What it delivered was a totally organic experience (the real thing, not just another shampoo promise) that, though backbreaking at times, far outshone anything else I've done in my years of travel.

Growing up in Toronto, Canada, the closest I've ever come to experiencing life on a farm prior to this, was driving past deserted cornfields on my way into the city with billboards boasting "Prime Site for Housing Development".

But the appeal of one day "getting back to nature" has always lingered. Taking leave of the neurotic 9-5 existence, and all its anxieties, and exchanging my designer jeans and stiletto shoes for a pair of overalls and some rubbers (or gum boots as they call them here). Goodbye MAC, hello Old MacDonald.

It is an idea that both my partner and I often entertained (albeit probably romanticized), though usually in the context of planning for a retirement that is still over 3 decades away, and admittedly, most often in the midst of a nervous breakdown at work.

Until we arrived in New Zealand on an extended vacation.

Following the usual tourist track for the first two months, we soon tired of forking out $45 for another lice-ridden hostel bed, $5 for a coffee, and countless other hundreds of dollars on every other "simply unmissable" activity New Zealand has to offer. We became frustrated by our desire to do something different, and stifled by the reality that we were just another set of backpacks on the firmly established traveling circuit. We longed for a taste of real life. In a country whose population is surpassed more than five fold by its sheep population, what better way to experience it than a few weeks on a real, working organic farm?

WWOOF
World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (also known as Willing Workers on Organic Farms) or WWOOF, or "WWOOFing" (yes, as in the dog), is very popular. Some preliminary research on the web found 190 farms available in New Zealand alone, and thousands more internationally. The general arrangement between host and WWOOFer stands at working on average 4-5 hours per day, in exchange for three square meals and accommodation.

WWOOFing opportunities were plentiful, including Yoga retreats, ski resorts, cattle farms, and horse trekkers. Our preference was for the latter, in part so I could overcome the ill-effects of a previous and unrewarding experience with a horse named Chocolate Chip (although I believe Psycho Chip would have been more appropriate).

Luckily, our first choice in horse trekking farms had a vacancy for two woofers. After a very brief and informal telephone interview, we were invited to come and stay. Based in the North Island, in the scenic Ruapehu district, the farm was located roughly 3 km outside of the tiny skiing town, Ohakune, which sits at the base of Mt. Ruapehu.

We Arrive
Ohakune comprises one main street, with a variety of ski shops, cafes, restaurants, and accommodation all catering to the visiting ski-and-board-bunny population. It is impossibly quaint looking, with pretty wrought-iron street lamps and potted flowers lining the street, and the majestic snow capped mountain looming in the backdrop. It's not just famous for its skiing; it is also one of the largest producers of carrots in the country, although for some reason this doesn't hold quite the same draw for summer tourists as the slopes do in the winter.

After notifying the homestead of our arrival in town, we found out there was actually no means of transporting us the extra 3 km needed to travel to the farm. Hitchhiking, we were informed, was the way forward. The only way forward. Sadly, the local drivers seemed to be unaware of their role. Finally, some two and a half kilometers (and almost three hours) later, with bruises on my hips and early signs of osteoporosis setting in from carrying my backpack, someone picked us up.

We pulled into the homestead still red-faced and sweating. A smiling middle-aged woman came up and presented herself as the host, and then a barrage of other names followed introducing the ten other resident woofers, eight house cats, fourteen horses, and a pet goat. Thank God the handful of chickens out back remained nameless, or I think I would have given up entirely.

Despite the overwhelming introductions, everyone was friendly and enthusiastic, and the work, I was assured, was not too difficult. My apprehensions about being asked to fit a horse with shoes, or kill a chicken for dinner, were apparently unfounded. Of even more comfort to us, only two woofers of the ten were experienced riders, and the rest were nervous beginners like us looking to improve their skills.

Other welcome surprises included the presence of not one, but two dishwashers, a washing machine and a dryer (a luxury many hostels aren't even equipped with), and then the most deliriously pleasing news of all; we had a room to ourselves! In fact, we had our own slightly derelict, dysfunctional caravan trailer that had lost mobility and running water around the same time that the mold arrived, and had not been cleaned or redecorated since, but for weary travelers like us, accustomed to living out of our backpacks and sleeping in ten-bed dorms, it was bliss.

Farm Life Becomes Us?
After a 7:30 am wake up call and breakfast it was time for the first job of the day- introduction to the horses. Our task was to walk the horses back to the main farmstead to be fed, groomed, and saddled. Food for the horses constituted carrots, which they ate by the lorry load, (so at least someone was appreciative of Ohakune's second major industry) and once we finished dispensing the usual four wheelbarrows to them, it was time to move on to the other chores.

These jobs ranged from cleaning and vacuuming, painting fences, feeding the other animals, and gardening- of which there was always plenty given the property spanned five acres, included four vegetable patches, one compost heap, and row upon row of flower beds that lined the perimeter of both the house and garden in all their weedy splendor.

Bread making was also in the schedule, and apart from the novelty factor of my first attempt, the exercise was every bit as tedious as I expected. At least three times a week, four people were enlisted for hours of mixing and kneading, to produce the whopping eight loaves of bread we collectively ate per day. It was not without its rewards. There is still nothing better than waking up in the morning to the aroma of fresh baked bread, served with a liberal application of butter and jam. (I will neglect to mention the fact that after three attempts, I still failed to produce a loaf of bread more than half the height of everyone else's plumped up versions, and was quietly removed from the bread-making rotor.)

The meals, though generally lacking of any trace of protein, were frequent, and portions were plentiful. If nothing else, the concoctions were imaginative. For example, I was unaware that pizza could be made with baked beans instead of tomato sauce, and pasta strands instead of cheese gratings, but I guess you live and learn. The cook actually chortled to me during one of her weekly casserole-making frenzies, "it doesn't matter what I make, woofers will eat anything!" As it turned out, faking delight over what was served at mealtime became the most challenging task of all.

The emphasis on 'sustainable living' meant that food was homegrown wherever possible, and everyone factored into the continuing cycle of farm life. We ate predominantly from what was grown in the garden and contributed labor. The chickens ate our leftovers and contributed eggs, and the cats fed off any other leftovers and contributed, well, judging by the three pregnant ones, more cats. The horses, with the exception of their valued donation of manure to the gardens, lived outside this cycle dining only on carrots, but contributed more than anyone by generating income for the farm through the treks. Even the water we drank came from rainwater basins.

For someone who was not even entirely sure what the term 'organic' even meant prior to my stay, being a part of the daily regime on an organic farm truly was a breath of fresh air. I learned more about gardening than I ever thought possible, (granted mostly through mistakes- ones which remaining woofers are still paying for, eating through the barrel of springs onions I accidentally ripped up). I developed muscles in places no amount of circuit training or Yoga has ever come close to before. I formed friendships with people from around the world.

And I spent more time grooming the horses than I did myself. But I loved not caring. It was refreshing waking up each morning and throwing on the first passably clean item of clothing, suited only to the weather, without a thought to fashion. And now, while sporting a mud-covered sweater knit by someone's granny a good few decades previous, only a tiny part of me missed the old days of penciled eyebrows and combed hair.

I even managed to conquer my fear of horses, sort of. On the days where I deluded myself into thinking I really had made the transition to confident stable hand, it would only take a particularly excitable whinny to send me running for cover. And on those free afternoons where I did take to the paddocks to "practice trotting and cantering," I usually found myself frustrated and immobile on top of a horse that refused to heed the commands I pathetically cooed at it.

Skittish temperaments I've been told, are difficult to overcome, and since it's mine that's the problem, I think I'll settle for newfound respect and admiration of horses, being able to stay in the saddle. And contemplate chocolate chip cookies without a wince.