Ruapehu Farm Stay – New Zealand Farm StayPLEASE DO NOT REPRODUCE WITHOUT AUTHORS PERMISSION
Date 30 October 2003 AuthorChristopher Ford Contact c.ford@mcrmail.com WERE WOOFERS NOT DOGS
Traveling doesn’t come cheap. Even with a very strong pound and a stern budget I still crossed my fingers and prayed waiting for cash at each ATM I visited. I’d been away from home 5 months to date, jumped off, climbed up, and swam through, every piece of land, rock, and stretch of water in New Zealand. It was time to give back a little of what I’d taken, and take back a little of what I’d spent.
Backpacking notice boards and hostel hearsay persuaded me to travel north to Ohakune, North Island, New Zealand. My reason for coming, to WOOF: that is to be a Willing Worker on an Organic Farm. Four weeks of intensive farming, in exchange for 3 home cooked meals and a bed. A chance to rebuild my connection to mother earth, live
organic life, and more importantly, preserve enough money for a skydive in Taupo.
Although Ohakune is large enough to export world famous carrots and skiing, it is still yet to discover merits of public transport. With my thumb outstretched, and sporting my best ‘pick me up I’m not a psychopath smile’ I called upon good will of passing motorists to get me extra 3km south to farm, my destination.
Sadly, as it transpired, that’s exactly what passing motorists did. Pass me by. One car became two, and 78 became a joke. A few cars away from my thumb becoming finger, I started to walk.
4km on, braving more rain than I thought existed, I swung open white picket gate, sent my backpack to ground, and introduced myself to host. The person on other end of my arm was Sue Allomes; teacher, foster mother, and all round matriarch. She briefly showed me around farm, to my accommodation, and once introductions to other workers and animals were made, dinner was served.
The accommodation was a caravan. I can’t find a better word than grim to describe it. Electricity, gas, or running water hadn’t been seen since mould arrived in late 80’s. I entered nonetheless and fought back stench to get a closer look. The only reason roof wasn’t gushing water was because rain had since stopped. Still, I pinned a postcard on wall, prayed for a drought, and called it home. Caravan #4, Ruapehu Homestead, New Zealand.
The main income for farm comes from horse trekking business they operate that runs a 3-hr guided trek across scenic Ruapehu district. Also offered was a selection of lodge accommodation, and country dining in restaurant. The WOOFERS were responsible for maintaining, cleaning and general upkeep of everything inside picket fence. First impressions were good. I was eager to hang up my compass and reach for elbow grease.
Routine soon concreted itself into our day. We groomed and fed horses not long after ourselves and set about daily chores with fresh enthusiasm each day. Bread was to be baked, fences to be fixed, and weeds weeded. Simplistic in theory yet pathetically executed in practice. In first week alone, I was responsible for all inedible bread in house, destroying 3 fence posts, and digging up all broccoli in one vegetable patch. I then decided to do what any other person worth their salt would do: deny it. “Come to think of it Sue, I did see new German girl leaning on fence yesterday”.
