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If there is one thing I have learnt from my travels, it's
that even the best-laid plans have a habit of going awry.
And you don't get much further awry than finding yourself
dangling over an open fire in the kitchen of a sheep station
in rural NSW, Australia, attempting to stop the sweat running
off forehead and into the vast cast-iron cauldron of cabbage
steaming below you. It's 40º outside and you're preparing
dinner for 120 starving people, all on your own. And you're
wearing a pair of oversized dungarees and a slightly damp
shearing singlet.
When I arrived at the Dag Sheep Station, Nundle I
had intended to stay a couple of days to soak up the blissful
outback atmosphere of this sheep-station-cum-backpacker-hostel
nestled in the foothills of the Great Dividing Range. I had
been in Australia for 4 days and was following a simple enough
plan of hopping up the East Coast to Cairns to soak up a bit
of sun before heading back to Sydney to live a sophisticated
city life.
Or so I thought.
A week after I arrived, I fell in love with a local. The
fact that I had also fallen head over heels for the beautiful
countryside, the enviable way of life and a potent liquor
called Bundaberg Rum made it all too easy to stray
from my original itinerary.
As it turned out, I didn't leave The Dag for a year.
I started life as a roustabout, doing menial labour about
the place in return for my bed and board. After a stint as
a wrangler and a goldmining assistant (a job nowhere near
as glamorous as it sounds), I progressed to camp-oven cook,
producing the hearty tucker served to the hoards of hungry
backpackers who would arrive each night aboard the Oz Experience
bus.
Camp-oven cooking is no easy job. Wielding the hefty 25kilo
cast-iron pots full of meat was not considered a job for a
girl, especially a pommie girl, not to mention a vegetarian
pommie girl.
But if life in the kitchen was gruelling - 11 hour shifts,
searing temperatures, blood, sweat and certainly tears - it
was also infinitely rewarding. Serving up a three-course meal
to a group of people who hadn't seen home-cooked food in many
months, and seeing the plates scraped clean was well worth
the cut fingers, burnt legs and aching muscles it took to
get the food to the table.
If someone had told me that I would spend my year in Australia
living on a sheep station, cooking immense quantities of food
in such bizarre conditions I would have laughed out loud.
So, you see, sometimes it's better not to have any plans at
all. Take opportunities as they arise, fulfil any dreams that
you cherish - but don't be a slave to preconceived plans and
rigid itineraries. Freedom is, after all, the essence of independent
travel.
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Travel Writers: The Best Laid Plans by Harriet
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