Chasing the Australian Dream

15,707 km.

That is the distance between London and Jundah, Queensland, Australia.

That was the distance between him, his family, and his former life.

When he’d received the call all that time ago he’d been at work, eyeballs deep in code, chipping away at one colossal project after another. He’d answered only half paying attention, his mind still engrossed in programming script, his hands remaining on the keyboard as he cradled the phone against his shoulder. He’d not looked at the caller display, simply assumed the call was from his project manager, checking up on him, hindering his work more than helping, micro-managing to justify their own position.

Instead however, the voice on the other end of the line was deep and smooth, a rich timbre that carried the feel of mahogany. It spoke to him of new opportunities, exciting challenges, and increased reward, awaiting him overseas.

His fingers had hesitated over the keys, and he’d shifted his attention. He listened to the honeyed words, the promises of wealth and good fortune. His future could be better, was ripe for the taking, if only he lifted himself from his rut and headed far from home. Australia wanted him, needed him, had a desperate shortfall in his skillset, and would welcome him with open arms.

He’d explained that his area of expertise was quite niche, but he’d been assured that it was what they were looking for. All he had to do was apply for a Working Holiday visa, take the leap, and he’d be living the good life in no time.

His fingers still hovering motionless over his keyboard, he’d glanced around his small, grey cubicle, taken in the ‘motivational’ posters that adorned his office’s bland, uninspiring walls, looked out the tiny window at the drab cityscape beyond, and before he could stop himself he’d said ‘yes’.

The visa was granted in just four days. His notice was thirty. He was on a plane in thirty-two.

Arriving in Sydney, he’d taken in the sights; the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House, the Rocks. He’d immersed himself in the lifestyle; the beaches, the parks, the bars. He’d found himself a place to live, nestled in the outer suburbs, far enough from the city centre to escape the hustle and bustle, but close enough that he could dip his toes whenever he wished. Once settled, he’d met the man from the phone and learnt of the interviews that awaited him. Opportunity was calling, and he had plenty to pick and choose from…

Or so he had thought.

The first interview was stilted and awkward. Within a matter of minutes, he’d established that he was poorly suited for what the role required, and the remainder of the time was spent forcing answers to questions he knew were pointless.

Shaken but still confident he went to the next, only to find the same thing playing out once more.

The third and fourth were little different. New rooms, in new buildings, with new views of the glorious skyline, but the same disjointed and uncomfortable conversations.

Distraught, he’d reached out to his contact, the man who’d lured him here, who’d promised him the world; listening to his excuses, he realised he’d made a mistake. The man with the mahogany tongue spoke in generalities, promising riches beyond compare, but when pushed on specifics it became clear he knew little of the field he was an ‘expert’ in; all he knew were slivers of terminology, a spattering of buzzwords, and a way in which he could sell it to those eager to hear.

Sitting back in his small cubicle, his phone cradled on his shoulder, he’d been right all along; his skillset was too niche; his area of expertise was in no great demand; he was not wanted here.

Striking out for himself, he scoured the city for positions he could fill, roles he could occupy. Pickings however, were slim, and time was fast running out. His visa allowed him just twelve months to find work and perform commendably enough that the company saw the benefit in taking him on full-time, arranging for him the appropriate follow-up visa to permit him to stay.

He watched the calendar with dread, horror in his eyes as he saw the weeks flit by, the time lost, his immigration status unimproved, his funds dwindling.

He knew of others who had made the same journey and returned home soon after, the culture-shock and distance from their families and loved ones proving too much to bear, but that wasn’t him! He had fallen in love with the city, and he could not stand the thought of having to depart.

His time nearly at an end, he’d searched tirelessly for a way to extend it, to earn himself a slight reprieve; all he needed was more time and he knew he could find the opportunity he so desperately required.

The only solution was to pick fruit.

That was what everyone told him; his new-found friends; his neighbours; even the man with the honeyed words he’d loathingly returned to.

If he applied for agricultural work in rural Australia, and gave them three months of his time, he could earn himself a second year; another year to find a job which would allow him to stay.

He spoke with others who had done it; heard horror stories from cucumber-pickers who’d fed on little else during their time, and learnt of the early mornings, the long hours, and the physical labour he’d have to endure. He thought of his soft and supple spine, relaxed and pliable from the years spent on cushioned office chairs, and shuddered with reticence.

Yet still he applied; there was no other way.

When the approval came through, he found to his chagrin that he would have to travel far from his new life. He’d known he’d need to leave the city, but he had hoped he could remain within the state; these hopes were dashed in an instant.

One short flight later, and he found himself on a bus for seventeen hours, the landscape of rural Queensland drifting slowly past the window. Bush gave way to scrub, gave way to dirt, gave way to desert. The Outback swallowed him up, stretching to the horizon in all directions, his mind numbing as he prayed for it to end.

When the bus finally stopped, he stepped down to find a man waiting for him in a wide-brim hat, scuffed boots and jeans red with dust and sand. A calloused hand reached out and grasped his, and he was ushered into a small truck for what would turn into another three-hour road trip. Conversation was light, his host seemingly uninterested in small talk, and arriving late at night he was shown to his bunk without ceremony; a small and uncomfortable cot in a tiny, bare room would be his home for the next eighty-eight days. He hadn’t cried since he was a child, but his exhaustion was so great, and his mood so low, that he felt a couple of tears slip from his eyes that night.

The next morning, everything changed.

The next morning, he met the horses.

His letter, skimmed over in his melancholy, had mentioned he’d be working on a farm; he’d somehow missed the section where it stated that it was a stud farm.

Unskilled and inexperienced with horses he was relegated to minor stable duties, however he still found himself face-to-face with the magnificent creatures near-constantly. Growing up in the city, his exposure to horses had been minimal and sporadic, but seeing them now, up-close and in a less artificial environment, he couldn’t help but feel his admiration for them take root.

He lost himself in their beauty, marvelled at their raw strength and power, and was entranced by their character. He found himself noticing their individual personalities, recognising each one’s unique traits and characteristics. He was startled to find himself drawing close to them, his fingers trailing through their manes and stroking along their flanks, his breath slow and steady as he felt theirs, the formidable muscles expanding and contracting beneath his touch.

His hands, once soft and keyboard ready, grew coarse and hard, the skin acclimatising itself to the grind of a rake handle, the touch of rope, the scrape of a shovel. His body changed shape before his eyes, the initial aches and pains of fatigue fading to reveal new muscle and a burgeoning stamina which threw him out of bed every morning.

His dreams emptied of code, filling instead with the heat and musk of the stable.

As the end of his self-proclaimed ‘sentence’ approached, he realised he did not want to return. He had come to the other side of the world, chasing the Australian dream, and he knew then that he had found it.

It didn’t lie in an office, grinding away the day as he waited to escape to the sweet outdoors once more.

It was here, in the Outback, with the heat, and the sun, and the soft thump of hooves.