Full Metal Mehmet: Slaving on a Fruit Farm in Australia

War is hell – and so is picking zucchinis! Will McGuire arrives at a farm in Queensland, Australia and finds it run like a concentration camp. Prison warden, Mehmet, will make fruit pickers out of his new POWs – even if it kills them!

Dawn smoulders in the horizon as I march, drowsy and bleary-eyed, out of the car and along the squelching mud. The air is bitter and I hug myself to stay warm. Rows of green shrubs stretch out before me like battle lines, seemingly for miles.

On the car ride out to the farm I failed to catch any sleep, sat in the backseat next to Kitty, a bony old French-woman. Every time I drifted off she leaned in, lodging her elbow into my ribs, listing another person that she hated, like her ‘jealuz and inzecure’ ex-boyfriend and his ‘jealuz and inzecure’ new, younger girlfriend. Over the course of that car ride, Kitty made it to the top of my own list.

Jostling along the mud track to lose Kitty, I join the other fresh-faced pickers as we mill around a blue ute, awaiting instructions. This is our first day on this farm. We don’t yet know each other or what to expect. All I can say is that I was promised good work and money; enough so that I skipped out on a working hostel in Bundaberg, sacrificing my deposit and with it, the last of my cash. This job has to work.

The other pickers, mostly Japanese or Korean, are only here to complete the pre-requisite farm work for a second year visa. Their English is limited but they are very polite, nodding and smiling at me. They each have clean clothes and carry a fancy chiller bag and water bottle. I think this is their first day on any farm.

Kubra, a little Turkish woman, with her hair wrapped up in a scarf under her cap, introduces herself. She is the contractor running our picking crew with her husband, Mehmet.

‘Okay brothers, get a knife and then Mehmet will show you what to do.’ We each pick a little knife from a tub.

‘Aye! A little gentleman bushes!’ An angry voice cuts through the morning quiet. A wild eyed, round faced man hurtles down the row, waves his arms and screams more meaningless words at a cowering picker. He kicks over a bucket as he returns our way, clasping a zucchini like he means to bludgeon someone with it. He points his finger and screams at us in Turkish, spittle flailing from his lips. The panicking pickers and I bunch up against the ute. Kitty’s elbow finds its way back into my ribs. Mehmet’s cheeks turn purple as his brow furrows into a picture of pure hatred. The pickers tremble behind me as he thumps the zucchini to the ground and smashes it into paste with his boot. He grabs a knife from the tub and we gasp and duck as it swings in all directions.

He staggers to the first plant in a row, bends down and hacks.

‘Yes? See?’

He hacks again.

‘Yes?’

Another hack. The plant looks murdered.

‘See brothers? Yes? A little gentleman bushes!’

The Asian pickers stammer and tremble.

‘Yes brothers?!’ He snarls. The next thing he will hack is a picker.

‘Yes they get it!’ I tell him.

‘You understand, brothers? Good.’ Kubra chimes in. ‘Now start on a row.’

The pickers scamper, eager to get some safe distance.

‘Aye!’

We jump as if a gun has fired.

‘Me never no sleeping.’ Mehmet warns.

The shell shocked pickers murmur frantically to each other. Their dream Australian working holiday has quickly become a nightmare. We’ve stumbled into a trap. This isn’t a farm - it’s a concentration camp! 

‘Shh!’ Mehmet hisses. ‘Stopper you talking!’

The zucchini grows on a plant that doesn’t want its fruit picked. To repel thieves, the leaves of the plant are covered in tiny bristles that scratch like sandpaper, causing rash and irritation. The pickers have to wear cumbersome gloves and boots with trousers. This would have been great to know in advance as I just have boat shoes and shorts today and soon my ankles and up to my knees are red and stinging.

The work requires being constantly bent over to lift the leaves and get to the fruit. The zucchini is then placed in a deep bucket that we have to drag along beside us. Did you know that when you spend too long bent over, your lower back experiences horrific pain? Zucchini pickers do.

Not long into my row, my back starts to seize up. I try every kind of crouching position to avoid bending but it is inevitable. I want to push on and work harder but my body simply won’t allow me. The bucket gets heavy and by the time I finally have it full, it weighs almost 15 kilograms. Groaning from the strain, I pull the bucket out of the row and dump it in the path of the truck, ready to be collected. I proudly stick my Blue 4 tag into the top zucchini, just like another great Kiwi did before me, when he planted his flag on top of Everest.

It is a job well done; money in the bank, a quick cuppa’- and then back home, I reckon.

I wave over a supervisor to admire my haul. ‘So how much am I getting for this bucket anyway?’

‘Two dollars.’

I must have heard him wrong. Did he mean two hundred?

‘How much?’ That bucket took me nearly an hour to pick.

Mehmet is downwind of the conversation and comes raging my way.

'You money talking? Huh? You no happy?’ He points his finger at me ‘Then get the fuck off the farm! Me changing you! Me no care, brother!'

I hit the deck, hiding amongst the zucchini leaves which scratch against my face.

Kubra intervenes, surely to save me ‘Why have you stopped brother? Get on your next bucket. And be careful with the fruit. Any damaged ones and we’ll dock your tag.’

Kubra twists the knife further into my back.

‘My name’s Will by the way,’ I sulk.

‘That’s ok, brother. I won’t remember.’

I find an empty bucket and retreat back to my row as Mehmet glares at me, still grumbling and pointing. I felt strangely dehumanized having my name taken off me. Apparently the pickers are little more than nameless, faceless rodents scurrying through the rows to make the fat cats rich.

I’m in too much pain to pick fast enough to escape Kitty. She slows to my pace so she can terrorize me with the gritty details of her last job. Apparently she had the task of inserting cows with bull sperm. Her background natter provides little comfort to my growing frustration. Constantly dragging the heavy bucket is wearing me out. I give it another tug and the bucket catches on a root and tips. All the zucchinis spill out. I curse it to death.

Kitty shakes her head and tuts. I would throw one of my stupid zucchinis at her face, but they took too much effort to pick.

‘You think you can do better, huh?’ I snap.

A mischievous smile spreads across her angular face. ‘Let me show you.’ Checking first that no one is looking, she waves me over, as if drawing me into some conspiracy. I roll my eyes but play along. She empties her half bucket over the ground and then re-stacks the zucchinis, criss-crossing like a Jenga tower. The bucket is now full. Ingenious. ‘Kitty knowz,’ she purrs ‘Kitty knowz.’

‘You’re a bad girl,’ I growl back.

Kitty and I criss-cross stack our zucchinis freely, as Mehmet is caught in a commotion at the end of the bay. He has bogged the truck in mud, over the farm fire hydrant of all things. Kubra is on the job of directing him out. ‘A bit more, a bit more, keep going-’

A bang is followed by a geyser of water that launches into the air and tips the truck on its side. All the pickers watch delighted as the upturned passenger door springs open and Mehmet crawls out. His face is purple and his words are lost in a splutter of rage. He trips and falls off the truck, collapsing into the mud. He screams at Kubra and smacks her in the face. She backs away and then sprints in terror as he pulls a wooden stake out of the ground and gives chase.

If he kills her, can we go home early?

But Kubra makes a lucky escape as the bucket boys tackle Mehmet. They hold him down as he howls in tongues. The truck still sits on its side as gushing water begins to drown the farm.

Kitty tuts. ‘Zese people they are all...’ She searches for the right words.

‘-Jealous and insecure?’ I offer.

‘Yez! You understand. But not me,’ she winks ‘You zee, I am above all zese people.’

For her sake I hope she’s right, because I’m screwed. No matter how much I criss-cross, at two dollars a bucket Mehmet may as well ram that stake through me, I’m good as dead anyway.

Will McGuire

05/08/2019