Unwinding Amongst the Kiwis

On Friday, we were finally released from the fuzzy, citrusy shackles of the kiwi factory. In the last fifteen minutes of work, our bosses sent ping pong balls with cute messages written on them (“no hanky panky”, “well done” and good on ya'”) up the conveyor belts and we proceeded to pelt each other with them until the last bell of the season heralded its sweet dulcet sounds of freedom. We were giggly and elated, like children on the last day of school, as we left work that day, grateful to never again return.
That afternoon the pack house hosted a Hangi, which is a traditional Maori barbecue. A hole is dug in the ground, firewood is placed over it in a crisscross pattern and rocks are laid over the wood. The fire is lit and the wood eventually burns away, leaving steaming hot rocks. At this point wire mesh baskets filled with different types of meat, potatoes, kumara, and stuffing are lowered on to the rocks and covered with damp bedsheets (bedsheets are not wholly traditional, obviously). The entire lot is buried in the ground and left to cook for a few hours. What emerges from the earth is a smoky, earthy shmorgasboard of delicious. But before the Hangi was ready there was always the Kiwi tradition of drinking heaps of booze.
We walked into the factory which had been totally transformed for the Hangi. The entire upstairs had been cleared out and replaced by a bar made from giant wooden crates and green kiwi boxes, there were tables made from old crates placed on their side, many with a few kiwis still left in them. Our normally grumpy coworkers were laughing and drinking and smoking and dancing, donning skirts and makeup in lieu of hairnets and latex gloves. And drink we did, let me tell you, middle aged Kiwi women know how to let loose. By the end of the party I was stumbling around the fire and no doubt slurring my words as I bid my lovely coworkers goodbye showering them with hugs and well wishes.