Chapter 20 "Manbulloo Mango Madness"

04.10.2010

It’s around 10am on a hot and windy Saturday here in Katherine, the first day on which I have the time and energy to resume writing. My fingers are more dry and callused than they were the last time they flew over these keys and my leg is propped up on a chair next to me, a hot compress wrapped around my ankle and shin with a sarong. A little work related injury has bought me my first 2 days off after 7days of work, on the last of which the machine we are working with backed up over my foot and up till the middle of my shin. A scary and painful experience which my clumsy little self does not intend on repeating. But a day in bed with hot compresses and massages with Asian balms that burn like crazy have fixed me all up again and this morning I was almost able to walk normally again. Should be back on my feet and on the field tomorrow.

A week ago at 6am, we were finally sitting in the bus on the way to the Manbulloo Limited mango farm, just 15mins away from our caravan park. Waking up that early was a bit of a pain, especially because of the very lazy week we had spent waiting for the fruit to ripen. Decked out in jeans, long sleeves, a bright orange vest and my new hat, I was quite excited to get-a-pickin’. Before they let us loose on their trees though, the big boss of the farm, a very friendly short lady named Marie, and some supervisors showed us the machines we’d be working with. The Harvest Aid is a big bulky contraption with a crow’s nest on top next to the driver’s spot, from which the mangoes in the tops of the trees can be picked using a picking stick (a long stick with a clipper at the end with which one can cut the stem and grasp it at the same time). Then there is a blue tarp with water jets about 2m by 2.5m is stretched up vertically on one side and another, a bit smaller one is stretched out perpendicular right beneath it. When a mango is picked by hand, it should be snapped off with a flick of the wrist facing away from you. You then have 3s to throw is against the large tarp and let it fall onto the smaller one. It is crucial that the mango immediately gets put into water, so the sap that squirts out of where the fruit was attached to the stem doesn’t damage the skin of the fruit or the picker. From there it rolls into a little alley where a strong jet of water pushes it into a tub of water. The water is prepared with a chlorine based solution called Desap, which cleans the fruit and makes sure that the sap flow is stopped. The mangoes have to be in water 30 seconds from the moment they are picked till they hit the bin, to make sure they don’t sap on the other fruits. Now, more often than not, girls working in mango picking are given the job of the de-sapper – and so was I. My job attire differs a tad from that of the pickers; I have to wear a thick white plastic apron and rubber gloves, to protect me from the sap squirts and to keep me somewhat dry. My job description is a bit different as well; I don’t pick fruit from the trees, or more like, I’m not allowed to pick fruit from the trees. I wait till it falls into the tub of water, remove the rest stem if there is one (holding it submerged to avoid the sap squirting into my eyes or onto my skin) and make sure that the mango has been in the water for at least 30s (and that it hasn’t been in there too long, otherwise it would get chlorine burn) before I roll it down onto a conveyor belt where it takes its last journey, is given a last shower before dropping into a big white bin.

The first hours of work were spent with training, explaining, observing (a team of Nepalese who had worked here last season) and standing in the sun trying not to fall asleep and hoping to start soon. Finally, we got divided into teams of five, were dropped off in a block of trees and started our first day of work… And then the second and then the third… I was lucky enough to be part of a team which was declared a permanent team in the first week. The thing is, in the first week or two of the season, most of the fruit isn’t ready yet and one has to be very careful about what is picked. The mangoes from Manbulloo are exported all over the world, especially to China, Japan and some European countries. They have to be picked at a point where they can be processed and travel for four weeks and still ripen to a tasty, juicy yellow fruit. Indicators for a mature enough fruit are a light lime green color around the tip, a rosy blush at the top and a nice and round full shape (like a “big booty” as our supervisors tell us). This is however not as easy as it sounds and in the first days, we were often told that we were picking too skinny or green mangoes… And because the farm means business and sending out many teams that pick too much useless fruit isn’t exactly very economical, many teams were rotated in the first week. And I ended up the only backpacker that got to work every day.

After only two days the starting time was moved up to 6:30am, meaning we had to leave the farm by 5:30am, meaning our alarms started ringing around 5am. As ungodly the hour might be, after only 2 days I actually started waking up before my alarm. As soon as that familiar tune starts ringing and I have to get up and jump into my very battered jeans, another day in the life of a mango picker starts. A short hike to the bathroom, a quick bowl of cereal and a double check that all I need is packed later and I am sitting in the bus with a whole bunch of other tired people. The moon is still up and the stars are still twinkling, mocking me for not being snuggly tucked in my bed and happily off in dreamland somewhere. There are no street lamps along the way and the roads are only illuminated by our headlights. Occasionally, we swerve or break so the kamikaze kangaroo jumping across the street can enjoy another day of his bouncy little life. By the time we’re driving down the old runway leading up to the farm, the sun is rising turning the sky all kinds of vibrancy. There are usually some clouds that turn pink, whose outlines glow neon orange, but after one or two days of marveling at the sky after getting off the bus at the farm, I’m more concentrated on finding a cup of lukewarm coffee and making sure I can use the bathroom facilities before heading out to the field. I clock in using a little gray keychain-computer chip which registers my name when I wave it in front of a little black box; the display then shows “Roxanna Schiffever IN/OUT”, making sure I know that I have just arrived or am about to go back home… It is still too dark to distinguish mango from apple and I wonder how the pickers will know what to snap off the tree. But by the time our big white vans take us deep into the mango tree maze and drop us off at the machines standing silently, ready to weave in and out the orchard, dawn has shed its light on a new day and it is time for me to wake up.

Depending on the aisle, I’m either walking behind the machine, keeping pace while concentrating on my busy hands that are searching the suds for the sap oozing mangoes. Snapping off a stem here, rolling one down the metal ramp there. Every once in a while I have to scoot around to the other side of the tub to free some mangos stuck swirling in the corner or to paddle around the tub to hurry those bobbing buoyant booties along. Other times, I’m walking in front of the machine, side stepping or even inching along backwards, while still de-sapping and keeping an eye on my responsibilities. This can get a bit tricky at times, as the paths we drive upon are not paved, but are humpy and bumpy and filled with little bundles of tall grass, potholes, anthills and even small trees which I end up straddling if we just happen to stop at that spot… If we pass through a particularly good and fruitful lane and the four people picking are milking the tree for all it’s got, I find my hands moving at a pace I have never seen them move, trying to clear the tub that is backing up with an abundance of mangoes. No time to think, not thinking about time, not even noticing the fact that I’m standing on an anthill and have big fat black ants crawling up my pants until they start gnawing on me… It is also my job to let the pickers know if the fruit they are picking is acceptable or not. Often enough I call up to Siti, my driver, team leader and Malaysian older sister, “too skinny” or “too green” or “too small” or “hey, I don’t want to see this kind of stuff anymore!”… The first hours are actually fun, watching your first bins fill up, the trees still able to give me some shade along the way (except on the third and fourth day, where we picked in a block with 2-3m trees that hardly had any canopy), the majority of the flies still asleep. I do have some time to observe what is my workplace for the next weeks, but all that is really there are rows and rows of mango trees. Sometimes cockatoos or eagles fly above us, sometimes we are visited by an Australian wild turkey, a pretty big bird that looks like a mixture of a emu and a heron (bird lovers and knowers out there please don’t judge ignorant little me). We take our first break at 10am (or 9:30), the so-called “Smoke’O” named after the most popular activity undertaken during these 15min. The thundering roar of the machine is silenced, we gather in the shade of a mango tree and I usually listen to conversations in Bahasa Indonesia and don’t understand anything (except for the words they have already taught me or that are similar to those in Tagalog). Too bad 15 minutes pass so very quickly. The toughest hours by far are the hour and a half before lunch – the heat suddenly increases, my stomach starts grumbling, I’m soaked through and through in sweat and de-sapping water. By 12noon my thoughts are fixated upon how long I will last in this job and how I will probably end up quitting soon. I’m swatting flies out of my face every few seconds, if I’m very lucky minutes. I can get used to the ants that are all over the trees and ground, that bite and hurt and I can flick away. I can get used to the little (and big and very big) black bugs that scuttle across the dirt and between the dried leaves, that run up and down the tree trunk so quickly you know you couldn’t stop it from crawling up your leg if it got to your shoe. I can get used to the crickets that bounce of your back and head or visit you on your shoulder during lunch or even end up bouncing around in your pants (yes, I’ve had a very bouncy happy cricket in my pants). I can even get used to the spider-webs that adorn the trees and the big fat spiders that sit in the middle of them, clicking their tiny but scary fang-claw-thingies together. But flies… I know every creature on earth has its purpose. But how important can those pesky black buggers be? The buzzing alone is so annoying that it make my head shake like a stubborn four-year old. They seem to love flying straight into the facial openings – eyes, ears, nose and mouth. And at least thrice a day I think to myself, that if another fly should land on my lips I will eat it, just so there is one less to pester me. I almost feel violated every time one manages to land in my face and starts crawling around on my cheek, forehead or nose. And since my job has me wet up to my elbows all day, I end up swatting myself with chlorinated water or sappy fingers trying to get rid of the thing… This problem will hopefully soon be solved, as one of the German packers has offered to lend me his fly screen thing – an offer which I’ll be more than glad to accept… Lunch break starts at 1pm and is my half an hour of heaven. I eat whatever I had cooked up the day before and brought in my little Tupperware – curry rice with veggie stir fry, pasta, sandwiches, egg and salad, asian-style tuna salad – and then lie down, cover my face with my little towel to hide from the flies and dose, listening to the leaves and whatever crawls around them crackle beneath my head. The two most interesting encounters with the creepy crawly kind were those of a gigantic hissing cockroach (the size of an egg – I kid you not!) which left behind a nasty smell when one of the Indonesians grabbed it and threw it far far away, and a walking stick the length of my hand, which stalked by me between its immobile flora doppelgangers… The hour after lunch is also tough, having to get up again from almost passing out, having to leave the cool(er) shade of the tree, suit up and head back out into the blistering heat, having to work and walk while digesting. Our water is changed to “Squincher”(the name kind of made me think of something that would be used for Potions class or at the infirmary at Hogwarts), a Gatorade-like drink to replenish lost minerals and electrolytes, in the afternoon – doping to keep us going. The afternoon is hot and not matter how much I drink during the day – usually around a liter in one and a half hours – I only have to ask a supervisor to drive me to one of the port-a-potties a maximum of twice a day. By our second Smoke’O at 3pm, my spirits are lifted because I know the day is almost over and I have made it once again. By the last hour I’m more hanging on the machine, letting myself be dragged or pushed by the machine while plucking stems off mangoes and sending them on their way. And by the time we park our baby, I have just about enough energy to take off my apron and jump into the van.  We spend a few minutes back at the shed, have a cigarette, sign out - “Roxanna Schiffever Out”, wave hello to our packer friends that usually work a few hours longer than us (but start later of course) and drive back to home sweet homestead. Although my knees are killing me and I’m tired and sore and the first thing my roommates tell me when I walk through out gate is “Oh Sana, you look tired”, I do not sit down quite yet. The Tupperware has to be washed and refilled, meaning I cook my dinner for the evening/lunch for the next day, wash my work clothes by hand every few days (and am amazed over and over again of how much dirt and grime one pair of pants can soak up) and then, the last feat of the day – go take a long shower. By then, it is usually around 6:30 or 7:00pm and I feel as though it is 9:00 or 10:00pm. I go hang out by the other kitchen for a while and am then off to bed to read two pages, listen to 10minutes of “Die Drei ???” or watch 15minutes of a series before falling asleep with my book on my chest or my earphones on my head, iPod or laptop still on.

After only 7 days of work, I have taken so much with me. Aside from the little sap burn on my arm (though I am very lucky and not as susceptible to the burns – the two Korean girls in my room are covered in them), rough skin from all the sun and chlorinated water, stressed hair from being soaked in sweat all day, the bruised and bandaged foot, ankle and leg and a new embarrassing bedtime of 9:30pm, I have been productive, played an important part in a chain of events leading up to people enjoying Australian mangoes all over the world, I have met many different types of people and have gotten back in touch with my Asian side being submerged in an (almost) all Asian team, I know now that I am tougher than I thought I was, I’ve earned more money in 7 days than I did in a month in Berlin, I have celebrated a birthday Korean-style, I have copied a ton of films and series from many different hard drives, I have eaten homemade Indian chapatti with curry, I have improved my French comprehension skills (especially when it comes to colloquial speech) majorly, I have used my knowledge of linguistics to solve little translation and comprehension problems, I have gotten great tips for further picking and packing seasons, I have become homesick for the first time since I arrived here in Australia, due to the monotony of the days out here and I am getting closer to feeling out what I want to do with myself. I want to experience and I want to write and I want to observe, understand and become words. Though my system of recording what I see, do, hear, smell, taste, touch and feel is still in need of improvement, I find myself writing all day. On a little notepad in my head, I take notes and formulate paragraphs in my head, cursing the fact that I don’t have a pen and paper with me (which would only get wet if I brought it out on the Harvest Aid) because sadly I do tend to forget them by the time I’m sitting in front of my laptop. I take pictures in my mind and give them captions, knowing they will stay only mine (because the camera would just wet). I tell myself stories along the way, dreaming up non-fiction and wondering if others would care to listen in.

Chapter 19 "Daytrippin' to Darwin and Katherine Gorge Take 2+3"

20.-22.09.2010

Though I had quite gotten used to the daily routine here at Manbulloo Caravan Park – waking up with whomever wakes up first in my room (usually the Koreans), having my morning muesli, Wheatbix and banana breakfast, then my cup of coffee and cigarette in the morning sun, watching the little lizards chase each other through the pale yellow leaves on the ground and then usually going back inside to watch series on my laptop or listen to “Die Drei ???” on my iPod, usually heading into town late afternoon to go to Woolworths and take a dip in the hot springs and then gathering for dinner at the kitchen facilities in the evening – there’s only a certain amount of doing nothing I can handle. By now I have been down to the river right next to the caravan park and tried fishing (without luck), walked around outside the caravan park to take pictures of the cows during magic hour and have finished all the seasons of “How I Met Your Mother” that I have – and those were the highlights of my days. So when one of the French guys working as a packer at the farm mentioned driving up to Darwin for a night on Monday, I didn’t hesitate and jumped in the car.

And so we drove, one of the guys I was travelling with, also hitching a ride, back up the road I had already driven along twice, listening to French music. The sun beat down on my side for most of the ride up (and down) giving me a beautiful burnt sienna color on one of my shoulders, and making it impossible to sleep on that side the next day. Every few hundred meters the smell of older road-kill victims wafted into the car through the open windows and every once in a while we’d almost hit the eagles feasting on the newer ones. Around four hours and only one short stop later, we drove into the city I had just come from a few days earlier and it actually felt a bit like returning to a home-like place. My bank had already closed, so my main reason for coming up – picking up my new bank card – had to be postponed to the next day. My PADI card, which had been sent from Melbourne to Darwin a week earlier, also hadn’t arrived yet at the Cav, so we spent the afternoon walking around, sitting in the library till they closed and then having the free backpacker’s dinner at the Vic. I then visited some friends who were still staying at the Cav and managed to find an unoccupied bed in their room for the night (saving the 25$ I would/should have paid for it)… It was a short stay, because after picking up my new bank card the next morning, we headed straight back down to Katherine to still have some time to pass by the Gorge in the afternoon.

At the Gorge, we walked the track I had already done, but backwards, to get to the viewpoint faster. This time, my camera was charged and ready and I got to take the pictures I had only taken in my mind the first time around. On the trail, we met the two French couples also working as packers at the farm, the ones the guy I was with wanted to meet. So we did the rest of the trail with them and ended up back home in the evening.

Instead of a bar or a fancy lounge area in a hostel, our hangouts in the evenings take place in a covered outdoor kitchen with nothing but a gas stove, two fridges, a sink, a table with two benches and some plastic chairs. But when (up to) 14 people, pickers and packers at the farm (mostly French, two English, me and the two newest members from Berlin) gather under said roof, cooking dinner one by one and rotating to use the gas stove and the table, having a beer and getting to know each other, exchanging travel stories, it can make a pretty nice evening. That particular evening, I was invited to dinner by one of the French guys and ate the best meal I have had since my trip with Groovy Grape – Barramundi fillet pan seared in butter and onions with sour cream curried rice. I had never eaten Barramundi before, only read about this fish that can be found in the local rivers – it was excellent! The meat was white, firm and quite tasty, not fishy at all. A simple but very satisfying meal.

The next morning, some of the French pickers decided to go back to the gorge to do a hike they had discovered the day before. I joined  them of course, just dying to use my legs again. The Butterfly Gorge hike is about 12km return and is estimated to take 4h. A sign at the start of the hike showing the different paths and reminding you to bring lots of water and to wear the right shoes, the estimated temperature during the hike was 50degrees that day. I don’t think I have ever consciously walked under the sun in that kind of heat and the number alone stumped me. We started off at 11am, knowing we’d be exposed to the noon sun straight above us and after twenty minutes of walking (though I do have to add that those were going up a  steep hill) I was drenched in sweat. I could feel it dripping down my temples soon creating a steadily flowing river down to my belly button. My back stayed cool thanks to the two bottles of water I had kept in the freezer all night that were in my new super lightweight backpack I had bought in Darwin (one of those that you can roll up to the size of a roll on deodorant – sorry, only reference I could think of). Along the way there were two tanks of water, which I was quite grateful for, because I did drink more than I thought I would and it felt great to soak my hair (which only ended up dry again fifteen minutes later). The hike itself was not really hard and offered quite diverse landscapes. We started off up a steep hill on a gravel path till we got up onto the highland of the gorge. Up there, we walked through boulders and skinny trees, dry grass and some palms along the way. The gravel turned to sand every once in a while, then to pebbles and rocks as we descended into the butterfly gorge. More and more palm-like trees had dropped their lowest branches, which crunched under our feet. Down in the gorge there was more shade, given to us by the trees of the little jungle we made our way through. Here we wound through the trees stepping on larger rocks and climbing over fallen tree trunks, even crossing a little stream which surely floods the whole area during rainy season. To one side, the dark gray rock of the gorge followed our path.

The name Butterfly Gorge, and this is just a guess, probably comes from the fact that there are quite a few of these fluttering creatures around, accompanying you as you slowly but surely reach your destination. There are however some less welcome critters that join you on this picturesque walk – for one, the flies: I know they are part of life in the outback and that it’s actually not really that bad at the moment, but if you only slow down or stop for a few minutes, at least one of those pesky buggers will catch up with you and follow you, slowly driving you insane. I had one follow me for at least fifteen minutes, buzzing around my head, making it sound like it flew in one ear and out the other. But at least flies can only annoy you to death, while the other beings we encountered just might actually kill you. Australia is notorious for its many deadly animals and while travelling here, just the sight of a spider or a snake can run a shiver down your spine. And we saw both. Of course, I am not an expert and do not know which of the spiders and snakes are deadly, but better to be weary of all than to risk that tiny bite that will shorten my trip instantly. We saw two snakes, one just a baby and one about a foot long, and way too many spiders of different shapes, sizes and colors.

After an hour and a half in the grueling heat, we arrived at our destination – a little cove along Katherine river that opens to a turn in the gorge. Basically it looks like a crossroads of the river and, as I learned from the many tour boats that passed us during our stay there, the pool where the two gorges meet is up to 30m deep and actually turns into a little whirlpool during rainy season when the water level rises a few meters. After a short lunch and rest at the cove, feeding the fish and turtles that came up quite close to the shore, we left all our stuff there and swam around the corner to a sport where it’s quite easy to climb up onto the cliffs and jump into the greenish water. I have gotten used to the fact that when swimming in the local waters, you can be pretty sure that there are some crocs hidden somewhere along the shore or down deep and I’m actually not nervous about getting in with them anymore. The others preferred to stay in the water as little as possible. The jumps off the cliffs were good fun. I started off with about 3m and then went up to 5m. Two of the guys actually climbed a bit higher and found a spot at 7m from which to jump, but I don’t think my muscles would have budged if I had stood up there and contemplated about jumping. We were joined by some other hikers, some tourists on canoes and the occasional river cruise which usually resulted in us becoming tourist attractions ourselves, the guides mentioning the “wildlife” on the cliffs of Katherine Gorge.

Three hours, many jumps and some relaxing on the hot stones later, we packed up and walked the one and a half hours back to the car – definitely more strenuous than heading there. Tired from the first hike and swimming, wanting to just float back via the river, stumbling over sticks and stones, the afternoon sun in your face and the water in my bottles no longer icy fresh, I got back to the car with legs made of rubber as heavy as lead and my eyes falling closed during the car ride home. Though I did retire to bed around my usual time of 11pm, I did manage to come in 3^rd out of 7 in the poker match before that.

Chapter 18 "Manbulloo Homestead and Katherine - Me want Mangoes!?"

17.09.2010

Just as I haven’t taken pictures since the end of my tour, I have slowed down in writing as well. Today, a hot Friday in Katherine, I definitely have the time to recap the last few days.

On Tuesday in Darwin, I awoke to a pleasant surprise. I guess there must still be come sort of valid backpacker’s ethical code, which made my thief in the night return my wallet, because after breakfast, a guy from the bar handed it to me, saying it was dropped off. No cash and many useless bank cards, of course, but at least I have my wallet back.

Because I had no read idea of when exactly we were going to leave for Katherine and the guys I asked could only answer me with “This afternoon, or tomorrow morning”, I got my stuff done in the morning, sending off a box of jackets and other cold weather clothes, some brochures, flyers and other scrapbook items as well as my shot glass collection till now (7 in only 5 weeks!) and using the free internet in the library. The rest of the afternoon was once again more or less spent at the hostel by the pool. I did join the guys for a five minute drive to the Op Shop, a second hand clothing store run by a church where one can get really cheap (and mostly pretty ugly) clothes, to look for long sleeved shirts and the yellow/orange jacket or shirt  (bright colors used in construction and labor work) we need to be able to work on the farm. This was the first time I was confronted with our vehicle for the trip – a bright yellow, 28 year old camper van, decked out with a sink and lots of cupboards and 2 mattresses, a gas cooker outside, curtains on the windows, some lights and and fans.  Of course, everything was kind of falling apart and looked like they had definitely seen better days… But hey, for 100$, what did I expect?

After another few meal at the Vic, I walked around town in the evening, down the very happening Mitchell Street, filled with bars and backpackers, ate frozen yoghurt from Cole’s and then headed back to the Vic for a few drinks with the Swedish guy, the Israeli guy and a Canadian girl I had spent some time with in their room the evening before. It was ladies’ night again and I found myself with a pink tag around my wrist for an hour of free champagne. Before that though, there was a raffle for a 50$ bar tab, a marshmallow eating contest (where you stick more and more marshmallows I your mouth and have to repeat sentences) and a game which I joined before knowing what had to be done. The two guys we were with could win the privilege of being a girl (hence, free champagne) for the night, so I thought I’d do them the favor. Two teams of two guys and two girls each got a giant hose made of stretchy fabric and in pairs, had to crawl in and change clothes. Lucky for our team, us girls both had dresses on and the guys shorts and t-shirt. Next thing I know, I’m on my knees, crawling out of a tunnel wearing quite comfortable clothes and the Israeli guy is walking around in my dress for an hour. Turned out to be fun night of champagne, dancing and the guys complaining about how people were staring at their cleavage.

The next morning, around 11 or so, we piled in to the van – 2 of us in the back on the mattresses – and headed to pick up once more who was staying at a not-so-legal campground. And just our luck, there was a swarm of police cars there, because they had just raided an empty military building that was being squatted in right next to where the few camper vans were parked. So instead of finally commencing our journey, we had to hand in our passports and wait till the immigration officer present had checked out our visas. After that little delay, we hit the road and drove the 300km down to Katherine, stopping every 100km to check the oil (old van and all). We even stopped in Adelaide River, where I had stopped with the tour coming up and visited the pub with the water buffalo from Crocodile Dundee again. The stops did kind of slow us down, but I didn’t mind, because I was curled up on a mattress in the back and slept most of the way, waking up only to stare out the window at the familiar repetitive landscape of the bush. Only this time, the earth and termite mounds became redder and the trees a bit scarcer. It was hot back there and if I had been more aware and awake, I probably would have been uncomfortable, but just bearing with the constant drip of sweat down my temples, my back and chest made it less stressful.

We got to Katherine in the early evening and went straight to Manbulloo Homestead Caravan Park, about 10mins away from the city. Other camper vans, permanent caravans and cottages stood on the grounds, which are walking distance from the Katherine River. Three of us bunked in wit five Asians, also in our team of pickers, and the other two stayed in tents/the van (which by now had been christened “The Yellow Bastard”). The bed is comfortable, there are fans and air-conditioning,  a little outdoor kitchen and two fridges and the bathrooms are just a short walk away. Actually more luxurious than I had imagined. It does come at a price of 160$ a week, which is outrageously high, but I tell myself, once we start work and spend 10-11h a day out on the fields, it will definitely feel worth it to come home to relax in a real bed and not have to deal with mosquitoes and heat during the night as well.

Thursday morning we were brought to the Manbulloo Mango farm, just five minutes away from our caravan park. Now here begin the downsides to this job. I found it through the French guys, who had found it through a guy named Matt – a contractor. Meaning, in the end, we are employed by him, not the farm itself. Meaning that we will probably see some of our wages flow into his pocket, instead of ours. Not only that, but we are asked to pay 10$ a day for a bus transport to and from the farm, because “they don’t let private vehicles on the farm”. However, after asking the boss at the farm, we found out that we are most certainly allowed to come by Yellow Bastard… But as we still haven’t met our contractor yet and still have no real details about the job, the payment and all that, I guess I can’t really complain yet…And to be honest, I am turning into quite the optimist. While one guy in our group wouldn’t sop about how bad this whole situation is (and I mean straight forward complaining about anything and everything not optimal at the moment), I have decided to keep and uphold the following frame of mind for as long as possible: at last I have a job lined up for the season through which I can earn back the money spent in the last 6 weeks and save up more for the rest of my travels – no matter how many little things could be better, it could always be worse. I could find myself with insufficient funds for any sort of enjoyable travelling or even end up having to go home earlier than I want to. So, always seeing the upside in things, it shouldn’t be too hard to bear with the little shortcomings.

 The farm is one of the largest in Australia with over 42.000 trees, has two more mango production areas in Queensland with another 55.000 trees and exports to many countries in Asia. They grow two different kinds of mango – the R2E2 (hihi, Star Wars mango) and the Kensington Pride. Along with a large group of people who are going to work in the packing shed (lucky them!), we were shown presentations about the farm, mango picking and quality control and went through some paper work. I find the fact that it is a big farm quite reassuring, because it is more probable that the money will arrive on time. I’ve heard too many stories about backpackers working for a lower wage than promised and then waiting weeks and weeks for their payment. Of course, this again depends on our mysterious contractor, which we will hopefully meet on Saturday. Mango picking is said to be one of the tougher seasonal agricultural jobs, because harvest is usually done in quite harsh conditions – heat, insects and unpredictable and usually long hours. Plus, the fruit itself is quite delicate, so extra care must be taken in handling them. When picked, the sap that comes out of the stem for the first 30seconds can be quite corrosive and therefore special techniques must be used so the skin of the fruit and your own skin won’t get burned. Some people also have an allergic reaction to the sap and breakout in pretty bad rashes (for which I already bought the right cream in Darwin). I do hope that what is said about people having had more contact with mango not being as prone to this reaction as those who haven’t is true, because then I might actually be on the safer side, having devoured a fair amount of the fruit in the Philippines. But we will see…

By noon, we were brought back to the caravan park, were told to be there at 9am for training the next morning and had the afternoon off. We spent it in the town of Katherine – a small and bit dodgy town, where one is approached by drunken Aboriginals asking for a cigarette once an hour and can hear them yelling while driving through the streets. It’s not very welcoming and known for bad blood between Aborigines and white Australians. After free Wifi in McDonalds, we drove down to the Katherine Hot Springs (which were not very hot) and relaxed in the comfortably flowing water in the artificial swimming holes connected by the river. It is well made, cemented only on one side, leaving the opposite bank sandy and its flora untouched. There are signs warning about the dangerous saltwater crocs making their way into the river sometimes and about not disturbing the fresh water crocs as they may become aggressive. But with all the backpackers, tourists and local children swimming, wading and jumping into the water, I doubt that any crocs were lurking in the clear waters. Back at home, we cooked up what we had bought for dinner at Woolworths (lamb and potatoes) and that concluded our first full day in Katherine.

This morning we were woken up by our bus driver/guy working with Matt, only to be told that work was cancelled for a day or two because the fruit wasn’t ripe enough yet. Great. So our day has been slow… Eating, sleeping and watching How I Met Your Mother is about all I was up to this morning, making use of the free time, as I believe the next weeks will probably be 7day working weeks. In the late afternoon we drove to the Low Level Reserve, a spot by the Katherine river where you can swim in the rushing water by trees full of flying foxes (large bats) and watch hawks circle the skies above you. The water was warm and the flying foxes loud… After yet another trip to Woolworth, one of the guys cooked authentic Italian Carbonara, which was truly delicious. Too bad our mood go dampened by the news that work will probably only start on Monday. Ugh. A whole weekend in Katherine, spending money on accommodation and food and just itching to get picking. But as I said, I am smiling over my gritted teeth and hoping that we will make the best of these next days.

Chapter 17 "Darwin - Love it?Hate it?"

12.09.2010

Already as I walked down the street, laden with my bags and bags of stuff and more stuff, I could hear The Cavenagh, the hostel I had booked three nights in. And immediately I could tell that Darwin was definitely going to be a different scene than Melbourne – the restaurant/bar that was part of the hostel was quite large and modern and had an even larger nice terrace outside in front of the reception, it played loud music and seemed to be quite popular, because not a table was free. The pool is surrounded by sun chairs and a few bar tables and was, at past 6pm filled with happy travelers floating on noodles and throwing a ball around. Even just the fact that everyone was in shorts, slippers, bikinis, tank tops, wore a smile on their faces and usually had a healthy (or not-so-healthy-anymore) tan, was a complete 180 from the raincoats and layers of clothing in Melbourne and the hoodies and dirty jeans in the Outback. After checking in and finding my room, all the way in some corner of the building, I went exploring and found the desperately needed laundry area, the quite empty kitchen (for a hostel of that size) and the computers, all the while being a bit overwhelmed by the sounds, the feel of being in slippers and the many people all around me. Suddenly, although Darwin is really not very big (around 124800 people, the largest city in the Northern Territory, making up over 1/3 of its population), it felt as though civilization had just slapped me in my face and was laughing at my confused expression… I was truly a bit taken aback by all the commotion, the lights and music.

 Just from the looks and sounds of it, another great difference to the south was the lack or reduction of fellow Germans. Darwin is definitely Irish territory. And definitely a bit more of a man’s world, which makes sense, since the easiest jobs to find here are in construction and specialized handy man stuff. For girls, all that is left are hospitality jobs in housekeeping, kitchen, restaurant and bars. Unless of course, and this is my plan, you find a job in the outskirts (meaning over an hour or so away) of town on a farm of some sort… But more about the job search later.

I am staying in an 8-bed dorm with Irish, English, Canadian and somewhere else. The room smelled like the cheap brand of cheesy poofs mixed with a hint of chlorine and wet towel. And the air-conditioning was broken… I spent the evening organizing my stuff, repacking my very messy bag and piling the laundry up to the ceiling, writing a to-do list for the next day and sitting out on the tiny balcony staring out at the large amounts of concrete I hadn’t really seen in a while. I’m going to be honest, I really didn’t feel like going downstairs and being with people; I was tired and wired at the same time, knowing that from now on, I’m on my own again and the whens, wheres and hows of my trip are all up to me.

It was the worst night I’ve had in a long time. I wasn’t used to this kind of heat and humidity and 6 other people in the same small room breathing the same air. Someone closed the door and the balcony at some point and I woke up drenched and thinking I was going to have to go sleep in the shower. In addition, one guy had the worst coughing fits all night and another got in at some early hour and started asking me where I was from, before lying down next to his bed and falling asleep. Only, when I got up at 6am, rinsed off all the sweat and wanted to go downstairs to skype, I realized that the guy had fallen asleep on my stuff and was lying on my slippers. So I spent the morning barefoot.

My first day in Darwin started quite early and that was probably a good thing, because every minute more than sun had to rise higher, the hotter and more humid it became. From layering, sweaters, hoodies and shoes to shorts, a tank top and slippers (at 6:30am!) is quite the jump and it did make me a bit gaga walking the streets starting around 9am… I applied for the first job in a Billabong store that had an ad up in their window for 2 weeks work at a warehouse sale starting a week from now. Good feeling to know I have started the whole “working” part of my “working holiday”. Next, I found the post office from which I will be sending home a whole bunch of warm stuff and the first set of shot glasses (collecting one from each city or attraction I visit) next week. I found free internet in the state library and walked down two of the three main streets in town. I went shopping at Woolworths and bought my first box of washing powder and immediately washed a motherload of dirty clothes, encrusted with red earth, smelling like campfire, stuffy bus and worn-one-too-many-times (oh how I miss camping!). A very positive aspect to the hostel was the fact that I could turn on the washing machine, hang by the pool, cool off, transfer the clothes into the dryer and jump back in the pool. Definitely a relaxing way to spend the afternoon, though I was quite shocked to see how early it was, considering how I felt. I guess when you’ve spent two weeks on the road with an itinerary of things to do and see along the way, time just flies, whereas when you are left to create your own fun for the first time again, it’s hard to get creative again… My creativity was just enough for reading by the pool. And that all afternoon. Without sun-block. Good job. As much as I love being sun-kissed (and even a little burnt at times), doing that on the first day really wasn’t so smart.

But my pinkish glow, the fact that I hadn’t slept much and had been up quite early didn’t stop me from grabbing the French girl from my Up Track tour and going out for dinner. I have these coupons for a free meal when you buy a drink at The Vic, one of the few “in” places in town, and so we had a beer and a meal for 6$ and the fact that it was so cheap made the blandness more tasty… Sitting outside on the terrace in the warm night, we started talking to the people around us and I met an Italian who is thinking of driving to Broome in three weeks time and is looking for people to join him. Although Cairns was supposed to be my next stop, I have heard so much about the Westcoast and am actually quite interested in seeing it. And I always told myself, go with the flow and take opportunities that present themselves. Plus, it would mean camping and bonfires and cooking on a gas stove and showering in roadhouses or rivers and being out there again. And the Italian guy seems to know what he is doing, has been travelling for very long already and is quite organized. He even wants to do a little test outing with the people that decide to share his car to see if the chemistry is right. He seems quite relaxed as well, saying that if a place is nice he has no problem with staying there for a while, maybe even working a bit – making the journey the destination. … I will try my damndest to earn some money in the next weeks and then decide if a little excursion to the northwest coast is something I want to do… On another note, if I took all the opportunities presented, I’d have gone camping for a night with a whole bunch of Irish guys this morning (probably not a very good idea) or had let myself be kidnapped by an Irish and  French guy and would be on the road towards Perth right now. The latter we met after dinner and actually had a pretty fun night out with. It was the French girl’s birthday at midnight and we had gotten these tags for free champagne at 10:30, served to us by topless men (of which one looked like Eric in True Blood and the other like a good looking Dennis Rodman (if that is even possible)), followed by a male stripper – it was ladies night at the Vic. And even though I felt like I could have gone straight to bed after dinner, we ended up partying till I-don’t-know-what-time. The Vic is now responsible for one of the most memorable shots I have ever taken and the most I have laughed afterwards – instead of salt prepping the taste buds for the shot of tequila, the bartender had accidentally given us coarse white pepper. Yum.

This morning I took everything a bit slower, but still ended up walking about town while others in my room were still fast asleep. From 10:30am till around 1:30pm, I walked up and down the main streets of Darwin, into the malls, the hotels, the hostels and the cafes asking if there was any work available. And only two took my CV. I also found out that “work for accommodation” is actually illegal in the Territory. I had heard about there being a few less jobs and everyone leaving for Broome and Cairns because of it, but I didn’t think it would be like that. Yesterday, I had already applied online to a job picking cucumbers on a farm and a job as housekeeping/gardening person on some remote island resort 45mins flight from Darwin. I think next I will call the harvest hotlines and see where the mango picking begins and if they know about any farms that need hands. At the beginning of my trip I told myself it would be impossible to get the three months manual labor work for a second visa in the time that I’m here, but lately I’ve been thinking to just give it a shot. You never know. And if I do find a good job and I do earn enough money and I do have the chance to get those three months, I just might decide to stick around… But before this knocks people off their seats – I haven’t even found my first job yet!

13.09.2010

After my spirits having fallen just a bit after a quite unsuccessful job hunt and no replies to any of the email  applications I had sent in, I was quite happy when the Irish guy from the night before invited to dinner by the water. A (very) short drive from my hostel, the Darwin boat clubs are a great spot for a drink and a bite to eat with a perfect view of the sun setting into the water, silhouettes of sailboats dark against the reflection of the sun on the water. Though not necessarily catering to the budget of a backpacker, the fresh seafood and enormous fries (excuse me, make that chips) in the fisherman’s basket was quite delicious. The place was pretty full due to the fact that it was Saturday evening and there was a wedding reception going on… From there, we headed into a park nearby, where a tent with a sound system and turntables was set up next to a small lake and colorful lights lit up the surrounding trees and pulsated to the beat. People danced and relaxed to electronic music. Quite the spot for an outdoor rave. Of course, this ended at 10pm. I think most places with outdoor areas, even the bar of our hostel and our pool, close up at 10pm to reduce the noise around town. A good concept, especially in the hostel, because otherwise I could imagine the area being quite loud… I paid for three more nights when I got to the hostel and went to bed, being one of the first in my room.

I guess I must still have “jet-lag” from my outback tour, because I once again woke up at 6am. I had slept like a stone, the air-conditioner working again and the people in my room being quite considerate drunks who don’t make too much noise when they fall into the wrong beds. Even though I just wanted to turn  around and sleep just a bit more and make it feel like a real Sunday, a voice in the back of my head asked if I had taken my pill the night before and I felt around my bed for my handbag. Then I felt around my black-hole-like handbag… and ended up tearing it apart looking for my wallet, which was no longer there. The only thing worse than waking up because of a my-wallet-is-gone adrenaline shock on a Sunday morning is having to get up and make a million phone calls to block bank cards. Ugh. This is definitely a backpacker’s experience I was hoping not to make on this journey… It was quite funny though, I guess backpackers’ wallets to tend to disappear once in a while but for different reasons, because  the first thing the receptionist asked me when I asked if anyone had dropped off a wallet was:”Did you go out drinking last night?”…Aside from realizing that I’m an idiot for not storing at least one of my many credit cards in a different place or putting some Aussie dollars away for emergencies, I was more sad about all the other things that are now gone – photos, calling cards, spare earrings (including my favorites from my best friend in Berlin) and piercing, a semi-precious stone and little golden koala pin from Coober Pedy, a shell from the beaches of Sangat Island, a lucky coin from Berlin, my collection of “Little known” facts about Australia on the covers of Tally Ho rolling papers, my bright pink tag from ladies night at the Vic, funky bottle caps and last, but definitely worst – my silver anklet I got for my birthday… So where does that leave me now? With a bit of emergency cash that I can’t covert because it is Sunday, some food (which will last me a while) and a day which I will spend by the pool doing and thinking of nothing.

13.09.2010

…and that’s exactly what I did. After making all the necessary calls and cancelling all my cards, I sat out by the pool till it got too hot. I then spent a few hours lazing on my bed with “How I Met Your Mother” and the air-conditioning, only to return to the pool afterwards and spending my afternoon getting sunburned. Felt kind of good - not being able to spend money and therefore saving the money I probably would have spent on little things.

In German, there is this saying “Glück im Unglück” (basically stating that you can be lucky whilst or because of unlucky things happening to you) and in a way, you could say that his happened to me. While sitting outside the kitchen waiting for my mom to call, I started talking to this Swedish guy I had had a short conversation with on the first evening. I mentioned the whole wallet ordeal and the fact that I couldn’t find a job. This then got me involved in a conversation with some French guys sitting around at the table as well, who then spontaneously invited me to come mango picking with them in Katherine this week. And I spontaneously said yes… So either today or tomorrow, I’ll be driving 300km back into the direction where I just came from with 4 French guys, in a 28year old van they had bought for 100$, probably sitting in the back because it only has two seat and then will be camping in a homestead caravan camp for I-have-no-idea-how-long and will be earning I-don’t-know-how-much for picking and possibly packing mangoes. Sound like a plan? I’m actually quite looking forward to it. And should it turn out to be unbearable, I can always hop back on a bus up to Darwin or try and hitch a ride to the next farm with other workers.

I’ve been up and running around all morning, getting money, reloading my phone (because the calls to my banks in Germany devoured the whole 10$ I had recharged with the day before), buying snacks and supplies, a sleeping bag, a hat, strong insect repellant and rash cream (because I hear that mango sap gives you a mean burn sometimes), a rain poncho and *drrrrumroll please* - a new wallet. Still to come, a thin cotton long sleeved shirt and a box to send home my winter(ish) clothes in…

Funny, maybe having my wallet stolen triggered some kind of positive karma, because just today I’ve already seen a sign looking for a counter waitress in a café, have been called back by an agency I signed up with for a hospitality job and gotten a call from someone offering me a live-in job in a Tavern a bit outside of town. But I think I shall still get in that van I haven’t seen yet with the people I don’t know yet to do a job I’ve never done yet, because it’s just what I feel like doing. Plus, if it works out and I can stay there for a while or follow the harvest trail for a bit, then I might actually be able to get the 3 months rural work together for a second VISA.

Whatever happens, I do believe I will come back to Darwin, since there’s nowhere else to go from Katherine but North or South and, as much fun as I had there, going back to Alice Springs is not necessarily on my agenda. And I don’t think I’ve had my fill of the city yet. I want to walk by the water, find a favorite cafe on Mitchell Street, see a free movie by the Waterfront, check out the museums, have dinner at the Mindil Beach market...I haven’t taken a single picture and haven’t culturally explored the city yet. I definitely want to see Litchfield and Kakadu National Park and I believe that I could actually enjoy it here for a while (if I find a job while being here, otherwise boredom would probably take over quite fast).