Grape Harvest

14 Aug 2010 17 Comments

by fraumadame in Uncategorized

To get to the grapes we had to take a narrow road into the countryside, in fact risking life and limb.  But before we even got to that point we made one stop, a mission of mercy.  My host mother’s sister lay on one of three beds in a hospital room for the indigent where she had already been operated on for kidney stones, not a pleasant predicament.  Our whole carload piled out and took the crowded elevator up where we were met by several immediate relatives of the patient.  We all gathered around the patient’s bed filling the far end of the ward.  All three patients were fully clothed and it wasn’t even apparent why the other two women were there.  But “our” patient was definitely uncomfortable.  In just a few moments several family members began fiddling with the IV.  I had never seen so many hands on an IV.  Fortunately someone had the sense to fetch the nurse who attached a new drip.  Family and friends care for their “patients” here, bringing in their own fans, fruit and faith.  Leaving grandma and grandpa behind, we headed for the farm. 

As I noticed the sharp drop-off at the side of the concrete road, dodging oncoming motorcycles and motorized pedicabs, had me on edge.  The drainage ditches on either side of the road were deep and forboding.  Vehicles of all shapes and sizes entered the stream of traffic without hesitation or foresight.  Farmers are intrepid.  Our farm was part of a gathering of simple concrete block houses at the end of the road. 

Our entrance was through the kitchen where mother was hard at work preparing a meal filled with the fruit of the harvest.  We were invited into the east-facing courtyard where large platters of fat juicy purple grapes and round yellow pears greeted us.  We sat under a tree heavily laden with still green grapefruit.  This is where I first learned to happily peel grapes.  It is easy, the fruit is large, and the pesticides can thus be avoided.  In addition someone was always peeling a pear and offering sections.  How could I refuse?  Mind you–this in the context of someone who doesn’t even particularly like fruit.  As I gazed around the small outdoor living space I felt like I was in Provence or Tuscany.  Very tanned and wizened, grandpa, the head farmer came to sit opposite me on a small stool.  I had been forewarned that he was a Chinese teacher at the nearby primary school.  I can just picture him wielding the stick over pupils who need reminding that writing characters over and over in special notebooks is part of growing up in China.  His first statement directed at me through my host “son” was that Americans and Chinese have different values regarding family and he was so right.  I was rather surprised by this incisive judgment from a country farmer however and took a moment to respond. 

My host son invited me for a stroll through the farm, an area well-known to him for he had been coming here since early childhood and had played in every conceivable corner of the territory.  We walked on narrow raised pathways through loquats, pears, grapes, squash,lotus ponds, peppers and beans.  Little did I notice that my legs were lunch for a horde of tiny black biting creatures.  It took a day or two to figure that out. 

 At lunch time little sister or “meimei” as she is called, broke down, impeded in her efforts to eat, by a loose lower front tooth.  It was frightening and perhaps painful for her.  There was little comfort available however since toothfairies apparently don’t visit Chinese homes.  At one end of the table the local “Snow” brand beer was flowing.  So soon after finishing I retired to the children’s area, the open-walled livingroom with couches and the big screen in full force.  Eventually the cook joined us and I had my opportunity to try to speak “putongua” or Mandarin.  These people however only speak Sichuanese among themselves.

  When I asked to use the toilet, I was escorted there personally by grandma who to my surprise saw this as a social moment.  So there I was in a large farm shed, straddling a deep trench where you could clearly see all sorts of recent compost shining in the sunlight.  Since grandma was in the room I motioned to the tray of cornhusks which were clearly there for a reason and she motioned to the box of paper tissues.  So much for the American sense of privacy.  Of course grandma had to go too which made the experience mutual. 

Whiling away the afternoon hours we saw quite a bit of television while the youngest children ran around collecting pebbles, putting them in a broken plastic bottle and having doused them in water, watched them freeze in the livingroom freezer.  Eventually my host brother invited me for a drive up the mountain.  This time the precipitous edge of the road was even more precipitous as we rounded hairpin turn after hairpin turn.  Every time we approached a curve the driver honked in the event a vehicle might be descending the mountain or this very much single lane road.  Encountering a large truck, we had to squeeze ourselves smack dab against the mountain, while he edged around us on the outside.  As the foliage began to change and more pine-like trees appeared we ran up against a large tow-truck like vehicle with two women riding in the back, holding on for dear life  They simply could not make one of the sharp turns no matter how many times they stopped, retreated and tried again.  One man was out of the cab, placing large rocks behind the tires so that they would not actually roll backwards over the edge.  They were ineffectual however.  Eventually the women passengers got out as well.  I think perhaps they wanted to live.  I took this opportunity to convince my driver that it was time to return where we had come from since eventually night would fall and manuvering these corners would become increasingly challenging.  I may have come across as a wimp but believe me that ride back down the mountain was a relief for this squeemish one.  Although our way to the top had been impeded, I had had more than enough excitement that afternoon.

  A visit to the farm meant staying for a second meal as well but we managed to squeeze in a game of frisbee in the community courtyard first.  It was easy enough to drag the kids away from their games.  So “gege” or big brother, “didi” or little brother, “meimei”, my host brother and I had a rousing ground of frisbee.  All the neighbors eventually came out to watch.  Was it the strange large white lady with white hair doing sport with all ages or was it the strange game of frisbee tossing which had their attention? 

As we drove off that evening our trunk was full of harvest: a huge basket of fat purple grapes, bags of pears and large bunches of greens.  The back seat of the car held innumerable people as well, including “didi” who was coming to spend time and play with “meimei”, didi’s mother and more people than I can count.  As I knew we were on our way to pick grandma up at the hospital, I wondered how we would manage, but apparently seat belts are no issue here. 

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