The Oasis Berries Farm. All dreams must end! Sooner or later. A widow wakes to the empty sheets her dearly departed just held her sleeping in. A drunk wakes to the cold concrete reality of not being invincible, choking with the dry horrors and full of regrets. A pimple faced teenager wakes to the confusing bliss of wet sheets. Even though part of me still thinks I am invincible drunk or not, wet sheets and the haunting absence of past lovers did not mark the end of the strawberry dream. The jolting alarm call was the revelation of the true character of the powers that be here.
That is all I wrote for this journal entry out in the field on our last day of work. Numerous factors had combined to rob me of the motivation to do anything constructive for the earning power of the farm. I had determined to use the day to write instead, as I wandered along pretending to be checking on the pickers. The dam of our frustrations was about to burst and the next 8 hours changed our position from thinking things were not as great as we first believed, to realising we have to bail ASAP. Time to smoke-bomb it and beat a hasty retreat under the cover of darkness.
Given my natural inclination to use a hundred words when just three would do, I won't elaborate on the nature of all the poopie skids on this clouds once silver lining. Suffice to say there was the possibly illegal act of docking pickers wages for doing something no one bothered to train them not to do. There was also the staggering incompetence of the field manager, the boss's brother with a penchant for making sexual allusions to pickers of both genders here, even though he is currently married to his neice. And to conclude this anything but exhaustive list is the boss's inability to differentiate between the capabilities and work ethic of people like us and red neck Ned and Sir Punch-a-lot.
The highest price we will pay is having to leave behind some of the nicest people my travels have drawn to me. Caretakers Wes and Audrey treated us to a great night at the pub, unaware of the bad news we had to deliver about our departure. The exciting prospect of being unemployed again was too much for me though, and I ended the night by fertilising a strawberry bush or two with the food that alcohol had not allowed to digest. Not before Wes honoured us by insisting we use his stash to perfume the air of the secret sanctum that is the caretakers residence. UK van-packers Jess and Nina provided many hours of entertainment (still far too few) and their wit, carefree attitude and propensity to get involved with our rascalities* will be missed as much as their accents. Collective consideration was given to shedding a few tears, and if the single determinant for some sobbing was the height of regard in which people are held, leaving these lovely people deserves an ocean of lachrymal secretions.
Unfortunately we didn't end up minted enough to retire (Ta Jess), but I cannot assist unscrupulous people earn a living out of such blatant disregard for the welfare of their workers. Their cavalier attitude to anything dispensable makes the Oasis Berrys farm the single most disorganised mess I have ever tried to work at. Other serial bludgers, like red neck Ned, were actively working against our attempts to develop a more logical and intelligent way to do something because it would mean more work for them; irrespective of how beneficial it might have been for the business.
A great example of everything about this place, Adam lost a pellet of strawbs off the back of the truck. Crash-bang-smash and people are everywhere scooping up handfuls of squishy first rate strawberrys automatically relegated to the 2nds bin. In an interview conducted later with the accused, he confessed to being pretty nervous about it all, but started to feel good about things once he relaxed into it. Laughter all round but boss man not happy with a $2,500 mistake. Whose mistake? Everyones. Ours for being so over the incompetence of the place and not tying ropes tight enough and driving slow enough to avoid massive pot holes. Bossmans for being too tight fisted to get the roads paved even though the current tracks are more Martian in appearance and topography. Field manager neice pinching pervert for punishing the whole for the indiscretions of the few; in particular the laziness of compulsive shadow boxer red neck Ned resulting in all being branded as bludgers. This led me to rediscover my inner rage-ahol and spew forth such obscenities that Satan applauded perverts ability to keep his pants dry and diffuse the situation enough for work to be completed. All before I pulled his eyeballs out and shoved them down his pants so he could watch me kick the crap out of him. Then I would have painted my boat with his tongue. (Simpsons joke!)
So, plan of attack from here. Get pissed and steal stuff. High tail it as soon as we can and go back to Lismore to practice tattooing while Centrelink funds my education. In a months time when fields of flowers are actually yielding large quantities of roidberrys, I will return to the area strictly to pick. Adam is yet to reveal his intentions as his considerations have to factor in a certain lovely partner that remains lonely in Lismore, a title for a Mills and Boon if I ever heard one.
* Rascalities. noun. rascality ra'skalitee
1. The trait of indulging in direputable pranks
2. The quality of being a slippery rascal
3. Reckless or malicious behaviour that causes discomfort or annoyance in others
I highlighted the second quality for its uncanny accuracy and contextual use.
