Everything I know about life I learned at Orange World
You are what you squeeze.
For the past five days, the question of how to convey my experience at Orange World has rendered me sleepless. I’ve been struck down by a mandarin madness, trapped in a tangerine-tinged nightmare. It’s taken a physical toll and left me lethargic, as if I’ve been wading through a gloopy pool of marmalade.
I mean, to think I existed as someone who had not been to Orange World. To think I existed as someone who couldn’t distinguish between a Spanish Valencia and Washington navel. I thought I’d been engaged in the Real Work of My Life, but I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been adrift in a Fanta sea.
Listen: some questions will change your life.
Who am I? Why am I here? And what in the fruity fuck is Orange World?
Because Mon and I had no plans to visit Orange World. Who does? What we did have was five days of freedom, time to kill, and an important lesson to learn: when destiny makes contact via Google Maps, you press down on the accelerator and fly through Victoria’s wheatbelt as fast as you possibly can.
We arrived in time for the 11:30 tour. Pulled into a packed car park and joined a prolapsus of pensioners piling out of an enormous coach. We got chatting with Karl, one of the tour leaders, who explained they were retirees on a rail odyssey from Melbourne. He asked if we’d be joining them at Orange World.
‘We haven’t booked,’ I said, ‘but it feels good just being among other Citrus Heads.’
I knew Mon was confused by – and likely sick of – my behaviour. In the past I’ve claimed to not get overly excited by things, so she was surprised, I think, to see me shaking with anticipation at the entrance to Orange World. She was concerned, I think, to witness me berating myself for referencing Citrus Heads in front of Karl when ZestHeads would’ve been a far catchier label.
Fortunately, Karl took it in his stride. We filed in behind him and joined the other ZestHeads in an orange room plastered with Orange World swag. There were fridge magnets, postcards and tea towels; mugs, bookmarks and hats. There was a t-shirt that read “Someone who loves me has been to Orange World” and I was devastated to discover it was only available in children’s sizes.
Even worse, the 11:30 tractor tour was fully booked. Space for seventy and not a spare seat to be found, despite Karl’s best efforts to secure us safe passage. Maria, who runs Orange World alongside her husband, Mario, suggested we book in for the 2:30 tour instead.
It’ll be better, she insisted.
Quieter.
Fewer people means Mario can share more about oranges.
Sold!
We said goodbye to Karl, took one last longing look at the fresh juice being poured for the 11:30 guests, then drove to town to await our moment. Because we understood that good things come to those who wait. We understood that there are rules in Orange World, agreed upon ways of existing. Who were we to walk in and impose our ideology?
Time passed slowly. Excruciatingly so. We walked along the Murray River. Drove up and down Mildura’s industrial centre. We stopped by a camping store and for whatever reason I felt compelled to buy a knife. So I bought a knife.
Oh, this aimlessness.
This eternal state of limbo.
This is what happens when one is waiting for one’s Real Life to begin.
My excitement turned to nerves. An anxious thrum. What if Orange World didn’t live up to the hype? What if it was nothing more than an orange farm? The reviews were mostly glowing, but it’d be remiss of me not to mention that ZestHeads have been burned before.
“We paid for the tractor tour and confirmed via phone before visiting,” wrote one. “The tractor tour was held in a farm without any oranges. The tractor tour should not be held without oranges in the farm. There are no oranges to see in Orange World right now.”
This last line – there are no oranges to see in Orange World – haunted me. What, I wondered, is the essence of Orange World? Can Orange World even exist if there are no oranges to see?
I said before that some questions will change your life. Others will destroy it.
Mario begins in a blaze of showmanship. He takes an orange – a Washington navel, I’ll learn – from a fruit bowl and pulls a plastic orange tool from his pocket. He asks if anyone has seen the tool before. I haven’t, but to say I’m intrigued is an understatement.
He nicks the skin of the orange and slides the head of the tool underneath, degloving the helpless fruit with precision. Mario asks a young girl if she can see juice dripping from the orange. No, she says. Are you sure? The girl nods. He holds the orange above her and continues to peel. Not a single drop of juice falls on her innocent head.
‘Alright,’ Mario says, holding his peeler in the air. ‘If you want this, I have a trivia question. The first is for the adults, the second for the children. Are you ready?’
Oh, Mario.
If you only knew how ready I am.
He looks around the room. Holds my gaze. Seconds, minutes, hours – lifetimes! – pass. Eventually, his eyes narrow. ‘Where was Mario born?’
The obvious answer is Italy, given Mario’s name and thick accent, but this is immediately shut down along with Australia, Greece and Poland. The punters are stumped. We demand a clue and a clue is given.
‘They speak three languages in this country,’ Mario says.
Hang on, I think. Is it Belgium? I think it’s Belgium. I look left and right. It has to be Belgium. Nobody moves. They have no idea. Say it! But here comes that nagging voice. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m booted from Orange World before my life here even begins?
No!
Come on, Patrick.
A ship in the harbour is safe but that’s not what ships are for!
Heart pounding, I call out Belgium. Mario turns to me, asks for my name. He instructs me to approach him. He holds out the tool, which I now know to be a citrus peeler, and I...I…I…
…I think I black out, to be honest. I see Mario’s lips moving but can’t make out the words. I gratefully receive the peeler in my outstretched palms and retreat to the back of the room. If I look Mon in the eyes I will cry. I know – deep in my bones – that I am home.
Mario now asks the children to guess how old he is. Citrus peelers must be in high demand because an overseas tourist – an adult, no less! – yells an answer and is met with a glare that could strip the toughest of fruits, no peeler necessary. A further two peelers are awarded in the end – one for the correct guess of 72, the other for a flattering 32. And now the competition is over, it’s time for the main event: a tractor tour through the orange farm.
Mario takes us out the back door, where the Orange Express is waiting. When I pass, he congratulates me again and offers his hand, the Aladdin to my Jasmine.
I can show you the [orange] world, he seems to be saying. Do you trust me?
Oh, Mario.
My sweet Belgian waffle.
How could I not?
He kicks the Orange Express into gear. We crawl along a dirt path and listen intently as Mario explains how a handsome young Belgian wound up here in Orange World. He says he arrived in Mildura speaking no English, no Italian, and with no discernible skills. He found work on an orange farm and got friendly with his boss, Charlie, while picking fruit.
‘Then I got even friendlier with his daughter Maria,’ Mario says. ‘And this is how my boss became my father-in-law.’
We learn that there are over 500 types of oranges in the world. The Washington navel – Mario’s favourite – is a winter fruit while summer is best for the Spanish Valencia. The team starts picking at the end of May and finishes in November. All the oranges are twisted and pulled off the tree by hand, while the mandarins are clipped one-by-one with a pair of secateurs.
A good picker – what Mario calls a “gun picker” – will fill a bin of oranges weighing over 400kg in an hour; for mandarins, it will take that same picker up to four hours. They earn $40 for a bin of oranges and $100 for a bin of mandarins.
‘There’s not much money in oranges,’ Mario admits. ‘So I suggest you stick with what you do in life and leave the citrus industry to Mario and Maria.’
The economic hardship hasn’t impacted Mario and Maria’s relationship. Today they’re celebrating forty-eight years together. When Mario mentioned this to the earlier tour, they demanded to know what his secret was.
‘It’s easy,’ he tells us. ‘Twice a week, since the day we are married, restaurant. A beautiful dinner. Good music and a couple of drinks. And at the end of the dinner, a nice walk home. Romantic, no?’
We agree this sounds very romantic.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Maria goes Tuesdays and I go Fridays.’
We trundle along until Mario slows the Orange Express. He gestures towards the rows of trees, the parched earth. He says there are 10,000 orange trees on 50 hectares and each tree requires 400 litres of water per week. He asks a couple of the dads to pee on a tree – to save water, he insists – but they politely decline. Unfazed, Mario directs our attention to the ground.
‘Look at the dirt,’ he says, with all the warmth of a proud parent. ‘Look at the soil. A beautiful mix! Here we are growing capsicum, chilli and cannabis. But only for medicinal purposes! Pumpkin, too.’
We continue through the farm; orange blossoms on the breeze, ZestHeads on the Red Dirt Road. Mario keeps turning to look back at us. He’s beaming. He says he can’t help but be happy today. ‘Isn’t it beautiful seeing all your smiling faces? That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To smile?’
I’m beginning to suspect that the cause of his happiness is not our smiling faces, but the aforementioned cannabis. Especially after he confesses a preference for cats over dogs because cats, he says, will never show cops where the drugs are.
But I’ve no doubt Mario is joking. His drug of choice has always been – and will forever remain – the humble orange. Be it the bergamot, from which a beautiful perfume can be made; the navelina, which is the first of the season; the chinotto, which makes for a bitter Italian drink; or the lemonade – a cross between a lemon and orange – which makes a beautiful marmalade available for purchase inside.
‘And look,’ says Mario, pulling up at Orange World HQ. ‘If you can spend a dollar or two in the kiosk this afternoon, that would be so good. Because forty-eight years is huge, isn’t it? And Maria? She’s not cheap.’
We left Orange World with two fridge magnets, a stubby holder and a bottle of orange juice; freshly squeezed by Maria, of course. We were told the juice would last eight days but we finished it off in two. We drained the final glass at our campsite by Lake Mungo, which is two hours north of Orange World and just as magical.
Earlier that morning, we’d dragged ourselves out of the tent and shuffled through the predawn darkness to a nearby lookout. We set our chairs up on the hill and patiently waited for the sun to breach the horizon and light up the mallee below.
Staring out over the semi-arid scrubland, I wrestled with something still bothering me. What, I wondered, is the essence of Orange World? Can Orange World exist if there are no oranges to see?
The questions rattled around in my mind. I couldn’t help but think about Mario and a story he’d told us. He said he’d opened the door to a couple of people and was upset to learn they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
‘My family is from Calabria,’ he’d explained. ‘Mafia, you know? We do not like witnesses.’
Witnesses.
I whispered the word to the primordial stillness. This witnessing, this presence. I felt I’d stumbled upon something important, like I’d bit into Orange World and the Juice of Truth dripped down my chin. But before the thought could crystallise, the sun set fire to the sky. I’m talking blood orange. Burnt orange. Red lead and rust. In Mario’s words: a beautiful mix. Once my teeth stopped chattering I had no choice but to smile.
And that’s the whole point, isn’t it?
To smile?
Agree - ZestHeads would’ve been the better quip.
Redeemed the colour 'orange' for me. Thank you.