This wasn't as quite as glamorous or exciting as it sounds, though certainly not the dullest job I've ever had. Working alongside my old man I was charged as a builders mate, helping in the erection of a brand spanking new pig shed for 1000 lucky swine. The first few days of 7.30am starts shocked my fragile hobo psyche, but it wasn't long before I began to feel the benefit of bright, fine days out in the sun, with lungs full of fresh, Canterbury air, the southern alps looking down on me, and 8 hours good, solid hard yakka. Not to mention nostrils full of pig poo, and a bank account filling with dollars. A nice bunch of real southern NZ men to work with helped the days fly along and I was even christened with a new nickname, thanks to a New Zealand Comic (Te Radar) stealing my look.
During November Dad and Annie took off for the UK leaving Holly, Mack and I to look after the farm. We both felt better for having the space and a place to stretch out. A routine was established and we managed to make the most of the weekends, taking off in the van and exploring pockets of the South Island.
Holls was champing at the bit to hop on a plane to fly up to Tauranga in the North Island to visit EJ, her school, chum. So that she did, leaving myself and Mack in charge, returning with John and Annie a week later as they flew back in from their whistle stop UK tour. Two days before their return I had made a valiant attempt to return 'Sunny Downs' to some modicum of order and cleanliness, vacuuming, tidying, watering gardens and such. My last job was to cut the lawn on dad's trusty ride-on mower. My dad, with typical dad thoroughness, had explained to me the ins and outs of the various pieces of farm machinery, their maintenance requirements, nuances, and in the case of the mower, the operational hazards:'The brakes don't work Mart, so you'll have to use reverse gear'. Following the first rule of father/son relations - ignore all advice, do things your own way - I took off on a tour de force of the garden. Having become complacent on the second lap of the garden I revved the mower into fifth gear. Three things happened next in quick succession: 1) I attempt to turn the mower 180 degrees as the mower rapidly approaches a foot high drop to the lower garden; 2) I try the foot brake to ease my speed 3) I remember my dad's sage advice. Now had these three events happened in a slightly different order I would arguably not have been thrown from a speeding mower and would definitely have missed the opportunity to witness all 200kgs of said mower flying towards me, exposed blades spinning, chewing the top off a brick wall as it went. It was with some relief when the engine stalled and the whole mess came to a halt a few feet from my body.
Most people have a memory as a teenager of awaiting the return of their parents after a holiday or weekend away, only to have to break the news to them of a catalogue of disasters that befell the family home in their absence. I suppose both myself and my dad would have liked to think that at age 30, I would be responsible enough to manage a household for three weeks. But it was the sight of a mangled up brick wall, that greeted him after a 40 hour flight. Fortunately for me the wall and my pride were the only two casualties, with Dad gaining another family anecdote.
Having now 'outgrown' Geraldine, Holly and I jumped on a bus and headed north. We had arranged to stay with some complete strangers as part of the WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) scheme. For four hours work we would be rewarded with play to stay and three squares a day. James met us in Picton, up in the Marlborough Sounds and whisked us off to he and his wife's own private utopia. Stunning it was, perched high above Queen Charlotte Sound, surrounded by native bush and featuring a private beach, the house could easily have had Kevin McCloud and his Grand Designs team traipsing around filming yet another disastrously over budget dream home.
We were shown to the Green Shed, our home for the week, and then James ran through what he expected from us. Despite WWOOF being aimed at organic farming, the tasks we had ranged from shifting firewood, weeding, planting tomatoes, collecting horse shit, and re-organising James' wine cellar!
He was good company though and being well traveled had an endless supply of travelogues. He also made sure we ate really well. There really wasn't much to do there during our free time though so we were pretty glad to leave the following weekend.
Now begins our great hitchhiking odyssey. Having realised that nothing saps dollars from the cash strapped traveler than bus fares we dug out our best thumbs and hit the open road. Hitching in New Zealand is notoriously easy and safe and we made it to Nelson (150kms) within about 3 hours. We then managed to undo a weeks worth of thrift during an all day drinkathon in Nelson city. It was long overdue however, and we made the most of some of the cities best pubs. Particularly the Sprig & Fern which specialised in nearly 20 home brewed ales and ciders. They also provided, rather irresponsibly, a take home service. This was the sole reason for my shocking lack of memory the next morning and numerous apologies to a handful of the other guests at our hostel. Apparently it was a happy time for all.
Searching for work we quickly realised that Nelson didn't really have the goods. And anyway it was a little too pricey for long term stay and there were too many ale houses for our own good. So back out with the thumbs and off to Motueka. Mot, as it is known locally, is and always has been a transient town built off the back of agricultural endeavour. Graciously situated on the Motueka river it is sandwiched between the beautiful sands of Tasman Bay and the stunning mountainous back drop of the Kahurangi National Park and Nelson Ranges. Like Nelson it is blessed with NZs top 3 highest number of sunshine hours anywhere in the country. Once the premium tobacco growing area, Mot switched to apples and kiwis 20-30 years ago and has never looked back. Everywhere you look there are orchards. Most of the Braeburn or Gala apples you bite into back in England come from this sunny little hot spot and were probably picked by a German backpacker.
Jobwise, we were in luck. Within half-an-hour of pitching our tent at a hostel we had a confirmed job starting the next morning, at 6.30. We were to be apple thinners, along with 90% of the other guests at the hostel. At 5.45 the next morning the grating sound of our alarm made work seem like a particularly bad idea. But by 10am we were basking in glorious sunshine, ripping tiny apples off trees, to allow the bigger apples to flourish. I will not lie, this is the dullest, most unsatisfying form of paid employment on the planet, however there is a certain camaraderie built up between orchard workers, and as pleased Holly no end, you are rewarded with a killer tan. Our boss, Shane, was of the bi-polar persuasion. One minute he would be yarning away, chatting you up and down you ladders, and the next smoke would be billowing from his ears, followed by a tirade of abuse about your inadequacies in the area of following orders. Love him or hate him though, he meant well, and shouted us beers every Friday and laid on an end of season BBQ before Christmas.
We seemed to have as many days off as on though. Rain constantly stopped play which left a dozen or so po-faced pickers, sat around the hostel waiting for a break in the clouds. We were living with a solid bunch of people though and the social side of life was blooming. Motueka Backpackers would definitely not win any awards for cleanliness nor luxury furnishings. But want it lacked in physical form it definitely made up in character. One character in particular, Lyndsay, the manager was about as honest, funny, and all round lovely kiwi as you'd ever meet. His attention to detail when it came to making your stay as rich an experience as possible was impeccable. His potted history of New Zealand was littered with facts, figures and anecdotes and his presence seemed to give the place a homely feel. One Saturday, shy of anything else to do, he offered to take us and three Slovakian friends, Ivan, Claudia, and Lucija, out to Able Tasman National Park. Able Tasman NP, is like Robinson Crusoe's wet dream. 20 minutes from Mot, it's a slice of absolute paradise played out over a string of golden sandy beaches and sheltered coves teeming with sea and bird life. This mixed with Lyndsay gunning us around in his power boat was an opportunity too good to be missed. With our local tour guide leading the way we cruised up and down all day, hopping off at beaches, puttering up bush clad inlets, and nosing gently up to a seal colony for a closer look. To round the day off Lyndsay took us to a secret spot to collect a feed of muscles from the rocks at low tide which we cooked up for the entire hostel on the barbie that evening.
Motueka looks and feels a bit rough and ready when you first arrive, but we had a ball there and felt finally like we were getting into one side of New Zealand living. People like Lyndsay were the rule, not the exception and despite its massive seasonal worker population, the locals in Mot personified the kiwi mentality of welcome one, welcome all.
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