Working holiday – Page 4 – stories from a drifter

I’ve Found Something

July 1, 2015August 5, 2015 driftermanguy1 Comment

I can’t get the smell of cow piss and shit off my hands.

I worked on a 230-cow dairy farm for the first time today. It is about 5 minutes from the Hobbiton movie set and fuck me if it isn’t one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Rolling green hills sit next to the Kaimai ranges with long white clouds above which part only for a minute to reveal golden sunshine that blankets the fields. Light rain falls intermittently but I am too covered in cow excrement to care. I keep looking for sneaky barefooted Hobbitses but I haven’t found any yet.

I met the farmer last night. Digger, 21, works the entire farm by himself for most of the year besides calving and milking season which starts in about two weeks. What a badass life. He said his budget is really tight, so he won’t be able to pay me much but I don’t mind. I have been applying for WWOOFing. It stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, or Willing Workers on Organic Farms, where volunteers work on a farm for 4-6 hours a day in exchange for food and accommodation. I just want to get on a farm so I’ll pretty much do anything at this point.

I’m not sure where I found this urge to learn farming. I was about halfway through my working holiday in Australia when I realized I didn’t want to go back to the states. Americans only have working holiday agreements with 5 countries — Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, South Korea and Singapore — so the next logical step was to go to New Zealand. Only a three hour flight from Australia and they have many cultural similarities. I was growing tired of pulling beers, waiting tables and pretending to be nice to people so I knew I wanted to try something new. Where Australia has grown rich from its mineral exports, New Zealand is an agrarian country so I figured that would be the best place to find a job.

A quick vocabulary lesson:

Paddock: A sectioned off field. Cows are moved from paddock to paddock on the farm depending on how much grass has grown and which spot is most convenient for the farmer.
Heifers: Young female cows that haven’t had their first calf yet. They are crazy cunts and they aren’t comfortable being in the milking shed.
Yard: The concrete area where the cows are pushed into where they congregate and shit and piss on each other before they are ready to be pushed into the milking shed.
Milking Shed: This farm has a herringbone layout which means there is a pit about a meter deep with two rows of cows on either side. The milker stands in the pit to put the milking suction cups on the utters on the cows that have their asses right in your face on either side so you are in a constant danger of being covered in projectile liquid shit and high powered piss.

Lane: The bumpy road that connects the paddocks to the yard. Once you open a gate of a paddock, the cows will slowly but surely follow each other down the road. At first a walk, then a slow trot then sometimes a full on stampede.
Draft: Separating and sorting the cows that are calving soon from those that aren’t.
Gumboots: The almost-knee-high waterproof rubber boots worn by most farmers.

After one day on a farm, I’m in love. It’s even better than I expected. I helped Digger draft his cows today. He picked me up in his mud and shit covered 1990 4WD Sierra jeep and took me to his farm. We went straight to the paddock with his heifers. The two-wheeler farm bike was parked next to it. First task of the day was teaching the greenhorn how to ride. Digger basically just told me how to change gears and where the clutch, gas and breaks are.

“Awright, give it a go.”

I didn’t really look where I was going as I was too focused on trying to go forward. I nearly took out an electrified wire fence which was about 10 meters in front of me but I was able to stop the bike and not fall off. A miracle. There’s something special about riding an offroad bike around a muddy farm in New Zealand. Probably one of the most badass things I’ve ever done. After I got a hang of the bike, we had to make sure the gates in the yard and milking shed were opened and closed accordingly before the cows are let into the lane.

My job was to drive the bike up the end of the lane and make sure the cows go into the yard while Digger took up the rear with his truck. The only experience I’ve had with cows by this point in my 24 years is doing solo day hikes around Ireland and coming face to face with gangs of cows that gave me pretty fearsome stare downs. Honestly, I was kind of terrified of them. And now I have over 100 cows running straight for me and I’m supposed to tell them where to go and the only other person on the farm is on the other side of these cows. I see them start to run toward me and I’m trying desperately to pull the motorbike out of the way but it fell over and now I have to pick it up and damn it is heavy and here they come now.

They see me and they stop dead in their tracks. I have no idea what I’m doing. I clap. I yell. I bend at the knees and pat my hands on my thighs like I’m beckoning a dog. I do the third-base-coach-turn-into-home motion but they don’t play baseball. I start walking and skipping up to the yard. Eventually the cows get the idea and they run up into the yard. Except for about 10 stragglers.

I thought I was the king of the cows but they all of the sudden they all turn around and stampede back down the lane and now I bet Digger thinks I’m the worst farmhand ever because I can’t keep the cows in one place but then he drives up and honks his horn and they come back. Phew. These are heifers, Digger explains, so they have never been in the milking shed before so be careful, they are unpredictable. It’s a constant struggle but he manages to get the first lot into their neat little rows with all their asses hanging off the railing and all their piss and shit flops down into the pit right where I’m supposed to stand and pull the shit covered lever which opens the gate to let through a few cows at a time so Digger has time to sort out the ones he has spray painted which means they have big utters which means they will drop their little baby cows soon and they want to all run out at the same time so it’s difficult to close the gate but Digger says you just have to shut it real quick right in front of their big dumb heads and that will scare them and they will jump back and he was right.

We get one mob through and then Digger has to get in the yard and push them all forward. I’m standing in front of the milking shed and Digger tells me to stand off to the side so that I don’t scare them because they don’t like Americans. One of the cows gets spooked and shoves her head through the gate and manages to fit her whole body through and she bends the lever that brings it up and down. That cow is a fucking gay slut cunt because Digger just fixed that gate two days ago and now he has to fix it again. Now the gate is broken so all the cows run through and I’m told to let them go because they might break something else. Fucking heifers.

Next we bring in the old veterans. I take the truck and he takes the bike and we drive down and open up the gate and let them walk up to the yard. I take up the rear and by the time the last cow is in the yard the rest are all ready neatly lined up in the cow shed. These old ladies know this game. They listen to the guy who has been feeding them and milking them and taking care of them.

After all the cows have been drafted and are happy and in their appropriate paddocks it’s time to hose down the yard. I can’t believe how much water is used to clear out the extreme amount of delicious pies and soups the cows left for us. And during milking season this is done twice a day. What a terrible waste of water. Oh well this is how it’s done. I’m a greenhorn so I shouldn’t question anything.

We’ve been working for about 5 hours now and since I’m not really getting paid it’s time to go for a feed. We get a big bucket of KFC and then Digger says he will buy me a new pair of Gumboots to cover my wages for the day and I think that sounds great because I actually had a lot of fun today and I learned a lot. I don’t want to leave. I want to live on the farm. I want to walk outside and be among the cows and shit and piss and hills and clean air. But he can’t pay me until milking starts because the farm owner is a tight ass even though he is a millionaire who own this dairy farm, a goat farm, a farm supply store in town and a bunch of other shit.

Today was more fulfilling and satisfying than any day I have ever worked in a god damn office job. Answering emails and attending office meetings is the most depressing thing I’ve ever done compared to moving two groups of cows through a milking shed and sorting them and chasing cows on a farm bike and nearly falling face first into a bit slippery pile of muddy shit. This is what I want to do and if you told me that two years ago when I was a little kid graduating from James Madison University I would tell you to go get fucked.

My Equine Friend

June 28, 2015August 5, 2015 driftermanguyLeave a comment

I’m in Te Aroha. A little rural down in the shadow of a big mountain range. Or at least it looks big to me.

I decide to go for a walk along the Waiorongomai Valley. Don’t ask me to say it. It’s been 10 days in New Zealand and the names keep growing in difficulty. It’s a beautiful walk up a former gold mine. It’s the golden hour. Photographer’s dream. Just before sunset. I’m just out for a quick walk to take some pictures and check out the scene.

It’s getting darker by the minute so I head back down to the car park. I walk by four horses grazing on the hill with a wire fence right next to the foot path. I crouch down low and stop to take some shots of them with a backdrop of cow fields, farms, and orange, pinkish hues hitting the clouds. I sit there for two minutes looking through my lens. I don’t think they mind me. One of the two horses I am observing suddenly forgets about the delicious grass in front of her and walks directly toward me, as if in a trance. She ignores me and is apparently only interested in the patch of grass sitting in front of me. I put my hand out to her head and she shoves it down her left nostril, breathing hot air on my hand. That’s all she has time for. She lets me pet her head while she vehemently chews on her grass.

Then she turns around and saunters off into the sunset.

The animals are more friendly than the humans in this town. I went to the Information center, as I always do when I come to a new town, and asked if there is any free camping in the area. Now, sometimes this question is greeted with a big smile and kind words of advice. In other towns you are basically told to Fuck Off. The nice ones are always old ladies who have lived in the town their whole lives and now they are retired so they volunteer a few days a week to keep busy and talk to folks. For example, I went to the Hamilton Gardens and asked for a map.

Have you ever been here before? No? OK, let me get you oriented.”

This was proceeded by a five minute monologue on every detail to be seen at the Hamilton Gardens. I love these ladies. They made my days bright and optimistic. Then there are ladies who don’t like people like me. I ask about free camping and they look at me like I have Leprocy. I ask about the Thermal Pools, which I saw a sign for, and she points in that direction. No explanation of what it is like, no pointing it out on the map. Just a big fat get-the-fuck-out-it’s-over-there.

Animals would never treat someone like that.

No Plans

June 28, 2015October 2, 2022 driftermanguyLeave a comment

On my first day in Hamilton I was walking along the Waikato River. It looks like the Shenandoah but the current is much stronger and the foliage looks strangely tropical even though it isn’t.

Do you have any spare cigarettes?” a middle-aged Kiwi man flanked by three women asks me.

“No, sorry, I quit about four days ago and I feel great,” I reply.

“Are you American?” one of his friends immediately shouts as soon as she hears my accent.

“Is Obama still President?”

“Was Clinton President?”

“Is Hillary Clinton going to be President?”

“Where are you from?”

“Is Virginia a state?”

“Where is West Virginia?”

“West Virginia is to the west of Virginia,” I reply drawing a smile from her friends.

At this point her more reserved companion says, “OK, let the man enjoy his walk.”

I’m about to leave when I think to myself, four people chilling by the side of the river on a beautiful Friday afternoon…

“Do you guys have any weed?” I inquire.

“Ha, we just smoked a joint, bro,” the man says.

“Do you have any I could buy?”

The woman who attempted to quiet her friend reaches into her purse and pulls out a small piece of aluminum foil with a delicious green herb inside. About enough for a joint.

I take it and look at it. “Smell it, man!” the guy says.

I decide it is worth the $10 she asks for and I wish them a good day and head back to my van.

I haven’t smoked in a week and I managed to quit smoking cigarettes cold turkey. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. It was mostly an economical decision. The price of tobacco in New Zealand is even worse than the hellish rates in Australia.

I drive to the Westview Club and Motor Inn. Ten dollars a night for a place to park my van, plus showers and laundry. I don’t feel a desire to smoke the weed yet. I have work to do. This will be my second night in this van and it still doesn’t feel like it’s mine. I need to make an inventory list. Nearly two hours and five full pages in my journal later, I’ve catalogued every item that Brett and Haley left inside of Pam. Some highlights:

2 Waterproof jackets (I was very close to buying one in Auckland)
2 Waterproof pants (Also in need of these)
Sleeping bag rated to -7C
2 Burner Campmaster Stove
Refillable LPG tank
30 litre water jug
Yoga mat
Tarp
Trekking Pole
Wool Sweater (Total English hipster look)
Cooking and eating utensils for 2
Fish fillet knife
Tool box with everything needed to make repairs to the custom made interior
Books: NZ guides, books on living green and growing plants and a printed out guide to NZ native berries
Collection of 50 CDs of eclectic taste
Much, much more

I was feeling very happy with this. Last night this was someone else’s van and I was just visiting. Tonight, this is my van and I’m happy with it. I know everything that is in here. Also, when you drive a big, old van with a bed in the back, cute girls pull up next to you at stoplights and honk and wave and smile. Time to smoke half of this joint and write in my journal.

Leigh told me she only writes happy things in her journal so that when she reads back she will be happy. I said that’s not being truthful. Everyone gets sad. The really depressing shit is the best part of writing a journal because you read it and realize you’ve struggled but you’ve moved past that now and everything is OK. Maybe. Or maybe it isn’t. At least you know where you were and where you are now.

I like traveling alone. I feel like all my life I’ve been surrounded by different groups of friends or different groups of people that compel me to act in a certain way. Come drink this now, come smoke this now, come do this now. Now I am just [REDACTED]. Everything I do is what [REDACTED] wants to do. It is sad leaving friends, but I think spending time on your own and realizing who you are is one of the most important things in life. I always think of Uncle Iroh’s message to Prince Zuku:

“Is it your own destiny or is it a destiny someone else has tried to force on you…It’s time for you to look inward and start asking yourself the big questions: who are you and what do you want?”

I fall asleep effortlessly, listening to the relaxing sound of raindrops on the roof.

What Am I Doing?

June 28, 2015August 5, 2015 driftermanguyLeave a comment

I’m scared. And loney. I’m driving down a narrow road surrounded by farms. It’s pitch black. I bought this van three hours ago. I don’t know it well enough to be doing this. Why did I leave the comfort of the hostel in the Auckland CBD where Netflix plays all day to an ever-changing crowd of travelers? Why did I leave the beautiful Chilean girl who spoke to me in Spanish because, “Entiendo mas que puedo hablar”? How did I end up driving a 1987 Mitsubishi L300 Cyclone converted into a campervan by Brett and Hayley, two 30-something hippies from England, through New Zealand at 9 p.m. with no destination in mind?

I want to be with friends and family. I want to be comfortable. I want to be around friendly faces. I know this feeling will pass. It always does. I drive 50 K south of Auckland and turn off and look for somewhere to park and sleep for the night. This isn’t my van. I don’t know what’s in here. This isn’t my stuff. Shit. This is just a small suburb with one lonely road leading out. I drive down hoping for a small pull off or car park or some point of interest. The oil and battery light flash on the dashboard and I stall out. I’ve only driven this monster for one hour I’m not used to it’s intricacies yet. Fuck. The road turns to gravel.

This isn’t an offroad vehicle,” Brett told me when I asked how Pam, their name for the van, handles gravel roads.

I drive 25 more kilometers south on State Highway 1 and see the iconic rest area sign I recognize from Australia — where drivers are constantly berated with signs like “STOP REVIVE SURVIVE” — and I think I’ve found salvation. I pull off the highway and check out the town. It’s small, quiet and dark. I’ve lost track of the rest area signs but I see a small playground up ahead with a car park. I guess this will have to do for the night.

I get out of the van and walk around to the sliding door on the passenger side and a security car drives by. I wave and try to mind my own business but they turn around and pull up next to me.

“Hey mate, how’s it going?

“Uhh, good thanks.”

“Are you planning on staying here for the night?”

“Uhh, no. Yes? Am I allowed to?”

“Well… Yea, I think you are, but you might as well drive up the road by the rugby pitch. There’s toilets up there and it’s safer than this place.”

“Oh, really? Is it free?”

“Yea, it’s just a bit down the road and then turn up right the hill.”

Well, damn. What a great first interaction with kiwis outside of the big city. I drive to the rugby pitch and there’s a big rent-a-caravan parked there. A welcome sight. I crawl into the bed and prepare for my first night in this foreign vehicle. I’m still on edge. I regret buying this van.

I took it for a test drive with Brett while Hayley went to her yoga class. It was fun to drive and felt pretty solid and reliable for being 28 years old and having 410,000 K on the odometer. Plus it was stocked with camping supplies and the bed looked amazing. He was asking $1,750. We get back to the car park by the wharf — “This is the cheapest parking in Auckland,” he said — and I have no intention of buying it. It would be better to wait for a better deal. To have some fun, I bust into my PawnStars persona. I ask when they are leaving New Zealand. In four days. Ok, I say, well I’m gonna keep looking but I’ll let you know by Monday if I want to buy the van. I could give you like $1,200 right now but I think I’ll keep seeing what else is around.

Brett gets really quiet and pensive at the mention of an offer on his 28-year-old beast. Hayley thanks me for checking it out but Brett and I are still playing the game. He is desperate. This is the first offer he’s gotten. I am about to turn to leave. He breaks the silence and says,

I’ll take $1,200. Cash.”

I didn’t expect him to take an offer that low. I guess I’m buying this thing now. We shake hands. It’s done. It’s mine.

I’m stuck with my own thoughts in this van. I pull up the Egyptian cotton sheets, down duvet, cotton blanket, and 2 itchy wool blankets and I immediately feel a cool breeze coming from underneath me. I shift to the middle of the assortment of blankets to provide more insulation from below. Now I’m comfortable, but I can’t sleep. I feel trapped. I’ve made a huge mistake, echoing Michael Bluth. What have I done? What am I doing? I read some of my book, Adultery, by Paulo Coehlo author of, The Alchemist, one of my favorite books. I picked this up at the Sydney airport when my flight was delayed. The book depresses me even more. The protagonist reflects on her life decisions and realizes she’s not the person she thought she was. Great. This is really helping, Paulo.

I think back to The Alchemist. There were times when Santiago felt like giving up on his quest for his Personal Legend. The Alchemist tells the young shepherd from Andalusia,

“Don’t give in to your fears. If you do, you won’t be able to talk to your heart…There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.”

I know these feelings will pass. I know my experience here will be amazing. I know this is only temporary. I know I have to live in the present. I think back to driving into the first town. I was scared. Terrified. I’m alone. The engine is under the passenger seat and I can feel it’s vibrations. The vibrations give me energy. I’m terrified but I’m happy. I feel like howling. I’m free. I feel alive.