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.  

This is Australia

July 15, 2014

Pruning continues. Between the endless complications that can only be understood and comprehended by those involved. Today, my french wine tractor lit on fire. As near as I can tell a solenoid decided to jump off of its retaining bolt. It then elected to land on a metal hydraulic fitting. Promptly after it landed, the live side shorted out and ignited two 3 metre lengths of wire.  My shock, surprise and sorrow were mitigated when I informed my employers of this unfortunate event.  They were understandably upset. However, the tone of the conversation turned a little bit ugly for my liking. This transition prompted me to ask,

“Are you angry with me because a solenoid detached and burned 6 metres of wire or are you upset because I didn't let this tractor burn to the ground?”

My serious tone, but lighthearted delivery, was well received. It is hard to take this place seriously. Life has a comical tone here.  

The comical tone is even more pronounced in this house. My merry crew has relocated to the workshop and the new accommodations suit us better than anyone could have imagined. Our senses of humor feed on each other. One liners and witty observations are always present and I dont know how lucky I am. The german man has found a safe and comfortable place to tinker and experiment. He has already begun to modify and improve his gameboy. It is quite the process to watch and learn.  He also found a dust and grime covered Honda 125. The bike needed a very good cleaning.  The air filter was plugged.  The ignition system was packed with dust.  The oil was countless years old. He did everything.  Then he kicked the snot out of it and you should see his smile when he blasts off into the oranges on top of it.  After his inaugural ride Dan noticed that the muffler was still throwing out some soot and oil. He noticed this because his green jacket developed a very thick black stripe. Dan scratched his head, then pointed to the sky. He asked me for a hose clamp and jogged into the kitchen.  In the time it took him to return Michael and I had found a few.  Dan cracked a “Duff” beer, promptly emptied the can, then sawed off the bottom.

Michael laughed and said, “Now you have a sponsor.”

“This is Australia.” was Dan’s reply.  

“This is Australia” has become our informal rallying cry. We use it to describe the incredible, the unbelieveable, the impossible, the unusual and the attitude of this country.  We use it to describe sunrises that completely cover the spectrum of known colour.  We use it to describe the everyday alcoholics that populate this crazy corner of the country.  We use it to motivate each other to attempt things we would not normally consider. Only in Australia would you find a castaway Canadian farm boy teaching an Italian accountant how to use a cutting torch. Only in Australia will you see a German graphic designer dropping the clutch and sliding sideways down a country trail. This environment is pure magic. I am watching people learn that the only limits in their lives are the ones that they place upon themselves.  The other day I had to bring the french tractor back to the shop.  I had discovered a breakdown that a previous employee had covered up. While it was in the shop I completely rebuilt one control arm on the Gregoir. The job involved welding, swearing, thinking, WD40, a very large hammer, all the big wrenches and creativity. To me there never was any question.  I was going to figure it out.  The tractor breaking, or more recently lighting on fire, isn't the worst thing that has happened to me.  It isnt the biggest challenge I have ever faced. It is just another challenge.  To me that is what “finding yourself” is all about. This is Australia, but Australia can be anywhere. Your Australia could be in New Mexico, or Spain, or Drayton Valley. Maybe that is just my opinion, but I didn't come to Australia to “find myself”.

What I have found is a cat. The cat was originally named “Puss Face”.  PF has a bad habit of losing fights with other tom cats and before my tenure at the workshop he had adopted Cam and Nadine.  After I moved in I began to call him T.F.C., which is the acronym and sanitized version of his new name. Now as the womenfolk moved in his name and alligences have quickly changed. Now he does not answer to “Milo”. Today Milo T.F.C. Puss Face was doing his best to scam some supper from the Italians.  Eventually Mabel was able to persuade Michael and he reluctantly agreed to let the cat have some pasta. Mabel twirled her fork on the plate, collecting a dozen or so strands of spaghetti. She deposited the pasta into a bowl and began to cut the pasta with her knife. I tried, but I couldn't contain myself. I laughed loudly and deeply.  The cat sat on the chair, his traitorous eyes locked on the bowl. Mabel carried the bowl outside and as she placed it on the ground I asked,
“Shouldnt you offer him some parmesean?”

Michael snorted, Mabel stuck out her tongue, and the cat purred.  

Take it easy.   

"Life will pass me by, if I don't open up my eyes"

I have been busy. 800 lambs, about 3 or 4 hundred more that were more calf than lamb. Sort and process the other 1600. It was hectic, it was hell, it was fun. I am glad to be done but I am also sad. No, I didn't leave a new girlfriend in the shearing shed. Sadly as the sheep work finished so did Cam’s tenure at Ciavarella farms. Cam is an incredible character. He is a type of man that could only survive in the last wild parts of the world. I suspect that he is a cash only enterprise. He is a little paranoid. He is an amazingly talented mechanic but he is also an admitted drifter and a bit of a heavy drinker. Cam is a true gypsy. He taught me a lot in the short time we shared and I returned the favour. I will miss him, and I know that I will see him again before I leave Australia.  That fool left his yabbie traps behind and I know that it was not an accident.  I also know that I will return them to him.  

All the endless sheep work had mildly blinded me from of my long standing tenants about life. I firmly believe that every day I am alive something amazing and awe inspiring happens to me. Maybe it is just a sunrise, maybe its a smile, maybe I save a whale from choking on a golf ball. I dont know what it will be, so I try to keep my eyes open and soak everything in. I know that it is impossible to catch everything but the things that I do are still pretty amazing. Like the ewe, who after giving birth promptly decided to adopt the sick and starving orphan that had been wandering the paddock all day. Or maybe it was the german nurse. The look in his eyes when he wrapped his hand around the little twitching legs of the just about born lamb that was having a bit of trouble getting out of mom. Maybe it was the rainbow that appeared to be landing a few scant feet away from the door to my shack. Each one of its colours more vivid and powerful than the last. Better yet, the howling winds and machine gun rain that followed it. I know that when I'm seeing those things, I am in a good place.  

I also know that I am doing good. My successful management of the sheep situation has lead to an increased role with this family. A role I am comfortable with and one that I strongly feel I can excell in. Which is good, I need to stay occupied. It is in of itself a distraction, but it is a healthy distraction.  It is also a distraction that allows me to slowly and gradually find solutions to the things that still vex and concern me. However, I am starting to sound a little bit narcissistic so I better lighten things up.

As I previously mentioned I am living with a young Italian couple. After I had finally finished working with sheep I decided to give myself a much needed cleanup. I was in desperate need of a haircut and my beard was reaching homeless man territory. So I asked Mabel, the young Italian woman, if she could please cut my hair.  I had watched her trim her husbands locks and she did a very nice job.  Well, I have given you that much. RJ needs hair cut, RJ asks ameatur hairdresser for hair cut, the rest you can pretty much fill in yourself.  The storyline is a comically recurring event in my life. Like each one that preceded it, this one was also special. Mostly because we were almost at the finish line. I could see the checkered flag. When Mabel moved the trimmer away from my ear I didn't suspect a thing. When I heard the blades buzz and chew above my head, I suspected that nothing was awry. When she grabbed my head and forcefully held it against her chest, I grew suspicious. When between her sobbing cries I could vaguely translate, “I made a small mistake”, I reached for the mirror.  When I looked down at the fairly large patch of hair that had fallen onto my arm, all that was left to do was laugh.  So laugh I did. We all did. A kitchen full of wandering travellers, laughing in unison at the bald patch on my head. I have had hundreds of haircuts. This is one of the worst looking. This is one of the best.  

Take it easy.

Location: Leeton, NSW, Australia

Status: The baldspot boss is permanently smiling.   

The crawfish are called Yabbies. They come in a myriad of colors and sizes. I have heard that the river ones grow to the size of lobsters and are covered in boney white spines. When I catch one I'll let you know. Also, lamb. It's what's for dinner, and a few lunches.

Stargazing

Harold should have moved to Australia. For those of you who don't know him, my grandfather is a born and bred farmer. He grew up in southwest Saskatchewan, he survived the dirty 30's, he broke land, he built a farm, he adapted and he persevered. He also loved tillage. He has told me about his love of the smell that freshly turned dirt emits. He would brag and boast about the straight lines of his furrows. He challenged modern global positioning systems to match his overlap accuracy. My grandfather is increasingly saddened by the shift in agriculture away from tillage. He understands the reasoning and he enjoys the increased productivity of reduced tillage. But if he could I know he would turn a little dirt tomorrow, just so he could taste the richly scented air and feel the heat wash off of the black lumpy soil.

That is why I wish he was here. Down in this corner of Australia, with their 3 feet of heavy rich topsoil and readily available irrigation, tillage lives on. Tillage is, in my opinion, a dirty word. But here it is the norm. To suggest otherwise would be hearsay. I have found it very interesting because this convention is one that the Australian producer, in this part of the country, vehemently believes in. They believe in tillage almost as strongly as I despise it.

The other strange thing about this corner of Australia is the complete and total lack of drainage. Any slope or incline is completely man made. Every day I look out onto the horizon and I can see three hills. The closest one is but a pimple on the horizon. This land lacks typography. Consequently this land is irrigation heaven. Entire quarters of land have been given incremental slopes that allow the water to gradually flood an entire field. Often the slopes are opposing so you will flood irrigate a field in a North-South-North-South pattern. The slopes are created by bouncing lazer beams in a grid across the entire field and then using a lazer equipped bucket and blade to add the appropriate slope. It is quite the process and a great source of pride for the producers down here.

Until recently the vineyards and citrus groves were also irrigated in this fashion. That has recently changed because the price of water has increased exponentially over the past 5 years. Drip irrigation seems to be the weapon of choice in those applications. It doesn't look like half as much fun as flood irrigation.

I have almost been here for a month. It is strange to think about that. All the things I'm missing from yesterday as I blast around the world in tomorrow. The stars down here are incredible. This farm is almost remote. So when it is clear, the evening sky is filled with glitter. These stars are completely new. There was a time when I loved to stare at the stars but I shared that love with another and when she left she took the stars with her. That love of constellations has been returned to me in evening past. These would also be very good stars to share.

June 10, 2014

This morning I was sitting in front of the shop. I was waiting for everyone to get motivated and I was looking east through the wispy effervescence of my coffee. The coffee here is incredible. It is strong and dark, like Michael’s girlfriends. The aroma fills the shop from the very second you crush the beans and a single cup will colour any cup. I find that it tastes the best when you are casually watching the sun rise. The mornings here have been filled with fog and I really enjoy watching the sun burn through the wandering mist. The fog will linger under the naked grape vines and wrap around every orange tree. In the shade it will persist until the full weight of the sun fills the sky. As I sat on the shop stool, the stinky shop cat casually meandering through my feet, I listened to three murder birds singing a melodic chorus.  I wont bother trying to explain their song, but it is unlike anything I have ever heard. Each bird sang a different part but they blended seamlessly and I assure you dear reader that they practice a lot. As I sat there, watching the sun, drinking the coffee, petting the cat and listening to the birds, I realized just how lucky I am. There are going to be many things and infinite places in this world that I will never get to see. At least I was able to enjoy this morning and hopefully many, more like it. I haven't felt this sure of myself and my situation in a very long time. It feels good.  

Last night was Michael’s birthday. So his wife, Mabel, very efficiently organized a party. After a full day of chasing lambs, I was thankfully able to prepare some pasta with a cheese sauce. My little brew received the Italian seal of approval. The bosses wife was also impressed and she is old school Italian. I am in a little slice of Italy and it is wonderful.  Michael spent the majority of the night vigorously attending the grill and we feasted on an assortment of lamb, pork and beef. The frenchmen decided to wrestle beside the fire. The German girl got bombed, the German man told us about his Russian relic of a car. Out of the blue, “Someone Like You” came across the radio and suddenly there was one Italian, one Canadian, two Australians and one Frenchmen all singing along.  The frenchmen will soon be leaving our happy little commune and that will certainly be an adjustment.  They bring a certain type of energy that cannot be duplicated.  I suspect that the quiet will be quite unsettling. However, the destructive mess they leave in the kitchen will not be missed. It was a fun and eventful bonding evening. I was lucky enough to meet some other Australians with which I was able to discuss agriculture and the challenges faced by producers on the red continent. Their struggles are eerily similar to North American ones.

June 18, 2014

My apologizes for the length between posts but life is funny like that. Hopefully the little teasers were able to tide you over until now. My life has been filled with sheep. Sorting sheep. Chasing sheep. Tagging sheep. Feeding sheep. Eating sheep. Swearing at and threatening sheep. It’s incredible what a small group of dedicated individuals, armed with long sheep beating sticks, can accomplish. I will be very happy to finish the sheep work. Hopefully the end is in sight but after 2000 ewes and almost double that in lambs I am beat. Grapes are right around the corner. The equipment is almost ready. The only things left to do are some minor tuning and adjustment of the saws. I recently talked to one of the farm owners and hopefully I will be able to take and train one of the Italians. The Italian I hope to work with has raced karts and formula one cars so I think he will be able to handle a tractor. He is quite the card. Michael and I have been doing a lot of work together and he is very talented.

Thus far our greatest accomplishment has also lead to our greatest source of discontent. Two or three days ago him and I corralled and detained a large spider. I shit you not, that thing was twice the size of a fat Canadian mouse. The group elected to name him “Mr. Tickles”.  Michael spotted the spider casually marching along behind the couch in the tv room. So I naturally grabbed a tupperware container and screamed in a high pitch manner in order to distract and confuse the beast. Mr. Tickles was very happy in his tupperware prison and I always checked the seal before I left for work. Neither Michael and I are fans of the myriad of spiders you can find here. So you can imagine our shock and surprise when we returned from the shearing shed to find that Mr Tickles had disappeared. After a frantic search it was decided that we would first kill Mr. Tickles then kill whomever and whoever released him. We never found Mr Tickles. So now, somewhere out in the wilds of Australia there is a spider. A spider I captured in tupperware box. A spider that has seen my face and knows its jailors name. If you will kindly excuse me I am going to go shave my beard and dye my hair.  Until next time.

Take it easy.