THE FARMER’S NEW MACHINE
I wasn’t
even sure I had the right place. The dog was barking but still no-one ca
The driveway opened out
onto a wide gravel yard. There was a big tin shed to my right, so big that it
blocked the view of the paddocks beyond, and scattered around the edge of the
yard were various pieces of farm machinery. The dog bolted across to the other
side, picked up a stick, brought it back and dropped it at my feet. I threw it
away and called out again. A door—a tiny door by proportion—opened in the big
tin shed and a man in gumboots stepped out. The dog, resuming fidelity to its
master, turned away from me and started trotting over to him: it dropped the
stick at his feet, the man bent down and gave it a pat. I’m Martin, I said; I
rang the other day. Is that your car? he asked. I nodded. You’ll have to move
it later. He picked up the stick and threw it. Come in, he said.
The light inside was so
different that it took me a while to adjust. Hanging on cords from the rafters
were those big industrial light shades with the halogen globes that you
sometimes see in hydroponics—the shed and everything in it glowed as if under a
harvest moon. Everything was new, all shining stainless steel with pipes going
this way and that; it looked like any number of dairies or wineries I have
visited in the course of my work. The whole place had just been hosed down and
the floor was wet and shiny. I could see the farmer’s waterproof apron hanging
on a hook by the door. He offered me gumboots; I put them on. Everything was
quiet, and our voices held a faint echo under the high tin roof.
I thought you were going
to be here at nine, said the farmer; we’ve just hosed everything down. But this
is it, basically, he said, gesturing with a sweep of the arm to the big steel
vats, the pipes, the cables and junction boards, the steel ladders and walkways
high above. (He was in his mid-fifties, a man of the land: a square face,
untidy grey hair, big hands and a trademark stoop.) Through that door there is
the loading room—he pointed to a door just visible at the far end of the
shed—and that belt there goes from the loading room to the main vat. But come
up and I’ll show you. He led me to a steel ladder near the back of the shed—now
I could see the door to the loading room. The dog (it had followed us inside)
whined a couple of times when it saw us going up, then, knowing the routine,
dropped and waited quietly at the foot of the ladder.
I’m not good with
heights, I never was, and this ladder took me well above my comfort zone. We
were looking back down into the top of the main vat now, a dark hole where the
belt from the loading room ended. This is the macerator, said the farmer, we
load about two tonne in here at a time which takes about half an hour with two
men feeding the belt. The vat itself has got an inbuilt scale which shows the
tonnage on this dial here. He pointed. There were three dials in all. And this
one shows total volume, he said: this one the total volume of sludge extracted.
That’s the stop button. See that pipe there? The big one? That’s where our
first extraction comes out—but we’ll have to go down again.
He led
My head was starting to
spin. I’d written nothing; all I had in my notebook was a crude, half-finished
sketch of the macerator. The farmer was talking too quickly, my eyes still
hadn’t adjusted properly to the light; all the vats, chambers, tanks and pipes
were rolling into one. Put your hand on that, said the farmer. He had his hand
on the wall of the desiccator. I put my hand where he said; the steel was warm
to the touch. Twenty-four hours a day that’s going; the viscous waste goes in
at the top and is circulated through the chamber; the moisture evaporates off
(up there) and the solid waste drops into the bottom half where every few hours
the refiner is activated—that’s the refiner down there. This reduces our solid
waste to a powdery consistency and every couple of days the hopper is emptied
and the contents are dumped into the holding bay outside. There’d be a good ten
tonne out there now, blood and bone basically; I’ll show you in a minute. But
first, the settling tank.
The dog didn’t bother
moving this time. It sat on the floor next to the desiccator and snuggled up
against it, its chin resting on its paws. The farmer led me to the very back of
the shed where the big settling tank he had pointed out earlier stood. This
tank was by far the biggest, dwarfing everything around. The last stage in the
process, said the farmer, positioning himself alongside it. This is where the
final impurities are extracted. Any floating material is skimmed off by the
scrapers that push it into that outlet there where it goes back to the
desiccator. Flocculants are added, the heavy particles settle in the bottom,
and that sludge is pumped back for further treatment. The clarified liquid is
pumped through a series of filters—there, there and there. Finally—he gestured—the
pure water passes through this valve and that pipe to the holding tanks
outside. The farmer moved to the other side of the valve where a common garden
tap had been fixed. It looked strangely quaint and domestic in the middle of
all this industry. There was an upturned glass on it. The farmer filled the
glass from the tap and held it out towards me. Drink, he said. I couldn’t help
it, I felt squeamish; I took the glass from him and held it up to the light.
Everyone’s the same, he said, smiling; they just can’t get used to the idea.
But it’s perfectly safe—look. He took the glass from me and drank it in one go.
He put the glass back on the tap. Come outside, he said.
We passed through a door
into what I supposed was the loading room. It too had been hosed clean. I could
see the conveyor belt with its spikes travelling up over the top of the wall
through some rubber flaps into the macerator on the other side. There was a
pipe and a valve down low in the wall. CO2, said the farmer, without
further explanation. We kept walking. Along the edges of the room were some
bench seats and on the walls various laminated diagrams, like those you see in
science textbooks, schematically showing the extraction process with blue pipes
linking each phase. The farmer pushed open a door at the far end of the room
and led me outside.
It was very bright out
there; again I had trouble adjusting. I held my notebook over my eyes. It was a
truly extraordinary sight. Two hours drive from the city and every paddock I
passed along the way had been little more than dead grass and dust. But here,
stepping out the back door of this farmer’s shed, everything was green. The
fields sloped up a gentle rise in front of me and to the left and right, as far
as I could see, these fields were filled with lush living things. Lettuce, the
farmer said, pointing; celery over there, the tall stuff at the back is corn.
Broccoli, cabbage; over there to the left is the spinach. In that paddock, as
in the others, I could see people in wide-brimmed hats moving along the rows. A
tractor with a loaded trailer bumped its way down the main track to another big
tin shed to our right. I could see people in there too, working, and another
tractor-trailer pulling away. In every paddock not being worked rows of sprinklers
scoured the crops.
That sound you hear,
said the farmer, that’s the pump—come round here. I followed him to the side of
the shed furthest from the house. I could see more green paddocks now, more
sprinklers, more workers out there picking. The huge holding tanks were lined
up in a row against the shed wall. Two men were sitting in front of them, on
upturned crates, enjoying their morning break in the sun. They both wore
gumboots and had their waterproof aprons spread out on the ground beside them to
dry. Sam and Gus, said the farmer; they’ve just finished the hose-down. I
nodded to the two men. They had a thermos flask between them, and a packet of
biscuits. The air was thick with the smell of blood and bone; you could hear
the pump droning in the background and the sound of water sloshing through the
pipes. So here’s the pipe from the filters, said the farmer—remember?—and
this is the main pipeline that takes the treated water out to the farm. He
stood, looking out, his handiwork leaving him momentarily awestruck. The two
men, eyes squinted, did the same.
We were walking up the
main track now, and had stopped about halfway to the top of the rise. There was
a strong smell here, of celery I realised, and of water on warm earth. The
farmer turned off a valve on a pipe running alongside the track and the
sprinklers in that paddock stopped. I watched the water trickle into a shallow
drain and from that drain all the way down the slope to a bigger drain that
emptied into a dam near the house. Nothing was lost. Of course this is all
treason to the traditionalists, the farmer was saying, all this talk of systems
ecology and energy loops. But they’re just in denial. This continent is sixty
percent arid; the human body is sixty percent water: work it out for yourself.
We stopped at the top of
the track. A man was carting armfuls of celery out of the paddock and loading
them onto a trailer. The farmer stopped to talk to him; I turned back to look
at the view. You could see everything from up here: the big tin shed, the door
to the loading room, the holding bay for the fertiliser on one side, the
holding tanks for the treated water on the other, the main pipe leading from
them and the whole network of pipes leading from that, branching and branching
again to all corners of the farm. A big touring bus turned into the driveway
from the road and pulled up behind my car: two others pulled up behind it. I
could see the destination signs on the front: Harvest Festival. The
driver of the first bus got out. He shaded his eyes and scanned the paddocks.
Behind him, people started stepping down out of the buses—they were all
elderly, many wore straw hats and some walked with a stick—but the driver
started waving his arms and shooing them back. The two workers who had been
sitting in the lee of the holding tanks got up and put on their aprons. The
farmer brushed past me. You’ll have to move your car, he said.
The flyscreen door
creaked and the farmer came in carrying a big box of vegetables. His wife
picked some scone crumbs up with her finger and dropped them into the palm of
her hand. The farmer handed me the box. He had a red spot on his cheek. There,
he said, in an almost sardonic tone, show that to your girlfriend and see what
she says then.
I put the vegies in the
car. The dog came towards me carrying its stick but I wasn’t in the mood. I
could hear the sound of the machinery working, much louder out here in the
yard. The buses were long gone. Everything felt soft, subdued, like the air
after a storm. Out on the paddocks, with a tick-tick-tick, the
sprinklers lazily turned.