“This is a pile of horse shit, ok?” Raine says. The four of us standing around her, but it feels closer to her surrounding us. She has a commanding presence when she needs it. Three young French people showed up a couple days after Christmas to participate in work exchange as well. They are staying only a week while they wait for their other job to start after the new year. They are friendly enough, but, to be honest, they do not exert themselves overmuch. When we are working out in the fields they speak in French to each other. All I can catch is a word or two. They always look to me for direction, which is odd to me. I am as inexperienced and as unsure as they are. But the expectation is enough for me to fall into the role. When we are working I end up managing who is doing each job or making the decision when there are questions.
“And this is sheep shit,” Raine says, pointing to another pile. “You can leave those, we only need to clean up the horse crap.” I take a look at the size of the fields the horses graze. Weeding and poo-picking all the paddocks will take some time. At least we will not want for work a few days.
Honestly, the weeding is the worse job compared to picking up the horse manure. The horse manure is old enough and been in the sun long enough that it no longer smells. The weeds are thorny and their long, hardened needles pierce the work gloves I’m wearing as if they were not there. They are little slivers of hate, stabbing and pricking despite how careful I am. The weeds grow deep and they are tough and unrelenting. But I am armed better and take a perverse pleasure in pulling them up now. Ultimately, they cannot win the battle.
Sebastian and Rafael work without shirts, Romy in small shorts and a tank top, though she at least wears a hat. I am wearing jeans and a sweatshirt to keep the sun off me. The sweatshirt at least is thin, light, and designed for use in the sun rather than for warmth. I have been thankful for it here at the farm. During lunch and when we are done each day the Frenchies complain of the heat and sun. I am warm in my long attire, but the sun is worse I think.
New Year’s Eve has always been one of my least favorite holidays. I understand the idea, marking a new year as an opportunity for a clean start. I left for New Zealand for similar reasons. But I wake up at seven in the morning New Year’s Day, and the music is playing from the other room, people awake and dancing, having not yet slept. I wander into the kitchen for my morning tea, past two people passed out on couches. Out on the patio, the Romy, Rafael, and Sebastian smoke cigarettes, still dressed up from the night before. I never was able to enjoy a party quite like others did.
Sometime in the afternoon the Frenchies retire for a few hours, but the rest of Raine’s friends stay up through the day drinking more and being the only sober person within a mile, the underage daughters excluded, I have to drive them to get more alcohol in the afternoon. This prompts the praise of me being ‘an absolute legend.’ I personally think is an exaggeration. The title of legend should be reserved for heros. People who accomplish tasks of enormity involving bravery, resolution, perseverance, and goodness. But I am aware arguing with a drunk person is a fruitless pursuit, and I suppose to the drunk obtaining more alcohol is heroic, so I let it stand.
It takes a few days for me to realize I am growing restless here. I have stayed longer than I intended and am eager to be back on the road. Sleeping in a bed has been nice, but I find myself missing the nights in my car, the modest camp dinners, the simplicity of traveling again. After finishing work one day I head into Napier for supplies. A new pair of sandals, food, a new camp stove- I let Elvis take our other one when we parted- and a few other small things. I bid farewell to Raine and her girls a week after New Year’s. Happy for my time at Silverford but eager to leave, I pack my things into my car with excitement.
The next morning, plunging myself into a cold, cold river for a bath, swatting flies away every few seconds, terrible blisters on my feet from the cheap, ill-fitting sandals, I think to myself ‘maybe I should have stayed.’
The grass is always greener…..