Last Thursday, halfway through a Greek lesson, I got a text message from Giorgos. Hello, my friend! Are you ready for work? I shouldn’t have had my phone on during lessons, but I did and I was ready. I messaged him back right away. Later that evening, I got a call from Panos. He also wanted to know if I was ready. I guess when I’d put the word out, I’d done it fairly enthusiastically. I told Panos I would be available soon, but first I was going to do a couple of days with Giorgos and his crew.
Giorgos came to collect me at 8 on Friday morning and we drove down to the long stretch of olive groves that run from the road to Βάι all the way down to the beach. Most of the village were doing the same and the roads were buzzing with pick-up trucks loaded with sacks (τσουβάλι), nets (δίχτυα), and thwackers. I’d heard that the police had been around checking on people and their extraordinary movement papers, but there’s a whole island of olives to harvest and nothing was going to stop that from happening. Usually, at this time of year, there’s an influx of seasonal workers but all that changed when 2020 rewrote the rules. So this year, it’s all (local) hands on deck.
When we arrived, I was introduced to the gang. Which included Giorgos’s son, his brother-in-law, and his father-in-law. These matters have long been a family affair and so ages in this group ranged from 19 to 80 years old. I was to follow in the footsteps of 19 year old Stella, who had been working the olives for three or four seasons now. She knew what she was doing. Although not quite as well as Giorgos knew what he was doing and I could tell by the lively exchanges between them that he wasn’t shy in letting her know. But she gave him a run for his money. And I knew my position.
Stella and I were tasked with laying the massive green nets amongst the trees, sorting and collecting the fallen fruit, and putting them into sacks. Sacks that when filled, weighed between 60 and 70kg. By the end of the day we’d filled more than twenty. The same the day after. But it’s not only olives that fall from the trees when they’re thwacked. Those whirring, hand-held contraptions, powered by a portable (and ancient) generator, also take down small branches and twigs. And these need to be cleared as much as can be before the olives are packed. So I spent most of my time squatting, or bent over double, working away on the ground. And came to the conclusion that the flower-bed clearing and weed-mat laying in New Zealand had been very good training.
There’s a kind of relay system to laying the nets and a strategic order in which to gather them. I eventually found the rhythm by following Stella’s lead; sorting and clearing the right net at the right time and dragging it round to be laid in between the next trees in sequence. And was careful to pack any gaps around the tree trunks with hessian sacks. There wasn’t much dialog between Stella and I but I did learn quite quickly that περίμενα means wait. And thankfully, by the end of the day, I’d also learned that τέλειος means perfect.
The olives go pretty much immediately from the trees to the factory to be pressed. And on Saturday evening, Panos called and said the olives he’d harvested weren’t yet at the right stage of ripening and so not yielding sufficient oil. He told me he was putting harvesting on hold for one or two weeks. And putting me on notice. Which meant that on Sunday, I went to the press with Giorgos instead. The factory is a ten minute drive away, up in the hills. And on this day, clear blue skies made for beautiful views over the village and out to sea. I could pick out the church and could just about make out my Ma’s little white house that I’m living in. I filled my lungs.
We’d arrived early to avoid the rush but the machines were already cranked up and whirring noisily, ready for the next load. Giorgos reversed his truck up as close as he could to the factory doors and each huge hessian sack was untied one by one and its contents poured into one of three, large, stainless steel funnels set into the ground. From there, the olives were fed onto a climbing conveyor belt to be weighed, a batch at a time, and dropped down into the processing room below. 3,300kg of colourful Koroneiki olives were washed and sifted, ground and smooshed (perhaps not a technical term), heated, whizzed around, and finally, filtered as oil. The earthy, rich smell hung heavily in the air and made us all, way too early, think about lunch.
The 10 year old factory is community owned and run. And it was a lovely surprise to see some familiar faces there. I was given a tour by Michalis, removing my farmer’s hat and instead photographing every last detail like the tourist I really am. I was excited. Aware that once again I’d been given a backstage pass. I was behind the scenes in a world at the heart of this community, a world that spans generations. A tradition that spans centuries. And, as effortlessly generous as the people are here with their time and their lives, I realised how lucky I was.
It was two hours between unloading the olives and seeing the first of the pure, golden-green olive oil gently streaming out into 50 litre containers that were to be heaved back onto the truck. So, whilst this was happening, I went with Giorgos to the on-site lab to get a sample tested. The oil registered at 0.3% acidity. The lower the acidity level, the less fatty acids and the better the flavour, fragrance, and quality of the olive oil. I was told that extra virgin olive oil must register between 0.3%-0.8%. So this oil was as extra virgin as extra virgin gets. Although Giorgos did tell me that once a batch came back at 0.28%. He called it ‘extra more virgin’, in a very sweet Greek way.
Giorgos’s 85 trees yielded 577 litres. He had optimistically predicted as much and was pleased. We high-fived and laughed. He couldn’t wait to tell his old friend, Panos. There is a healthy rivalry between all the men here, who have grown up together and have been harvesting olives since they were boys. Comparing yields seems to be the sport of the season.
On Monday and Tuesday I was back out and this time stumbling around on a rocky hillside laying more nets and gathering more olives. The work is nothing short of exhausting and I love it. Standing up straight at the end of the day without a moan or a groan is a challenge. Hot showers have never felt so good. It’s that worthwhile feeling of tiredness. And being out in the sunshine under blue Cretan skies with views that stretch over the ocean is pure heaven. Breaks for coffee and lunch involve finding a place in the shade, beside a tree, and arranging a few hessian sacks to sit on. The generator is switched off and for those first moments the silence seems unnatural. Homemade cheese pies, spanakopita and sweet cakes magically appear from the truck. Chatter becomes loud and animated and although I understand very little of it, I can quite often tune into the gist. It’s rained heavily these last two days and nights and olives can’t be harvested in the wet. So here I sit, watching the weather. Hoping that tomorrow we’ll begin again.
Comments