Tasmanian Cowboys

By Harry Meaden (travel mate from England, we met in Hội An, Vietnam)

Two weeks after stepping onto Tasmanian ground, I noticed a sharp drop off in my purchasing power. A bundle of apples now seemed a big buy; I needed a job. Honouring the backpacker’s tradition and my thirst for more exotic fruit, I asked around the hostel to see if anyone had any contacts. Immediately, I struck gold. A friend of ours had been cutting the hair of a fella who owned his own roofing company. And what’s more, he was looking for an assistant. I was in, or rather, up.

“What’s gonna hit ya on the roofs, ya stupid pom!” That was my introduction to my new boss. He’d noticed the hard hat I’d diligently brought along to my first day. I had to give it to him, he had a point. After stuffing it away in a bag that housed other pieces of PPE I’d mercifully left off my person, I was up onto the roof.

To anyone who has not stepped onto a roof before, it presents a good acid test of your perspective. Some I’m sure, would be immediately transfixed by the sprawling views of Hobart (capital city of Tasmania) and the surrounding area offered by the elevation. My view, however, was centered on the treacherous array of loose terracotta tiles beneath my feet, briefly punctuated by looks over the edge to really get my adrenal glands pumping. There was of course, no harness. Delighted by my discomfort, my boss took it upon himself to illustrate how this height was nothing but the smallest minnow for him. Within in a few minutes, he was levering nails out of the fascia below his feet, nursing his 11^th fag of the morning whilst attempting to sooth an angry customer on the phone. A trademark look of his. I didn’t know it then, but over the following days it became clear. I was to become a cowboy builder.

“A tradesperson who performs shoddy work at an inflated price” is how the Urban Dictionary defines a cowboy builder. Typically, however, the work done will be interrogated by the person who commissioned it prior to the final payment being made. This is not the case on the roofs. People are far too happy to take your word for gospel rather than to hop on a ladder; a truth thoroughly exploited by my boss. Not a job went by when there weren’t ‘essential add-ons’ and honestly, we often left jobs in worse states than we found them. It was shameful. What’s more, due to meth-induced annihilation of his focus faculties, we never stuck with a job for more than 4 hours. What resulted was an open job list of about 30 properties, each wondering where their 20% deposit had disappeared off to. The endless phone ringing routinely drove stress levels to a fever pitch. The wings were melting off and we were well and truly coming down.

Why did I stick at it? It’s a question I’ve been asked a few times. I spent two months dicing with potential death alongside a batshit crazy boss, getting paid only once the job was completed and leaving each day with a sinking sense of ripping people off. I sometimes told people it was to get the days together for a second-year visa. But in all honesty, I could’ve picked up a similar gig elsewhere without too much difficulty. Idleness seems the most watertight answer. Why go through all that hard work looking for a new job when there were cheap beers to be had in the hostel and steady flow of new faces to become acquainted to. But do I regret doing it? Not one bit. Nobody packs their bags and travels halfway around the world to do a shit job, but ultimately, it’s these experiences that you learn and grow most from. Few future jobs will be able to throw at me more daunting prospects than replacing glazed tiles, three stories up whilst wearing your boss’s massive plimsolls. With that in mind, I say to any prospective traveller, don’t just seek out the good times. Understand that any worthwhile trip is to be interspersed with periods of grueling work, abusive colleagues and just general, well-rounded crapness. Because after all, life is all a matter of perspective, and being up on the roofs has certainly helped mine.