Ti Tree Desert Grapes

Phil eats more than he picks and packs

Ti Tree is the first substantial stop heading north from Alice Springs and in order to preserve our record of moving no more than a half-bitten cuticle's width on the vast map of Oz, we made our way there, to find a bloke called Ronnie. Ronnie runs a grape farm in the desert, we were hoping we could possibly find some work, keep the donations rolling in and maybe pick up some fuel.

The area around Ti Tree has a population of around 1000 people of whom only 200 odd are non-Aboriginal and much of the land surrounding Ti Tree is Aboriginal land, owned by the Anmatyerre people. The population is distributed between the 11 cattle stations, 6 Aboriginal outstations including Utopia, Ti Tree township, Barrow Creek community and the agricultural produce farms of Ti Tree Farm, Central Australian Produce Farm and the Territory Grape Farm, where we were headed.

The frangipani flower which has been perfumming our journey with it's gorgeous scent

The area is an emerging centre for grapes and melons due to its year-round sunshine and abundant underground water supply, and despite the abstract inconstancy of growing grapes in the desert, they flourish and have put Ti Tree on the map as a valuable horticultural area where the annual table-grape harvest alone reaps $10 million.

Phil and Gareth walk past hundreds of rows of grape vines

Approaching the end of the season, the beginning of summer heralding the harvesting of crops, we drove down the dusty side road to Ti Tree Red Globe Grapes, just off the Stuart Highway. Louis, a Tongan man-mountain with a heart of gold gave us work the next day despite their coming to the end of the harvest and work being scarce.



A Tonga Islander entertains with traditional music

That evening as we made dinner, we were invited for a drink by the rest of the Tongan lads, of whom there were about twenty in all, most up for the season from Victoria, where they live. To a man they were huge, imposing barrel chested behemoths who were as nice as pie. We sat for the evening with them, in a circle on the ground, as they played guitar in stirring falsetto, singing traditional Tongan ballads, almost all of which seemed to be about a girl; losing a girl, wooing a girl, or finding the perfect one, then losing her, or about the beauty of life on their Pacific Island.

Anne was asked if she would serve everybody their drinks, a very important Tongan tradition. Back home in Tonga the fairest maiden in the village is often asked to perform this rite, sitting patiently as the men slur their orders for more and reach out with their empty coconut husks. As it happened, at this time, Anne was asked to take over the job from a skinny guy with a wide smile and a thick tash.
When Anne was the subject of a drunken seduction one of the lads translated his muttered mumblings of everlasting devotion telling us as Romeo fumbled through a sentence:

“What my friend is trying to tell you is that he… what? Oh! yes yes. Ok. He’s saying to you, he’s telling you that ‘Your smile makes me… walk like a duck... and I have a wife and two children’”

To which the would-be seducer waved a hand dismissively in our translators direction, took a lengthy pull on his cigarette, coughed chestily, and sipped on his beer as the other lads laughed and consoled him through the sensitivity of berating.

The delicious table grapes we picked

When we saw the Tongans passing around some money, we thought they were in on some bet, a few playing poker off to the side chipped in, and we were passed some more beers as we listened to some more stories about Tongan life. I wish I could remember them, as they had us laughing most of the evening, but as happens when you substitute your notebook for a cold beer, all memory goes with it. The money they were handing round was for us, and they gave us $300 from their pockets, which astonished us.

We stayed up talking and listening to stories and music until the early hours.

In the morning we were up bright and early and despite the three of us working as one collective, we were not able to pick as many grapes as the lads and ladies working alone on the rows of vines next to us. Picking the grapes, pruning the bad ones and packing them in 10kg bunches into boxes, we worked as hard as we were able, which was not unduly slow, we thought, but still lagged behind. Moving up the one row, we would strip the vines clean, find a row that had not been done, and repeat. The lads on the tractor would come around regularly to pick the boxes up and take them back to the warehouse for cold storage.

Why we wondered, chipmunk cheeks exploding with grape juice, were we three slower than the others, but we came to no common sense conclusion and so kept going until they came to tell us we were finished for the day. Finding the camp a little more sedate after the merriment of the night before, we chatted to the Tongan lads some more, arranged with Louis for some fuel from our wages, and rose to leave early, the next day.

As we headed towards Tennant Creek we could not help feeling justified in our more laid back approach to travelling, preferring the take-your-time to the headlong rush approach. Sometimes we have no choice but to stop and work for fuel and food, occasionally we have a good feeling about a place and that turns out to be justified. Our little adventure in Ti Tree was very rewarding. Not only because of the generosity of those Tongan lads of large stature in donating a portion of their wages to us strangers, but because of their friendliness, hospitality and trust. We may be moving slow, but we’re moving on.
Anyway, we now had 314 kilometers travel time, enough fuel to get us there, and no more reasons to divert. Tenant Creek next stop.