The Sweet Fruit Of Harsh Conditions

Luis Arnaya Espinosa picks table grapes at a ranch outside Hermosillo, Mexico, where temperatures routinely top 100 degrees during harvest season. (By Manuel Roig-franzia -- The Washington Post)

HERMOSILLO, Mexico

So much sun. Blistering, brutal sun.

Eyes squint. Hats get tugged down tight. But there's no escaping the rays. They bounce off the desert floor, transforming the horizon into a wavy, woozy blur.

Aide Espinosa sees it all through the narrowest of slits in the red bandannas she pulls over her mouth, her nose, her forehead. Wrapped like this, she sheds her identity, falling into line with dozens of other faceless men and women in the vineyards of the Sonoran Desert.

It's 7:45 a.m., but the temperature has already topped 80 degrees. It will get hotter, as Espinosa knows, up to 102 degrees by midday. Sweat darkens her bandannas, although her workday has barely begun.

As April gives way to May and June and the Chilean grape crop runs out, it is Mexico's turn to send table grapes to U.S. grocery stores. The fruit comes from the harshest of environments, vineyards watered by wells that plunge as deep as 450 feet below the Sonoran Desert's parched, dusty surface.

Last year, 213 million tons of table grapes -- most of them from these fields in the state of Sonora -- flowed from Mexico to the United States. The grapes are harvested by itinerant workers, women like Espinosa, 31, who ride buses that crisscross Mexico's seasonal agricultural landscape. Grapes today. Maybe tomatoes next. It doesn't matter to Espinosa -- she'll pick anything.

The fields are her life's canvas. Between rows of grapes, she met a husband, raised a son, left behind her 20s. She daydreams most of the time, slipping into a trancelike state, lost in the rhythm of the work. Clip, stuff, label. Clip, stuff, label.

Most of her family is with her. One row over, her son, Alvaro Orona, 16, squats beneath the canopy of a vine heavy with red Flame grapes. A few steps away, her husband, Luis Arnaya Espinosa, stoops to lift a bright orange tub.

It's quiet, the workers still shaking off sleep. But by 8:20, Alvaro can't take the silence anymore -- he's not as Zen about this work as his mom. He reaches into his pocket and pushes a button.

A heavy guitar chord blares out of his cellphone, which he has loaded with music.

"These hands are stained red for all the times that I've killed you so passionately in my dreams," the lead singer screeches. "Bad thoughts."