On the whole, I've been fairly lucky finding work in Australia. My yearlong working holiday visa allows me to carry out work 'of a temporary or casual nature' for up to three months in any one job. I was disgruntled to find that the rules changed just after I applied. I could have had a two-year visa, but I was comforted myself with the thought that I wouldn't have wanted to stay in Australia that long anyway. (As it happens, I was completely mistaken in that assumption.)
I arrived in Brisbane, newly tanned from two weeks in Thailand, with the intention of getting down to work pretty much straight away. Back in London, where I'd worked for three years, temporary work is so easy to pick up that plenty of Australians arrive at an office the morning after getting off a plane, just as the jet lag is kicking in. I didn't see why things would be any different here. I should have known things wouldn't be quite that easy.
First of all, although by no means the one horse town my Aussie friends had made out, Brisbane is still a small city. There just isn't the same volume of work available as in London, or even Sydney or Melbourne, where most working travellers end up. A few big, mainly financial firms dominate, which means it's very 'corporate.' I'd stuffed my rucksack with shorts and t-shirts, adding a pair of black trousers and a couple of tops that would be considered office-wear back home. But every agency I rocked up to, along with my travel companion Sam, looked us up and down suspiciously. Question number one was always: do you have a suit?
Well, yes, I wanted to say. I do have a couple of suits as it happens. It's just that they're ten thousand miles away, in a suitcase and in my parents' garage.
Of course, what Sam and I actually said was more along the lines of, 'Yep, sure, no problem. Consider it done.' We were then similarly informed of the need for closed toe shoes and stockings or tights. Stockings or tights? Were these people nuts? It was 40 degrees out there, and about 80 percent humidity! I pictured myself slowly dissolving into a puddle of sweat, oozing out of my smart corporate-wear until all that was left was a small pile of appropriately sombre-coloured clothing on the office floor. Clearly, we were not going to breeze into paid employment as easily as expected.
What could we do? I went out and spent a week's wages on a suit and pair of shoes. I'd brought along a pair of sandals that I thought would do for work, but they were open-toed and thus deemed unacceptable. I managed to bite my tongue rather than ask the agency to take their pick of my remaining footwear: hiking boots, trainers or flip flops?
Another hitch, but one we had anticipated, was that our backgrounds in advertising and PR weren't suited to temporary work. To deal with publicity and communications you have to know the industry and the people, preferably long-term. So at more than one agency interview I nearly broke into giggles as the recruiters shook their heads mournfully at my three years' experience and post-graduate diploma, and brightened up when I revealed that I'd once worked briefly as a receptionist and in a post-room.
On top of this, there was the usual paperwork to fill out. To be able to work we needed a tax file number (TFN) each and, of course, bank accounts into which to deposit our hard-earned cash. This was all completed a lot more smoothly than I had anticipated: you can apply for a TFN online, and need only your passport and an address to open a bank account within three months of arriving, unlike my poor Australian flatmate in London who'd spent weeks trying to convince banks she was a permanent resident. The British bank demanded a utility bill in her name as proof, but have you ever tried paying a utility bill without a credit card or bank account? I was dreading finding myself in a similar catch-22, but the Commonwealth Bank were sensible, helpful and friendly. No, they're not paying me to say that! Australian banks do, however, charge a monthly fee just for looking after your money. And there's nothing you can do about that.
It took a week before we emerged, suited and booted and clutching computer printouts proving we were conversant with Microsoft Office applications and could type. And another two weeks to find work, with us badgering our consultants every day. After all, having shelled out for our corporate clothing, we now needed the money.
But, as I said at the beginning, I was really very lucky. When the work did start to come in, I was never more than a few days without employment and the work was never particularly taxing. A few days typing up a proposal for an engineering firm. A day covering reception when someone was off ill. A particularly fun job which involved counting out coloured slips of paper into envelopes; these were to be sent to schools for the kids to write messages on as part of the Australia Day celebrations. I finally scored a great ten week assignment at the head office of a national chain of chemists, mostly data-inputting, but also editing a weekly newsletter - something that would look better on my CV when I got home than 'bummed around Australia for a year'.
I also discovered a fantastic Aussie habit of breaking off early on a Friday for drinks, usually provided by the company. The first time this happened I assumed it was someone important's birthday, but when I asked who was celebrating my colleagues were astonished that British firms didn't have the same tradition. Beer, wine and nibbles - it was all laid on, and the temp was always invited along, too. In fact, I've never worked anywhere where I wasn't made to feel welcome.
Being made to feel welcome and made to feel important are different things, though. Considering the amount that people were paying for my services (which was a lot more than I was seeing at the end, once the agency had taken their cut), I was expecting my newly proven computer skills to be put to regular use. But I worked for firms who happily stumped up around $30 an hour for me to answer a couple of phone calls a day. Or transfer numbers from a piece of paper to a database. Or file invoices. All things any competent 16-year-old could have done with no experience at all. It made me wonder what sort of people the agency usually provided, when my employers felt they had to explain to me the difference between an invoice and a purchase order, or, as on one occasion, ask me if I knew what was meant by 'numerical order'. They expressed delight with how quickly I worked with such frequency that I actually deliberately slowed my pace - after all, I was being paid by the hour!
I quickly learnt that the jobs with access to the Internet were the pick of the bunch. It's amazing how many companies give temps unlimited access, and even those that require passwords or block certain addresses are often easily worked around. I was usually covering for someone who would have left their login scribbled on a post-it note so that I could access the computer and the password they used for Internet access was almost always the same one. And, if hotmail was blocked, depriving me of my usual activity of emailing all my pals back home on company time (emails which frequently began with the words 'Oh my god, I'm so bored.'). For some reason, you could often get in through a Google search, or from the MSN home page instead.
I never felt guilty about this, because I only surfed the net once whatever minimal duties I had been assigned were completed. It stopped me going out of my mind with boredom, and it's a great way to research future travel destinations. Besides, having heard plenty of stories about girls who turned up late, or not at all, I realised I was actually a good temp. No one cares if you're reading a novel under the desk as long as you show up looking neat and tidy and do your work on time. Perhaps most importantly, I didn't care. I wasn't looking to advance my career prospects or get some strategic experience under my belt. As far as I was concerned, this was a working holiday with the emphasis firmly on the 'holiday.' For the first time in my life, I was happy to kick back and not worry about the consequences. What was the worst that could happen - that I'd get fired? Big deal!
Having blown my earnings on New Year celebrations in Sydney, flights to Tasmania, and a surf trip up the coast, I found myself broke and needing to get back to work in Byron Bay. Now, Byron is a great place to pick up hospitality jobs in season, as it swarms with visitors and has scores of shops, cafes and restaurants. But I arrived at the end of January, just as the school holidays were ending. Everywhere I asked, I got the same answer: 'Sorry mate, we've just had to let someone go.' A few were kind enough to offer 'Good luck', and even 'Keep trying - something will come up!'
Luckily for me, my surfing instructor had offered me free accommodation in a ramshackle flat at Evans Head in return for looking after his grandfather, who lived upstairs, and doing a bit of gardening. After Brisbane's air-conditioned office jobs, it was refreshing to get out there with a spade and trowel in the sandy soil and do some good, old-fashioned hard work. Whenever it got too hot and dirty, all I had to do was walk a few steps to the river that ran along the back of the garden and swim out to the channel, where the water was cool and deep and dark. After a few weeks, the flat was pristine and the borders ready for planting. I'd also read every surf magazine in the place - about 50, at a rough guess - because there's really not much else to do in Evans when the surf is flat.
My problem was I needed another job. I had a roof over my head, but I still needed to eat and none of the two shops or two restaurants in Evans were hiring. It was time to head back to Byron.
Despite the fact that my few weeks delay meant that, if anything, jobs should be even scarcer than before, I heard that the restaurant attached to the hostel where I was camping was looking for waitresses. It relied almost entirely on travellers, who were cheap because they worked for accommodations, but who also moved on quickly. I took myself off to see the manager. Did they have a vacancy? Yes, they did. Did I have experience? But of course! I hastily invented a couple of student waitressing jobs. And I was in.
Technically, I was no better off than in Evans Head: I worked three five-hour shifts a week in return for permission to pitch my tent at the adjoining camp ground, which meant I was earning the equivalent of seven bucks an hour. Not a lot of money. But, looking on the bright side, I got a free meal every night I worked and all the coffee and ice cream I could scoff down while hiding from the boss in the washing-up area. They don't tip in Australia, but occasionally an American would pass through and I'd pick up a couple of extra bucks. And I needn't have worried that my lack of experience would show up the fact that I'd blagged my way in. Waitressing isn't exactly brain-surgery, and before long I was expert enough on the espresso machine to be able to write people's initials in the foam on their cappuccino.
With cash in hand for the occasional extra shift to keep me going, I could afford to hang about in Byron for a little longer. And it was only a few days later that a mate of my surf instructor buddy called up. He knew I was looking for work and he just happened to be a director of a company which needed someone for a couple of months. It was now that I really lucked out.
If someone had asked me before I left for Australia what my ideal job would have been, I would probably have laughed and claimed that if I could turn up in a bikini top and board shorts, be given free drinks and go surfing at lunchtime I'd be happy. Well, not only did this travel reward card company give me a trial card full of points to spend - I mean test - at the local bar, but it was also the sort of place where if you came to work in flip flops instead of bare feet you'd stand out as being exceptionally formally dressed. Lunchtime surfing? No worries - there was a shower to rinse off afterwards and you could even get your dings repaired next door. The staff was friends who worked, lived and socialised together, and their obvious pride in the company gave it a family atmosphere. Or maybe that was down to the staff dogs, which wandered around the office. Either way, I found myself looking forward to going to work in the mornings more than I ever had in London.
When my job was done, and I had to head back to Brisbane to try and save up for the rest of my trip, I was under no illusions that I'd ever have it that good again. I don't mind admitting I was gutted at having to leave Byron. To me, the people, the place and the job added up to a little piece of paradise. My only consolation was that I would no longer have to sleep in an increasingly leaky tent! Once in Brisbane, when friends expressed surprise that I'd been able to find an office job in Byron, I'd nod sadly - not much chance of that happening again.
Six weeks on, and all I can think about is getting back there. Only a week to go before I start my farewell tour of Australia with another surf trip, and the chance to say goodbye to that special place. All financed by my last few temping jobs, of course. I'm on my very last contract now. It's not too bad. They haven't noticed I've been writing this story all day.
Questions?
If you want more information about this area you can email the author or check out our Pacific Insiders page.
