For me, the notion of a ‘farm stay’ conjured up images of waking at dawn to the shrill kaka-doodling of roosters, enduring backbreaking labor in the fields, scrubbing clothes on a washboard, and baking bread from scratch in the kitchen for tea. In my mind, it was “Little House on the Prairie” revisited, with the aid of such modern conveniences as hot water and electricity, and minus the floor length frocks and aprons.

What it delivered was a totally organic experience (the real thing, not just another shampoo promise) that, though backbreaking at times, far outshone anything else I’ve done in my travels to date.

Growing up in Toronto, Canada, the closest I’ve ever come to experiencing life on a farm prior to this was driving past deserted cornfields on my way into the city with billboards boasting “Prime Site for Housing Development”.

As a child watching old crops giving rise to new houses, I feared the whole world would gradually turn into concrete, and for the once remote area outside of Toronto where I grew up, it has. Shops and services are convenient, public transportation is readily available, and life on the whole moves at the same frenetic pace as any other major urban hub, with me at the center of it, breathlessly trying to keep up.

But the appeal of one day “getting back to nature” has always lingered: taking leave of the neurotic 9-5 existence and all its anxieties, and exchanging my designer jeans and stiletto shoes for a pair of overalls and some rubbers (or gum boots as they call them here). Goodbye MAC, hello Old MacDonald.

It is an idea that both my partner and I often entertained (albeit probably romanticized), though usually in the context of planning for a retirement that is still over 3 decades away, and admittedly, most often in the midst of a nervous breakdown at work.

Until we arrived in New Zealand.

Following the usual tourist track for the first two months, we soon tired of forking out $45 for another lice-ridden hostel bed, $5 for a coffee, and countless other hundreds of dollars on every other “simply unmissable” adrenaline activity New Zealand has to offer. We became frustrated by our desire to do something different, and stifled by the reality that we were just another set of backpacks on the firmly established traveling circuit.

We longed for a taste of real life in Kiwi land. And for a country whose population is surpassed more than five fold by its sheep population, what better way to experience it than a few weeks on a real, working organic farm?

Willing Workers on Organic Farms (WWOOF), or “woofing” as it is referred to (yes, as in the dog), came the most highly recommended organization from Kiwi’s and travelers alike. Some preliminary research on the Web found 190 farms available in New Zealand alone, and thousands more internationally. (I guess we’re not the only city dwellers looking for a taste of life outside ‘the box’ after all!)

The general arrangement between host and ‘woofer’ stands at working on average 4-5 hours per day, in exchange for three square meals and accommodation. For us, it presented the ideal scenario, satisfying our need to take a break from the ordinary, and our bank balance’s need to take a break from all the spending.

The only hitch was finding one to take us on. Everywhere from the Bay of Islands to Invercargill advertised WWOOF’ing opportunities, including Yoga retreats, ski resorts, cattle farms, and horse trekkers. Our preference was for the latter. Ever since my ‘My Little Pony’ days of youth, dazzled by storybook images of unicorns and black beauty, I had loved horses. Sadly, as it transpired, it was destined to be a love affair from afar.

My first riding experience at the age of ten found me on the back of a temperamental horse named ‘Chocolate Chip’ (my aversion to which had never been overcome). Instead of following the path of its more obedient friends ahead, Chocolate Psycho Chip, decided to burn its own path. Straight out of the barn we were practicing in, and into the snowy paddock outside. At breakneck speed, I was left clinging helplessly to the saddle as it hurtled snow banks and fences in an apparent attempt at freedom, or perhaps just ‘burning off a bit of excess steam’ as the owner later cajoled. Either way, I did not last long in the saddle, and finding myself face down in the snow only seconds later, I resolved never set foot in a pair of stirrups again.

Like riding a bike, once you fall off, the best thing you can do is get right back on. But I didn’t. And now some 15 years later, I decided to make amends.

Luckily, our first choice in horse trekking farms had a vacancy for two woofers, and after a very brief and informal telephone interview, we were invited to come and stay. Based in the North Island, in the scenic Ruapehu district, the farm was located roughly 3 km outside of the tiny skiing town, Ohakune, which sits at the base of Mt. Ruapehu. Accustomed to gob-smacking views after two months in New Zealand, we were still no less than thrilled to get off the bus and take in the scenery of our new place of residence.

The town itself comprises one main street, with a variety of ski shops, cafes, restaurants, and accommodation all catering to the visiting ski-and-board-bunny population. It is impossibly quaint, with pretty wrought-iron street lamps and potted flowers lining the street, and the majestic snow capped mountain looming in the backdrop.

Ohakune, I have since learned, is not just famous for its skiing; it is also one of the largest producers of carrots in the country. (Though for some reason this doesn’t hold quite the same draw for summer tourists as the slopes do in the winter.) A bold reminder of this stands in the form of a giant carrot erected at the side of the road, just as you enter the main town center. Little did I realize at the time, but this particular landmark would become forever emblazoned in my mind.

After notifying the homestead of our arrival in town, we found out there was actually no means of transporting us the extra 3 km needed to travel to the farm. Hitchhiking, we were informed, was the way forward. The only way forward. As instructed, we set up our ‘please-oh-please-pick-me-up’ position beside the carrot, since motorists on the road to any destination from that point had to pass the farm, and could easily drop us off.

This message however, was a little bit more difficult to convey to them than it was to us. Over an hour and a half later, we were still stood glaring at the giant carrot, which now seemed to taunt us with our failure, and before our hopelessly outstretched thumbs turned into the middle finger, we decided to walk.

With over 100 kg’s in baggage between us, we slowly made our way by foot along the single-lane highway, thumbs still absentmindedly extended to every passing car that accelerated past. It seemed our fanciful expectations of farm life were already being put to the challenge. Finally, some two and a half kilometers later, with bruises on my hips and early signs of osteoporosis setting in from carrying my backpack, someone picked us up.

We pulled into the homestead still red-faced and sweating, and much to our horror, a group of grinning faces stood waiting to greet us. (Almost three hours had passed since we’d phoned, so I’m sure their laughter at our spectacular hitchhiking failure was difficult to suppress.) A smiling middle-aged woman came up and presented herself as the host, and then a barrage of other names followed introducing the ten other resident woofers, eight house cats, fourteen horses, and a pet goat. Thank God the handful of chickens out back remained nameless, or I think I would have given up entirely.

Despite the overwhelming introductions, everyone was friendly and enthusiastic, and the work, I was assured, was not too difficult. My apprehensions about being asked to fit a horse with shoes or kill a chicken for dinner were apparently unfounded. Of even more comfort to us, only two woofers of the ten were experienced riders, and the rest were nervous beginners like us looking to improve their skills.

Other welcome surprises included the presence of not one, but two dishwashers, a washing machine and a dryer (a luxury many hostels aren’t even equipped with), and then the most deliriously pleasing news of all; we had a room to ourselves! In fact, we had our own caravan. A slightly derelict, dysfunctional model that had lost mobility and running water around the same time that the mold arrived and had not been cleaned or redecorated since, but it was ours all the same. For weary travelers like us, accustomed to living out of our backpacks and sleeping in ten-bed dorms, it was bliss.

A plate of casserole later and a brief exchange with the group, we called it a night and retired to our new home on wheels. With the electric heater cranked up, our aching bodies still shivered from the cold as our minds drifted off to sleep, anticipating what the next day held for us.

For one, it held a 7:30 a.m. wake up call. Though thankfully it was from a person, not a rooster, and was two hours later than the 5:30 a.m. start I had been bracing myself for. Breakfast followed promptly thereafter, and then it was time for the first job of the day: introduction to the horses.

Not normally a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, I could not have been more alert as I soldiered over the paddock to confront the four-legged demons of my past. And there they stood. Fourteen larger than life Chocolate Chips, ears pricked up, muscles taut and ready for action, eyes wild and piercing. My knees went weak. Our task was to walk the horses back to the main farmstead to be fed, groomed, and saddled. But clutching the rope between my sweaty palms, they may as well have asked me to mount it bareback and gallop back for all the confidence I had.

Conscious of not appearing totally inept on my first day, however, I plucked up whatever reserves of bravery I had, took a deep breath, and slowly walked towards the only horse that hadn’t already been snagged. Figures it had to be the most mammoth of the lot. Its sleek brown coat and black pupil-less eyes gazed down at me from what looked to be at least a four-foot height advantage. I actually had to reach up over my head to attach the rope to its neck. Heart in my throat, I took my first step, and to my great surprise, it moved obediently behind me. I was in control! Or so I thought. A few more days on the job I realized this was the only scenario where I could elicit a desired response from a horse, and that was simply because it knew where I went, breakfast followed.

Food for the horses constituted carrots, which they ate by the lorry load, (so at least someone was appreciative of Ohakune’s second major industry) and once we finished dispensing the usual four wheelbarrows to them, it was time to move on to the other chores. These jobs ranged from cleaning and vacuuming, painting fences, feeding the other animals, and gardening--of which there was always plenty given that the property spanned five acres, included four vegetable patches, one compost heap, and row upon row of flower beds that lined the perimeter of both the house and garden in all their weedy splendor. (To this day visions of weeds still haunt me, but I am recovering slowly.)

Bread making was also in the schedule, and apart from the novelty factor of my first attempt, the exercise was every bit as tedious as I expected. (Though I am appreciative of the definition it brought to my otherwise pudgy upper arms.) At least three times a week, four people were enlisted for hours of mixing and kneading, to produce the whopping eight loaves of bread we collectively ate per day.

A staggering number, but with little other sustenance in our meals other than carbohydrate overkill, bread, potatoes, and pasta set the staple. And, unlike some of the other activities, at least it was not without its rewards. There is still nothing better than waking up in the morning to the aroma of fresh baked bread served with a liberal application of butter and jam. (I will neglect to mention the fact that after three attempts, I still failed to produce a loaf of bread more than half the height of everyone else’s plumped up versions, and was quietly removed from the bread-making rotor.)

The meals, though generally lacking any trace of protein, were frequent, and portions were plentiful. If nothing else, the concoctions were imaginative. For example, I was unaware that pizza could be made with baked beans instead of tomato sauce, and pasta strands instead of cheese gratings, but I guess you live and learn. The cook actually chortled to me during one of her weekly casserole-making frenzies, “it doesn’t matter what I make, woofers will eat anything!” and as it turned out, faking delight over what was served at mealtime became the most challenging task of all.

The emphasis on ‘sustainable living’ meant that food was homegrown wherever possible, and everyone factored into the continuing cycle of farm life. We ate predominantly from what was grown in the garden and contributed labor, the chickens ate our leftovers and contributed eggs, and the cats fed off any other leftovers and contributed, well, judging by the three pregnant ones, more cats. The horses, with the exception of their valued donation of manure to the gardens, lived outside this cycle, dining only on carrots, but contributed more than anyone by generating income for the farm through the treks.

The self-sufficiency of it all was quite amazing, if not inspiring. Even the water we drank came from rainwater basins, which apart from a few dead insects and specs of floating debris, tasted as good as what we pay dearly for in a bottle. Seeing firsthand how easy and economical it is to live without the aid of supermarkets and pre-packaging builds an inarguable case for sustainable living. But admittedly, after almost three weeks without even a glimpse of the golden arches and its chemically enhanced flavor additives, I was craving a Mc Anything. I guess old habits die hard.

For someone who was not even entirely sure what the term ‘organic’ even meant prior to my stay, being a part of the daily regime on an organic farm truly was a breath of fresh air. I learned more about gardening than I ever thought possible, (granted mostly through mistakes—ones which remaining woofers are still paying for, eating through the barrel of springs onions I accidentally ripped up). I developed muscles in places no amount of circuit training or Yoga has ever come close to before. I formed friendships with people from around the world. And most discernibly, I spent more time grooming the horses than I did myself.

It was not until some friends from back home suddenly descended upon us, unannounced, while we were knee deep in compost, that we became aware of our appearance for the first time in weeks. Seeing us in contrast to their freshly cleaned and ironed Diesel ensembles, the word ‘bag lady’ sprang to mind. Yet contrary to my normally style-conscious self, I wasn’t bothered. I loved not caring. It was refreshing waking up each morning and throwing on the first passably clean item of clothing, suited only to the weather, without a second thought. And now, while sporting a mud-covered sweater knit by someone’s granny a good few decades previous, only a tiny part of me missed the old days of penciled eyebrows and combed hair.

It was like being a totally different person. Tapping into everything good and wholesome and hardworking, and leaving behind all of the vanity and self-importance. On the farm it didn’t matter what you did, or where you came from, or where you planned to be in ten years time, the only thing that mattered was being who you were. Everyone made genuine efforts to get to know each other and learn from each other. We had one girl from Germany, three girls from Japan, three Irish lads, four English, one Welsh and one Canadian. Even under the pressure of Rugby World Cup, cultural differences formed the base for many jokes, but never a divide. Even the Japanese girls who had only just begun to learn English remained a firm fixture in the evenings’ entertainment and discussion. The nature of the work, the set-up of the homestead, and the remoteness of its surroundings all worked to create a feeling of comradery and acceptance and bonding within the group that I have not felt since Girl Guide camp.

Here we all were, following the same schedule daily, helping each other, laughing and joking,

I look back on my time at the farm stay now with even more fondness than ever. What has lingered with me most is the incredible feeling

What made the whole experience so special really came down to everyone else we shared it with. Like playing house with a bunch of friends when you’re kids, we got to play farm. Our fellow mud-slingers, house cleaners, carrot peelers, horse feeders; being in the same situation all the time.

I even managed to conquer my fear of horses. (Oh wouldn’t that be the perfect conclusion?) Well, not really. But I made improvements. On the days where I deluded myself into thinking I really had made the transition to confident stable-hand, it would only take a particularly excitable whinny to send me running for cover behind the closest bale of hay. And on those free afternoons where I did take to the paddocks to “practice trotting and cantering,” I usually found myself frustrated and immobile on top of a horse that refused to heed the commands I pathetically cooed at it.

Skittish temperaments, I’ve been told, are difficult to overcome, and since it’s mine that’s the problem, I think I’ll settle for newfound respect and admiration of horses, being able to stay in the saddle, and if nothing else, finally being able to tuck into a chocolate chip cookie without so much as a wince.

© Leona Baldwin, 2004
 

Summary How I traded my designer Levi’s and morning lattés, for pitchforks and potatoes on a 21-day New Zealand farm stay.

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