Tales Of Crete -- Grapes Of Daft - 14

Tales of Crete© “Grapes of Daft” 14 By Jack Schimmelman

One thing about living outdoors in Crete during the summer, you never need an alarm clock. The heat arrives instantaneously and your eyes pop. You are awake. We awoke under fig trees and, of course, decided to have some delicious fruit for breakfast. While eating mine, I looked down into the half eaten oval and noticed squirming yellow things moving about. Never forget I am the chubby, fuzzy hair bear from the Bronx who believes produce grows in plastic supermarket bins. I asked Gilles exactly what these things were and he explained that they were worms! Oh. I immediately spit out what I had not yet ingested and threw away my slimy creatures masquerading as a fig. We proceeded to the café. I was sure that my guts would soon be thrashed into its components by my newly eaten friends. Talk about eating the forbidden fruit. This job search was not going well. First the murderous Gypsies, then the insidious worms. Hopefully, my luck would change. When we arrived at the outdoor café, the owner told us to line up in front of the tables and wait. Wait for what? Others who had previously been through this ritual told me that we were “shaping up.” We were to wait for the vineyard foremen to come and choose which one of us would work that day. I was intrigued by my new role. Just a few years previously I was in San Francisco, working for the Cesar Chavez’ Farmworkers Union, helping them in their office during their campaign to pass a proposition favorable to their union. At this moment, I appreciated life’s poetry that my soul was weaving. I was both the spider and the fly. The foremen came. They looked at us as one looked at cattle. My teeth weren’t inspected, but everything else was. I was big, beefy and appeared to be sturdy. I did not talk about my previous failures as a watermelon catcher, nor my insensitivities to various cultural differences between natives of the Bronx and Romany descendants. I desperately needed to work. Pick me. Choose me. The interview was short. A well directed grunt in my direction and I was on my way. I got into a horse-drawn wagon, filled with hay that they probably would

later give to the sheep. I was the hay expert in our little group. Gilles was chosen by another Vineyard so we said our short goodbyes and I was off. We got to the Vineyard, which was glistening underneath the blue, gold Cretan dome. I was given what appeared to me to be scissors. They were, in fact, grape scissors. I was shown how to cut the grapes from the vine. I was told in no uncertain terms that I mustn’t damage the grapes. These vines were all close to the ground. I had to continuously stoop in order to cut the vines. I was given gloves, so as not to cut myself. I was shown how to do this quickly. I thought to myself that I’d be lucky to do it at all, much less quickly. Illusions of enriched drachmas floating in my pockets were fading. I bent down and cut my first vine. It took a while. Women and men all looked at the big American and smiled. So I cut another. Another smile. Then another. I was not getting the hang of this. I instantly appreciated the backbreaking component of this work. Next vine I lost some grapes, which dropped to the ground. I watched those grapes fall in excruciating slow motion. No one smiled. Then another vine was damaged. Serious gazes everywhere. I knew that in short order this job would go the way of my watermelon career. Finally, an older man came to me and stood me up. I was grateful, scissors in hand, colored with deep purple juice. He looked at me carefully. Up, down, and around. After circling me he smiled. I returned the gesture. He motioned for me to come with him, which I faithfully did. We got to the perimeter of the field and he handed me a huge basket which had a rope tied through it. He then tied the basket around my waist so it lay on my back and told me to go to the end of the field and wait. Like an obedient dog I did his bidding. I waited. Soon, women, men and children came to me and placed their grapes gently into the basket that was on my back. After it was completely full, they tapped me on the butt and I knew I was to move to a collection point on the side of the road, which my original benefactor had pointed out to me. I gently unload the grapes into another huge container in the rear of a truck and would return to the field to get yet another load. I understood that I was not to drop a single grape. My livelihood depended on my ability to balance and finesse the passing of the grapes from the field to the truck. I walked stooped with perhaps 25 pounds of grapes on my back, back and forth from the field to the truck. At one point, I looked to my left and then to my right and noticed that my colleagues engaged in the same task all had pointy ears and tales. Indeed, they were beautiful donkeys and mules. I was the only Human doing this job. They must have thought I was an ugly donkey. I had found my métier. Donkey. I worked that entire day. We took a break when the sun reached its highest point and were fed. Luckily I was fed along with the other Humans and not my comrade donkeys, although to be honest, they seem to be enjoying themselves immensely as they ate their portions. I must say that once or twice a donkey would stare 2

back at me. No expression. No wonderment in his eyes. I like to think when they saw me, they recognized a fellow traveler. I worked the entire day in my donkey serenade. I was exhausted. Towards dinnertime, I was told to go with the driver to the winery to unload the grapes. And so I did. While I was there I witnessed something that would stop me from ever drinking Greek wine again. I have read that wine making on Crete goes back 4000 years to the Minoan civilization. I don’t think, however, that this particular custom reached back that far in time. There in front of me standing next to a huge vat was a man staring at me with a huge grin on his face. I looked down and noticed to my everlasting horror that he was spicing the wine with his unique stream. I won’t go further in my description. I want to believe that this was done for my benefit, the American who had just spent the day communing with donkeys and that this was not a tradition. The driver and I returned to the Vineyards. I glanced at the donkeys whom had formerly been my companeros. I tried to say goodbye. They ignored me. Those of us who had been picked up that morning, were returned to the same café from which we came. When I returned I drank a coke. Night was quickly unveiling that evening’s panoply of galaxies and finally my pockets were filled again with Drachmas. I believe I was paid about 150 drachmas for the full day or a bit more than $4.00. I always had a nose for money. Still do. I said goodbye to my fellow travelers, they waved as they medicated themselves with ouzo. Good choice. For me, it was ouzo or coca cola for the remainder of my Crete Odyssey. I walked through the village to get to the debarkation point of the bus going towards Damnoni. I always thought that everyone in Crete was poor. However, as I walked I noticed most people had huge satellite dishes in their front yards. When I looked inside their windows, they were watching color televisions. Remember, this was 1979. These were not poor dirt farmers. I was the poverty stricken farmhand. I found the bus, the bus found me and I made my way back to the dirt road leading to the path which led back to my beloved beach and cave. All celebrants had retired for the night. As I walked past the many fields on the way to the cliffs, I sang goodnight to the universal choir of sheep who, by this point in the summer, knew enough to humor me with their baaas. I was grateful. I was exhausted. When finally, I walked down the mountain path onto the beach and found my cave, all my things were precisely where I left them. I unloaded my backpack, my hopes, my consciousness and dreamt of donkey serenades that told of my Grapes of Daft.

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