Temporero

When I look down at my hands, I can see the beginning of a transformation. They’re getting rough from the aridity and from use. Even though I’ve washed, there are still traces of dirt under the nails and in the cracks on my palms and knuckles. My wrists and forearms are covered with thin little red scratches. Like one of the workers told me, “we look like we cut our veins.” The signs are only faint, for now, but I can see the future of my hands, as they continue their transformation into the hands of a temporero.
This morning, I got up at 7 in the morning, to dress in the frigid air, into the same clothes I’ll wear six days out of the week for the next couple of months. I gulp down some coffee, grab my lunch and head out to begin. I’m working for the woman in whose household and with whose family I am living with, Sandro’s mom, Marcela. She runs a business, employing, later in the summer, some 100 workers, who she then hires out on contract to work in the fields, maintaining them and picking fruit. Around here, they’re known as temporeros, or “seasonal laborers.”
Right now, it’s the low season; Marcela only employs some 35 or so workers, and now me. Since I live with the boss, I’m always the first one in the van in the morning, and the last one off (she busses her workers around with a small fleet of vans and, for the summer, one bus). When she dropped us all off in the fields, I have to admit I was pretty nervous; I had no clue what the hell I was doing. We started walking up the slopes into the rows of lemon trees. I was trying to take cues from everyone. At first, they sent me to work with a group of people, with the system of irrigation. They were pulling the hoses up on top of the mounds where the lemon trees grew, and then I had to come behind with a shovel and pack some dirt on top of the hose to keep it there. I tell you, it was important work because, as I learned late, the irrigation system gets completely wrecked when you pick the fruit, but while I was doing it, I knew I was in for a long day. That is incredibly boring work (and hard on the back). But then the jefe there got a call from the other jefe (Juan Pablo, as he’s called) and I was sent up to the other group of workers, who were way up on the slopes picking lemons.
Now. Lemon trees have nasty thorns; long and very sharp. Like I said, I’ve got scratches all over my arms and hands. In the beginning, I didn’t have any gloves. I was very lucky today, because there was one woman who gave me an extra pair of wool gloves that she had (although these were hardly better than nothing at all), and then later, Juan Pablo, the jefe gave me a pair of oil soaked gloves he had up on one of the tractors. So I jumped right in. I was late, but it didn’t really matter. Everyone was picking in pairs, one pair to a tree; I got paired with this nice woman named Ramina. I couldn’t tell you how old she is; early 20’s I guess. The work is just that; picking lemons all day. I have no idea how many lemons I picked. Hundreds, in five gallon (18 liters) buckets. The jefe counts the buckets on a sheet of paper. Everyone has a number. I was the last, number 12. You have to shout out the number as you empty your bucket into the trailer so they can count. I thought that they were counting to check how much each person was picking, so they could pay them based on that, or so they could look out for slow workers, but it turns out it’s just to keep track of how many lemons they have: 42 buckets makes a bin (“un bins”) whish is the unit for export.
To be honest, I like the work. It’s hard, yes, and I can’t imagine doing this every day of my life, as some of these people do, but it’s very tranquil and, at least working with lemons, the smell of the lemons is everywhere, which relaxes me, at least (although the essence of the lemon, maybe the acid, or maybe a pesticide/herbicide gets in the cuts and makes them burn). My biggest problem is with dehydration. In general, I drink a lot of water, and then I’m not used to the arid climate and we’re working in the hot sun all day. But out on the hills, there’s nowhere to get more water. I was already out by 10:30 in the morning. I can’t believe how little Chileans drink (water, not other things; with other things, they are a thirsty people). For example, there was this one shrunken old lady who drank not more than 15 cl of Coke in the whole day, I swear. I was shocked.
The other workers are constantly talking and joking and some of them have ipods with speakers and were playing reggaton all day. Of course, my level of Spanish is still frustratingly limited, so most of the time I listen out for people talking to me directly, but sort of tune out all of the other talk, if just because it takes too much energy to listen. That said, I was the brunt of every other joke told today. The Spanish word is the best for this: I was “molested” all day by mis compañeros. For example, there is this girl, Nadi, who asked me, “te gustan las gorditas o las flaquitas?” (whether I like fat or skinny girls). She’s skinny. Of course, I was forced to admit that I like flaquitas, much to my chagrin. They wouldn’t let me be all day. But I’ve already gotten used to it. It’s been more or less like that since I’ve gotten here. And to my coworkers, some use my name, but if not, it’s either gringo or flaco.
Well. Tomorrow it’s back to it. This week lemons, maybe next week oranges, the next peaches. It’s good work, and it helps pass the time. I find it a great experience; something I am learning a lot from, and something I won’t forget soon (if only because of the scratches on my arms, some of which, Sandro tells me, will probably be permanent). At least I can’t complain of boredom.