Mango Farm Madness

It was a week just like any other – hot weather, the hope of storms to send us home early, and dirty paddock talk to occupy our minds.  The way I get myself through the long 11 hour days is by aiming to get to the next break (morning or afternoon tea, and lunch) and hoping that by the time we get back to work a storm will come and wash us away.  The heat and humidity seems to melt time away to insignificance, though.

One day we had a storm building up in the north east, giving me hope before lunch.  It was deep blue and coming towards us, but it ended up wimping out and fading to clear blue sky in the space of about half an hour.  Twenty minutes later, however, my hopes were reinstated at the sight of another storm buildup, this time in the south west.  I called this one Gladys, and invited her to come for a cup of tea and scones.  It took her an hour or two, but she came.  I went home.

As I eat my lunch I am usually interrupted by a little dog, a cattle dog the size of a jack russell.  It runs around everyone’s feet and stands up on its hind legs begging for food, but I just kick it or give it a slap on the nose when it does that to me.  It’s almost learnt not to bother any more, but it’s still a stupid dog.  After charming a morsel of sandwich of the idiots who feed him, he drops its hind legs to the ground and walks forward on his front legs, rubbing his evidently itchy balls on the grass.   After I eat I have my grandad nap, either under a mango tree or – more recently – on a comfortable seat near the farm house.  I am joined by guinea foul – stupid birds who come to investigate the intruder into their territory.  One afternoon I witnessed a pair chasing each other all around the paddock, back and forth and around in circles for hours.  No joke, hours.  They were like the distance runners from Kenya with agile, skinny legs that propel them at high speeds without ever tiring.

Lunchtime Companion

Robin tells me guinea foul run wild in Africa, where he grew up.  He recounted a childhood spent with his mates rounding them up into a corner (stupid birds are not tactically minded), whereupon they would produce shotguns, fire and sufficiently injure a couple.  What do you do with an injured guinea foul?  I’m told you pick it up by the head and swing it around in circles – soon enough, its skinny neck will snap, the body will go flying and you’ll be left with a bird head covered in blood in the palm of your hand.  Robin says his Anglo-Indian friend’s mum made a top-notch guinea foul curry.

Ben, my age, tells me he used to be quite the distance runner.  We probably raced against each other back in our school days at the regional meets.  David, who I met at my previous farm and also my age, had a similar story.  Why do all the runners end up on mango farms?

This week, we were discussing spies on the mango farm.  Was anybody amongst us an undercover intelligence officer?  Korean spy?  Snoop from a rival farm?  The employee population on the farm is not entirely dissimilar to that of a horror movie, or even Big Brother.  Not long ago, we had a dozen people.  The high school graduate made his money and quit; Julian’s car broke down and prompted him to move to Cairns; a couple of other guys had had enough by week’s end.  Perhaps they’re all defecting to the other farms, or the communists.

While we’re on the topic of other farms, the allegations against my previous mango boss were flying across the paddock.  For those of you that don’t know, Mr N. is of Italian heritage, quite rich and runs a large, regimented farming operation.  Word of mouth is it’s the last place you want to work, but somehow I found myself there (for the record, it was weird – but not that bad)  Mr N is the alpha male, the king of Camp N – the Australian version of Camp X-Ray.

Now to the dirt spreading.  Apparently the cute Japanese lady he keeps in his house (along with his wife) to do domestic work is actually his mistress, and she gets traded in for a new one every 12 months.  There were stories about illegitimate children of his, not to mention how he obtains his mistresses.  Says Michael to Greg (the boss), ‘Now what you don’t know Greg is that the kids at your place are actually mine.  And the kids at my place are all yours!  Now I know what you get up to when you leave the paddock!  And then there was this aboriginal fella come knocking at my door telling me I was his dad, prolly just afta he’d been to see you about it too.’  I suggested that Greg and Michael swap kids and be done with it, to which he replied, ‘Now that’s smart thinking.  Probably why you’re a scientist!’

Although he seems bogan at first sight, Michael’s not exactly unintelligent.  He is capable of reasoned thinking and objectivity, although he usually communicates his conclusions in either a whinge, or a ruff-tough manner.  This week he told me that he realises we need police (he just doesn’t like the standards held by the current force), and that he knows he sees the bad side of things more often than the good.  Some say that self awareness is a sign of intelligence.  The strange thing about Michael is that he doesn’t smoke or drink, comes from a Jehova’s Witness background, has experience in the Army (Reserve, although he doesn’t emphasise that), liked maths at school (but nothing else) and gained most of his agricultural skills from growing dope on a commercial scale, for which he served time.

I’m not sure if I mentioned in a previous post a woman named Nakibra who works in the packing shed.  I haven’t met her, but I hear that her and Michael don’t get along well because the won’t take orders from each other.  Michael complains about her every second day in the paddock, but today he says, ‘Maybe if I don’t say anything else about her for the rest of the season she’ll give me a big fat hug like she did last year.  I didn’t mind having a feel of her big fat arse last time, and I’d like to have her tits rub against me again.’  Greg replies, ‘You know what Michael, they’re definitely getting lower each year, ay?  If you want a hug from her then now’s the time to get one, I’m telling ya.’  Classic paddock talk.

Which reminds me of a phrase I overheard this week.  It’s definitely not a nice thing to say, but I will report it here nevertheless.  “Like a gin’s left tit”  A gin is a degrading term for an aboriginal person.  This line means, ‘It’s not right and it’s not fair’, and can be used in learned discussions about politicians, government or bureaucracy.

Most days I like to lie out in the paddock for morning tea because I gain the time it takes to do the return trip to the farm house and back out again – up to 10 minutes more for me!  Recently I’ve been discovering the benefits of coming in to the house for smoko – namely hot ham-cheese-tomato toasted sandwiches (thick, real ham and not the paper-thin sandwich variety), light scones warm out of the oven with jam and cream, and most recently cake.  This particular cake was the ultimate example of perfection, made by [big boss] Allan’s wife Dianne.  I had the feeling that she implemented the recipe for Orange Tea Cake (with Lemon Frosting), as documented on page 68 of All Time Favourites from the Australian Woman’s Weekly, with a precision unrivalled by even the most careful chemist.  As the cake melted on my tongue I was sure that every last ingredient was bought to specification and painstakingly measured, the oven preheated to 180 C, plus or minus no more than 0.5 C, and that even the cake tin matched the exact specifications as written in the book: round, diameter 25cm, with a 5cm hole in the middle.  Candied orange peel on top.  All for half a dozen paddock workers.  I’m back for smoko next week, I tell you.

On the truck back to the house one day, Robin and Allen (remember, he’s the boss extrodinaire) were having a half-serious debate about how to run the farm, following a spat in the paddock over how the packing shed manages itself.

R:  Look Allen, you just can’t start packing at ten in the morning cause there just isn’t any bloody fruit I’m telling you
A:  No, we’ve got enough there.  We’re back to KP so it takes longer to pack you see…
R:  What you’re doing is setting the shed up to finish early or just sit around all day waiting for us to send the fruit in
A:  No we’re not
[...continues for a couple of minutes while Ben and I sit and laugh at the two old men fighting]
A:  Alright Cosmospostman, you’ve got a rational scientific mind.  What do you think?
R:  You can’t pack mangoes before they’re picked now can you?  He’s telling us we can all bloody well go home and the mangoes’ll pick themselves!
C:  I’m not even sure mangoes exist
A:  Look Robin, you just don’t understand.  You’re a dickhead!
R:  Get fucked!!

I’d better hurry up and post this before the storm I see brewing over the mountains comes any closer and cuts out our internet connection.

On Mango farming, nature, travel and breast implants

At the end of last week, there was an influx of new workers in the mango paddock.  A guy who called himself Robbie claimed he had experience, but had recently been working on oil rigs overseas.  I think he might have been on the run, given some of the comments he made, and that he stopped work after a couple of days.  After that, you have to hand in a form for tax details, you see.

Also starting work was Jay the 30 year old father, Nolan the large 50-something man, Darren-just-back-from-schoolies (wants to do Engineering in Townsville) and a couple of other randoms who didn’t last long. Some people only work a day or two, get paid a couple of hundred dollars, quit and go down to the pub to drink it.

Most intriguing of the new workers was Julien, the 25 year old nurse from France who’s travelling the world, currently in need of money.  I adopted the unofficial role of on-paddock interpreter for him, having to rephrase instructions from Michael given in the North Queensland Bogan dialect to a more conventional form of English.  Julien’s dad is from Africa (Algeria), so he’s got olive skin that doesn’t get sunburnt.

Michael’s been in a generally good mood for the past three days, and hasn’t been a problem for me since the new guys started.  He has the occasional whinge, but his mood stays good.  Memorable paddock conversations this week have included a lively debate on Evolution and the statistical observance that 10% of men are gay, so of the dozen-or-so of us in the paddock, it’s likely that one is checking out everyone else.  Micahel and Nolan engaged in conversation about self-sufficent energy (wind/solar).  It would be nice to not depend on the electricity grid, I think.  Jay efficiently and elegantly contradicted himself when he proclaimed “I’m so fucking polite” (in good taste, not grumpiness).  By the way, here’s a contradiction of my own: “It’s wrong to generalise”.  For efficiency, a smart alecs would say “P and not P”, but really – who says stuff like that anyway?  Michael came up with a theory that the recent economic crisis is going to stunt China’s growth just as a similar crisis retarded Japan’s growth post-war.  A stroke of genius from George Bush unrecognised by the public?  A conspiracy?  Michael.  Mango paddock.  Perspective.  Michael likes to hear himself talk.

I’ve got four days off because we’ve picked all there is to pick (including two hours of limes), and we’re waiting for the rest of the fruit to ripen.  Here’s what happens in our back yard after the rain:

Clouds gently caressing the mountain tops

Did anybody see this in the sky the other night?  I saw a resemblence to the household puppy.

Spot the difference

Last night I put a mattress and blankets on the back of Dad’s truck and slept out under the stars.  The moonlight illuminated the low clouds as they hovered over the mountains.  The air was cool and scented with eucalyptus and dew on the grass, and I heard the frogs, crickets, nocturnal birds and other sounds of old as I stared out into the universe as it lay bare before me.  We always talk about space and to me such talk makes me feel like space is so far away from us on earth.  But on a nice clear night, it’s right there.

This is the best shot I could get

Check out these PhD Science students dancing their thesis: Dancing Scientists Invade YouTube

Hey Erin, just a quick reminder that reading someone’s publicly accessible blog does not constitute spying.  Dear readers, tensions have escalated since I pre-emptively blocked Erin from viewing my facebook profile and she gets frustrated when she doesn’t know how to block me in return, and can’t even research things on google herself.  Oh no.

Now to today’s news, I took Julien to Mossman Gorge for a swim.  I met him in Mt Molloy where his van broke down, and we drove down to Mossman together.  We did the usual – swim in the cool clear water, sit on the rocks in the sun, watch people.  He seemed quite adept at jumping around on rocks, I think it would be really handy to have a nurse come rock hopping with us one time.  I mean, it’s as safe as you can be should something go wrong, short of bringing an entourage of emergency trauma specialists, a complete mobile operating tent and a caravan full of supplies.

Let’s get hypothetical.  For the price of a return ticket to a place like, (let’s pick one at random) New York, I may as well buy a round-the-world ticket and go to Japan, California, the West Indies, England and Switzerland at the same time.  Sequentially, I mean.  Julien explains that while his friends expressed their envy at his pre-departure travel plans, it’s not like it’s all that hard for somebody who wants to do it.  Save some money, pack your life into a suitcase, go where you like and work when you need the money.  You’re on your own, often in a country with a different language to your prefered one, but really, it’s easy.  I’m getting my degree done first, but everyone else has no excuse.  Quit your jobs and travel the world you bunch of slackers!

Julien tells me he worked in a clinic that did boob jobs.  “Did you see that woman back there?  She had fake books.  They’re the wrong size for somebody her age.”  He knows what to look for.  I was too busy explaining to said woman that she could continue to walk the 2km walking circuit all day if she so desired, and that because of the circular nature of the loop, either direction could be regarded as ‘forwards’ and that’s why we were going one way and her the other and we were both still walking the loop in an acceptable fashion.  I asked Julien if he became a nurse just to watch breast augmentation in action (not the case), and proceeded to explain the word ‘sleazy’.  We agreed that breast implants are fine for people who loose one to cancer or in an accident, so that they don’t end up lop-sided and walk around in circles for the rest of their lives.  But surgery for aesthetics – like any kind of cosmetic surgery on a fully abled person – we don’t yet appreciate or understand.

Creek encounters

Yesterday I finished early while most of the other mango crew went to the packing shed to catch up on the processing.  It was only 10AM, so I decided to go to the creek to cool down.  Being such a hot day, I was expecting heaps of people, so it was a pleasant surprise to find the creek empty of people.  I waded around knee deep for a bit – in the cool water surrounded by rainforest – before building up the courage to jump in.

It wasn’t long before I was joined by a couple of acquaintances from high school days long gone, now doing their apprenticeships.  I hadn’t seen them for two years.  At first it was Jack, ‘Mabu’, Reece and some other guy I didn’t know – I joined them in passing a football before starting a full-on two-a-side game of footy [ie, rugby] in the creek.  Not the most proficient footballer myself, I appreciated playing in the water because these lads would have been ultra-gross dripping with sweat and radiating the unwashed-for-two-hours-in-North-Queensland scent, had we played on dry land.  This matters when you’re required to essentially hug them as you attempt to bring them down.  The whole tackling business was also easier given the water landing.

Later on we were joined by Jess and his mate Christian, bringing with them an esky [ice box] full of bundies [Bundaberg Rum].  A couple of the footballers retired for a cigarette.  The last thing these people need is an addiction, I tell you.  I had Matt the engineer’s wisdom in mind (talk like the person you talk to) as I attempted to produce conversation from people with only a basic grasp of English.  Of course, they didn’t have much to say – except to confirm that one of their mates (also an old classmate of mine) would be getting married and simultaneously becoming a Jehova’s Witness, presumably in order to do so.  It was a surprise for me because the young man in question has definately had his share of wild parties, informal substance experimentation (as opposed a formal method of experimentation depicted below) and the like.  Maybe this conversion business will change him for the better, but I could never see myself converting – to anything – soley for the continued love of someone else.  What do you think?

Experimentation (from XKCD)

I was disappointed, but not surprised at the very basic lack of capacity to reason or communicate in these young men.  I enjoyed their company, and compared to others in the world this mob is actually going quite well.  They’re in training for careers that will probably get them through life comfortably – I mean, it’s not like they’re drug addicts (although I dreamt a few weeks ago that one of them was), highly antisocial or mentally unstable.  But I would consider them failures – not in themselves, but of the education they received, be it formally at school or from society in the ‘real world’.  I believe that very few teachers they had (and I know who their teachers were) could connect and stimulate their minds at the crucial age.  These blokes aren’t the brightest in the box, but they’re definitely a lot dimmer than they should be.  I don’t wish to present a detailed analysis of education and its function in society, but the point is that these boys will be easily mislead.  They’ve probably already developed inclinations to the redneck ideology, if you could imagine one ever existing.

And our government demands their opinion on who should lead us.  I’m just glad that the choice is usually (but not always, given recent international events) between semi-intelligent, somewhat-qualified candidates.  Sometimes I wonder if politicians rely on such people for a vote, and if that could explain why education often plays second (or third) fiddle.

Finally, dozens of four wheel drives filled with kids descended upon us, timed and executed like a military ambush.  I could sense a bit of conflict and tension – probably because young children would not fare too well in a game of drunken creek football.  Given that I’m allergic to kids (they make me sneeze and cough), I thought it was best to escape.  So I did.

High school graduation was on Friday night.  It’s been two years since I left school.  Coincidently – almost as a cumulation of the things I’ve learnt since, I’ve found a book to read.  I doubt I could have understood or appreciated much of it two years ago.

My latest read

It’s not light story about hungry caterpillars – I expect it to be quite demanding.  Please note that I find people who always let on about how smart they are… irritating to say the least.  That’s in general conversation, but as this blog is an anthology selected from my personal head space, I’d like to remind everyone that I can and will be as intellectual, rude, pollitically incorecct, coarse, inappropriate, silly or outrageous as I like.  Also note the tagline.

It’s been consistently hot recently – that’s no good when you’re sweating away picking mangos in a paddock in the middle of the day.  I’m sweating behind my knees and it’s 10 at night.  I want to implant a water bottle beside my stomach so I can fill it with icy cold water and stay cool in the day (or hot water in the middle of a Melbourne winter).  Think of it as reverse cycle centeral heating for the human body.

Getting you up to speed

It’s been pretty close to a year since the last post on the old blog.  Since then:

I Moved back to Australia for a brief stint at home.  Moved to Melbourne.  Been underwhelmed with regards to first impressions at Monash uni.  Evil eye got me in trouble.  Slowly picked out a couple of good people in my course from the attention seeking/immature/study obsessed/self absorbed general first year population.  Took chemistry.  Made fragile initial friendships with people from Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran – countries that through their media coverage have been come to be associated with “warfare”, “terrorism”, “extremists” and “intolerance”.  There are nice people everywhere, especially in countries that yours go to war with.

Worked my arse of Chemistry and then worried for three weeks that I’d failed Physics.  Went rogaining.  For those of you not in the know, it’s a sport similar to orienteering but of larger scope with regard to both space and time.  Witnessed the comic genius of Andrew Prentice, three times a week.

Of course I’ve done more than that, but there’s a brief summary for you.

Second semester exams have just finished and I’m home for summer.  My late night flight was delayed, so by the time I got in to Cairns it was 1AM.  My employment agency “Mother” has found me a job on a mango farm – let’s wait and see what kind of interesting characters I’ll meet this time around.  It was my first day on the job yesterday.  Last week it was PHL1140: Introduction to Logic (2 hour paper) and MTH2010: Multivariable Calculus (3 hour paper).  This week it’s pick mangoes and place them in a basket.  Just as bears go into hibernation, my intellect is pulling its tenticles back into its shell for the mango season.

While I was at uni, I had an interesting conversation with Matt the engineer about how he changes his speech for the bogans from his country home town, and for the rest of the population (normal people).

aww yeh m8 fuckin sounds like ya avin a gud 1. hope ya scor sum chickz m8 n git sm fuckin aktion! waz downat tha pub m8 las nite n’ere were haaawt chikz like everywere i tellya.

I could go on, but you get the picture.