Well, for the second day running, I’ve driven into Canada in order to drop a u-turn and head straight back into the US. It seems that the Americans can’t get rid of us and the Canadians just don’t want us.
Our troubles started on Sunday afternoon, one mile short of our border-town, Bowbells, North Dakota, with Brian and Anne-Maree’s camper blowing a tyre. Once we’d swapped the tyre, we returned to our trucks, Andrew discovering that he’d blown his alternator and Brian that he had a busted fender. Both problems needed to be fixed before crossing the border.
Most of Monday was spent waiting for parts. We fired up the trucks at 4pm, set out shortly afterward, and counted down what was meant to be our last seven miles of road in the US.
Canadian Customs was deserted when we arrived. Brian went into the office and told us all to wait in the trucks. He reappeared about 20 minutes later, clearly agitated, and motioned for us to turn around. Contrary to advice given by one Customs official, our man in the office insisted that we needed a broker to handle our paperwork.
The word last night was that Greg was considering pulling the pin on the job due to the cost and time associated with the red-tape, however, this morning the decision was made to proceed.
We all went up to immigration to get our visas while our broker went to work. At lunchtime, the call came through from the broker to say that everything was in order. Half an hour later, spirits reinflated, the convoy was back on the move.
We made it past the witches’ hats this time, about 100 metres further into Canadian territory. This time the problem was with the cleanliness of the machinery. Two Customs officers in black flak-jackets came out with extendable wands and pointed at little clumps of mud on the tyres of our ridiculously shiny tractors. They told us that they needed to be cleaner and, what’s more, they needed to be cleaned back in the United States. Once again, we got the signal to turn around.
Coming from Australia, I am familiar with stringent Customs regulations. In one respect I can understand where the Canadians are coming from – they’ve got borders to protect – however some discretion must be shown. From the first bushel that these machines cut, they will never be 100 percent clean again. Mouldy grain, spouting roots in the grain tank is one thing, but a few specks of mud on the tyres of a tractor is another. If we’re being sent back to scrub our tyres, so should every second pick-up crossing the border.
Reality is, the reason we’ve got work in Canada is because they are in desperate need of harvesters and, the way things are at the moment, they’ll be lucky to get their whole crop off. If we’re turned around again tomorrow, Greg will pull the pin on the job. If this happens, quibbling over some dirt will potentially have cost our farmer a lot of money, not to mention Mr and Mrs Maple-Leaf their piece of toast in the morning.
After we’d finished scrubbing the tyres tonight, Andrew summed up our frustration with succinctness that you will only find in the words of a boy from rural Australia.
“If this isn’t good enough, fuck ‘em. They can cut their own wheat. I’m not sure what they’ll use…scissors for all I care”.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
For those back home, Scorched, the telemovie I worked on before I left Australia, is due to air on Channel Nine this coming Sunday 31 August at 8:30pm. If you watch carefully, you may see someone you recognise in the press conference scene at the end (apart from Georgie Parker!).
Set in 2012, the story is based on a firestorm that sweeps through a drought-stricken Sydney. The script is pretty two dimensional, but that's what everyone needs on a Sunday night! It's directed by Tony Tilse of Underbelly fame, has a strong cast, and, from what I hear, boasts some pretty good special effects. I hope you can tune in.
Click here to check out the website.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Task of the Day
Task of the day was washing down the headers. We've spent two full days getting all of the machines spotless before we cross the boarder.We'll set off tomorrow for Minot, North Dakota (about 200 miles north) where we've got to have one of the combines serviced. On Sunday we'll move up to Kenmore just south of the Canadian boarder, so that we can get there early Monday morning. We'll spend about half a day at the boarder being processed and inspected.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Rolling Out of Faulkton, SD
The crew was split up yesterday, two combines being sent to Hallock Minnesota. Ron and I will be taking our trucks and the two remaining combines North-West to Canada, about 300 miles north of the boarder in Saskatchewan. I'm pretty excited about the prospect of going to a different country.
I've been wanting to get a video of the crew on the move for a while. Scuba, Andrew, Christian, Ron and I are staying in town for a couple of days before we leave, so I ran up the road a bit and got my video. Lars and I swapped trucks before the boys left, which I was a bit pissed about. His truck is a newer and more comfortable 2005 Columbia Frieghtliner but it doesn't have the character or rumble of 'number six', a 2000 model.
Lars and #6 roll out first, followed by Timmy in #9, both hauling combines and grain trailers. Paul is in the third truck blearing his horn, towing the grain cart. Turkey comes by forth, towing the 8-bed bunkhouse. And Dan is bringing up the rear in the service truck, towing the two headers (the things on the front that cut the wheat!).
Killing Time In The Field
It occurred to me the other day as I drove by Scuba Steve (England) brandishing a rifle, that I'm no longer amazed when I see a gun. Our foreman Brian (the other guy in the video) keeps both his and Paul's rifles on the back seat of his pick-up. If things are running slow, he'll pull one out for some target practice. In this case, they were shooting at a bottle. You can't actually shoot game unless they're in season, even though many, like deer, are overpopulated. They take poaching pretty seriously. If they catch you, you get thrown in jail.
Pheasant hunting is really big around Faulkton. Pheasants are everywhere at the moment. The season will open in a couple of months. As the boys are cutting, the birds will run out of the crop. Apparently, during the season, hunters will stand on the edge of the crop with their shotguns and pick them off as they make a run for it.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
City Boy on a Tractor
Ashley from Faulkton rode with me and Timmy for an afternoon while we were unloading trucks into a farmer's silos. I love taking pics but it means that I'm rarely the subject, so it was nice to get a few action shots of us working.
Timmy's quite knowledgeable about tractors. He thought it was an early 60s model. Amazingly, it still runs. The farmer uses it to drive an auger that we put under the trucks to elevate the grain into the silo.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Kellie Pickler Concert
Timmy and I rocked out with a bunch of 14 year-old groupies the other night at the Brown County Fair in Aberdeen South Dakota. They were there to see Kellie Pickler who’s pretty big on the country music circuit over here.
It was also the first night out for my new Durango cowboy boots. The boys were pretty supportive of the purchase. Pauly chipped in a dinner plate belt buckle to complete an ensemble which had me looking the most country of all the boys.
It was a great night. The town received a big dump of rain just before the concert so the arena turned to mud. I didn’t want to get mud all over the Durangos, so I followed the lead of some other revelers, ditching the boots and hitching up my jeans.
Tim and I spent the later half of the night trying to get through the cordon in front of the stage. We managed to get in during Kellie’s last song and arrived down the front just as the 14 year-olds started calling for an encore rendition of one of Kellie’s better know songs “Red High-heels”. We joined the chant and got a posi next to a young cowboy wearing a ‘Marry Me Kellie’ t-shirt. Kellie came back and it was high-fives all around.
If I arrived at the show a cowboy, I left a metrosexual. I managed to dig some pink thongs out of the mud, which I wore out of the pit, and my workingman’s feet were left soft and supple from all of the mud. As I’ve said before, I’m in the nation of paradoxes.
Monday, August 11, 2008
A trip through the elevator
This vid is a bit lengthy but it you'll get a good idea of what I do when I go through an elevator. This facility in Mellette South Dakota can process trucks really quickly. I was generally in and out within 20mins.
Those with an ear for detail will notice that I got my weight conversions wrong. The gross weight of my truck on the way in was 110,000 pounds or about 50 tonnes. 35 tonnes was my net weight i.e the amount of grain I hauled in. In terms of the capacity of the freight trains, one grain carriage will hold about 220,000 pounds or about 100 tonnes. A fully loaded freight train has 110 carriages and is nearly 2km in length and will haul nearly 100,000 tonnes of grain to its destination.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Turkey
Turkey assumed his position as crew-clown as soon as he stepped off the plane. During his first few days in town, when asked where he was from, he would reply, “I’m from Barham, New South Wales”. When met with blank looks from locals, he’d add with a reassuring tone, “It’s right on the Murray”.
From day one Turkey asserted that he did not drink beer, starting off on the wrong foot with some of the boys. On his second night in town we went down to the Plum Thicket Inn in Kiowa. I think Turkey was a bit homesick, perhaps starting to realise exactly how far from home he was (flying out of Melbourne was the first time he had been on a plane). He propped himself up at the bar, away from the rest of the group, and flagged a bartender wearing a red Budweiser cap. “I don’t drink beer, I drink bourbon”. “Ok, what are you having?”. “Wild Turkey”, he replied, slapping the bar. And so, ‘Turkey’ was born.
The bartender took a liking to Turkey. Toward the end of the night, we saw him finish off a bottle, giving Turkey two and a half nips, and open up another bottle to round it up to three. Needless to say, Turkey was feeling pretty festive by the end of the night. We had to leave when he started chatting up the wife of the biggest guy in the bar.
Turkey gets more than his fair share of shit from some of the guys. For all of his goofiness, and despite the fact that he can easily get on the nerves, I reckon he’s one of the bravest on the crew simply for his tenacity. His goofiness is best illustrated through this incident recently videoed at the laundrette in Gordon Nebraska.
From day one Turkey asserted that he did not drink beer, starting off on the wrong foot with some of the boys. On his second night in town we went down to the Plum Thicket Inn in Kiowa. I think Turkey was a bit homesick, perhaps starting to realise exactly how far from home he was (flying out of Melbourne was the first time he had been on a plane). He propped himself up at the bar, away from the rest of the group, and flagged a bartender wearing a red Budweiser cap. “I don’t drink beer, I drink bourbon”. “Ok, what are you having?”. “Wild Turkey”, he replied, slapping the bar. And so, ‘Turkey’ was born.
The bartender took a liking to Turkey. Toward the end of the night, we saw him finish off a bottle, giving Turkey two and a half nips, and open up another bottle to round it up to three. Needless to say, Turkey was feeling pretty festive by the end of the night. We had to leave when he started chatting up the wife of the biggest guy in the bar.
Turkey gets more than his fair share of shit from some of the guys. For all of his goofiness, and despite the fact that he can easily get on the nerves, I reckon he’s one of the bravest on the crew simply for his tenacity. His goofiness is best illustrated through this incident recently videoed at the laundrette in Gordon Nebraska.
The Elevator
Going to the elevator is one of the things I enjoy most about driving a truck because it is where you meet people; other truck drivers, many from overseas; the boss-man checking on things at the unloading pit; farmers' wives, many driving semis for their husbands who work the combines out in their fields; the local sheriff who comes in to the office for a chat; the Mennonite farmer driving his 1956 Chevy tip-truck; the 15 year-old kid dumping trucks all summer so that he can buy his first car.Most towns in the Wheat Belt will have at least one elevator. In a usually sleepy town, the elevator can be a hive of activity for a couple of months of the year, providing employment for many, the means by which the farmer makes a living, and the facilities to distribute a staple product to America and the world.
Many facilities are the same as they were when they were built back in the 40s. In many cases, they are the reason for a town’s existence, whether they established a town or they are what keeps it alive after everything else has closed.
If there are a couple of big crews in town and conditions are good for cutting, it can get pretty busy. The busiest elevators we've seen were in Vernon Texas.
Andrew took this photo while in line. Up to 50 semi-trailers would snake around the backstreets, sometimes spilling out onto the highway, queuing for the weigh-bridge. A lot of the wheat dumped was loaded on to freight trains and transported down to the Gulf of Mexico to be shipped overseas.
We ran into a lot of problems in Texas because the trucks could not dump the combines fast enough, meaning that we’d have to stop cutting. What could have been a 45 minute round trip was taking up to four hours in some cases. Frustratingly, the elevators were disorganised and underequiped for the volume of crop this year.
I’m hoping to put up a video shortly to show exactly what happens when I go through the elevator…
Monday, August 4, 2008
Fast Food Nation
Telling people back home about my journey, it’s amazing how many made comments along the lines of “you’ll get buff”. Well, the opposite is proving to be true. I think many have the idea that I’m over here wandering around wheat fields with a scythe, threshing grain with my hands. Reality is that I sit in a truck for up to 15 hours a day writing stuff like this in my down-time.
Inactivity being one enemy, American food is another. The food we’re provided on the job is great because it’s home cooked and there's a lot of variety. It’s the down-time eating that’s the killer. It’s an exhausted fact, but it is just too easy to buy junk food in this country. Or rather, it is hard to find nutritious food.
If you go to a restaurant, every meal will come with some sort of potato, which can be fried five different ways: French fries, American fries, waffle fries, hash browns or crisps.
Salt and sugar is addictive, which make’s the problem self-perpetuating; the more you have, the more you want; water just doesn’t cut it when it comes to washing down a Double Quarter Pounder.
One night a couple of weeks ago in Scott City Kansas, the neon signs got the better of me. Each time I drove past Dairy Queen, my mouth would water at the thought of an M&Ms Blizzard. Despite being pressed for time, I gave in on one of my last runs; I parked the truck diagonally across the carpark, and ran into the place like a little kid running for the toilet at the service station.
Alarmed by the prospect of having to buy new sets of pants and shorts, I bought some scales the other day. However, I got my weight conversion wrong. Weighing in at 195 pounds, I spent a whole day quietly freaking out about the fact that I’d put on 15 kilos (logic didn’t really kick in). It was in fact only five kilos.
In his book American Journeys, Melbourne author Don Watson points out that as a visitor to America it is easy to become obsessive about staying thin. For the first time in my life, in the Fast-Food-Nation, birthplace of the Big Mac and home of the one litre cup, I am snacking on raw carrots (Watson also points out that this is a nation of paradoxes).
Inactivity being one enemy, American food is another. The food we’re provided on the job is great because it’s home cooked and there's a lot of variety. It’s the down-time eating that’s the killer. It’s an exhausted fact, but it is just too easy to buy junk food in this country. Or rather, it is hard to find nutritious food.
If you go to a restaurant, every meal will come with some sort of potato, which can be fried five different ways: French fries, American fries, waffle fries, hash browns or crisps.
Salt and sugar is addictive, which make’s the problem self-perpetuating; the more you have, the more you want; water just doesn’t cut it when it comes to washing down a Double Quarter Pounder.
One night a couple of weeks ago in Scott City Kansas, the neon signs got the better of me. Each time I drove past Dairy Queen, my mouth would water at the thought of an M&Ms Blizzard. Despite being pressed for time, I gave in on one of my last runs; I parked the truck diagonally across the carpark, and ran into the place like a little kid running for the toilet at the service station.
Alarmed by the prospect of having to buy new sets of pants and shorts, I bought some scales the other day. However, I got my weight conversion wrong. Weighing in at 195 pounds, I spent a whole day quietly freaking out about the fact that I’d put on 15 kilos (logic didn’t really kick in). It was in fact only five kilos.
In his book American Journeys, Melbourne author Don Watson points out that as a visitor to America it is easy to become obsessive about staying thin. For the first time in my life, in the Fast-Food-Nation, birthplace of the Big Mac and home of the one litre cup, I am snacking on raw carrots (Watson also points out that this is a nation of paradoxes).
Haswell, Colorado
Ron took this photo. I like it because illustrates our experience of Haswell Colorado. Most of the crop that we cut there was drought stricken. Compared to the dense wheat of Texas, Kansas and Oklahoma, the land was desolate.An east-west railway line divides the town. Everything south of the line has been in drought for several years. Amazingly, they just don’t get much rain on that side of the tracks.
Flies were about the only animals left living on the land and they were pissed off about it. They had a manic intensity about them. They’d assemble in a pack, surround you and then bite, often forcing a retreat into the truck.
The crop being so light, it took ages to fill a truck (a whole day in one case). For me, it was a great time to catch up on sleep, read, takes some pics. We’d been running pretty hard the previous five weeks, so the rest was welcome.
From day one, my journey has been full of rich characters, usually people defined by their imperfections. Coming in contact with these people evokes intrigue and admiration. Regardless of what makes them imperfect - whether they drink or smoke or swear a lot, hold the odd prejudice, or bend the rules – what most have in common is that they are genuine.
Authenticity is something that I aspire toward. It is particularly hard to achieve if you are different within a subculture with a strong status quo, which is exactly my situation. And, saying this, many of the characters that I’m meeting fit in well because they are rebels, a celebrated persona in the country and I think especially so amongst harvesters.
As for how I’m going, I think pretty well. As I’ve said before, I think there exists a mutual respect between the country and city boy. However, I am on their turf. I do get frustrated every now and then when things of interest to me do not register at all with the other guys. They do come to me for camera advice though.
Authenticity is something that I aspire toward. It is particularly hard to achieve if you are different within a subculture with a strong status quo, which is exactly my situation. And, saying this, many of the characters that I’m meeting fit in well because they are rebels, a celebrated persona in the country and I think especially so amongst harvesters.
As for how I’m going, I think pretty well. As I’ve said before, I think there exists a mutual respect between the country and city boy. However, I am on their turf. I do get frustrated every now and then when things of interest to me do not register at all with the other guys. They do come to me for camera advice though.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Stock Auction in Gordon Nebraska
I'm in Gordon Nebraska at the moment, a small town of 1800 people in the state's North West. The main crew has traveled North into South Dakota with three combines. Ron, Turkey and I have been left here with two combines and will cut 300 acres of wheat as soon as it ripens - it's taking a long time to do so. We've had the last two days off and we'll have at least another two.
To fill time, we went to the local stock auction yesterday. It's held every Tuesday. Ron took this video. It's amazing to listen the auctioneer. The three buyers present would indicate their bids (in either 25 or 50 cent increments) with tiny finger movements which the auctioneer would pick up from his booth above the pen, about ten metres away.
Also of note is the little steel barrier underneath the auctioneer's booth. Ron called these the "Jesus Posts" because it's the only refuge for the stock handler if an animal charges.
In the case of this old bull, they weren't really necessary. Compared to some of the others that came through, he was incredibly docile. The handler had enough trouble getting it to leave the pen at the end of the auction.
Ron talked to the buyer after the auction. Sadly, for this old guy, it was the end of the road; he was off to the knackers, probably to be turned into dog food.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Harleys in the Black Hills
There’s nothing like a ride on Harley Davidson to raise one’s spirits. We arrived in Gordon Nebraska on Wednesday 16 July after a few days off in Colorado only to find that the wheat there was at least a few days off being ripe. On the Thursday Greg told to get lost until Sunday. First stop for me and a couple of the other guys was Rapid City Harley Davidson.
Rapid City is the centre of the Black Hills region of South Dakota, about three hours North of where we were camped in Gordon Nebraska. The region is most famous for the four president faces carved into Mount Rushmore, Deadwood (the Wild West town of HBO fame), and the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally during which 800,000 people (mainly Harley bikers) descend on the small town of Sturgis for two weeks in August.
Lobbing into the sales showroom, I was an unashamed wanna-be. I bought two T-shirts and a cap. This said, I wasn’t as bad as Lars, who went and bought himself a pair of arseless leather chaps.
I like motorbikes, but I’m not actually a huge Harley fan – they’re a bike for my parents’ generation – however there’s something magical about riding one in the Heartland and, when we ventured out the following day on our ponies, it truly was a privilege.
The weather was perfect and the scenery was inspiring. Each corner brought something new: a different type of forest, a grassy valley, a tepee, fast flowing rapids, a dam, a heard of buffalo, cliff faces, it had the lot. We clocked about 500kms over the 24hr rental.
The bike I sold before I left home was a 250cc Yamaha Virago. The bike I rented was a 1250cc Harley Davidson Night Rod. It’s a cruiser/road-bike hybrid. The main pegs are set behind your hips like a sports bike but there’s a set of pegs up front that you can put the feet up on when cruising on the open road.
The bike was QUICK. To give an idea of the power, my old 250 would hit 5th gear at about 60kph, on the 1250, I was reaching the 120kph speed limit on the interstate shifting from 3rd to 4th. Admittedly, I was a little inexperienced for the bike, but you’ve got to learn somehow and what better place than in the land of opportunity!
By far the best $200 I’ve spent during the trip to date; a stand-alone highlight.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Lars
Lars has worked seven seasons for Thurman Harvesting. He drives trucks. Greg describes him as “the most truck driving son of a bitch you’ll ever meet”. To me, he looks very Swedish; he’s 6-6 tall, very slim, with chiselled features. He has a deep voice and talks really slowly with a thick accent.
He walks the same way that he talks. Greg has a gift when it comes to making people hustle; it’s easy to be worked into a frenzy when there’s a shortage of trucks out in the field, but not Lars. He’ll swagger around his truck, to and from the elevator office, kicking up dust as he walks.
It’s hard to read Lars. He wears a straight face most of the time and is a man of few words. His response to most questions, including open questions, is a short pause followed by a drawn out “Yeah”.
I really like Lars because, like me, he doesn’t fit the typical harvester mould. He’s the most experienced on the crew, but he doesn’t flaunt it. He gets the job done without losing his head.
When he’s not on harvest, Lars lives in the Swedish countryside in a house inherited from his grandmother. In his time he’s been a bus driver in the Swedish Army and has worked in various agricultural and forestry jobs. The US is where he does his truck driving.
The other night, a few of us went to a buffet in Denver for dinner. Every ten minutes or so the restaurant would be hushed so that the wait staff could sing happy birthday, in true fast food nation style, to some poor embarrassed patron. Lars being Lars, we thought he’d be the perfect candidate…I had my camera handy.
The Imperial Hotel, Rapid City, South Dakota
The last night of our little holiday in South Dakota’s Black Hills we rolled into Rapid City late in the enening. Rapid City is one of the biggest cities in South Dakota, with a population of 70,000. Being a Saturday, it was tricky finding a motel with vacancies. After doing a couple of laps downtown we came across the Imperial Hotel.When we pulled into the car park there was a domestic argument in full swing; a large Mexican woman in her 50s was yelling in Spanish from her second-story window at a little Mexican guy in the carpark.
Ron and Martin went into the office to enquire about some rooms - they had a couple available. The guys got our keys and directions to the rooms. We followed them through a bar. There weren’t many in there, just a couple of guys at the bar shoving each other and another little Mexican guy singing Ground Patrol To Major Tom on the karaoke machine. We went through one locked door, up a flight of stairs and through another locked door that led into a communal kitchen area at one end of our floor. We walked past a bunch of 20-somethings sitting around a table drinking and smoking cigars. Above them on the wall was a sign “No Smoking in Hallways”.
We found our rooms opposite each other, half way down the corridor. Given my first impressions, I was pleasantly surprised by the room with the exception of the duress alarm in the toilet; it was quite spacious, pretty clean, plus tonight it was just me and Ron in the room (the previous two nights in Deadwood we slept four in a double - I ended up sleeping with a 6-6 Swedish man).
After a false start, the Imperial Hotel had just about proved my initial assumptions wrong until I was woken in the early hours of the morning by a middle-aged couple checking into our room. Turns out the guy at reception had mistakenly given them a set of our keys. I think they were more surprised than I was when a very groggy James greeted them at the door in boxer shorts with a “what the hell’s going on”.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Back to the Big Smoke
A few pieces of sad news from home has had me a bit down the last couple of weeks. I haven’t felt homesick, but it’s frustrating being so far from those that are doing it tough. One quickly realises the limitations of text and email.
In the midst of this I had an identity crisis when I visited Denver Colorado. We were given a few days off after we finished harvesting in Julesberg Colorado. On our last day we went to Denver to do some shopping. It was the first large city that I’ve been to since arriving.
In one respect I really appreciate the diversity that you find in the city. But diversity will often entail good and bad. I managed to find a good espresso, I bought some funky boxer shorts from Gap, and wireless internet was available in a Starbucks on every street corner, but I also a saw a pedestrian hit by a car, a guy handcuffed face down on the ground in the mall and had to deal with a snobby shop attendant who couldn’t stop staring at my now heavily scuffed work boots.
As I walked around, I’d pick out the people that I thought looked like me – those that appeared to be living a similar life to the one that I was living back home. However, looking at them made me realise just how different my life, my work and company has been over the last couple of months. It also made me realise that my surrounds have changed me a bit. How I’ve changed, I’m still trying to work out. My afternoon was spent wandering around in a reflective daze.
On the other side of the coin, there’s a part of me that enjoys the simplicity of the country. There’s something safe about it. There are parameters, perhaps defined by values and tradition, that cause people to think alike. It’s easy to be accepted if you reside within these parameters, but life is a bit trickier if you’re different.
Meeting up with the boys to travel home jolted me back into country-land – there wasn’t much choice. The boys spent most of the three hour trip home playing a game called ‘Hey Cow’. This involves winding down the window and screaming at grazing cows as you pass by trying to make them look up. As funny as this was, my excursion back into the big smoke left me feeling a bit rattled. I was quite happy keeping to myself in the back of the van.
My goal on this trip is to be myself whether it fits or not. I think I’m doing OK so far. There’s no denying that I am very different to a lot of the guys on the crew. But I think there exists a mutual respect. One thing’s for sure, I could handle myself in Denver’s peak hour traffic.
In the midst of this I had an identity crisis when I visited Denver Colorado. We were given a few days off after we finished harvesting in Julesberg Colorado. On our last day we went to Denver to do some shopping. It was the first large city that I’ve been to since arriving.
In one respect I really appreciate the diversity that you find in the city. But diversity will often entail good and bad. I managed to find a good espresso, I bought some funky boxer shorts from Gap, and wireless internet was available in a Starbucks on every street corner, but I also a saw a pedestrian hit by a car, a guy handcuffed face down on the ground in the mall and had to deal with a snobby shop attendant who couldn’t stop staring at my now heavily scuffed work boots.
As I walked around, I’d pick out the people that I thought looked like me – those that appeared to be living a similar life to the one that I was living back home. However, looking at them made me realise just how different my life, my work and company has been over the last couple of months. It also made me realise that my surrounds have changed me a bit. How I’ve changed, I’m still trying to work out. My afternoon was spent wandering around in a reflective daze.
On the other side of the coin, there’s a part of me that enjoys the simplicity of the country. There’s something safe about it. There are parameters, perhaps defined by values and tradition, that cause people to think alike. It’s easy to be accepted if you reside within these parameters, but life is a bit trickier if you’re different.
Meeting up with the boys to travel home jolted me back into country-land – there wasn’t much choice. The boys spent most of the three hour trip home playing a game called ‘Hey Cow’. This involves winding down the window and screaming at grazing cows as you pass by trying to make them look up. As funny as this was, my excursion back into the big smoke left me feeling a bit rattled. I was quite happy keeping to myself in the back of the van.
My goal on this trip is to be myself whether it fits or not. I think I’m doing OK so far. There’s no denying that I am very different to a lot of the guys on the crew. But I think there exists a mutual respect. One thing’s for sure, I could handle myself in Denver’s peak hour traffic.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Combines Working in Scott City Kansas
I realise that I haven't really described the harvesting process. I took this video from the top of my trailer while I was being loaded in the field. It's rare to have all five combines lined up as they are in this instance. Usually they'll be split over a couple of fields or they'll be a little more spaced out.
Each combine has a 36ft header and will run at about four miles per hour in a decent crop. So, in metric terms, five combines will shave about 50 metres off each side of the field each time they go around.
If you look closely at the front combine, you'll see the grain piled up in a bin above the cab. These bins hold about 9 tonnes when full and, if the crop is good, can fill up after one lap of the field. Usually, the combines will unload while they are cutting onto a trailer pulled by a tractor called the grain cart. The grain cart then dumps onto the trucks (as in the vid) which transport the grain to the local elevator to be stored and eventually sold.
My truck will hold about 30 tonnes of grain. When all five combines are running in the same field, four trucks can be constantly moving. On a busy day we can haul over 1500 tonnes of grain to market, which is pretty cool.
The most important part of the operation is keeping the combines moving, simply because when they're moving we're making money (hence unloading on the move). On a normal day, they'll start running at 8am and will cut through until 12 or 1 in the morning. When the drivers are eating lunch, someone else will jump in and keep them running. It's amazing how durable the machines are.
rainbow over Haswell elevator
One of my favorite pics to date. Ron snapped this late one afternoon in Haswell Colorado. I've photoshopped it a bit.
Guns and Rattlesnakes
I had to put this pic up. I'm trying to look as menacing as possible.When I last spoke about guns on the blog, about ten people signed off their emails with something along the lines of "stay away from guns". A sound piece of advice given all of the crazy stories that come out of the US. But they're an everyday accessory in the country. In many ways they're not a whole lot more dangerous than the machinery we're using. As with the combines, the level of risk depends on who is using the gun and how they're using it. I've been shown how to handle it safely.
In this case, we had it out in the field in case we saw rattlesnakes. We're in rattlesnake country apparently. No sightings...
Sunday, July 6, 2008
trains in Kiowa
Andrew took this video from the back of the service truck while stopped at a level crossing in home-town Kiowa. He actually caught two trains meeting at the crossing which is pretty rare.
Our camper was parked a little bit down the tracks on the edge of the gravel road you can see in the foreground to the left. The video gives you an idea of how loud they are. Amazingly, I wasn't really bothered by them at night. Because we've been working hard, I'm generally out when my head hits the pillow. It was hell for some of the guys though.
Blake - Haswell Colorado
On Wednesday 2 July, four of us left the main crew in Scott City Kansas to pick up an extra contract in Haswell Colorado, in the state’s south-east. We’ve got about two thousand acres to cut which would usually take about a week, but the area we’re in has been in a drought for the last couple of years, making the wheat really thin and short. The combines can run at twice the speed so essentially we’re making some easy money on the side before we reunite with the rest of the crew in northern Colorado.
The trip up was about 120 miles. When we arrived in Haswell I discovered that one of my tires was flat. Haswell is similar to Isabel Kansas; pretty much the only businesses left are the post office, the farmers’ co-op and a tiny fuel station.
The workshop at the fuel station was unmanned when we arrived, but the mechanic’s wife, who was looking after the store, arranged for her husband to meet us. He told us to get a head start on the tire before he arrived. We opened up the garage and started getting some tools out when the mechanic’s seven-year-old son and five-year-old daughter, turned up in a little golf buggy.
Blake was wearing a Orange County Choppers bandana, an aviator jacket over a checked shirt, ripped blue jeans and cowboy boots. You could tell straight away that he was a confident little kid. He parked the cart, ripped off his jacket, threw it on the ground and got straight to work on my tire.
We couldn’t find the right sized socket for the nuts on my wheel, but Blake was desperate to get the air gun running no matter what size the socket. When he couldn’t find the socket, he got under my truck with a jack and before we knew it he had my tire off the ground.
The older guy in the video is Ron from New Zealand and the younger guy with the cap is Steve from south-west NSW. After we changed the tire, he took me for a ride around the lot on the golf buggy which I also videoed - I'll put it up shortly.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Isabel Kansas
Isabel is a tiny town in south-central Kansas about 40 miles north of home-town Kiowa. We’ve moved here now that we’ve finished cutting around home. Isabel is my favourite stop to date.
The population would be less than 100. The town is littered with derelict buildings. The only places still occupied on Main Street are the post office, the general store, an auto-parts store and a little 10sqm shed with the words ‘CITY HALL’ stuck on the front door with plastic letters.
The thing I like about the place is that, contrary to it’s neglected exterior, it has a warm spirit, unjaded by a tough recent history.
Many of the locals are Mennonites, which may have something to do with the vibe. They’re a Protestant denomination, similar to the Baptists, but they’re pacifists, most notably rejecting church organisation. They look Amish in that the men have long bushy beards, wide brim hats, and wear slacks hung off suspenders, but clearly they’ve embraced some elements of modernity because a few of them cart grain in some pretty modern looking dump truck.
A guy called ‘Buddy’ refuelled my truck at the Farmer’s Co-op. He’s lived in Isabel all of his 60 years. Apparently the town nearly died when the local school was shut down in the early 70s. The only thing keeping it alive today is the grain elevator. It’s a huge week for them; yesterday they took about 3000 tonnes of wheat.
We’ve set up camp on a vacant lot near the elevator for the next few days while we cut around the area. This pic is of a house across the road. The building in the background is the elevator.
Elevator Shenanigans
A harvester’s biggest foe is monotony. Everyone in a crew drives around in circles; for the combine drivers it’s clockwise around a field, for the truck drivers it’s the same route from the field to the grain elevator and back 15-20 times a day. Every crew member has his own way of breaking up the day. We’ve all listened to the entire contents of our iPods a few times. I’ve recently resorted to listening to the ridiculously bigoted Fox News talk-back, pretty popular here in the mid-west.
When we were cutting around Isabel Kansas, Tim (another truck driver) and I came up with a new pastime. We both admitted to having a bit of a crush on one of the girls working at the elevator, so we set up a competition to see who could get to know her the quickest.
You only get about 15 seconds contact each time; ducking into the office with your field name on the way in and then picking up your docket on the way out. Added to the challenge was the fact that our girl was very shy.
I was the first to get her name. There was nothing smooth about it. She came out of the office with my docket and, in a cloud of dust and shouting over the roar of the engine, I met Lisa. There must have been a tone of urgency in my voice because she looked pretty startled, like I was getting her in trouble.
Tim made a breakthrough when she gave him a complimentary Kansas Wheat calculator. I thought he may have had the upper hand, but following him over the weighbridge, I was given one too.
It got to late in the day and I got a rush of blood to the head. I decided that Timmy and I needed a portrait with Lisa. It was a semi-inappropriate proposition but I put it down to a you’ll-only-be-here-once moment. I went over the weighbridge before Tim and caught her before she went back into the office and stuttered some stupid story about capturing elevator memories. She was up for it, so I parked and when Tim came over the weighbridge we held up the scales while we ‘captured the memory’.
The next day things were pretty quiet in the office. We found out later that her dad worked in the office. I think he gave her a talk about not associating with harvesters. Any more photos and I think Timmy and I may have been leaving town with shotgun-peppered trailers.
The competition continues; who can get the most candid shots with elevator staff.
pimped-up pic of my truck
Obviously the same storm as the wide shot below. This storm came through late in the afternoon and hung over us but never dropped any rain which we were bummed about because it would have meant some time off - we can't cut when the wheat is wet.
I realise I've got a lot of pics of my truck up, but it's the centre of my world at the moment, and I kind of like that. I spend up to 15 hours a day in it. We meet at about 7 in the morning and I give it a once over. Once we start cutting, I'll park in or beside the field and load up with grain whenever the combines get full. I then take it to the designated elevator which can be around the block or, in the case of Haswell, 20 miles away. When the five combines are running in the same place, our four trucks will quite easily be constantly moving, especially if the elevator is a bit of a drive away.
There are times, however, when the grain does not accumulate as quickly. At these times I'll park-up and hang out. I've got a sleeper at the back of the cab (bigger than the bed in our camper!) which I'll have a snooze in, lot's of food and plenty of reading material. I have to pinch myself sometimes when I ponder about my surrounds.
Bones
‘Bones’ is one of Greg’s full time employees. He doesn’t come on harvest with us but looks after parts of Greg’s business back in home-town Kiowa, mainly hauling fuel to local agricultural outfits.
He’s a great character. He smokes a lot (including in the fuel tanker) and will have a beer in hand and his esky nearby after five o’clock. He’d be in his early 40s, quite skinny, dark complexion, wears a moustache and has a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. He has a contagious laugh with a smoker’s rattle. There’s a tattoo on his left shoulder that is meant to read ‘Bones’ but it looks more like ‘Barry’. Unfortunately for Bones, Barry is his best friend’s name.
When he’s not in the tanker, Bones drives an old brown pick-up. It’s a 1984 Chevy, has no rego, cracks throughout the windscreen, and a ripped up interior littered with his cigarette butts.
He drove me out to a field on my first day of work. When I got in the pick-up, naturally I reached for my seat belt. It took me a while to find it. I had to fish around right behind my seat. When I finally got hold of it, I started yanking at it but it wouldn’t extend. Bones piped up, “I don’t think that works”. He had a confused look on his face - not many people wear seat belts in the country. There was an awkward silence as I fumbled to tuck it back under the seat. “Yup, she’s as old as dirt”.
He’s a great character. He smokes a lot (including in the fuel tanker) and will have a beer in hand and his esky nearby after five o’clock. He’d be in his early 40s, quite skinny, dark complexion, wears a moustache and has a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. He has a contagious laugh with a smoker’s rattle. There’s a tattoo on his left shoulder that is meant to read ‘Bones’ but it looks more like ‘Barry’. Unfortunately for Bones, Barry is his best friend’s name.
When he’s not in the tanker, Bones drives an old brown pick-up. It’s a 1984 Chevy, has no rego, cracks throughout the windscreen, and a ripped up interior littered with his cigarette butts.
He drove me out to a field on my first day of work. When I got in the pick-up, naturally I reached for my seat belt. It took me a while to find it. I had to fish around right behind my seat. When I finally got hold of it, I started yanking at it but it wouldn’t extend. Bones piped up, “I don’t think that works”. He had a confused look on his face - not many people wear seat belts in the country. There was an awkward silence as I fumbled to tuck it back under the seat. “Yup, she’s as old as dirt”.
travelling south
After two weeks preparation, we left for Texas on Wednesday 28 May to start cutting wheat. We cut about 7000 acres down there over 15 days. I took this video by the side of the road on the way down. It's pretty funny, you'll just here the boss Greg yelling at me at the end of the video to get going. We'd been sitting roadside for an hour and he came back just as I was goofing-off.
Eight vehicles set off in convoy; 4 semi-trailers towing the combines and grain-trailers, two trailer homes (one for the boss and the other for seven crew members!), our service truck with tools, fuel etc, and a mini-van that the crew use for excursions around town.
The journey down was about 400 kilometres and took us a little over seven hours.
I was thrown one of the semi-trailers to drive. Driving a semi is a bit of a coup for me. It was one of my goals coming over here. I knew it was on the cards but I didn’t think that I’d attempt it so soon and on such a big truck.
In Australia I simply would not qualify for the license because I haven’t got enough hours on a truck. Also the whole process can cost thousands of dollars.
Over here, I drove myself to the motor registry in the truck, paid $35 for both the theory and practical test, failed one component of the practical, drove myself home in the truck, showed up again the next day, paid an extra $1.50 to redo the practical component, passed and came out with a license that allows me to drive anything up to a triple trailer combination.
Many would say that it’s foolhardy giving someone like me a license. But it exemplifies part of the American ethos that I love; if you want to do something, you’re given the opportunity. Greg lives this out through his business. If you’re willing to listen and work hard, he has the patience to teach. It doesn’t matter if you’re a city boy.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Kenny's Tire Shop
Kenny runs the local tire shop which is just across the yard from our camper. I took this at dusk one evening.
Kenny is in his late 50s I'd say. He'd only be about 5-6 tall and has a very slim build, but he handles a truck tire like it's a hula-hoop.
Texas Tornado
We had a mini-tornado come through Vernon when we were harvesting in Texas. I caught this video from the combine as it was brewing. As soon as it started to look nasty Greg shut us down.
It was amazing how quickly the weather changed. It had been windy all day but the sky was completely clear. Mid afternoon, a huge bank of heavy clouds rolled in and the sky turned an eerie green colour. We were on the edge of the storm. We only realised how powerful it was when we driving back in to town. Several trees were uprooted and a few buildings flattened.
The upside was that the rain gave us our first day off. Up until this point, conditions had been perfect for cutting. We had been running about 15 hours a day for 10 days straight.
riding the tailgate it Texas
One morning in Texas we had to bring a bunch of trucks back from a town about 30 miles north of where we were staying. All the drivers had to fit in the one pick up. A few of us had to ride in the back. Greg claims that it's legal in Texas - you see it a lot - but I'm not so sure. I started rolling this video as we pulled onto an Interstate. The guy next to me is Andrew, another Australian, and the other bloke is Anders from Denmark.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
It seemed like I’d just drifted off to sleep when I heard a car skidding to a stop on the gravel outside the camper. The doors were slammed shut and more than one person approached the camper. Whoever it was slammed their fist on the door.
“Po-lice! Open up.” At this point I’m wide-awake lying stiff as a board staring at the roof of the camper wondering if I was in some jet-lag induced nightmare. Either that or I’d inadvertently come to work for some crime syndicate.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Obviously they weren’t here for me. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I could hear Ron (the New Zealander I traveled with) stirring, but he wasn’t getting up and nor was British Steve.
The banging continued for another minute or so after which there was a series of loud cracks, like fireworks. At this point I was a bit suspicious. Unless we were being shot at, or flushed out with tear gas, it couldn’t be the police. What’s more, the cops wouldn’t be giggling and rocking the camper.
After a while, I recognised the voices. It was a couple of rednecks – not a derogatory label in this part of the world - that we’d met earlier that evening as we’d been leaving for dinner. As we were driving out of the yard, a small Suzuki jeep pulled off the road and made a beeline for our van, coming to a sideways stop in front of us.
British Steve didn’t look too impressed. He muttered something under his breath as he rolled down the window. The passenger in the jeep was a chubby, baby-faced bloke, probably about 18, with spectacles shaped like small aviator sunglasses. “Whatcha guys doin’?”, he shouted over the engine, a big grin on his face. Steve told him it was his birthday and that we were going to the pub to celebrate. “Ride on!”
Realising that we were new to town, I think the pair were keen to make an impression. Before fish-tailing out of the yard, they drew two huge circles in the gravel with the jeep.
And so, several beers later, they had returned to help Steve celebrate his birthday, complete with fireworks. They didn’t stay for long. I drifted off to sleep as I heard the jeep revving-up and leaving in much the same manner as it had earlier that afternoon.
“Po-lice! Open up.” At this point I’m wide-awake lying stiff as a board staring at the roof of the camper wondering if I was in some jet-lag induced nightmare. Either that or I’d inadvertently come to work for some crime syndicate.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Obviously they weren’t here for me. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I could hear Ron (the New Zealander I traveled with) stirring, but he wasn’t getting up and nor was British Steve.
The banging continued for another minute or so after which there was a series of loud cracks, like fireworks. At this point I was a bit suspicious. Unless we were being shot at, or flushed out with tear gas, it couldn’t be the police. What’s more, the cops wouldn’t be giggling and rocking the camper.
After a while, I recognised the voices. It was a couple of rednecks – not a derogatory label in this part of the world - that we’d met earlier that evening as we’d been leaving for dinner. As we were driving out of the yard, a small Suzuki jeep pulled off the road and made a beeline for our van, coming to a sideways stop in front of us.
British Steve didn’t look too impressed. He muttered something under his breath as he rolled down the window. The passenger in the jeep was a chubby, baby-faced bloke, probably about 18, with spectacles shaped like small aviator sunglasses. “Whatcha guys doin’?”, he shouted over the engine, a big grin on his face. Steve told him it was his birthday and that we were going to the pub to celebrate. “Ride on!”
Realising that we were new to town, I think the pair were keen to make an impression. Before fish-tailing out of the yard, they drew two huge circles in the gravel with the jeep.
And so, several beers later, they had returned to help Steve celebrate his birthday, complete with fireworks. They didn’t stay for long. I drifted off to sleep as I heard the jeep revving-up and leaving in much the same manner as it had earlier that afternoon.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Kansas storms
Tornado season has just started here. One week in particular we'd get a thunderstorm most evenings with really impressive lightening shows. British Steve pointed his camera out the door of the camper one evening and caught a big strike, lighting up the tractor parked out the front. There's a few seconds of black at the top of the video.
Taken after an afternoon picking rye in Greg's wheat crop. Rye contaminates the wheat and the only way to get rid of it is to pull it out by hand.Twelve of us spaced ourselves out in a line and walked from one fence to another ripping it out and putting it in a sack. The block was 1 square mile so it involved a lot of walking. Greg would drive his pick-up around the boundary fence to meet us at each end to give us a water or a beer and then we'd turn around and walk back.
Sweating profusely, covered in red dust, hands bleeding, this was one of many tasks that I should have resented, but loved every minute - I was waste deep in a wheat field in the heart of the mid-west at sunset.
Friday, May 30, 2008
First night in town I think I was a bit stunned. The camper was a lot more basic than I thought it would be.
After settling in a bit, Greg (my boss) took us out for dinner. British Steve, another guy on the crew, was having a birthday and Greg was shouting us all dinner. We were taken down to the only bar in town, the Plum Thicket Inn.
Walking into the place, several of the stereotypes that had been embarrassingly debunked on my arrival in Wichita, suddenly seemed plausible again.
The bar is quite dark - there are no windows. There is a duke box in the corner playing country music. Two TVs above the bar screen different sporting fixtures. In between them, above the spirit shelf is a neon Budweiser sign and a placard that says "Free Beer.....tomorrow". Most people are congregated in booths that run around the outside of the room but there are a few dusty looking men drinking alone atop a 30 foot long, solid timber bar.
As we enter, everyone looks up from their beer. It’s a Wednesday night and everyone in the place is quite clearly local. At first glace, the faces do not appear friendly. The first person I make eye contact with is a heavy-set man behind the bar, about 6-2, wearing a white cowboy hat. All I could manage was “hi” and a nod. I got nothing back. Greg enters about 30 seconds after us. When he walks in, faces light up; those that stone-walled us eagerly vie for his attention. He is quite clearly well respected. Greg sits down at our table. Everything is OK.
We order beers – two bucks a pop for a pint – and a steak.
Throughout dinner there is a lot of talk about agriculture and machinery. I’ve got nothing to offer. I go back to the camper wondering if I’ve bitten off a bit too much.
After settling in a bit, Greg (my boss) took us out for dinner. British Steve, another guy on the crew, was having a birthday and Greg was shouting us all dinner. We were taken down to the only bar in town, the Plum Thicket Inn.
Walking into the place, several of the stereotypes that had been embarrassingly debunked on my arrival in Wichita, suddenly seemed plausible again.
The bar is quite dark - there are no windows. There is a duke box in the corner playing country music. Two TVs above the bar screen different sporting fixtures. In between them, above the spirit shelf is a neon Budweiser sign and a placard that says "Free Beer.....tomorrow". Most people are congregated in booths that run around the outside of the room but there are a few dusty looking men drinking alone atop a 30 foot long, solid timber bar.
As we enter, everyone looks up from their beer. It’s a Wednesday night and everyone in the place is quite clearly local. At first glace, the faces do not appear friendly. The first person I make eye contact with is a heavy-set man behind the bar, about 6-2, wearing a white cowboy hat. All I could manage was “hi” and a nod. I got nothing back. Greg enters about 30 seconds after us. When he walks in, faces light up; those that stone-walled us eagerly vie for his attention. He is quite clearly well respected. Greg sits down at our table. Everything is OK.
We order beers – two bucks a pop for a pint – and a steak.
Throughout dinner there is a lot of talk about agriculture and machinery. I’ve got nothing to offer. I go back to the camper wondering if I’ve bitten off a bit too much.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
first impressions
The first shock to the system came when I walked into the place I'll be living for the next six months. It's a trailer home, about 15 metres long comprising two sleeping quarters at either end separated by a small living area in the middle through which you enter. Each dorm has two sets of bunks, a toilet and a shower which one walks through in order to get to the bedroom. I'm on the top bunk. At full stretch, the soles of my feet just brush the wall at the foot of my bed and the ceiling is about 40cm from my head.
We're parked in an industrial yard near the workshop of the harvesting outfit that I'm working for. We sleep about 50 metres from the major east-west rail-freight route in the states. Trains pass through every half hour or so. There are several level crossings near-by and the trains are required to blast their horns on approach - 24/7 - Ha! To be honest, being a deep sleeper, it hasn't been too much of a problem but it cracks me up when you hear these trains roaring by horns blaring.
The place has been decorated by the Aussies who flew in before us but left to harvest in California before we arrived...decorations include a bear with a VB logo drawn on its belly strung from the roof, an Australian flag half the size of the camper, and a sticker on the fridge which says "where the fuck's the pub?". There are two types of beverages in the fridge - one shelf for beer - Coors Light is the popular choice - and one shelf for water.
Standing at the sink the other day I looked to my left and saw a gun barrel pointing at me. One of the guys who's in California - a American bloke - brought his .22 rifle with him and had tucked it in to his bed in his absence. Thankfully I'm down the other end of the trailer! Quite a sight for a city-boy.
All of this sounds extreme, but it adds to the adventure. It was a shock at first but it's amazing how I've become quite fond of our camper. There's something homely about the lino floor and the fake wood finish on all the fittings. It's boy's-own; a fantastic bachelor pad.
We're parked in an industrial yard near the workshop of the harvesting outfit that I'm working for. We sleep about 50 metres from the major east-west rail-freight route in the states. Trains pass through every half hour or so. There are several level crossings near-by and the trains are required to blast their horns on approach - 24/7 - Ha! To be honest, being a deep sleeper, it hasn't been too much of a problem but it cracks me up when you hear these trains roaring by horns blaring.
The place has been decorated by the Aussies who flew in before us but left to harvest in California before we arrived...decorations include a bear with a VB logo drawn on its belly strung from the roof, an Australian flag half the size of the camper, and a sticker on the fridge which says "where the fuck's the pub?". There are two types of beverages in the fridge - one shelf for beer - Coors Light is the popular choice - and one shelf for water.
Standing at the sink the other day I looked to my left and saw a gun barrel pointing at me. One of the guys who's in California - a American bloke - brought his .22 rifle with him and had tucked it in to his bed in his absence. Thankfully I'm down the other end of the trailer! Quite a sight for a city-boy.
All of this sounds extreme, but it adds to the adventure. It was a shock at first but it's amazing how I've become quite fond of our camper. There's something homely about the lino floor and the fake wood finish on all the fittings. It's boy's-own; a fantastic bachelor pad.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The 20-seater, twin-prop American Eagle flight is a long way from the comfort of seat 34C on the Qantas 747. I'm on the final leg of the journey, Dallas/Fort Worth Texas (via LA) to Wichita Kansas - dead centre of the North American continent. It's 20hrs since I left my house in Sydney.
We land and de-board on a deserted tarmac in Wichita and have to walk about 100 metres from the plane to the terminal building, a small fibro building with fly-screen doors and a corrugated iron roof. As we approach the building a baggage handler comes out of no-where on his cart. He's belting along. A few other passengers and I have to pull ourselves up to avoid him. He zips by and pushes a couple of bags off his trolley without stopping, one of them is mine. At this point, I'm too tired to care.
Entering the terminal is simply a formality. There's nothing to see or do in there, let alone any space for those waiting to greet passengers: just a couple of counters and a set of scales. It's much like flying into Melbourne via Avalon Airport.
Exiting the building, it's clear who's waiting for me. A big man, about 6-3, with a mustache that covers half his chin, and a 9mm pistol strapped to his waist, pushes himself off the bonnet of a huge red tray-back pickup. There are three Mexicans sitting on the tray with their backs against the cab. They don't look up.
The man takes a couple of big strides toward me and puts out a hand comprising a thumb, two fingers and a couple of stubs.
“Howdy!”, “I’m Stubby. I’m your boss, your mummy, your daddy and your lover for the next eight months”. “This is for you”, he says handing me the pistol from his holster. I was startled enough to see the thing in the safety of it's pouch. “What’s this for?”, I ask. “Everyone can find a use for one of these in this part of the world". He belly laughs and re-holsters the firearm. "Just messin' with ya! Welcome to Kansas!”
All of the above is bullshit. It's one of the scenarios that I constructed in my head at about hour 18 of the journey. Reality was quite a lot different! Big planes all the way. I tracked down the other bloke that I'm working with over here at Dallas Airport. After an hour long flight we landed at quite a sizable Wichita Airport. We were picked up by the bosses wife, a petite blond woman in her 30s.
Despite my porky-pies, there were a few things that correlated to the stereotypes floating around in my head. The woman was driving the biggest, plushest, 4WD I've ever seen, and there were instructions at the baggage carousel explaining where to pick up firearms.
We land and de-board on a deserted tarmac in Wichita and have to walk about 100 metres from the plane to the terminal building, a small fibro building with fly-screen doors and a corrugated iron roof. As we approach the building a baggage handler comes out of no-where on his cart. He's belting along. A few other passengers and I have to pull ourselves up to avoid him. He zips by and pushes a couple of bags off his trolley without stopping, one of them is mine. At this point, I'm too tired to care.
Entering the terminal is simply a formality. There's nothing to see or do in there, let alone any space for those waiting to greet passengers: just a couple of counters and a set of scales. It's much like flying into Melbourne via Avalon Airport.
Exiting the building, it's clear who's waiting for me. A big man, about 6-3, with a mustache that covers half his chin, and a 9mm pistol strapped to his waist, pushes himself off the bonnet of a huge red tray-back pickup. There are three Mexicans sitting on the tray with their backs against the cab. They don't look up.
The man takes a couple of big strides toward me and puts out a hand comprising a thumb, two fingers and a couple of stubs.
“Howdy!”, “I’m Stubby. I’m your boss, your mummy, your daddy and your lover for the next eight months”. “This is for you”, he says handing me the pistol from his holster. I was startled enough to see the thing in the safety of it's pouch. “What’s this for?”, I ask. “Everyone can find a use for one of these in this part of the world". He belly laughs and re-holsters the firearm. "Just messin' with ya! Welcome to Kansas!”
All of the above is bullshit. It's one of the scenarios that I constructed in my head at about hour 18 of the journey. Reality was quite a lot different! Big planes all the way. I tracked down the other bloke that I'm working with over here at Dallas Airport. After an hour long flight we landed at quite a sizable Wichita Airport. We were picked up by the bosses wife, a petite blond woman in her 30s.
Despite my porky-pies, there were a few things that correlated to the stereotypes floating around in my head. The woman was driving the biggest, plushest, 4WD I've ever seen, and there were instructions at the baggage carousel explaining where to pick up firearms.
setting forth
I love airports. A relatively small building represents thousands of stories along with all of the accompanying emotions. I love that the arrivals hall is generally a happy place, full of love, hugs and kisses, whereas departures is full of the same love, hugs and kisses but it's often a lot more sombre.
Each person who walks through the "point of no return" has his or her own story. For some it's comforting to take the first step of a journey back home, it may represent the start of a boring business trip, or for many it brings the relief that comes with starting a long-planned holiday.
For me, it was a daunting experience. It's the first time that I've ever made that walk alone and the first time that I've embarked on an extended trip. I felt relieved, proud of myself, shit-scared, ALONE!
Once you get air-side, it's all a bit of an anti-climax. This is only heightened by the 13 hr trip to LA. I did, however, score the ultimate economy seat; first row of economy, on the aisle, with a spare seat between me and the person next to me. I sat next to a young Canadian girl who was heading back home after a few weeks in Aus.
There's nothing like US immigration to get the adrenaline going again. Here's a tip...when you're flying into Hollywood claiming to be making your debut on the agricultural circuit, don't tell the immigration bloke that you've got a background in film production. I was interrogated for about 15mins while they did background checks. Those guys wield a lot of power and they're not afraid to splash it around a bit. I swear so much has to do with the officer you get and the mood that that person is in. I think my guy was a bit pissed that he was on the early shift.
Each person who walks through the "point of no return" has his or her own story. For some it's comforting to take the first step of a journey back home, it may represent the start of a boring business trip, or for many it brings the relief that comes with starting a long-planned holiday.
For me, it was a daunting experience. It's the first time that I've ever made that walk alone and the first time that I've embarked on an extended trip. I felt relieved, proud of myself, shit-scared, ALONE!
Once you get air-side, it's all a bit of an anti-climax. This is only heightened by the 13 hr trip to LA. I did, however, score the ultimate economy seat; first row of economy, on the aisle, with a spare seat between me and the person next to me. I sat next to a young Canadian girl who was heading back home after a few weeks in Aus.
There's nothing like US immigration to get the adrenaline going again. Here's a tip...when you're flying into Hollywood claiming to be making your debut on the agricultural circuit, don't tell the immigration bloke that you've got a background in film production. I was interrogated for about 15mins while they did background checks. Those guys wield a lot of power and they're not afraid to splash it around a bit. I swear so much has to do with the officer you get and the mood that that person is in. I think my guy was a bit pissed that he was on the early shift.
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