two or three Romanians. One was lazier and slower than a sloth sleeping in a tree, and would smoke and eat the blueberries he was supposed to pick. He was let go after jokingly insulting the wife of another Romanian, and getting into a holy fight with him, sticks included. The Senegalese worked mainly in the field, as well, picking quickly and sometimes exchanging conversation in French with the Moroccan women. He may have been here legally, or he may not. Whatever, the story of his arrival in Spain is probably a novel in itself. At least, at the blueberry farm, he was earning minimum wage, which is more than some places will pay.
There were some other Spaniards, including a woman who was biased against the other nationals, especially the Moroccans, because they were obviously Muslim. She treated them with some disdain, and was annoyed whenever they listened to the Koran being read.
Then, there were the Moroccan women who became her friends. They would talk about where they were from, how to say things in Arabic, the meanings of their names, their families, and their customs. One of them was only a year older than my daughter, yet already was married and had children. She had majored in Economics at university in Morocco and had worked at a bank there, but now was living in Spain, picking blueberries. Another woman, older, had her twenty year old son working with her before classes begin next month. He, too, was studying Economics, but at the university in Santiago, and was making some extra money for the school year. On Friday, they brought for lunch a traditional bowl of couscous, and invited her to join them. They explained it was a tradition to make a large bowl every Friday, with enough quantity for the entire family, then everyone would sit and eat from the same bowl. She found them beautifully warm people, friendly and hospitable.
So, the next time you buy fruit, whether at the supermarket, the green grocer's or the market stall, remember there is a story behind the hands that picked it and put it in its box. It's not just a kilo of apples, or 250 grams of blueberries, or a half kilo of plums. It's people from different places, with different stories, and different origins. It's a microcosm of the world, in a few pieces of juicy fruit.
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