In Motueka's Apple Lands
“The Fruit Garden of New Zealand”
By Rosaline Redwood

Illustrated by Ellis Dudgeon, F.R.S.A., A.R.P.S.

Blossom time in a Motueka orchard.

Motueka has been called “The Fruit Garden of New Zealand,” and not without reason. Here, the orchards sweep for miles along the sea coast, and run far back into the hills. Fruit everywhere! Millions of scarlet and rich yellow apples clinging in heavy clusters to boughs that bend beneath the weight. Rows and rows—till one marvels at the overwhelming abundance and wonders if those eternal trees go on forever. Every hill and every valley dressed in apple trees, as far as the eye can sweep from the sea, back to the purple hills in the distance. In autumn a truly glorious sight—so one may get a vague idea of what those same Motueka slopes look like in springtime, when delicate pink and snow-white blossoms cast a fairy spell on the whole countryside, scenting the air with a rich, heavy fragrance.

However, there are times when these lovely gardens present only a tragic sight. After certain winds in various localities, those same red and yellow fruitful trees are stripped of all their ripe colour, and the orchard bed may be changed from the shade of drab grey earth, to a brilliant red carpet. The whole season's harvest lost almost overnight! Such is often the lot of the Motueka orchardist Nature's destructive forces are also joined at times by pests and blights, and the war waged on these is a continuous one.

The apple season commences in February, when weather conditions are normal, and finishes up near the end of April. Of course, seasons differ slightly, and the apples may be ready a little earlier or later as the case may be.

Hundreds of young pickers come from surrounding districts to take up their abode in the numerous baches that are to be found on every orchardist's property. Both young men and girls are employed, some employers preferring male pickers because the work is rather heavy for girls, and others preferring the weaker sex because their fingers are usually more nimble, and fewer apples are likely to slip through their fingers.

Apple pickers at work.

Apples which have fallen, no matter how lightly, are left where they fall. One may not be able to see the slightest sign of a bruise at the time, but afterwards it will show up—probably days later when the Government inspector is examining the cases of fruit at the Motueka or Nelson wharf—in which case, of course, the owner runs the risk of having a whole consignment of cases (whether it be fifty or five hundred) returned to be repacked. Government officials systematically search for any sign of “black spot,” “eye rot” and numerous other apple diseases, in order to keep the exported fruit at a high standard. One bruised page 22 apple in a case may be the means of rotting the whole caseful of fruit, before the boat reaches its destination.

Each picker wears a huge canvas bag strapped across his or her shoulders, which is also clipped about the waist, and possesses two hooks, one at each side, which may be unfastened when the bag is full, and the apples rolled easily, and without bruising, into the cases, numbers of which are piled high along the rows, at intervals. At the end of the day when these cases are filled, a lorry or other conveyance takes them to the grading shed. The apples in the canvas bags become weighty, and at the beginning of the season many pickers find their shoulders blistered. In the fierce heat of the Nelson sun, apple picking may be a strenuous occupation.

After a few days picking, comes a few days in the grading shed. If rain is predicted, picking progresses at a feverish pace, so that should wet days follow, there will be a plentiful supply of apples under cover to be graded, thus saving a hold-up in the work. The grading shed is usually long and roomy, while down the centre is set up the grading machine. The first portion of this machine consists of rollers, on which the apples roll down towards the graders who are seated on either side. Then there are three small belts running along towards the numerous bins, each of which holds different sized apples, while at the back, running in the opposite direction, is a chute. Each apple that passes down the rollers is picked up, turned over, and quickly examined for possible flaws, when the grader decides on which belt it must travel—“good,” “fancy,” or “extra fancy,” or if marred, down the chute. Tons of delicious fruit, with perhaps only a pin-head sized “black spot,” or some such similar disfigurement, travels down that chute.

When rain prevents outdoor work, the pickers are sometime engaged in pasting brilliant labels on the cases. Then there are those rush days and overtime nights, when word reaches the grower that a certain American or British vessel has berthed at the port, with only a limited accommodation, allowing for a certain number of thousand cases. Every orchardist works his staff at fever pitch in order to get there before the “No More Received” notice is given.

Pickers are paid by the day, and in addition to their pay they generally receive free fruit, and baching room, while on the more fortunate places, they may get milk, vegetables and fuel supplied as well. Cooking meals at the end of a day's work is not regarded as a drudgery—rather is it more like a picnic to the crowd of young folk.

As the season wears on, the earlier apples such as Cox's Orange, give place to Delicious, Sturmer Pippin, Northern Spy, Paradise, and Johnathan, and various later apples. The packer's busy fingers become expert, slipping like lightning from tissue paper to apple, then to the case—fascinating to watch!

Maybe the pickers get tired, possibly they are glad when the season ends and they may collect their cheques, but as for me—well, I think it will always give me a strange thrill to close my eyes and imagine I am back again on those fruit-laden slopes of Motueka.

A scene in an apple-grading shed at Motueka.

A famous London (Harley Street) specialist's tribute to the value of tobacco: “The ground on which tobacco holds so firm a footing is that of nearly every luxury it is the least injurious. It does infinitely less harm than opium. It is in no sense worse than tea. Also, a thorough smoker is never a glutton. It brings quiet to the over-worn body and restless mind. The over-wrought man finds in it a quietus for his exhaustion.” But the doctor insists that tobacco must be “pure.” Well, if purity is to be the criterion, how many of the foreign tobaccos will fill the bill? Brands reeking with nicotine assuredly cannot be considered “pure”! If you want a really pure article, go for the tobaccos grown and manufactured in New Zealand by the National Tobacco Company (pioneers of the New Zealand tobacco industry). Hardly any nicotine in them because they are toasted. They are peculiarly soothing, cool, fragrant and delicious. Ask for Riverhead Gold, Desert Gold (mild), Navy Cut or Cavendish (medium), or Cut Plug No. 10 (full strength).^*