My entry to the Young Wine Writer of the Year Award (UK) which placed as Runner Up.
The True Face of Harvest
Carlos wiped the dripping sweat from his brow. His stout index finger brushed his right eye, and the vinegar he had doused on it stung the crease of his eyelid. He winced and rubbed his grimy shirt against his damp forehead, cursing the wasp that stung him an hour before.
It was 10.30am on a mid March morning in Mendoza, and already 38 degrees centigrade. They still had at least three hours of picking to do. At the very thought of it, Carlos’s neck exuded more drops of salty sweat down his spine.
The cuadrillero [leader of the grape pickers] walked past him and rasped a brash cough in his direction – a reminder that he needed to pick up the pace. Carlos had been a grape picker for 36 years, but now at 46 he was starting to slow down a bit. He felt a pang of jealousy at the half dozen extra chips the younger pickers were collecting by the end of each day.
As he slid his hand behind the next bunch of grapes he felt for the stalk, used the knife to sear into the edge of it and tore it off as quickly as he could, pulling a few leaves and the grape cluster into the bucket. The leaves crunched and disintegrated as he pulled them back out. He knew the cuadrillero wouldn’t accept any more leaves in his bucket, and he was already on tender hooks after getting caught by the authorities last week. That had been a bad day… Carlos blushed at the memory.