Cradle Mt - Lake St Clair National Park There are some beautiful places in this world that seem so picturesque as to seem surreal, as if you were looking at a postcard or National Geographic magazine. Then there are those beautiful places that immediately feel like home. Tasmania is this latter type of place – a warm blanket of undulating hills, mountains, greenery, poppy fields, rivers, streams, and colorful skies. At 7:30 AM on December 22nd, the four of us hopped the Spirit of Tasmania ferry from Melbourne to Devonport. We’d been told by some local friends that although the ferry would take us nine hours (as opposed to the hour flight direct to Hobart) that it was worth the experience. It certainly was an experience, nine long hours riddled with nausea and a mediocre Sandra Bullock film, but an experience nonetheless – sorry again Charlie (who thought I’d told him it was a six hour boat ride). The northern Tasmanian coastline A wave of relief and excitement swept over us as we arrived in Devonport and shook off our inadequate sea legs. We picked up our little rental car and gave Charlie a few minutes to adjust to driving on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road – “Left to Live, Left to Live!” – and headed south toward our little cabin along the St. Paul River. The drive took us a couple hours, but during that time the scenery could not have been more picturesque. Moon Rise in Avoca, Tasmania If Western Australia has the best sunsets, Tasmania certainly has the best scenery at sunset. Every night since we’ve been in Tassie, save for rainy nights, the sky turns soft, seductive pastel colors of peach and lavender, and the orange light warms the lush greens and golds of the hills and fields. As mushy as it all sounds, I’d be lying if I said it was anything but an eyeful of happiness and a full-body sensation of complete content. As we drove down the final road to our cabin – which, according to the owner, was riddled with giant, four-foot wombats – a full moon rose, bright and monstrous, from behind a hill. We couldn’t have asked for a more brilliant or magical introduction to the island of Tasmania. View from the back porch of our cabin - the St. Paul River The cabin we had rented for the Xmas holiday was located in an open valley right alongside the St. Paul River, a hot spot for local trout fishing much to Ben’s delight. We were fairly isolated, which made for a relaxed, back-to-nature atmosphere, but it also meant some long car rides to other locations. We used the cabin as a base camp for daily national park excursions around the island, and settled in at night with some good ol’ fashioned home cooked meals with local wine and food. Attempting to drink out of Wine Glass Bay - more like a wino trying to suck spilled wine off the floor Our first full day, we ventured out to Freycinet National Park on the island’s east coast. Most people visit this area to see the famous Wine Glass Bay – they hike about 1.2 km up to the lookout, take the classic postcard picture, and head home. As seasoned explorers, we were itching for a bit more than that and decided to make the half-day trek through Wine Glass and around Hazards Bay. Although tourist-riddled, Wine Glass was quite stunning from both up above and from the beach below. While on the beach, Charlie took the opportunity to show off his machismo and take on the near-Antarctic waters of the Tasman Sea. We were all very impressed by his manliness. Back on the sand we became good mates with a little female wallaby who had been hand-fed one too many times. Ben, by far, had the most intimate encounter while crouching low to get a good shot, feeling the brush of wallaby whiskers on his cheek. Bold move wallaby, bold move. Perhaps Ben’s own whiskers had her mesmerized or maybe confused… I should probably be disturbed that his hairiness has begun to enchant the local marsupial population. Continuing our circuit we found ourselves on Hazards Beach, blissfully alone and away from the tourist frenzy. The beach was covered in oyster shells, proof of the natural abundance of this famous Tasmanian delicacy. Being less sheltered than Wine Glass, the surf here was larger, giving the bay a much more rugged feel. We paused here to take what will inevitably be next year’s Xmas card. On Christmas Eve Day we visited the town of Launceston and its biggest attraction, Cataract Gorge – a long gorge cut by a river, bordered with walking paths and spanned by several bridges. It ended up being a lovely little walk along the water, and we enjoyed watching the rock climbers along the cliffs, wishing we had brought our shoes along for the day. Where the gorge is widest, at the old dam, the town established a park and a couple tea gardens, complete with peacocks ready to devour any unattended food. We sat down for a spot of Devonshire Tea, my mom’s new favorite afternoon ritual, and then hiked upstream for quite a ways, spotting lizards (including a large blue tongue) and wildflowers. In addition to hiking/bushwalking, Tasmania is celebrated for its food and wine culture, and its laid-back residents take pride in eating and drinking fresh, gourmet, local products such as oysters, mussels, salmon, mushrooms, cheese, chocolate, beer and wine. We couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate a down under Xmas in a little mountain valley cabin than a Christmas Eve feast prepared with local food. We did a bit of Tamar Valley wine tasting to find a good drink for the evening and then roamed the Launceston seafood and produce shops for dinner ingredients. We ended up with a colorful spread of Tasmania’s offerings: Tasmanian salmon (with orange glaze and grilled by Ben), blue mussels (simmered in a garlic-wine cream sauce), sweet and white potatoes (caramelized with onion and raisins), buttery crescent rolls (homemade by mum), and a Tasmanian Chardonnay (grown and crafted locally by a nice old Aussie dude we met). It’s hard not to start drooling thinking back on this incredible evening. Having a warmish, summertime Christmas was a bit bizarre, but to be honest it was the first Christmas where I actually felt refreshed and unburdened. It was the first time I’ve celebrated any holiday (especially Xmas) where it felt we were celebrating the right things. No tree, no decorations, no presents, no stores or shopping malls; just the four of us in a little cabin in the middle of the wilderness in Tasmania, eating good food with good company, toasting the friends and family members we wished were there to celebrate with us. And that, Charlie Brown, is what the holiday season is all about. On Xmas Day, we continued the celebration in the best way we know how: by climbing a mountain. Cradle Mountain, though not the highest in Tasmania, is the state’s most iconic peak and is situated at the northern end of the Overland Track, a 5-6 day backpacking trek through Cradle Mountain-Lake St. Clair National Park. As soon as we got out on the trail in the chilly, alpine air, we found ourselves in the heart of Tasmania and felt energized, despite the blanket of grey overhead. The trail up to Cradle ambled along through fields of spinifex and wildflowers, pockets of temperate rainforest, and past ancient glacial lakes. Around each bend and over each crest, the scenery just seemed to get more spectacular. When we reached the top of the ridge just before the final climb to the summit, Cradle Mountain in all its craggy glory came into view. As we stood there soaking in what appeared to be a volcano with teeth, we’ll admit that we all had a few pangs of doubt regarding the task before us. Those thoughts quickly vanished however when we noticed the wild-haired dude in flannel, cut-offs, and flip-flops (yes, flip-flops) steadily gaining on us. [His wife informed us that he had also climbed in Patagonia and the Himalaya’s in only flip-flops. Holy. Hell.] As we made for the final ascent, the sun emerged as if to cue Eye of the Tiger, and we began the long, steep boulder climb to the top. After an exhilarating near-vertical scramble, we reached the summit! The view was extraordinary; it almost felt like you could see all of Tasmania in 360 degrees. Flip-flop bushman made it too, though he seemed a bit peeved that every hiker had to make exclamations about his feet. Come on man, you’re wearing plastic flip-flops to climb a freaking mountain – admit that it’s totally awesome, but completely insane. We salute you. Backpacker hut for the Overland Track After what seemed like the longest and most arthritic descent ever past the beautiful Dove Lake, we left the park, but not before having two more Aussie animal firsts: we spotted our first wombats, which were adorably lumbering through the brush in search of their evening breakfast, and our first echidna, who had barely waddled across the road when we zoomed past. Thankful we hadn’t run this spiny little fellow over, we stopped and wandered over for a close encounter. He was a bit skittish, but didn’t seem to mind that we were curiously sneaking closer. The only thing that really startled him was Ben’s camera shutter, which makes a horribly loud “cha-chink” noise, and made the poor guy spasm into a partial ball of fur and spines. Other than that though, he seemed to be having a lovely stroll through the grass, and we were happy to share it with him. South Coast Track, Southwest National Park For the second half of our Tasmania holiday adventure, we moved our base camp to a little town called Geeveston, just southwest of Hobart. From here we ventured into Southwest National Park, which, paired with Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park, comprises the entire southwest quarter of the island. To see much of this wilderness area you often have to be dropped off by plane or helicopter, but lucky for us we were close to the eastern end of a major backpacking route and decided to take a day hike along the South Coast Track. Most of the hike was fairly flat, alternating between large open fields of grasses and tight, Fangorn-esque bits of forest. Overall the hike wasn’t too exciting, that is until the trees parted and we suddenly found ourselves on what seemed like the edge of the world. After several hours of hiking, we had finally arrived at the coastal section of the South Coast Track, which put us out onto volcanic-looking black cliffs and a stone beach with rough surf. The wind was howling, and brought with it the sharp Antarctic air. Realizing that we were merely a puddle-jump away from the coldest place on earth, not to mention the sultry voice of Morgan Freeman, was exhilarating. Tessellated Pavement - the pans and loaves of geology The following day we went exploring on the Tasman Peninsula, Tasmania’s premiere convict tourism region! Most of you are probably aware of Australia’s penal past (ha), and maybe also of Tasmania’s specific use as an island prison colony. What you may not know is that the Tasman Peninsula was the most notorious penal settlement, a severely isolated place of banishment, with Port Arthur as the flagship prison. Today, the Australian tourism industry offers the Tasman Peninsula up as a place for “family friendly” convict tours. As wonderfully depressing as the convict history is, we actually bypassed most of it in order to focus on the much more uplifting natural history of the area. We visited the beautiful Pirate’s Bay, Tessellated Pavement, Devil’s Kitchen, Tasman Arch, and Remarkable Cave, soaking in the amazing limestone cliffs and ocean wildlife that so define Tasmania’s coastline. Tasting some sweet chili Tasmanian mussels Our time in Tasmania just so happened to overlap with the state’s annual Taste of Tasmania, a celebration/exhibition of the local food and wine (and beer) that make Hobart a foodie destination. The event itself was free admission, but for $7 you were given a festival wine glass and unlimited access to the myriad Tasmanian wineries offering tastings. We may have hit the booze a little fast, mainly because it was free and we all were so indecisive about what food to try. But overall the evening was a blast - we sampled some delicious dishes and drank ourselves French on superb wine and beer. Huzzah! For our final full day together in Tassie, we took the ferry to Bruny Island – a skinny 45km strip of land separated by the D’Entrecasteaux Channel and Storm Bay. The island only has about 600 residents, but many people visit daily to camp in the national parks, spot penguins and the illusive albino wallabies, and to sample locally produced food and drink. We did visit the Bruny Island Cheese Co., tasting some wonderfully fresh cheese and brick oven-baked sourdough bread, but most of our time was spent hiking on the Fluted Cape track. The trail took us on a steep, cliffside hike to a magnificent lookout across Adventure Bay. Our wildlife karma continued to rock, as we saw a large tiger snake (the most venomous in Tasmania) and another echidna, with whom we had a long and heartfelt rendezvous. My mom captured a bunch of quality video footage on her iPhone, so we took the liberty of making a tribute montage of our little friend. We can definitively say that we heart monotremes.
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Our serious holiday adventures began with a trip down the Great Ocean Road, a long drive along Victoria’s stunning southern coastline through quaint surfing towns and national parks. Inspired by the coastal highways of California, the road was a kind of Australian WPA project to provide employment for returning soldiers from the First World War. Our first day mainly featured driving and the weather was a bit rainy, but our first views of the Southern Ocean and rounded seaside cliffs were glorious nonetheless. We spent our first night in Apollo Bay, a small surfing and fishing town right next to the water. To celebrate the official beginning of our holiday road trip, we had some wine that we had bought in the Barossa Valley and ate at the local fish n’ chips shop for dinner. This was the first opportunity we had to introduce Nancy the Ketchup Addict to sweet chili sauce, an Australian phenomenon. This fateful introduction resulted in her purchasing roughly 2 liters of sweet chili sauce to bring back home (despite our insistence that you can easily get this sauce in the states). Our first koala!! He didn't seem to share our enthusiasm. On our second day along the Great Ocean Road, we had our first taste of Nancy and Charlie’s “animal magnetism,” which would become increasingly evident as the days progressed. Seven months, six states, and over 22,000 kilometers had passed since the two of us had arrived in Australia and neither of us had even caught a glimpse of a damn koala bear. We were beginning to think they were a myth, a ploy of the Australian tourism industry, which probably planted animatronic koalas in zoos and in the wild for episodes of Jack Hannah’s Animal Adventures. As we drove through patches of gum trees toward Cape Otway, we noticed a few cars pulled over and some tourists looking up into the trees – a good indication of wildlife about. We quickly spotted a fat ball of grey fur, dozing lazily and a bit precariously on a limb directly over the roadway. YES! We couldn’t have been more excited, a real living, breathing, squishy KOALA in the WILD! As we were giddily taking photos of this unconscious little dude, we realized that we were surrounded. We paced up and down the road looking through all the eucalypts around us, spotting little furry snoozeballs everywhere! Within a few hundred meters of where we stood, we took note of at least 30 koala bears in the trees. In the words of the late Mitch Hedberg, “Cutest infestation EVER.” This place was the koala Mecca we waited seven months to stumble upon. I say this not only because of the sheer number of koalas, but also because of how closely we were able to observe them. We walked down the road towards the cape and off to our left we found ourselves five feet away from a momma koala and her baby! They were positioned on a tree branch just above our heads and the two of them seemed quite unaffected by our presence, therefore giving us plenty of time to take close to 500 photos of slightly different poses...we get a little trigger happy with the ol' camera sometimes. Koalas: the stoner slackers of the marsupial world For those who don’t already know, koalas really don’t do anything but sleep, mainly because they are constantly dehydrated and the oil in the eucalyptus they eat drugs them out pretty hard. So, when the sun came out from behind the clouds and woke a few of them up, they began to move around a bit and you would have thought the sky had begun to rain kittens. It’s too funny how humans react to furry things doing the most mundane crap, but we’ll be honest, we were right there with everyone: “Oh my god look, look, it’s scratching itself” “WOW, that’s soooo awesome, he’s yawning” “Aw cuuuute, look at that one, it’s passing out again” People are ridiculous, but we had a blast. Why I do declare Mr. Beauregard, are those gum tree leaves for me? Our luck seemed to improve even more as the day progressed. That afternoon, as we were driving back from a lovely walk along the vegetated dunes of Cape Otway, we spotted another koala, awake and munching away, this time right at eye-level next to the path. This little dude proved to be quite content with us right next to him, as long as he still had a branch of eucalyptus to devour. NC actually got to feed him when he ran out of leaves, handing him a huge branch of eucalyptus, which he eagerly snatched. Koala-tastic! On several occasions we took a few hikes through Otway National Park and some beautiful rainforests. Like many places in Australia, these walks felt like a step back in time and you half-expected little dinosaurs and minivan-sized insects to burst through the ferns and giant gum trees. The epiphytes and mosses alone were a spectacle, with so many varieties, all of which looked so soft and inviting, you just had to stop and pet each tree affectionately. The waterfalls, as you might expect, were all lovely and every once in a while we came across some rusted, moss-covered logging equipment from the 1800’s, which was a bit eerie. Twelve Apostles in stormy seas We continued westward on the Great Ocean Road along what is known as the “Shipwreck Coast.” Stretching for about 130kms, this bit of coastline with its striking limestone cliffs and rock formations, thick fogs, and rough seas has claimed over 700 vessels since the 19th Century. The limestone pillars and platforms provide for some incredible scenery, one of the most popular sites being the Twelve Apostles, where twelve enormous pillars of rock stand free along the coast. On our way to Port Campbell, we stopped at the Twelve Apostles just after sunset and watched as fairy penguins waddled quickly in a large cluster out of the ocean and into the brush for the night. We were pretty high up on the top of the ridge and the light was very faint, but the scuttling tuxedo-clad dots were adorable nonetheless. We returned the next morning to view everything in the daylight and, while it was blustery and cold and packed with tourists, the sunlit coast was gorgeous. The limestone columns stood like sentinels in the churning shallows. After Twelve Apostles we hit up a few more sites including Lord Ard Gorge (site of a famous shipwreck), London Bridge (which, ironically, fell down recently), and Bay of Martyrs. The Lord Ard Gorge site in particular had a bunch of nooks and crannies to explore including an awesome cave. Cheese, Tea, Scones, and Mother-Daughter Bonding Hitting the end of the Great Ocean Road, we turned back towards Melbourne, but made a small detour at Timboon Farmhouse Cheesery for some free cheese tasting and Devonshire Tea. They make a “non-traditional” feta cheese here that we particularly enjoyed, soaked in oil with herbs and spices. It’s non-traditional because they make it with cow’s milk instead of goat/sheep (and it did taste a bit more like mozzarella than feta), but it was delicious. Many places in Australia advertise Devonshire Tea, which is usually a cup of tea served with scones (more like American biscuits), cream, and jam. After a day of wind-battered sightseeing, a relaxed session of Devonshire Tea in an English-style garden was just the ticket. It’s official: returning to Melbourne on December 14th marked our complete circumnavigation of mainland Australia! By plane, train, and automobile we traveled over 22,000 kilometers and found ourselves back where we had first entered the country, bewildered and bleary-eyed like newborn kittens, on May 21st. It was great to be back, and we were looking forward to spending some quality time exploring Melbourne, Victoria, and Tasmania in our remaining months down under. Roughly eight months had passed since I had seen my mom, so when she arrived at the Melbourne airport on December 16th, it was a warm and fuzzy reunion to say the least. She and Charlie (who arrived a few days later) were finally taking their first real vacation in (some obscene number of) years and, much to the delight of Ben and myself, were spending Christmas and New Years with us down under. We spent our first few days in Melbourne, showing the two of them around and walking a ridiculous number of kilometers during our daily touring. We had beautiful weather for the most part; it was unseasonably cool so the climate change from winter to summer wasn’t too harsh for them. Exploring laneways with mum! We wanted to make sure they really got a good feel for Melbourne and all it had to offer, and even though they only had few days it wasn’t too difficult since we walked in, out, and around the city until our feet turned to nubs. As we may have explained in one of our first Australia posts, what truly sets Melbourne apart from other cities is its laneway café culture. Secret alleyways and corridors are hidden all throughout the city center, each one containing anything from upscale restaurants to specialty shops to cheap cafés, awesome graffiti and public art. Soaking in all the little hidden gems of Melbourne counterculture was a great way to spend a few afternoons. Other highlights of our wanderings included the Queen Victoria Market, the Botanic Gardens, walking along the Yarra River, and (particularly for Ben and myself) the plethora of delicious, real food available to us. After eating nothing but canned food and the occasional reject orange for several weeks, being able to go to a restaurant or café or bakery was magnificent. Melbourne has a fairly large Asian population, so cheap dim sum, pho, and sushi rolls were abundant and made for some fun nights out in Chinatown and Little Vietnam. Thanks again Mom and Charlie for keeping us well fed! While we were wallowing in self-pity and rainwater in Waikerie, we managed to sneak over to the famous Barossa Valley for a day of vineyard hopping and free wine tasting…and not much else! The Barossa Valley is most well known for its reds – it’s the reason why anyone associates Shiraz with Australia. Apparently the hot, dry days and cool nights in this region of South Australia produce some excellent grapes. Needless to say, Mar and I were looking forward to sampling a few glasses from arguably the best wine-producing region of Australia. Unlike our whirlwind tour of randomness in the Margaret River region, we actually had a shortlist of wineries to go by, that way we’d make the most of our time in the valley and avoid any lemons. Our first stop was at Turkey Flat, a long-standing winery that boasted some of the oldest Shiraz vines in the country. I knew we had stopped at a quality winery because joining us at the tasting bar was a highfalutin tour group lead by a guy with an amazing moustache. It was a combination of Friedrich Nietzsche and Otto von Bismarck with a dash of Rollie Fingers. You know it’s a good one when you feel like less of a man just by standing in its presence. But I digress. While Turkey Flat’s rosé was pretty tasty, we were especially impressed with their Shiraz. You could tell this one was their baby, and it hurt to know that we would not be taking a bottle home with us, due to the $50 price tag. Our next stop was Rockford Winery, a classic Barossa establishment that apparently is one of the few wineries left in Australia that produces its wines using traditional, old-timey methods. The winery and cellar door utilize several stone buildings dating back to the original European settlement of the area back in the mid 1800s. These relics of frontier Australia encircled a paved courtyard that really set the mood once you stepped inside the space. The style of carefully laid stone and thick, hewed timber of the structures was a reminder of the German roots of South Australia’s settler history. While tasting the many quality wines at Rockford’s cellar door (awesome sparkling Shiraz!), we were pleasantly surprised to meet two Americans tasting next to us. This was a shock because finding an American in Australia is slightly more common than finding a spotted quoll or an albino wallaby in the wild. We’ve seen more echidnas than we’ve seen Americans. Daryl and Sara Mae were co-owners of an organic winery based in Humboldt County, California called Vinatura. Anticipating our chuckles at the choice of location, Daryl explained that the conditions in Humboldt, which provide for good weed growing, are coincidentally perfect for growing wine grapes as well. I couldn’t help but imagine how much fun their local farmers markets must be. We ended up bumping into these Americans again down the road at Charles Melton Wines, where they invited us to join them in demolishing a hefty cheese platter. While we traded travel stories we were treated to some excellent red wine. Charles Melton is exclusively a red wine producer, and they do not mess around. While everything we tried was delicious, the standouts for us were their “Nine Popes” Grenache, “Father in Law” Shiraz and “Voices of Angels” Shiraz. Hanging out with these winemakers made tasting far more engaging, as they brought about some excellent conversations with the Aussie winemakers about the trade as well as the craft. One question of note that Daryl raised was why Australia did not seem to have much exposure in the American wine scene. With such excellent wine being produced in this country, it was tragic to think that Yellow Tail was pretty much the only Aussie wine widely available in the States. In so many words, the server at Rockford explained that Australian winemakers just aren’t that interested, or it’s simply not affordable to distribute their wine so far away when they have a decent enough local market. Some small scale wineries in Australia do distribute to the States, but usually the small shipments are snatched up by those in the know - international wine clubs and boutique dealers, as well as aficionados. Before we headed back to Waikerie, we stopped in the small town of Tanunda to catch their Christmas parade. The whole scene made me nostalgic of being a little kid in my hometown in Massachusetts, where we would have parades during the summertime. The local Lutheran church had a bake sale and a BBQ sausage stand selling the classic Aussie combo of sausage on white bread with a squirt of tomato sauce (read ketchup). While the local businesses drove their floats down the main street, old Aussies in Santa hats, stubbies and cold beer in coozies looked on as their little grandkids ran around like tiny crazy people, waving around ribbons and glowsticks while shrieking with delight. Mar and I couldn’t help but crack up when Santa showed up in the back of a bright green El Camino-style vehicle. So freakin Australian. Fast forward a week and a half, just as Mar and I were becoming seasoned orange pickers, it was time to head east to Melbourne for Mar’s mom’s arrival. Instead of taking the shortest route straight across, we decided to stop back in Adelaide for one last evening in the city. My parents had bestowed us with some precious Christmas money, so we made sure to hit up an excellent restaurant, per their suggestion. We had some very gourmet fare at a small, swanky place called Decant, including some local scallops, lamb and beef! Yum. We also had to hit up Elephant Walk one last time, the Vienna coffee called to us from afar like a creamy, caffeinated siren song. It may have been a mistake on our part, because I ended up drinking all of mine and half of Marielle’s. At bedtime I was so uber-caffeinated I probably counted about 3 million sheep before I finally crashed. Washing off the carnage post-drive in Melbourne The next day was spent driving the long haul to Melbourne, almost 800 km in one go. The drive would have been a pleasant one had we not been traveling during the Great Locust Migration of 2010. Every few minutes a thick cloud of locusts would fly in the path of our car, resulting in mass bug-splosions. I’m not usually squeamish around this kind of thing, but when your windshield is literally plastered with insect gore and there are horrifically maimed and dismembered locusts dragging their broken body parts along the wiper blades like a tiny reenactment of Saving Private Ryan…well it’s super gross. Not to mention the fact that it’s a bit unnerving to look a flying locust in the eye before it slams into your windshield and pops 6 inches in front of your face at 110 k/hr, over and over again. For eight hours. Not a fun drive. We have looked forward to writing this post if only to use the words “Bamboozled” and “Hoodwinked” in a sentence, as there’s really no other way to describe what transpired. In Adelaide, desperate for work, we called Australia’s toll-free Harvest Hotline to see if anything was available in the farming industry. We had dialed the hotline for work in previous locations around Australia to no avail, but on this particular day we were in luck, or so we thought. Northeast of Adelaide, farmers were looking for both orange pickers and potato harvesters immediately. Score. With our extensive experience in veggie harvesting in the Northern Territory, we determined that any harvest job where we didn’t have to bend over all day would be beneficial. Oranges thus seemed the most logical choice as they grow in trees and from what we had heard from other backpackers, it’s always better to get farm work where you’re reaching up instead of straining your back. We called the number the hotline had given us and were elated when we found that the farm wanted us to start immediately the following morning. As two people on the verge of broke, this news was fantastic. We drove for just over two hours to the little town of Waikerie (rhymes with bakery), South Australia’s citrus capital in the Murray Riverlands. Perched above the mighty Murray River, this town was little more than a few cafes, a gas station, and a grocery store in the middle of thousands of acres of orange trees. It was grey and rainy when we arrived, and had we known better we would’ve cut and run to the potato farm as soon as we took note of the weather. After arriving at the address given to us over the phone, we were informed that we couldn’t pick on that first day as oranges can’t be picked when they’re wet (the rind becomes too soft and bruises easily). Our new supervisor, Matthew, told us he would keep us all updated on the field conditions and let us know when it was dry enough to start. After speaking to a few locals in town who told us, “It never rains in Waikerie,” we checked in to the cheapest caravan park in town for the week, hopeful that the sun would come out shortly. This was also after putting down a $200 deposit on our picking bags – basically canvas marsupial pouches to collect the oranges. As we’re writing this, we’re cringing a bit and trying to will time backwards to stop our past selves from staying. You’ll see why… The sun did not come out. The rain did not go away. At least for the first three days that is. Every morning we woke up, hoping to get a message telling us we could work, and every morning it was still too wet and we were closer and closer to broke, stuck at a crappy caravan park riddled with mosquitoes and hours away from any form of amusement. On the fourth day, when god created ticks, lowly invertebrates, and Glenn Beck’s amoebic ancestor, the sun finally came out and tricked us into sticking out the most dehumanizing week and a half of our lives. We might be getting a bit dramatic, but let us continue. On our first day of picking we were initiated into the industry with 40 C (105+ F) degree heat. We strapped our pouches to our chests and dove, head first, into snail infested, thorn-riddled orange trees. Our goal, as described by Matthew, was to clear all the trees in our row of all fruit. To give you a better idea of the size of this endeavor, a row is about two-three city blocks in length and the trees are packed tightly next to each other, often with thick groups of branches tangled between one another. Trees on average are 10-15ft tall, so cumbersome metal ladders are required to reach oranges at the top of each tree. More often than not, many oranges are not reachable from the ground or by ladder, so we had to crawl under the thick foliage and up the center of the trunk, utilizing our climbing skills to reach the tricky ones, sometimes with a bag of oranges still strapped to us and often crunching slimy, innocent snail folk. Each time we filled our pouch with 10 lbs of oranges we emptied them into Jacuzzi-sized plastic bins. For each bin filled to the brim, we, as a pair, received $25. We were told that working as a pair, filling a bin should take us 45 minutes, but that we weren’t expected to do it that quickly in our first few days. Our first day, it took us two hours per bin as a pair, and by the afternoon when they told us to quit because it was too hot and they were concerned about workers getting heat stroke, we had filled 3 bins. We had each made $37.50 for six hours of labor. The experience was certainly one of the best workouts of our lives and we really do like to work outside. Being paid by the bin, however, seemed criminal, especially at that rate and without any hourly stipend or accommodation offered. Obviously this is probably the standard in the orange industry, so it was quite the eye opener for us on the reality of migrant orange picking work. For anyone who disapproves of immigrants taking on work such as this, I seriously recommend you live in their shoes for a bit. We kept at it for the next few days, improving our time and number of bins little by little, working a few 10-11 hour days. It did cool off slightly and we were fortunate to have quite a few days that were overcast and it made quite a difference. Then in this little town where it never rains, the rain came again, this time with a vengeance. We ate dinner in our car during the first wave - canned spaghetti, pretty bleak. The lightning was constant and very intense and the rain came down in sheets. At least it was cleaning some nasty bug death off our car. When there was a break in the weather we made a break for the showers, as we were still pretty disgusting from working in the field. Halfway through our showers a lightning bolt hit the caravan park bathroom blocks and knocked out the power in the little concrete buildings. Imagine being alone in the dark in a little concrete shower stall, covered in soap, with only the occasional flash of white light illuminating the room. Creepy as hell. Your imagination practically solidifies the maniac with the kitchen knife right just on the other side of the door. After finishing our showers as best we could in those conditions, we were then trapped by the lightning and river of water pouring down between us and our tent, which, by all accounts should have been flooded or destroyed since our poles were held together with duct tape. When we finally made a dash for it, we found our tent miraculously dry on the inside, despite a slow leak forming at the seams in the roof of the fly. Way to go little $30 pawnshop tent. Throughout the night we staved off the leak with a camp towel and didn’t get much sleep. It poured all night long – 10 cm or 4 inches of rain fell in this one sitting. When we drove into town the next day, parks and orchards were flooded, one athletic field had even turned into a large lake complete with ducks. No one in this town had seen rain like this in their lifetime. One farmer said that he wouldn’t have to worry about water for his orchard for the next four to five years. Needless to say, we weren’t picking oranges that day. The caravan park where we were staying was the other part of our dreary situation. There was a reason Sunlands Caravan Park was the cheaper of the two in town, located behind a gas station with about 15 spots for caravans and tents. As we gradually discovered, this place was one health code violation after another. In every caravan park we’ve been to, in addition to the pass-through backpackers and weekend retirees, there is always a contingent of devoted, long-term residents who appear to have no intention of leaving. Some of the set ups have been quite impressive – we’ve seen several camper trailers converted into solid homes, with wooden decks, stone patios, full-on gardens and sheet metal porches. The long-haulers at Sunlands were different. They didn’t have gardens or anything like that; they just simply weren’t going anywhere. Their caravans had flat tires and rusted chassis, and had not had a washing since 1973. For the first half of our stay, we noticed an occasional, odd smell that seemed to come from somewhere nearby. We were informed by our neighbor soon after that the smell came from a particularly debased individual three lots away who made a habit of pitching his pee bucket on the lawn every few days. He also mentioned that a few nights prior when he had gone to take a shower at the nearby toilet block, he found a “fat turd” deposited with clear intent on the shower drain. It was at this point that he pointed out that the manager of SUNLANDS CARAVAN PARK never actually cleaned the toilet block, but instead simply swept the floor. But hey, you can’t beat those low prices, right? At this point, our morale was at its lowest, and it wasn’t helped by the plague of locusts that had descended upon the area. Having locusts bounce off your head in the mornings while using the restroom isn’t a good way to start your day. And the plagues of mosquitoes every night didn’t make sunset any better. Thankfully when a week was up, we relocated to the nicer caravan park funded by an early, gracious Christmas gift from the Warshauers. THANK YOU MARK AND TULLIE!!!! We’re fairly certain we would have gone insane and possibly come down with a nasty case of mange otherwise. The rest of our time in Waikerie was fairly routine – waking up early to go to the next picking job, work our butts off and get chicken feed in return. By the end of our 2-week stint in the Murray Riverlands, we were super eager to get out of dodge and head east to Melbourne. Above all else it was certainly a character building experience, one we might just appreciate at some point later in life. |
Marielle & BenWe're two people in the midst of severe quarter-life crises who decided to leave good jobs in a bad economy to travel to the other side of the world because, well, why not? Archives
April 2011
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