Something just doesn't work out. And somethings just don't work out. Both of these being the farming job I had for 6 weeks in Busselton, Western Australia. Here, you work it out:
Wages per hour- $18
Hours accumulated- 65
Rent- $140 / week
Fuel deductions- 88c/km
Kms- 100
Tax- 13%
Gas / Electricity- $10 / week
So, for a fortnight:
18 x 65 = 1170
1170 - 13% = 1017.90
1017.90 - 20 = 997.90
997.90 - (280 + 88) = $629.90
Now, in my first week there I worked about 10 hours less than I did the following fortnight and got about $650 (only one week's rent was deducted, not two). BUT, my bank balance on payday, which I might add was 5 days late, was $250. Which means that somewhere I've lost $400.
After much deliberation / thinking / discussion, we worked out that instead of charging us for personal use of the vehicles, which would have been about 100kms each, our "boss" charged us for ALL use of the vehicles. This included trips to and from town to run errands for us, and in total came to about 450 kms each. This wasn't what was stated in out contract but he wouldn't back down and took us all for about $400 - $800 each.
There was nothing we could do. We were sick of cows, sick of Busselton, sick of the douchebag of a farmer and sick of not having money. So we bolted, got a $300 flight back to Adelaide and succombed to teh hitch-hike of shame all the way back to sorry ass Mildura where we started six months ago with nothing in our pockets and where we are now. Two months of my life wasted. Ah well, back to square one I guess. I'm going to have to make sacrifices, but I'll sort something.
Tuesday 30 September 2008
Thursday 4 September 2008
A Tale Of New Cities
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The best part of Australia being pre-USExcursion (that trip itself being one of the best times goes without saying, this is strictly an Oz-only blog.), the worst part being Australia post-USA. When I use the term 'worst of times', I use it within context. It wasn't the very worst- I still have both my legs and my iPod, but it was probably the worst month I'd had travelling thusfar.
Having both my legs and my iPod was / is a bonus I took / take for granted and probably will for the rest of my life. Or until I lose one or the other. Being without money was a situation I would never have liked to have been in in the first place, and would never like to be in again. Of course I had somemoney, although it wasn't actually mine.
At the end of my holiday-within-a-holiday to California (etc.), I kind of exchanged my credit card for a bar tab and sort of never got it back, leaving me no other choice but to reach for my mother's emergency credit card for the second time within a few weeks. I hate borrowing money. I hate it. So I took the bare minimum I needed, just to pay rent and stuff whilst iwas in Perth, Almost everything else was out of the question. Mine Murray's Australian bank account balance both consisted of the the horrendous three fat eggs. We were... what's another word for desperate? (aside: whilst reading this paragrapg aloud to myself from my notepad, Murray interjected at this point with a quick but damning "YOUR MUM!". Ironically my Mum probably won't get that joke, so I have to point out that it was no sleight on her.)
Finding a job in the city was harder than we could ever have imagined. Okay, well, finding a job wasn't so hard, starting a job was. Within a few days we had a job in an abattoir in a town called Harvey. As our wallets were too light to mention, we needed to start straight away, but it turned out cow corpses have diseases which require vaccinations which require time and money. We had neither.
A few more days of hunting, this time with Edd and Andi at our side, we acquired what we thought was a sound job laying turf. But yet again time were a factore, this time Turfmaster had neither; so after three four-hour days we were dole-scum without the dole again.
Rinse and repeat the fruitless job searching for another frustrating three weeks and you'll end up the same- bolting out of Perth the day after you've just paid a week's rent. In advance. Fast forward a three-hour train ride and we're in Bunbury. A quaint (meaning empty) town / village / hamlet / settlement right on the beach, and of course a beach is always a sign that things are on the up slope. We barely lasted a day in Bunbury (our week-in-advance mistake may have happened again) before we were sent to the even more quaint (see: derelict, isloated, Disturbance-esque) Capel. Which surpirsingly had more work thatn the whole of Perth.
A farming job? Well, yes. Within minutes of our much-anticipated arrival we were hawling pigs by their hind legs to hold on our laps like newborn babies whilst a vetenarian de-bollocked them. It took days to get the smell of pig scrotum blood, pig faecal matterm and my disgust out of my skin and clothes. But what-the-hey, WE HAVE A JOB! With a house. And a car (thing). Being isloated also means no money spending. So, Perth, if you're reading this, I'll be fine without you. I hope.
Having both my legs and my iPod was / is a bonus I took / take for granted and probably will for the rest of my life. Or until I lose one or the other. Being without money was a situation I would never have liked to have been in in the first place, and would never like to be in again. Of course I had somemoney, although it wasn't actually mine.
At the end of my holiday-within-a-holiday to California (etc.), I kind of exchanged my credit card for a bar tab and sort of never got it back, leaving me no other choice but to reach for my mother's emergency credit card for the second time within a few weeks. I hate borrowing money. I hate it. So I took the bare minimum I needed, just to pay rent and stuff whilst iwas in Perth, Almost everything else was out of the question. Mine Murray's Australian bank account balance both consisted of the the horrendous three fat eggs. We were... what's another word for desperate? (aside: whilst reading this paragrapg aloud to myself from my notepad, Murray interjected at this point with a quick but damning "YOUR MUM!". Ironically my Mum probably won't get that joke, so I have to point out that it was no sleight on her.)
Finding a job in the city was harder than we could ever have imagined. Okay, well, finding a job wasn't so hard, starting a job was. Within a few days we had a job in an abattoir in a town called Harvey. As our wallets were too light to mention, we needed to start straight away, but it turned out cow corpses have diseases which require vaccinations which require time and money. We had neither.
A few more days of hunting, this time with Edd and Andi at our side, we acquired what we thought was a sound job laying turf. But yet again time were a factore, this time Turfmaster had neither; so after three four-hour days we were dole-scum without the dole again.
Rinse and repeat the fruitless job searching for another frustrating three weeks and you'll end up the same- bolting out of Perth the day after you've just paid a week's rent. In advance. Fast forward a three-hour train ride and we're in Bunbury. A quaint (meaning empty) town / village / hamlet / settlement right on the beach, and of course a beach is always a sign that things are on the up slope. We barely lasted a day in Bunbury (our week-in-advance mistake may have happened again) before we were sent to the even more quaint (see: derelict, isloated, Disturbance-esque) Capel. Which surpirsingly had more work thatn the whole of Perth.
A farming job? Well, yes. Within minutes of our much-anticipated arrival we were hawling pigs by their hind legs to hold on our laps like newborn babies whilst a vetenarian de-bollocked them. It took days to get the smell of pig scrotum blood, pig faecal matterm and my disgust out of my skin and clothes. But what-the-hey, WE HAVE A JOB! With a house. And a car (thing). Being isloated also means no money spending. So, Perth, if you're reading this, I'll be fine without you. I hope.
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