Foreign Entertainment Monkey

So, I have told a few people about this, now I will try to put my disjointed thoughts to paper.  This story happened back in June.  I was reluctant to share it, because like so many things down here it is comically over the top.  

The story starts with Cam and I cutting down and removing unwanted trees from the grape vines.  There are many species of unwanted tree and they grow to incredible sizes in a surprisingly short time.  Drip fertilizer and irrigation can do wonders.  The trees were usually six to ten feet tall and roughly as thick as my arm. For a comparison, put both of Michaels arms together, that should give you an idea.  The modus operandus was for Cam and I to bring a quad and a ute to the field. We would then double on the quad with a chainsaw to the tree.  After we felled the tree in the direction we wanted we would use the saw to chop the tree stump as close to the ground as possible.  This procedure usually left us with a fist sized chunk of trunk.  We would then tie the tree to the quad and pull the tree to the ute. The rows of grapes can be quite long. There are a section that are over 1000 metres long, so we did quite a bit of bouncing around.  

Now it is important that I take some time and describe Cam.  I have touched on his personality in earlier articles but I shall do so once again. Cam is from Western Australia. One of the wildest and toughest frontiers on this planet. One of the first things I saw Cam do, was casually shoo away a redback spider.  At this time he explained to me,

“There are millions of types of spiders here. Only three can kill you.” he paused, “there are hundreds of types of snakes here. Only three won't kill you instantly”.

Now this was June, I was still early in this adventure.  My reaction towards spiders had cooled considerably.  I had already shoo-ed a mouse sized huntsman out the door because I really didn't want to clean it up and he wasn't hurting anyone. What follows is my first encounter with a snake.  

Cam had just finished felling the tree. He lopped off the stump and I drilled in the poison. I looked up and to my left. On average the grape vines are planted 4-6 feet apart and the supporting posts are driven 12-14 feet apart.  This all depends on the variety of grape and the age of the field but it is from this rough grid that I was able to make my estimations.  About 40-50 feet away from Cam and I was a snake. I have seen snakes before.  I have even caught snakes.  I dont like snakes.  Snakes see me as food or convenient heat.  I dont trust them.  This particular snake was looking to its right, doing the tongue slither they are infamous for.  It was a ruddy black, but slick.  It shone like a freshly waxed car.  I guess its head was about two feet off the ground.  I dont think it had noticed us, if it had, it didnt care.  

I asked Cam what kind of snake it was and he looked as though he had seen a ghost.  The colour instantly left his face. His voice, normally brash and crass, became mellow and somber. He hissed, “We need to go, thats a king brown.”

I looked at him, and I still remember the first thought that went through my head, “you gotta be kidding me”

Cam looked terrified.  Too terrified. We have all done something similar.  Someone asks you about something and you intentionally over-react. To take the piss out of em, it’s an Australian verb.  It’s what was happening to me.

“It’s a snake.” I said defiantly.  No stupid lizard was going to scare me away.  

Cams eyes changed.  There was a hint of red behind their brown hue.

“They are highly aggressive,”

“Bullshit, it’s more scared of us than we are of it” said the idiot.

“Bullshit,” coughed Cam, “bullshit… You dont believe me?”

He looked around and seized the fist sized lump of stump.  Cam looked at me, reeled back and tossed the stump chunk at the snake.  It landed beside the snake. Maybe two feet in front of him.

In less than two seconds, maybe less than one, that snake struck the stump chunk a minimum of four times. It was black blur and with every strike it hissed and grunted.  After it was certain that the offending stump was dead the snake snapped up. Snakes can't talk, but this ones eyes did.  That snake looked right at me, its tongue flicked three times and his black soulless eyes said,
“Hey buddy, did ya throw that at me?”

I turned to my right, where Cam had been standing, all that remained was the chainsaw.  Cam was already at the ute, over 100 feet away.  It is at this moment where I experienced the most amazing sensation. I nearly pissed myself.  My body realized it was time to run.  I need to move fast.  My body came to the conclusion that if I voided all that extra water I was carrying I could probably run faster.  The other logic could be that my brain thought that the snake would take pity on the piss soaked man and would be reluctant to strike such a pitiful being.  I didn't stick around to ask the snake. Wanting to piss yourself in fear is something I wish no one ever has to experience and I also wish everyone could. It was a true “this is it” moment. My life didn't flash before my eyes, I didn't find inner peace, my only thought was I don't want to die in piss soaked pants.  I ran, in indescribable pain. I ran, flooded with fear. I ran, motivated like I have never been before.  

I jumped in the ute and slammed the door.  Neither Cam or I could talk.  Our words were jumbled sentences fueled by adrenaline. The snake had covered the ground and was casually inspecting the quad. It took one look at the ute, flicked its tongue at us and I can only assume that it mocked us as well. Cam and I left the field.  Cam got drunk and I think I wrote a letter.  

Bravely brave Sir Robin...

 

Short Native Grasses

August 20, 2014

It has been a while.  Over a month. There are times when I regret not writing more and there are others where it is probably for the best. The past two weeks have been very trying. The job continues and it is going very well. The equipment is no longer held together with tape, wire and prayer.  I have managed to upgrade to tack welds, crazy glue and hope.  The crew has shrunk, which is a source of lamentations and joy. I find myself torn between two choices. Each choice can be easily justified and defended but neither one feels right.  

Simply put, I find myself trying to do a good job for bad people.  The kind of people who wantonly and casually exploit and disadvantage others.  The kind of people who steep every conversation with lies.  My temper has cooled, but the violent cracking of these keys cannot hide the rage I suppress when thinking about this human scum.  I'm disappointed, because there was a time when I believed the lies.  When I gave them the benefit of my doubt.  I wasted my compassion on these people. Now I wouldn't spit in their mouths if they were dying of thirst.  I watched quietly as my boss tried to coerce the young Italian couple into saying until the end of August.  First he approached the husband,

“Well I was just talking to your wife and she said that she wants to stay, why don't you?”

Mere minutes later, he made the inverse statement to the wife. He tried every bullying tactic you could imagine.  He pressed and pressed, he threatened and yelled. Eventually he pushed the couple to the edge.  They were scared and confused.  It was at this point that they discovered the fair work ombudsman.  The tables of power rapidly turned and the ensuing rodeo of panic is one I will never forget.

Firstly, the Italians quickly learned how underpaid they were.  This was something that surprised me.  I never thought that my boss would do something like that.  There was a part of me that was starting to believe again that people are inherently good. Kudos to them for quickly killing that little bud. The Italians were understandably upset, but they were very diplomatic about the entire thing.  They admitted that they had not done their due diligence, a very strong argument could be made that it was their fault for accepting a lower rate of pay.  So off they went to the bosses house, armed with their new information and the knowledge that we are currently very short of manpower.  Their request was simple, fair wages for the last week of work, and that the last week of work would be no more than 70 hours.  Now I wasn't there, but my understanding is that they were initially told to go fuck themselves. After some seriously hateful words were exchanged, an offer was made. Fair pay, or an audit. An honest man has nothing to fear, and I'm told that the wife was so flustered she couldn't speak. The ensuing panic is still settling.

It makes me sad because I was beginning to trust these people.  They have offered me a tantalizing management position. 1200 acres of prime irrigated cropland.  600 acres of “dry” crop.  A dream that I dared to desire. This isn't the place, because these are not the type of people you work with. Which brings me to my immediate juxtaposition.  I pride myself in the quality of my work. I want to, and I will do everything I can to, be the best. Now I ask myself, do these people deserve that kind of effort? Do they warrant my worry? Should I stress and fret about the work I'm doing for them? Bear in mind, these people have openly expressed to me that they were in no way unaware of the short deal they were giving to the Italian couple.  They laugh about it.  I sit quietly and listen to their shrill howling.  Then the other side of me kicks in.  The neighbours have stopped and talked to me.  Hell if it wasn't for a couple neighbours, I wouldn't know dick about pruning.  They are amazed by my work.  They shake my hand and beam.  They offer me jobs. So I think that is what I have consigned myself to do.  I will continue to do this job, in the most professional manner, to the very best of my abilities.  I will amaze and astound, because every day that I do is another day closer to my freedom.  

In a country where you can be whatever you want, where you can let your actions speak for you. Im going to be certain that my work speaks volumes. Im also going to take a page from Milton, and they better not try to take my stapler.