Broke in Australia, I took a street sales job - but sidelined my better instincts

On a working holiday visa in Australia, I completed a long (expensive) trip down the east coast and decided to stay in Melbourne for a while.

Finding work was key. After several dozen unsuccessful applications, I broadened my horizons. This is how I ended up working in a multi-level marketing sales job. It would only last a few weeks, but I was left with unforgettable memories (and not for the right reasons).

The recruiter had a way of making me feel special to be selected for this wonderful opportunity. At that stage I would have done almost anything, I just needed money as quickly as I could get it.

The interview was unorthodox. There were 15 of us, mostly on working holiday visas, brought in as a group. The company told us they were a marketing firm selling subscriptions on behalf of charities.

“Here’s the catch though: we are not really just looking for salespeople, we are looking for leaders to build their own team as they move through the ranks here. How do you do that? Simple, just reach your sales targets and you can have your own team under you in weeks.”

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The chief executive was a friendly man who appeared to have made a fortune but also came across as ordinary, giving you the intended impression that if he could do it, so could you.

Then followed discussions that pitted each of us against each other. Some of us knew how to play that game. And four of us would start training the next day.

On my first day out in the field I was paired with my leader, who was also on a working holiday.

I was the only one of the new cohort to get a sale on the first day (in fact I got four, all told). Each time my leader would hype me up, and off I went, talking to older women about a charity that was often very close to their hearts.

We were taught several methods by which to stop strangers and convince them that we were trustworthy enough to hand over their bank details. It was quite similar to fishing: patience, baiting, and a gentle wrestle to keep them with you until you made a catch.

Firstly, you’d offer them a token, such as a fridge magnet, and wait for them to reach for it. Only you don’t let go. Before they’d even make contact, you’d say, “I’m not collecting today, but I would love your opinion.” This often rattled people, and in that moment they’d give you their full attention.

You’d begin this delicate dance by asking whether they had a personal connection to the cause in hand. Almost everyone did, one way or another, and immediately they’d feel part of what you were talking about.

Next, you pointed to your table, spoke about statistics and a lack of government funding – all while keeping the matter light and adding a few jokes to convince them you are not in fact after their money.

Then came the key question: “All everyone’s been doing today is dropping a name and a number, a small amount to chip in for next month, and from there you donate for as long as you like. Sound fair enough?”

In reality, you had often been standing at a shop corner for six hours waiting for your first sale. On top of this, I wouldn’t have actually told them I needed their card details yet.

If they agreed it was “fair enough”, I would begin taking all their details, my heartbeat rising as I got closer to asking for their card information. I would keep looking down at the table as if this were the most normal interaction in the world. “All right, I’m assuming it’s the same name on the card for yourself?”

And just like that, I had their credit card details without directly asking for them.

On my first day, the chief executive told me he thought I would be a very good salesman. The truth was that I simply followed their sales workshops (which felt like lessons in manipulation), and happened to have a friendly smile.

If you advanced far enough in the company, you became a leader, and would take a cut from your team’s sales. I would not be making any commission until I received my first “promotion”. Each promotion required a set number of weekly sales over consecutive weeks.

Boundaries were non-existent in the company, with a phone call every night from my leader to reflect on my day and talk about the next. If sales were poor, I could expect a couple of these calls.

My performance slipped quickly, and eventually I was making only one sale a day if I was lucky. This meant my paid hours would be cut, so I’d end up working voluntarily to make unpaid sales. I began to focus my entire life around the job, even my social life, with free pints to make up for a lack of commission.

Increasingly, the job didn’t sit right with me. I tried to convince myself that the money was going to charity, but I knew the methods were manipulative.

I watched others sign up elderly women who warned there might not be funds in their account when the money was collected. I once stopped a woman who told me she was on her way back from her mother’s funeral. As I took her payment details, I realised she was starting to cry. I told her she didn’t have to sign up.

I was planning my way out. I just needed a few more days to survive before I left, when my bosses set me a challenge. Do whatever I needed to do to get three sales the next day, or else.

The next day I pushed every interaction. Shamefully, I even shouted to a woman in her 20s to come back after she had walked away. Nervously, she did, and I made sure she chose the lowest subscription.

By the end of the day, I had my three sales. That night, I was told my paid hours had increased. It hit me then that, even though I knew I was being manipulated, they had succeeded.

The next day I knew I wouldn’t be coming back. I had sidelined my better instincts when food and rent were the priority. What was scariest was how effective I became once I stopped hesitating. My final day was quiet – just me thinking about how many vulnerable people I had convinced to sign up.

Looking back, it amazes me how many of us working holiday travellers were in the same boat: needing money, and not asking questions once the money came in. Were we in many ways just as vulnerable and manipulated as those people we had signed up?

Eddie Ferns, from Co Wicklow, moved to Australia in March 2025. He currently lives in Melbourne, where he works in a school and writes.

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