Moving on: St. George

We left Gayndah late in the afternoon on Wednesday, May 30th after our heartbreaking goodbye to the German girls, a last load of laundry, and some lunch. Our destination: St. George, Queensland following another of our German friends, Henning. We managed to get him a job in Gayndah and now he was returning the favor. Australian geography is not your forte, I’ll offer a quick lesson. A high majority of Australians live on the coastline – either in or between the big cities (Darwin, Cairns, Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide, or Perth). The farther inland you go, the more likely you are to find kangaroos or emus than people. St. George, as it happens to lie, is the second to last town inland. Really, only one small town lies between St. George and the center of Australia – vast expanses of desert uninhabited by humans.

The drive was somber and long at about 700 km. The scenery in the Outback is very much the same throughout: shrubs, bushes, and the occasional gumtree. That is until we neared about the halfway point of the trip when the bushes and shrubs turned into seemingly endless wheat fields. The area is so flat, that for about 3 hours we passed consistently frequent signs warning of flood danger. There was reminiscent talk of the good times we’d had in Gayndah. And there was terrifying talk of returning in 3-4 weeks’ time to Gayndah, without our German Angels. Complicating our anxiety was the fact that we received a call from Henning giving us a brief rundown of the job in St. George. He explained it was long hours and little pay. The call was both a warning and a disclaimer. But, we told him we had no better options and were coming regardless. If only we knew what we were getting ourselves into.

Our two day trip was halved by a night’s stay in Dalby, which is a rather large town, for Australian standards on the first night. It was the first time we had seen traffic lights in almost 2 months. The thought of leaving good friends in Gayndah and heading to yet another slave-labor job made us all dreadfully anxious. We coped with the thoughts by focusing on the more distant future. We would make plans to meet up with the girls before they left Australia and in a few months we would have sufficient money make our escape to Asia. But, coping was futile as we sat in the van, navigating our way to the place we were trying ignore. Clouds covered the sky casting an eerie light on the last few hours of the drive, thus adding to the emotional angst we were facing. Plus, we began to notice dead dingoes hanging from roadside gumtrees – a warning sign if I have ever seen one. What kind of callous, unforgiving place were we edging towards?

Luckily, we pulled into St. George in the early afternoon, giving us a chance to see the town before dark. It’s another one street town; however, St. George boasts two grocery stores! I take this and the clearing sky as a good sign. We buy some groceries and meet our boss-to-be, Nicholas, outside the store. Arriving to the store with him was Daniel, another new German recruit who had just travelled two days by bus from Sydney. While we waited for Daniel to buy groceries, Nicholas explains to us his plan. We would be staying at a place in town and he would pick us up every day at 7, drive 30 minutes to work, and be back by 5pm. We would be pruning grape vines and pulling the refuse into the middle of the row at 90 cents a tree. “How many trees can we expect to prune in a day?” we ask. He skirts the question and rambles something off about guys being about to earn three or four hundred dollars a day. He expects the job to last 2-3 more weeks, which works out perfectly with our schedule to return to Paul Slack’s farm.

Once Daniel exists the store with his supplies, Nicholas a few blocks to the accommodations in the ‘outskirts’ of town. He shows us around before he heads back to his own home. The setup is actually very nice (we have lived out of a van for 4 months) - we get a roof, a bed, walls, a shower, and a kitchen! It’s not until 6 pm that the only two people currently working for Nicholas, Henning and an English fella named Joe, return from work (remember 7am start time). They tell us that in eleven hours of work, they made about $100 dollars, were shot at by unknown people in the vineyard, pulled countless thorns from their pants, all while trying to not attract too many kangaroo ticks. Turnover at this place is astoundingly high: one guy had left that very day and many more earlier that week. It seems everyone would endure one grueling week until payday, then bail. That was precisely Henning and Joe’s plan as well.

After hearing Henning and Joe’s account of their day, our heads start scrambling for another option because if we can’t think of something better, we may have to stay to give pruning a shot. Just as our new friend Joe, was telling us, “you literally have to think of this job as a complete humorous experience,” a spark of luck fell upon us. This spark came in the form of a voice message from our long lost buddy, Trailer Dave (from the same apple farm in Orange but not to be confused with that asshole farmer Tractor Dave). He and his wife, Michelle, had been working for 3 weeks on a citrus farm near Mildura, NSW and could get us a job. For a few hours, we tried to get a hold of him for more details, but the phone just kept on ringing.

Still, with no better option, we cook dinner. Four others have showed up to the place of rest. A young guy, a mechanic apprentice, was nice enough. He explained to us the reason of the hanging dingoes: ranchers would hang dingoes to warn other ranchers of the presence of the deadly dingoes in the area. Supposedly, ranchers would often lose hundreds of sheep in one night due to a pack of dingoes that kill entire herds sheep just for fun. We met Kangaroo Hunter and his not-so-lovely wife. Kangaroo hunter was a cold, contentious man wearing a heavy leather cowboy hat and spitting tobacco. We showed up in colorful clothes, flip flops, driving a VW van, so he was, to say the least; quite unkind to the three new Yanks. He especially felt the need to throw a few remarks out to the Environmental Engineer (which obviously makes one a Greenie, of the Australian Green Party and all-around tree hugger). Kangaroo Hunter and his not-so-lovely wife made a living, well, hunting kangaroos every night. We also met Kangaroo Hunter’s friend, who was a fair bit more pleasant and cosmopolitan than Kangaroo Hunter, but a true Redneck in his own right. He even pulled out a laptop to show a picture of a huge bonfire that he witnessed somewhere in the bush. My initial grudges toward Kangaroo Hunter transformed slightly from hearty distaste to pity as he tried, quite unsuccessfully, to read something on his friend’s computer screen.

I finally get a hold of Trailer Dave and he tells me tales of the ‘best farm in Australia, selling fruit overseas, personal caravans, great wages, guaranteed work, amazing fruit, etc.’ However, it was still another 2 days drive from St. George in the middle of the outback. Seeing how I barely trust the van to make it off Nicholas’ property, this is a big deal. Plus, it was in the opposite direction of Paul Slack, whom we have already promised to return to in 3 weeks. Above all else, we have learned that Trailer Dave talks his talk, usually with a layer of bullshit as thick as his beer belly. But there was a tinge of sincerity in his voice that I had yet to hear from him until this call. His persuasive spiel wavered on the edge of fatherly advice and deep concern. It was this whiff of real compassion that earned my conviction. But, how to convince your friends that this was actually the one time the guy was not just telling fibs? Knowing the decision should be discussed, I tell Dave we would call him back the next day with an answer.

A long debate ensued. But it was decided that we would leave first thing in the morning. After a good night’s sleep in a warm room in real beds, we woke early while it was still dark, showered, breakfasted, and packed our stuff back in the van. We left just about the time Nicholas should have been arriving to take us to work and I was nervous he would arrive before we bolted. The sun was starting to come up by the time we piled into the van and drove away. We turned the first corner and into view came Nicholas’ van heading to pick us up. I chuckled at the image of his disgruntled face when he saw his three new prospects drive away and I only regret not being able to see his reaction.

We put the Gay in Gayndah, We put the Gang in Gangsta’s: Gayndah Gangsta’s!!!

With the monotonous schedule of picking (stressing the monotonous: get up, pick, shop for dinner, cook, sleep), every week-day flies by. After a week straight of mindless picking, an escape is more than necessary. It’s where this escape comes from that matters most. Our escape arrived in the shape of a beat-up, green van.

Picture three guys slumped in the seats of their Kombie, in the pitch dark, at their humble rest area home. They are exhausted from a full day of shambling around their small farm town, work cancelled due to rain. They have barely been working enough to afford beers, so the pub is not even option to curb their boredom. It’s Saturday night to boot and the three have no plans other than to sulk in their lonesomeness. They have but a shitty dinner and a box of wine to drown away their sorrows: Enter the aforementioned green van. Out jumps the inhabitants of the green van: 4 sexy German girls. These poor, down-and-out lads, understanding how pathetic they look sitting in the dark, realize the opportunity that just careened down upon them. They begin to scramble out of their van like criminals fleeing a stolen vehicle after a high-speed chase. After emerging from the van, the criminals transform into a pit crew, unloading the van, our wine, and trying to set up dinner. Conversation ensues over dinner, trust familiarity is established, and the three are invited to a house party later that night. Later that night, over joints and glasses of goon, trust is established and friendships forged. Overall it is a successful first Saturday night in Gayndah, setting the stage for many other days and nights to follow.

Ronja, Luna, Charlotte (Lotti), and Nina are their names. They have made it almost all the way around Australia in their green van, dubbed “The Green Machine.” They worked at the fruit packing shed in town, called GayPak, six days a week. 

Sunday was their one consistent day off. Often times as fruit pickers we would go weeks without a break, and almost never an employer-forced day off. Coincidentally, Sunday quickly became the one day a week we would tell our bosses that we were not going to work – it’s impossible to pick fruit and pray at church simultaneously. The girls eventually started renting a garage that was “converted” into a one room studio. Basically it was a shed with walls and a concrete floor. With two beds on the ground it was an amazing place to watch a movie, take a nap, or kill a hangover. The walls were barely thick enough to hold back the wind and were not sealed to the roof or floor. So with seven or more of us getting ready for a night out on the town, we seemed to easily upset the grumpy, old, drunken landlord. About 9:30 every night seemed to be quiet hour and he always felt compelled to come let us know. Usually he would warn in a drunken grumble/scream that could hardly pass as English. One night we showed up to the shed and he popped out of his house with a full-sized whip. Either this was his method of showing dominance or he liked real kinky sex. Needless to say, he was a real weird guy with some anger issues.

The girls happened to get us our second job in Gayndah working for a guy named Paul Slack. They had worked for him before their Gaypak job. So when he needed more pickers, they gave us his number and we were on. He said that “they [the Germans] turned a lot of heads out here.” We were eager to work for a guy whom came so highly recommended. The girls said he was so nice and attentive, coming come by to check on them every 30 minutes to make sure they were alright. For some reason with us, after the first day or work with Paul, he came by only once when we arrived and once at the end of the day. Paul was indeed as the girls said, very nice; a truly decent guy who was constantly making sure we were happy. It was a joy to work for him.

Kyle and Nick at Paul Slack's farm

After our first Saturday night in Gayndah with the girls, we made plans for “parties” (party must be said with a German accent, long on the ‘a’). At one point we had a plan for every day off for a month. We had a Hair Party to cut my hair. There was a Bumper Party to install a replacement bumper on their van. They bought us some falafel on a trip to a big city (falafel is not sold at the one grocery in Gayndah), so we had a Falafel Party, where we cooked dinner for them. In the end, we just started partying whenever we could and stopped making plans. 

When not hanging out with our four beautiful German friends, we had to occupy our time with other things. For example, we toured the town for their symbolic icons and experienced some of the good eats.

Golden Gaytimes are the best!

Gay Dan is his name... He is the keeper of the Giant Orange

 

The girls were truly our saving angels of Gayndah. I like to compare the three pathetic schmucks slumped in their van to the guys giving late night driving lessons in order to help illuminate the type of change these girls brought to our time in Gayndah.

(Note: this is not common practice. But, when you are in a town where the only two cops are on leave and have no replacements and the not even wild animals stir on the streets, you take advantage of the opportunity.)

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Paul Slack, as good an employer as he was, had a 3-4 week break between varieties of mandarins, so we were left unemployed in one of the worst places on earth to be unemployed in. We had a lead on a grape pruning job in St. George, Qld, some 700 km to the south. Our last night together was bittersweet. The girls made us a traditional German meal of meatballs in a gravy sauce with potatoes. We went out for one last rambunctious night, took our only group photo at the Giant Orange, and shut down the bars. The next afternoon we met the girls during their lunch break for a final goodbye. They had packed us individual sandwiches, each wrapped and inscribed with our name and hearts. It was as sad a goodbye as they come and driving away broke our hearts.

What is the Temperature of your Shower?

When you wake up for work or school in the morning, do you climb into a piping hot shower? Is it so hot that you must turn on the cold water to keep it from scalding your tender skin? Maybe on a lazy Sunday you like to enjoy a warm bath filled with so much soap that you can apply Santa-like, bubble beards to your face? I know growing up I could take as long a shower as I wanted. And it was steaming every time. In college, I would turn the dorm showers on full blast when I was sick creating a steam room to clear out my sinuses.

I am curious to know the statistics on the percentage of people around the world who are able to take even daily showers, let alone showers that make you sweat. I imagine people who live like this do not care if their pits smell a bit rotten or if their feet blend in with the ground. Then there are people living in “developed” countries who take their showers for granted. This may seem like outwards criticism to ungrateful lads and lasses who enjoy such luxuries as warm showers, but I am no more innocent than the rest. I have lived in a place where showers were not hot. But, it was the tropics so a cool shower was often the most refreshing event in one’s day. I could have never imagined living somewhere cold and having to take cold showers. Until now that is.

The past month we, along with about 15 other vans full of pickers or aspiring pickers, have been living at a rest area, or two rest areas rather. We trade off between the two in order to keep the local council officer at bay. One of these rest areas comes complete with a shower. Rumors circulated the rest area that the showers were warm up until a few days before we arrived. And so rumors they stayed. There was no issue with a cold shower while the lows stayed in the high teens (~60 F) because at night when we got off work it was still hot enough to enjoy a cold shower. When the temperatures started to drop to less than 10 (~40 F), things got a bit interesting. Gayndah has a climate very similar to a desert – cold as long as the sun is down and hot as soon as the sun hits your face in the morning. So, we work all day in the scorching sun until sun down, then head to the one grocer in town, just before it closes, and make our way to the rest area. It’s dark and it’s cold by this time. After a full day of crawling around in trees, getting squirted with smashed “man juice,” getting slapped in the face with pesticide covered branches, squashing spiders that hang down from the brim of your hat, the first thing you want to do is clean off. But, the last thing you want to do is take a cold shower and step out into the cold air.

Before my shower I generally go for a run, not for exercise, but to get the blood flowing, always hoping that the shower is unoccupied. Then I stand under the shower head, build up the courage, take one deep breath, and close my eyes. I will spare you the grim details of a cold shower, as I am sure everyone has had a cold shower, or jumped in a cold river before. But every single day? It tests one’s persistence to the max.

The reason I write about showers in such detail is because of what occurred 2 days ago. I walked into the shower, and piping hot water streamed out. When I stepped under the magical cascade, a huge, pure smile swept across my face. This was no ordinary smile. It was one of those smiles that starts at your feet and rushes uncontrollably up to your cheeks and jaws. The smile warmed my body even more than the warm water itself. It is then I thought about the people who never have showered in their lives. I pictured the people of villages high up in the mountains of Pakistan or Nepal who may have never heard of a shower. I can only picture their faces of disbelief and bewilderment if they were to read this post. At the same time I picture any huge suburb of any city in the US, millions of hot showers, almost completely unnoticed.

Maybe, the next shower you take, as the water flows over your closed eyes, picture someone who has never taken a shower. Or, try to picture myself, with my gigantic smile of pure joy. Hopefully, at least this one shower may be as enjoyable as my last 3 showers have been.

Breaking News: Revolution in Australia

A small town in southern Queensland, Gayndah, population 2,300, is currently the breeding ground for a small upheaval of the local government. Who are the rebels you might ask? It’s not the aboriginals. Nor is it a group of Australians. It’s the French! By nearly doubling the population of Gayndah, the French are attempting to plant a seed of rebellion by gaining control of the local economy: Mandarin production.

How can they do this you ask? Well they began by recruiting as many pickers and packers as they could find and sending them to the small, one street town. They have overrun the local accommodation facilities commonly used by fruit pickers (caravan parks and rest areas). They arrived early in the season to seize the command of the majority of the employment positions available. Currently, the population of employed fruit pickers and packers consists of approximately 70 percent French (25% South Korean or Taiwanese, the rest made up of other Europeans. There are only 3 Americans reported to have landed jobs in Gayndah). Once the French were in position, they began to take action. The first strike arrived 3 days ago when a group of pickers revolted against local farmers, demanding pickers’ rights. While this was most likely the only first of such assaults on Australian society, we are led to believe that their plan is to take over the town of Gayndah by infiltrating the economic security of the small town and expanding their power to bigger and larger towns. It appears the only downfall of the strategic political movement is that the French can’t seem to hold a job. Various sources tell us that the French employed to lead this revolution are only here to earn a second year on their visa (achieved through working in farm towns) and thus are not motivated to become “le crème of the crop” of the picking industry.

(This has been an update from the front lines of the French-Australian revolution here in Gayndah, although the accuracy and veracity of the generalizations made here cannot be backed by hard facts)