Tuesday, May 21, 2013

The End of the Beginning


In 24 hours I will be putting the last of my collected goods back into my big red backpack and shoving it unceremoniously into a white 1996 Holden for the last time.
72 days later, I’m leaving Waipukurau (Ypuk).
When Sara and I pulled into Ypuk on March 7th, we never knew what was coming, but we never thought we’d stay here for 10 weeks. We also never realized what this community had to offer. The only word that can describe our journey here so far has been “lucky.”
When I say Waipukurau, I should edit that to include the surrounding areas of Takapau and Onga Onga, because let’s be honest, Friday nights wouldn’t have been anything without the Onga Pub.
The past ten weeks have been a whirlwind of adventures, and I struggle to recount everything I’ve experienced, but damn I’ve learned a lot:
·      I’ve learned the lifelong skill of driving a manual transmission car. And if I haven’t mastered exactly how to drive it, I can safely say I’ve learned how not to drive it.

·      I’ve learned how to drink and appreciate Tui beer, the NZ beer of choice. If not, I’ve learned how to open a Heineken with a lighter.

·      I’ve learned how to party in a wool shed, with farmers as the best company and dance partners.

·      I’ve learned what it means to live in a small town – where you can’t take a step without everyone knowing what you’re up to.

·      I’ve learned how to appreciate living in a small town, where the community that knows everything, can also hold you up and give you the support you never knew you were missing.

·      I’ve learned how to tell the difference between potatoes and rocks. In the meantime, I’ve learned that the people on the back of that harvester and driving that tractor have just as many important things to say as the professors I had at university.

·      I’ve learned to never underestimate the kindness of strangers, because before you know it, they’ve offered you a bed to sleep in and you stayed in it for 6 weeks.

·      I’ve learned to wake up with cows mooing outside your window. I have yet to learn how to sleep through it.

·      I’ve learned how to work through a terrible job, to be grateful when it’s over, and to celebrate the people that continue to do it day after day.

·      I’ve learned how not to fall off a horse. See: face stitches.

·      I’ve learned to soften my vowels, to “reckon,” to have a “cruisy” job, to get “on the piss,” and to drive a “ute.” (Translation: think, easy, drunk, truck)
And most importantly, I learned that while Ypuk is a small community, that’s only because New Zealand is a small country, and I can always come back. Many of the people I met here over the past few months have also made moves to different parts of the country, and they’re fooling themselves if they don’t think I’ll find them again on my travels.
Needless to say, the yellow shorts have been busy. I can’t wait for what comes next, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it here.
Thanks for an amazing introduction to New Zealand – three months down, nine to go. Damn. Time moves fast.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Po-ta-toes Examined


Potato Grading, Literally.

Since working in the packhouse with placentas, I have moved on to a new form of employment: potato grading.
The best part about the job? It’s not placentas. You know that phrase, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone? In this case, I didn’t realize how bad it was until it was over.
Now I look at potatoes all day as an official potato grader. Here are some of my specimens, followed by their grades.
 Grade: B
Cute, obviously going for the emotional angle.

  Grade: B-
Points for symmetry, but I'm not really seeing much effort here.

Grade: A-
I'm really feeling the sculpture approach. Great effort.
Admit it. You were high.

 Go home potato. You're drunk.

Of course, most average out at a C - those are the ones you're seeing in the supermarket. Or most likely, as your french fries (chips) or potato chips (...chip chips...)

In reality, my job is to stand on the back of a potato harvester and watch the potatoes come by on a conveyor belt. Anything that's not a potato, i.e. rocks, weeds, dirt, the occasional pine cone, get's thrown out. Everything that is a potato goes into bins that are then loaded onto trucks.

It's pretty simple. I have zero complaints.

One of two harvesters

Sara looking for rocks! Oh boy!


Rotten po-ta-toes