They arrived, somewhat like marauding Huns, in the middle of the night. We woke surrounded by them - a new encampment of ancient mini vans and VW campers circled us, gear stacked at the ready. They arrived to breakfast with matching mohawks, smelling of whiskey and incense and weed, with narrow eyed and smiling - mercenaries in our tree war.
***
As far as my experiences with war go, it would be remiss to imply that I have any. Yes in those trucks in the morning the air of some sort of battle, mostly mental, is there. The clattering of gear being tossed into trucks, shovels and water bottles smashing together, tree boxes heaved and handed planter to planter out of the reefer, into the mist , all make your ears cringe at first, the first day, the first shift. Rookies are loaded overdressed and scared into the trucks with the same lack of ceremony as the tree boxes, they too making nervous noises that will grate for the first while. Those beside you rip duct tape in small screaming strips, the smell of sulfuric tape mixes with black coffee and rank boots as rookies are shown with as much patience how to tape their fingers; given brief invaluable tips that they invariably forget and figure out themselves mid-season, only briefly remembering somebody may have already told them and yet congratulating themselves on what they've discovered. Weary vets who know the drill bullshit over old seasons and smile knowingly at the too nice gear and clean rookies that are ramrod straight in beside them, while they curl to doorjambs and each other in an attempt to nap on the drive.
The noise is played in reverse as the trucks rumble to a stop on the dirt roads- gear, shovels and water bottles are wrenched rapidly from the back, the continuous thud of tree boxes being unloaded hand to hand and thrown to the ground plays in the background. Boots are pulled on, hands given a final lash of tape, rotting gloves pulled on top of that. Slowly, loaded with trees, dull and monochromatic with dirt, each is dispatched to pieces, shovels customized like guns - each glinting and flashing like muzzles. Once, sure and swift followed by a flash of green and a kick by the vets, once, twice, three times, slow and inaccurate by the rookies.
***
They didn't arrive unbidden. Painfully we've moved from block to block, tallies small and amounting to less everyday than we'd hoped. Encouragement, duct tape, coffee - all three are gone to be replaced by silence, callouses and whiskey. Zanzibar, rumour has it, has finished for the season, millions in, and dispersed. Rumours of possible friends, 6 planters, give momentary hope, lighter bags, faster steps. They're coming.
***
Everything has assumed a pace, unbidden, unwanted and inevitable. Plodding evenings with the same colours on your plate, nutrition lacking diversification from the shift before. Wagers are put on one of 6 choices - chicken, beef, pork, pasta, Indian or Mexican. Both ethnicity's are promptly removed after a day of low production yet high output. Bed. Wake. Cold. Peel the clothes from the bottom of your sleeping bag where they've garnered some warmth from your fermenting feet and squirm on dirty layer after layer. Breakfast. Truck. Plant. Repeat.
***
They're obviously unwell, to help us. Burnt out and propelled by what one of them has brewed in the back of their van, they move - tanned and leathery, through us. 10. 7. 8 year vets. Without effort, hung over, they plant 35000 trees in a day, sweating pepperminty gasoline whiskey around the campfire. They eat less, sleep less, drink more, smoke more, and plant more than any of us have seen. They are the only planters that pull their gear at the end of the day, resting it beside their vans, like sleeping with their favorite guns.
***
Then they leave. Grass matted where they were, whiskey bottles leaned against trees. Breakfast, truck, plant. Repeat.
