jessicamcardle finds out the true meaning of the expression

Fifteen months into a three month holiday, money was a distant memory. Not so distant were the pleas of various financial institutions, including my parents, urging me to come home or somehow work off some of my substantial debt. Such words fell on deaf ears; I was enjoying my sprawling holiday too much. However with no working visa, and the New Zealand governments' abhorrence of under-the-counter working, paid employment was not an option. If you caught sight of either my Visa bill or my liver it would become pretty obvious that drinking away the problem was no longer a viable solution, financially or physically. What I needed was a plan B or a miracle... As I lay slumped on the couch of some nameless hostel- a solution came to me. Or should I say I overheard my solution?

Hostel etiquette states firmly that it is perfectly acceptable to eavesdrop on, or join any conversation taking place. As such, when I heard two English girls talk about the job they called "WWOOFING" I was intrigued to find out more. Did they have some sort of canine fetish? Pulling out a few well received dog jokes was enough to gain inclusion in the circle.  I managed to find out that a "WWOOF" is an organization of "world wide opportunities on organic farms". No involvement in any bizarre dog impression situations (phew). The relationship between the "WWOOFER" and their host was an exchange of a couple of hours (3-6) work a day for food and board.
Plan B was looking far more viable all of a sudden, and soon enough I got myself sorted with membership. For the fair price of NZ$40 (£12) I got my “bible”; of neither holy nor lonely planet sort. This bible was going to be my key to sustainable travel-as it contained the names, addresses of all the “organic farms” who hosted seasonal workers around New Zealand. I envisaged myself in a giant turnip pulling scenario... surrounded by birds and farmyard animals, some lending a helping hand, others singing.

Now, all I had to do was choose somewhere to stay. Following a quick browse through the "bible" I found what sounded just right... Having been a horse enthusiast for the past 12 years I thought why not work on an equestrian farm? Perfect, I thought in blissful ignorance. Meeting my host took place at a KFC in Cambridge, North Island, upon first sight I immediately regretted my request to spend a week with this wild haired jodhpur clad maniac, too late, soon she threw my backpack into her shit-ridden horsebox before skidding off.

After the 20 minute drive away from civilisation she promptly drop-kicked me out of her vehicle pointing out my 'residence'- plainly just a stable, before driving off in a cloud of smoke. I felt like Mary (out of The Nativity) but knew that my story would have no such fairytale ending. When she returned two hours later her mood had not lifted noticeably and she invited me to watch her children show jumping. By invite, I should say she screamed "Get in the car NOW", I worried quietly what the children would be like.  It turned out that I had two things in common with the kids- love of ponies and fear of their mother. So, evenings were bearable and the mornings weren't too bad either.

My job description was to work 5 hours a day (in the baking heat) but least it was 5 hours away from my psychotic host, so I didn't dare complain. I cherished those fearless hours and counted down their end with exhaustion and fear. The work itself was weeding a meadow- I kid you not. Sometimes when pulling up a couple of stubborn reeds, I thought back to my giant turnip dreams. So distant now, was that utopia.

Staying for the whole week saved me around $300 on food and accommodation. How much was that money worth to me? At the weeks end, I realised that in trying to save money and give my liver some much-needed time off, I had managed to sell my soul. Luckily, the week eventually ended and I found my way into a bar where thoughts turned to “plan C”. It was just then that I overheard something about the oldest profession in the world…  Images of me as Julia Roberts in ‘Pretty Woman’ lulled me to sleep as I considered my career change.

To find out more about becoming a WWOOFER go to www.wwoof.org, there are hosts world-wide, though this experience was more miss than hit, another wwoofing experience I had was working on a yacht in a National Park- so it’s not all shoveling shite.