The Pears of Black River

'Las Peras del Rio Negro' was the bright red title on the poster hung on the cork-board outside the employment office door. I attempted to say the words aloud, not even knowing for sure the language in which they were written. I somehow suspected they might be Spanish because I recognized the word “Rio” from a couple of old ‘dusters’ I had seen at the cinema when I was a kid. I liked the way the phrase sounded, even though I knew I probably wasn’t pronouncing it correctly. I opened the door, edged into the crowded waiting area, closed the door behind me, then made my way to the queue marked ‘New Job Opportunities’. One of the agents was making his way up and down the lines, handing out the updated job list as we stood waiting. The list provided something to do as we shuffled from foot to foot over the half hour or so of moving forward at a snail’s pace. It also gave us a head’s up on what to inquire when we finally made it to the window at the front of the line. On perusing the list, I again noted the title – Las Peras del Rio Negro. “Interesting!”, I thought.

When I finally reached the front of the line, I was in a state of near-comatosity. I had long since forgotten where I was or what I was there for. I looked at my list one last time and read the words ‘Las Peras del Rio Negro’, to the woman behind the little bars. As an aside, I could never figure out why there were bars separating the employees at the employment office from those wishing to gain employment. I suppose to protect the agents from a spasm of frustration emanating from an out-of-work sod like me on finding out there was nothing new on the employment horizon. I once saw a middle-aged woman explode in a fit of pent-up emotion and then reach across the stained arborite counter and choke the living daylights out of the less than cheerful face on the other side. I concluded that bars were in order.

Anyway, the agent let me know that an Argentinian Fruit Company was looking for youthful and energetic sorts to leave Canada for six months and move to a small village along the Black River in South America. The company would pay for the return flight to get the workers down there and back. They would also provide free lodging and food (whatever that meant). In return, the prospective employees of the company would be expected to blissfully spend sun-up to sun-down, seven days a week for the next 150 days, picking pears, packaging the harvest, preparing it for shipping, pruning trees, cleaning up the orchard, fertilizing, irrigating, refurbishing the pear barn and generally maintaining the 500-acre plantation. The pay for this job, on top of the free trip, the food, the room, etc., would amount to the equivalent of $7.00 per day in Canadian funds. This was roughly $7.00 per day more than I was presently earning while attempting to eat and pay for a modest flat in one of the chicest parts of my hometown ‘slumville’. So, I said to my agent, “Twist my rubber arm – where do I sign?” And, in less than 24 hours, I was on an Aerolineas Argentinas flight direct to Buenos Aires.

I was met at the end of the disembarking runway by a beautiful Argentinian woman named Aldana. She herded me and about 20 other ‘Pear-pickers’ through Customs and Immigration, through the spacious arrival foyer and outside to a sweltering 35 degrees and into a big yellow school bus. We started our journey toward Rio Negro. Our destination was on the exact opposite side of BA from the airport, so we ended up driving through the busy city at about rush-hour (it is always rush-hour in Buenos Aires). We stopped and started at every set of traffic lights. We herked and jerked around every corner and sputtered and fluttered up and down every hill and busy side street. Hours later, we were finally out of Buenos Aires and into the country-side. We drove for what seemed like days. The sun went down and then came up again and we were still on the bus. The seasons changed. I needed to shave. My hair grew long and scraggly. Seriously though, we rolled into the small village of Rio Negro about 4:00 o'clock the next afternoon. I was in need of some serious showering and I was at least as hungry as I had ever been in my entire life. We were shown to our dormitories and we were given towels and some toiletries. We were asked to clean up and then meet in a big mess hall for supper and a briefing on what we were expected to do for the next six months.

Early the next morning (and I do mean very early – probably about 4:30 am), we were awakened by a team consisting of several crowing roosters, some large rosy-cheeked women banging with metal serving spoons on kitchen pots, and lots of scary looking men with floppy sun-hats and big black moustaches. We were fed a quick breakfast and given a brown bag that contained our noon meal for the day. We had one last chance to use the toilet before we were rushed onto the bus. While on the bus, we were given hats and gloves that were to be worn at all times during picking to protect our pale white noggins from the sun and to protect our soft white hands from the rough branches of the pear trees. Once off the bus, we were issued back-pack step-ladders that could be set up and disassembled in fairly short order and easily by one person. We were also instructed in how to handle a picking basket and how to climb and dismount the ladders with the baskets empty or full.

After all of the equipment was introduced and all of the protocols and procedures were explained we were led down a dirt road to the pear orchards. It was then that I saw my first-ever pear tree. My first-ever pear tree - and about 50 thousand of its closest friends and relatives. I had never seen so many trees in all of my life, let alone pear trees with actual pears growing on them. I was quite expecting to see at least one or two partridges flitting about in the branches, but that never did materialize.

So we picked and we carried and we climbed and we dumped and we moved ladders from tree to tree and we picked some more. The first day, I picked 36 baskets from 7 trees. I was feeling quite proud of myself. My foreman told me that most pickers can fill about 80 baskets in a day. My balloon deflated a little. On the way back to camp, the inside of the bus smelled like one big pear. My hands smelled like pears. My hair smelled like pears. There was no other smell anywhere, until one of my dorm mates lit a cigarette. The sharp contrast in aromas was figuratively (and literally) breath-taking. Never had a cigarette smelled so good.

The next day was pretty much a repeat of the first and the third day bore a striking resemblance to the first two and so on, and so on, and so on. About 40 days later, the pears had all been picked, packaged and shipped. After an additional four or five months, all of the trees had been pruned and the fallen branches and fruit had all been cleaned up, the orchard maintained, watered and fertilized. The barn was cleaned and repaired. I felt the place had probably never looked so good. It seemed a shame to leave such a wonderful environment to a brand new bunch of unappreciative pickers in the next season, after all of our hard labor. All of the pickers were given their final payments and wages and we were bussed back to BA for our flights home. All except for me. I couldn't bear the thought of someone else moving in on 'my' efforts and territory, so I decided to stay on for at least another season. In addition to my possessiveness and feelings of ownership, I was drawn to stay by the affections of a woman. During that first picking season I met a young woman from Peru with whom I fell in love. I followed her back to her seaside home in Trujillo and we were married and I became part of a Peruvian family.

I have now lived with my Katarina Perez between Peru and Argentina, following the Pear-Picking seasons, for 20 years. I have enjoyed all of my time in South America. I have become one with the life of my two beloved countries. I also love my wife and my children and they love me. I could not ask for more. My life is simple, my needs are plain and straight-forward and my wants are non-existent. Finally, I love the idea of what got me to this place of wonder and happiness in my life to begin with - indeed I love Las Peras del Rio Negro.