Peering at piss.

Odd, the thoughts and ideas that tumble and toil through my sludge of a brain. Had intended to think about and write further on thoughts and feelings about being “dismissed” from the farm but thoughts are still revolving around the concepts of “pissed off” and am fascinated by how much is expressed in vernacular by three simple letters. (don't argue, am pedantic old basket – the word piss is, actually, only three letters – p,i,s [repeated once].)

At this point, though, will say that there is nothing so predictable as unpredictability. Don't really intend to write much about the detail of Friday, Saturday nor Sunday .. average, nondescript days – but received a phone call on Monday just after 9am.

“Hello, Axxx* Personnel here. One of the people in the Hatchery at Gawxxr* is off sick, would you like a day's work?”

?? think i, sitting there in pyjamas – relaxed and “wound down” - caught by surprise, wondering what i was going to do with the rest of my life. “Errm,” say i, then making a sudden inexplicable decision, “OK”.

So, after a discussion about what was involved and how long it would take to get there, it was decided that i should meet Steve from AP at the BP station on the corner of xxxx Street at 10am. After a quick shave – no need for showers or change of clothing – fired up the Satellite navigator and trusty steed, set off at 9.35am and arrived at the BP station at 10.10. (which was good going, actually. The Hatchery is 32K away in an “outer suburb” and the last 5K is on “controlled” roadspace – traffic, lights, and speed limits.)

The Hatchery is quite an amazing place. Much more “regulated”, Hi-tech, and “citified” than the rough and tumble, impolite “naturalism” of the farm, but will write in more detail later. (perhaps; have yet to complete the “floor monster” story .. heh).

Where was i? Oh, contemplating urine – and fascinated by the number of concepts that can be conveyed by the simple word – piss.

“take the piss”
“piss in the pocket”
“piss into the wind”
“piss off, pissed off, piss 'im off”
“piss-up, get pissed, too pissed, pissed as a ..”

.. am sure there are more ..

And yet, what IS piss? Mostly water, H₂O, filtered through the kidneys and liver by a process of osmosis, and expelled from the body.

Oh yes, the purification process is somewhat incomplete, not comparable with vast and expensive, mechanical “purification” factories, as there are chemicals and compounds remaining – but valuable stuff, none-the-less. There is very little wrong with it as it exits the body, almost sterile. It's really only contact with the atmosphere and outside world – and the microbes therein – that turns it rancid.

(* disguised for irrational reasons best known to myself)

further Friday updates

Yer, i know, just noticed the date.

Have just received a phone call - been fired, discarded, surplus to requirements, fuck off, don't come Sunday.

Friday night update

(That's MY Friday night - not the julian calendar's though if you are reading this in the USA it's probably my yesterday, also) [errm, at time of writing, and according to Foxclocks - the UK, USA and Oz are all in the same day -Thursday.. heh].

End of working week, and am settling in for a dark and stormy night. Did have a think about the brand from Bundaberg
distillery, and also tried one can of it tonight .. very nice indeed, but am a Bundy 'n' coke bloke from way back, and it's a bit difficult to get us old leopards to change the fur on our polar bears .. heh.

Tonight it is again "dark and stormy" - very windy (and whoo-hoo, pelting rain thrown in. Wonder if muggins next door would hear it if [softly] played a CD of Wagner .. heh.). Went to bed last night wondering if would still have an annexe this morning but yup, still there at 5.30am, and still here tonight .. but the caravan is now shaking and rocking so much that am reminded of the boat. Not only that, just went out in socks to check the annexe, and now have wet feet.

Amazingly, my little leggies have managed to survive four straight 7am-5pm days of walking around (and around and around and around) with a reasonable smidge of good humour - (and that's not counting the "out of bed at 6am, home by 6.30pm") but have to admit that i sort of "lost it" this morning. Sort of a longish story, but of the four sheds that began laying when I first started, am the only member of the original group still 'floorwalking'. Glenys from shed 1 is now 'grading', me is still in shed 2, "S" had shed 3; but has quit .. and the hens in shed 4 never really had anyone "regularly" looking after them (well, they did have someone, at first. Am not being "arch" here, but i do sometimes wonder about the sensibility, mental acuity and stamina of "committed Christians" - but that is also a longish story, and doesn't belong in this post).

The "challenge" for the floorwalkers in each shed is to see how many hens they can [my words, not management] - train, encourage, convince, cajole, (force-if necessary - but that is definitely frowned upon by management**), just GET - to lay their eggs in the "specially" designed hi-tech boxes and NOT on the comfy, soft, scratchable, natural .. sawdust and shit FLOOR. Especially since there are about half the number of boxes to cope with the inclination of the majority of 8000 or so hens to all lay their eggs in the same time period [8.30am - 2pm].

Lost my temper with the hens this morning. Had heard that "Shed 2 is the second worst" .. after Shed 4.
"the others had good floorwalkers".

Oh F***!!. Shed 4 is still a mess on the floor count totals.
Shed 1 is down to 6-700 or so per day, Shed 2 is still hovering around the 1090 mark, Shed 3 is down under the thousand, Shed 4 is still pulling 16-1700.

The "begin laying" sequence ran Shed 1, Shed 2, Shed 3, Shed 4 - so hopefully you will understand my chagrin. Won't reprint the 'language' that i shouted at my hens most of this morning, but apparently it was heard by half the farm. Strangely enough, the hens in Shed 2 - as is their wont - took no notice whatsoever.

[these counts may not mean much to the general reader, but "S" from Shed 3 may well be reading this, so am also just passing on some news].

And so, who knows. my self confidence took a bittuva dent. After all that [how many weeks?] effort, and it's not the most salubrious job that have undertaken - the floor, in parts, over time, becomes crusted and slippery. The feed-lines are set too high so stepping over becomes hazardous, [one good recent floorwalker is off for a few days - slipped] ... the hens stupidly run underfoot ...... but the sun still rises - any day i wake up breathing is a good day, hopefully ..

[** picking up a hen that is on the verge of pumping an egg, physically picking her up and placing her in the "box" .. as well as any 'hitting', or physical contact with the hens.]

Sort of Updates.

Ummm, have no idea how some people can crank out those long and thoughtful epistles on a regular basis. Have been battling to write even the first part of the previous post.

There hasn't, actually, been much happening - or rather .. some small happenings. For a start Sue has quit her job due to "family" problems back in Adelaide, so i no longer have the pleasure of her company for those three nights. The bloke in the caravan next to mine has cracked the shits with me for some reason and the tension is .. errrm, uncomfortable. There are, of course, two sides to every story. Apparently he's a teacher. Short, chunky, pot-bellied, long arms, square head with no neck and a perpetual scowl. I did, initially, try to establish some sort of communication with him - thinking that i might have someone intelligent to talk to or discuss things with but a grumpy "Go away; am working, leave me alone" was the response to that encounter.

.. also mentioned that the sharp "Zzzzzzztt!!!" of his annexe zipper woke me up at all hours of the still and silent night. "Have to use the toilet", he scowls. "Ah, i use a two litre bottle at night". "Won't fit into a two litre bottle," he grumps (bragging).


Apparently I was a little tiddly last Saturday night and forgot to turn my music down from barely audible to a whisper. So ... he's apparently complained to the Park Manager twice, though why he has to "run off to daddy" beats me. Had asked him to bang on my door if there are any problems. My door is always open, and am more than prepared to discuss things rationally. Am coming to think that he is one of those who were born with permanent SOL.

So, am now asking around to see if I can find a place up closer to the Farm. The 25-30 minute 5.30am drive was OK with Sue along, but is getting a bit tedious on my own.

There are also a few tenatious tentacles from my "past Life" that are proving difficult to shake. Not easy trying to deal with "business" when am locked into bio-security all day, there is no internet, not much in the way of phones except a walk though the freezing cold to the Public call box (where Yup, I have to go through the "please press 3-2-1, Now Please hold .. Oh, oops, have just run out of coins) and I might make the effort to drive the 2 hours back to town to collect my mail every two or three weeks.

Hope that everyone is cheery and well.. and apart from Burma and part of China - the world hasn't fallen into a screaming heap. Will see if I can rouse self to write more.

The Floor Monster

[this is close to accuracy, but am not going to let accurate facts get in the way of a good story. Also, I do not want to give the impression that all is immaculate and pristine clean at the Farm - NOR do I wish to give the impression that all is in any way “shabby”. It is, after all, a WORKING Chook farm and, in my opinion at this point - over-all - Very Well Managed (More or less ..heh)].

After “showering in” at about 6am, stripping off in a (sort of) heater warmed change room, then through an adequate and functional shower stall, I step forth naked and see racks stacked with “uniforms”. Badged, blue Polo shirts and windcheaters, overalls, trousers, socks (well, the trousers and socks are not 'badged'). A crate of miscellaneous caps, hats and belts are in a plastic crate parked in one corner.

While washed daily some, if not most of the clothing is well used, trousers threadbare and patched in parts. Sizes vary, and if one is lucky can find a trouser size four. “No bloke wears size Four!” sez Dave, the farm manager, feigning mock horror, “Only girls wear size Four!”. So sometimes have to bang on the fibro wall and get the girls in the shower room next door to chuck me a pair of trousers, size Four.

Then collect my knickers and little lunch bag from the “pass-through” hatchway. From the options available get clothed comfortably and, with sparse hair wet and straggly, scurry outside in socks along the concrete apron of the amenities verandah to the rack of white gum-boots, try to find a pair of size “8's” then clump-clomp to the kitchen/lunch-room. Stow the lunch-bag, fossick among the wide selection of individual cups, mugs, spoons built up over long and ever-changing staff time. Find a mug with floral pattern, fill it with (supplied) sugar, coffee and hot water from the urn, cast a quick glance at the fridge, sandwich heater, microwave oven and pie warmer, return through the screen door with an ingenious Coke-bottle counter-weighted closure system, and stand on the gravel floored 'back verandah' 'smoker's area' to roll another ciggie, settle, and see who's here.


This sort of job is not to everyone's liking – and there is a constant turnover. The record is 20 minutes. One recent bloke 'showered in' took one look inside the shed – then pissed off. One lass, very young, slip of a girl – though will give her credit; it was on school holidays – lasted four days. Was hit by the Shed 1 rooster early on the second day, then had panic attacks every time she set foot in the sheds. Was given 'Annexe cleaning duties'. Decided to quit. Can't blame her, really. Can remember, early on, thinking that if she was hit by the particularly aggro rooster that hit me in Shed 1, he would knock her over.

[At this point, will write in defence of the roosters. They are NOT particularly harmful. Occasionally they feel the imperative to 'defend their territory'against strangers. Am usually in Shed 2, but was doing a floor walk in Shed 1 when hit from behind by a heavy “thump” on the back of my upper thigh. The rooster had leapt at me full force and hit me with his chest. I turned around and that was it. Tch, tch, say I, to him. All feathers, fluff, and prance - from then on.

(ah, sidenote – all the roosters have been “de-spurred” (but not de-knackered) as 5-7 day old chicks. Must find out the details of how they figure out which is which, later. And yes, can hear some of my female friends thinking .. 'if only it were that easy' .. heh ).

Have been assigned Shed 2, “my” shed. Constant staff turnover and rotating shifts do not allow individual “ownership” on this farm but am coming to love “my” Chooks in
Shed 2. 10,000 or so individuals locked into a “controlled”, constant temperature environment – which have known nothing but instinct since birth.
(MMMMM, am I experiencing the first glimmering understanding ..the
foundational delusions of dictatorship?)

And they ARE .. all “my” girls and boys ..+or- 9000 individuals. Walk among them day by day, sit with them, listen to their vocalisations .. try to begin to
understand their primeval pituitary sociological structures - and they are
primeval .. almost raptor-like. If a hen becomes sick or injured, it's not long before she's pecked to death, skin and organs stripped away to sad and
sorry carcase of bone and tattered feathers.]

There's “Boss” Dave, and “Red” - big-boned, bold, brash, shaved head bald – offset by a flaming red beard.[am guessing some sort of “foreman” or Leading Hand]. Jamie is his “offsider” (though not sure of the exact relationship – perhaps reversed) - quieter, more friendly, though of similar build; beard and shaved head. There's also “Science Dave” who began at the same time as self – almost the same age; tall, heavy, protuberant frontage, used to be a science teacher (islands North, PNG, Bougainville) but became “stressed out” and opted for a “simpler life”. His wife began at the same time but had to pack it in early due to the rotating shifts; apparently a Netball “star” and had to have every Saturday off. I wonder if she is beginning to appreciate his slow but steady weight loss.

There are/were others, but will compress them into names at this point. Trav, Denise, Glenys, Matt (by 3), Doug and Shawna, Wayne, Kathy, Sue .. so many more names .. so many fascinating characters and stories.

When I began it was “hit the sheds” at 7.30 am .. but the “girls” are in full production. It is now a 6.30am. start (out of bed at 5am, on the road at 5.30).

In the beginning I would spend all day “walking the shed” looking for an egg. Three days of nothing. Almost became like an expectant father, waiting to see that first egg on the floor. NOW, there are too many of the b***** things.

Ah, let me explain.


As far as can gather the Farm is an experiment in “automation”. At the Farms up the road, every egg is collected by hand. On this one, the hens are supposed to go into specially designed nest-boxes, the eggs roll down onto a conveyor-belt system which delivers them to a central collection and grading room. Part of my “job” is to train the chooks to choose to lay their eggs in the nest-boxes – and not on the sawdust /compost floor .. an interesting exercise .. heh. There is some debate as to whether the chooks are “intelligent”. Am coming to the conclusion that – apart from being firmly rooted in instinctual behaviour – they have a memory span of about five seconds, and the intelligence of a pea.

So, these days, after the quick banter and cup of coffee, grab the “floor count folder” and head off to shed 2. Tromp-clomp the short distance along the central pathway, past shed 1 and 8 to the annexe of shed 2. Check to see that the footbath is charged with disinfectant, stomp each boot, then look for my trays and “scoopie”**. Hopefully they will be as I left them, but the farm begins much earlier than 6.30am – machinery has to be started, feed-lines have to be run. If I have days away, anybody could be assigned to the shed.

**Ah, a “scoopie” is a tool used to pick up eggs from the floor without bending down. A very Hi-Tech gadget consisting of a length of plastic pipe with the cut-off handle of a plastic spaghetti spoon stuck in the end. Very effective with a bit of practice and 'flick o' the wrist'. It is also useful for other purposes .. which is where “the floor monster' comes into the story .. but, apart from ME tromping carefully through the carpet of chooks, you'll have to wait to discover what it also became.

[to be continued ..]

BLESSINGS FROM HEAVEN

I had intended to write a rather longer essay detailing the background of how I got here, and more about what's happened between leaving Adelaide and now – but that will have to wait for some other time.

Sunday 27 April. 6am.

The biggest news at the moment is ... RAIN! The area where I am at the moment is mostly gentle, open, undulating grain country, only 130 Kilometers from the city - but may as well be Light Years away. While I do have TV and radio, have not felt the need to “keep up with the news” of the wider world, and - as far as I am concerned - it may well have disappeared into the mists of myth, imagination, and perhaps nightmare – (where is Iraq? Obama who?)

After the trauma, despair and angst of the previous year, my life has settled into an almost zen-like pattern of simplicity, peace and tranquility (though there are still a few 'legal' tentacles from the past that have yet to be dealt with - choking off any attempt to truly 'break free'; more about that, later).

After many months, perhaps years, of intermittent and sparse rainfall - the weather Pixies have blessed this area with a gentle, soaking patter of rainfall which began yesterday afternoon and has continued all night. I don't, as yet, frequent the pubs around here so don't know much about the local “gossip”, but do know that some of the farmers in the area began “dry seeding” last week, in anticipation. One can only hope that “follow up” rains happen in the months to come, and not – yet again – disappear and deliver that cruel blow to dry-land grain farmers of watching the half-grown harvest wither and die into the shrivelled husks of despair.




As mentioned previously, am on a rotating - 4 day on, 2 day off – pattern of a working week, so frequently have not the slightest idea of what the “named” day of the week really is.

Up until recently, a typical working day began at 7.30am. but am generally awake well before the alarm goes off at 5.30am. There will be several cups of black coffee while I write up the diary or lay quietly in bed until I hear “Sue” (not her real name) shuffling around in the Annexe at about 5.30. At this point - as a crusty old loner, well used to my own company and not generally used to sharing a living-space – will have to say that I could not have wished for a more congenial and pleasant companion.

(I say 'recently', as the hens have begun to lay, and the ever-increasing quantity of eggs will soon move the 'start times' earlier and earlier.)

From 5.30am, we share coffee, breakfast and chat until 6.30 when it is time to think about departing. The Farm is only 33K 'up the road', generally takes about 20 to 25 minutes. It is, actually, one of the most pleasant daily journeys in recent experience. The road is a well-paved two-lane black-top highway with few curves, through open and undulating grain fields, into the soft pink-and-orange of the sunrise skyline, and we see few other vehicles. (the speed limit is 110KPH, and am not given to “dawdle” on that sort of road.)

We generally arrive at the farm between 7 and ten past, which allows time to “shower in”, have a settling in cup of coffee, as well as chat with the rest of the staff, before “hitting the sheds” at 7.30am. The farms operate on a relatively strict “Biosecurity” Quarantine regime. No employee is allowed to own or be in contact with other birds (or pigs). There is a “wheel wash” at the first gate about 600mtres from the farm, where vehicle wheels and underside are hosed down with a mild antiseptic solution – then on through the Main gate. Entry to the Farm complex is through the “shower in” facility. All “street clothes” are left in the outer room, then through the showers – towels, plentiful hot water, soap, shampoo and conditioner supplied – into the change rooms where the (supplied) “work clothes” (washed daily) are kept. The procedure is reversed when leaving the farm.

Have to say that have never been, nor felt, cleaner – two free showers per day .. heh.

It could be said that the job is undemanding, repetitious, possibly tedious – but have never felt it so.

And now .. 12 noon, have to pack up and go in to the library to get this post up. Have this and tomorrow “off”, so will try to write in more detail about what am doing .. over the next couple days.

Love, and Cheers to all,
Davo.

the things I do fer a quid

Before ... (click for larger)

Front yard ..



After ..

Backyard ..

After ..