Picking Olives

Prior to this trip I imagined the olive harvest in Palestine to be a bit more of a discrete, definable ‘event’. What I’ve found is that it’s far less organized and centralized. You might see a few people picking their olives here and there, but I’ve never seen a massive crowd fill the trees in one particular area. Despite there being a set date when harvesting should begin, people in this village have being picking in a very piecemeal fashion. This might be because of the lack of rain, which many people wait and hope for at this time of the year to clean the olives. Who knows…

Anyway, this weekend, a friend of mine who lives in Abu Falah, a village so far on the edge of the Ramallah district it’s about half way to Nablus, invited me to help his family pick olives. His father picked me up on Friday in his private taxi, and after an hour crawling around Ramallah looking for non-existant Friday lunchtime business, we drove back to Abu Falah just as midday prayers were ending. We then made the rather bumpy (and comical) ride from H.’s (my friend) house to where their trees grow, with a giant wooden ladder balanced on the wing mirror and H. and I, arms out of the window, holding the ladder up. (Later in the weekend, Abu H. arrived at the house dragging half an olive tree behind his car, with the trunk wedged in the boot of the car).

Abu Falah (literal translation: father of success) is high above sea level, hence the date for their harvest was much later than other villages. Although the “entire” village was picking their olives, I only made out a couple of other families in the area where we were, although the sight lines didn’t extend very far. In fact it was usually the sound of voices which drifted towards us.

When we arrived, H. family where already there and had started to pick olives from a small sapling. I asked H. how people knew which trees belonged to which families but he wasn’t sure. He was adamant that the trees we were picking belonged to his family though. (When I say family, I’m referring to the immediate family, not the extended family). We spread the tarpaulin sheets beneath one of the three big (and hence old) trees that belong to them and the aforementioned ladder, which turned out to be slightly asymmetric, was propped against the tree precariously, but securely. I actually preferred climbing the tree to the ladder, since the branches were strong and could support an adult human with ease. (Perhaps this contributes to the mythology of olive trees around these parts, which also provide people with economic support). With everything in place we began to pick the olives, which involves using pulling your hands down the branches in a stripping motion. There were also a couple of small plastic rakes, which do the job more effectively. As the olives fell on the tarpaulin they made a pitter patter sound like light rain. Wearing a hat is advisable if you’re on the ground to keep the olives dropping from above from hitting your face.

H. has a typically large family (eight sisters, two brothers), although only four sisters were helping both brothers and his parents with the harvest. (Schools and universities have midterm exams at this time of year). They seemed curious about me (as a foreigner) at first, and then after the obligatory ‘how do you see Palestine’ questions quickly became amused by my accent and laugh. (H.’s youngest sister, eight years old, mimicked me with amazing accuracy. In return I taught her how to pronounce the letter ‘p’. Anyone who has traveled in Arab speaking countries - where there is no ‘p’ in the alphabet - knows this is no small achievement. She still pronounced Sprite, su-brite though). When they weren’t laughing at me or trying to teach me Fairouz songs, they were generally asking if I was hunger or thirsty. I found it hard to understand their village accents, which are thicker than the Ramallah (city) dialect. H. younger brother, who forgot my name constantly, eventually said it was a nice name. I suggested he should called his first son old man, and then he could be abu old man for the rest of his life.

Although we all picked olives together, we ate lunch separately according to gender. Our picnic consisted almost entirely of homemade (or grown) foods, ranging from wheat bread to boiled egg, falafel, tomatoes, cucumbers, pickles, something like tzaziki (except made with lebana not yoghurt) and of course some olives (although not the ones we’d picked that morning of course). After lunch H. father went back to work driving his taxi.

After a section of the tree has been picked, the tarpaulin sheets are carefully moved to under another section of the tree. We then had to pick up the olives that had narrowly missed the tarp in the previous spot and landed amongst the soil and rocks, although this job seemed largely assigned to the younger girls. When enough olives had fallen, H. mother would scoop them into a bucket, and then holding the bucket high above her head tip them into another bucket. If this process coincided with a strong breeze, the leaves that were mixed with the olives would be blown out of the mixture as they fell. That’s technology! I tried this myself on Saturday, but half my olives missed the bucket on the floor!

As the day wore on I became more confident climbing the tree and reaching the higher areas. Climbing trees, bracing with your legs and holding branches with your arms is tiring, although I wasn’t as exhausted as I had anticipated. The branches graze your hands and forearms, and these little red lines are accentuated by the dust that turns your hands a pale dirty white colour, except for the odd patch of mud. Your clothes get dirty too, and I have a great big purple olive stain on my t-shirt now. By the end of the day I had some how managed to acquire a kuffiyeh from H. youngest brother, which I wore around my neck to protect it against the sun. A number of olives fell into its folds, and I even found an olive in my pocket on Saturday. The weather was sunny on the whole, although not scorching hot. The trees also provided shade.

The sun disappeared behind the mountains quite early and we finished working before sunset, itself before 5. The 15/20 walk across stone covered tracks back to the village was more tiring than the work itself, and we were hurried along by a flock of sheep following close behind us. H., his youngest sister and I returned home before the others to wash and relax. We were joined by a friend of H.’s from the village who spoke good English, and worked on a building site in Ramallah. Then, with his other brothers, we ate ma’luube prepared by his mother who had been picking olives with us all day just as we had. After an evening of music and dancing (mainly by H. youngest brother) I slept well until the muezzin woke me, and the mosquitoes conspired to keep me awake.

The next day we return to pick two more trees and a couple of saplings. Our numbers were down from day one, since H. brother has returned to university in Jenin, and his father worked the entire day. When we’re finished there are enough olives to fill six UNRWA sacks that originally contained something else, although I can’t remember what now – maybe rice or grain. These will be taken to the press, where they’ll be cleaned and pressed. H. mother told me they pick enough to sell some and send some to relatives abroad. She also told me my accent reminds her of her relatives who live in London. She cooked H., his younger brother and I mu’sachken for dinner that night.

After dinner I hear the story of a man in the village who has died the previous day after he was run over by a horse. Apparently the teenage rider was inexperienced, and the horse was scared of cars. Having thrown the rider, the horse bolted up the main street of Abu Falah. The man, in his mid-sixties was hit pushing two young girls to safety. Apparently it was the impact of fall on the stones that caused the multiple fractures and breaks. He was in a coma for two weeks, and as a diabetic his recovery was always in doubt. He lived in Brazil for thirty years. It was a tragic accident.