It’s usually a red flag.
But I was an idiot, and I didn’t listen to my instincts. The most dangerous kind of deafness!
So began the tale of my almost disastrous journey to a farm in Ngatjan, Queensland (true location concealed – I don’t want to be hunted down by my ex-hosts).
Let’s backtrack a few days – forget everything you just read above.
Picture me, sitting on my caravan bed on idyllic Kangaroo Island, looking forward to my journey to rural northern Queensland – a truly wild place, with cassowaries, lots of snakes, crocs, box jellies, and the world-famous gympie-gympie plant. I had organized to go to this farm a few months ago (while on a train with Sean) – it seemed to be an incredible one. Descriptions promised a vibrant WWOOF community and interesting organic work on rare tropical plants.
You might imagine my surprise when I receive an email from the farm, 5 days before I’m supposed to arrive, stating that my stay on the farm isn’t guaranteed. The email was extremely ambiguous – I don’t think a team of the world’s best linguists could have deciphered it accurately. It could have meant any of the following:
- Hey, Isaac! I’m not sure if you can still stay with us. We’ve just had a WWOOFER who we loved leave us, and that was sad. We took him on a trip to the Great Barrier Reef – sorry that you can’t come with!
- Hey, Isaac! You’re welcome to come, but you’ll have to stay in Cairns for a while before staying with us at the farm. You need to “acclimatise to the warm tropical weather” before joining us!
- Hey, Isaac! I know you have been organizing a stay with us for 4 months, but we just got back from an epic trip to the Great Barrier Reef (it was so amazing, seriously, we snorkeled and caught whopper king mackerels!), and I’m too tired to organize your stay with us. Stay posted – it’s possible that we can take you, but maybe not.
Obviously this was an intense first world problem, but I’d already organized my travel – something that’s not super easy when your final destination is god-forsaken Ngajtan, of all places.
I was a bit stressed. My travel from KI was nonrefundable, and finding places to WWOOF near Cairns, QLD can be a struggle. Luckily, the Ngatjan host (we’ll call him Stuart) got back to me the next day, saying I could come. His reply was very faintly hostile, and I had a funny feeling about it. The sort of feeling which is so instinctual that it’s hard to really identify. I ignored the feeling, thinking “don’t worry, it’ll all be great!”
But I shouldn’t have ignored it. I’m a product of millions of years of evolution. My instinctual machinery has been developing for a very long time, and I would’ve been wise to use it. My caveman ancestors who died of poor gut feeling-judgment would be ashamed of me.
I made my way to Brisbane and then Cairns. I’ll talk about both of these places in another blog, as they’re both worth a mention.
After a night in Cairns, it was time to get to the farm. I needed to take a bus to Ngatjan, and decided on the one which departs at 4:00pm. (For the record – I prefer to arrive at farms in the evening because integration into farm life is much easier when starting at night. Ideally, arriving at night means 1) I go to my room, unpack, shower, etc. and prepare for dinner 2) We have dinner, and I can talk to the hosts, find out what the logistics of their household/WWOOFing arrangement are 3) go to bed. Arriving in the morning is awkward, as you have to endure a full day of awkwardness.)
Upon emailing Stuart about my 4:00pm departing bus, I received a reply which was, again, strangely hostile. He essentially said: “Mate, there’s only one bus which comes to Ngatjan, you imbecile, and it leaves at 7:25am. Don’t insult me, mate.”
Stuart was completely wrong – there are three bus services to Ngatjan everyday, but I followed his wishes and took the 7:25am coach. It was cheaper, anyway.
I walked to the bus stop, behind the Cairns Central shopping centre, and met the driver. When I told him I was going to Ngatjan, his jaw dropped in horror.
“Ngatjan? Ngatjan?! Ngatjan????!!!!????!!!!????!!!! Mate, why are you going to Ngatjan?!”
“I’m going there to work on a farm, I think it will be fun. Is there something wrong with Ngatjan?”
“Mate, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that there’s a pub there. The basic news is that everything else there is shit!“
This was our conversation, to the word. I thought the driver was just being flippant (as much Australian humor is), and I ignored his words with a chuckle.
I hopped on the bus, and off we went. While making the typical “bathroom at the back of the bus, use the blue button to flush” sort of announcements, the driver added in one more thing:
“Ladies and gents, boys and girls, welcome again on this Premier Motor Service coach on route to Brisbane. Most of you are getting off at Townsville today, good choice, it’s beautiful! However, we have one lucky passenger getting off at Ngatjan. Good luck to him!”
Haha, very funny, I thought. Again, more sarcasm. That’s fine!
The bus ride was truly magnificent. Far north Queensland looks immensely exotic, and I felt as though I was driving through Papua New Guinea. The comparison actually isn’t far-off, as Cairns and Papua New Guinea are rather close.
Two hours pass and I begin to tremble slightly as the bus driver announces our arrival in Ngatjan. The bus stops, both the driver and I disembark, he hands me my backpack, shakes my hand, and says “good luck, sonny. See you soon.”
Calling Ngatjan a town would be a lie. It is more of a scattering of buildings, each 100-200 metres apart. There is a gas station, a pub, a post office, and a police station. The entire “town” is extremely hot, dusty, and quite dry. The best descriptor I can give is “depressing”, as it really was.
I called Amanda, Stuart’s name-concealed wife, and was shocked to hear a strong New York accent pick up the call. She certainly didn’t sound pleased that I had the gall to call, even though that was my instruction from Stuart. She said “Stu will pick you up, eventually. Wait at the gas station.”
So wait I did. It was a long 40 minutes – hot, but not altogether unpleasant. I bought a small bag of ground coffee for myself at the gas station – I do this as insurance for if my hosts don’t drink coffee.
Stuart did, eventually, arrive. He was quite shy, but surprisingly amicable. He was also older than I imagined and had a long, brown beard, and looked quite majestic. His small brown eyes were extremely distant, though, and I detected some sort of sadness within them. Sorry if this sounds ridiculous; I’m just writing exactly as I felt.
We hopped into the car, a Mitsubishi Pajero (which, I’ve noticed, is THE car to go for in Northern Queensland. Absolutely everyone seems to have one) and drove for about five minutes. We crossed a small creek, a towering bamboo forest, and arrived at the farm.
Immediately upon alighting, I was hit with a wave of fishy rankness. It was a pungent combination of brine, feet, sulfur, and tallegio cheese gone bad – almost enough to knock one over. I concluded that it was just the smell of the fish entrails from their wildly successful trip to the Reef. Again, I ignored some bad signs.
The farm was actually quite nice. A small house, with discrete buildings for laundry, cooking, sleeping, and entertainment was surrounded by beautiful tropical flora. In fact, the property backed onto World Heritage Listed rainforest. Various plots of green-mesh covered were scattered around the property. Each about the size of a tennis court, some housed vegetables, flowers, pitcher plants, agave, and many other plants. The farm itself is actually a nursery, and Amanda and Stuart sell their plants online to private buyers and museums.
Stuart told me to “get settled” and “come right out to get started on the work.” So, I did just that.
My accommodation was a small apartment, adjoined to the a large garage which held a dilapidated boat and lots of random junk. It was really nice accommodation. I had my own double bed, TV, couch, kitchenette with toaster, kettle, hot plate, sink, and fridge. There were two ceiling fans in the apartment – one above my bed, and another above the TV couch. The one above my bed wasn’t working, though, and I found this a bit strange; Stuart said I’ll need to use my fan at night, as it stays very hot throughout the evening. No worries, I thought: the fan doesn’t work for mechanical reasons, just a chance accident.
I unpacked my stuff, dressed in my work clothes (thick hiking pants – to avoid biting insects, long-sleeved shirt, work boots, and a wide-brimmed hat), and went to find Stuart. He was busy washing off his beloved boat, and almost seemed irritated to see me. “You ready to work, mate? It’s about time. Hahaha!”
This was a strange remark, but no matter. At this junction, I need to tell you something about Stuart.
He chronically says the word “mate”, as if it were a verbal tic. Every single sentence included at least one if not two “mate”s. For example:
“Isaac, mate, it’s time for lunch, mate.”
“Mate, you should’ve seen the king mackerel I caught, mate, it was huge.”
I acknowledge that verbal tics are uncontrollable, and shouldn’t be mocked. However, I know for certain that Stuart didn’t have such a tic, as he only spoke like that to me. When talking to Amanda or people on the phone, he spoke “normally”, whatever that might mean. I found this weird – the word “mate” can be both genial and irritative, and I never knew which connotation he was aiming towards me.
I responded that I was ready to get to work, and he walked me to a green-mesh lot, and told me to “get weeding, mate. I promise mate we will get you into some more cerebral work tomorrow hahaha mate, something like propagation. Just weeding, mate, today.”
This was absolutely fine – I never expect anything other than weeding on the first day. I began to weed, and I noticed that there were absolutely no insects on or around the plants. All of the leaves were perfectly intact, no little bite-marks to be found. Even the soil in which the plants rested was barren – healthy, moist, and full – but no small insects to be found. There weren’t even woodlice or tiny mites or larvae on the ground below the pots. I was thinking, again, this is strange. They must do some serious by-hand maintenance to keep these plants so bug-free. Strange. Keep in mind – this is an “organic farm.”
I weeded for a few hours, battling the horseflies as they attacked in droves. Seriously – the number of flies was insane. I’ve done my fair share of camping and outdoor work with horseflies, and endured all such endeavours (Noah and Anil can confirm that I managed the horsefly swarm of the 2019 camping trip which resulted in the Brofist™️). This, however, was different. The bastards were getting through my clothing, even the thick pants. Still, I weeded without complaint. I’m tough, after all, right?
After 3 hours of weeding, Stuart told me it was time for lunch. He saw me struggling with the flies, and said “you’re a hairy bugger, mate, they shouldn’t even be able to get through your pelt, mate!”
While what he said is partially true, I didn’t really appreciate being called a “hairy bugger,” but didn’t say anything. If he was one of my friends, I wouldn’t have cared – but I just met the guy.
We ate lunch, which was quite delicious. For some reason, the mealtime conversation revolved completely around my dad. I’m not sure why they wanted to know so much about him, but they kept asking about his professional, education, hobbies, etc. It was extremely weird. They didn’t seem to be interested in my mom and me.
After lunch, Stuart instructed me to “sleep for 2 hours and be back to work at 4:00, Isaac, mate, 4:00 promptly.” This was another strange instruction, but I did as I was told.
At 4:00 sharp, I walked up to Stuart, who was once again busy with his boat. He seemed slightly upset, as if I was late. He told me to “get going on the weeds, mate, please,” so I did.
I weeded for another 2 hours, gutted batted by the flies. When Stuart called me for dinner, I asked him if there was anything I might do to protect myself more from them. He seemed insulted that I asked him such a question, and completely ignored it. This was bizarre behavior, and I just got changed for dinner.
At dinner, which was also quite good, I mentioned my weeding work of the day. The strange situation panned out like this:
Isaac: “I managed to weed that entire area today, including the back row of baby fishtail palms. I think it looks pretty good.”
Amanda: “Sorry, Isaac, but that concerns you and Stuart, not me. You can talk about it with him. I am not involved in the WWOOFing work. That is Stuart.”
(Note: Stuart was at the table. I have no idea why Amanda needed to explain her lack of involvement right then.)
Stuart: “Isaac mate, it looked alright. How were the flies, mate?”
Isaac: “They were pretty active, but I can handle it. We have horseflies in Canada, too, and I’ve been bitten many times before.”
Stuart: “Mate, if you can’t handle the flies, there’s no way we can go on a camping trip, mate. They’re everywhere, mate. Mate, maybe you should go nearer to the city, if you hate the flies so much.”
Isaac: “When did I mention a camping trip? And I can handle the flies here. If I’m moving around a bit, then they aren’t a problem.”
Amanda: “Do you not have horseflies in Ottawa?”
Isaac: “We do. I swear. I will just dress a bit better tomorrow – it’s no problem.”
As you can tell, my interactions with them were strange. It was a little uncomfortable, but I attributed that to the fact that it was my first day.
I went to bed, slept in a pool of sweat (it got extremely hot at night without the fan), and awoke the next morning feeling good, ready to start another day. I was to make my own breakfast – and my kitchenette was stocked with cereal, milk, 1 egg, 2 cans of baked beans, and instant noodles. I made a decent breakfast, dressed, and headed out to the house. Stuart was awaiting me, pacing nervously. “Mate,” he said, “sorry, nothing interesting for you to do today. I have some weeding you need to do, mate, and please do it properly, mate.”
He led me to the area I was to work on, which was a semi-inclosed area with small potted palms and ferns. It was absolutely swarming with flies, but I didn’t make a fuss. I began to weed, and although I was a bit upset that Stuart didn’t keep his word (in that I was going to do some “more cerebral” work today), I did my job.
An hour later, Amanda walked by and asked “how’s it going, Isaac?” I responded by saying “I’m doing well, thanks! I’ve done about 2 rows of weeding so far -“
She interrupted by saying “I don’t need to know, Isaac, that’s your and Stuart’s business. I don’t run the WWOOFers, thank you very much. You can tell Stuart about that.”
I was severely confused. Why was she, again, making a fuss about me telling her what farmwork I was doing? It didn’t make sense. It was her farm, too, and I was just telling her because she asked.
I continued to weed, and Stuart eventually called me for lunch. Before I even mentioned the flies, he said “mate, the flies aren’t even that bad. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
I told him that kneeling down and picking weeds made the flies swarm to you, but he wasn’t having any of it. He was insulted, again, and I felt a bit uncomfortable. I was just talking about flies. He brought it up.
My work was done for the day, so I read my book, Infinite Jest, and relaxed. In the afternoon, Stuart sent me a strange email with pictures of fish he caught on his recent fishing trip, as if to brag about them.
We ate dinner, and in conversation I began to feel a sort of Isaac, we don’t want you here vibe. I can’t properly articulate the vibe, but I felt it.
Before going to bed, I asked Stuart if I might have an egg or two for my breakfast tomorrow, as all I have left are baked beans and cereal. Again, he showed me this bizarre annoyance, and said that “we haven’t gone shopping yet, but you can have this egg.”
He handed me a Guinea fowl egg with a visible embryo inside. Gross. If you didn’t know – some Guinea fowl eggs are soft, supple, and have a translucent shell – you can see the interior contents by just putting them under a light.
I said nothing and went to my apartment. I was a bit concerned, and began to consider if I needed to leave the farm. My interactions with Stuart and Amanda were beyond strange, they probably didn’t even want me there, and the work was boring and uncomfortable. I thought I’m being a brat – give it a few more days.
Time for bed. It was, again, sweltering, and I began to think that perhaps the fan in my room was broken on purpose.
I needed to sleep, and some coolness, so I fashioned a crude bed from an ottoman (to support my torso) and two chairs (to support my legs) below the ceiling fan in the TV room. I slept quite well, and was ready for a new day.
I made a truly gross breakfast of beans on toast (I usually don’t mind this meal – but I thing both elements were expired), dressed, and got ready for some work.
When I walked towards the garden, I saw Stuart doing something unspeakable: he was spraying the gardens, spraying being a euphemism for applying pesticides.
This wasn’t a vinegar-garlic-chilli-baking soda pesticide mixture, either. It was serious, industrial stuff, the likes of which are banned in any type of organic practice. I also think he was using 1080, a brand of pesticide which is (for good reason) restricted in every country except for Australia and New Zealand. You can read about it here.
Stuart looked at me, with the jetpack-like spraying equipment on his back, with a look of genuine shame. He knew, I knew, that their “organic” nursery was a sham. But we said nothing.
“Mate, ummm,” he said, “you can continue to weed that area from yesterday, mate, please.”
“I thought we were going to do some potting and propagation today,” I asked peevishly.
“Sorry mate, you just need to finish that area there, please.”
Dejected, but mostly sad, I began to weed again. The flies were unbearable this time, but that wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing.
I quickly realized that there were no insects on any of the plants because of the intense course of pesticides Stuart and Amanda used. I also realized that I was literally crawling through the chemicals as I weeded, without any proper protection.
Now, let me make a point quickly. I understand the necessity of pesticides in conventional agriculture: we wouldn’t be able to feed the world without them. Also, there’s little evidence suggesting that organic food is “better for you” than conventionally grown food.
However, issues with pesticides arise from direct exposure to them. As a consumer, this is exceedingly rare; fruits and vegetables are washed before hitting shelves, and any pesticides which remain are within safe eating levels. As a producer, genuine exposure is a very real problem.
I was a producer, and was certainly coming into direct contact with the pesticide. Plants are often moist, and I crawled through and below them, much moisture seeped into my clothing. By the end of a weeding session, I would be quite wet, just from contact with the plants.
This might seem minor to you, but it was not. Stuart was actively spraying (every 3 days) his plants, knowing fully-well that I would be in close contact with them as I weeded. This concerned me greatly. Just a few days of exposure wouldn’t have posed any real danger to me – but 3 weeks of non-stop weeding likely would.
I weeded for 2 or so hours until both Amanda and Stuart, sprayer in-hand, came towards my area. (Also note that he was wearing protective headgear and other clothing.) Stuart started spraying the plants in the row behind me, coming so close, as I was kneeling on the ground, weeding, that I thought I might be hit in his spray. I recoiled, stood up, and walked away.
“What’s wrong, mate? The flies getting at you again? You need to put on that insect-repellant we make, mate. Maybe you need to find somewhere closer to the city, if you can’t handle it out here.”
“Maybe I do,” I said. This was the final straw. With utmost equanimity, I am proud to say, I walked back to my apartment for a “quick snack.” Before I left the plot, Amanda pointed at her legs and said “look, Isaac, no flies! They must love you! Are you allergic to them, or something? See, they aren’t bothering me!”
I really felt like I was being teased by two prepubescent bullies on a grade 6 playground. It was enough.
In my room, I began to frantically search for new farms in the area. There were a few near Cairns and Brisbane, and I began to apply to as many as I could. In my application emails, I included the truth about why I needed to new place to stay. Farms often take in “refugee WWOOFers”, and appreciate honesty in the requests.
I was getting quite anxious. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I felt as if Stuart was furious with me. I was many kilometers from the nearest public area, and, as the human mind does, I began to catastrophize.
As I was sitting, researching farms, I heard the unique sound of metal being sharpened on a sander. This is it, I thought. He’s coming to kill me, to slit my throat. Oh my God, what are mom and dad going to think? Do I need to call the police?
Absolutely ridiculous – I know. But sometimes anxiety can override all rational thinking – everyone has experienced that, in their own way. Luckily, I opted against calling the police. Still, I was panicked: how would Stuart react when I said I wanted to leave? Would he start fuming? Would he shout at me?
An hour later, Stuart came outside my room and asked “mate, what’s going on?”
“I don’t think I’m cut out for life here, Sir. I’m sorry. I think I need to find somewhere closer to the city. No hard feelings, of course.”
“Okay, mate. I will be driving to Tully in a few hours. Get ready to leave. Clean up the room, mate.”
Hooray! Salvation! He didn’t freak out! Wait a second he has wanted me to leave from the beginning – I’m doing him a favor!
I stuffed all of my belongings into my bag, tidied the room, disassembled my makeshift bed, and waited. I waited, worried, again catastrophizing. What if he drives me to the middle of a field and shoots me? He has a gun! He told me! He kills feral pigs! I’m his newest feral pig, he called me a “hairy bugger”, after all!
Yes, stupid.
Eventually, he called for me, and I grabbed my bags. I shook hands with Amanda, thanked her for her hospitality, and hopped into the car. Stuart and I drove to Tully, about 20 minutes away, without muttering a single word.
Upon entering the town, he asked “bus, hostel, or pub?”
“Bus, please.”
“Mate, you’re going to hate Australia. There are too many flies here, mate, more than on our farm. You won’t manage, mate.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “I’ll just go swiftly back to Canada.”
“Good idea, mate.”
Those were the last words I heard from my friend Stuart. I left the car, took my bags, and walked to the bus. He drove away, creating a cloud of dust. He didn’t even wave. I sent him a certain hand gesture, though, but only after he was far away. I didn’t want to give him the rude sign directly, as he’s not a bad person. But I did give🖕to his farm and what it stands for.
So, I was stuck in Tully, a strange town which is famous for it’s 8-meter-tall statue of a boot, but I couldn’t have been happier.
I was emancipated, and life was good.
You might be thinking that I overreacted to this whole situation, and perhaps I did, but I don’t think so.
Being in a stranger’s home, far away from civilization, can be a pretty scary thing. This scariness, under completely normal circumstances, can be a lot to handle. Too much for some people, actually, and is a reason people dislike WWOOFing.
Consider, however, how much the scariness is compounded when you feel hostility from your hosts, these people you barely know, on whose property and support you are living. You don’t know how your hosts will react, what they are thinking, what they might do. It’s more of a fear of the unknown than anything, but a strong and terrifying one, at that.
I was uncomfortable, and had every right to leave. So I did. Who knows what might have happened later, if I had stayed. Likely nothing – but I can’t say that for sure. In any case, it would’ve been a waste of 3 weeks, during which I could have been more comfortable, have done more valuable things.
This was an important learning experience for me. Every WWOOFing adventure has its blemishes, just like life in general. This particular blemish made me shed a bit of my traveling mojo, but I suppose that’s a good thing. It knocked me back into reality – the only place one should really be.
It’s not going to hunky-dory everyday, and that’s how it should be. One can only fully appreciate great experiences by having a baseline measurement. Accordingly, during my unpleasant few days in Ngatjan, I often daydreamed of returning to Kangaroo Island, my yurt farm, or S&C. All of these places, even with their eccentricities, made me feel safe – and I longed to return. That’s the sign of a good farm.
I also learned that “every-minute mindfulness,” a practice introduced to me by S&C, is truly beneficial. This Zen practice suggests that one should be mindful, as if in meditation, during every interaction throughout the day, even the most mundane. This also applies to emotion-charged conflicts. If you can approach a belligerent with equanimity, you give them no emotional fuel to continue the conflict.
I tried to do this with Stuart and Amanda, and it definitely worked. Rather than engaging in futile arguments, I generally acknowledged what I was told and responded calmly, in an impartial manner. I also tried to be mindful of my body language. I avoided any sort of connotative gestures, even when I was feeling intense internal turmoil. This was extremely helpful. With no gestures to begin a pointless conflict, nothing ensued, and everyone was better for it.
I went for lunch in Tully, and waited for my bus back to Cairns.
At 5:00pm, the bus pulled up. I could see the driver’s grin from behind the window, building as he got closer to me.
“Back already, mate? You didn’t last long! What did I tell you about Ngatjan?”
“You were completely right. I shouldn’t have gone to that crazy place. Next time, I promise I’ll listen to you.”
“No worries, lad. I’m just glad you’re safe. Hop on, it’s nice and cool inside.”