Ruapehu Farm Stay - New Zealand Farm Stay
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Date 30 October 2003 AuthorChristopher Ford Contact
c.ford@mcrmail.com WERE WOOFERS NOT DOGS
Traveling doesn’t come cheap. Even with a very strong pound and
a stern budget I still crossed my fingers and prayed waiting for
cash at each ATM I visited. I’d been away from home 5 months to
date, jumped off, climbed up, and swam through, every piece of
land, rock, and stretch of water in New Zealand. It was time to
give back a little of what I’d taken, and take back a little of
what I’d spent.
Backpacking notice boards and hostel hearsay persuaded me to
travel north to Ohakune, North Island, New Zealand. My reason
for coming, to WOOF: that is to be a Willing Worker on an
Organic Farm. Four weeks of intensive farming, in exchange for 3
home cooked meals and a bed. A chance to rebuild my connection
to mother earth, live the organic life, and more importantly,
preserve enough money for a skydive in Taupo.
Although Ohakune is large enough to export world famous carrots
and skiing, it is still yet to discover the merits of public
transport. With my thumb outstretched, and sporting my best
‘pick me up I’m not a psychopath smile’ I called upon the good
will of passing motorists to get me the extra 3km south to the
farm, my destination.
Sadly, as it transpired, that’s exactly what the passing
motorists did. Pass me by. One car became two, and 78 became a
joke. A few cars away from my thumb becoming the finger, I
started to walk.
4km on, braving more rain than I thought existed, I swung open
the white picket gate, sent my backpack to the ground, and
introduced myself to the host. The person on the other end of my
arm was Sue Allomes; teacher, foster mother, and all round
matriarch. She briefly showed me around the farm, to my
accommodation, and once introductions to the other workers and
animals were made, dinner was served.
The accommodation was a caravan. I can’t find a better word than
grim to describe it. Electricity, gas, or running water hadn’t
been seen since the mould arrived in the late 80’s. I entered
nonetheless and fought back the stench to get a closer look. The
only reason the roof wasn’t gushing water was because the rain
had since stopped. Still, I pinned a postcard on the wall,
prayed for a drought, and called it home. Caravan #4, Ruapehu
Homestead, New Zealand.
The main income for the farm comes from the horse trekking
business they operate that runs a 3-hr guided trek across the
scenic Ruapehu district. Also offered was a selection of lodge
accommodation, and country dining in the restaurant. The WOOFERS
were responsible for maintaining, cleaning and the general
upkeep of everything inside the picket fence. First impressions
were good. I was eager to hang up my compass and reach for the
elbow grease.
Routine soon concreted itself into our day. We groomed and fed
the horses not long after ourselves and set about the daily
chores with the fresh enthusiasm each day. Bread was to be
baked, fences to be fixed, and weeds weeded. Simplistic in
theory yet pathetically executed in practice. In the first week
alone, I was responsible for all the inedible bread in the
house, destroying 3 fence posts, and digging up the all the
broccoli in one vegetable patch. I then decided to do what any
other person worth their salt would do: deny it. “Come to think
of it Sue, I did see the new German girl leaning on the fence
yesterday”.
In addition to this, I set about inadvertently electrocuting
myself on the paddock fence more times than I care to remember.
Organic farming was proving to be test that no university
education could prepare me for, and my appreciation of farmers
soared.
The work was hard, but faking delight when meals were plated up
was harder. Our meals came from the garden and drinking water
from the sky. I’d enjoyed the benefits of drive thru’s since
Grease was playing in the drive in’s and longed for a
Mc’Anthing. The cook had two philosophies, ‘We need to be
sustainable and eat the food we grow’, which I understood, and
‘WOOFER’s will eat anything’, which I despised. True to her
word, we would and we did, but never by choice. “I’ll pass on
the rack of lamb thanks, just dish me up some of that disgusting
looking cabbage bake and some rainwater in a glass, Ta”.
Food was something we spooned into our mouth, chewed, swallowed
and digested. Carbohydrates were always on the menu, carbs
equaled energy, and energy equaled fixed fences and weed-less
vegetable patches. Everything that could be eaten was. Any food
left over from the WOOFER’s was given to the cats, and any food
the cats refused was fed to the chickens, although the order of
which I still remain skeptical. We’d collect chicken eggs, rip
up spring onions and siphon water from the gutters to continue
the cycle of farm life.
The horses, however, lived outside this cycle. They ate carrots,
literally by the lorry load, and when the lorry was empty they
turned to the grass. We’d feed them and they’d belt us with
their hooves as a way of saying thanks. They would also bite,
nut, and stamp on impulse. With one between my legs I felt the
next stop was nearly always the ground, and the ground was far.
‘Just get up, and get back on its easy’, ‘There is a reason he’s
bucking me off’. Horses are unquestionable beautiful and handled
correctly probably receptive. But my relationship with them
started with the first shin kick and probably won’t continue
past spreading manure on the garden.
Still the cycle continued. The work list never shortened and I
was using more salt and pepper on my meals than ever. Progress
and recognition were never achieved nor given and I soon felt
drained and unwanted. This raw approach to life I’d craved a
month prior was beating me. Operating such a self-sufficient
lifestyle was very admirable, but I yearned for a glass of water
that didn’t taste of the roof and a bed with a mattress thicker
than the duvet.
I’d learned many skills, formed new friendships and put to bed
any horse riding desires I had. I’d eaten my weight in carrot
bread, could spot a Christmas fern from poison ash and tie a
Flemish hitch faster than most boy scouts. But, it was time say
goodbye to the gang and farewell to Mother Earth. I scrawled
Taupo on a sheet of cardboard and picked up my bag.
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