15 months. More mangoes. Since I receive multiple messages and emails a day asking how I am, I will give you all a detailed description of my job at the mango packing shed. I finally get up to the glaringly grey sky at around 5:30am after my multiple alarms at 7 minute intervals fail to rouse me. I slosh some udder juice on my multi-orgasm cherio o O O OOOOs and chug down some french pressed coffee. I glare begrudgingly at the leftover pasta/rice/noodle concoction from yesterday as it represents my lunch for today. Maybe some more cheese will salvage the situation. I try to find the least crusty socks in my possession and put those on, then grab my perpetually soggy shoes as the bus comes to gather my Asian housemates and I up. I give the packed bus a hearty GOOD MORNING in my deceptively believable tone before I take a seat at the back. If Im lucky, a banger will be on the radio. Daniel had my back when he turned up this killer jam and literally made my day. As we arrive at the farm I don my work shirt and put on my sloppy shoes after waiting as long as possible to enter their moist confines. Then the fun begins! The first pair of gloves are a thin latex, snugly fitting number designed to keep the fingers mobile and safe. Next up in the getup is the full length apron that seems like something a serial killer doctor would wear to prevent the chainsaw shrapnel from his victims from spoiling his Calvin Klein polo. Then (AFTER tying the apron on) the real gloves get the call. These elbow length jobbies are real beauts. While occasionally a bit slippery, the protection offered by their millimeter thick rubber and neon green colour make them an invaluable addition to the arsenal. Finally a pair of safety glasses (or super cool purple sunnies) round out the ensemble. The mango wash system is set to 8 psi although we have seen occasional drops to a measly 4 or 5 psi. Then the saw begins its relentless assault on mango stems, our eardrums, and our sanity. I have respect for the saw in its ruthless efficiency and unfailing consistency. But I do have a problem with its unmatchable BPM and gallopingly offbeat rhythm. Then the rollers begin their slow trudge into the future. Then the mangoes come. And come. And come some more. They dont stop coming. Even as we take the mangoes from their crates and carefully run their stem over the saw, and simultaneously check if the stem has been cut short enough AND try to avoid the caustic ejaculation spurting forth from their stem as if it was the inaugural discovery of a young teenage boy and a certain Paris Hilton video occuring in my hands umpteen times a day, the mangoes continue their undying approach into my life as the new mangoes arrive from the field on their tractor steeds next to our destemming station. I can see them in their little mango crate cages staring at me, knowing their life is nearing the end, while taking a slender iota of satisfaction in the part of me they will take with them into the abyss. The morning goes by with a little chitchat between my Hong Kongian, Taiwanese and German comrades about last nights meal, any possible upcoming plans for escape into the outside or just typical male BS. First smoko comes after about three hours and while certainly bringing a sense of relief to our bodies and minds, we are wary that it only realistically represents the end of the first quarter or period. Smoko brings a respite from our already soaked booties, smothering gloves, and stylish yet sombre aprons. A tentative dip into the lunchbag rewards me with a carrot, a couple biscuits, and some sourpatch kids/starburst/whatevergummiesareonsale. Opening the daily energy drink at this time is strictly unkosher and a rarity. I either open up whatever newspaper was lying around Maccas for the borrowing, a random op-shop book of no particular interest, or my BBC news app if I feel like spending my valuable roaming data to keep uptodate on world affairs. Knowing the return to drudgery is imminent, I start to remove my socks from their perch in the sun and get them over my resentful bipeds. As the boss tells us that the mangoes are beckoning, my compatriots and I don our work attire again. The second round of mango destemming can be the most difficult. Near the end of this period the hallucinations can set in. My favourite is when I am a competitor in the world cup of mango desapping. Unwaving focus is essential at this point as a disappointing performance can mean the end of your career. I do my best work not only for myself, but also for the commentators. These two characters bring their energetic charisma to a sport that has fallen by the wayside in spectator popularity. A Buck Martinez-esque older man brings his many years of experience on the saw to the colour commentary with an upbeat and knowledgeable flavour, while his ice queen female partner plays another angle. While entering her middle-ages, this brunette brings attention to the foibles and misplays of the competitors in an arrogant tone, especially for someone who has never stemmed a mang. Although she is quick to point out my shortcomings, I have occasionally been able to catch a hint of awe at my dexterity and agility, not to mention my ever-increasing stamina. The thought of her subtlely adjusting the position of her pinstripe miniskirt after I triumphantly pull a triple-7 (three consecutive rows of seven mangoes on a roller speed of medium high) keeps my dream alive and my hands moving. Anywho the day goes on in a similar fashion and this is starting to lose its lustre. MERRRRRY CHRISTMAS! https://youtube/watch?v=djV11Xbc914
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 13:52:52 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015