Yeah, sorry, farm vocabulary. And I don't mean the agricultural side of it. (Just an example of farm vocabulary: we were stacking hay, which is a very tough job, especially since the bales have thistles (-> thorns) in them, so another farm hand goes: "F*cking hell." To which I reply: "My sentiments exactly." And the boss laughs: "But you can't say it for yourself?")
First of all, tomorrow, Sunday, is my last day of work here. It's scary! I'm sad to leave, because I really, really like the place and like the job. But on the other hand, I'm ready for another adventure. I still haven't got a new job. I'm going to South Island in January and hoping that there will always be fruit picking available. I've been trying to call a horse farm for weeks now, but they're not picking up and are not returning calls either. I got their number from a horse breeder in Te Awamutu, not far from where I live at the moment. I'll keep trying, but if nothing comes out of it, I'll look for something else. There is always fruit picking, I'm told. I know I'm repeating it, but fruit picking is an important sector of the economy!
Second of all, I moved over to my boss' place four weeks ago. I had just come back from my weekend off and was going to bed, preparing to start work at 8am the next morning, then decided I'd text back to Hamilton to say thank you to the people who hosted me. And just as I opened up my phone again, the boss calls. "Could you come and milk tomorrow morning?" This was because another farm hand had twisted his knee and couldn't come to work. "Bloody h..." I thought, because for milking I should have gone to bed hours earlier. But I promised to come.
I milked for seven days in a row. It was exhausting, I don't understand how the others can do it
every day for weeks (they normally have every other weekend off, but due to circumstances the herd manager hadn't had very much time off at all since September...). But I lived through, and actually quite enjoyed it, too. It's crazy, but milking is the kind of job where you can feel that something gets done, you do some real work, and see the results in the vat. And there's always a bit of a race to see whether we'll have cups off at 7.30 as we're supposed to or not.
My boss suggested that I might as well move over to their empty room to spare me the bike ride every morning. So I grabbed half of my stuff and moved over. 10 days later, the boss' wife offered that I could move over for the rest of my time here. Which wasn't very long to be honest, because my parents came over for two weeks and I was either away travelling with them or lived in the guest house behind the main house with them for that time.
We've been chipping weeds - thistles and ragwort - this week. It's a boring job, and lonely, but once you get into the swing of it, it goes fast.
The other thing we've been doing is making hay. The boss has driven the machinery around the paddocks (
very steep paddocks, I must say!) and we others have piled the bales first on the tractor trailer or the truck and then unloaded and stacked them into the hay barn. We had five people doing that. It is very hard work. Most of the bales were light enough for me to lift alone onto a half-loaded trailer or truck, but some of them were almost too heavy for me to carry even a short distance. The guys just chucked them on like they were feathers. (Most of them anyway - most of the guys and most of the bales.) It does not help that the strings cut into your hands and the thistles prickle them. No, you'll find your hands full of thistle thorns the next day.
On Thursday we worked till quarter past midnight. That's right; we piled and stacked bales in the dark. I was not envious of the two who had to milk at five the next morning! On Friday we thankfully got the last bales stacked around seven, and then just stood around in a companionable silence, smiling, for a while. And then we left for home. I was the last to leave, because I had to wait for the truck and tractor to move out of the way and then chuck the trailer onto my quad. The herd manager, who has the weekend off, was the second to last, with his brother who'd been giving us a hand. Before they took off, he came to me and said: "I might see you on Monday, but if not, best of luck." And he smiled. And when the two of them took off, they left me to attach the trailer with tears in my eyes.
Yes, I'll soon be gone. But I do think I'll still see them on Monday, I hope I will, because I have to go say goodbye to the calves.
Mount Ngauruhoe from the distance.
Climbing up the very steep slope of Mt Ngauruhoe - Mt Doom. Altitude difference between start and crater at top: 600m.
We found some snow! Yay!
Overlooking Morrrdorrr.
If you manage to stay standing during the whole ride you get another ride and a t-shirt for free. Dream on.
The only downside of the zorb was that the hillside was too short.
It was fun. Scary, but fun. And pricy. Oh well, for the thrill of the moment (and my parents paid)...
This is where we tramped.
Doves in the English Victorian garden.
The very orderly Italian Renaissance garden.
The mysterious Chinese scholar's garden.
