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.
