The Olive Pickers
It's Olive Picking Time!
Just CLICK on the pictures to see enlarged version!
A day with the Olive Pickers...
..two hands full from today's crop! (Bakis' olive grove, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
A little while back I asked our neighbour, Bakis, who is the local blacksmith and metal worker as well as being an olive farmer, whether he’d let me join him and his crew on an olive picking venture. I knew from previous talks that by mid to end November the olives destined for oil would be ripe enough to be picked. No problem – I was more than welcome. Little did I suspect at the time what a tremendous experience and adventure I would become involved in!
And so, a couple of days ago, I left the house in a hurry, right in the middle of lunch, hastily picking up my packed and waiting camera bag on the way out, having been called by Bakis with the words “come on then, let’s go! I only came back here to pick you up!” He wanted me to join him in his pick-up truck and would take me to the olive pickers, wait for me while I took a few shots or so and then bring me back home. I, however, had harboured entirely different ideas about what I secretly called “my first professional” shoot. I did not particularly fancy having a group of people stand around posing for posterity for the family album... I wanted to “capture” them at work and make a silent record of what the labour behind olive picking really entailed– a photographic account of A Day in the Lives of the Olive Pickers. I really had no idea what lay on store for me, no idea at all!
I followed Bakis in our beaten up old car out of the village, up and down winding, dusty mud tracks into acres upon acres of olive groves. No obvious sign of human life to be seen anywhere. Some fifteen minutes into our journey, Bakis suddenly stopped, parked his truck along the road and signalled me to halt a little farther up the track. I gathered that it would be impossible for me to continue negotiating the track to my final destination, so I parked the car, slung the camera over my shoulder, slipped a spare battery pack into my pocket and realized to my horror that in my haste I had forgotten my mobile phone on the kitchen table. My better half would not be too happy knowing that I had headed off into the landscape without any means of communication. Still, too late to worry about that now – in for a penny, in for a pound! I joined Bakis in his pick-up truck and we climbed a rather steep, bumpy and potholed trail leading directly into an olive grove up on a hill-top, my posterior being badly assaulted in the process! I was too excited to take much notice, though!
And so, a couple of days ago, I left the house in a hurry, right in the middle of lunch, hastily picking up my packed and waiting camera bag on the way out, having been called by Bakis with the words “come on then, let’s go! I only came back here to pick you up!” He wanted me to join him in his pick-up truck and would take me to the olive pickers, wait for me while I took a few shots or so and then bring me back home. I, however, had harboured entirely different ideas about what I secretly called “my first professional” shoot. I did not particularly fancy having a group of people stand around posing for posterity for the family album... I wanted to “capture” them at work and make a silent record of what the labour behind olive picking really entailed– a photographic account of A Day in the Lives of the Olive Pickers. I really had no idea what lay on store for me, no idea at all!
I followed Bakis in our beaten up old car out of the village, up and down winding, dusty mud tracks into acres upon acres of olive groves. No obvious sign of human life to be seen anywhere. Some fifteen minutes into our journey, Bakis suddenly stopped, parked his truck along the road and signalled me to halt a little farther up the track. I gathered that it would be impossible for me to continue negotiating the track to my final destination, so I parked the car, slung the camera over my shoulder, slipped a spare battery pack into my pocket and realized to my horror that in my haste I had forgotten my mobile phone on the kitchen table. My better half would not be too happy knowing that I had headed off into the landscape without any means of communication. Still, too late to worry about that now – in for a penny, in for a pound! I joined Bakis in his pick-up truck and we climbed a rather steep, bumpy and potholed trail leading directly into an olive grove up on a hill-top, my posterior being badly assaulted in the process! I was too excited to take much notice, though!
Arrived...!
... peek-a-boo...! (Bakis' olive grove, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
When we finally stopped I managed to disembark from the high vehicle without making a complete ass of myself and followed Bakis into the thick of row upon row of beautiful, gnarled trees, heavily laden with fat glistening olives, many of them already a dark, purplish-black colour hung next to their still unripe khaki green brethren. I heard the chatter of voices well before I could see the speakers themselves and then suddenly found myself face to face with a Roma lady swinging about a bright orange, what looked like an oversized children’s rake - the kind kids play with in the sand on the beach. I had arrived!
Bakis briefly introduced me to a group of two ladies and three men, all Bulgarians, quite clearly of Roma origin. They eyed me with surprise and open interest, and when I explained in my rusty Bulgarian that I would be there to “do my work” i.e. taking photographs, and that they should not take too much notice of me, they quickly went back to their tasks, casting a smiling look back at me. Within seconds they all had more or less disappeared from my direct view and I started to follow them and focus on each one of them individually, taking shot after shot.
Bakis briefly introduced me to a group of two ladies and three men, all Bulgarians, quite clearly of Roma origin. They eyed me with surprise and open interest, and when I explained in my rusty Bulgarian that I would be there to “do my work” i.e. taking photographs, and that they should not take too much notice of me, they quickly went back to their tasks, casting a smiling look back at me. Within seconds they all had more or less disappeared from my direct view and I started to follow them and focus on each one of them individually, taking shot after shot.
Harvesting
...placing the ladders (Bakis' olive grove, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
I soon understood how they put it all together, how exactly they went about harvesting the olives. To set off, a very long and large sheet was laid out under the trees. When I say very long, I mean very long. At my guess, somewhere around 15 yds by perhaps 3.5 to 4 yds, which was wide enough to fit snugly between two rows of trees in such a manner that two sheets laid out in between adjacent parallel rows of trees would overlap one another around the foot of a tree, thus forming a solid carpet stretching around each individual tree. Then ladders were strategically positioned, allowing the pickers to either stay on them or climb directly into the tree where they used their rake as a tool to remove the olives from their branches. Depending on the thickness of the branches and the ripeness of the olives, the men also used long branches and sticks to knock the olives out of the trees. Picking was simultaneously accompanied by clearing out any stray twigs, leaves and other bits and pieces that had finished up among the lot. It was then time to gather everything into mounds. All pretty clever stuff really, I thought while I observed the scene around me.
Two or three people would pick up the edge of one side of the sheet and so let the olives roll and fall toward the fold in the sheet. The same process was then repeated on the other side, which resulted in a channel of olives being formed that stretched along its centre fold. The next step involved someone gathering up the far ends of the sheet, grip them tightly between two hands, heave the lot over a shoulder and purposefully march straight down the middle of the sheet. The olives would all tumble along toward the centre of the sheet. Repeat process from the other side and suddenly all olives were neatly gathered in a huge glistening pile! Large sacks appeared and diligent hands rapidly started shovelling the olives into them. Once filled and tied up, they were left standing sentinel under the trees until the tractor and trailer would appear at the end of an 8-hour shift to collect the fruit of a day’s hard labour.
Two or three people would pick up the edge of one side of the sheet and so let the olives roll and fall toward the fold in the sheet. The same process was then repeated on the other side, which resulted in a channel of olives being formed that stretched along its centre fold. The next step involved someone gathering up the far ends of the sheet, grip them tightly between two hands, heave the lot over a shoulder and purposefully march straight down the middle of the sheet. The olives would all tumble along toward the centre of the sheet. Repeat process from the other side and suddenly all olives were neatly gathered in a huge glistening pile! Large sacks appeared and diligent hands rapidly started shovelling the olives into them. Once filled and tied up, they were left standing sentinel under the trees until the tractor and trailer would appear at the end of an 8-hour shift to collect the fruit of a day’s hard labour.
Opening up ...
...happy chattering... (Bakis' olive grove, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
Behind
the lens, I almost felt like a voyeur. For the best part of the next
four hours I became the observing party in a colourful tableau of
seemingly happy, giggling and chattering people working together as a
team, dragging and spreading out those oversized, heavy sheets of
poly-something under and around the gnarly feet of mature olive trees,
moving ladders about, climbing up and down, disappearing into the
foliage, affording me snapshots of a hand here and there swinging the
bright orange plastic rake into the air, dislodging a bunch of olives
from their branch which would then spray out and smoothly land in a
swift arc onto the laid out plastic carpet. Fascinating! Until now, I
had never had the slightest inkling about how olives were harvested.
While someone was picking away in a tree, someone else would be clearing
out the twigs and leaves from the growing mounds, or picking up some of
the olives that had strayed off or completely missed their intended
landing strip.
I clicked away, barely noticing time pass. We had started talking. They showered me with questions. What was I doing here? Was I Greek? Where did I come from? Why was I doing this? What was I going to do with the photographs? Could I get them some prints? I explained that I had wanted to see for myself how olives were gathered, what the work really involved and document everything. No, I was not too sure yet what I was going to do with the pictures, but, yes, of course I would be more than happy to give them prints. Could I provide them with more work? Did I know that there was no work in Bulgaria, and that things were really not any better here in Greece? Yes, I did know; I lived here and I had lived in Bulgaria, and knew what was going on. They needed money to survive and there was no way they could make a decent living back home. Did I know of any place I could send them to work after they finished here? We talked and talked and I offered them a brief picture of our background, explaining that we had chosen to retire in this area and that no, unfortunately we had no olive groves or any other business for that matter that could employ any of them. I sympathized with their miserable work prospects and secretly wondered how on earth they were still able to keep smiling and laughing, while climbing the trees, picking away and then dragging about those gigantic, heavily laden sheets. Up and down they went, a continuous movement of bending, kneeling, climbing, dragging ... I was mesmerized.
I clicked away, barely noticing time pass. We had started talking. They showered me with questions. What was I doing here? Was I Greek? Where did I come from? Why was I doing this? What was I going to do with the photographs? Could I get them some prints? I explained that I had wanted to see for myself how olives were gathered, what the work really involved and document everything. No, I was not too sure yet what I was going to do with the pictures, but, yes, of course I would be more than happy to give them prints. Could I provide them with more work? Did I know that there was no work in Bulgaria, and that things were really not any better here in Greece? Yes, I did know; I lived here and I had lived in Bulgaria, and knew what was going on. They needed money to survive and there was no way they could make a decent living back home. Did I know of any place I could send them to work after they finished here? We talked and talked and I offered them a brief picture of our background, explaining that we had chosen to retire in this area and that no, unfortunately we had no olive groves or any other business for that matter that could employ any of them. I sympathized with their miserable work prospects and secretly wondered how on earth they were still able to keep smiling and laughing, while climbing the trees, picking away and then dragging about those gigantic, heavily laden sheets. Up and down they went, a continuous movement of bending, kneeling, climbing, dragging ... I was mesmerized.
Team work..
... hard work with a smile! (Bakis's olive grove, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
The pretty young girl in the group, barely twenty, pulled her weight as well as any of her male counterparts, heaving the large sheets or dragging one end toward the other , thus allowing the olives to roll into the mound that would facilitate filling the large grey-black synthetic sacs. She really added a certain cachet to it all and I so loved her cheeky smile. The elegance and physical strength with which she carried herself in this back-breaking work environment was truly amazing. Later that evening, when I talked about my adventure to my better half, he summed her up in just a few words: "She’s still unspoilt, not yet hardened by life, and it shows." I couldn’t have said it better. I learned that she was married to the youngest man in the group who turned out to be a very happy chappy himself and only twenty two years young. Kids really, but they obviously were a match made in heaven! And no, they were not related to the others, but they all hailed from the same village near Sliven, a relatively large town nestled at the foot of the eastern Balkan range in southeast Bulgaria. The oldest member of the group was somewhere in his mid-fifties and appeared to be the father of the other fellow, or so at least I understood. The latter was there with his wife, a pretty looking woman, mid to late thirties I guessed, who had come to work with a large synthetic flower woven into the beautiful thick black hair of a half-attempted chignon. What a colourful and happy bunch of people they appeared to be! And how fortunate was I to be welcomed to share their company for a few hours.
Around half past three, the young lad asked me if I cared to meet another group of olive pickers, just a few hundred yards down the road in another olive grove. Of course I was, and so we headed off while the other members of his team set about folding the sheets, clearing up their tools and personal belongings in readiness to be picked up. Time for a cigarette break for the men!
Around half past three, the young lad asked me if I cared to meet another group of olive pickers, just a few hundred yards down the road in another olive grove. Of course I was, and so we headed off while the other members of his team set about folding the sheets, clearing up their tools and personal belongings in readiness to be picked up. Time for a cigarette break for the men!
Paradise!
...our very own Garden of Eden... (Kavala area, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
The olive grove where I had just spent such an entertaining and fascinating few hours was located on the crest of a hill with magnificent views over the Bay of Orfani and what is known as the Holy Mountain Mount Athos on the third peninsula of Halkidiki in northern Greece (cf. http://www.inathos.gr/). I lived so close by yet I had never been up here to enjoy this scenery – it was simply breathtaking. I briefly wondered if the people I had just left would look at it and see the same beauty I did; somehow I doubted that very much.
At the Neighbour's
knee- and back breaking work! Bakis' olive grove, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
Upon arriving at the other olive grove, I discovered that the group of olive pickers there were still in full swing of picking and sorting. My arrival had been duly announced by the young lad who’d hurried ahead of me, and when I finally made my way there I was greeted by three men and a woman, who, as it turned out was married to one of the fellows. My guide was about to leave me there and return to his mates but before doing so surprised me by asking if I would come back the next day, or better still, could I go and visit them at their “home” inside what I secretly called "The Camp". I was absolutely stunned by this invitation and thanked him profusely, confirming that I would love to take him up on his offer, but was he sure he’d really want me there? He was adamant that I should come and with a beaming smile bade his goodbyes, advising me that Bakis and his son Tasos would soon be coming to pick them up - along with all the bags of olives, of course.
My new acquaintances made me feel just as welcome as their predecessors, and likewise they bombarded me with similar questions as to the whys and hows of my presence here. We all got on very well and they just let me proceed with taking snapshot after snapshot. If they thought I was intruding into their world, I certainly was not made to feel it; quite the contrary, really.
My new acquaintances made me feel just as welcome as their predecessors, and likewise they bombarded me with similar questions as to the whys and hows of my presence here. We all got on very well and they just let me proceed with taking snapshot after snapshot. If they thought I was intruding into their world, I certainly was not made to feel it; quite the contrary, really.
Time to wrap up...
... all neatly folded, ready for the off! (Bakis' olive grove, Nov 2010) (foto emmakay)
Daylight was beginning to fade and soon it was time to call it a day. The bulging sacks of their day’s labour lay around in cluttered groups alongside the edge of tractor tracks under the trees. The long sheets were properly folded and stacked beside the bags. Personal belongings were collected and stashed in plastic bags and while we stood there chatting in the fading light of a pleasantly warm autumn afternoon I tried to absorb all that had happened to me. Here I was, chatting and laughing with a colourful group of four Roma people who’d just spent eight hours of backbreaking hard work harvesting olives for which, I understood, they would receive 3 Euros per hour. They had been at it since 8 o’clock in the morning, taken a couple of brief breaks, a quick cigarette, a swig from a water bottle, a chunk of bread with a piece of luncheon-meat type sausage, and now it was time to return to their camp. I learned that this group of pickers did not belong to the same camp as the previous one, but were stationed on the outskirts on the east side of the village. I remembered briefly seeing a group of Bulgarian registered cars haphazardly parked in an open space along the road leading out of the village. So, that’s where these four would be staying, I thought. I learned that they had been coming to this area for the last five years and this year they really felt a big difference in everything. Things were no longer easy in Greece, but then, so they told me, life was harder still in Bulgaria. No agricultural development, practically no work, and if there was some work it was so badly paid one could not survive on the pay. Things were so much better in the olden days! Oh, and did I by any chance have some old blankets and clothes, perhaps some shoes that I no longer needed? The nights were cool and damp, and they were cold. I felt awful and told them I’d see what I could do.
Off we go!
Hop on, another day done! (foto emmakay)
I could hear the sound of the tractor engine in the distance and we all moved toward the road. Suddenly, in less than fifteen, twenty minutes, it was all over. The bags had all been stacked onto the trailer, the men had climbed atop, giving the woman a helping hand to join them and off they went. Where only minutes ago there had been happy chattering and laughter, there was now silence. I just stood there, letting it all sink in. In the distance I could hear the sound of the tractor engine fading... some bird twitter gently percolating through to my consciousness.
I returned to my car, deep in thoughts. I’d spent one of the most illuminating afternoons of my life with a group of people, Roma –gypsies- who were in general shunned all over the world, yet to me they had shown only kindness. They were tired out after a day’s hard work, yet I didn’t hear a single word of complaint. On the contrary, they were happy to have the job, at least it paid and would hopefully see them through the winter. Next Spring things might look up...
On the way into the village, I took a closer look at their camp – it was just a loose collection of small, makeshift tents and cars dotted around the field. I decided I would come back to take a closer look. For today I'd seen enough - at least that's what I thought! I had managed to make my way back home without getting lost - no mean feat, really, because the tracks and hills up in Olive Grove Land really all looked the same to me. Lucky me!
I returned to my car, deep in thoughts. I’d spent one of the most illuminating afternoons of my life with a group of people, Roma –gypsies- who were in general shunned all over the world, yet to me they had shown only kindness. They were tired out after a day’s hard work, yet I didn’t hear a single word of complaint. On the contrary, they were happy to have the job, at least it paid and would hopefully see them through the winter. Next Spring things might look up...
On the way into the village, I took a closer look at their camp – it was just a loose collection of small, makeshift tents and cars dotted around the field. I decided I would come back to take a closer look. For today I'd seen enough - at least that's what I thought! I had managed to make my way back home without getting lost - no mean feat, really, because the tracks and hills up in Olive Grove Land really all looked the same to me. Lucky me!
