What is a WWOOF?

Part One:

Three months before Viki and I left for New Zealand it was the peak of the summer in Vancouver. We were still living in Kits and I was bartending downtown. Most of my shifts started late in the evening so I had time during the day to enjoy the heat instead of working in it. I could cycle along the seawall rather than framing in a sweltering high-rise like I had done summers before. Some days I would walk out of our apartment, put my headphones in, and be at Kits Pool before a song had finished. The trade-off was that my day ended late and I’d usually get home at 3 a.m., but for a season it was worthwhile.

I met up with my cousin Andrew on one of these perfect weather afternoons. We rode our bikes to a cafe and discussed different cycling trips we’d done lately. My most recent one had been to Vancouver Island and he’d recently been to Denman Island. He told me about how, as with most popular spots in BC, the camping was becoming expensive and availability was scarce. His alternative idea saved him a substantial amount. He told me about W.W.O.O.F.: a website that connects people who need help on their property or farm with those that are looking for somewhere to stay. Usually a few hours of labour in exchange for a bed and meals. When I told him about the plan to travel to New Zealand he lit up. He had an excitement about him and I knew it was a no brainer that we would have to try wwoofing during our trip.

Since arriving in New Zealand two months ago we have stayed at three different wwoofs. In all likeliness we will line up more wwoofs in the future and end up revisiting some of the ones we’ve already been to. The homes we’ve stayed at have given us a glimpse into the lives of Kiwis (Kiwi = a person from New Zealand). Our first introduction to wwoofing was at the Buffalo Farm

The Buffalo Farm

Viki and I flew to New Zealand with a backpack each, fully loaded. With all of our belongings on our backs we were set to begin an adventure. To get around NZ we planned to take the InterCity bus system. The first fare we booked was from Downtown Auckland to Wellsford, an hour and a half north. As we left Auckland and the city disappeared behind us the landscape quickly became big green hills and paddocks and farms. We met Devon as soon as we got off the bus in Wellsford. After a brief hello we shuffled our bags into his truck and set off deeper into the countryside. We had messaged him weeks prior about staying at his farm so the smell of manure in the cab shouldn’t have been a surprise. He immediately pressed me about my experience milking cows which, to be honest, I may have over sold.

When we got to his house we met the other wwoofers and Devon’s dog Molly. Six of them were from France and one was from Germany. Nine woofers in total. After another set of quick introductions we were put straight to work. Viki went to feed the buffalo calves and Devon took me to the pig shed halfway across the farm.

Given that he had brought a rifle along and told me to put on a fresh pair of overalls and gum boots I had a fair idea what we were doing but I couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. I had been on a farm before and I had slaughtered a handful of cows but this had a different dynamic to it. Here I was in a foreign country with a man that was still a stranger to me and we were far enough away from the farmhouse that no one could see us. I had to press my judgement feverishly to see if I had missed any red flags. He passed me a couple of steel hooks and walked into the shed. I followed him in. After I decided I wasn’t in some sick horror story I had to wrestle with what was going to happen. He killed two of the pigs and I helped carry them out. The hooks acted as handles so that we could lift the pork into the back of the truck. Thoughts about death and the necessity of it ran through my mind. As uncomfortable as it can be to watch and listen to an animal as it dies it feels like a valuable experience. It reminds me of the sacrifice on the other side of a hamburger.

We took the two dead pigs down to the cooler and started processing them. Molly the dog came by to get a bite of her favourite bits. After we finished dividing the pork into bags we stopped for lunch. Lunch was usually something that came from Devon’s farm or a neighbour’s. That day we had sheep sausage and sheep liver, thanks to a neighbour. Devon informed all of us we’d have pork for dinner tomorrow. Any salads we had came straight from the garden which was filled with lettuces and root vegetables. Coffee beans came freshly roasted from another neighbour and milk came from the buffalo that Devon reared. A real farm to table experience.

Most days our chores started at 7 am. Two or three of us would join Devon in the parlour to milk the buffalo while the rest the fed calfs and pigs. Given my previous milking experience I was in the parlour. Although the buffalo are similar to our dairy cows at home this particular group had only begun getting milked two months before I arrived. Needless to say some of them weren’t used to it yet and all of them kicked. In my experience cows take time to become comfortable with the people that put suction cups on their tits. In order to stop the kicking we would tie the hind legs of each cow as they stood in line. It was like we were wrangling each set of ankles – which only works because the cows stand on a platform so their hooves would be at my waist height.

Some cows would raise their leg out of shyness as the rope went around but the others made it a challenge. The cows that didn’t want their ankles touched would kick fast and violently so that I would have to keep my head back and hands ready. Once the rope was tied on I’d hold it tight. There was a steel bar that ran across the platform in front of us. The goal was to pull their ankles as close as we could and tie them to the bar. As soon as each hind leg was tied to the bar we could put the cups on to start the milking. Reaching under the udders elicited more kicking so I’d curse if a knot wasn’t tied perfectly.

When the buffalo were finished milking they’d be let out to a paddock for the rest of the day to graze. In the late afternoon I’d jump on a quad and corral them back into a pen near the parlour for the night.

November in New Zealand is late spring. The weather would change from rain to sunshine every hour it would seem but there were still some longer windows of blue sky. We’d take these breaks between working and playing cards to go to the beach nearby. The most remarkable moment was when we first got to the beach. There were dark shadows in the surf. We’d see a wave come in and there would be four distinct figures tucked inside it. When they breached we could see that they were dolphins. It felt like they were putting on a show. It was incredible watching them ride a wave, turn around, do a flip, and ride another wave. It was one of those moments I should have had my camera for. 

Throughout the week wwoofers came and went. Some stayed for months at a time while others, like us, were just passing through. Our plans were still pretty rough but after 7 days on the buffalo farm we were ready for a change of scenery. We knew we’d like to see Bay of Islands and potentially go further north so we looked at the wwoof website for our next stay. Our criteria was short: somewhere close to a beach and near a bus station. One spot an hour north of us fit that perfectly, it even had a hut nearby that we could hike to. So we made our arrangements to stay at “The Commune”.