72 Hours

I don't make a fuss at work that Friday - I just quit. I tell my boss it'll be my last day.

"Good," he says, and walks away (a little sulkily, I think).

John comes home from his twelvth 12-hour shift in a row, exhausted, but glad it's over. He will finally have days off this weekend, and obviously, after two 84-hour work weeks in a row, he needs them badly. We decide to celebrate and go out for dinner, and settle on a place called The Secret Garden, because the burgers are cheap and there is a hand-written sign saying, "Live Music Tonight."

The server leads us out to the back, where the music is coming from. There is an enormous white tent overhead, diffusing bright light onto tablecloths and wine glasses, and to the left, two big Maori guys play bluesy rock classics. The tent opens onto a courtyard-style garden, with lots of flowers and trees, a big chess set, enormous dominoes, and groups of people standing around, sipping drinks and talking, or studying the chess board, where two indie-type guys are having a game. I notice that some of the leaves are starting to chance colour.

We promptly order burgers and drinks (strong beer for him, local apple cider for me) and fall to talking.

I love a date on a Friday night.

Saturday night is the party. John knows two English girls from work who are leaving, and this is their goodbye party. We will take their empty room, and I will get their job as well.

So, I will start at the factory on Monday, and we'll be moving into the house this weekend, shared with three flatmates (all young guys from Ireland). The boys work at the factory too - but they work the night shift, so we'll never see them except for the weekends.

The party is wild, to say the least. One of the Irish lads is a bartender, and there is a list of cocktails to choose from, complete with ice, garnish, and a little umbrella. We invite the French guys from the hostel to come with us, and being French, they bring lots of wine and scout for girls to romance. I meet loads of people from the factory, including the boss, Pam, who is something of a bi-polar, tempermental-but-maternal soul, if the stories about her are true. She frightens me a little, but I manage to come out on her good side (for now). As the party rages on, chairs get broken, people dance, and everyone has one too many cocktails. I run around snapping photographs and meeting everyone.

John manages to stay up until midnight, before keeling over for lack of sleep and too much drink. I walk him home (a trifle grumpily, I'm afraid - I was having fun).

Sunday is moving day. We wake up groggily at 9:30 - so we only have half an hour to check out. Luckily, we don't own much, and we pack in rapid speed. No time for a shower or breakfast; we hand in our keys and pile up our stuff outside, waiting for our ride.

And then we wait.

And wait.

So, it turns out the English girls are a no-show. Xavier offers to drive us, though, and we accept gratefully.

When we pull up, I can smell the house before I can actually see it.

Outside, there is garbage piled up everywhere, swarming with fat black flies. Empty bottles, even a squashed egg carton, leaking raw egg; it looks like cats have ripped the bags open and spilled coffee grounds, tissue paper, plastic, and all manner of food waste onto the deck. A mountain of recycling dominates the front doorway, and when we open the door, we are greeted by a cascade of flies and stale cigarette smoke.

Xavier leaves us with an apologetic look.

The girls are still asleep, so we can't move in yet. We pile up our stuff in the hallway and step into the living room, where a disaster zone awaits.

I hardly need to describe the scene. I am sure you can imagine the tornado of flies zooming around the room; the piles of bottles and glasses; the floor sticky with spilled drinks; ashes and cigarette butts mixing with unspecified stains on the carpet; dishes on the couch; exploded beer bottles in the freezer.

We sit gingerly on the edge of the couch and wait. Home sweet home.

We spend all day cleaning up and moving in. I feel distinctly uncomfortable with the unclean state of the house, but the boys are too hung over to deal with anything except trying to exist. My first night in my new place, I have a bout of insomnia, wondering whether there is bodily fluid on the mattress underneath me and feeling like I can't breathe with the smoke so heavy in the air.

At 4 a.m., the alarm goes off, and I get ready for work. Sleepily, I make myself some toast and pack a lunch, pull on some jeans and tie up my hair. When we get picked up outside at 4:35, the stars are still bright in the sky.

I feel a little nervous starting a new job, but John is with me, so I feel better.

The factory is NOISY. Huge stacks, pallets of empty bottles, tower from floor to ceiling. The machines are enormous and loud, with metal belts pulling parades of bottles around to be washed, filled, sealed, labled, boxed, and stacked. They clang terribly against each other. Boys driving forklifts honk to each other as they zip around.

Being a backpacker, I'm certainly not trusted with the machines yet. Instead, I put lables on 3,250 wine boxes, fold cardboard dividers, sweep, and eventually, get introduced to the "Clearskins" machine, which is really easy to operate - only four buttons. I manage not to break a bottle.

With three 15-minute breaks and one half-hour lunch break, the day goes by surprisingly quickly.

Every day, from Monday to Saturday, I wake up at 4:00, start at 5:00, and work the "Clearskins" machine for a few hours before putting stickers on thousands of boxes, or peeling labels off wine bottles, or folding dividers, or cleaning. Once, I even get to work a fancy machine that makes champagne - but it's not as fun as it sounds. I see John across the room, with wrenches in his back pocket, fixing machines or joking around with the managers. They like him here - so I am immediately on good terms with everyone. Thanks, John.

I make some friends, too. Tina, from Ireland, and Roberta, from Italy, are the two girls I work with the most. We sing along to the radio as we work, and joke around, so the time passes easier. Pam still likes me too, and often yells things like, "Hey, put that under the table, dear!" So I guess we're friends.

On Saturday, at 4:30 p.m., I am finally trusted to put the dividers in the boxes for the first time. I realize that I have half an hour left of my long work week, and that I have spent seventy-two hours in this factory so far. Tomorrow is my first day off in what seems like a lifetime.

I figure that, with cheaper rent and this kind of money, we should be in Asia in no time.