Sydney to London Without a Plane by Lorna_North

Goodbye Farm, Hello Open Road

The windows were down, the music was up, the tank was full and we were on our way to Queensland.

I was travelling with farm colleagues, Francien from Holland and Patrick from fellow Blighty.

The day before we’d picked our very last courgette, put our knives away, hung up our buckets and said goodbye to the beautiful farm that had provided us with employment and a gruelling physical routine for the last 3 months.

We swapped the old rusty ute for a rented white Nissan Micra and we were heading North, to a new state to see what other adventures we could find.

On the first night we made it as far as Bellingen, a small town just inland from the coast.

Full of the optimism that comes with the first day of a road trip, we decided we would conserve our costs and sleep in the car.

Bearing in mind the car is called a ‘Micra’ it was hardly going to be a roomy abode and being vertically challenged, I was nominated for the back seat chamber (along with all the luggage) whereas Francien and Patrick  were designated the East and West wings at the front.

Earlier that day when we’d stopped in Tamworth, I thought I’d done the sensible thing by planning ahead and buying a pillow for a mere $2.

Later that night when I released the ‘pillow’ from its packaging I realised that the reason it was only $2 was because it was actually just pillow stuffing that disintegrated as soon as I lay my weary head on it.

Needless to say, none of us had a peaceful sleep, despite the futile attempt to knock ourselves out with several swigs from the vodka bottle.

I think I woke up 97 times during the night with the seat belt fastener places it just shouldn’t be, my legs dangling out of the door as an offering to the carnivorous mosquitos and bits of pillow stuffing stuck to my face like an imitation santa beard.

The following day, somewhat dazed, we got to the nearest point on the coast which was Coffs Harbour.

This time we checked into a hostel and went straight to bed for a siesta.  Considering we nearly forgot Patrick at the petrol station, we thought we could use a rest.

The hostel at Coffs Harbour was my first introduction to life on the Australian backpacker circuit.  Up until that point I’d only really lived in Australia, I’ve had proper bases and routines, I’ve only just begun backpacking.

I must say, east coast travelling lacks the wholesomeness of the backpacking I’ve done in the past. 

You can’t walk one metre without a sign spoonfeeding you instructions on how and where to do your laundry, go on the internet, get a brazilian…

I’m used to having to use sign language to get by, drawing stick men illustrations to find out my answers and as for laundry and internet, I’d be lucky if I got a bucket and a carrier pigeon.

So here it’s all a bit too easy and you don’t really feel like you overcome any great feat in travelling around here.

Anyway, when the three of us awoke from our slumber, we went down to the communal area for a game of cards and a glass of goon (goon is a travelling wine that comes in a bag and contains fish extracts.  When you’ve finished it you can blow the bag up and use it as a pillow).

Within moments, Francien’s long, tanned, European legs had caught the eyes of two Canadian boys who insisted we join them for cards.

Patrick and I were somewhat on the periphery of the game.  Patrick because he was male and me because what I thought was good old dry English humour was apparently considered offensive.  Tough crowd but I still found myself amusing.

Inevitably drinking game rules were applied.  One of the forfeits was having to wear the ‘goon hat’ which was basically a cardboard wine box with two eyeholes cut out of it, making the wearer look like a budget Ned Kelly impersonator.

Due to a number of bad choices in her game, Francien ended up having to wear the hat for most of the evening making her look far from cool.

The Canadian, however, insisted she looked gorgeous in this ridiculous hat which launched Patrick and I into fits of laughter at his desperate attempt to compliment her.

Perhaps that was the type of relentless mockery they found offensive in us Brits?

The next day, we were in the hippy chique town of Byron where we checked into a place called ‘The Arts Factory’.

Despite being relatively artistic myself, I felt horribly conventional in that little compound.  Most people were walking around in floaty curtains and had thick dreads cascading down their tattooed backs.

People sat at tables weaving twine, making some kind of bush jewellery and had cool names like ‘Cloud’ and ‘Cockatoo Paul’.

So seemingly the place oozed art and creatively but the longer I looked around the more conventional everyone became.

I soon learnt that Byron comes under great scrutiny for its ‘faux-hippy’ vibe.

Back in the day it was a hippy sanctuary but over the years, with its rise in popularity, its become more commercial with designer shops and classy boutiques- so now people are wearing designer curtains instead of the old drapes out of the caravan.

Therefore, Byron is now a style and that’s why the Arts Factory, despite its murals and carrot juice, didn’t actually give off the real artist commune kind of vibe.

The penultimate stop of the trip was the little town of Nimbin.

Nimbin is not a place for the motivated.  Not somewhere Obama needed to go when he was trying to write his speech or indeed a travel writer with a back log of work she needs to rustle up.

You enter through a misty haze and for some reason, you start to move really slowly, you find everything really amusing and you want to eat everything in sight.

I just couldn’t work it out.  Those cookies were good though, and that purple dragon that made me a dandelion necklace.

So that concludes out little road trip up to Queensland. 

Patrick and Francien dropped me off at Bond University near the neon glare of Surfer’s Paradise where I finally got my long anticipated reunion with my boyfriend Stokesy after two months separation.

Zucchinis

I left the farm just before Christmas to go and spend a few festive days with Stokesy who had kindly offered to save me from my “Bondi Orphan” fate and provide me with a surrogate family when mine were so far away.

We spent New Year in Sydney with some friends and before I knew it, my little holiday was over and I was back on that train to Tamworth.

This time I went up with a little more forbodence as this stint on the farm was to be for a longer period of 2 months straight and I would be dealing with something reputed to be far tougher than the snow pea.

This time, I would be picking zucchinis, or courgettes to us.

For some reason, a courgette is a vegetable that always seems to command your respect.  When you are picking one, it’s almost as though it sizes you up, to make sure you will be handling it with adequate delicateness.

They are a vain vegetable.  A beautiful courgette is celebrated like some Olympian deity, fulfilling the credentials of idealistic beauty and God forbid if you leave the slightest mark on it when you extract it from the bush with your knife.

The bush itself is something of a bastard.  Its broad leaves have very fine but very sharp prickles all over them that scratch and irritate your skin leaving you with an enormous red and lumpy rash all the way up your arms.  To prevent this we have to wear a long sleeve top and marigolds and trust me, the last thing you want to be wearing in 30 degree heat is a pair of rubber gloves.

After a few hours work, you take the gloves off and literally pour out your own sweat. 

I’ve never had a job that is so physically demanding.  You spend the day bent over a bush, lifting out these prize courgettes and carefully placing them into your bucket.  Then you walk up and down multitudes of rows, looking into every bush, lugging around your heavy load. 

You certainly lose weight, and probably a bit of your mind.

There is a lot more technique to courgettes than with snow peas.  A courgette any shorter than the length of your hand is too small but you have to make sure you pick it before it gets too big.  Sometimes if you leave it for an afternoon it will be too late as they grow before your eyes.

Shape is as important as size.  Anything with a point is a big “no no” as these go rotten very quickly.  The ideal courgette looks a bit like a big dildo……apparently. 

These are the ones that you must snap out of that bush as they sell like hot cakes, anything under par is thrown off the conveyer belt into the reject bin.

Like I said, courgettes are a vain vegetable.  Especially organic.

I’m now half way though my stay.  I think I will leave around the end of February and head up the coast.

Apart from the savage manual labour and chronic muscle strain, I’ve been having a laugh.  There are three other girls working with me at the moment, one from Holland and two from Germany who have provided a lot of entertainment.

The four of have acquired a bashed up old ute that looks like it was the first one ever invented.  It’s missing the handbrake, its mirrors, actually, pretty much all of the important bits and you have to practically kick the gear stick into place but we love it. 

We all take turns tearing around the paddock in it and squeeze three of us in the front and one on the back along with all the dogs and of course, the precious courgettes. 

The person in the middle changes the gear because they’re legs are in the way of the driver and short people, like me have to wiggle up to the very front and perch on the edge of the seat to reach the peddles.

Even though it looks like the first ute ever introduced to Australia, it’s got character and it goes and makes us four little Europeans very happy amidst the monotony of our courgette picking.

Snow Peas

I ended up leaving Sydney in quite a hurry and was on the train up to Tamworth quicker than I had thought, leaving me to throw all my clothes into the charity shop, stuff everything into my rucksack, bid farewell to my lovely little kiwi housemates and make a dash for the country.

I must take this opportunity to apologise to my good friend Jackie who I met at one of my temping jobs in the city for not having the chance to say goodbye in the rush of departure.  I will no doubt be seeing her again however because my farm work contributes to a second visa in Australia so I could be here a while longer.  I’m hoping she will come up for a party in Queensland when I eventually get up there in February.

I was ready for the farm by the time I left, ready to put my back into it, to get a sense of clarity and shed the woes caused by the somewhat shallow ways of Sydney. 

But like most things I do which seem to be from one extreme to the next, there was still a steep learning curve to shimmy up.

The farmer is a man who doesn’t suffer fools.  He and his lovely wife often open their farm and home to those seeking a bit of cash, perhaps a second visa or just for the aussie farm experience and rely on solid, strong workers to make sure their veggie season is a success.

You have to work hard.  Bloody hard.  You have to prove you can do it, earn the farmer’s trust, shut up and do as you are told to the best of your ability under pressure and there is no excuse for slacking.

With a set up like this, its hard not to want to try, to gain his respect and in my case prove that I’m not some little city girl that would rather paint her nails than get covered head to toe in chicken fertilizer (which really stinks by the way).

I’ve often been at the receiving end of an absolute bollocking.  Things like driving the ute into a sunken water spring and getting the 4x4 bogged after a big rain storm in the space of an hour were not viewed lightly and received due criticism.

But after a good telling off, I only ever want to try harder, to prove that I can survive on a farm, that I’m not completely hopeless and can do it just as well as someone who’s been here for 50 years.  Well, sort of.

And when I’ve got that kind of determination in my eyes, the farmer gives me a wry smile and I know I’m out of the dog house.  Praise is rarely spoken but you’ll know when you’ve done well and you feel like a sheep dog contently trotting off for its bone after receiving a pat on the head for a good day’s work

The work itself is not particularly inspiring.  Other than general tasks around the farm, you can normally find me hovering over a long row of snow pea bushes, picking all the best ones and dropping them into a bucket.  A snow pea, by the way is what we British call “mange tout”.

Myself and the other pickers can be out there from about 8am till 6pm either in the heat or in the rain, laboriously working through row after row of dangling peas, bent down for hours on end. 

Going back after our lunch break is often a struggle, I normally hit about 3 walls in a day, pushing myself through them, training my eye not to see peas but hanging diamonds.

My hayfever always makes things harder.  When you are allergic to the countryside it makes working conditions something of a nightmare.  There seems to be some noxious plant that grabs me by the throat every single day, causing my head feel about 7 times the size and making my eyes so itchy I want to gauge them out with my finger nails.

There are no days off on the farm.  You are off at half six day in and day out and there are no excuses for a half hearted attitude.  Once we’ve picked the quota of peas that have been ordered, we then spend a few hours weighing them into 1 kg bags, packing them into boxes and loading them onto the lorry which ultimately delivers our peas to  major Australian supermarkets like Coles and Woolworths. 

It’s thirsty work.  And like I said some days you want to torch the paddock, when all you can think about are peas, all you dream about are peas and always accompanying your evening dinner are, yes, peas.

But for me, its not just about picking peas, it’s about being away from all those stuffy Sydney offices, it’s about being in the beautiful countryside, not staring at a computer.  It’s about the simple solutions, something gets in your way, like an ant or a thistle, you stamp on it rather than reasoning for half an hour with the company accountant why it’s their job to do the visa statements, not yours.

Most days there is sense of comraderie- everyone knows it’s shit work but everyone mucks in equally and there is no room for tantrums or politics. 

On the farm you get on with it, you get it done and you harden up. 

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