Final words on a 2 month learning curve

When you live, work and socialise with the same people for any length of time, certain things that at first you might think strange, become normalised. It's only when I look back that I realise how certain situations I've recently been in might seem...a little odd... to the outside observer, or people back home. Or blog readers.

Like readily hopping into a car with a horrendously drunk driver at the wheel, which I did despite my refusal to even contemplate it at home. But here, it seemed not only acceptable, but necessary: simply because of our remote location and lack of other options.

Or when conversations regularly involved hearing explicit details about the 'hairy wombats' (ha, love that) of the boys' various conquests. The threesomes, couple swapping and way TMI about previous grooms that the Polo Player had slept with. If you'll excuse the pun, Jilly Cooper got the scandalous side of polo bang on. The polo set are more promiscuous than a footballer at Fresher's Week. The closest I got to any action, though, was in the truck on the way to Melbourne. I'd responded to 'Do you want to watch some porn?' with the challenge 'Oh, go on then. Find me the most disgustingly awful thing you can'. So he did, on his iPhone. And I nearly vommed. But hey, Australia's got some long, very boring roads.

I've also socialised with the Polo Player's patrons; the people who pay him to play in their teams. They are successful businessmen with expensive ponies and disposable incomes, who spend a minimum of $10,000 a weekend to play or be associated with a game where the only prize is prestige. Polo isn't driven by cash rewards, it's purely entertainment - a bottomless pit of expense. You might go to the pub to watch a game of football; players and patrons put up thousands of dollars, get a team together and gallop back and forth across a flat field.

One such man was responsible for giving me a bloody good send off from the polo world. The Polo Player had far from forgiven me, but still said goodbye over a couple of Baileys shots, Jagerbombs and a hug before going to meet friends. This left me to spend the rest of Sunday night with his Patron, two other grooms and an Argentinian Polo Player in the bar of a plush hotel on the outskirts of Sydney. Several bottles of champagne replaced dinner, and by the end of the night a $750 bar bill was signed off with the Patron's drunken scrawl. With an early start ahead of them, the others went to bed leaving me and him to finish off the final drops of the good stuff.

After a few minutes of chat about the imminent arrival of my boyfriend and onward travel plans, the pleasant, polite and well-spoken 50-something Patron turned to me on the sofa. He looked me steadily in the eye, and asked

"Do you want a shag?"

in much the same way as you'd ask whether someone would like a cup of tea.

"No thanks", I replied, in the same casual way, tipping the last of the champagne down my gullet. "I'm quite tired actually. I think I'll just go to bed."

And so, un-shocked, un-embarrassed, and completely un-surprised given all that I've been exposed to (literally) over the last two months, that's what I did - alone.

So that's that. New Zealand next, where I will resume travels in the real world.

Dans le dumps

The last few days have been a stark realisation of how difficult life can get when someone doesn't get what they want.

Leaving when I did meant forfeiting $1000 and an air fare to New Zealand, which I now understand wasn't heading my way "when I left" as he'd said all along, but more when the Polo Player agreed that I could go. ie., Not now. The money's nothing though, it would have been nice, but it's not what I worked hard for.

You little comment box fiends are all completely right. My Boyfriend's right, my sister's right, Matty and Annie are right; I'm entitled to leave whenever I want. Nothing was simpler than the fact that for some reason, whatever it was, I just didn't want to continue the job. This is my trip, the one I've saved and worked my arse off in the most boring secretarial positions imaginable in order to do. Perhaps I'd underestimated how much the Polo Player valued me. Whatever it is, I can't stand letting people down. As he called me from the truck on the way to Sydney upon hearing I'd been crying, said "Believe me. No one's more upset than I am that you're leaving", I knew that's exactly what I'd done.

But in a way, that's just it. It's always about him. Even when guilt trips came in from his mum, who I got on with incredibly well, the focus was on how important this was for him. If there's any possible way I could just do these two weeks, it would mean so much to him. It's so important for him. To which I replied that I fully understood how important it was, but that my round the world trip was important for me. And no one was looking out for me, except for, well, me.

As the time that I left them all got nearer, I became more detached. No longer on the receiving end of instructions, I could sit back and observe how they were issued. And realise how for the last two months, I've been completely, unknowingly absorbed into a little Polo shaped bubble. Even now, sitting in the centre of Sydney writing this; clean, not a horse or farm in sight, miles from the Polo Player, his family and the horses, I still don't feel fully away from it all yet.

The last few days have been a bit of a shock to the old system.

Let's not leave things like this

Travel plans, time, communication issues. I could come up with any number of reasons why today, as four of us rode down to the field with all the horses, I said

"Polo Player...I don't think I'm going to go"

Annie made a sound resembling 'eek' and pushed her mare into a faster walk, leaving me and the Polo Player level. He fixed me with a glare.

"Right. You're not coming? I can't cover you Jo." His assurances the day before that if I really didn't want to go, then he'd use Matty to groom and use someone else to run the horses out to the field were seemingly forgotten. Instead, "This will f*** us. You're leaving me in the lurch."

I could feel tears planning their escape, so I did that thing where you look in the opposite direction at an interesting blade of grass.

"I'm sorry. I just can't commit to both weeks and I don't want to get all the way up there and let you down at an even worse time."

And then, having heard my plan to come with them to the final game in Sydney, he rode off. We started trotting around the familiar track and my tears made a run for it. my four horses, the perceptive little scamps, slowed their pace and fell into line.

Even though I knew it was the one thing I shouldn't be feeling, guilt panged in my chest.

Blogging is good for internal dilemmas

Ahh, remember when leaving a job was easy?

When you could just say 'Hey, boss! I'm leaving! Seeeee ya!" and bugger off to lie on a beach somewhere in, ooh, I don't know...New Zealand?

Yeah.

See, when I told the Polo Player my plans to scoot next week, I wanted to leave in the middle of the Big, Posh Polo Tournament. This is because The Big, Posh Polo Tournament requires relocation. For two weeks, three grooms, thirteen horses (there has been a casualty) and one polo player are moving to arguably the best polo facility in the world, 6 hours away in the middle of absolute nowhere. Owned by Australia's version of Rupert Murdoch, this place is the pinnacle of polo. It's the big cheese, the secluded compound where you're more likely to see a helicopter making a drop off than a car.

But I've been feeling a bit blue; worn down by on-the-job clashes with Matty, which were spilling over into play time. Plus, with three of us now looking after the horses, it's been a case of 'too many cooks' down at the yard. The idea of taking these problems to a place where I was unable to get away or even get mobile signal made me unhappy. So, the other night, I declared myself out.

Unfortunately, the Polo Player wasn't about to let me go that easily.

Basically, if I'm not posting on Monday, it means that I've decided to succumb to the Polo Player's lengthy and scarily persuasive chat on how everything will go to pot if I'm not there. And I need to be there for the whole time. Not a few days, not one week, but two. His words, not mine.

If you don't hear from me in the next two weeks, it's because I'm in the middle of nowhere. Grooming, possibly having the time of my life, possibly being driven mad, possibly being miserable, possibily wasting 2 weeks of travel time, possibly wishing I was elsewhere, possibly loving it, possibly hating it. Who knows.

Oh, I don't know what to do.

Do I go with my selfish instinct, the same one that made me book this trip in the first place, and spend the last month of alone time travelling around New Zealand? Or do I choose to make life easier for someone else and continue doing something I'm already questioning?

Arrghh.

I'll decide tomorrow.

Yeah, it's now...isn't it?

Time is flying.

Despite what my most recent posts seem to suggest, this grooming lark is a good buzz. It's hard work, my emotions pretty much fly from Africa to the Arctic every day, but I'm slowly realising that the best experiences while travelling aren't necessarily the ones which make you convulse from laughing. You've said it and I know it: when all this is over, I'm going to look back on these last seven weeks and feel like I've done something that backpacker buses, bunk beds and tour guides wouldn't even come close to. Then I'm going to sleep in until 11am every single day for the next four months.

I was going to write about Saturday. How I was single handedly in charge of sorting 14 horses for a whole, four person team; my only help coming from Annie, who is as clueless about polo as I was six weeks ago. How I failed to get one horse out to the field in time for the entire match. How, although it was forecast to rain, we instead had burning 30 degree sunshine, 60% humidity and more flies than a long-drop toilet. How, despite all that, the Polo Player still thanked me profusely for my help, blamed someone else for being unorganised and gave Annie and I lots of beer. But enough of me rattling on about the ups and downs, I think you probably get the idea.

Instead, I think it's time to wrap it up. I've spent my day off lying on the sofa with the Little Blue Dog nestled against me, watching Hollywood's Most Vacuous give eachother gold statues and verbal hand jobs live on TV. While some perma-tan silver fox waxed lyrical on screen, I told the Polo Player that I'm thinking of making a move soon. The initial reaction wasn't great, which was to be expected as I've possibly picked the worst time to go in terms of polo. "We could do with having you until the end of the month. Have a think about it", I was told. So I did - again.

The Polo Player returned to the living room later, where I lay with my feet tucked under the Blue Dog, and my arms draped over the Jack Russell on my lap.

"Don't worry about it. If you need to go, we'll sort something out" he said, as if he'd been thinking about it too.
"I'm not about to leave anyone in the lurch, and if you need me to stay then I will."

But assured that something would be organised, my two weeks notice was accepted.

There's just one more place to visit before I go.

Misery loves female company

I reached the edge again on Tuesday. A twelve hour day, hamburger for lunch and then nothing until...well, nothing. Until we got home from the Local Pub where we'd gone straight after work and I'd boycotted dinner and gone to bed. The logic being I can eat, but not sleep, in the morning.

The Polo Player had spent the day stressed about money issues (ie. severe lack of it), Matty was stressed from having to ride 21 horses in a day while the Polo Player sorted said money issues out. I was stressed from the stress of being around a stressed teenager and a 32 year old who was increasingly acting like one.

"What's wrong with you today anyway? You've hardly said two words" I'd asked Matty that morning, as his silence while I tacked up horses while he rode had begun to grate.
"Nothing. I'm just having a quiet day."
"Well as long as it's not a bloody stroppy day." I'd replied over my shoulder as I threw a saddle on yet another horse.
"Yeah. Stop sulking. Only women get PMT, buddy" the Polo Player chipped in helpfully.

Tensions had risen with the alcohol levels later in the pub. Hungry, tired and failing to win any argument we had, whether the subject was horses or celebrities, I sat in the back of the Ute at 11pm on the way home, with silent tears streaming down my face. This was it. Finito. The End. I don't need this shit on holiday.

I took myself to bed and cried while doors slammed outside. The Polo Player drove off to collect the new groom, an Irish girl who was to replace me when I left in a few weeks time. Perfect timing, I thought. I'm outta here.

The next morning, my mood low, I was down on the yard as usual sorting out the horses. The Polo Player pulled up, and out got him and the new groom.

"Hi, I'm Annie", she said.
"Hey. I'm Jo. Nice to meet you" I replied, shaking her hand.
"Right, JoJo will show you how we do things, I've got some stuff to sort back at the house. Go and, err, chat or something."

And we did. We chatted, and chatted, and chatted. And I thought, this girl's quite cool. We talked boys, we talked horses, we talked nails, make up and Home. We talked about her frankly horrendous experience on another farm which made my time here look like playgroup. I realised it was the first good female conversation I'd had in a long time and that potentially, this friendly Irish girl could keep me sane.

By the end of the day, we were back down at the pub; the two of us curled up on the sofa, laughing while the boys played pool and making plans for our next day off.

"I think me and you are going to get on well, Jo" she said, as we ordered another G&T each on the Polo Player's bar fund.

And so the pattern continued, and my abusive relationship with Polo Grooming took yet another turn for the better.

Friday Night

If I hadn't just googled it, I'd just describe the area where I've been living as well, farmland. As in, it's not a village, as that would imply there's something there. It's just, well, fields and stuff.

The nearest place for your basics is 17km away in Town. Town consists of a few quiet streets, shop fronts with wooden verandas and stencilled signage straight out of the 1920s, a train station and a supermarket. For chain stores and shopping centres, you'll want the city of Wagga Wagga, which is over 50km away. For special occasions (or polo matches), Sydney and Melbourne are both reachable after a five hour drive on a long, straight road where there's nothing but sheep and cows on either side.

But where I am is none of these things. Google calls it a "locality", a blink-and-you'll-miss-it section of road to somewhere else; population 190. What it does have, is a central hub. And by this, I mean pub. Which is also a hotel. Which also doubles as a post office and general store selling only the essentials (coca cola, bread, milk and beer).

Although the Polo Player and his family frequent this Pub regularly, Friday was my first time in there. The Polo Player took Matty and I for a meal and some drinks before our weekend of polo began. "Woo, Friday night" said Matty, who, on his fourth visit, had a hint of sarcasm to his voice. "It'll be going off"

Now, clearly I'm not the average patron of this particular Pub. For one, I didn't know absolutely everyone by name, as the 30 or so other people in there seemed to. Secondly, I wasn't sporting a beer gut, beard, plaid shirt or work boots. In fact, for the first time since bootcut went out, I walked into a drinking establishment and was the only girl dressed in super skinny jeans and a Zara cardigan. Which as any European girl knows, is a pretty rare occurrence.

While families sat eating and chatting in big groups, the usual lone suspects sat at the bar, swapping brief comments with the barman, ordering schooners and middies of beer, or cans of mixed spirits. Conversation was focused on local, not worldly issues. We got stools and sat around the bar, while the Polo Player greeted those who walked past and talked about farming in a drought and other subjects a million miles away from my London life.

As the night wore on, the families went home. I could tell the night was really about to kick off when some wild thing put Guns N Roses on the jukebox.

It wasn't long before a chubby blonde 30-something trucky, who later told me he'd left school at 14 and "can't read or write too good" but thankfully "can count alright!", sidled up and offered to buy me a drink. Having politely declined, he commenced the 'getting to know you' chat, much to the amusement of a smirking Matty who was earwigging in between pool shots.

As it ticked onto midnight and our 5am wake up crept ever closer, the three of us called it a night. At this point the bloke I'd been chatting to earlier shuffled up and put a piece of paper in my hand. "Err...umm...this is for if you're ever in Sydney" he said, before disappearing back to his side of the bar.

I got into the car and unfolded the paper.



It's safe to say that Hayden won't be getting a phone call, but for all the amusement it gave me, I reckon the Local Pub is definitely worth another visit.

Saturday: It hits

Polo grooming is a bit like an abusive relationship. You get all the bruising, sweating and aching, swearing that it'll be the last time you suffer through it. Next thing you know, you're back on the proverbial horse as if none of it ever happened.

See even though I was having the worst day of my short polo grooming career, I was stubborn about not wanting to quit. My work history at home has consisted of me finding something I love, doing it for free, before gradually getting disillusioned and losing interest. Time and time again the going gets tough, so I get going. Granted, a lot of it's to do with the non-payment. If you're working for free, you expect something in return. I've stuck this job out so far because in return for my hard work, I get free accommodation, food and a lovely family to live with. My bank account has remained practically untouched since January. Ultimately, it means I can travel for longer and experience things I otherwise wouldn't. It's just slowly, the hours have upped, the time off has heavily depleted. It was time to weigh up what I wanted.

I woke up on Saturday feeling resigned. I didn't want to quit, but I didn't want to spend my time away being miserable and knackered. There were two games to get through before we could pack up and head home. Two games that Matty was playing in now too, so I'd be doing everything myself. It was a decider in more ways than one.

The routine begins. Saddles first, followed by three bridles, then the plaited tail gets folded up and taped in place, top, middle and bottom. Girths are tightened and I walk the first pony out to the Polo Player. The game horn sounds.

First horse plays half a chukka, comes back. The next goes out.

Then, panic.

The pace switches. Suddenly, you're throwing tack off the first horse onto the truck, unravelling bandages and ripping the tail free of the tape. Headcollar on. Taking the heavily breathing, sweating horse, it's veins visible through the drenched fur, and running with it towards the nearest hose. Cold water sprays and mud splatters up your legs, the horse throws its head in the air, spins in circles, unable to stand still. Now soaked, you run it back to the horsebox, fingers fumbling with the rope as you tie it up. Three minutes gone. The second horse is already back. The third is out. Your breathing is going mental. Fuck, shit, bollocks where is the sodding...ah, there. Ok. ARGH. Remember the second horse is going out again in the fifth chukka. Right. Keep it's bandages on and tail up. The fourth and fifth horse needs saddles on. Wash the third. Tack up the first again.

Then... just like that, adrenaline hits.

The pace is the same, but you've got everything under control. You're enjoying yourself. It's calm all of a sudden. You're smiling, even. One by one, the horses go out and you're experiencing a rush of happiness. Quit? This? No, no. I'm grooming for a whole game on my own for the first time. Think how much better I'll be next week! Why would I give up now?

Twenty minutes later, the Polo Player appears in his car. My legs are streaked with brown watermarks, my hat shields the sun from half a grubby face. There's black under my nails and my white t-shirt is stained with horse sweat, leather and dust. There's blood, not mine, on my arm.

He hands me a bottle of Victoria Bitter and a packet of crisps and says 'JoJo, you look like a polo groom'.

Adrenaline makes my decision for me. I'll give it another couple of weeks.

I'm easily won.

Friday: Welcome to the Edge.

Ahh, those demanding days at the office. You knowwww...when your tolerance levels are pushed and one thing piles on top of the next. E-mails constantly flood in, your day consists of you standing in the toilets, fanning your eyes and trying to pull yourself together. You eventually get home after a fatigued and lonely commute, and have a cuddle, cry or wine bottle or three, and go to bed early, feeling rubbish.

God, what I'd do for one of those.

Tell you what, let's swap. Try getting up at half past 6 and doing physical, muscle-achingly demanding work until gone 1am in the morning. Your eyes are shutting of their own accord on the journey back from Polo Practice, but getting through the gates at home doesn't mean your day is finally over. It means that 14 pent up horses will have to be unloaded and walked down the pitch black track to their various paddocks before you can even contemplate your duvet. Then there are 14 individual feeds and two bales of hay to make up, pick up and distribute. It's two o'clock before you get to sleep, then your phone beeps. It's the rural equivalent of the office e-mail, containing an extensive list of jobs and horses to sort for the next morning, concluded with the words 'go fast'. You're back down on the farm by 7am, feeding, riding, cleaning, preparing for another six hour trip to Melbourne and another two days of grooming at polo tournaments. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

So come Friday evening, after three days of exhausting work in 30+ degree heat, legs and arms streaked with dirt and a packet of crisps since breakfast to keep me going, it's fair to say I'd reached the edge. I'd slept on my discontent the night before and instead of feeling refreshed, had woken up to an even worse day.

Not only was this the hardest physical work I've ever done in my life, but my decision making skills were coming under fire, too. Having been given more work and more responsibility this week, I found myself either completing jobs in the wrong order, or just not the way the Polo Player would do them himself. See, when you're looking after someone elses horses, the right way is their way. Not yours. And that's that. So there I stood in the horse box, my office toilet on Friday evening, making up feeds and taking deep breaths of ammonia and manure scented air. Stressed, hungry, and tired, I knew I'd be laughed at if I complained, let alone cried about any of it.

Instead, I chose Create Message.

To: Boyfriend
I'm going to lose it in a minute :(


Message Sending Failed.

In times of need, you can trust Vodafone to be on hand, reminding you that frustrated texts don't work when you're in the middle of nowhere.

When I flew back from New Zealand, I'd made a deal with myself: that I'd carry on doing this for as long as I was having fun. Unfortuntely, I went to bed late on Friday feeling like the lows were far outweighing the highs.

But my alarm was set for 7am, and there was another day of polo to get through before any decision could be made.

I had no option but to sleep on it again.

Return to Oz

"All sorted Jo Jo. You're getting picked up from the airport. See you when you get here."

It was all a bit last minute. Flights were booked late on Friday morning, and by 9pm that night, Qantas was whisking me back over to Australia. I was meeting the Polo Player, Matty and 14 horses in Melbourne, but as yet had no idea where. Despite three days of rest in Auckland, I felt shattered and slightly nervous about my latest decision to postpone New Zealand and continue working in the elite, slightly alien world of Australian polo. My three week dalliance as a groom had become a season-long commitment, unpaid for the moment, and I wondered if I'd made the right choice.

I thought about it all the way through immigration and passport control, where I got my fourth visa stamp of the week. I pondered it through baggage claim, into arrivals. I jittered about my decision as I stood outside Melbourne Airport, backpack on a trolley next to me, waiting for a lift to god knows where. I considered my change of plans right up until the chauffeur arrived, picked up my bags, opened the door to a blacked out car and told me we were going to Melbourne's newest five star boutique accommodation.

Somewhere between being asked if the car temperature was ok, and arriving at this spotless contemporary building which was more art gallery than hotel - I decided I'd probably done alright. Reassurance kept coming when I walked into our room at 12am, found the Polo Player eating a complimentary chocolate souffle in the lounge area, with Matty and the Hotel Director sprawled over two queen sized beds watching the flat screen TV and drinking Corona; a bottle of which landed in my hand as soon as my bags hit the floor.

With two large beds and dividing curtains, there was no confusion about the sleeping arrangements this week. But as the Polo Player yelled 'Hey JoJo! Look!" before pressing his arse, then balls against the walls of the frosted glass en-suite bathroom on Sunday morning, and when my shower was interrupted by shouts of 'We can see you naked! WOOOO!', I had a feeling that we'd all be getting pretty well acquainted over the coming weeks anyway.

As far as my latest travel choice goes, I'll take the odd stay in a posh hotel over privacy any day.

The price of a bath

“Well, you have a choice. Spa bath… or bed” said Matty, setting his bags down.

I’d opened the door to our Melbourne motel room and was taking in the sleeping situation. A tinge of awkwardness began to rise in my chest. The Polo Player had jetted over to Sydney for a night out with some very rich American clients and err, some porn star strippers (as you do). In his absence, me and Matty, the rather good looking, 19 year old polo player who also works with us, were getting downsized.

We’d already rejected the first room because, unlike the previous night, it didn’t have the luxury of a spa. See, I love a bath. I haven’t had a bath, let alone a huge one with jets and bubbles, since I left home. So there we were; I’d got my spa bath, but unfortunately, it was at a cost.

Sharing a room with a bloke doesn’t really bother me, but sharing a double bed as well as the two packs of Corona we’d just bought was another story. It wasn’t that I worried about explaining it to the boyfriend, it wasn’t that I was worried something might happen. The whole situation just felt a bit…weird. So while Matty was patting himself on the proverbial back, I was looking around for a solution. Then I noticed the sofa.

“Is that a sofa bed? Does it fold out?”

Matty answered far too quickly. “No, I don’t think so…”, his voice trailing off as I removed the cushions and revealed precisely that.

“Right! I’ll have the sofa bed as I get a double at the farm, and I had a double last night”

“Are you sure?” he answered, the hope fading from his eyes. “Is there enough bedding?”

“Yep! Look, there’s sheets and pillows in the wardrobe. Done. Sorted. Ok. Let’s eat.”

Subject changed, we cracked open the beers and food. Little did I know, there was still one hurdle to go: the Spa. Three beers down, and Matty’s running the bath. Surely, I thought, he’s going to just shut the door, have his spa, then I’ll have mine. But…hang on. Why is he putting his swimming trunks on? Why would you wear your trunks in the bath unless you were expecting…Oh.

Right on cue, my phone rang. “Boyfriend! Hellooo!” I said, shrugging apologetically at the slightly tipsy, half naked 19 year old standing in front of me clutching his towel. He waited about 10 minutes before giving up and hopping into the spa, leaving the door open, emerging again soon after to find me still yapping away. "Are you still on the phone to your boyfriend? It’s boring in there on my own…I want you to come and talk to me!”

To the Boyfriend’s credit, he took overhearing his girlfriend being beckoned into a bath with another bloke very well. “Oh, Matty’s just wondering around the room dripping water everywhere. Apparently I’m boring.” I said by way of explanation.

Eventually, seeing that I wasn’t getting off the phone any time soon, Matty retreated to the bathroom, shut the door, and bathed alone. “I don’t know how you do it” he said, drunk now, as we lay watching a film in our separate beds later on. “all that time apart. You should have some fuuuun…”

Whether it was his age which put me off, the fact that all the “fuuuun” has been sapped out of me, or just plain not being tempted by the offer of even the most innocent shared spa experience, I’m not sure. Once again, I’d found myself having to defend my choice to be In A Relationship. But when you're working with blokes to whom the word "relationship" means precisely nish all, sometimes you just have to play along.

“So, last night...did you two...?” asked the Polo Player on his return from the airport.

“Yeah” I replied casually, rolling my eyes, “Twice, and once in the morning.”

“Nah. Don’t believe you. Matty wouldn’t have it in him. Once, maybe. But not three times.”

You can’t win.

Horses, sweat and polo

I got up at 5:30am on Friday morning to a darkening sky. Rumbles and occasional flashes of white light were accompanied by the sort of humidity which means just one thing. That you, my dear, better swap jeans for shorts, unleash your Kag in a Bag, hop on the quad bike and prepare to get very, very muddy. Two hours later, the horses loaded onto the truck, rain hammering down; we set off on the five hour drive to Melbourne with no idea whether the game would even be on or not once we got there.

Luckily, the rain in Melbourne had come and gone. As soon as we arrived, we unpacked animals and equipment and got to work. I was about to get my first real taste of what being a polo groom is all about. I can exclusively reveal that it's mainly flapping around horses in a field in manner of rabbit on vast amounts of speed.

It goes a bit like this: bandage forty four legs, plait and tape up 11 tails, put on and adjust the first five saddles and bridles. Wipe over all leather, checking and re-checking that everything's done up tight. Send that horse to the pony lines to play. Get the next one ready. After the first chukka (which is seven minutes of game play – or less if they’re doing half chukkas. There are usually 6 chukkas in a match), the first horse comes off. The Polo Player jumps – literally – from that pony onto the next one. At this point, you have about one minute to remove all bandages, tack, tape, and hose the sweating, blowing, adrenaline pumped horse down from head to tail. Then you've got another few minutes to put everything onto another horse further down the line, and re-check the one which is going on next. Repeat for the length of the game, for however many horses your player is using. Add in some last minute changes depending on how each horse is performing on the field, throw in 30-something degree heat et voila! J'suis sweaty-betty.

Not that I thought I'd be hanging around watching polo and sipping champagne all day in this job, but it's certainly more complicated and a lot harder than I expected. It's made all the more stressful by the knowledge that a horse and player’s safety is largely down to you and your attention to detail before the horse even reaches the field. So, ya know, no pressure or anything.

It was nearly an hour after the game had finished; the saddles were neatly stacked away, the ponies were fed, watered and standing in their stalls which were to be their bed for the weekend. I’d begun the long process of re-rolling all the leg bandages we'd used when the Polo Player appeared. It was at that point I realised something important had slipped my mind.

“Oh! Did we win?”

“Yeah! By two goals. Thanks for your hard work, you did well. Leave those bandages for now – it's beer time.”

Knackered, still in soggy Converse, mud splattered jeans and a sweat-dried top; a cold Stella in a field has never tasted so good.

Same again next weekend, please.

Preparations

As I mentioned the other day, the Polo Player's first game of the season is taking place this weekend in Melbourne. We're taking 14 horses and four muzzles (yes, as in dog, but equine) with us. Number of horseboxes required? Just the one. It's so big, they've got CCTV and video screen hooked up so the driver can keep an eye on our four legged friends in the back. And / or put a DVD on for the passenger when the road gets dull.

With all those ponies to preen and prepare, it's fair to say that taking care of myself hasn't really been high on my list of priorities. My nails are broken and harbouring vast quantities of dirt; my eyebrows could do with a pluck or twenty. My arms, exposed all day, are turning a dark shade of brown, but I'm really not sure whether I'm tanned or just dirty. By the time I've taken the quad bike back to the house at half 6 and jumped in the shower, I've barely got the energy to wash my hair and scrub my skin, let alone shave my cactus-like legs.

But I have to say, I really quite like it. Not only is being a bit mucky inevitable when you live in a place where the last rain fell 12 years ago, but it's really quite ok here not to be clean. It's not ok to be smelly (e.g. yesterday when the Polo Player caught a whiff of The Great Dane's B.O, went 'f***ing hell mate' and handed him a can of deodorant), but unclean, yes. Being the only girl in a team of three blokes (the Polo Player's friend, a tall, blonde 19 year old, has also come to stay and play polo for the season - and Roseki, yes, he is), it's fair to say that I get the brunt of the sexist jokes. And arse slapping. And several earfuls a day of hilariously crude, Aussie humour.

So when the Polo Player sat us all down at breakfast yesterday morning for an impromptu 'business meeting' (aka, he got up late and needed time to drink his coffee), he soon compiled a To Do List. As you'll see below, my flights, the horses medication and equipment, as well as our weekend accommodation, were all on the day's agenda.

And then there's item four.



It seems as the token female, a fine layer of dirt is more than welcome. But legs so spiky that they impale any hand brushing past them, are not.

Bah. Not fair.

'If you can't ride the horses, you're gonna have to be awesome on the yard. Or you're wasting everyone's time.'

The Polo Player issued these firm words to The Great Dane after yet another disastrous attempt at riding a set (pictured. Vaguely).

Having refused the offer of a crate, the 5 ft 1 Great Dane had spent ten minutes trying to get onto his designated horse and another five trying to collect the ropes for the two he was (meant to be) leading alongside.

After two circuits of the field and several near misses with the ground whilst on a horse "my grandmother could ride", he was sent back to the yard. Demoted to the most basic of stable duties and still getting it wrong; clearly things were still not going well.

It had been a week of constant corrections, leaping ponies, wrong saddles and stupid "WHAART?" questions. That's before you add in the tea slurping and loud crunching of toast I'd have to sit through, grimacing, at breakfast each morning. The fact is, everyone was getting near boiling point. When you're dealing with horses worth tens of thousands of dollars each, there's only so many mistakes you can be allowed to make. Equally, when you're dealing with feed supplements worth $360 per 500g tub and you manage to forget this within two minutes of putting them in the bucket, and give it to the wrong horse; it's time to realise that a career as a polo groom might not be your calling in life.

Luckily for us, this is the one and only thing that hadn't escaped The Great Dane's notice. With a "Hey man, I don't think this is working out", TGD admitted defeat and will be leaving us in Melbourne on Thursday, before we embark on our first weekend of competitive polo. So congratulations, not twitter, whose estimation of 'I give him a week, tops' was pretty much spot on.

And me? Well, I've had my own decisions to make. The Polo Player asked me to stay on and continue working, as he'll be playing in matches around the country every weekend from now on. But my 3 month holiday visa expires next week and I'm due to fly out to New Zealand on Tuesday. So, I don't have a lot of choice. I'm leaving.

Until Saturday.

When, after a week in Auckland, he's flying me back out to Australia again.

This renews my visa, giving me another three months in the country. It looks like my eight month, round the world trip is about to hit it's first major change of direction.

Plans. Who needs 'em?

The (Not So) Great Dane

On Monday, the Polo Player and I picked up the farm's newest member of staff. A fellow backpacker; The Great Dane arrived having wangled himself a job here for the next few months.

Firstly, I should explain the reason for this slightly ironic (blog-use only, I'm not that mean) nickname. Our new addition hails from Denmark and stands at around 5 foot 1 inch tall. Maybe 5 foot 2 at a push, I'm not sure, I haven't measured. All I know is that he's smaller than me and has the strangest collection of facial hair I've ever seen. He speaks and understands English extremely well. Unfortunately, he has all the horse-sense of a toad.

Anyway, I'm all for equal opportunities in the workplace. But if there's one workplace where being vertically and horse-ily challenged might be a hindrance, it's on a polo yard where most of the work involves putting saddles, bridles and yourself on fairly sizable horses. Never mind riding them 5 abreast around a field. But you know, I'm an open minded girl and if the boy can do it, he can do it. Right?

Right. Except...the extent of his riding experience was a year at boarding school 'where there were horses'. He puts saddles on closer to the horses tail than their neck. Yesterday, he spent at least ten minutes trying to take a bridle off, before I had to come and remove it for him. I raised my eyebrows when the Polo Player tasked TGD with leading a mare and her foal to another field. Having spent the day re-doing every strap and saddle TGD had done up, I proposed a bet with the equally frustrated Polo Player.

"Five dollars says something goes tits up" I said, as we sped away on the quad bike to relocate some other ponies. "Done" he replied, and we returned to the field 20 minutes later to find The Great Dane with a 'sprained finger' and a story about how a three week old foal jumped a wire fence. "Five dollars" I mouthed to the seething Polo Player, once he'd finished spraining The Great Dane's ears.

Ok, so maybe I'm being overly critical. No matter how much experience you have, there's a learning curve at the start of every job and I am certainly no exception. I do things wrong. Then I listen, I learn, I make every effort to put it right the next time. So try to understand my frustration in having to say the same things over and over again, showing someone how to do something multiple times, only for them to still mess it up. Even the simplest of jobs requires repetition, because every time the Great Dane is given instructions you get the same initial response: "WHAAART?"

Case in point:

"TGD, can you pick up that water bucket and fill it, because the horses are going to be in all day."
"WHAART?"
"The water bucket in that horse's stall is on it's side. Can you pick it up and fill it?"
"Oh, yes"

At this point, The Great Dane picks the water bucket up, turns it upright, and walks away to resume staring into space. You take a deep breath.

"Ah. No. TGD, wait...I said to FILL the water bucket up. The horses are in all day. They will need a drink"
"WHAAART?"

(Oh dear God. Breaaaathe.)

"THE HORSES...will be in their stalls...ALL DAY. They will need a DRINK OF WATER. Can you FILL the WATER BUCKET up, using the hose OVER THERE."
"Oh, yes"

It's one thing having the horse sense of an amphibian. It's another to be completely lacking in common sense or own initiative.

Me and The Great Dane are not going to be best buddies.

"WHAART?"

I said...Oh, sod off.

And it's pardon.

Australia Day, one to remember.

Given that I am currently living in the middle of absolute nowhere and pretty much confined to the farm most days, it's safe to say that I wasn't expecting much in the way of entertainment on Australia Day.

We'd had a busy day, riding over 25 ponies in sweltering temperatures. I also managed to add another injury to my now battered hands. A horse I was leading in a set pulled back suddenly - taking the rope and a healthy layer of flesh from between my thumb and forefinger with it. On the flipside, at least now I know I can ride and lead four horses one handed should the need ever arise.

Then the Polo Player announced that we were going to a pub, 50 minutes drive away, close to the Posh Polo Club where he sometimes plays. "Woohoo" thought I, grasping the opportunity to wear something other than my now absolutely filthy jeans and a top that isn't covered in an orange layer of dust. I'd meet other grooms and players and with any luck, get completely smashed.

On went a splattering of make up, mostly unused since my arrival, and a splosh of perfume. Off we went to the pub and down went my first pint. It was then that my old friend made an appearance.

I've suffered with migraines since I was little; usually following a day of excitement or stress, a lot of sunshine, and where I've had limited or sweet things to eat and not enough water during the day. Thankfully, what used to be a weekly occurrence became a monthly, then yearly one as I got older. Although now, warning bells still begin to ring when a small headache becomes an all encompassing, "the light, the light, I can't stand the light" clamp around your head which no paracetamol will touch with a bargepole. And that, ladies, gents and fellow sufferers, is what happened last night.

And so it was that my Australia Day celebrations consisted of me, lying across the back seat of the Polo Player's car, fighting off waves of nausea and the stigma attached to saying 'No, I can't have that shot of tequila, I've got a really bad headache' to a group of fired up drunks. Newsflash: a migraine isn't just something bored wives say to their husbands.

Although I think when I went deathly pale, started crying from the pain and then threw up on the way home, that anyone doubting the extent of my illness got the message.

Migraines: Taking Jo down since 1984. Hurrah.



*The picture above is of a 'willy-willy' or a dust devil, a tornado style whirlwind which rips through the farm at least once a day. Today's willy-willy was about 10 times the size and ferocity of the one in the photo. It ploughed through me and a load of horses being led up the track, scattering them, picking up and spitting out buckets, dust and debris as it went. Pretty cool in a 'please don't kill me' sort of way.

You know that thing where you think "Oh, I haven't seen so and so in a while" and then you see them?

Since being out here, I've started little routines that I wouldn't normally do at home. Like tapping and shaking out clothes and shoes before putting them on. Checking under (most) toilet seats before sitting down. Not walking through longish grass without trainers and heavy footfalls. It's not paranoia, and I'm not particularly squeamish or scared of what I might find - it's just common sense. Australia's got it's fair share of big, small and dangerous wildlife; I just hadn't encountered any yet.

Well, a word of advice.

Avoid having such "Hmm, funny, I haven't seen..." thoughts about spiders when you're living on a farm in New South Wales. It's called tempting fate.

I'd just finished cleaning a relatively trouble free feed shed (i.e., nothing that scuttled out was larger than my big toe) down on the yard. Job done, I walked back to my room and switched on the light.

"HOLY F*****CKING MOTHER OF GOD, YOU'RE BIG." I said, staring at the wall where something had not so much caught, but forcibly dragged my eye. I felt the colour drain from my face. "Sh*t the bed. Oh god. Jesus, you are massive."

Not knowing what to do apart from stare, wide eyed and open mouthed - it was beyond squashing size and its thick legs looked more than capable of a lengthy jump - I sat down at the end of my bed. This thing, I reasoned, feeling slightly sick, didn't just creep in while I was out. Nothing that big could fit under the crack beneath the door. It's been in my room the whole time, biding it's time, waiting to reveal itself to the young British girl who dared not to be scared of Aussie spiders.



After a few more minutes of trying and failing to ignore the Wall Monster, I switched the light off and walked into the main house. The Dad was sitting in the living room.
"Bob..." I said, appearing in the doorway, "Are you any good at err, moving spiders? There's a massive one..." I made a box shape with my hands... "in my room"
He looked up.
"Ah, it's just a Huntsman. He eats the flies. He's alright, won't hurt ya. Just sits in the corner." before turning his attention back to the TV.
"Err...right." I said, thinking I'd rather have the flies hanging around than Satan's eight legged incarnate, "And umm, well does it, will it...bite?"
"Nah. Not usually."
"Not usually. Good. Ok."

Next, I tried the Polo Player.

"Polo Player?" I said hopefully, changing tact. "There's a spider the size of a small goat in my room. Bob said it eats flies, but I'm pretty sure we're talking about different things because this one looks like it's recently eaten one of your foals."
"That's a huntsman. Big eh? He'll be alright. More scared of you than you are of him."
"Look, it's not so much that it's going to hurt me, and as long as I can keep my eye on it, I don't mind. It's just...if I switch off the light tonight and manage to sleep, and I wake up and it's gone...or worst still sitting on my bed..."

Realising I was largely being ignored - nay, laughed at - by the male members of the household, I took my case elsewhere: The Mum. "Oh yes, completely harmless but scary looking, aren't they? I used to have to move them from the kids' rooms in case they got frightened. I won't kill it. I'll get it out with a broom."

And so ten minutes later, slightly embarrassed that my fear was on par with an Australian six year old, my room was rid of it's resident fly catcher.

I'm sorry, Australia. I'll never doubt you and your capacity for huge, great big and gargantuan killing beasts again.

“You know your mate... I'm heading in that direction and I've got three weeks spare. Do you think he still needs help?"

A text message, two emails and a game of phone tag later and I was sitting on a train at Melbourne’s Southern Cross Station. It was 8:30am on a cold, rainy Monday morning, but I was feeling prettttty good about my latest decision.

I was leaving Melbourne after just two nights and one full day, but I couldn’t wait to get going. Some of the commenters on my previous post were surprised that I didn’t give Melbourne a fair chance. But understand this: it wasn’t Melbourne I was bored of, it was backpacking. It was visiting my third city in a month. It was ticking another box. I don’t want to shop, go to cafes, drink and dance in bars or clubs with the sort of people I’d meet back home. For one, I did all that last time I was here. For two, I can do all that in London. Given me and the Boyfriend’s brief track record, there’ll be plenty of that to come in April.

I needed a break. I know that Australia has more to offer than just the backpacker scene; drinking, bus tours, taking photos of kangaroos and following everyone else to the next Lonely Planet review. And I wanted to see it. Now.

So that’s how I ended up on a train heading across into the depths of New South Wales. After five hours, I reached Wagga Wagga (pronounced Wogga Wogga). Waiting in a ute ready to whisk me away was a 32 year old stocky blonde bloke. We'd spoken once on the phone and exchanged two text messages. To say I had no idea what to expect is an understatement.

After a 40 minute drive into the middle of nowhere, he turned up a long driveway. “Here’s home” he said, as we clattered over a cattle grid and a huge, white house appeared through the trees. I was shown my room just off the large veranda, complete with TV and double bed, then the kitchen. Photographs and accolades hung on the walls, while the choice of magazines left no question as to the family’s main interest. We went back outside, where no less than 7 dogs, from Dalmation to Jack Russell, ran to greet me.

“Right, I’ll show you the rest. Hop on the back” said my host, climbing onto the dusty red quad bike on the driveway. We sped off, dogs in hot pursuit, along the orange dirt track between fields. Eventually we came to a stop. “Right, Jo Jo” he said, pulling up outside one occupied field and opening the gate, “Let’s get these puppies in.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon rounding up no less than 50 horses at breakneck speed on the quad bike, bringing them from the back fields into the yard. The polo season had just started, and it was time for the ponies – and me - to come back off holiday and into work.

‘You ever ridden a set before?’ asked my host and new boss, a professional polo player for the Australian Team and owner of “about 90” horses, 20 of whom were standing in front of me waiting to be exercised. Things were going well. I'd gone from Jo the backpacker to Jo the polo groom in just under half an hour.

When I offered to come and help the Polo Player for three weeks in exchange for accommodation and food, little did I know that everything I’ve been taught about riding in my twenty five years was about to be undone. No hat? Check. Wearing jeans? Check. No contact on the reins? Check. Steering using only pressure on the horses neck? Check. Cantering a horse around a field in 35+ degree heat, with three more tethered to each other on either side (aka, a set)? Check. Leading five horses in from a field from the back of a quad bike? Check.

6am starts and covered in a thick layer of dust at all times? Check.

Absolutely loving it?



Ahh. At long last...Check.