Slave Labour

A trial run with my now completed raft works well but leaves me with no doubt about just how much work I have in front on me. At best the raft can take about two-thirds of a cubic meter of sand in one load. This is roughly as expected but with 40+ cubic meters of sand to move, I'm looking at about 60 loads. For my trial run I have only one other volunteer, a slender (and quite attractive) Dutch girl and it takes us nearly an hour to do one run. At this rate I'm looking at about 60 hours of hard, manual labour. Had I gym membership, I'd have cancelled it, quick smart.

Clearly the solution is to get more workers. A quick check of the available funds (zero) rules out any plans of hiring anyone. We have at most four volunteers at any given time and it's now past peak tourist season so even less are coming through. Even the cute Dutch girl is heading back to Denmark (despite my continual efforts to convince her to stay). I need another solution.

Providence provides. It just so happens that a group of 20 school kids, all around 15 years of age, are on their way up for a day of weeding as part of their 'education' (although I applaud this dedication to Australian bush, a cynical part of me can't help but wonder if maybe the teachers just wanted a free holiday). We chat to them and everyone agrees that a leisurely day working on a sand bank for crocodiles beats a day of hard yakka, chopping trees and poisoning grasses (fools!).

Eventually the day arrives and I give my slaves, err … volunteers a heartwarming and inspiring story about the reserve, the wonders of nature, balanced ecosystems and crocodiles and their beach sports. Enthused, they rush out into the morning heat with a shovel each and a couple of wheelbarrows shared amongst them. They dig in and joyfully fling sand everywhere, occasionally getting some of it into the waiting barrows which they then roll onto the raft and unload. It's a flurry of activity and positive energy, and it lasts for all of fifteen minutes.

They quickly realize that shoveling sand for hours on end in direct sunlight is not the joyous experience I made it out to be, even if there is a raft to play with and some vague mention of crocodiles. The group splits into two: the diligent and the lazy. This division is a universal feature of the human race and happens in all work places in all corners of the globe. A couple of the group are solid workers and they settle into an easy pattern, loading and unloading sand. They even seem to enjoy themselves.

One guy in particular excels. He’s a small, wiry kid but he's got a fair bit of strength to him. He also knows which end of the shovel is which, and even more impressively, knows how to fill and drive a wheelbarrow. I get the feeling that he doesn't get much of a chance to shine in the classroom and he's relishing the opportunity to finally be good at something. Whatever the reasons, I'm not complaining; my sand is moving.

By the end of the day we’re all wet, sandy and tired. There's been a few bandaids distributed as well (although some were used more for their placebo affect than for any real need). The raft has held but it now has an unhealthy looking bend to it and a few of the joints are not quite as solid looking as they were earlier in the day. Just under half of the sand has been moved. There's still a decent chunk to go but I'm now looking at a far more manageable pile to deal with.

The kids head home, generally feeling good about their day's labour. The next part of their trip is an expedition out to the barrier reef however. I suspect that for most this reef trip may rank higher on there score card than my forced labour but you never know.