12 Nov Harvesting Olives in Croatia

It’s 8:30am in Benkovac, Croatia, and already I’ve learned my new word of the day: “živjeli” (pronounced ji-vo-lee), or “cheers.” 

The shot of homemade brandy burns my throat, and my host Vito holds up the bottle—a proud smile on his face. He says this is how I must start my first day of olive picking. 

Vito and his wife Lidija have already been harvesting for ten days now, welcoming help from their son and any friends or neighbors willing to get paid in oil. I’ve come with a new friend Laura, who tells me this is the best virgin olive oil she’s tasted. The hard work is worth it, she says, but it’s a full day; and I’m expected to keep up with Vito: a 70-year-old with the energy and enthusiasm of a teenager.

At the orchard, I get in just one picture before Vito yells my name—followed by the only phrase he knows in English: “Let’s goooo!” I put my camera back in my bag and run over to the first tree: an ancient behemoth with a thick trunk and sprawling branches. 

Vito and Lidija are already unraveling what seems like miles of green netting, and Laura and I grab two corners and power walk behind them. Then we lay a black tarp over the nearby bushes and shrubs so we don’t lose any precious olives. Once the ground is secure, Vito hands me a small rake and shows me how to brush the branches with it. He says I should be quick but gentle. “Don’t work up a sweat.”

Lidija, Laura and I are in charge of the lower branches and Vito is using his new battery-powered harvester which sounds like a lawn mower and looks like Freddy Krueger’s hand, vibrating and sending olives and leaves flying. A large helping of the fruit falls on my head and Vito laughs, yelling my name and saying something in Croatian that I don’t understand. 

It takes about three hours for us to finish pruning the tree—first raking, then climbing the branches to get the fruit near the trunk. Then we gather the nets, pushing the olives towards the center. On our hands and knees, we remove branches and leaves that have fallen with the fruit, then shovel the olives into buckets. We then pour the contents of the buckets into 25-kilogram bags and tie them up to be hoisted into the car. 

My lower back already hurts and my knees are stiff. I’ve cut my hand with a thorn that was stuck in the netting and I’m sucking on the blood while gathering the tarp. Luckily, Vito is happy with our haul: about 150 kilos of olives, which he says will make just shy of 25 liters of pressed olive oil. We can take a break and eat lunch.

Over lepinja (Croatian flatbread), a whole chicken and a jar of pickles, I ask Lidija if her back hurts too. “Of course,” she answers. “This is hard work.” But, she tells me, it’s work they have to do. Vito and her only get 300 euros each, per month, from the government for their pension. It’s not enough to live on, so they rent out two apartments and they rent this orchard each November for 800 euros to be able to work the land and sell its oil. 

Lidija says she wishes the government paid more money, but that she’s thankful her body allows her to do this work. She and Vito are passionate about olive oil, and this harvest keeps them and their family rich in liquid gold for the entire year. Vito swallows his last bite of chicken and flexes his biceps. “Olives equals health,” he says. He explains that the oil is the reason he has so much energy.

With that, we pack up and start on our second tree. It bears less fruit than the first, but takes just as much work. My body won’t allow me to squat or bend over while standing, so I shuffle from one part of the netting to the other, cross-legged and folded over, separating olives and adding them to my bucket. 

It’s November and the days are already short. The sun starts descending around 4pm and we only have enough time to finish two trees. We have ten bags of olives: around 250 kilos. Vito will take these to the press to make oil, and that oil will rest in large tubs all around his house until the sediment settles to the bottom. The top will be poured into glass bottles and sold for 15 euros a piece. 

Vito and Lidija tell me I did a good job and that I need to go to their house to get my payment. There, Vito fills three empty wine bottles with bright green oil and asks if I can return tomorrow. They still have 18 trees left and need the help. I don’t think my knees or back will allow it, but I tell them I’ll see how I feel after some rest and a few glugs of their olive oil. Maybe it’s the health miracle Vito claims. 

When I get home, I open a bottle and pour the chartreuse liquid over some sourdough. I take a bite and the buttery, fruity oil coats my tongue. It’s fresh and bright, and tastes unlike any olive oil I’ve had before. I can see why Vito is so passionate about it.

The next morning, I sleep in and move slowly. I’m sore and take the time to scrape the dirt from under my fingernails while my coffee boils. Lidija and Vito are already in the orchard, and have another week of labor ahead of them—like so many of the other semi-retired Croatians and hard-working farmers. I’m not sure I’ll be able to help pick olives again, but I look forward to joining them for the end-of-harvest barbecue, when we’ll toast with wine and more homemade brandy: to many years of good good health and good olive oil.