Unfortunately, unless at some point in the near future I either, a) win Lotto, or b) marry Paris Hilton, I'm going to have to keep working on the road. And the jobs aren't going to be fun.
That's the thing about being a backpacker - it's all well and good doing things on a shoe-string, but everyone runs out of money sooner or later. And that's when the great working holiday comes in.
Overseas, you do what you have to to keep the dream alive. However, some jobs are better than others.
On the plus side, working overseas helps you meet locals, gives you a real insight into foreign cultures, and can bulk up your dwindling finances. On the down side ... well, read on.
Here's what I've done:
The job: Farmhand
The place: Elgin, Scotland
The skinny: How I ended up being a farmhand is anyone's guess, as I struggle to keep pot plants alive. However, I was 17, had been travelling for about six months, and decided that if I didn't experience working on a farm now, I probably never would. So why not a Scottish pig farm?
Why not? Because working on a Scottish pig farm is bloody hard! For starters, I was there during "summer"; however, the only time I donned my shorts was when the local nightclub had a beach party theme night. The rest of the time I froze my tits off standing around in fields picking things.
The farm wasn't just a pig farm. I also picked strawberries, cut lettuces, planted lettuces, fed animals, and at one point had to brush down the inside of an entire grain silo with a 20-metre-long broom. For my troubles I got screamed at hourly by the farm's absolutely wonderful but highly abusive owner. There's nothing quite like picking strawberries in the June sleet to the sound of: "Oi you little Aussie c---, I'm payin' you tae fookin' work, not fookin' skyve off!"
Somehow, though, in between wading through pig shit, choking on grain dust and having whole lettuces thrown at me, I managed to make some of the best friends I've ever had in Elgin. Ten years on I'm still in touch with the guys I used to slave away in the lettuce van with.
The pay: Four pounds an hour, plus free board.
The verdict: Only if you're desperate.
The job: Kitchen bitch 1
The place: Winter Park ski resort, Colorado, US
The skinny: There were days when I wondered what the hell possessed me to tick the "kitchen experience" box on my Winter Park application. These were generally "powder days", the days you'd wake up in the morning and trudge out to the bus stop through a metre or so of fresh, fluffy snow.
I'd stand there in the base-camp cafeteria in front of the wall-sized windows, watching the lifties carve fresh tracks through the powder as I rolled another panful of breakfast burritos.
Then there were days when I thanked my lucky stars I was a kitchen bitch. Those were the days when I'd trudge out to the bus stop with two scarves wrapped around my head to protect me from the wind, and see the thermometer outside the local bank flashing something like "-33".
On those days I'd watch the lifties rugging up outside the cafe, while I warmed my hands over the grill plate and thought about whipping myself up some pancakes.
If you're going to work at a cafe at a ski resort, you really have to like cooking, otherwise it's soul destroying. It does have its perks, though. You meet some characters in kitchens. I worked with a guy who was on the run from San Diego, a reformed drug addict, a few not-so-reformed drug addicts, and of course the usual collection of Aussies and Kiwis that you find at every touristy destination around the world.
While I can't say I learned a lot about the local culture (or cooking, for that matter), I did learn about keg parties, how to get drunk when you're under 21, what the hell a Philly beef steak is, and how expensive the American medical system is when you break your collarbone.
The pay: $8 an hour, plus a free all-mountain season pass.
The verdict: Not something you'd want to do forever, but perfect for the powder hounds.
The job: Kitchen bitch 2
The place: Edinburgh, Scotland
The skinny: What do you do when you're stuck in the UK, broke, and with a month to kill before starting a new job? You call up one of your old farm buddies, and mooch off them for a while.
Hooking up with an old strawberry picker and now bar manager in Edinburgh, I managed to score a month's very dodgy work at a bar in the old town. There I was designated kitchen bitch, working long hours flipping burgers and reheating curries for the drunken masses.
The dodgy bit was the fact I didn't have a national insurance number or bank account, so was officially on the pay role as my mate's wife, whom we'll call Wendy Jones. My nickname, predictably, became "Wendy" when my fellow employees realised that's what my name was on all the rosters and pay slips.
But despite the potential trouble and the odd cutting of my fingers with the kitchen knives, I managed to get through my month with a bit of extra cash, and a few free pints under my belt.
The pay: Eight pounds an hour.
The verdict: It has to be done.
The job: Travel writer
The place: Everywhere
The skinny: I'm not gonna lie to you: being a travel writer is awesome. Unfortunately, every other traveller on the planet is awake to this fact, and is your direct competition.
I've never been able to make a proper living out of travel writing - it's just something to do every now and then to top up the finances. I don't like travelling with a laptop, so I usually end up scribbling on a note pad, then madly banging out stories and dicing with dodgy photo downloads when I make it to an internet cafe.
With a bit of experience and some good contacts, travel writing really is living the dream.
The pay: From $300 a story up.
The verdict: Every traveller's dream.
The job: On-road chef
The place: Europe
The skinny: "Man, you've got the best job in the world," passengers used to say to me while we were sitting on the tour bus, cruising past the Eiffel Tower.
"Yeah," I'd reply, "you could do it too though. You should apply."
"Oh, nah, I don't think it would really be my thing."
It takes a certain person to handle working full-time on the road. That person? You have to be patient, alcoholic, patient, quick-thinking, patient, have a good sense of humour, patient, have good knowledge, and above all, be patient.
I spent a European summer working as an on-road chef for a tour company (not the one you're thinking of), which would explain what I was doing with 1000 Euros worth of groceries in Paris. For six months I ferried around and cooked for some of the most likeable, fun, happy people I've ever met. I also had to spend weeks at a time cooped up in a bus with annoying little bastards I'd prefer never to see again.
In between getting drunk at campsite after campsite, I managed to see the major sights of Europe about seven or eight times, and in some cases visit countries I never would have dreamed I'd make it to. Diving off a motor yacht moored in the Croatian islands, I could easily persuade myself it was the best job in the world.
However, as on-road chef, the parts of Europe I came to know most intimately were not the ancient ruins or cosy sidewalk cafes - they were the supermarkets. Two years later, I could still lead you directly to the risotto rice at the E. LeClerc supermarket in Pisa, or find the gluten-free section at the Carrefour in Calais. Being given an hour to buy food for 40 people for three days is an insanely stressful experience, but the thing I liked about going shopping was mixing with the locals. That, and working out ways to spend the passengers' money on beer without getting caught.
The pay: 20 pounds a day.
The verdict: Some days the best, and some days the worst job I've ever had.
What's the best/worst job you've done overseas?
by Ben Groundwater
That's the thing about being a backpacker - it's all well and good doing things on a shoe-string, but everyone runs out of money sooner or later. And that's when the great working holiday comes in.
Overseas, you do what you have to to keep the dream alive. However, some jobs are better than others.
On the plus side, working overseas helps you meet locals, gives you a real insight into foreign cultures, and can bulk up your dwindling finances. On the down side ... well, read on.
Here's what I've done:
The job: Farmhand
The place: Elgin, Scotland
The skinny: How I ended up being a farmhand is anyone's guess, as I struggle to keep pot plants alive. However, I was 17, had been travelling for about six months, and decided that if I didn't experience working on a farm now, I probably never would. So why not a Scottish pig farm?
Why not? Because working on a Scottish pig farm is bloody hard! For starters, I was there during "summer"; however, the only time I donned my shorts was when the local nightclub had a beach party theme night. The rest of the time I froze my tits off standing around in fields picking things.
The farm wasn't just a pig farm. I also picked strawberries, cut lettuces, planted lettuces, fed animals, and at one point had to brush down the inside of an entire grain silo with a 20-metre-long broom. For my troubles I got screamed at hourly by the farm's absolutely wonderful but highly abusive owner. There's nothing quite like picking strawberries in the June sleet to the sound of: "Oi you little Aussie c---, I'm payin' you tae fookin' work, not fookin' skyve off!"
Somehow, though, in between wading through pig shit, choking on grain dust and having whole lettuces thrown at me, I managed to make some of the best friends I've ever had in Elgin. Ten years on I'm still in touch with the guys I used to slave away in the lettuce van with.
The pay: Four pounds an hour, plus free board.
The verdict: Only if you're desperate.
The job: Kitchen bitch 1
The place: Winter Park ski resort, Colorado, US
The skinny: There were days when I wondered what the hell possessed me to tick the "kitchen experience" box on my Winter Park application. These were generally "powder days", the days you'd wake up in the morning and trudge out to the bus stop through a metre or so of fresh, fluffy snow.
I'd stand there in the base-camp cafeteria in front of the wall-sized windows, watching the lifties carve fresh tracks through the powder as I rolled another panful of breakfast burritos.
Then there were days when I thanked my lucky stars I was a kitchen bitch. Those were the days when I'd trudge out to the bus stop with two scarves wrapped around my head to protect me from the wind, and see the thermometer outside the local bank flashing something like "-33".
On those days I'd watch the lifties rugging up outside the cafe, while I warmed my hands over the grill plate and thought about whipping myself up some pancakes.
If you're going to work at a cafe at a ski resort, you really have to like cooking, otherwise it's soul destroying. It does have its perks, though. You meet some characters in kitchens. I worked with a guy who was on the run from San Diego, a reformed drug addict, a few not-so-reformed drug addicts, and of course the usual collection of Aussies and Kiwis that you find at every touristy destination around the world.
While I can't say I learned a lot about the local culture (or cooking, for that matter), I did learn about keg parties, how to get drunk when you're under 21, what the hell a Philly beef steak is, and how expensive the American medical system is when you break your collarbone.
The pay: $8 an hour, plus a free all-mountain season pass.
The verdict: Not something you'd want to do forever, but perfect for the powder hounds.
The job: Kitchen bitch 2
The place: Edinburgh, Scotland
The skinny: What do you do when you're stuck in the UK, broke, and with a month to kill before starting a new job? You call up one of your old farm buddies, and mooch off them for a while.
Hooking up with an old strawberry picker and now bar manager in Edinburgh, I managed to score a month's very dodgy work at a bar in the old town. There I was designated kitchen bitch, working long hours flipping burgers and reheating curries for the drunken masses.
The dodgy bit was the fact I didn't have a national insurance number or bank account, so was officially on the pay role as my mate's wife, whom we'll call Wendy Jones. My nickname, predictably, became "Wendy" when my fellow employees realised that's what my name was on all the rosters and pay slips.
But despite the potential trouble and the odd cutting of my fingers with the kitchen knives, I managed to get through my month with a bit of extra cash, and a few free pints under my belt.
The pay: Eight pounds an hour.
The verdict: It has to be done.
The job: Travel writer
The place: Everywhere
The skinny: I'm not gonna lie to you: being a travel writer is awesome. Unfortunately, every other traveller on the planet is awake to this fact, and is your direct competition.
I've never been able to make a proper living out of travel writing - it's just something to do every now and then to top up the finances. I don't like travelling with a laptop, so I usually end up scribbling on a note pad, then madly banging out stories and dicing with dodgy photo downloads when I make it to an internet cafe.
With a bit of experience and some good contacts, travel writing really is living the dream.
The pay: From $300 a story up.
The verdict: Every traveller's dream.
The job: On-road chef
The place: Europe
The skinny: "Man, you've got the best job in the world," passengers used to say to me while we were sitting on the tour bus, cruising past the Eiffel Tower.
"Yeah," I'd reply, "you could do it too though. You should apply."
"Oh, nah, I don't think it would really be my thing."
It takes a certain person to handle working full-time on the road. That person? You have to be patient, alcoholic, patient, quick-thinking, patient, have a good sense of humour, patient, have good knowledge, and above all, be patient.
I spent a European summer working as an on-road chef for a tour company (not the one you're thinking of), which would explain what I was doing with 1000 Euros worth of groceries in Paris. For six months I ferried around and cooked for some of the most likeable, fun, happy people I've ever met. I also had to spend weeks at a time cooped up in a bus with annoying little bastards I'd prefer never to see again.
In between getting drunk at campsite after campsite, I managed to see the major sights of Europe about seven or eight times, and in some cases visit countries I never would have dreamed I'd make it to. Diving off a motor yacht moored in the Croatian islands, I could easily persuade myself it was the best job in the world.
However, as on-road chef, the parts of Europe I came to know most intimately were not the ancient ruins or cosy sidewalk cafes - they were the supermarkets. Two years later, I could still lead you directly to the risotto rice at the E. LeClerc supermarket in Pisa, or find the gluten-free section at the Carrefour in Calais. Being given an hour to buy food for 40 people for three days is an insanely stressful experience, but the thing I liked about going shopping was mixing with the locals. That, and working out ways to spend the passengers' money on beer without getting caught.
The pay: 20 pounds a day.
The verdict: Some days the best, and some days the worst job I've ever had.
What's the best/worst job you've done overseas?
by Ben Groundwater
Hope you're enjoying the Backpacker blog. There'll be a new one up on smh.com.au every Wednesday, for a bit of light relief to remind you of why you went to work in the first place: to save up enough money to get the hell out of here! If there are any good travel topics you think I've missed, drop me a line at bgroundwater@fairfax.com.au.
Check out the Walkabout Ticket brought to you by Aussie Escape and The Original London Pub Company. www.aussieescape.com/walkabout.html
