Went to the country, returned alive. (Peech)

So, I finally kicked my ass into gear and went about finding some farm work for the holidays. It was a mildly frightening task (for a sufferer of social anxiety) made more difficult by the unfortunate fact that farmers are not keen on the internet.

My first foray into farm work was a complete failure. I googled ‘Merino Stud Victoria’ hoping that a sheep, being somewhat less damaging than a 700kg cow and hugely less valuable than a thoroughbred racehorse, would be a safe first choice with milder consquences in case of a complete balls-up. I sent 5 properties a hopeful e-mail, asking them if they would like two weeks of free labour. I was careful to emphasize my gratitude for their consideration, my complete lack of experience and my inability to pay for accommodation. I waited six weeks and received one reply which went something like, ‘Thanks, but no.’

Disaster!

It was a week before the spring break and I  had nothing lined up, with barely any work experience complete and a jam-packed year ahead. I was wailing over my free tea (a faculty perk!) when a well-connected friend from the country took pity on my plight and sent me a contact. Within three exchanges of e-mails, I was taking a V-line to Bairnsdale, with a week’s worth of work and free accommodation! I couldn’t believe how easy just knowing people made the entire process.

As a sheltered Melbournite, I’d never been to East Gippsland before, let alone lived at a complete stranger’s house and wrangled their livestock. This wasn’t just any old farm either, it was a massive sprawling property with over 6000 head of sheep, a proportion of that being high quality merino (19  micron!) Once I’d gotten over my fears of being murdered horribly Wolf Creek style, however, I had a glorious time. My host and his wife were disturbingly hospitable, and I greatly regret leaving that stain on the bedroom carpet (I don’t even know if it was me!  Perhaps it was the dog?), as well as hogging all of the hot water (definitely my fault, especially in a drought).

Thanks to my farm work, I have wonderful memories of sitting at the dining room table, consuming large quantities of ginger cake and tea, discussing the wonders of improved pasture and the dangers of those colourful clostridial diseases – pulpy kidney, black leg, black disease, malignant oedema and tetanus. I read the Weekly Times instead of The Age, where breaking news was of the ‘Oh my god it is raining!’ variety, while the Sydney dust storms merited only a small mention in the middle of the paper. The food tasted a million times better, the air was fresh and sweet with the tang of sheep, and I felt as if I should give up my bleary existence as a university student and move out to the country, where life obviously occured on a higher plane of being.

This was before the second day, when I began to realise that being a farmer consists of mainly bloody hard work at 7am in the morning, and that sheep are silly buggers who constantly go in the wrong direction with lambs that are pretty much just assholes. I got up at 6am, dragged on filth-stained overalls and stumbled out into the yards, where hundreds of evil-eyed fluffy monsters would be glaring at me and waiting for me to get close before yelling, ‘BAAAAAA-AA-AAAA’ into my vulnerable earholes. I was a glorified sheep dog, basically, except that I was nowhere near as competent. I’d run at sheep screaming ‘GET ON YOU LOT!’, and they’d wait insolently until I was within a 5 meter radius before they would deign to swing around and make their way deeper into the flock. The dog on the other hand, merely had to glare at the nearest sheep before it would turn tail and frantically try to escape through the closest gate. I tried doing the same, but my squint and snarl were distinctly lacking a certain something.

Anyway, it would take far more time than I have right now (hello exams!) to write out everything I did here. A small sample: I cut off tails, castrated little boy-lambs, thrust my hand bravely through curtains of dangling sheep dags, reunited lost babies with their mothers (often after exhausting cross-country chases and multiple failed attempts to scoop up those wriggling little bastards into my arms), rode a motorbike for the first time and rounded up 1800 sheep through a 2 meter gate by running heavily and screaming myself hoarse in the pouring rain.

In conclusion, it seems pretty tough. I worked 12-13 hour days, was constantly filthy, got hit by spraying jets of blood, was subjected to psych-outs by all the locals (‘watch this, peech’ = *dread*), and saw some really freaky stuff (like thousands of little maggots eating away a live sheep’s bottom). But despite, or maybe because of all this, I feel like my farm work was an incredibly valuable experience.

The best result is that highly physical aspect of veterinary science has always scared me a little, since I’m small and weak and was always picked last for sports teams. But after wrestling with sheep and falling into mud and hefting lambs over fences, I feel like I’m ready for anything. Maybe I’ll try Angus bulls next. Or if anyone knows the number of a decent elephant farm, please let me know! I reckon I could manage.

PS. I totally have tickets to the Big Day Out! Yeaaaah! 🙂