Along the River

In 2014, I spent three months living in Waikerie, a small post-colonial town along the Mighty Murray River. It’s a tiny village, home to just 1,200 residents and a bunch of seasonal backpackers. Arriving from Sydney at the start of winter, the stark, barren landscapes struck me as a dramatic contrast to the lush greenery of my hometown. My friends and I found work as orange pickers, a tough job made bearable by good company. After a few weeks, I was hired by a local family to assist in building a ten-hectare vineyard. My only companions were an old man fuelled by cigarettes and Coke, and a giant rusty tractor from a bygone era.

It was an incredibly repetitive job, but after a while, it started feeling like some sort of strange meditation. The deep rumbling growl of the machine became my mantra, and the perfectly aligned star pickets became my Karesansui garden.

After work, there wasn’t much to do in town; it’s a very peaceful existence. Nonetheless, there is something special about that place. Being away from the frantic lifestyle of the metropolis helped me become more introspective and present, more observant of my inner self and the outside world.