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 I readily accepted, only to have the offer withdrawn at the last minute, as the flight had somehow become under-booked.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 20th 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.
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