Running Out Of Steam?

          Coincidence or what? On my recent return from Australia, the first piece of music I heard on the radio was Frank Sinatra singing “It’s very nice to go trav’lin…but it’s so much nicer to come home” and, for a while, I felt in tune with the sentiment. But I’m sure the comforts of home tend to dull the senses eventually. And never let it be said that I should “get out more”.

          The distance I travelled was immense, yet the ease of the journey and the speed with which it may be achieved has come to be taken for granted. But still I marvel that the world we inhabit has become so accessible to so many of us. And why do people live where they do? How much choice are they able to exercise (supposing they want to)? Is the grass always greener? Is there really no place like home? More than half the global population now inhabits cities, but that leaves almost half that does not and, from the window of a train passing small, lakeside settlements along Australia’s Central Coast, I could see the attraction of hunkering down somewhere picturesque and tranquil. You could, if so inclined, hide away in places like that, untouched by the troubled world – until such time as the trouble turns up on your doorstep in the form of social unrest, ecological disaster or both. But that’s not part of the dream, I suppose.

          Of course, there are many people who live where they do because of their employment, like the young Frenchman who was in the seat next to me on one of the flights. I asked how he came to speak English so well, and it was because he had worked for several years in international banking in places like Singapore and Hong Kong. Being currently unemployed, he was on a recreational trip to Australia and was quite relaxed about where he might end up living. Oh, to be young and footloose! On another flight, I spoke to a young Australian woman who works in London and was flying back there having spent a week with her British boyfriend who works in Sydney. I didn’t enquire how the relationship was going, but I did ask about her work, which is in digital advertising. I hope I didn’t misjudge the extent of her interest in my telling her tales of my short, undistinguished career in advertising back in the 70s, when ‘cutting and pasting’ involved actual scissors, glue and Letraset. If so, she indulged me with impeccable politeness, nevertheless.

          But despite my enthusiasm for travelling – which sits well with my imagined persona as an intrepid and capable international adventurer – there were some moments on this last trip that raised the tiniest concern in me that I may not be up to the challenges much longer. My spirit of self-reliance was dealt a blow when, on one of the flights, I tried and failed to twist the plastic cap off a bottle of water. Either it was faulty, or my arthritis-weakened grip was not up to the job, but a younger man seated across the aisle had noticed my dilemma and sprang to my assistance with the sort of kindly smile that is reserved for old people. Again, when having difficulties with seat-belt catches, headphone sockets and touch-screen in-flight entertainment systems, it was a young person sitting next to me who volunteered their services, without being asked, as if to say, “poor old sod doesn’t know shit about modern tech. Better help him out.”

          Despite these slight humiliations, I remain defiantly hopeful for the time being, though I do note that the last verse of Frank’s song, a paean to the comforts of firesides and slippers, may be what it comes to in the end.

Dutch Down Under?

          If you can translate the following sentence into standard English, you might pass the Australian naturalisation test: “My BF stacked his pushie in his trackie-daks.” * Yes, English is the official language of Oz but, when the vernacular is imbued with this much local flavour, it might as well be Dutch – a fate which, as it happens, just might have come to pass.

          In two voyages, between 1642-1644, Dutch captain Abel Janzoon Tasman, charged with exploring a possible southern passage to Chile, mapped large stretches of the coastline of the Australian continent. He went on to discover and name Tasmania (though he assumed it to be part of the mainland) and then found New Zealand. The results are charted in the Tasman Map of 1644, a glorious mosaic reproduction of which is set into the floor of the entrance hall of the National Library in Sydney. It was to be another 125 years before Captain Cook turned up on the scene and staked a claim on behalf of the English monarch. Quite what happened in between, I don’t know, but Captain Tasman appears to have missed the opportunity to sow the seeds of his native language, which is fortunate, since it is reputed to be difficult to learn. Also, the outcome is more convenient for me and my kind. And the resulting ‘English-on-steroids’, adorned as it is with witty, frivolous words, phrases and abbrvtns., seems to reflect the no-nonsense, egalitarian character of the Aussies. I don’t know how that would have worked out in Dutch, especially as my Amsterdam-domiciled niece (our family is gathered here in Sydney for a wedding) assures me that Hollanders exhibit none of the universal friendliness that is so conspicuous here.

          But the language does not always work in my favour. I am presently staying in Sydney’s Chinatown and am having some difficulty communicating with the first-generation immigrants who seem to run most of the businesses. Either I can’t understand them, or they can’t understand me. Last night, at a restaurant, I got up to go to the ‘restroom’ and, on the way, asked someone whom I assumed was a waitress to bring the bill. She smiled and nodded but she was actually a customer returning from the restroom to her table near ours. She seemed to take no offence. Perhaps she mistook me for a friendly, outgoing Aussie and thought nothing of it.

          I had no such problems out of town, where I had spent the previous week with my naturalised Aussie sister and her husband at their house on the Central Coast. The population there seems predominantly Anglo-Australian, which would account for the strange sensation I had of feeling at home in a foreign place. Even so, I did have one experience that I’ve never had at home: a visit to a cattery, where my hosts, being about to travel abroad, had booked lodgings for their cat, Garfield. Amidst much wringing of hands and expression of guilt at having to inconvenience His Lordship for so long, my sister took “Garfie” to the cattery. I went along for the ride because there’s not much else to do round there and I was intrigued by the name of the establishment, Kangi Mews, which is in the hamlet of Kangi Angi. I had hoped to wait in the car so as to avoid any emotional scenes of separation, but I was prevailed upon to lug “Garfie”, mewing miserably in his cage, into the premises, where the cat-caring lady (whose trackie-daks were unspeakably stained) checked him in and made reassuring promises to his inconsolable owner concerning his welfare. She then introduced us one-by-one to his temporary neighbours and their respective foibles, until I made it clear that my interest in furry creatures with permanently predatory, staring eyes was waning. I refrained from adding that the species is alien to the continent and poses a threat to its ecosystem in case the cat-lady cracked the shits**and told me to go walkabout. I didn’t want to get in a bingle*** with her.

* My boyfriend crashed his bike, wearing only tracksuit trousers.

** Lost her temper.

*** Fight.

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.