subject: Preparing for Catharsis [print this page] Preparing for Catharsis Preparing for Catharsis
Preparing for Catharsis
'Are you the WWOOFER?' the man said as I stepped from the bus. This was Tomas; my host for two weeks in Greve, a small town in the centre of the famous wine region, Chianti. I was to help out on his farm, walking the goats, miking the goats, making cheese, tending to the vegetable garden, and making jams from the trees of his orchard. For my efforts Tomas would provide me with a place to sleep and food to eat. A simple exchange, and one that has been catching on. The road down to the farm was rocky and narrow; we sat jumping in our seats, the steep hill almost flipping the car on its head, and our conversations became jagged.
The farm sat in the valley; a dried up river curved through; a great expanse of dry land and little else. The view both mundane and spectacular.
'This is where we walk the goats, two hours every morning, two every evening.'
When I first arrived, I assumed my host to be either shy or rude; undoubtedly clever. But over meals of bread, honey, goats cheese, apple sauce, blackberry jam, cous cous, vegetables, yoghurt and cereal, Tomas became genial and animated, polite and stern; a farmer at heart.
Mornings came early, up before the heat of the Tuscan sun, and out with the goats, twenty seven of them, mairing and blairing and tightly packed. Tomas yelling in booming notes.
Yallo, wella-wella, andiamo!' Scuttle scuttle went the goats.
What did you say to them?' I asked.
Ah, it matters not so much, it's more how you say these things. You could be saying "good girls, go and munch the farmers grapes," as long as you boom it. Don't let it trickle out. Spit it out. Try it,' he said. So I did.
Yallo, bap-bipping-bap, hella, yallo!'
'Very good,' Tomas said, laughing. 'Very good.'
Goats fed and safely in, we'd stroll back to the house, take off our shoes and go into the kitchen, where there would be work waiting for us on the kitchen table. Either, cutting the stones from plums, and readying them for jam, or chopping basil for a pesto lunch. A multitude of little farm tasks that we could do whilst listening to some music and talking at the family table. And so instantly you are made to feel an integral part of farm and family life. This is what sets Wwoof apart. The mutual respect held, the sense of achievement and goodness done. To see such trueness of life abroad, one must put himself in the hands of natives, do as he does, and learn quietly. Both parties should come away enriched; neither short changed.
After the days duties I slept sound in my own room of fresh sheets and the coolness of the stone walls.
