While I know that I wrote that my new (relatively speaking) job isn't a real job, I have to admit that I lied. It's real work. And it's kicking my ass.

Una pega nueva (y más liviana).

In the past few days, I’ve changed jobs. I’m no longer working with lemons. No more long days jerking buckets full of lemons around, no more thorns, no more siestas on the hard ground. Now, I’m working with damascos (apricots) and, next week, we’re supposed to start working with duranos (peaches). In general, this job is a lot easier, although it requires more skill and attention from the workers. Right now, the damascos are small and green, about the size of a mature almendra (almond). And the duranos, well, they’re only about the size of a fingernail (even smaller). But already in the past three days, I’ve seen them grow, in some cases, doubling in size. Obviously, this isn’t the season for picking either (and for this, we don’t have to work on Saturdays, which is a plus). Rather, the job is this: on each branch of the plant, there are many, many small fruits, clustered together, which, if all allowed to mature, would interfere with each other, and result in lower quality fruit. Also, I presume, that if the excess fruit is removed, more of the energy of the tree will be diverted into growing the remaining pieces of fruit, also resulting in higher quality. So the job is to remove the excess fruit, all deformed pieces, “gemelos” (literally twins – I don’t know the word in English – but two conjoined pieces of fruit), and those pieces with characteristic red circles, which are signs of a virus.
Damascos are simpler than duranos, I’m told, so the work goes pretty fast. The workers are paid per mata (plant). The price for the damascos is $350 (that’s Chilean pesos, obviously) per plant. That’s about 0.8USD. Because the workers are paid per mata, there has to be someone to oversee, and make sure that quality of the work remains consistent, as there is constantly the temptation to cut corners, to move faster (and sloppier) in order to make more money. That’s my job. I’m a supervisor, un jefe.
And to be honest with you, at first, I hated it.
For me, this is how I saw it. I’m this little gringo upstart, just 18 – that’s younger than anyone else out there – and I don’t speak Spanish well, and here I am telling these people what to do. And, like all of them, I only learned to do the job three days ago too. Furthermore, la pega me caga mal. I mean, picking lemons, that was something I could feel proud of, in a way. I was doing something that had to be done, and doing it the same as any of the others around me. I was no more and no less than any of them. It’s not a good job, and it left me tired as shit every evening, but that’s how it was. Now here I am, with a job I didn’t even ask for, telling people what to do, and getting paid for walking around all day, pointing out people’s errors. Well, to be honest, so one has to do it, has to keep all of it straight and to keep track of all of the numbers. But I don’t like it because I’m a part of a system that I can see is unfair.
At least that was my first impression. Now I’m realizing a few things. Unlike the field over in Ranchillos (with the lemons), the workers here are given more respect. There are toilets, a place to eat with a sunshade, trashcans, signs about the dangers of pesticides and how to protect yourself from them, etc. Still, I’m sure there is a dueño and that he makes a hell of a lot more than any of the peons who man his fields, but I guess he’s not like the filthy rich dueño over at Ranchillos.
And as far as the work goes, it’s nice for me in a lot of ways. Even though it irritates my egalitarian sensibilities, I know I can and will get used to the job. I mean, it’s a job that Marcela needs me to do. Usually her son (the other one, Esteban) does this job, but right now he’s working with his father (actually on the house of the dueño of Ranchillos). And this job doesn’t leave me dead in the evenings (besides, it’s getting to be more work than I thought at first, as more workers arrive). But perhaps the best benefit is that I probably speak more than 5 times as much Spanish in a day than I did at cutting lemons. I’m learning and practicing far more.
This way, furthermore, I’m experiencing all facets of production, and realizing how it feels to be peon, a nobody, but also how it feels to be jefe, and realizing how important it is to do that job with compassion. Even if I don’t like it, I am realizing that this pega too is a valuable experience.

 The fields at Los Ranchillos. Those are lemon trees in the foreground, the rows up on the hills will be for the paltas (avocados).

 The lemons are incredible. A beautiful yellow, and very fragrant. Many of them are huge — far larger than anything I've ever seen in a market. I wonder if they only use those for juice.

 Some of my compañeros. Sorry for the low quality of photographs. I was trying to be discrete (I took these photos in the very beginning, when I didn't know anyone).

 The fire we use to heat our food. The jefe makes one everyday.

 The tractor, the trailer, the bins. It takes something like 35 tarros (buckets) to fill a bin. With other fruit, this is how you get paid, by "bines." But lemons offer a thankless job, with very little pay. No one likes to pick lemons.

 There's a tractor with three full bins. The tractors are in constant rotation.

 The guy in the red shirt is Juan Pablo, the jefe of our group. The dude with the white hat is called Bicho. I think his real name is Vincente. He's a tractor driver. The other guy is some kinda super jefe.

 It's steep up on the cerro.

 But very pretty, overlooking the whole valley. Sorry again, for the poor photo quality.

 Leaving after a long day.

One of the super jefes making his rounds.

All photos were taken on September 22, 2010.

I see the strings that control the system.

Dramatic title, but honestly, if we are talking simply about the system of the production of fruit in Chile, it’s true. The field I work in is called Los Ranchillos (which is actually the name of the neighborhood). It’s huge. Incredibly large. There are the lemons, of course, but also narajas (oranges), almendras (almonds), mandarinas (mandarins), papas (potatoes), paltas (avocadoes/abacate), maybe some other stuff. It fills half of one entire valley, expanding up the sides of the hills around. And it’s still growing.
In one corner of the valley, there is a parcela, a plot of land, with this giant house, the workers call it the chalet. It’s the house of the dueño, the owner of all this land. He’s a farmer, in the medieval sense of the word; only in that he owns land, and makes his profit off of the sale of its produce. I haven’t seen the house myself (I would like to, to complete the picture), but I know quite a bit about it because the man hired Sandro (my host father) and his crew (which includes Sandro’s son Esteban) to repair some things that were damaged during the earthquake. The house (more like a mansion) has a pool and a garden and many floors. The man doesn’t live there, rather living in Santiago. Sandro and his crew have to work quickly because there are plans to film a telenovela in the house, later this spring.
Even today, the system functions like it has throughout the history of Latin American encomiendas. The system is always like this, like one of my co-workers said: the dueño makes millions, while the peons who work for him work there asses off to scrape by. But it’s not a system I’m used to seeing up close. When I return to the US, I want to visit the fruit plantations that exist there, to establish a comparison. It is my impression that most fruit production in the US is owned by companies, rather than individuals, granting a different "flavor" to the business. And I would say that fruit production in the US is more in a more "developed" stage that production in Latin America, on different levels, from the corporate structure of ownership to the machinization of production. It occurs to me, looking at this single example of "the stages of development" that certain questions arise. Talking to people here, I am developing an understanding that the workers, though they realize they are making nothing compared to their counterparts in the US, know that they are filling an essential role in international production, and they take pride in that. Furthermore, for example, the fact that procution here is NOT machinized means that there is a relatively infinite means of employment for the large number of unskilled labor that exists. These people have very little education and few skills. Most are appropriately employed (with a few notable exceptions of underemployment that I have encountered) and all have their own personal motivations, which is one of the most interesting things that I am learning from my conversations with them.
Still, I'm left wondering, in the larger picture of development, what is the better method? I can see that the corporate model of production in the US has its advantages when competing in the international market (or at least it seems it does, although it is difficult to make any judgment call when the situation is complicated by the large agricultural subsidies that exist in the US). But I'm wondering, is it better to arm those means of production in developing countries with the goal to make them equal to their competitors in the US and in other developed countries, or to seek out another, more innovative model of development? I guess what I'm saying is, already, what I have seen is underlining, in my mind, the textbook question, is it better for developing countries to follow a similar route of deveolpment that developed countries took, in this case, complete with corporate production, protectionism and mechanization? Perhaps this is the easiest route to follow although still difficult, due to opposition by the powers at be. But maybe that's just the quick fix, as ironic as that sounds. What I'm saying is, I question that the route of development taken by today's developed countries is the desireable route.
Surely not an original thought, but it occured to me, one day while I was filling my bucket with lemons.

I hope I have clearly presented my thoughts here. It's a bit disorganized.

El temblor

Since I’ve gotten here, I’ve kept my eyes open for signs of the recent earthquake that occurred in the early hours of February 27, 2010. Though this area isn’t very near to the epicenter in Concepción, you can see cracks in walls, piles of rubble that have yet to be cleared away (especially in the capital), and everyone here felt it and has their own account of their experience in those three minutes. But yesterday I had my own first experience with the seismic activity of this country on the eastern edge of the Pacific Ring of Fire.
Everyday in el campo we take an hour and a half for lunch and a siesta. Yesterday we had just eaten and were all settling down to rest. I guess I had already dozed off, because the next thing I knew the girl next to me jumped up excitedly, and was asking me if I felt the tremor. I hadn’t, and didn’t think much of it, but then, there it was. Unmistakable. Un temblor. I’ve never felt anything like it. It was as if my vertigo was thrown off for a few seconds; like my mind couldn’t believe that the whole world was shaking like that. Incredible.
Just now I was told that there was also another tremor the day before yesterday. I didn’t feel it. Well, I imagine that this is only the first of my seismic experiences here in Chile. I just hope that nothing big happens. For everyone’s sake, eh?

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.

Un Buen Accidente

The fact that I came here in this part of the year was a buen accidente. I couldn’t have been luckier. Tomorrow, September 18, is the anniversary of Chilean Independence from Spain. It’s their bicentennial, so the nation is pulling out all of the stops in it’s expenditure for the fiesta de patria. This whole week is known a la semana de chilenidad, the week of Chilenity. It means that typical Chilean patriotism is even stronger in this week, that on every house, and most of the cars, fly one, two, or even three or five or twelve Chilean flags. Everyone is playing the national games: trompos (spinning tops), volantín (flying kites), palo ensebado (something like a May pole), el emboque (a toy with a wooden cup attached to a wooden stick – the object is to catch the cup with the stick). Yesterday, I went with Sandro’s mother and sisters to see all of the students from the two schools in the municipal seat, Melipilla, dance the national dance, la cueca. They said that there were 1,300 pairs, more or less. All of the students are required to dance, or they receive a poor mark. The dance has roots in the agricultural traditions of Chile. The costume of the woman is a traditional dress while the man wears the boots, chaps, hat, poncho and spurs of the guacho. The spurs used in cueca are large and ornamental and are worn so that the stomping movements of the man cause them to ring.
This weekend I am going to pass the fiesta at the site where my host family is building a new house. It’s on a parcel of land near a village called Curacaví. Compared to their previous house, which was in a village called Maria Pinto, or compared to this house which is a rental, the new site is more removed from any other houses, with a spectacular view of the surrounding valley. I can tell it’s their dream, to live in a place this tranquilo.