Tomato Picking Backpackers

Backpackers

BYRON BAY, AUSTRALIA: “I’m going up to a farm to pick tomatoes for three months,” a backpacking young French woman I met on the bus to the Brisbane airport told me. She went on to explain, “I found out about the job from a girl from Chicago at the backpackers hostel I stayed.” “Is this common?” “Yes, it is, if you want a twelve-month extension on your visa, you have to work eighty-eight days on a farm. I could have become a WWOOFer, [she spells it for me] but you don’t get paid for that. At least picking tomatoes I’ll get paid something.” A little later, a couple of gentlemen explained that this is how much of the farm labor gets done in Australia. They use the backpackers hostels as a means of recruiting these farm laborers. The jobs are tough and the pay is low. Australians won’t do these jobs. WWHOOFing they told me is another way of getting cheap labor. Hosts don’t pay the WWHOOFer anything. They just need to furnish them with decent meals and a place to stay. Since I had arrived in Australia I had seen a lot of these backpacker hostels, so I was curious just how they were set up. “Well, you can find all types,” the French woman told me. “The one I stayed in had two sections. The one section was like a dormitory with four or more bunk beds in a room. The other section was made of tents. That’s where I actually slept. I had just a thin mat to sleep on. I borrowed a blanket from someone else and used my knapsack for a pillow.”

Australian Hotels

Is It a Hotel or a Pub?

SIDNEY, AUSTRIA: I didn’t bother making hotel reservations before I left for Australia. Just showing up has worked better for me. It gives me the opportunity to check out the availability, and then decide. Sydney, I figured, should have plenty of hotels. The train to the city center is conveniently located next to the airport — $16 for a twenty-minute ride. I got off at Circular Quay from where I could see the Opera House and thought would be a propitious spot to find a hotel. I wasn’t disappointed, not far away I saw a small unimposing hotel that would probably not bust my budget, but to my surprise it was closed, locked up tight as a drum. A little farther down the street I saw another hotel but it too was locked up. “What gives with these hotels,” I thought. Granted I also saw a Marriott and a Radisson, which my wife, if she were here, would jump on, but were clearly beyond my budget. I stopped by two more small hotels, but they too were closed and then came to one where I could at least see someone inside. I waved to him through the locked door. He reluctantly opened the door. “Hello, are you open?” I said. “Nah, we’re not open for a few hours,” he replied. “But you’re a hotel, aren’t you?” He looked at my bags and shook his head, “We’re a pub, mate. Hotels are what we call them here.”

City Bus Tour

You can’t miss all the Chinese tourists in Sydney. I say Nǐ hǎo whenever I have the opportunity. They often act surprised, even delighted, that a Westerner would know this much. On the city bus tour, a Chinese family of four got on. The father sat down next to me and, of course, I said, “Nǐ hǎo.” He smiled, “You speak Chinese?” “Nah, just the one word.” His English was excellent. They were from Beijing. He worked for the Chinese Airline Industry Association. “So you fly a lot?” I said. “Yes, quite a bit. In fact, we spent six months in San Francisco — liked it a lot.” One of his daughters, maybe eight or so, reached over the seat in front of us to show her dad a picture on her iPhone of her and her younger sister in clown outfits. “Those your daughters?” I asked. “Yes,” he said proudly. “Two children, I thought that was impossible,” I said. “It’s possible, you just have to pay the penalty.” “And how does that work?” “It cost us about $30,000 for the young one. The penalty is six times the average annual income in Beijing.” “And what if you had a third child?” “Oh then the penalty would be much, much, higher.” I would have loved to learn more, but I had to get off at the next stop.

Through My Eyes

SYDNEY AUSTRALIA “My name is Alisha. I’m an educational consultant,” the young lady sitting next to me says cheerfully. It’s a 14½-hour flight from SFO to SYD. I lucked out getting an upgrade to business class. How, I’m not sure, since there were only four seats left and I was number five on the waitlist and now I’m sitting next to this perky young lady from Perth. Maybe this trip won’t be so boring after all. “Okay, so what does an educational consultant do?” I ask. She puzzles, apparently unsure just how to explain because, I presume, she thinks I may be too dumb to understand. After a few meandering aborted attempts, she cuts to the chase and sums up, “I create educational curriculum for kids from wealthy families.” “Oh, I see, a private tutor then?” She looks at me with a wry grimace, “Yes, I guess you could say that.” “And they fly you business class?” “Yes, of course.” “Sounds nice! But how do you go about finding these wealthy clients?” “By word of mouth.” “Really, it’s that easy?” She doesn’t respond and so I ask, “Do you mind if I ask who your clients are?” She frowns, “No, that’s confidential.” “Tell me though, do you have enough clients to keep you busy?” “Yes,” she says, as she pulls out and flips open United’s flight magazine and adds, “but I pretty much work at my leisure.” “You can’t beat that, I guess.” “It pays the bills and allows me to travel,” she says more pointedly indicating what I had suspected that this conversation about her job had come to an end. We did talk some more and she kindly gave me a variety of useful tips on Australia, but no more about her job, as if to say, “Through my eyes you may peer but my reality will remain a mystery.”

Caveat Emptor

Tuk Tuk

BANGKOK, THAILAND “You want to go to Grand Palace? Only 50 Baht.” “No, I was there yesterday.” “I take you to a place to buy a nice suit?” “No, I don’t need a suit.” “You want pretty lady?” “No, but could you tell me where there might be a travel agency in the area.” “Yes, yes, I know a good place. You nice guy, I take you there free, no charge.” “Really? Free?” “Yes. Yes. Get in!” I jump in the back of the tuk tuk and off on a high-speed race through the side streets and alleys of Bangkok. We arrive at a small, but official looking travel agency, with a lot of travel posters, flight and tour price listings. “I wait here for you.” My tuk tuk driver says. “Sawadee Ka,” the lady at the first desk says. “Sawadee Krab,” I reply. “I’m wondering if you could help me with accommodations in Phuket or Phi Phi Island?” “Yes. Yes. My name is Micky. I can help you.” She pulls out a notepad and scribbles Phuket at the top of the page. “How much do you want to spend?” “My wife and I would like a 5-star hotel, if possible.” “No problem!” She pulls out a glitzy brochure with pictures of Phi Phi Island straight from Leonardo DiCaprio’s “The Beach.” “Wow, is that available?” “Yes, very busy season, but I know the owner and can get you a beach front bungalow for a very good price.” She pulls out her calculator. “50,000 Baht.” I figure about $555 per night. That’s a lot for Thailand, but it’s actually less than two other quotes I got at the airport tour agencies in Chiang Mai and Bangkok. “What do you have for Phuket?” She quickly produces another glitzy brochure of a 5-star hotel with a beach-front ocean view on Patong Beach. “30,000 Baht.” We negotiate. For 39,000 Baht, I end up with one night on Phi Phi Island and two nights on Patong Beach, airport transfers and ferries included. Micky swipes my credit card and the deal is closed. With that done, I need a place, maybe in Pattaya, where I can wait until Debra (my wife) arrives. “Pattaya, yes, of course, I have a nice 4-star, beach front hotel, in Pattaya.” “How much?” “You nice man, I give you a special rate, only 15,000 Baht.” The place looks perfect. I say, “10,000 Baht.” She says, “I can do 10,500 including transfer to and from Pattaya.” I take it and pay in cash. The next day the crammed non-air-conditioned bus ride to Pattaya gives me the first indications that I’ve been scammed. The hotel confirms my suspicions, a 3-star hotel at best, twenty minutes from the beach, and a room that has no windows. I call Micky. “You told me you wanted a cheap hotel room,” She says. “That’s what I got you. There are no refunds.” I protest, “No, that’s not true. You told me that the hotel was a 4-star hotel on the beach. What about the hotels in Phi Phi and Phuket are they also not 5-star hotels and on the beach as you represented?” She suddenly becomes incoherent and pretends she doesn’t understand anything I’m saying. She keeps saying, “I got you what you wanted. There are no refunds.” She hangs up. I decide to go online and research the hotel in Phi Phi and Phuket. The hotel in Phi Phi doesn’t exist and although the hotel in Phuket does exist, it’s only a 3-star hotel with some terrible reviews. Nevertheless, I call the hotel in Phuket to see if they have reservations for us. They do not. I send Micky email and text messages detailing my concerns and asking for her help in remedying the situation. She doesn’t respond. Debra arrives in Bangkok a few days later and the next day we fly to Phuket. As we suspect, there’s no one at the airport to greet us. We ask a taxi driver to call Micky for us on his cell phone. Micky answers the phone, “You cancelled your reservations!” “What are you talking about? I did not cancel the reservations and if you cancelled our reservations, where is our refund?” “You cancelled the reservations!” “What about our refund then?” She pretends not to understand and keeps saying, “You cancelled the reservations.” I am unable to budge her and she hangs up on me.

Thailand Photo Album