Choices, choices, choices!
Olivia Bernaud, 24, is seizing the day and giving way to her wanderlust, planning to set off on a working holiday in Western Australia.
In her native France, she tries to decide the best place to work to satisy her stringent visa requirements. As she is not a corrupt international multi-billionaire real estate investor, she will have to satisfy at least some basic requirements to enter and reside in the country.
Posting in several backpackers Facebook groups, she has narrowed it down to either Kalgoorlie or Carnarvon.
Bruce Toppel, 54, runs Banana Grabber farms in Carnarvon and has made a career out of exploiting low paid, vulnerable workers. After noticing and responding to Olivia’s post on Facebook, Bruce revealed his recruitment tactics to the Bugle.
“The spider has spotted another fly,” he chuckles, exposing his relatively toothless grin.
“She looks like she could handle 12 hour days, 6 days a week. Looks like she could handle a bit more than that if ya get me, hoh-oh!”
The perpetually dirt-encrusted man licks his lips and flicks the tip of his crumbling Akubra. When pushed on workers rights, Mr Toppel is staunch in his defence.
“I’m level three on Duolingo,” he boasts.
“I work tooth and nail to give these backpackers a leg-up and relate to ’em. Last year I even considered installing air-con in the crib room. It was voted down by myself but the intention was there.”
“If these grubs put up good enough numbers during a season, I might invite a few of ’em to Coral Bay to celebrate. Or as I call it – No Morals Bay!” he laughed, as he slapped our reporter on the shoulder, leaving behind remnants of soil and french-fry grease.
Moving eastbound and down – Garry Hogstock, 60, runs a modest watering hole in Kalgoorlie that feels a bit like a time-warp to prehistoric times. Usually inhabited by dinosaurs no younger than 65, the culture in the pub can be summed up by watching that video of Sean Connery talking about his lax attitude towards belting women.
When discussing his attitudes towards backpackers, Garry reveals more about himself than perhaps he intended.
“Eh, it’s a privilege for these dagos to come and pour froths here pal,” he sneers in a nasally, Mancunian oink.
“If we can convince a couple of ’em to get their baps out, all the better. It’s a win-win guv, they get the real Australian experience and I get ’em for cents on the dollah!”
“They love a bit a banter. I usually ask if they ever ‘ad a French kiss down under. BAHAHAHAHAHAH.” The rotund man vibrated as he chortled with laughter. One of his pickled regulars lets out a sickly snort in concert, despite having no idea what was being said or indeed, where they were.
Mr Hogstock wipes his nose on his sleeve and returns to debating a fellow bar-fly about why migration was fine when his people did it, but bad now.
Good luck Olivia.
