On my way to Reefton
Finally, the day had come to make myself useful. Starting a “job” even though unpaid, but therefore a bed and breakfast included. I was looking forward to getting my hands dirty at my first Workaway spot in the bush near Reefton.
From Mt. Waverley I caught a bus to Box Hill – home to a large Hong Kong community – before continuing by train to Lilydale. There I found a “social-café” where the kind staff allowed me to leave my backpack while I walked to the nearby lake. What a different scene I encountered here: homeless people lingered in the streets, dirt lined the sidewalks and run-down houses stood tired and neglected. So different from Melbourne and only an hour away!
On the bus from Lilydale to Warburton, things got worse. It was like stepping into another world! The scenery quickly grew wilder – and so did the people. Individuals wearing filthy clothes, staring with hollow eyes, and carrying the smell of alcohol boarded the bus without paying. A tense energy filled the space while I watched the Yarra river through the window, winding deeper and deeper into the valley.
I grew uneasy when a woman, who appeared to be under the influence, leaned over and whispered almost conspiratorial “See that guy? Last time he got on the bus with a machete!”
Workaway in Reefton
In Warburton, my host was already waiting for me in his car. I quickly rushed into a small local shop to buy some food, as I’d been told they would only go into town every few days. It felt strangely overwhelming – planning meals for several days ahead, when I had grown so used to living day by day! Still I grabbed what I could: some pasta, pesto, veggies, cheese, butter and bread.
Twenty minutes later we arrived.
A cottage, deep in the bush – isolated, surrounded by nothing but tall standing trees. At first sight it seemed almost idyllic. Quiet. Remote. But the illusion didn’t last. The closer I looked, the more it revealed itself: neglected,… tired…and far from promising. I could certainly get my hands “dirty” here!
Then I got “the tour“.
My room for the coming weeks turned out to be a broken, mouldy tent. To get inside, I had to step over a damaged pallet. “Be careful” my host mentioned casually. Inside, three makeshift beds – pallets with thin mattresses thrown on top. One covered with a dam, foul-smelling sheepskin. Very welcoming!
Next to the tent was my “sitting area”: a small table and two metal chairs, one of them broken in half.
The “bathroom” required a short walk. An outdoor shower and bathtub. No curtains. No privacy. No light – so showering after a long day’s work would mean standing in the dark.
The toilet was situated underneath the deck of their cottage. A basic camping compost toilet, sitting on the ground, surrounded by a flimsy green nett fo some resembling privacy.
A toaster, a kettle and a microwave
And last but not least: “the kitchen“.
I was led to a small, dark shed with only one tiny window. It was crammed with rubbish, torn bags, old cartons and a washing machine that swallowed half the space. Against one wall, a narrow bench. On it, like a strange offering, sat a toaster, a kettle and a microwave. That was it. No more, no less.
Beneath the bench: a tiny fridge. Inside – half a loaf of bread, some butter and a lonely jar of jam. Proudly presented by my host with the words “and here we have put some breakfast for you”. A shelf nearby held a plastic plate, a bowl, and a knife, fork and spoon. No cup. No pots. No pan. No sink.
I felt my stomach drop. “How am I supposed to cook my pasta?” I asked, confused while trying to keep my voice steady. He paused. Looked at me. Thought about it longer than I expected. “In the kettle, I suppose?“
Silence stretched between us.
“Really?” I said, in disbelieve, already picturing myself standing there, boiling water again and again, pressint that switch like some absurd ritual just to cook a simple meal. Before my thought could fully settle, he added almost as an afterthought “or in the microwave!”
I don’t think I have ever looked more puzzled in my life!
It was that very moment, standing in this improvised kitchen in the middle of nowhere, when I realised – this place wasn’t going to WORK for me. I had to get AWAY from here. So much for my first workaway...
This was one of those experiences that become one day “a good story to tell”….
