Wednesday 17 December 2014

A Farmers Life

                          

 
Everyone who travels Australia knows that if they want to prolong their trip longer than a year, they at some point have to face the dreaded 3 months of 'farm work'. It's Australia's way of asking travelers to give something back to their society - its not like you haven't done enough already by spending copious amounts in their bottle shops, at their travel desks and more likely than not you've been running the local Police Station, wages and all, from the amount of speeding fines they've kindly rewarded you with (usually given by an officer covered in leaves camouflaged in a bush somewhere). I'm not saying farm work isn't a great experience. But it does make you wonder whether it will be worth it in the end.

Perhaps I was just unlucky, however after deciding to partake in a grueling 24 hour drive across two states to milk some cows things didn't turn out as rosy as you'd think...

Firstly there's the acquiring of the job. This part is easy. You turn up, you get the job. The interview is short/non existent; there isn't much to say about previous experience in milking cows. You have none. You both know that the closest you've actually been to a cow would've been in the 'Animal Farm' section of a zoo (a section you shouldn't have even visited without a 3 year old in tow). But really, how hard can it be? And the farmer seems nice. However, you learn quickly. For instance, if a farmer asks you to herd cows on the first night at 11pm - don't go. It's not normal. Further to that, if a farmer asks if you feel confident to drive a quad bike through a pitch black field - decline. Not for the danger of careering into a cow, but for the danger of heavy unwanted petting down the back of your neck and for massages that you haven't requested. Thankfully every cloud has its lining; you're the one in control of this bike, you can determine the speed you get back to safety in - oh wait - no you can't. You quickly learn that cows walk at the pace of a snail and even if they didn't you don't even know how to change gears on this thing never mind how to drive it at speed. So instead you have an awkward 10 minutes with your new boss pressed up against you who's turning out to be really persistent with that massaging.

Ideally this is when you opt out of the whole experience. However there is no 'ideal' when it comes to farming. You need those 89 days so you push any worries aside, decline the lovely offer from the farmer to live with him for free (you'd rather pay extortionate amounts to live in a wooden hut than with this creep - oh and his wife) and turn up at 4.30am the next day for your first milking. Dairy farming is hard work. You've milked 360 cows before 6.30am and you've been shit on 3 times at least. You also have to grasp the new farm lingo, 'heifers', 'dry cow', 'fresh cow', 'springer', 'Holstein' (who knew there could be so many cows?), you have to listen to hour long conversations about soil, you stand there and nod without saying a word for fear of sounding like the village idiot that knows nothing about dirt. All of this is done whilst battling with 20,000 flies that are casually attacking your face and you wonder why no one else seems to be bothered by these persistent little ***@@@S!  

Then there are the non-milking jobs, like herding the new born calves and taking them on a little 'trips'. Later you find out these 'trips' were actually to the slaughter house as these cows are of no use to anyone, you realise how cut throat farmers have to be. Literally. Then there's delivering the struggling  new born calves, its clear that you are not qualified to do this but the farmer insists its fine, 'just put your arm up and have a feel'. You are obliged for fear of being sacked and you don’t even ask for a glove for fear of looking like a princess in-front of this rural gang. Who are you? Then there's the herding. You are presented with a two wheeler dirt bike. Act breezy. Can't be that hard. Wrong. Within 10 minutes you've dropped it on your leg 5 times, you can't press down hard enough to get it started (probably due to the excessive rust), and you've been given approximately 3 minutes 'to get a feel for it' before heading to the field (or alternatively into the farmers new post box, that'll teach him for massaging me) to 'cut' a herd. Not once is a helmet mentioned regardless of you visibly losing control several times already and conveniently the cows now seem to be able to move slightly faster than they did on that first night…. Then it's back to the milking shed for the second milking of the day. You are bruised and aching and still have to milk another 360 cows and be shit on another 3 times. It'll be worth the $700 a week and second year visa right?

Its not. You work for 2 months with the promise of being paid. A promise never fulfilled so you decide to cut your losses, throw towel in and walk away with $500 in your pocket for two months work and no sign of a visa.

Now it's onto potato farming. The company is legitimate (they even asked for your tax number). The job: 'Potato Grader'. A job fuelled by potato discrimination, who am I to judge if a potato makes the shop floor or not? Just because it doesn’t look like a standard potato doesn't mean it won't be fluffy inside. But it’s a tough world and not all potatoes can make the cut. After 8 hours a day 5 days a week flinging 'bad potatoes' off a conveyer belt you begin to lose your mind. This leads you to reminisce over everything that’s ever happened in your life trying to find any hidden meanings, and when you are done with that you just start naming potatoes, Patricia, Petunia, Patrick, Penelope......     

What you learn from farm work - firstly not to give up, secondly don't be taken for a mug, and thirdly don't trust people and what they say. I'm sure there are a lot of legitimate farmers out there but still be wary. It can push you to your limits but on the flip side you will always find someone willing to help your situation and those are the ones you should remember and be grateful for.


 

Wednesday 10 December 2014

The Going Away

"Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by new ideas, intoxicated by the romance of the unusual." - Ernest Hemingway
 The thought comes to us all at some stage of our mundane, boring lives; 'what the hell am I doing here!?' Usually this thought springs to mind whilst watching our middle-aged, balding co-workers slurp their coffees over their crumb ridden keyboards for their 7th year in a row or by watching our school friends actually grow up, settle down with their partners and talk about marriage, houses and babies. All this happens whilst you still haven't had that promotion, you can't find anyone that wants anything more than sex with you (and that's on a good week), you still can't find your way home after a night out (to a house you've lived in for more than 22 years might I add), and lets face it, if you were to have a baby, you'd probably just leave it somewhere and lose it. So, some of us push this thought to the side and plough on, it's just called being a responsible adult. Plus it's not all bad, I mean two days off a week... the things you could do! Others however (like myself) act upon such a thought and instinctively throw the towel in within the next few minutes. This is then followed by an impulsive purchase of a one way ticket to the other side of the world, which is then followed by a sense of euphoria of how you've just conquered all life's problems within the space of 24 hours…


Then you realise what you've actually done. Shit. There's no turning back, your friends now think you are this new fun, living life for the minute kind of person. It’s a nice branding; you don’t want to lose it. So instead you get drunk and invite everyone you meet (be it for 2 minutes or more) to join you on this 'magical adventure'. You become a travel sales person over night with the logic if you can just get one friend to come things would be so much less daunting. You find the drunker people get the more up for it they are, but then when the intoxications are diffused from their systems the next day the 'joint travel' plan is never mentioned again and you are back to that feeling...


Give it a week and it's sunk in. You find yourself surrounded by Lonely Planet books planning each stage of your journey step by step… or not. You actually never purchase a Lonely Planet, or any other kind of travel book or map for that matter and decide its best to 'wing it'. You're this new free flight bird with no strings attached. Do what you want, when you want.


Then you have the leaving parties. The goodbye work, goodbye friends and goodbye family functions. When these begin it dawns on you that you can't just leave for two weeks you've happened to have milked everything way too much for that. It's almost like attending your own funeral 3 times over. People are giving speeches, cards, presents, I mean it's a massive ego boost these people actually seem to like and care about you, so why are you leaving!? Shit. Again. But it's too late now there's definitely no turning back, you've got to do at least 6 months whether you hate it or not after all this fuss you've created, plus there's those 6 bottles of leaving present sun cream you've got to get through.


The functions are over, its time to pack. Your flight is in less than 24 hours and you'd think you would have started this before now. You look at your wardrobe, then back at the newly bought (or borrowed if you are unorganised like me, I doubt my friend will need it for another D of E Expedition in the next year) backpack and you just think 'how?' Packing is a chore for a one week holiday, times that by 52 and you know what I'm saying. It turns out everything doesn't fit, and if it does you have to be a hulk to lift it an inch off the floor, never mind getting it on your back to manoeuvre around the world with. Shit. There's now the long task of whittling down what you will and wont need, its not like you know where you are going (maybe that Lonely Planet would've been a good idea), never mind what you will need. Then there's the added drama of fitting the double bed sheet in, as lets face it, you don't even know what the word 'hostel' means never mind what they look like or if you will be willing to let any part of your skin touch any surface in them. If you have to cocoon yourself in something, this fresh double sheet is going to be the best thing since sliced bread. Once everything is in (usually after several attempts with different folding techniques), you take a step back and look at what you have created. This is where you realise you've made the right choice to leave - you've just fitted everything you own in life into a 45 litre backpack – it's a pretty sad thought.


Lastly there's the airport, the worst leg of the going away journey. It's the goodbyes, the last coffee or alcoholic shot (family dependent) together for maybe a year. You know its not going to be easy but you have the excitement to help with this, the family they don’t, they have the worry of losing what they've created and cared for, for so long (they probably think too long). They wonder as you pass through the gate if you'll even be able make it onto the right plane, and if you do whether you will have more than half of your belongings still with you, presuming they haven't already been scattered around the departure lounge or left in the car. The airport outing brings emotion, there's tears, both female and male (just saying Dad), there's tissues and sniffling, there's nerves, then when you're past the security barriers - there's just you – all alone ready to have that impulsive trip of a lifetime.