By Amanda Allanson
I grew up on a banana plantation in Carnarvon. Because I went to boarding school at New Norcia, I recall vividly the holiday atmosphere at home.
The women sat and talked while they prepared the butts (the root or bulb of the banana palm, fleshy and easily cut, which was then planted with the “eye” at the top). The women also prepared the picnic lunches when the men came in from planting the butts.
I loved playing among the palms in the cool green light, heedless of the warnings to watch out for snakes. We watched the bunches develop, hoping no disaster occurred to destroy the crop.
At harvest time, I watched the men chopping down the heavy bunches with their machetes and hefting them on their shoulders to carry to the packing shed, which was little more than a lean to with the walls thatched with banana trash.
I remember the rush and bustle to remove the hands from the bunch and have them packed in time for the afternoon collection, and the relief when the deadline was met. We listened to the Country Hour on the radio, hoping to hear that all the hard work netted a decent price. Plantation life was very hard for the adults, but I loved the space and the freedom.