Moving On Down Under

          It’s been a while since I last jetted to Australia, a journey some describe as arduous but which I experience as a reasonably comfortable, if time- warping, twenty-four-hour sit-down. This flight, however, began in disappointment, thus: I was propositioned at check-in with the option of travelling the following day, as the flight had been (deliberately) overbooked. In return, I would get a £520 refund and free overnight accommodation. I readily accepted, only to have the offer withdrawn at the last minute, as the flight had somehow become under-booked. I had taken some idle pleasure in thinking of ways to spend my windfall, but no matter.

          An unremarkable journey ensued – apart from the incident in the toilets at Changi airport, where my unfamiliarity with a wc-cum-bidet led to the flooding of the cubicle and the partial soaking of my luggage and myself. Oh, and the pompous person across the aisle on the second leg of the flight who complained to the hapless attendant about the quality of the food. She offered him several apologies and extra wine, but I imagined her thinking, “It’s economy, stupid!” Touchdown in Perth was on schedule and the pilot welcomed us with the now customary acknowledgement that this is the land of the aboriginal people (even though it is no longer in their possession).

          I recall that, on my first, brief visit in 1979, the fixed impression I got was of England, crossed with Texas and superimposed on an ancient culture that only bubbled to the surface here and there. But Australia has moved on since then – as have I – and what intrigues me is the cultural anomalies that, being part of daily life for Aussies, are unremarkable to them. For example, the place names on a suburban rail line out of Sydney that shift from Home Counties (Epping, Strathfield, Gosford) to native (Koolewong, Woy Woy, Ourimbah) without crossing a border. Whilst I am familiar with the historical explanation for this, I can only guess at what the more recent waves of immigrants – Thai, say – might make of the significance behind these place names. Established Aussies themselves, unfazed as ever, have developed a levelling device to skate over the issue by way of abbreviation, like Freemantle being called Freeo.

          It is too late for the colonisers to repair the damage done – the slaughter of the aborigines, the appropriation of their land and the submerging of their culture. Nevertheless, it is evident in the belated efforts to acknowledge the wrongs and promote awareness of the destruction wrought – from the Qantas pilots’ words to the notices displayed at public sites and monuments – that guilt has been acknowledged. It is also apparent in the State art galleries (of Western Australia and New South Wales, at least), where more than just homage is paid to indigenous art. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, I have the kind of nostalgic preference for the literal paintings of the early 20^th century European colonists that reflects my Eurocentric upbringing, regarding indigenous art as a curiosity, sometimes visually attractive but otherwise without significance to my eye. So, I was initially disappointed to find that little of what I had hoped to see was on display at WA. Fortunately, a show at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Sydney helped me see the light by displaying art that relates to and is inspired by specific places. This principle underpins the art of the aboriginal people, whose sense of self and origin is fundamentally linked to place and remains so, dispersed, displaced and depleted though they are. Now I get it, defo.

          Still, despite the angst of a guilt-ridden coloniser, I enjoyed a moment at a small place called Gin Gin, where the rail station and its offspring hotel across the road still reek of  the pioneering spirit of 1891. Remove the utes parked outside and the scene would make a perfect subject for a period landscape, in the European manner, of course.

Work In Progress (WIP)

          I was shaken this week, by the news that an old friend had died. The fact that we hadn’t been in touch for more than 40 years does not dim the vivid flashbacks I am still experiencing, though it does cause me to think about the nature of friendship and the circumstances in which it flourishes and dwindles. In our case, the story was one of intersecting social circles at a time before we all settled on our various trajectories, some of which, like ours, never coincided thereafter. So, I can’t help speculating how things went for my former friend. And I mean personally – the stuff behind the headlines of family and career. Did he die at peace with himself, his hopes, expectations and ambitions? Not that any of those things are fixed: in my experience, they can change over time and according to the twists and turns of fate. But was he the same person, in the end, as the one I knew?

          It's a philosophical question and one that has been addressed by many an eminent thinker. It begins with the notion of ‘self’ and what makes an individual a personality, rather than just another ant in a colony. Is it, as Locke contended, the fact of consciousness that defines self? Or is it, as Hulme suggested, merely a bundle of perceptions? Meanwhile, nihilists seem to suggest that the argument is futile, while theologians neatly sidestep the issue by relying on the notion of ‘souls’, which they dreamt up and cannot prove. Since I have nothing definitive to put forward, I will myself sidestep the issue by quoting a stand-up comic, whose name I have forgotten but whose opening lines I remember well: “I’m a man who likes to ask life’s big questions, like: What is our purpose here? Where do we come from? Where are we going? Should we be taking sandwiches?”

          For all practical purposes, we are individual persons and we do have a notion of ‘self’, even if we can but speculate as to how it exists and is perceived. But following on from that, comes another question: are we the same person now as we were before? Or, in analytical language, what makes it true that a person at one time is the same thing as a person at another time? We’ve all heard it said, “He’s not the man he once was,” but what is it that is different? Leaving aside obvious physical changes, are we witnessing altered personality traits or merely an adjustment of ambition (the one being fundamental, the other tactical)?

          In this, I can only answer for myself. The physical parts of me are certainly not as they were, though the changes are due to natural progression, aka ageing. And there are some characteristics that I have never been called upon to test: valour might be an example, as I am of the lucky generation that never went to war. But let’s suppose that I am characteristically pessimistic. Can that be turned around by dint of determination and, if so, would that qualify me as a changed person, or just someone who has changed their behaviour?  My perception of myself is that I have developed rather than changed – and in a good way. I feel older, yes, but more knowledgeable and, therefore, more qualified to make decisions based on logic. Not that I always do, of course: that extra glass of wine often turns out to have been an error of judgement.

         As for my recently deceased friend, I will never know, as all I have now is a snapshot in my memory of our time together. But I am certain that, when it comes to my turn to exit, I would prefer the epitaph WIP to RIP.

 

Short, Back and Sides

          When it comes time for a haircut, I am still unsure, two years after moving here, which barber shop to choose. There are so many of them – too many, according to one of the longer-established practitioners, who has watched competition grow, fuelled to a large degree by Kurdish immigrants who, according to him, “learned it off YouTube”. But, since my needs are uncomplicated (I am thankful that it was my fate to be born into the male gender), I reckon that any competent barber could – or should – be able to do the job. The brief is simple: trim the hair while keeping the style as is. The criteria for deciding where to take my custom, therefore, could readily be defined by price and convenience and, since prices are all the same, give or take a pound, that leaves convenience as the deciding factor. Except that it doesn’t, quite.

          For a while, I thought I had it sorted. Hair Port is situated across the road from the Portuguese café, which was a useful place to have coffee while keeping an eye on the busyness or otherwise of the barbers. But the café changed its opening times and I lost track of them. In any case, it seemed that, despite there being several barbers on duty, I too often got the big, unsmiling, tattooed chap whose manner was arrogant and whose method was rapid and rough. The end result would be fine, but the risk of a cricked neck was always present. So, I started to go to Malmo, a salon named for the Swedish city which had once been the adopted home of this particular Kurdish proprietor. Malmo is conveniently situated opposite the supermarket, where provisions may be obtained before or after the shearing and where there is a handy, secure bike-park. The only snag is that the proprietor is always on the phone (“Sorry, I have a big family”), which means that I usually get attended by his assistant, a nice chap with a gentle touch, but whose method is tediously slow. And, unless I keep an eye on what he’s doing, I sometimes end up with a quiff that is not only inappropriate to my age but also reminiscent of a certain far-right, former politician.

          It was for this reason that I cycled up to Hair Port on Tuesday morning, thinking to give them another try. The big man wasn’t there, which was encouraging. There was just one, unemployed barber lurking with his phone at the back of the shop. But, as I walked in, I realised that I had forgotten to bring with me the seemingly universal currency of barbershops: cash. Ever so hopefully, I asked him if I could pay with my phone. The response I got was morose and perfunctory. “There’s an ATM over the road,” he said, thrusting his chin in that direction. Fine, but I only had the phone with me and ATMs still need an old-fashioned card poked into them. I knew I had to cycle home for cash and start again, which I did with bad grace and not so much as a “See you later”.

          On the return journey, I decided, in a fit of of pique, to risk it and go to Malmo instead. The boss was on the phone but smiled and said hello, while beckoning his assistant to prepare the chair for me. The gentle barber seemed pleased to see me, so I resigned myself to his painstaking twiddling, and made sure to be firm in my instructions regarding the quiff. In the end, he did a good enough job, so I handed over the cash, told him to keep the change and asked, by the way, if they accept card payments. “Yes, of course,” was the answer.