Farmed out — The Glorified Gypsy

As an avid consumer of all cultures, it’s not unusual to see me carrying a copy of the latest airfreighted Bilde, Marca or the National Enquirer. I devour foreign news with great interest. And just last week I was thumbing through the pages of the Australian Chinese Daily, when I happened to stumble across the jobs section. It was a massive coincidence because it so happened I could do with some extra cash at the moment. [1]

Obviously I’m still checking the mailbox each day in case Kathmandu respond to my proposal to be their Bondi Junction store ambassador, which I may have alluded to recently. And while I’m certain they have seen the tape [2] by now, it wouldn’t surprise me if the powers that be saw potential for even bigger things by passing it on to the head of Kathmandu Australia. Hence, while I wait I just need a cash injection – for which the lagging sales of GlorifiedGypsy Moonshine [3] don’t cover – I looked to the ever-booming industry of Chinese farm workers.

Don’t panic, readers. You’re not about to read about old Glory going all You Only Live Twice. Going black or yellow face these days just isn’t acceptable. [4]

With the help of Hung Lo [5] I was able to secure a meeting with a Chinaman who said he knew a guy who knew a guy who could get me a job on a blueberry farm. I interpreted this, for obvious reasons, as an offer for the job as farm manager – or, at the very least, in a supervisory capacity [6]. After all, I’ve eaten hundreds of blueberries in my time

I was picked up in a white Toyota Hilux the following morning outside the Cock & Bull. After a short detour to Sydney Kingsford Smith airport to pick up six other applicants [7], all of whom were Chinese, we made the five-hour journey north of Sydney. [8]

Upon arrival to the farm our passports were taken from us – which I was assured was just a formality – and we were given a tour of the farm. It was all in Mandarin, so it was clear to me why they needed me to oversee the workers here. After all, how could anyone pick the blueberries if they didn’t know how to say the very fruit they were picking!

The interview wasn’t as formal as I’d been expecting. In fact, there wasn’t one. Hung Lo must have pulled a few strings for me though, because soon after my arrival I was thrown in at the deep end [9] - before being given my own team to oversee, I was given my own bucket and tasked with picking kilo after kilo after kilo of blueberries, all while a rather stern Chinaman stood behind me muttering words of encouragement in Mandarin. Obviously they wanted to test the mental toughness of this Englishman before he/I took charge.

Needless to say, I proved myself tenfold. It stirs the soul to do farm work: getting one’s hands dirty; toiling with the land; resuscitating fainting workers not accustomed to working 12 hours straight without food; sleeping under the stars, etc. I showed them! In fact, I have no reason to doubt the Chinaman would have offered me the team leader position at the end of my five-day trial had I stayed on.

I could definitely stayed on too. But I didn’t. I took my $150 cash-in-hand and made my way back to Sydney.

[1] The impending court case. See Backpackers In Need, 30 January 2018.

[2] While a link to www.theglorifiedgypsy.com would likely have been sufficient, I also produced an action video of myself in various outdoor pursuits: jogging on the beach, body surfing, and reaching speeds of almost 30kph as I hurtled down Bondi Road on a dilapidated mountain bike.

[3] The “yeast substitute” I bought on eBay turned the beer a distinct grey colour, with an eggy tang. At least, that’s what the homeless man who sleeps between the arches of Bondi Pavilion said when I sold him the crate at a discount price.* Everyone else baulked at it.

[4] Although, years of playing ultimate Frisbee on beaches around the world has left me with an enviable tan, meaning when I chose to attend The Big Galah’s annual Halloween party in 2015 as Apollo Creed, I needed only a thin coat of brown body paint to pull it off.

[5] He offers unbeatable hourly rates for odd-jobs.

[6] Sort of like Curly in Of Mice and Men, minus the Vaseline-filled glove and sadistic nature.

[7] These six chaps – all from the Fujian province – were clearly used to travelling because they brought only a small rucksack each.

[8] I can’t be totally sure of the farm’s exact location on account of the blindfold I was asked to wear.

[9] Metaphorically speaking. Unlike one of the Malaysian workers on the farm, who was thrown into the deep end of the irrigation pond for questioning his pay packet at the end of the week. (Or lack thereof). Though we were ushered away before Awang made it to shore, we were assured he made it ok – though it was difficult to see beyond the smoke of the bonfire someone had chosen to light adjacent to the pond. The surly Chinaman explained they were barbecuing a pig down there. It smelled delicious

* All he had was his Victoria Cross medal from the Korean War.