12 WEEKS A LOW PAID COTTON WORKER

I discovered through film that I was quite impressionable. Forrest Gump convinced me to stay loyal to the Snickers for fear of chocolate related disappointments. The Lord of the Rings taught me that even when you have the perfect ring, marriage is not the answer. Inception had me following my dreams. Then waking up a lot, only still to be dreaming and so forth until… hang on. Maybe that was Groundhog Day? But the film that resonated with me most was 12 Years a Slave. I remember watching it and thinking, that’s the life for me. My quest for a second year in Australia coincided with my cotton picking ambitions and so to Emerald, up in the Central Highlands of Queensland. Not quite the Mississippi Delta but still hot enough to burn a hole in the most frugal pockets.  

I was to stay with Margaret, a family friend fresh off a double knee replacement, and her brother Pat, a former rodeo champion and my country mentor. They lived in an old, quaint timber-framed cottage. Think ‘The Notebook’, but on stilts. Well Pat dwelled between the stilts and that’s where I found him. An aroma of bacon and cabbage hit my nostrils like a local anaesthetic. IRISH, he yelled. I presumed that wasn’t the dog’s name.  Over dinner we sunk Golds chased by Stone’s Ginger Wine. He shared with me his epic tales of musters gone by whilst I sat there trying to think of a story that didn’t reveal my feminine side. I stumbled up the stairs and into what would be my palace for the next twelve weeks, and boy was I shitting myself.

Rocking up for work on day one having never been whipped was quite intimidating. Farmer Mike decided to forego all pleasantries, ushering me into a Ute and barking at me to follow. It took an eternity to find first gear and Mike wasn’t waiting, hooning up the paddock in a cloud of merciless dust. Having rallied through the 7,000 hectare farm, I caught up to him as he pointed me to a rusty, old excuse for a tractor being operated by an old cobber named Steve. My hand sizzled on the cabin door as I hopped in. Christ it was intimate, and worse still, there was no air con. Trying to avoid him like a child playing Operation, I contorted my body with all my might, but only achieved the feeling of a lap dancer in a sauna. He didn’t seem to mind me dripping all over him, but before I could panic, an unforgettable waft of must landed on my tongue. Slipping away into the afterlife seemed like the only option, when suddenly, Steve was gone. If he’d just confessed to his wife’s murder I was none the wiser, but realistically it was probably something to do with farming and getting the tractor to move.

They were the best of times, they were the worst of times. A fellow picker coined that term. Anyway, the first time the tractor decided to cut out was twenty minutes into my solo shift, day one. I sent for Mike. He arrived like a bull in heat but luckily I wasn’t his type. With a screw driver in either hand, he pierced the side of the engine, sparking her up like a defibrillator would a Chinaman on Bondi Rescue. He looked at me as if I didn’t have a degree in journalism and I smiled back at him like I didn’t think he was the killer from Wolf Creek. As he grunted back to his Ute, I cursed him from high heaven (under my breath so not even I could hear). It cut out again almost immediately but this time I called Steve. Turns out we shared a common enemy, but not much more. He had a girlfriend in the Philippines whom he’d never met and Steve was in the process of selling his car to put her kids through college. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that long distance relationships can be difficult, because who was I to deny true love?

Upon sunset I parked the tractor up and hopped in my Ute. With no phone signal and no clue how to get home, I was pretty anxious already, but when I bogged the two rear wheels of the jeep in black dirt, I was already writing my own obituary. The stars lit up the road, coming at me two by two. Must be the Southern Cross. Turns out a herd of cattle had heard it was my first day and decided to surround the jeep for some devilment. Four wheel drive, front wheel drive, I even got a cow to give me a push, but to no avail. I was proper stuck. Left for dead on a cotton farm, I said to a cow with a wry smile. Like I hadn’t been warned by the film.  But instead of answering me, the cow took off. They all did. Beeping in the distance had created a Lion King style stampede. Farmer Mike had come to the rescue. I knew he loved me. He looked me up and down with more disgust than pity. You’re supposed to be out there for another hour. I should’ve ran away with the cattle. 

Yet as my picking improved, so did our relationship. Let me tell you about the art behind cotton farming. It’s all about efficiency and straight lines. In a 100 hectare field that’s roughly 1.2km in length and at a speed of 10kmph, the time lost missing one row on a cut could be reasonably punished by death. With only a few inches to play with on either side of the mulcher, I’d be driving down the pivot like a spectator at the most intense table tennis encounter imaginable. Fortunately, I drove her straight and through. After a couple of weeks in the hotbed on wheels, I was promoted to a 2013 John Deere. It was as if I’d made the leap from paper airplane manufacturer to commercial pilot.  Chilling air-con, a booming stereo and a Sat Nav that rendered me redundant. One push of a button and her internal map set her on her way. All I had to do was sit back, relax, and video document my mind slowly unravelling for all my friends on Facebook. At one point I questioned the very need for cotton. How many people even use cotton buds these days? Not me anyway, the trauma after all this would be too much to take.

Tbc…

The One That Flew From His Mother’s Nest Part II

People’s fascination with a home away from home has always been a mystery to me. Why fly 16,000 kilometres to the other side of the world if you’re going to drink in an Irish bar, with Irish people, complaining about Irish things? ‘Jaysus the Guinness turns fierce watery in this poxy heat and the hurling final’s on in the middle of the night. Not a pick on the cattle over here either. Must have something to do with the twang off the milk.  Skyped Ma the other day. Sounds like Nora Killeen’s funeral was some craic. Raging I missed it.’ Go home John, you’re drunk. It may come as a shock but the best Irish bars in the world happen to be located in Ireland. That being said, even the lenses of the most committed man’s beer goggles can harbour a green tint.

As a novice traveller in a drunken haze I stumbled across Paddy O Shenanigan’s saloon and swore never again.  Greeted by a thick waft of stale urine and fresh carvery with all the potency of a local anaesthetic, I foolishly ignored my singed nostrils and powered through to the bar. Amidst the Paddy’s Day paraphernalia was a one man horror show ripping the soul out of all Luke Kelly’s hard work. Sheepishly I pulled up a stump afraid to open my mouth, yet more than willing to drown my sorrows. My accent gave the game away and suddenly I was vulnerable.  Swarmed by drunken, sun-kissed compatriots draped in their country colours and convinced they knew my cousins, I frisked my stool for an eject button but to no avail. Had that plane left the ground at Dublin airport at all?

Miraculously reuniting with the Brisbane boys at the footy had changed everything. I was graciously invited to one of their friend’s Mexican themed birthday and I was pumped to meet everyone on my debut with the new gang. Indeed I was so enthused that I threw my back out in the shower in a shampoo infused frenzy. Undeterred and buzzing off pain killers, I donned my finest pair of purple pants completely confused about the dress code but eager to impress. In reality I was fairly rolled before ever a tequila touched my tongue.

All of a sudden I was the token Irish guy and the people expected a performance. Luckily they were an easy crowd and any challenge put in front of me, I chose to drink it. Popping pain killers like tic tacs, my back was clearly better because I was carrying the party. Firing insults in the form of lucky charms, I had become a human centrepiece. With popularity levels booming and an inflated ego, the room had come to realise they were in the presence of an all-round top lad and I had their attention. It was a shame actually that the night became such a blur, because I couldn’t really remember which girl from the party I ended up with. Whoever it was, you’re welcome.

I came to the next morning contorted on a chair and totally lost. It was definitely somebody’s apartment. The smell of the night before lingered like a perverted uncle at his niece’s 21st. As sight slowly returned to my eyes, I wondered how this had come to pass; and more importantly, who was this cuddly looking Asian guy asking me if I smoked the four leaf clover? A Spanish girl that I half recognised from the night before sat across from me staring in amusement whilst composing a diary entry. Surely I got a mention. I managed to utter my most charming, ‘good morning’, accompanied by a cheeky grin and a wink before the weight of my head had me gazing down into a pit of despair.

My purple pants suddenly looked like a shrine of remembrance. Preserved on the inner seam were a few cool ranch Doritos and some homemade guacamole. They were more stained than an adolescent’s bedsheets. Some gobshite must’ve puked on my trousers. But alas, as I introduced myself to the room for the second time, it became clear that these kind souls had actually rescued me from the night before and tales of my heroics were very much mistaken. The human centrepiece had suffered a catastrophic fall, obliterating into a thousand pieces long before the taxi made it into the bright lights of Bris Vegas.

You see, having been goaded into drinking more alcohol than a little runt like me could ever wish to consume, I’d lost the use of my legs as soon as the outside air hit me. Exiting the taxi with the mobility of a post-box, I collapsed out the side door like a sack of spuds and proceeded to vomit profusely all over my dancing pants. Not put off, I managed to crawl to a nightclub entrance in defiance at some point, only to fall asleep at the bouncer’s feet. In truth, my big first night saw me shacked up outside a 7/11 bringing shame to the homeless population of Brisbane while being hand fed crisps by a loving friend delirious with laughter. They had selflessly dragged my rotting corpse to a nearby friend’s apartment despite my protests of sobriety. What a delusional drunk I had been. They maintained I hadn’t ruined their night and kept their chuckles to a merciful minimum, probably agreeing that an almighty, chunder ridden walk of shame through Brisbane’s busiest shopping district and a pungent twenty minute bus ride home to my sister’s was punishment enough. At least I made an impression.

The One That Flew From His Mother’s Nest

Planning and my life have never gone hand in hand. Brought into this world mistakenly nine years after my parents last did the deed, a potentially faulty baby was born a pleasant surprise and things have worked out nicely since. That said, instead of diving into the endless pit of career opportunities a degree in journalism offers here in Ireland, I decided to avoid the stress of ‘real life’ and head to Australia a little over two years ago.

The timing of my decision coincided with the British and Irish Lions tour and with friends heading over for rugby mania it was only natural to join the sea of red and ease into my new environment. My plan? Follow the lads until they went home and hopefully stumble across some potential mates along the way.  My insurance policy? My darling sister married and living in Brisbane. The tour is a hazy memory at this stage. O’Driscoll was dropped. Gatland is the devil and I think we won. It was a whirlwind and to unwind after a liver damaging few weeks with ‘LIONS’ still echoing in our ears, we headed to Indonesia. Definitely a financially irresponsible decision on my part as it was a long way to go for a massage.

There wasn’t much to love about our first stop in Bali. Kuta was a pothole of a city. A feeding ground for the Australian mining population, it was a sleazy cesspit of corruption. Don’t get me wrong, the roulette players amongst you might find it delightful. Did he just spike my drink or was that sugar? Does this girl I’m dancing with have a penis or just really big hands? Is this taxi taking a short cut to my hostel or am I going to be raped in a lane by a nunchuck swinging midget in a cape?  Hitting nothing but double zeros, we cashed in our chips and headed to the Gili Islands in search of solace.

The people there were most welcoming, the island was free from motor vehicles and the food barely gave you the shits. If it wasn’t for the deeply depressed chap wailing over the intercoms in the middle of the night it was paradise. Ah yes, Ramadan. How could we forget the ninth month of the Islamic calendar observed by Muslims globally as a month of fasting to commemorate the first revelation of the Quran to Mohammad? Sure what better time of year for a gang of Irish pissheads to arrive? Luckily for us, the island’s natives were about as Muslim as we were Catholic. It was easy to get around the midnight noise curfew with silent discos and it seemed even easier to get around fasting by eating.

In fact, everything was accessible. The night before we were due to leave for the forests of Ubud, a couple of us discovered another stimulant in large supply and despite being warned against such activity, our willpower had been compromised. I woke the next morning contorted in a cold ball of suffering regretting the night before, and was in no state to take our early morning voyage to visit the monkeys. Like a selfless soldier on the front line I implored my troops to leave me behind as eventually our paths would separate anyway. Without needing much convincing, they were gone.  For three days I fended for myself. Each morning I’d allow the workers at my lodgings to secretly smoke up in my room while I scaled their banana trees foraging for the ingredients for homemade banana pancakes.

Miraculously I had recovered from my hangover in record time and powered through my first night alone. The last stop on the island’s pub crawl was a fair trek but the beach fire alone there was worth the hike. En route I bumped into two dishevelled souls unknowingly walking away from the party. Between insults we found some common ground and a few shots later we had known each other our whole lives.  We partied together for a couple of nights and coincidentally they were from Brisbane.  It’s incredible the people you meet when you’re forced to put yourself out there. Admittedly for every great person I met there were the few social recluses that I’d immediately regret introducing myself to, but sure who gets along with everybody?  These fellas were spot on though. A good knowledge of sport complimented by a good taste in music and they could throw some banter over a few beers to boot. What more could you want? Well maybe for them to hang around a bit longer because before you knew it, they were on a boat out of my life. One minute you’re necking whiskeys revelling in bromance at sunrise, the next you’re walking home haggard and shoeless pleading for directions to a hotel you can’t remember.

I got back to my sister in Brisbane in one piece physically but my mind was in a thousand places. Suddenly things were real. I had very little money, no real friends in Brisbane and no obvious job prospects. I had no intention of going straight into a fruit picking job on some desolate farm and I was beginning to question whether I would last any length of time in Australia at all. Thankfully my sister’s husband invited me to an AFL game in the Gabba to watch his beloved Brisbane Lions and it was a much needed escape from pondering life. The stadium was rocking as the Western Bulldogs had come to town. 40,000 seater stadium packed to capacity. Beer in each hand. This was more like it.  I hadn’t taken my seat 5 minutes before I was tipped on the shoulder. ‘In the wrong seat no doubt’, I thought to myself. Not even close. As fate would have it, it was one of the Brisbane boys from Gili Trawangan one row back. I don’t know if he was as surprised as I was but inside I was bursting with excitement while obviously trying to play it as cool as possible. Suddenly things were looking up.