Sydney to London Without a Plane by Lorna_North

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.