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I'm posting this in Switchboard because it seems the most suitable place, but if any moderators want to move it to Conversation or somewhere, feel free.
I really don't know where to start with this one; bear with me as i try to explain. My Fiance and I have been applying for quite a lot of jobs, one of which was strawberry picking. We got a call two nights ago (25th of June), at about 10 or 11pm, just as we were planning to get really shloshed on a few bottles of cheap plonk. The caller, (insert generic islamic name here), told us to be in newcastle city centre the next morning for 7am to catch a bus to the strawberry farm. We were told that we'd easily spot the bus, as there would be a load of chinese people waiting for it. I just assumed this meant that a load of chinese students had caught onto fruitpicking as a fairly good job, as they were advertising pay as between £25-30 a day, with picking finishing at 2pm. Oh, how naive i am. So, we got up dead early on the 26th and got on this bus, which started taking us out of the city via Fenham, a really poor part of the city where the asylum seekers seem to get dumped. There, there were another couple of buses which were soon filled with lots of wogs and other assorted foreigners, and off we went to the farm. We were the only white people being taken to the farm, and I'm not sure how (generic islamic name) made the mistake of getting us a seat on the bus. I can't help thinking he is either a genius or an idiot for inviting two people living in Jesmond (posh bastard area of the city) along to a job for exploited immigrant labour.
Anyway, got to the farm, and the pickers were divided into two groups. We were put into a group with a mix of west africans, a handful of islamic ladies, and a few other asians. There were also a handful of local kids who were obviously there for a bit of pocket money and at least three of them were below the 16 year old limit the farm had advertised. A local lad about my age (19-21ish) had the job of 'supervisor'. We went to work on the first field, and each worker was given a piece of card where you had to write your name, and for each tray of fruit you picked (9 punnits per tray) you got a hole punched in the card by the supervisor. Myself and Becky picked about 5 trays worth between us in the first field, and the supervising lad sorted through them, removing any that weren't up to his high standards. He was saying the strawberries were destined for Safeways, and that the strawberries had to look nice otherwise nobody would buy them Fair enough, I thought, as only a handful of the ones I'd picked were rejected and at least i had an idea of what he wanted us to pick.(I don't know if the farm was selling to Safeways, thats just what this guy was saying. I'd really love to find out just where they were being sold to). When we moved to the second field, Becky and I must have picked maybe three or four trays; we brought them to the supervisor, he picked out a handful, said they weren't good enough, and sent us off to sort through them. There was loads of really good fruit which they were saying wasn't acceptable, which they were throwing into a spare tray. I didn't really watch what happened to this tray, but did notice that it kept vanishing; they were taking away these trays of 'rejected fruit' along with the fruit acceptable for the consumer's eye, but refusing to acknowledge the people who picked them as worthy of payment. It was pretty obvious that they didn't want a couple of white people who they couldn't exploit working there, and were doing their best to piss us off. He kept picking up perfectly good fruit, sticking his finger into it, and saying 'thats too soft', and chucking it. 'Would you buy that?' he kept asking, and the immigrants just shook their heads, got on with it; most of them were pretending they couldn't understand english, and I'm sure a few of them genuinely couldn't. The local lads were being openly racist when the workers weren't in earshot, and the way they spoke to them when they were was incredibly bad; the black west african guys were in for it worst. The women tended to just be patronised, but behind their backs they were coming out with some stuff that crossed the line from lads-being-lads into plain old mysogyny. I was telling someone about this later that day, and they were astounded at a bunch of western kids telling a load of immigrants that the food was unsuitable. As was pointed out to me, these people come from places where you eat everything and nothing gets thrown away.
Eventually, after hearing 'would you buy that' for what must have been the hundredth time, i told him 'no, because strawberries are a luxury product, and i can't afford them'. He started saying 'i'm getting me ass whupped from me boss, safeways are complaining about the strawberries' etc etc. He started going on about how all the fruit we were picking was shit 'and i can't accept shit, i get in trouble for it.' At this point, I asked him where i could get paid, and told him I'd fuck of home as soon as they gave me my money. Another local guy, this time in his 40's and plastered with tattoos, was hanging around at this point (this was the guy driving the trailer and picking up the strawberries). He told me I couldn't go anywhere, and that we wouldn't get paid till the end of the day. We decided to hang around so we could get the bus back into newcastle, but there was a kind of veiled threat in the 'you can't leave' thing; i'm not sure if they would have stopped us leaving, but if we'd been immigrants i've no doubt they would have tried. This argument happened about 12ish, and we'd been working since just before 8am, and had a couple of hours till everyone was sent back in the bus, so spent the rest of the day sitting in the sun ('twas glorious weather), getting burnt and observing how the immigrants were getting treated. The immigrants had been avoiding Becky and me all day, but were even more wary of us now we'd argued with the bosses; it was pretty clear that they daren't say a word because they needed the money, and would be out of a job if they complained. I couldn't help thinking of the cabbage pickers' union episode of the A-Team, where they built a cabbage cannon to beat the exploitative farm owners, and wondered how well a strawberry shotgun might work.
When the picking was finished, the local lads noticed there were a load of strawberries just lying in the grass; these were the ones I'd been sorting through, and I'd just tossed them on the grass since they were so 'unsuitable' (don't worry, i did eat plenty and Becky filled her rucksack, too. Technically, I suppose it's theft, but i think i've got a better case against them). They started grilling the islamic women about who had thrown these strawberries on the grass, and they just feigned that they didn't speak english, and began picking them up; the lads started saying 'just point them out, you won't get in trouble', and i was just getting ready to jump up when they decided to let it go. If someone had been pointed out, I'm sure they'd have been told not to come back or had the little pay they got reduced. So, even the rejected fruit was definitely being taken away to be sold.
The mechanics of payment were something else; first you had to take your card with the hole punches into this little green hut, where the supervisor and one of the other local lads signed it. Then you had to take it to a blue van with two people sitting in the front, and hand your card in one side, and walk around to the other side to get your cash. Becky got £2.40 and I got £5.10, and apparently they took off £3 for the bus journey, too. That princely sum of £7.50 represented the pay of two people picking fruit for about four hours. The others were going away with around £10 each, even the seasoned pickers, and they'd been working for about five or six hours that day.
Epilogue: We got on the bus, and noticed all the rich white people in the 'pick-your-own' section of the farm, nicely screened from the immigrant labourers. The driver was listening to Wimbledon on the radio. We ended up in the city centre for about 3pm, and wandered about absolutely astounded at what had just happened to us. We went to a bar, got a nice cold beer each with our earnings, and waited for it all to sink in as all these people who had spent the day shopping walked by with their huge bags with huge logos. There was also some mad bitch dragging her son along by a leash tied round his wrist, whilst talking into her mobile phone. I know it's irrelevant, but it pissed me off.
Anyway, the reason I post this here was that I had resolved to write about this experience and let other people know about it; i would have posted this on my blog, but i think it deserves a wider audience. I've not mentioned the name of the farm, because I don't want any of the immigrants to be out of a job because of what i write; it was obvious these people desperately needed that money just from the amount of shit they tolerated from the wankers in charge. I'd be very interested in hearing other people's views on this, and suggestions about what, if anything, might be done.
Just as a final note, i mentioned my day to an Iranian friend who i went to school with when i caught him on MSN last night. It turns out he did some similar work when he first came to Britain, and wasn't really suprised at what I told him; he was more suprised, i think, that myself and Becky had ended up in the job. He asked me why we took it, thought maybe we were curious about immigrant labour conditions. I hope to talk to him more about it, and to others who know about similar stuff. Oh, and also, (generic islamic name) rang again last night asking me if I was coming back the next day. All I could do was politely explain my reasons for not coming back, and by the end of my reasoning, there was just this 'goodness gracious me' style '...oh, yes...oh, yes...'. Thanks for reading, hope this didn't bore you,
the dodds
(...i can see strawberries when i close my eyes...) |
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