Why you should not (or should) work on an Australian farm

*Scroll down to skip the story and read actual useful information*

From Mildura it was a short drive on a few long roads passing barren land. Sheree, a lovely lady, had picked me up and made sure I had the appropriate licenses before taking me to the quaint village under the name Wentworth. Entering the petite area, it felt almost as if we traversed back in time. The townhall and post-office, fire department, the few smaller shops and pubs, even a functioning phonecell, all living and operating in a different era. The style of residences and accommodations had been a lot different than what I was used to. It reminded me of American shows that I had seen. The motel was situated on the village’s main road, across from the grocery store and the pharmacy. It had a main building, where Sheree and her two sons lived, about five rooms attached to it and then two rooms parallel to the main building. At the beginning, I stayed with two others in the room closest to the main building. The way this worked, as do most regional farm jobs for foreigners, the farmers would reach out to Sheree and other backpacker havens letting them know there is work. Then, you will be picked up or dropped off, which tends to be in groups – meaning you will often return at the same time as the others.

Before I got to strap on my working outfit, I was given a day to explore the close area and I found there was a fair bit to see and learn within this tiny dot on a map. First, I randomly wandered about and came upon what is called the Darling-Murray junction. It is where the petty 1472 kilometres long river melts into the 2508 long Murray. The latter also holding the title of the longest river in Australia. Whilst I read the sign giving me a brief history lesson, a picturesque sunset was happening. The sky there had always amazed me, how it at all times could be so clear and bright blue at any point of the day. Then, when the moon had replaced the sun and it was stars covering the sky, it would feel similarly bright. I could always watch it in awe for hours and now with the setting of the sun painting the sky in many colours, it was especially breathtaking. On the way back, walking parallel to the river, I had seen a couple of old paddle streamers that are nowadays used for short cruises. If the lovely junction’s town isn’t enough to steer you if you happen to be near, then perhaps the mini-Sahara near here is worth it. Perry Sand Hills, a must for a sunset. But, alas, before I got to that point, the time for working had come.

Before the sun had dawned, a small group stood at the edge of the town awaiting pick-up. Dazed, with a hint of excitement, I joined the bunch. We all wore our mandatory, bright hi-vis shirt with long sleeves and an old pair of rugged jeans. It was advised that you’d cover the entirety of your body, as it would be harmful to let the merciless Australian sun beam for too long without proper protection. That was the same reason we worked before daybreak and finished beginning noon, departing when the sun becomes too fierce to work under. Once we were picked up, the French supervisor drove us on a long, vacant road to the orange fields where more people waited. After a quick introduction, we were off in pairs. I had been paired with the oldest son of Sheree. Since the pay isn’t hourly, but per bin, and it is also per pair, praise to heavens the other person is sweating their ass of just as hard. Although plenty of the oranges from my partner were flung at the pair in the next row and a fair amount of time was spent telling me about his time in jail and thereafter, he got in a decent amount of work. Truly. We both did. Hot as it was, we picked orange after orange, chugging them in each of the bins we filled that day. Nonetheless, we, the son and I, but also the people in the rows that followed, learned rapidly that the math is off. Taking into account the minimum wage of Australia, on a typical fruit farm, only the best of the best would come even close to making that amount.

Now, seeing how I was not the only one that knew how to do a simple equation, the day after only half the people had showed up. People weren’t stupid enough to work for far below the minimum. Unfortunately, I had no other choice than to accept the measly pay, as my debit had run through and I was solely depending on credit. Having had spent nearly my last money on the tickets to that tiny town, I had no other choice than to fight for a little buck. Another thing I had found, that if you didn’t pluck the trees well enough like many didn’t, or, with figs, if there are too many wrong ones, you simply don’t get paid. What do I mean with wrong ones? Well, figs are about the most sensitive of the bunch that require delicate handling as a simple, quick snatch would damage it. When there are about 5 out of 25 damaged figs, you will not get paid for that box. On top of that, the pay was a helluva lot worse. But, having thought I had experienced all, the worst had been the drought in jobs for the two weeks that followed. No jobs at all, yet the owner of the motel consistently came with a nearby date that marked the start of grape season. But, unsurprisingly, that got postponed about daily. At this point many people left. The ones that needed their 88 days remained and so did I, as I was already living on borrowed money.

Not that it had been a hellish experience. I met loads of backpackers. We did sightseeing around the area or complained merrily about the ordeal. We had tried looking for a job, but that fell through. One guy I met, eventually ended up cycling around a greater part of Australia, all in the name of charity. Some went on to travel more, others tried their luck in a bigger city or a farm elsewhere. But, a number of us remained until the grape season had started. The owner of the land of grapes had been a lot more pleasant to work with than those of previous ones. He’d chat between work and bring us sandwiches, before hopping back on the tractor. The work itself, was laborious, satisfying and fun. Passing the occasional spider, we snipped branches full of juicy grapes and filled dozens and dozens of buckets on a day. Knowing the pay wasn’t going to be horrible added on top of the motivation of course. Then, on the final day we cheered to a few brewskis from the farmer and collected our pay. Upon receiving, I was left with little after the borrowings and due weekly pays were handled. But, at last, I was back in the positive. Thus, with a hand full of dimes and a mind full of new ideas, I took the train to my next destination, Melbourne!

Are you interested in working on a farm in Australia? Here is some advice based on my experiences, heard stories and own opinion:

If you want work on a farm purely to make money, keep the following in mind;

  • You need to have a specific guarantee that you will be working on hourly pay. A simple email won’t suffice as it has possibly been sugarcoated.
  • Working inside – which tends to be for women I heard – or with machinery such as on a tractor gravitates towards having an hourly pay that is minimum wage.
  • For watermelons, it requires you to be both in great condition as well as mentally strong. I heard its toughness has had many people quit, including the “stronger” ones.
  • Otherwise, grapes are decent. Not the greatest pay, but for a good buck you’ll have, in my opinion a fun job. Oranges goes the same, however lesser pay.
  • That figs and apples ought to be avoided.

If you want to work on a farm for the 88 days or simply the experience and make a little bit of money on the side, absolutely do go! Make sure that you know where you will be staying and to have at least one or two proper reviews of that place. I have heard stories far worse than what I had experienced. Yes, Sheree should have been more clear about the conditions and been straight. However, she and her assistant cared about their guests. She had lent me money, at times they would come with a bbq or we’d go out for food and drinks partially on her expense and she’d make sure that we would get paid. I have heard stories of people being in an accommodation where the owner lied about the conditions and didn’t care much about whether they’d get a job. Furthermore, I still suggest avoiding figs. Try to go for grapes, watermelon or oranges and you will have a splendid time, just like I did.

A Temporary Goodbye

Tears flooded over her precious cheeks. We had spoken of our time together, our “December” frequently, holding on to the tiny thread that held us sane, yet when it was finally within our grasp, the moment had just as soon passed. Begin of December, we finally intertwined with the longest of hugs. I then met her family, we travelled together, went on ventures normal couples go and made life heaven and hell during the two glorious months spent together. All the time that we had already known each other cramped into two measly months. Two bloody months of passionate love and happiness and then life takes it all back. Kicked out of the garden of Eden, my paradise. Back at the airport, with parents and daughter in tears. The hourglass’s sand had gone and there was no way to turn it back around. We already used up that trick on my 2nd one month’s visa. Time’s up, money’s up, get out of the Philippines. We both wished it to be easier, but we knew then and we know now that not all passports have equal privileges. So, morosely, I swung my bag over my shoulder and trudged my way to the security while she remained. Gloomily, but nonetheless a little excited for the land they call Down-Under I boarded my flight.

It won’t be the last time this gets mentioned, but the toughest part always lays in the first and the later stage of a long distance relationship. Upon the onset of being companion-less, it is the change that crashes upon you. Alone, there is now a constant silence. For many years, I had embraced that silence and been happier within that space. After finding my true love, that changed a fair bit. Because she is the only one with whom I don’t filter my personality. Then, getting used to being on your own again, you begin with accepting the temporary forsaken feeling. Not being able to communicate the random, silly thoughts that pop up or discuss the topical events of the day. It’s what makes the first days or weeks hard.

For every person it works different, but once you get there, to the accepting the distance and working with it, life is good for awhile. You do your thing, whilst often in contact with each other. Loving messages, late night calls. All the good stuff. But, slowly yet steadily, the later stage encroaches, when it has been months since you have been within miles reach of your lover. This, is when you go down the slope of insanity. At the brink of, you crave the touch and sight of your partner. The need to breathe the same air, share the same space. Honest to god, it doesn’t even matter what you do, all you want is to be in the same room, because where you are now is a lonesome pit that craves the feeling of being filled with love. Love that is at a distance had oft been worse than the life of a lone wolf I lead previously, as the latter would not feel the lacking of it. In lieu of, I knew what I could have and yearned for more. Friends and family could be all they are, but being months, a year, or more for some, away from the one you love so dearly, it would drive almost anyone mad. This, we experienced every time we had to say goodbye – and also explains some of the future decisions I made, but more on that later.

Luckily, still deeply embedding the happiness this trip had brought me after ages of waiting and bearing the excitement of a little kid in a candy-shop as I was headed for a work opportunity in Australia, it could have been worse. I felt more grateful for the life I had than the solemness of who I lacked. I am young, healthy, got an amazing girlfriend and have the opportunity to travel in this manner, so stop bitching, amirite? Australia would be exciting and could help with the funds for a return. Some weeks ago, I had contacted the owner of a backpacker’s motel and there was a promise of farming jobs. Eager as ever, I flew to Mildura with a stopover in Sydney and Melbourne. Forced to linger a night in Melbourne, as a flock of birds had flown into the engine, Qantas Air had provided me with the nearby upscale hotel. I paraded in my fancy room upon having graced my body with the bathrobe and ordered myself some late night costly dining on Qantas’s credit. Australia had welcomed me with a grin from ear to ear and delirious from lack of sleep I fell onto the soft mattress for a long due rest. The following day, full with good spirits and believing nothing could bring me down, I would arrive in the insignificant town 500 km North of Melbourne. There, the lady from the web would bring me to the wee village Wentworth and soon that smile turned to a frown.

What are similar unexpected surprises you got from an airline?