Description
Between freezing 4°C nights in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventure quickly loses its Instagram filter. Welcome to the flip side of van life—where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of backbreaking labor.
Hébergé par Ausha. Visitez ausha.co/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.
Transcription
Between freezing 4 degrees night in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventurers take a new turn. Welcome to the flip side of van life, where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of piecework labour.
Podcast.
Chapter 2. The Strawberry Race. The initial thrill of heading out in the van and that rush of adrenaline as I drove through the streets of Auckland evaporated quickly as night began to fall. Specifically, it vanished when I realized how few free parking spots actually exist. There was no way I was paying for a campsite when I had a car. Not at the start of the trip, I told myself, like a mantra. Maybe for a hot shower but I can't take it anymore, but not this early. With those words echoing in my head, I went looking for a decent spot for the night. I managed to find a space on the edge of Victoria Park. The parking became paid again at 8am but no matter, I'd be up long before then. I made sure not to be spotted, sleeping incognito into the back of the van. I pulled the curtains shut and grabbed a few slices of bread and a tin of tuna for an improvised meal. Lying on my bed, fingers covered in olive oil, I ate that first sandwich. The first of many on this adventure. Night falls fast, around 5pm. So I settle in to watch a movie on my laptop. Jetlag was still my worst enemy. The fatigue hit me in massive waves that first week, and I couldn't fight it anymore. By 9pm I was old-cold. Though, it wasn't exactly a restful night. The van shook every time a car sped past. Inches from the bodywork. New Zealanders love driving like maniacs in loud tuned cars. Their engines make an ungodly racket. And I quickly realized that local rednecks had claimed this part of Auckland. It was also much colder than I expected. barely 4 degrees Celsius. Outside, and the humidity seeped through the metal, my sleeping bag wasn't nearly thick enough to keep me warm, so I ended up sleeping fully dressed. The next day, I set off for Coromandel Peninsula, a little gem of a place that made me forget about the early hiccups, including a temperamental battery. I eventually found a home base about 20 km from Auckland where I could park my car for free near a park with drinking water and restroom. One evening as I was cooking in the back of the van, A young man approached me. He was a radio journalist looking for stories about people living in their car. You mean backpackers? Oh, you'll find plenty of those, I told him.
No, I mean Kiwis,
he replied.
More and more locals can't have horse rent anymore. They're being forced to live in their cars.
Oh, okay. Um, I had no idea, I said. I haven't seen anyone but young travelers here.
No worries. Here's my card in case you see anyone. Have a good day.
As if by fate, that very evening I met Mark. He had been living in his car with his dog for six months. He was incredibly kind and generous, constantly trying to share his leftover with me. I felt awkward and tried to refuse, but he insisted so much that I ended up accepting two powers of pasta, pastries and bread. I even met his group of friends, other homeless kiwis living in their vehicles. We ended up having pizza night together. It was a total WTF moment, but a perfect example of the genuine kindness of the locals. After my first road trip, I negotiated one last hookup at Mala's place to celebrate my birthday.
What would you like for your birthday?
She asked. Oh, you know, I'm a simple guy, I replied, feeling bold. A pizza, a movie and a blowjob would do just fine. I was turning 30,000 of miles from my family and friends. It was my first birthday abroad and surprisingly, I had no desire to go to the bars. Partly because it cost a fortune, 10 New Zealand dollars for a mediocre pint. But mostly because I didn't know anyone. And I didn't want to celebrate a milestone with strangers So I chose comfort, a shared pizza and guaranteed sex Hey, it's me I stayed through the intercom, pizza in hand Come on up,
fourth floor
The moment I'm walking,
Malai gave me a tender hug Happy birthday
She took the pizza and went to grab a bottle of wine I hope you like red Of course While she was in the kitchen hunting for a bottle of wine I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed I noticed some family photos on her desk that I hadn't seen on the first time How are you doing anyway? I asked as she walked back in.
I'm okay, getting by. I'm going to India soon to visit my family and my fiancé. We'll see how it goes,
she said.
They don't understand that I want a life beyond just being a mother. I don't want to stay home waiting for her husband. And I certainly don't want to stop working just because his salary is enough. Anyway, we aren't here to talk about that. It's your birthday.
I smiled and nod, filling old glasses. To hell with everyone else. Let's leave for ourselves, I said, clinking my glass against hers.
You're right,
she whispered, resting her hand on my tight. She seemed more liberated this time, less heavy with sadness. We spent the night together before I hit the road to sign my contract for Strawberry Orchard. A few days later at 6.15 a.m. my alarm went off. Time to eat and fuel up. I was parked at the Manurewa library, 10 kilometers from work. It was too cold to eat outside, so I sat in the van, stuffing cookies into my mouth while rubbing the crust from my eyes. I was due at 7 a.m. 30 minutes to get ready, 10 minutes to drive. Timing was tight, but sleep was more important. I arrived dragging my feet. I already knew I was going to hate this job. I was assigned number 5094. My ID number, my identity for the duration of the job. There was a time clock on the side of a shipping container that served as the manager's office. When I scanned my index finger, about 30 stickers print out with my number on them. I tucked them in my pocket and headed for the roads. The field was massive. Surprisingly, it wasn't just backpackers. There were many, many people from the island. Samoa, Tonga, Cook, Fiji. And the difference was they were on pay-by-performance. They were the only ones taking their time, laughing loudly like kids all day long. They brought a great vibe to the fields. We worked through everything, rain, hail or wind, it didn't matter. Frog out the morning, a tractor followed us, pulling a trailer stacked with iron crates containing empty strawberries and peanuts. Each worker had to grab a crate, wrap their ID stickers around the handle and start picking their assigned grove. The work was backbreaking. You're constantly bent over and you have to be careful. Only the deep red ones or you get penalized. You also have to make sure you don't tear the leaves or you get a chewing gall from the supervisor, including one formidable Vietnamese woman who spared no one. I hate her at first, but I grew to appreciate her. Unlike most backpackers who talk back to her, I just listened and kept my mouth shut. Eventually, she started dropping handfuls of strawberries into my crates.
For you, darling.
Thank you sweetie, I would reply. Her normally stern face would light up. The hardest part was the raw partner who would sometimes drift into my side to snatch the biggest berry right in front of me. Hey, stick to your side, you bitch The morning was all picking, interrupted only by a 10 minute smoke break and a 30 minute lunch. Then came the second half of the day, the grueling mulching which involved covering the rows with straw. It sounds easy, but it was the most exhausting part of the job. When I finished, I would head to the nearest library restroom to wash tub and scrub the black dirt from under my fingernails. What I hated most wasn't to be tired at the end of the day, it was the artificial competition the boss tried to create. Every morning, a chart was posted judging everyone's performance. Too slow, slow, near bonus, bonus. Getting a bonus meant you were paid more per kilo, but the price varied every day. and it was frustrating to hit a bonus only to find the rate was lower than the day before. Three too slow marks meant you were fire on the spot. After a few days the boss only chose bonus picker for the mulching. Even then they were pushed against each other with commands like too slow, being bark at people who were already the fastest in the field. So the competition poisoned the relationship between the backpackers. Since I wasn't great at mulching my days often ended early. Working only a few hours in the strawberries wasn't enough to save money. So I started looking for a way out. Before I left, I befriended a French couple who had been there for two months. They were favorites of one of the supervisors. A few days before I quit for good, they headed off to Asia. The supervisor came up to me and said,
Oh, you must miss 5045 and 5046.
She didn't even know their name. What a joke. I finally quit after two weeks for a job that, at first glance, seemed much more prestigious. a door-to-door solicitor for an energy company. My motivation was high, my English was solid, and I felt unstoppable. I had no idea that this marketing job was about to disgust me more than anything else ever had.
Description
Between freezing 4°C nights in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventure quickly loses its Instagram filter. Welcome to the flip side of van life—where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of backbreaking labor.
Hébergé par Ausha. Visitez ausha.co/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.
Transcription
Between freezing 4 degrees night in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventurers take a new turn. Welcome to the flip side of van life, where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of piecework labour.
Podcast.
Chapter 2. The Strawberry Race. The initial thrill of heading out in the van and that rush of adrenaline as I drove through the streets of Auckland evaporated quickly as night began to fall. Specifically, it vanished when I realized how few free parking spots actually exist. There was no way I was paying for a campsite when I had a car. Not at the start of the trip, I told myself, like a mantra. Maybe for a hot shower but I can't take it anymore, but not this early. With those words echoing in my head, I went looking for a decent spot for the night. I managed to find a space on the edge of Victoria Park. The parking became paid again at 8am but no matter, I'd be up long before then. I made sure not to be spotted, sleeping incognito into the back of the van. I pulled the curtains shut and grabbed a few slices of bread and a tin of tuna for an improvised meal. Lying on my bed, fingers covered in olive oil, I ate that first sandwich. The first of many on this adventure. Night falls fast, around 5pm. So I settle in to watch a movie on my laptop. Jetlag was still my worst enemy. The fatigue hit me in massive waves that first week, and I couldn't fight it anymore. By 9pm I was old-cold. Though, it wasn't exactly a restful night. The van shook every time a car sped past. Inches from the bodywork. New Zealanders love driving like maniacs in loud tuned cars. Their engines make an ungodly racket. And I quickly realized that local rednecks had claimed this part of Auckland. It was also much colder than I expected. barely 4 degrees Celsius. Outside, and the humidity seeped through the metal, my sleeping bag wasn't nearly thick enough to keep me warm, so I ended up sleeping fully dressed. The next day, I set off for Coromandel Peninsula, a little gem of a place that made me forget about the early hiccups, including a temperamental battery. I eventually found a home base about 20 km from Auckland where I could park my car for free near a park with drinking water and restroom. One evening as I was cooking in the back of the van, A young man approached me. He was a radio journalist looking for stories about people living in their car. You mean backpackers? Oh, you'll find plenty of those, I told him.
No, I mean Kiwis,
he replied.
More and more locals can't have horse rent anymore. They're being forced to live in their cars.
Oh, okay. Um, I had no idea, I said. I haven't seen anyone but young travelers here.
No worries. Here's my card in case you see anyone. Have a good day.
As if by fate, that very evening I met Mark. He had been living in his car with his dog for six months. He was incredibly kind and generous, constantly trying to share his leftover with me. I felt awkward and tried to refuse, but he insisted so much that I ended up accepting two powers of pasta, pastries and bread. I even met his group of friends, other homeless kiwis living in their vehicles. We ended up having pizza night together. It was a total WTF moment, but a perfect example of the genuine kindness of the locals. After my first road trip, I negotiated one last hookup at Mala's place to celebrate my birthday.
What would you like for your birthday?
She asked. Oh, you know, I'm a simple guy, I replied, feeling bold. A pizza, a movie and a blowjob would do just fine. I was turning 30,000 of miles from my family and friends. It was my first birthday abroad and surprisingly, I had no desire to go to the bars. Partly because it cost a fortune, 10 New Zealand dollars for a mediocre pint. But mostly because I didn't know anyone. And I didn't want to celebrate a milestone with strangers So I chose comfort, a shared pizza and guaranteed sex Hey, it's me I stayed through the intercom, pizza in hand Come on up,
fourth floor
The moment I'm walking,
Malai gave me a tender hug Happy birthday
She took the pizza and went to grab a bottle of wine I hope you like red Of course While she was in the kitchen hunting for a bottle of wine I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed I noticed some family photos on her desk that I hadn't seen on the first time How are you doing anyway? I asked as she walked back in.
I'm okay, getting by. I'm going to India soon to visit my family and my fiancé. We'll see how it goes,
she said.
They don't understand that I want a life beyond just being a mother. I don't want to stay home waiting for her husband. And I certainly don't want to stop working just because his salary is enough. Anyway, we aren't here to talk about that. It's your birthday.
I smiled and nod, filling old glasses. To hell with everyone else. Let's leave for ourselves, I said, clinking my glass against hers.
You're right,
she whispered, resting her hand on my tight. She seemed more liberated this time, less heavy with sadness. We spent the night together before I hit the road to sign my contract for Strawberry Orchard. A few days later at 6.15 a.m. my alarm went off. Time to eat and fuel up. I was parked at the Manurewa library, 10 kilometers from work. It was too cold to eat outside, so I sat in the van, stuffing cookies into my mouth while rubbing the crust from my eyes. I was due at 7 a.m. 30 minutes to get ready, 10 minutes to drive. Timing was tight, but sleep was more important. I arrived dragging my feet. I already knew I was going to hate this job. I was assigned number 5094. My ID number, my identity for the duration of the job. There was a time clock on the side of a shipping container that served as the manager's office. When I scanned my index finger, about 30 stickers print out with my number on them. I tucked them in my pocket and headed for the roads. The field was massive. Surprisingly, it wasn't just backpackers. There were many, many people from the island. Samoa, Tonga, Cook, Fiji. And the difference was they were on pay-by-performance. They were the only ones taking their time, laughing loudly like kids all day long. They brought a great vibe to the fields. We worked through everything, rain, hail or wind, it didn't matter. Frog out the morning, a tractor followed us, pulling a trailer stacked with iron crates containing empty strawberries and peanuts. Each worker had to grab a crate, wrap their ID stickers around the handle and start picking their assigned grove. The work was backbreaking. You're constantly bent over and you have to be careful. Only the deep red ones or you get penalized. You also have to make sure you don't tear the leaves or you get a chewing gall from the supervisor, including one formidable Vietnamese woman who spared no one. I hate her at first, but I grew to appreciate her. Unlike most backpackers who talk back to her, I just listened and kept my mouth shut. Eventually, she started dropping handfuls of strawberries into my crates.
For you, darling.
Thank you sweetie, I would reply. Her normally stern face would light up. The hardest part was the raw partner who would sometimes drift into my side to snatch the biggest berry right in front of me. Hey, stick to your side, you bitch The morning was all picking, interrupted only by a 10 minute smoke break and a 30 minute lunch. Then came the second half of the day, the grueling mulching which involved covering the rows with straw. It sounds easy, but it was the most exhausting part of the job. When I finished, I would head to the nearest library restroom to wash tub and scrub the black dirt from under my fingernails. What I hated most wasn't to be tired at the end of the day, it was the artificial competition the boss tried to create. Every morning, a chart was posted judging everyone's performance. Too slow, slow, near bonus, bonus. Getting a bonus meant you were paid more per kilo, but the price varied every day. and it was frustrating to hit a bonus only to find the rate was lower than the day before. Three too slow marks meant you were fire on the spot. After a few days the boss only chose bonus picker for the mulching. Even then they were pushed against each other with commands like too slow, being bark at people who were already the fastest in the field. So the competition poisoned the relationship between the backpackers. Since I wasn't great at mulching my days often ended early. Working only a few hours in the strawberries wasn't enough to save money. So I started looking for a way out. Before I left, I befriended a French couple who had been there for two months. They were favorites of one of the supervisors. A few days before I quit for good, they headed off to Asia. The supervisor came up to me and said,
Oh, you must miss 5045 and 5046.
She didn't even know their name. What a joke. I finally quit after two weeks for a job that, at first glance, seemed much more prestigious. a door-to-door solicitor for an energy company. My motivation was high, my English was solid, and I felt unstoppable. I had no idea that this marketing job was about to disgust me more than anything else ever had.
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Description
Between freezing 4°C nights in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventure quickly loses its Instagram filter. Welcome to the flip side of van life—where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of backbreaking labor.
Hébergé par Ausha. Visitez ausha.co/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.
Transcription
Between freezing 4 degrees night in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventurers take a new turn. Welcome to the flip side of van life, where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of piecework labour.
Podcast.
Chapter 2. The Strawberry Race. The initial thrill of heading out in the van and that rush of adrenaline as I drove through the streets of Auckland evaporated quickly as night began to fall. Specifically, it vanished when I realized how few free parking spots actually exist. There was no way I was paying for a campsite when I had a car. Not at the start of the trip, I told myself, like a mantra. Maybe for a hot shower but I can't take it anymore, but not this early. With those words echoing in my head, I went looking for a decent spot for the night. I managed to find a space on the edge of Victoria Park. The parking became paid again at 8am but no matter, I'd be up long before then. I made sure not to be spotted, sleeping incognito into the back of the van. I pulled the curtains shut and grabbed a few slices of bread and a tin of tuna for an improvised meal. Lying on my bed, fingers covered in olive oil, I ate that first sandwich. The first of many on this adventure. Night falls fast, around 5pm. So I settle in to watch a movie on my laptop. Jetlag was still my worst enemy. The fatigue hit me in massive waves that first week, and I couldn't fight it anymore. By 9pm I was old-cold. Though, it wasn't exactly a restful night. The van shook every time a car sped past. Inches from the bodywork. New Zealanders love driving like maniacs in loud tuned cars. Their engines make an ungodly racket. And I quickly realized that local rednecks had claimed this part of Auckland. It was also much colder than I expected. barely 4 degrees Celsius. Outside, and the humidity seeped through the metal, my sleeping bag wasn't nearly thick enough to keep me warm, so I ended up sleeping fully dressed. The next day, I set off for Coromandel Peninsula, a little gem of a place that made me forget about the early hiccups, including a temperamental battery. I eventually found a home base about 20 km from Auckland where I could park my car for free near a park with drinking water and restroom. One evening as I was cooking in the back of the van, A young man approached me. He was a radio journalist looking for stories about people living in their car. You mean backpackers? Oh, you'll find plenty of those, I told him.
No, I mean Kiwis,
he replied.
More and more locals can't have horse rent anymore. They're being forced to live in their cars.
Oh, okay. Um, I had no idea, I said. I haven't seen anyone but young travelers here.
No worries. Here's my card in case you see anyone. Have a good day.
As if by fate, that very evening I met Mark. He had been living in his car with his dog for six months. He was incredibly kind and generous, constantly trying to share his leftover with me. I felt awkward and tried to refuse, but he insisted so much that I ended up accepting two powers of pasta, pastries and bread. I even met his group of friends, other homeless kiwis living in their vehicles. We ended up having pizza night together. It was a total WTF moment, but a perfect example of the genuine kindness of the locals. After my first road trip, I negotiated one last hookup at Mala's place to celebrate my birthday.
What would you like for your birthday?
She asked. Oh, you know, I'm a simple guy, I replied, feeling bold. A pizza, a movie and a blowjob would do just fine. I was turning 30,000 of miles from my family and friends. It was my first birthday abroad and surprisingly, I had no desire to go to the bars. Partly because it cost a fortune, 10 New Zealand dollars for a mediocre pint. But mostly because I didn't know anyone. And I didn't want to celebrate a milestone with strangers So I chose comfort, a shared pizza and guaranteed sex Hey, it's me I stayed through the intercom, pizza in hand Come on up,
fourth floor
The moment I'm walking,
Malai gave me a tender hug Happy birthday
She took the pizza and went to grab a bottle of wine I hope you like red Of course While she was in the kitchen hunting for a bottle of wine I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed I noticed some family photos on her desk that I hadn't seen on the first time How are you doing anyway? I asked as she walked back in.
I'm okay, getting by. I'm going to India soon to visit my family and my fiancé. We'll see how it goes,
she said.
They don't understand that I want a life beyond just being a mother. I don't want to stay home waiting for her husband. And I certainly don't want to stop working just because his salary is enough. Anyway, we aren't here to talk about that. It's your birthday.
I smiled and nod, filling old glasses. To hell with everyone else. Let's leave for ourselves, I said, clinking my glass against hers.
You're right,
she whispered, resting her hand on my tight. She seemed more liberated this time, less heavy with sadness. We spent the night together before I hit the road to sign my contract for Strawberry Orchard. A few days later at 6.15 a.m. my alarm went off. Time to eat and fuel up. I was parked at the Manurewa library, 10 kilometers from work. It was too cold to eat outside, so I sat in the van, stuffing cookies into my mouth while rubbing the crust from my eyes. I was due at 7 a.m. 30 minutes to get ready, 10 minutes to drive. Timing was tight, but sleep was more important. I arrived dragging my feet. I already knew I was going to hate this job. I was assigned number 5094. My ID number, my identity for the duration of the job. There was a time clock on the side of a shipping container that served as the manager's office. When I scanned my index finger, about 30 stickers print out with my number on them. I tucked them in my pocket and headed for the roads. The field was massive. Surprisingly, it wasn't just backpackers. There were many, many people from the island. Samoa, Tonga, Cook, Fiji. And the difference was they were on pay-by-performance. They were the only ones taking their time, laughing loudly like kids all day long. They brought a great vibe to the fields. We worked through everything, rain, hail or wind, it didn't matter. Frog out the morning, a tractor followed us, pulling a trailer stacked with iron crates containing empty strawberries and peanuts. Each worker had to grab a crate, wrap their ID stickers around the handle and start picking their assigned grove. The work was backbreaking. You're constantly bent over and you have to be careful. Only the deep red ones or you get penalized. You also have to make sure you don't tear the leaves or you get a chewing gall from the supervisor, including one formidable Vietnamese woman who spared no one. I hate her at first, but I grew to appreciate her. Unlike most backpackers who talk back to her, I just listened and kept my mouth shut. Eventually, she started dropping handfuls of strawberries into my crates.
For you, darling.
Thank you sweetie, I would reply. Her normally stern face would light up. The hardest part was the raw partner who would sometimes drift into my side to snatch the biggest berry right in front of me. Hey, stick to your side, you bitch The morning was all picking, interrupted only by a 10 minute smoke break and a 30 minute lunch. Then came the second half of the day, the grueling mulching which involved covering the rows with straw. It sounds easy, but it was the most exhausting part of the job. When I finished, I would head to the nearest library restroom to wash tub and scrub the black dirt from under my fingernails. What I hated most wasn't to be tired at the end of the day, it was the artificial competition the boss tried to create. Every morning, a chart was posted judging everyone's performance. Too slow, slow, near bonus, bonus. Getting a bonus meant you were paid more per kilo, but the price varied every day. and it was frustrating to hit a bonus only to find the rate was lower than the day before. Three too slow marks meant you were fire on the spot. After a few days the boss only chose bonus picker for the mulching. Even then they were pushed against each other with commands like too slow, being bark at people who were already the fastest in the field. So the competition poisoned the relationship between the backpackers. Since I wasn't great at mulching my days often ended early. Working only a few hours in the strawberries wasn't enough to save money. So I started looking for a way out. Before I left, I befriended a French couple who had been there for two months. They were favorites of one of the supervisors. A few days before I quit for good, they headed off to Asia. The supervisor came up to me and said,
Oh, you must miss 5045 and 5046.
She didn't even know their name. What a joke. I finally quit after two weeks for a job that, at first glance, seemed much more prestigious. a door-to-door solicitor for an energy company. My motivation was high, my English was solid, and I felt unstoppable. I had no idea that this marketing job was about to disgust me more than anything else ever had.
Description
Between freezing 4°C nights in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventure quickly loses its Instagram filter. Welcome to the flip side of van life—where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of backbreaking labor.
Hébergé par Ausha. Visitez ausha.co/politique-de-confidentialite pour plus d'informations.
Transcription
Between freezing 4 degrees night in an Auckland parking lot and dawn wake-up calls to pick strawberries, the New Zealand adventurers take a new turn. Welcome to the flip side of van life, where parking lot solidarity meets the harsh reality of piecework labour.
Podcast.
Chapter 2. The Strawberry Race. The initial thrill of heading out in the van and that rush of adrenaline as I drove through the streets of Auckland evaporated quickly as night began to fall. Specifically, it vanished when I realized how few free parking spots actually exist. There was no way I was paying for a campsite when I had a car. Not at the start of the trip, I told myself, like a mantra. Maybe for a hot shower but I can't take it anymore, but not this early. With those words echoing in my head, I went looking for a decent spot for the night. I managed to find a space on the edge of Victoria Park. The parking became paid again at 8am but no matter, I'd be up long before then. I made sure not to be spotted, sleeping incognito into the back of the van. I pulled the curtains shut and grabbed a few slices of bread and a tin of tuna for an improvised meal. Lying on my bed, fingers covered in olive oil, I ate that first sandwich. The first of many on this adventure. Night falls fast, around 5pm. So I settle in to watch a movie on my laptop. Jetlag was still my worst enemy. The fatigue hit me in massive waves that first week, and I couldn't fight it anymore. By 9pm I was old-cold. Though, it wasn't exactly a restful night. The van shook every time a car sped past. Inches from the bodywork. New Zealanders love driving like maniacs in loud tuned cars. Their engines make an ungodly racket. And I quickly realized that local rednecks had claimed this part of Auckland. It was also much colder than I expected. barely 4 degrees Celsius. Outside, and the humidity seeped through the metal, my sleeping bag wasn't nearly thick enough to keep me warm, so I ended up sleeping fully dressed. The next day, I set off for Coromandel Peninsula, a little gem of a place that made me forget about the early hiccups, including a temperamental battery. I eventually found a home base about 20 km from Auckland where I could park my car for free near a park with drinking water and restroom. One evening as I was cooking in the back of the van, A young man approached me. He was a radio journalist looking for stories about people living in their car. You mean backpackers? Oh, you'll find plenty of those, I told him.
No, I mean Kiwis,
he replied.
More and more locals can't have horse rent anymore. They're being forced to live in their cars.
Oh, okay. Um, I had no idea, I said. I haven't seen anyone but young travelers here.
No worries. Here's my card in case you see anyone. Have a good day.
As if by fate, that very evening I met Mark. He had been living in his car with his dog for six months. He was incredibly kind and generous, constantly trying to share his leftover with me. I felt awkward and tried to refuse, but he insisted so much that I ended up accepting two powers of pasta, pastries and bread. I even met his group of friends, other homeless kiwis living in their vehicles. We ended up having pizza night together. It was a total WTF moment, but a perfect example of the genuine kindness of the locals. After my first road trip, I negotiated one last hookup at Mala's place to celebrate my birthday.
What would you like for your birthday?
She asked. Oh, you know, I'm a simple guy, I replied, feeling bold. A pizza, a movie and a blowjob would do just fine. I was turning 30,000 of miles from my family and friends. It was my first birthday abroad and surprisingly, I had no desire to go to the bars. Partly because it cost a fortune, 10 New Zealand dollars for a mediocre pint. But mostly because I didn't know anyone. And I didn't want to celebrate a milestone with strangers So I chose comfort, a shared pizza and guaranteed sex Hey, it's me I stayed through the intercom, pizza in hand Come on up,
fourth floor
The moment I'm walking,
Malai gave me a tender hug Happy birthday
She took the pizza and went to grab a bottle of wine I hope you like red Of course While she was in the kitchen hunting for a bottle of wine I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed I noticed some family photos on her desk that I hadn't seen on the first time How are you doing anyway? I asked as she walked back in.
I'm okay, getting by. I'm going to India soon to visit my family and my fiancé. We'll see how it goes,
she said.
They don't understand that I want a life beyond just being a mother. I don't want to stay home waiting for her husband. And I certainly don't want to stop working just because his salary is enough. Anyway, we aren't here to talk about that. It's your birthday.
I smiled and nod, filling old glasses. To hell with everyone else. Let's leave for ourselves, I said, clinking my glass against hers.
You're right,
she whispered, resting her hand on my tight. She seemed more liberated this time, less heavy with sadness. We spent the night together before I hit the road to sign my contract for Strawberry Orchard. A few days later at 6.15 a.m. my alarm went off. Time to eat and fuel up. I was parked at the Manurewa library, 10 kilometers from work. It was too cold to eat outside, so I sat in the van, stuffing cookies into my mouth while rubbing the crust from my eyes. I was due at 7 a.m. 30 minutes to get ready, 10 minutes to drive. Timing was tight, but sleep was more important. I arrived dragging my feet. I already knew I was going to hate this job. I was assigned number 5094. My ID number, my identity for the duration of the job. There was a time clock on the side of a shipping container that served as the manager's office. When I scanned my index finger, about 30 stickers print out with my number on them. I tucked them in my pocket and headed for the roads. The field was massive. Surprisingly, it wasn't just backpackers. There were many, many people from the island. Samoa, Tonga, Cook, Fiji. And the difference was they were on pay-by-performance. They were the only ones taking their time, laughing loudly like kids all day long. They brought a great vibe to the fields. We worked through everything, rain, hail or wind, it didn't matter. Frog out the morning, a tractor followed us, pulling a trailer stacked with iron crates containing empty strawberries and peanuts. Each worker had to grab a crate, wrap their ID stickers around the handle and start picking their assigned grove. The work was backbreaking. You're constantly bent over and you have to be careful. Only the deep red ones or you get penalized. You also have to make sure you don't tear the leaves or you get a chewing gall from the supervisor, including one formidable Vietnamese woman who spared no one. I hate her at first, but I grew to appreciate her. Unlike most backpackers who talk back to her, I just listened and kept my mouth shut. Eventually, she started dropping handfuls of strawberries into my crates.
For you, darling.
Thank you sweetie, I would reply. Her normally stern face would light up. The hardest part was the raw partner who would sometimes drift into my side to snatch the biggest berry right in front of me. Hey, stick to your side, you bitch The morning was all picking, interrupted only by a 10 minute smoke break and a 30 minute lunch. Then came the second half of the day, the grueling mulching which involved covering the rows with straw. It sounds easy, but it was the most exhausting part of the job. When I finished, I would head to the nearest library restroom to wash tub and scrub the black dirt from under my fingernails. What I hated most wasn't to be tired at the end of the day, it was the artificial competition the boss tried to create. Every morning, a chart was posted judging everyone's performance. Too slow, slow, near bonus, bonus. Getting a bonus meant you were paid more per kilo, but the price varied every day. and it was frustrating to hit a bonus only to find the rate was lower than the day before. Three too slow marks meant you were fire on the spot. After a few days the boss only chose bonus picker for the mulching. Even then they were pushed against each other with commands like too slow, being bark at people who were already the fastest in the field. So the competition poisoned the relationship between the backpackers. Since I wasn't great at mulching my days often ended early. Working only a few hours in the strawberries wasn't enough to save money. So I started looking for a way out. Before I left, I befriended a French couple who had been there for two months. They were favorites of one of the supervisors. A few days before I quit for good, they headed off to Asia. The supervisor came up to me and said,
Oh, you must miss 5045 and 5046.
She didn't even know their name. What a joke. I finally quit after two weeks for a job that, at first glance, seemed much more prestigious. a door-to-door solicitor for an energy company. My motivation was high, my English was solid, and I felt unstoppable. I had no idea that this marketing job was about to disgust me more than anything else ever had.
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