Lucas tears at the vine stalk; dry leaves crunch, stems crackle and grapes bleed under the force of his hands, but the stalk wonât snap off. The extra effort makes his tired arms shake, his bent legs cramp and another trickle of sweat roll down from his sun cap to the spine of his neck. Itâs 36°C (96.8°F). He pulls his scissors out of his side pocket and cuts the bunch of black berries, cupping it in his hand and dropping it into the bucket below piled with grapes. He grabs another bunch. Cut. Drop. Cut. Drop. Cut. Drop.
He sees Juan next to him ripping off bunches two at a time with his hands. Itâs twice as quick, but Lucas got told off by the vineyard manager yesterday for not using his scissors, and as the harvest comes to an end and work opportunities dry up he doesnât want to risk losing a dayâs work. He needs to take money home.
It has been a tough three months of harvest and by now Lucasâs back is agony, not helped by the hard floor he sleeps on each night. Last night he was hoping heâd get more sleep but Mario woke him and the others up as he stumbled into the house steaming drunk at 3 a.m., waking everyone except the one he intended to arouse â his half-deaf, snoring wife, Maria-Lucia.
âHouseâ is an overstatement for the place where Lucas lives. It is a squalid, mud-brick shack in rural Ugarteche. When he arrived in Mendoza from his home town in Bolivia three months ago, he had a contact his brother had given him for somewhere cheap to live during the harvest. At first, it was just him and six others in the three-bedroomed âhouse,â but now more than 15 bodies are crammed in and sometimes the men bring back girls. Sweaty, musty, fatigued bodies lie on overlapping mattresses and blankets, with creaking hammocks above.