Pruning Steel: White Yard

If I were at home right now I would be pruning my parents’, friends’ and neighbors’ apple trees.  This is the one month every year that my forearms become freakishly strong from clipping each tree branch. It’s cold and monotonous but I can’t imagine a more serene work environment. Isolated up on ladder in a tree, engulfed by soft cadence of rain falling on the bill of my hat or the silence of yard muted by fallen snow, I take my time to size up and select what branches are meant to be kept and which are meant to be removed. It is both an exercise in logic and parsimony and an art of creating functional balance. Inevitably my mind becomes as quiet as the day and ultimately I leave behind trees that will bear the most and best possible fruit that they can produce.  The job of a fettler is a lot like that, in that my forearms became very strong. Forget about the other stuff.

Quiet end of the day.

For the first two weeks of the job (Yes I am going to continue winging, skip this paragraph if you want to get to the redeeming part.) The job was reminiscent of the point when you become numb to the pain of having a cavity drilled, not because of the Novocain but because you just give in and accept it. I kept at it because I knew it was only temporary. If all my work-while financial forecasts were correct, I would make enough money to walk out the door at 11 o’clock, Friday the 23^rd of December and leave that misery behind. My vision of that hot late morning was one where I walk out, carefree to a car that I paid off with the satisfaction of having a credit card paid off and money in the bank which to me really meant time that could be taken to have fun!

(Ra Ra! Part) The job is not all bad though. It does have a Mister Rogers/ How Things Work beauty to it. In the beginning it was an interesting education experience on how steel is galvanized. That lasted for a day and a half. There is the slightest sense of satisfaction that I have had a small part in making somebody’s gaudy gates really appealing or some piece of mining equipment that much more durable. Sometimes the headers carrying the shiny metal resemble a mobile that even Alexander Calder would be appreciate. But most of the time it’s just beams.  There is also some excitement when the steel is dipped into the molten zinc when it burst and bubbles and makes light poles turn into acoustic cannons or boiling hot water guns. That always good for a shot of adrenaline when I forgot my coffee in the morning. Aside from all this, I’ve said it before and I am going to say it again, right now:  IT PAYS!

The first two weeks I had to rent a car to get to work because it is a 25 minute drive from my house. But, you gotta spend money to make money. By the end of the third week, while spending every spare minute car searching, I finally gave up the chase and settled for a shit bucket with wheels. (Hopefully, I will get a post up about driving it.) A couple weeks later, I sent enough money state side to pay off the old credit pit. After weeks of austerity measures that would solve Greece’s debt disaster, I night I celebrated with a meal at Hungry Jacks (Burger King) and a six pack of delicious Little Creatures (Sierra Nevada.)

My new ride with a Christmas gift from the old boss man. Notice my sweet tow hitch!

At work the next day, I discovered a level of elation that a sleep deprived hangover could not dim. I was seeing the world through rosy colored glasses. Well they were still my same safety glasses but it was like they were really REALLY clean. I started to feel like a human and the guys around me became humans as well. This is going to seem like those stupid plots when the resolution comes far too simply and the satisfaction has no foundation. But I have to head out to our optional Christmas break practice. There is more to this satisfaction because the releasing of this burden has sparked every aspect of my life here.

The boys I grind with. Temps don't get the sweet high vis gear.

On deck is the post called “All Fun and Games.” I am looking forward to writing that one because I a getting tired of dwelling on the negative. With a couple more days off I would also like to get out a couple more about driving, baseball, and well, so many things that are more fun than work.

Pruning Steel: Black Yard

Steel galvanization is the process coating steel with a layer of zinc to protect it from the elements essentially making the steel rustproof.  At the steel galvanizing plant where I work the steel is delivered into what is called the “black yard.” Out there lies the unfinished fabricated and welded steel in an ugly oily black or rusting state. From there is tied up to headers by steel wire which a gantry crane will pick up and dip into a series of chemical and acid baths in order to clean it before dipping it in a kettle of 200 degree Celsius molten zinc . Finally the header is dipped into a cooling bath of water and that’s where I come in. When I’m done with it I send it away, shiny and finished on a forklift to what is called the “white yard."

Another day.

Mostly Unedited since Thursday the 8th:

Everybody has had a job that they hate, that they consider turning their car around from in the morning, that they leave tired, achy and unhappy, that they lose sleep over, that they do in their sleep, that is risky, that is boring, that is a dead end, that will potentially give them cancer or kill them sooner, … Well, maybe most of those. This is the account of mine:

Rarely does calling somebody a “bitch” pay off especially if that somebody is your superior at work. Maybe it was the fatigue of a 40 hour work week by Thursday or maybe it was that fact that I couldn’t care less if I left the job forever so I called the head crane operator a bitch on his way out the door on Thursday afternoon.

He left with a chuckle. The Philippinos all turned and looked at me astonished. I punched my punch card and headed out the door and tried to walk as I imagined Cool Hand Luke would have done.

I shouldn’t say that it actually paid off. It just made this job slightly less intolerable. I am a fettler. For the last three weeks between the hours of 5 and 4 and 5 and noon on Saturdays, I am the tired bloke who cuts the freshly zinc-dipped steel off of the header, grinds off any irregularities, and stacks it for the forklift to take it to the pickup yard. If the job doesn’t sound exciting, that’s because it’s not. The only thing that keeps me going is Coca Cola, chewing gum and the mental math that I am doing while I am avoid getting hit by cranes, forklifts, shards of steel, molten zinc, or boiling water and steam. The job pays very well for doing something a well trained chimp could do. And considering my current economic state that I alluded to in my last post, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and pay my dues.

One day I came to work and noticed a glove had hung himself near steel recycling bin. Apparently he didn't like this job much either.

Paying my dues is what I did and it was how I treated my job. I rarely spoke at work. I put my earplugs put my head down and went about my business and counted the hours until the end of the day. When I spoke it was usually a question about the job or the standard acquainting conversation. 

The next morning as I went to get my earplugs and a fresh pair of gloves he greeted me with “How’s it going Pussy?” Trying to overlook my surprise, I replied, “Good, Pussy.” The rest of that day he made jokes about pussy this and pussy that. Without intention, I had completely nailed establishing a rapport. Seeking the lowest common denominator, we had leveled ourselves despite his years of service in this environment and my steadfast respect for experience engrained in my by years of baseball.  From that day on, little by little, I acted as if I was actually present instead of as far as I could possibly get inside my head.

Tomorrow I will get the second half of this post up and this week I will play some more catchup. 

Not All Fun and Games/ Having a Winge

I haven’t updated anything in the last month for a few of reasons and I am glad I haven’t. It wouldn’t have been that much fun to read and surely wouldn’t have been fun to write and secondly, for much of that period I didn’t have a minute to spare. Now that I have sorted out my life and I am comfortably enjoying a relaxing, mildly hungover and surprisingly cool Boxing Day, I can put together the starts that I have begun in my journal and on my computer. Here are a few thing that I will hopefully catch up on in my week off between Christmas and New Years: Comestibles, the Queen, riding the train, Perth, baseball, the Footie grand final, burgers, Pinnacles, USA series, Americans, Baseball, meat pies and sausage rolls, kangaroos, Australians, Freemantle, Little Creatures, the view from the HSBC building, the weathers, the river, girls, girls, girls, Perth, Foo Fighters, the house, driving and my car, Cricket, the beach, and Steel.

Having a Winge

Have you ever wondered if you could be plopped down in a foreign place with no support net and see if you could make it? No? I recognize that I am one of few. Rooted in an affinity for stories like Into the Wild and Castaway and a twisted hunger for adventure and to challenge and prove my self-reliance, I have cultivated this question. It’s a fun hypothetical situation to chew on but it’s not one I had ever planned on testing. But be careful what you wish for or daydream about; you just might get it. I didn’t play out this scenario exactly, not even close, but I was close enough for me to get a taste and form an idea about how I would fare.

When I arrived in Perth I had $46 to my name. That buys nothing here. The club offered me a place to stay for three weeks but little else.  I picked up the bartending job and it was fun and worked out fine until it became impossible to work until three, catch a cab home and then perform well at a mid morning baseball game the following day. At the same time as quitting the bartending job I had to find a new place to live. Without a car, I train and bussed to my casual catering job that just paying my rent and everything else going on credit. After all the prior traveling this year my credit debt was starting to add up. I needed a steady, good paying job and fast.

I pounded the pavement. I put in with several labor, well actually or labour, agencies and applied for anything and everything. I worked one day unpacking containers full of soft drinks and loading them onto pallets and I worked one week in a beer and wine distribution warehouse. This worked brought me slightly into the black but it wasn’t quite cutting it. At the end that week I got a call from one labor agency who said that had a job in a steel galvanizing factory. It would only pay $19.75 an hour (a very modest wage here) but the ninth hour would pay time and a half and after the ninth hour and weekends would pay double time. I had my doubts but after considering the reality of the situation it was time to grind.

--

Having in a winge or winging are terms that I have happily adopted here that are equivalent to complaining and whining with the negative tone of “bitching” without the use of harsh language. This post has been substantially edited from the time that I began it in the middle of the hardest period here while, due to my economic circumstances, I was in a pretty bad mood.

Booy!

Halloween was a major disappointment. I saw two zombies and a trainer at the gym dressed up a steroidal Luke Skywalker. I expected not to see any Thanksgiving celebration or even an Australian version because sharing a meal was the last thing the Aboriginals and settlers would do, but I thought Halloween was a little more ubiquitous. Turns out I was wrong. Whereas in the US, it gives grown up teenagers and excuse to dress up and drink on a weekday night, the Aussies don’t need an excuse (well, except for the costume part.)

There was one perk however. I got to bar tend at a wake. That’s not the perk; that’s still to come. But before I get to that, I might point out the irony that they use a wake as an excuse to get together and drink on a Wednesday evening over Halloween! Back to the perk, at the wake there was one bored young girl hoped up on soft drinks and the excitement of her first trick or treating who amused herself by running up to guest and shouting, “Booy” at them. This was a perk because it a perfect illustration of the Australian accent. The secret to speaking like an Australian is to not open your mouth too widely. All the vowel sounds are formed with the back of the tongue rather than the lips. “Why is this noteworthy?” you ask. Because of something I learned from a Venezuelan guy while bartending for a group of private high school association mothers. (Side note: I poured my body weight Champagne that day. The kids could have gotten away with murder when the ladies picked them up from school…if they made it that far. Side side note: This was an event to memorialize Armistice Day. Don’t worry, a ten second moment of silence was held before the first bottle popped.) Side side side note, NO HALLOWEEN?!  

So the Venezuelan guy told me this, “The reason that Aussies came to speak like this is because it prevents them from opening their mouths too widely because of the flies. THE FLIES! That is another story…But if you think about it and had six flies make out with your face at once, you would understand. Then you might swipe at your face and accidentally clip your nose. Anyway it is an interesting fun fact to know and tell. And because it is just the sort of pratfall that I would make with a claim about the Dutch, I will back it up with this: Angelo told me a teacher told him this. So Aussies if you read this, take it up with his teacher. Finally the last thing I have to say is BOO! or BOOY! Depending on how close you are to open water.

In my catering uniform, cutting off my too long backpacker hair. End of that Halloween costume.

Monday Morning Football

(A post that I started a few weeks ago which was far more relevant then.) Monday mornings in Perth are much like Monday mornings in Meppel. I wake up with a mild hangover and an achy body. Well at least I wake up with an achy body every other week. Due to the import rules of this league, an import pitcher can only pitch every other week. Yesterday I played 1^st base for the clubs “A grade” team which where the “boys” who have been playing with the club for 20 years have been playing. It is always fun to get a bat in my hands even when we lose by ten runs. It’s also nice not to have peel my body off my bed the next morning after an 180 pitch effort. (My thinking is that if I only get to pitch once every two weeks, I am going to make every pitch win, lose, or draw.)

Mondays are a slow day for me the Burger Shack is closed on Mondays and catering doesn’t really happen so all I have to do is get into the gym at some point.  So I wake up, cook and omelet and post up on the couch and watch whatever game the Australian Fox affiliate decides to broadcast to me. This is where my first attempt ends. I don’t remember where I was going with this but besides this; I have had some pretty successful Mondays. I got my bank account, jobs, mobile phone, internet, rental room and tax details. I guess that’s it. You can only be so successful without at car here. I will leave that for next Monday.

Look Right Then Left

You may not know this, but the Aussies drive on the left side of the road. In order to prevent another body and life flipping collision, I have learned to look right then left when crossing the street. However, most differences I have picked up on here are not that stark. Unlike the more easily recognized idiosyncrasies I noticed in Holland, the land down under is very much the same as back home with a the odd peculiarity sprinkled in for flavor. 

The first thing I have to comment on is obviously the speech. While in Europe, I often encountered Australian backpackers and in the course of regular conversation I would often have to hold back laughter because simple directions on how to find the bathroom would conjure the likeness of Crocodile Dundee and Steve Irwin the Crocodile Hunter type adventures. Suddenly a simple trip to the bathroom became exciting if not life risking adventure. Slowly though, I have adjusted and picked up the “mates,” “good-on-yas,” and “it’ll be ‘rights.” I have however, found it hard to throw the four letter C-word around in conversation let alone using it to refer to those you like and respect. But give it time, I’ll be right.

The second instantly noticeable thing is the money. I’m not talking about the Monopoly looking notes and 1 and 2 dollar coins but the prices on everything. I have slowly accepted the fact that I am going to pay 40 to 50% percent more than what I am used to paying for the same things in the States. For instance when I saw the first Kentucky Fried Chicken I had seen in four months, I suddenly got hungry for a taste of home (like I said there is a lot of similarities here.) When I had got my fill, everything had tasted the same greasy goodness but it is impossible to get out of there with a meal costing less than twelve dollars. Levis 501s-$110, a liter of Coca Cola- $4.50, a Corona -$8: its everything. I was pleasantly surprised though when I saw how cheap rent and gym membership prices were… and then I found out that these were the prices per week!  On the day that I arrived I had $46 dollars to my name. I thought this was going to by a lean six months or a shorter stay. So the following day I went job hunting. 

 I convinced myself that $1.65 bus ticket was a worthy investment in order to find work. I headed in to town from my temporary host’s housing. I wrote down the names of the hotels and restaurants where I thought I might find casual work as the bus passed them. Finally the bus ended in the center of the Perth. I started to walk around and figured I had better just start asking around. What choice did I have? The first place seemed like a safe bet: Fast Eddy’s, a hamburger restaurant would surely hire and American. What luck! They were hiring, but I wasn’t so keen on working 11 pm to 5 am. I kept that application in my back pocket with a positive outlook. Emboldened by my hint of possibility, I walked down the block. The second place I tried was a classy but youthful place coincidentally a burger joint as well.  “Are you looking for any kitchen or wait staff?” I asked, and a short conversation made shorter, he replied “come back at six tonight.”

Within a week of my arrival I had set myself up pretty well: a baseball team, part time job bartending Friday and Saturday nights and serving and flipping burgers for weekday lunches, a public transportation card, a tax file number, an Australian phone number, and an Australian bank account with a savings account rate of just over 5%, yes, 5%! I thought I had it pretty “cruisey” as they say here but then second month came. Soon I will catch up to that but the 26 year old boy lives on!...just a little busier.

Dirt Farm

After I left the Hippy Hostel I headed off I left work for a Bulgarian kid who is interest in permaculture is reflected in the name of his operation: Waste No More Farms. What that means is I went to help on a dirt farm.

 

Every time I travel I surprise myself equally if I make it to my destination soundly or if I don’t. This time was no exception. I woke up as the bus was revving to a start. I looked around and out the window. I looked across the street to the train station and saw the sign that said Казанлък. I sounded it out, “ka-za-n- something- ak. Oh shit!” I sprang up out of my seat and swooped up my stuff with the speed that riders on a particularly long bus ride would see only as crazy or dangerous. I could feel people tense and clutch their belongings and their children as I scooted towards the door. I jumped out the door as it was closing and by this point the bus driver saw that me and kept the bus still long enough to let me grab my bag from below the bus. So I arrived in another town in Bulgaria greeted by especially puzzled stares.

I gathered my things and my mind and I paid 15 cents to go take a piss on the wall of a bathroom above a drain that smelled like it really didn’t drain. I came out ready to figure out the next part. I had made tenuous contact with my host here via email and although I was expected and I had told him when I would be there, there was no final confirmation. So I did what worked in the past; I started walking. With each step my plan came together. I would find the main square of town and then find the internet café that, according to my ten year old, used bookstore guide to Bulgaria, would be nearby.  As I guessed what direction I would take I  saw a short young guy walking up to me with purpose. To me he didn’t look strange. He wore a baseball cap with a flat bill, electric green framed sunglasses, a t shirt and board shorts. To a Bulgarian his style must look as strange as I do. I would come to find that he cultivated this individuality as much as he did the worms in his farm.

We got into his biodiesel powered Mitsubishi 4x4 and agreed that a swim in the river would be a good way to cool down. When we parked I went to the back of the jeep to grab my swim trunks and told him I should change because if I swam in these shorts they would never dry off. He casually replied, “I usually don’t wear shorts.” This seemed funny to me seeing as he was wearing board shorts but ok, I thought, "when in Rome." We walked up the mountainside to find a beautifully untouched stream that had cleaned a ravine from everything but the rounded granite boulders. We lost the shorts and I jumped in. I have to admit I was a little weary of somebody seeing two buck naked guys scrambling up these boulders to get to the higher pools.

After I had made my best effort to clean the cement dust that had glued my hair together we headed off. Our first destination was to pick up about 20 liters of raw fuel from the fryers of a nearby hotel. From there we headed to his farm. The farm sat on a half acre between a metal fabrication shop and a furniture shop. To be honest, it didn’t look like much. It looked like mulch. (sorry it was too easy) There were some tall rows of dirt beds with nothing growing on them. I saw one thriving cherry tomato plant. All kinds of questions were forming in my head which luckily would soon be answered.

He went on to show me his waste oil processing system to refine his biodiesel. He explained to me that his business plan was an organic fertilizer and worms business. We dug into one of the rows to reveal what looked like one part cow manure and one part worms. It was amazing! He had planted very exotic looking native plants whose roots repelled moles. He had planted trees with large prehistoric looking leaves in random places. These trees turned out to be the fastest growing trees on earth and can be harvested for hardwood in only seven years. He had all these things but in an organization pattern that made nearly no sense at all to me as far as maximizing production, but that is the difference between Bulgaria and the bottom line driven American I am. It has potential though.

We spent my short time there building a very rudimentary worm casting “sieving machine,” (framing an old mattress with tightly woven wire) digging an outflow channel for his rainwater collection pond, and building a compost bin. It was an interesting experience having to cooperate our two working styles. I had to ease back from my highly accessible material, planning and measuring, build for permanence paradigm and sit back quietly watch him burn through fence posts with a dull chainsaw. Nevertheless we accomplished a good bit.

Though his resources are limited, his ambition and passion are great. He recommended a documentary to me called Dirt. If you have not seen it, I highly recommend it too. He embodied the goals of the film. He told me all about how we can avoid the use of pesticides and fertilizers if we provide healthier dirt and environments to our plants. He also, as his farm’s name suggests, is more interested in the ideals of a sustainable future of food production than he is in his bottom line. I admire his substance. At 23 he had pardoned himself from the college to career sentence and jumped into a business. He has an interesting perspective on his business. Whereas Bulgaria is not a rich country but he has concerned himself not with his economic growth but with the security of the self-sufficient style of life and wellbeing of his country’s future. 

A Bulgarian flag flying lantern from the balcony of his home. Grape vines climbing up the side

Unfortunately I was only able to Not Waste five days with Dimo. While I was there I received exciting news that would shake my world up even further than running around Bulgaria.

The sign entering the town entering the town that I returned to after the "dirt farm." You have to learn how read Cyrillic or you are not getting anywhere. Most signs do not have translation.

This is a little out of sequence and I have got some more catching up to do but I’ll get there. I just got my own internet today.