As the title suggests, “Willing Workers On Organic Farms” is a movement whereby one can volunteer on an organic farm to work a few hours a day in exchange for free food and accommodation. The concept is wonderful, it can be a great way to get to know an area properly – there is nothing quite like living and working somewhere with local people. For the most part, you benefit from the delicious homegrown organic food, bonding with fellow WWOOFers and during your free time (which shouldn’t be insubstantial), you have the opportunity to explore the surrounding area with the added benefit of local knowledge.
My first experience of WWOOFing fulfilled all of the above criteria. I worked in the Algarve, on a vegetarian and organic farming retreat called “Tipi Algarve”, which, despite the searing heat, was blissful. We stayed in a (somewhat decrepit) wooden shack, and worked four hours in the morning, leaving the hot afternoons free to laze by the unchlorinated pool, or to get the bus to the nearby beaches. Every five working days, we’d be given two off. The owners were accommodating, and tried their hardest to organise the schedule to allow friends to have free time together. I spent a couple of weekends in the nearest town, spending all the money I hadn’t spent on accommodation and food as a result of WWOOFing, on cheap sangria in delightfully grotty hostels, before returning to the idyll that was “Tipi Algarve”.
This summer was a different story. A combination of factors made for a somewhat bizarre and at times deeply unpleasant few weeks, which would certainly make me rethink my previously blase attitude to selecting farms on which to work. Among them, a lack of food, long and tiring working days and completely unsanitary living conditions, coupled with a strained and somewhat dysfunctional family dynamic, made for a more difficult experience.
We lived on the ground floor area of the Krieg family home. The family consisted of a middle-aged couple, Angela and Michael, and their grown-up son, imaginatively also named Michael. They lived up to their surname through their ongoing feud with their next-door neighbour, and by providing us with constant examples of domestic generational strife. This was demonstrated largely by Michael junior lobbying for more up-to-date machinery and methods, while his mostly silent father completely ignored him.
The sanitation standards to which the Kriegs held themselves would inevitably compare less than favourably with the presumably 21st-century norms adhered to by any normal neighbour
Michael the elder’s conservatism when it came to “modern methods” was certainly evident in the cleanliness of the house. Our ground floor living space had not advanced beyond medieval standards of hygiene. The family dog’s favourite toilet was the other worker’s bedroom. The family’s response to their errant dog’s behaviour was a chuckle and a roll of kitchen paper, handed without ceremony (or cleaning products) to the unfortunate woman. While we were lucky enough to escape any canine hassle, the dog was not, as we soon learned, the only non-human occupant of the household. Our own beds were riddled with bed bugs, which came out to feast on our arms and legs at night. These bites were just distinguishable from those of the mosquitos and horseflies, who also shared our dismally dirty basement quarters. Think halloween-style cobwebs and bathroom floors slippery with grime and there you have a fairly accurate impression of our very humble abode. The Kriegs also had a completely dysfunctional relationship with their immediate neighbour, known at home as the “Cleaning Devil”. At first, we supposed that it was simply the poor standards of hygiene by which the family lived which caused this mutual lack of understanding. The sanitation standards to which the Kriegs held themselves would inevitably compare less than favourably with the presumably 21st-century norms adhered to by any normal neighbour. However, it became clear that living next to the Krieg residence was simply too much for a sane person to bear. Consequently, the semi-detatched property had been sold to an appropriately maladaptive single gentleman, to whom cleanliness and order was so important, that he routinely hoovered the gravel outside his house. We watched in awe, as he gently removed the individual stones, brushed them tenderly, before fiercely sucking any dust from the crevice they had vacated and lovingly and methodically, replacing them. We tiptoed past, trying not to dirty his newly mopped concrete path with our muddy boots, as we returned to the slum where we clearly belonged. In the “Cleaning Devil’s” eyes, WWOOFers were a fundamental, and distinctly distasteful part of the Krieg’s disgusting lifestyle, and he treated us as such. So much for availing of local knowledge.
Our day would start with breakfast at eight, where our intake of bread was carefully monitored. It was not that we were prevented as such from taking more, but that the disapproving filthies received when reaching for that second slice was disincentive enough. Food was allocated based on some kind of bizarre hierarchical system of merit, with the (large) older farmer at the top and his (much smaller) wife and unfortunate WWOOFers firmly at the bottom. We existed almost exclusively on small amounts of bread. The only reason I am still here at all is because I developed the stealing habits of a Victorian street urchin, and got into the habit of grabbing whatever became available while the backs of our “hosts” were turned. My mother still enters the kitchen to find me unconsciously sneaking pieces of bread and apples into my pockets.
We existed almost exclusively on small amounts of bread. The only reason I am still here at all is because I developed the stealing habits of a Victorian street urchin
At nine, we would be told to cycle to the vegetable field, about two kilometers away, where our working day would begin. Our presence was required on the farm for approximately 8 hours a day, for what they initially assured us would be a five-day working week. It was not a five-day working week. It was in fact a seven-day working week, which only left us to conclude that they were as good at counting as they were at manual labour, i.e. incapable. As far as we could gather, this was because Michael and Michael were too important for such tasks as planting, raking hay, harvesting vegetables and endless, endless weeding. And so it was all left to the two Irish nineteen year olds, the East German thirty-something, and her ten-year-old child. The ten year old was given a grudging exemption when temperatures reached over 40 degrees and was allowed to sit in the shade.
The work generally consisted – if there was nothing specific to be done – of weeding. On organic farms, there is a strict ban on chemicals to prevent or kill weeds, and as father and son were above weeding, the state of the place before we were put to work, resembled something not unlike the Amazon rainforest. On particularly hot days, we would be asked to water the place by hand. There was an insubstantial mechanical watering system in place, which the two farmers spent most of their time either setting up, taking down, or repairing. It didn’t seem to be all that effective in sustaining life however, so we trudged back and forth, wearily sloshing our water, while Michael and Michael looked on with an air of long-suffering melancholy. “The plants are dying” we were routinely informed, sadly, by the younger. His grief would have been almost credible, had he not had one of the last healthy pieces of celery hanging out of the side of his mouth, or if he had got down off his tractor to help.
The experience, like any, was not without its lighter moments. The shared jokes with the other WWOOFer, and the light-hearted presence of her kid, really did a lot to ease the pain of an otherwise fairly arduous few weeks. I am still in contact with the two of them, and Luka is planning a language exchange with my younger brothers.
There is a lot to be gained by putting yourself in a new situation, getting to know a different way of life and meeting new people. WWOOFing can be the perfect way to do that, and with the right research, a bit of care and preparation, you can have a great time. My own experiences really do reflect the amount of effort I took in finding a placement: the first was one which had been researched and organised well in advance. I took the time to read what previous WWOOFers had to say about the organisation, and I was aware of the kind of work that I was signing up to. The latter experience however, was a last-minute decision taken under pressure, and took into account many other factors not relevant to the work or the experience that I would have on the farm. It does pay to be prepared. Many of the more experienced and accommodating farms fill up well in advance of the more popular summer months, and so you need to get organised sooner rather than later. You don’t necessarily need to sign up for the pricey official WWOOFing website either. If you have an idea of where you would like to go, many countries have individual websites on which you can contact farms for a much lower rate.
Any travel experience is a worthwhile one, and mine were no different. Despite my complaining, even the more dismal conditions under which I worked this summer provided me with some insight into the mindset and lives of others. I met some colourful characters certainly, but it was far better than meeting none at all.
