harvesting

The wind whips the grapevines, turning my meditative picking stance into a full-body workout. I firmly plant my legs, stabilising a thrashing branch with my left hand as my right snips off a bunch of grapes. Local people claim the roaring mistral wind makes you crazy, which I can appreciate as each arid gust chaps my lips and desiccates my eyes.

I’m at Domaine Rouge-Bleu, an organic vineyard in the Côtes du Rhône wine region in southern France. I have volunteered for les vendanges, the autumnal grape harvest where backbreaking work is doused in camaraderie.

Participating in this time-honoured tradition had long been a dream of mine, a lifelong Francophile and food writer. So, in 2017, eager to understand more about winemaking beyond the bar stool, I joined a motley crew, trading sore arms and farmer tans for a hands-on course in viticulture and viniculture. I expected to gain an oenological education. I had not anticipated how hard the picking would be – nor how gratifying it felt to accomplish something so big together. Many vendangeurs go back for more. I have returned almost every year since my first harvest, becoming friends with the owners of Domaine Rouge-Bleu.

France is one of the top producers of wine worldwide, pouring 4.78bn litres of wine into the market each year. About 59,000 winemakers manage 789,000 hectares (nearly 2m acres) of vineyards. That’s a lot of grapes to pick. Since the Greeks first planted vines in France in the sixth century BC, raisins (grapes) have been harvested by hand. Machines arrived in the 1960s for speed and cost efficiency. Yet 30%-40% of French wineries still retain the traditional vendanges à la main (hand-picked harvests).

Why would a winemaker opt for a method that costs more time and money? Renowned regions such as Champagne are required to do so to deliver the clusters to the press house intact. Grapevines can grow too close together to allow a machine to pass through. Some winemakers believe machines harm the vines and grapes. “You get better quality by hand since you only pick good grapes, without leaves, vines or oil from the machine,” says Thomas Bertrand, who co-owns Domaine Rouge-Bleu with his Australian partner Caroline Jones.

The hard-working couple illustrate the realities of winemaking that are far from the glamour of Bordeaux chateaux. They bring in volunteers to cut costs. However, harvest volunteers are a legal minefield in France. The government insists winemakers pay harvesters, so some offer room and board in lieu of wages, though many refrain from doing so to avoid any issues. Many winemakers wish volunteers were recognised, for communal harvests have been part of the winemaking heritage for centuries. “Our métier is all about sharing and creating convivial moments,” says France Breton, who welcomes volunteer harvesters at Domaine Breton in the Loire.

For example, Vignerons Indépendants de France runs the Vendangeur d’un Jour (harvester for a day) programme across France from late August to early October. “It is wonderful for wine tourism since so many want to pitch in,” says Jean-Marie Fabre, president of the association. You can also find opportunities on volunteer work sites such as WWOOF. I contacted wineries direct via introductions by my local wine bar, eventually finding Domaine Rouge-Bleu through its former owner, whose wife runs the French Word-A-Day blog.

Domaine Rouge-Bleu is in Sainte-Cécile-les-Vignes, a small town of 2,900 off the tourist track, despite its location in Provence. Fittingly for the town name – vignes are vines – the flat landscape is blanketed with grids of vineyards, with Mont Ventoux, the legendary Tour de France thigh-thumper, looming in the distance. At the end of a picturesque driveway lined with olive trees, a 17th-century farmhouse is home to Thomas, Caroline and their two girls. In harvest season, it swells with vendangeurs. I hit the roommate jackpot with Hannah, a perky Brit who works at a wine shop. Our 16-person team hails from France, the UK, Ireland, Australia and the US, my homeland.

Each morning, the smell of coffee wakes us before 7am. We don clothes that we don’t mind getting dirty – grape juice stains are stubborn. Despite the heat, we wear thick socks under our boots to avoid burs scraping our ankles. Thomas gives us a lay of the land on the first day. The first rule of picking is to be gentle with the grapes. Manhandling them can break their skins prematurely, causing the oxidation that negatively affects aromas and flavours.

We should also watch out for oidium, a chalky mildew, because “crap grapes make for crap wine”, says Thomas. When I find a snail on a grape, he jokes: “That’s why wine isn’t vegan.” (He jokes fluently in English.) Snipping grapes eight hours a day for three weeks wreaks havoc on the hands. Cuts are so prevalent I become the unofficial nurse of the group, carrying plasters in my bumbag. We work in pairs, bookending the vines to ensure no bunch gets left behind. To break up the monotony, conversation inevitably flows, profound at times due to the thick vines that block our faces like confessional screens. Everyone has a story – healing from a breakup or breaking free from a corporate job.

This sociability is an antidote to the demanding work: the constant ache in muscles I never knew I had; the unrelenting sweltering sun and hot wind. My skin and clothes are sticky with sweat, dirt and grape juice, my fingernails permanently painted purple. Yet, knowing our collective efforts will be bottled into delicious wine is incredibly rewarding. “There’s no feeling like people coming together for a shared mission,” says Hannah.

What is surprising to me is that I find solace in the repetition. As a freelancer weighted with managing, and finding, my own work, I appreciate having specific tasks; being told what to do; the simple choreography of snip, haul, repeat. Plus, the monotony is broken up by the varied terrain.

Terroir, the buzzword that rolls off sommeliers’ tongues, refers to the soil, climate and sunlight that give wine grapes their distinctive character. I get a crash course on Rouge-Bleu’s 12 hectares planted with 21 grape varietals. Stooped low like elderly ladies, the 115-year-old grenache gobelet vines are planted in an ancient riverbed of large white stones. While these heat-retaining galets help the grenache reach peak ripeness, their uneven surface is torturous – like trying to balance in a ball pit. The trellised syrah are easier to pick, their extended branches welcoming us with open arms to gather their purple jewels.

Once we fill the trailer – emblazoned with an “In Grenache We Trust” sticker – we head back to the winery. This entails a different workout – manoeuvring hoses and vats, loading the press, shovelling grape bunches into the tank. “We keep their stems to reduce heat buildup during fermentation, which leads to the jammy flavours we don’t want,” says Caroline. I appreciate her red wines even more with this knowledge. My favourite task is climbing into the press to stomp out every last drop of juice.

The drudgery is lessened as we toast the day’s end with craft beers from a friend’s Alpine brewery. “It takes a lot of beer to make good wine,” is a common harvest adage that Thomas repeats. Gathering around the table for meals is a harvest highlight, a much-deserved moment of conviviality that reinforces our team spirit and recharges our batteries. Each night, a different harvester cooks a recipe of their choosing, often calorie-replenishing meals such as lasagne, grilled sausages or chickpea curry. Naturally, the meals are paired with Domaine Rouge-Bleu’s bottles, from its citrusy white Dentelle to the luscious Lunatique that bursts with blackberry notes. The most oenologically curious of us have a vertical tasting for a nightcap – by sampling the same wine from different years, we can taste how age intensifies its flavours.

Just as a fine wine lingers in the mouth, participating in a wine harvest is an enduring experience. A fellow harvester, Oscar, goes so far to say: “It’s about as useful a thing a person could do.” Each time I drink wine, I taste its people, its place, its story. My time among the vines has made me truly appreciate Louis Pasteur’s words: “There is more philosophy in a bottle of wine than in all the books in the world.”

Further information: Domaine Rouge-Bleu; Domaine Breton; Vendangeur d’un Jour; WWOOF

Southern Shan State, Myanmar – Tian Win Nang squats on the hard-packed earth, balancing a kilogramme (2.2 pounds) of chocolate-coloured raw opium in each hand like a human weighing scales.

“Each kilogramme is worth around $250,” said Tian Win Nang, wearing worn white flip-flops and a black T-shirt.

The son of poppy farmers, Tian Win Nang appears to be barely out of his teens.

“Chinese traders pay us in advance for the harvest,” he said, showing Al Jazeera three dinner-plate-sized mounds of opium.

“We don’t know what happens after,” he says of the journey that will see the opium go “north to the labs” where it will be processed into morphine and eventually refined into heroin.

“We do this to survive,” he adds.

The sun is high and the air is still in the poppy fields blanketing the hills in this part of southern Shan State in eastern Myanmar.

Men and women, young and old, their faces shielded with scarves and straw hats, move with quick, practised motions as hands use sharp tools to score green poppy pods before silently progressing on to another plant.

A milky fluid slowly oozes from the wound inflicted on the pod. When it has dried to the consistency of gum, the same hands will scrape off the sticky substance, gather it together and leave it to dry in the sun until it reaches the toffee-like consistency of raw opium.

This is a daily ritual for many farmers in this part of Shan State near where drug shipments have flowed along these mountain roads near the town of Pekon for decades. The routes wind towards the borders with neighbouring Thailand, Laos and China.

Armed conflict between Myanmar’s military and ethnic armed organisations in these regions has fuelled opium farming and drug production for generations, but the trade has surged in step with the country’s intensifying civil war.

Alliances have long existed, experts say, between high-ranking Myanmar military officers, ethnic armed groups, local criminal networks and transnational syndicates that handle the drug trade’s logistics, refining and distribution.

“Drug trafficking in Myanmar has been facilitated by the military since the 1990s,” said Mark Farmaner, director of the London-based Advance Myanmar charity and an expert on Southeast Asia. “Many officers profit personally, and the institution as a whole reaps political advantages,” he said.

One of the most powerful regional syndicates is Sam Gor, a sprawling network made up of an alliance of rival Chinese triad gangs that operates across China, Myanmar, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and beyond.

Despite the 2021 arrest and extradition to Australia of Tse Chi Lop – a Canadian national of Chinese origin widely believed to be the leader of Sam Gor – the network remains largely intact.

The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) estimates that the Sam Gor syndicate generated at least $8bn – and possibly as much as $17.7bn – in 2018 from controlling between 40 and 70 percent of the wholesale methamphetamine market in the Asia Pacific region.

Despite the high-profile arrest of Tse Chi Lop, the regional drug trade is flourishing with more than 1.1 billion methamphetamine pills seized across Southeast Asia in 2023 – a historic record, according to UNODC.

‘We oppose the production, trafficking and use of narcotics’

Most of the methamphetamine originates from laboratories hidden in the mountains of northern Shan State and other areas on Myanmar’s eastern borders, which have become the region’s epicentre of synthetic drug production and are part of the “Golden Triangle” – the lawless territory encompassing the shared borders of Myanmar, Thailand and Laos.

But before the explosion in methamphetamine production, the Golden Triangle was infamous for its opium crops and the heroin it produced while under the rule of the self-styled drug lord Khun Sa – the undisputed drug kingpin of the 1980s and 1990s regional drug trade.

Khun Sa is believed to have commanded a personal army of some 15,000 men and under his direction much of Shan State became the global centre of heroin production. He surrendered to the military government in Myanmar in 1996 and died in Yangon in 2007, under the protection of the same generals who had shielded him for years.

“In the early 1980s, the United States Drug Enforcement Administration estimated that 70 percent of the heroin consumed in the US came from his organization ,” Kelvin Rowley, a lecturer at Swinburne University of Technology in Australia, wrote after Khun Sa’s death.

“The US government placed a $2 million bounty on [Khun Sa’s] head – an amount reportedly less than what he earned in a single month,” Rowley said.

Opium has now made a comeback in the Golden Triangle.

After the Taliban banned poppy cultivation in Afghanistan in 2022, Myanmar returned to being the world’s top producer of opium.

In 2023, according to UNODC estimates, Myanmar’s poppy fields stretched over more than 47,000 hectares (more than 116,000 acres), and by 2024, some 995 tonnes of raw opium was produced – an increase of 135 percent since the military takeover in 2021. The gross value of the opium and heroin trade in Myanmar last year was estimated to be between $589m and $1.57bn, according to UNODC.

The scale of drug production, the UN reports, is also tied to the civil war in Myanmar, which is now in its fourth year.

Myanmar’s economy has collapsed since the military coup in 2021, and with options narrowing, people have traditionally turned to poppy cultivation as a means to survive.

The UN notes that opium poppy cultivation in Southeast Asia has long been linked to poverty, lack of government services, economic challenges and insecurity.

“Households and villages in Myanmar that engage in poppy cultivation and the broader opium economy do so to supplement income or because they lack other legitimate opportunities,” the UN said.

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But now parts of Pekon, long a military stronghold and a key drug trafficking corridor, are under the control of the Karenni Nationalities Defence Force (KNDF) and other Karenni armed groups fighting the ruling military.

They say they want to change things.

“We oppose the production, trafficking, and use of narcotics,” said Maui, a deputy commander of the KNDF.

“When we capture Burmese soldiers, they’re full of meth,” Maui said.

“We ask where it comes from and they tell us, without hesitation, it’s distributed by their superiors to push them to the front lines,” he said.

“Once the war is over, we’ll go after the opium too. We want it to be used only for medical purposes,” he added.

As part of those antidrug efforts, Karenni police forces stop and search motorcycles and vehicles on roads in the areas of Shan State they now control.

“We are stopping cars and motorbikes we don’t recognise to search for drugs,” said Karenni police commander Win Ning Thun, standing at a checkpoint just outside a village in Pekon district.

“We’re looking for yaba pills,” said Win Ning Thun, using the local name for methamphetamine pills.

“Until recently, this area was under military and pro-junta militia control,” Win Ning Thun said.

“Meth was moving freely under their supervision. They took a percentage of the profits from every shipment passing through,” he said.

‘I was supposed to make a lot of money’

Deep in the forests surrounding Pekon, a small prison holds rows of detainees arrested by Karenni police.

“Everyone here has been arrested for drug trafficking. Some were carrying yaba pills to the Thai border. Others were internal couriers,” a Karenni police official told Al Jazeera.

“These are the pills we confiscated just this past month,” he said, holding up a plastic bag stuffed with small red yaba pills that are easy to conceal, sold cheaply, but represent a trade that is worth millions of dollars.

Among the detainees in the prison was Anton Lee, who wore glasses and a calm, unassuming look.

“They stopped me at a checkpoint with 10,000 pills,” Lee said.

“I was taking them to the Thai border. I was supposed to make a lot of money,” he said, offering no further details, only to say that the profit he hoped to earn would have fed his family for a year.

Now, he faces a long time in prison.

Not too far from the prison, the civil war grinds on in Myanmar as the military regime buys more advanced weaponry, and the rebel forces try to hold out and extend their advances.

The military’s air raids, drone strikes and artillery fire hammer schools, hospitals, homes and religious sites, turning entire villages into targets.

Yet, even under fire, here in southern Shan State, some appear to be trying to staunch the flow of drugs.

With limited resources, they tell of doing what they can in another battle inside a much larger war.

CHILLING travel warnings have been issued for tourists visiting Turkey amid Brit mum Beth Martin’s mysterious death in Istanbul’s public hospital.

Ms Martin, 28, tragically died after suddenly falling ill during her dream holiday in the country.

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She was rushed to a two-star-rated public hospital, where she is said to have taken her last breath and had her heart allegedly removed without any permission.

The Foreign and Commonwealth Development Office (FCDO) warns that coroners in Turkey can take small tissue samples and organs for testing “without the family’s permission” under Turkish laws.

The advisory says that these orphans are usually returned before the person’s body is released.

However, Turkish authorities “might keep he body parts without permission in exceptional circumstances”, the foreign office warned.

The travel warning was placed before Ms Martin’s death and has nothing to do with her tragic case.

That’s because hospitals in Turkey have faced accusations of stealing organs and facilitating illegal transplants.

Meanwhile, the British government in its travel advisory warned tourists to be aware of medical treatments in the country.

The Foreign Office suggested that people visiting the country for medical tourism should exercise caution and discuss plans with a UK doctor beforehand.

The travel advisory reads: “We are aware of six British nationals having died in Turkey in 2024 following medical procedures.

“Some British nationals have also experienced complications and needed further treatment or surgery following their procedure.”

Ms Martin was wheeled to Marmara University Pendik Training and Research Hospital – a low-rated public hospital built on the outskirts of the Turkish capital.

After scrambling for an ambulance, she was finally admitted to the hospital, which offers Istanbul‘s International Patient Service serving foreign patients.

The doctors are understood to have checked her heart by performing an angiogram – a form of X-ray that shows blood vessels.

After doing the checks, the doctors told husband Luke they did not find anything suspicious.

However, Ms Martin was dead by the very next day – leaving Luke to explain the tragedy to their two young children, aged 8 and 5.

Her family claims they were left completely in the dark by Turkish authorities throughout the whole ordeal.

And sickeningly, once they finally got back to the UK with her body, a UK autopsy revealed her heart had been removed – without any prior consent or authorisation.

Marmara Pendik Hospital is now facing a negligence investigation over Ms Martin’s sudden death, according to Ms Martin’s family.

The Foreign and Commonwealth Development Office (FCDO) is also making its own enquiries with local authorities, the Daily Mail reports.

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The public hospital has a low rating on Google, averaging just two stars.

A website operated by the Istanbul Provincial Directorate of Health states that the hospital’s principles are “transparency and accountability [with] people at the focal point of the fairness of the health service that is excellent”.

The Sun has reached out to the hospital for comment.

Meanwhile, Luke told how he was then shocked when Turkish police initially accused him of poisoning and killing his wife after her shocking death.

She was being treated in intensive care, he said, before adding he was banned from seeing her.

Beth and Luke’s parents flew out the following day and were again kept in the dark.

They were then shocked to discover Beth had been transferred to another hospital overnight, due to “concerns with her heart”, with none of the family members informed.

Close friend Ellie, who travelled to Turkey to try and help, detailed her experience of what happened after Beth’s death.

She revealed that Beth was supposed to be transferred to a private clinic.

But the public hospital was slow to act and “stopped her” from doing so.

She told how the doctors were acting strangely.

Ellie explained: “All they went on about is ‘are you going to sue the hospital? Sign this bit of paper’.

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“I said: ‘Is there something we should be suing for? Do you know something we don’t? Because that’s really suspicious.'”

The family, who have not been told her cause of death, claim they were also forced to carry Beth in a body bag through the hospital.

She blasted the hospitals, saying: “The insurance company wanted to move her to a private hospital but the public hospital in Istanbul were not cooperating, they were being slow and delaying reports and not sending information over.

“They stopped her.”

She noted how suspicious it was that Beth’s hair was in “perfect” shape despite the mum undergoing “45 minutes of CPR”.

She speculated: “They said they did 45 minutes of CPR but anyone who has ever had CPR or has seen CPR knows how brutal it is.

“When I saw Beth in the morgue after she had her hair in two French plaits and they were perfect.

“There is no way they did CPR for 45 minutes, I know that,” she defiantly stated.”

She added that medical reports rule out food poisoning as a cause of death, but they still do not confirm how exactly the mum died.

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