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.
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).
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.
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 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.