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- Herausgeber: Liberties Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
The Queensland drug dealer-turned-miner who had blown off all his fingers in repeated work accidents; the Adelaide Aborigine whose Irish uncle, in revenge for Captain Cook, claimed the territory of Britain for Australia from the top of Big Ben; the ex-alcoholic in Tasmania relieved that his bi-polar condition could be traced back to his direct ancestor, King George III; the dying man in the Kimberleys who had witnessed a haunting aboriginal dance gathering in 1925.... Paul Martin arrived in Sydney on a one-year working holiday visa with a backpack and a hefty bank loan. Over the next two and a half years, he shared four flats in Sydney and travelled 30,000kms through both territories and all five states of Australia. In Bertha, his trusty 1978 Ford Falcon station wagon, he picked up over a dozen nationalities and encountered many funny and intriguing individuals along the way. Travels with Bertha is for anyone whose friends, loved ones, or who themselves have travelled to Australia, and for those interested in the dark history, the colourful characters or the startling beauty of this most fascinating of continents.
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Travels with Bertha
Two years exploring Australia in a 1978 Ford Stationwagon
Paul Martin
To Len and Rob – for friendship
and
To Samuele, Luca and Damiano – don’t always listen when people tell you things can’t be done
Unless, of course, it’s your father talking
Voyage within you, on the fabled ocean, And you will find the Southern Continent from Terra Australis by James McAuley
I would live all my life in nonchalance and insouciance Were it not for making a living which is rather a nouciance Ogden Nash
Contents
Acknowledgements
The original draft of this book was written in California over a three year period shortly after leaving Australia. My thanks go to those few friends, including Rory Hogan, who persevered through that early version.
Realising how the experiences of young people travelling down to Australia during another recession so strongly paralleled mine in the mid to late 1990s, Travels with Bertha was updated with more historical background and fully revised for publication in 2010 and 2011.
I particularly want to express my appreciation to Gerry Mullins for his advice and encouragement while completing this book. My thanks also go to Catherine O’Brien for producing the many travel maps and to everyone who read later drafts and gave their valuable feedback, including all at Liberties Press. Any errors and imperfections that remain, it hardly needs to be said, are fully mine.
Although I refer to various historical writings, I particularly drew on Robert Hughes’s The Fatal Shore, an essential read for those interested in the early colonial period.
Finally, thanks to Barbara, for her long hours of babysitting in Svarchi while I completed the book – and for all those many other things besides.
Sydney: Year One
Sydney
Arriving into Sydney, my blood turned cold. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a police bloodhound bounding down the airport concourse and suddenly stop at my backpack. Clouded by jet-lag and nerves, I just knew he’d sniff out my box of muesli and I’d be deported for smuggling before I’d properly set foot in the country. But he soon just waddled off like the carefree puppy he seemed to be. When I declared my suspect package to the customs official moments later, he seemed just as unfazed. ‘I reckon we might just be able to let that one go, mate.’ And with a laconic smile, I was waved into Australia.
But on the shuttle bus into town, my anxiety returned. This was late June, midwinter in Australia – something I’d neglected to bear in mind during my exhaustive travel preparations – and peering out the rain-speckled window all I could see was a grey, wet city. A glimpse of the harbour bridge appeared through a gap in two far-off buildings, so I knew this had to be Sydney. But what about the sunshine, surfie beaches and easy living I’d heard so much about? By the time we pulled up outside a rundown hostel in King’s Cross, in what was obviously a red-light district, I was getting very concerned. Just what was going on?
King’s Cross lies about two kilometres from the centre of the city. Cut through Hyde Park, travel up the rising expanse of King William Street, turn left at the enormous flashing neon Coca-Cola sign, and you hit the strip clubs, fast food restaurants, backpacker hostels and many late-night bars of ‘the Cross’. King’s Cross is frequented by sailors, drug addicts, transvestites, strippers, hookers and crime gangs – but, undeterred, thousands of backpackers seem to check into its many hostels each year. Because, despite appearances, it is a very safe and authentic introduction to backpacker Australia.
Throwing my backpack on the one undishevelled bed in the shabby hostel dorm, I quickly went out to meander around King’s Cross’s chilly streets for several hours, before returning to the hostel to sleep off my jet-lag. Waking up in the early evening, I heard someone moving around the room. Glancing up from my jacket, which was doubling up as my bedcover – I’d yet to buy a sleeping bag and the hostel management obviously saw no need for blankets – I saw a blue face peering up at me sorrowfully from beneath a 1990s’ Take That haircut. Then unbidden, in thick Yorkshire, it spoke.
‘I am right, aren’t I?’ the voice asked mournfully. ‘This is Australia? Well I thought this place were meant to be warm. Cos back ’ome I watch ’Ome and Away and you never see any of them bastards wearing a sweater, now do ya? Well sod them, I’m freezing!’
And so I met Rob.
Rob seemed to be having a hard time with the weather. He’d been on holidays in Australia three years before and had encountered a much different climate. He’d flown in at noon, made his way straight down to Bondi beach, enjoyed unprotected sunshine for several hours, and then spent the next three days in bed with second-degree sunstroke.
Consequently, this time he’d decided to travel light and now hadn’t a single sweater or jacket among the mound of T-shirts and jeans falling out of his backpack. But it was a cold winter night, our hostel room was very well ventilated, and he was frozen, miserable and jet-lagged. I gave him a present of my spare sweater. Slightly warmer, he grinned at me: ‘Fancy a beer?’
Within the hour, Rob had introduced me to Anthony, a friend from home who’d already been in the country six months. As an old hand, Anthony immediately took command and determined that a pub-crawl was in order. So we caught a train to Circular Quay and walked along the harbour-side up to the Rocks, the old settlement of Sydney.
Rejuvenated from its badly rundown state in the 1960s and 70s, the Rocks, with its ‘old worldie’ feel, has now become a prime tourist destination. And its charm is real. Walking through it in the darkness, I gazed up at the names lit up above the pub doors − the Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, the Mercantile, the Hero of Waterloo – and felt that time had stood still since the days of the First Fleet and the Battle of Trafalgar.
‘That’s what ya drink in New South Wales,’ Anthony said, slapping a three-quarter-pint glass of beer in front of me in the Lord Nelson. ‘A schooner!’ And so began the evening – and my two-and-a-half-year stay in Australia.
For the next few hours, Rob and Anthony kept me entertained as they tried to outdo each other with stories about their travels and with gossip about people back home in Leeds. I was all the more amused as Rob had a lisp and Anthony had a stutter. Although they’d known each other for years, both seemed surprised when I mentioned it.
‘I always knew you t-t-talked funny, Bobble! See, you’ve a bloody lisp. You c-c-can get help for t-t-that, you know!’
‘It’s-s not me who talks-s funny, you daft bas-stard. Didn’t you hear him? You’re the one with the bloody s-stutter.’
After a few drinks in the Hero of Waterloo, we tumbled out the door in convulsions, only to abruptly fall silent as the spectacle of the underside of the Harbour Bridge appeared, towering massively above us. Craning our necks, we looked up at the enormous metal girders as our breath turned frosty in the night air. Hushed but exhilarated, we made our way quickly to the next pub.
Seeing the Mercantile’s two pool tables, Anthony quickly devised a plan. He’d challenge an innocent to a game. He’d lose a small bet on the first game, lose more on a second, and finally, with a greatly increased stake, nail his opponent on the third. I later saw Anthony play sober and he really was an excellent pool player. Unfortunately, by now he’d drunk so much that he had difficulty staying on his feet, let alone wield a pool cue in a masterly fashion. So I wasn’t surprised when everything went perfectly according to plan until the final game. By then he’d lost eighty dollars. Sending Rob rummaging through his pockets, he slammed the peculiar sum of one hundred and twenty-three dollars on the side. As he staggered past me to the table to break, he stuttered softly in my ear: ‘Paul, just like t-t-taking c-c-candy from a baby.’
Unfortunately, the baby took the candy from him. But somehow it all seemed wonderfully funny, and crying out ‘Sure it’s only money!’ – as if two hundred dollars were only loose change and we wouldn’t soon be eking out the church-mouse existence of a backpacker – we tottered off to the next pub, the Jackson on George.
The evening became a blur from then on. Rob quickly fell asleep on a bar stool and Anthony’s stutter soon became indecipherable. Joining a group of Irish nurses, I listened as one of them lamented about the white marks on the bare ring fingers of the three middle-aged men trying to chat them up. But I wasn’t really paying attention. Australian accents broke through the hubbub of the bar, and my mind wandered. Unfamiliar colours and logos – for Victoria Bitter, Tooheys Blue, Cascade beer and the Polar Bear logo of Bundaberg Rum – lit up the pub all around me. Cocooned in a drunken haze, I considered the twenty thousand kilometres I’d just come. I’d travelled the length of the globe and short of flying to the moon, I’d never be able to travel so far again. My sense of the world suddenly changed and I felt the freefall of vast distances yawn open inside of me. It was then that I finally realised that Ireland was now a world away. That was the moment I really arrived in Australia.
Settling In
I spent my first few weeks in Sydney with Rob and Anthony enjoying the nightlife. We drank, went to clubs, toured the city and began to get a taste for Australia.
One night in the Soho bar in King’s Cross, we saw two men who’d been chatting together amiably only minutes earlier stand up from their table, walk calmly outside and begin pummelling each other up and down the street. Rushing out, the horrified bar manageress screamed frantically at the circle of male spectators to break it up. But the crowd just continued to gaze on in admiration at the two men’s fighting skills and seemed genuinely appalled at her lack of etiquette.
‘Ah lady! Fair fight!’ they lamented to the spoilsport. ‘One on one, lady! Fair go!’ The melee swung up and down the street, before disappearing out of sight. The winner, his hair tousled and his T-shirt ripped, returned shortly afterwards snorting blood and condensation out into the night air. What became of the loser I didn’t see. Australia, it seemed, was still a man’s world.
But the fun and exorbitant spending soon ended when Rob and Anthony both left the city. Anthony’s one sibling had moved down to Australia seven years before, and his parents were unwilling to lose another son to such a distant continent. So, paying her airfare, they despatched his girlfriend from England to bring him back alive. It was difficult not to notice either her dress-sense or her physical appearance, both of which were strikingly like Pamela Anderson’s. So it was hard to fault Anthony when he left for England with her a week later.
Rob wasn’t long in leaving either. Picking up a relocation van – which was supplied free by the rental company provided it was driven back to the point where it was originally hired – he drove across the continent to Perth, where he was to remain for the next five months. Later, he admitted that flying might have been a better idea: the cost of fuelling such a heavy van four thousand kilometres across the continent had come to more than the price of the air ticket, and besides, the drive had nearly killed him.
The fatigue would tell in his voice as he rang me most evenings from a lonely service station to assure me he hadn’t met with an accident and turned into dingo fodder. After driving for ten hours, he’d tell me in a leaden voice about roaming emus, hovering eagles and the countless other wonders he’d seen on that day’s drive through hundreds of kilometres of outback. Listening to him down the receiver in my distant Sydney flat, he set my imagination free. When would I ever get to see these outback places for myself?
A few weeks before, just after my arrival, the reality of my living circumstances and my hefty bank loan had focused my mind on the need to find work.
Hostel living, I was finding, was a great way to meet people and gain local knowledge about accommodation and work; my main problem was simply staying sober. Besides needing sleep and a reasonably clear head to do the rounds of the employment agencies, living in the hostel meant I had no contact number to give prospective employers. I simply had to get my own place.
And so, a little groggy, I set to it on my third morning in Australia. A backpacker had told me that I’d find a flat in the classified section of Saturday’s Sydney Morning Herald. But as I read through the ads, none of the place names meant anything to me: Surry Hills, Glebe, Darling Point, Potts Point, Coogee, North Ryde, Newtown, Bondi … Bondi! Now, I’d heard of that. Looking at the map, I saw Waverley and Bronte were nearby and, attracted on a whim by their pleasant literary associations, I set off.
Taking the short train ride from King’s Cross to Bondi Junction, I was soon walking up to the quaint neighbourhood of Waverley. The second address circled by red biro in my newspaper was on Wiley Street, a delightful, sleepy street of broad, shady trees and chirping birds. Ringing the bell of a charming wooden house, I was met by a good-looking girl who introduced herself as Dominique. She invited me in and offered me a shortbread biscuit and tea in a china cup and saucer.
Dominique was an English and history teacher in what I later discovered was a very exclusive Anglican boys’ boarding school. She enjoyed sharing with travellers, she said. They were usually interesting and always had good stories to tell. Her current roommate was just moving back to her native Tokyo. I was shown her room, which was glowing with afternoon sunshine and was bare except for the honeyed floorboards, a single neat mattress and a bamboo clothes rack.
I was so delightfully impressed by the house, and Dominique’s almost colonial sense of decorum and refinement, that I replied to all her questions in the appropriate manner. I’d studied literature in college, I told her. I’d lived in Italy for a year, I said. And the following Monday I’d be starting work with a fund management company in Martin Place.
As I’d been in the country less than three days, the last statement wasn’t altogether true. But she liked stories, and I wanted to move in, so where, I reckoned, was the harm? The following Saturday, I arrived with my backpack and moved into the first of the four flats I would share in Sydney over the next two years.
Visiting the temp agencies the following week didn’t prove to be as tedious as I’d expected. Sweltering in a shirt and tie, I’d sit in line with dozens of other hopefuls, reading out-of-date magazines, waiting to hand in carefully doctored CVs and undergo an apparently endless series of data-entry and typing tests. The test results always made me feel remarkably unemployable, but then I hadn’t counted on the peculiar interviews that generally followed.
Most of the temp consultants, being Australians in their twenties, had feet every bit as itchy as ours, and they certainly weren’t going to waste the opportunity to pick the brains of this daily flood of European backpackers flowing through their doors. So, much to my relief, instead of being quizzed about my work skills and my chequered employment history, I was asked about Europe. Specific questions related to Swedish women, Guinness, the Pamploma bull festival and the Oktoberfest. Quickly exhausting my limited experience of the Oktoberfest (I had none of Pamploma or of Swedish women, alas), I’d switch to the subjects of cheap Spanish wine and warm English beer before finishing off on the mystical properties of authentic Guinness – all recounted in a strong Irish accent. This had the desired effect, and a week later I was given an assignment in a large international bank in the city centre.
My one-year Australian visa stipulated that I could only work three months at any one job, but in 1995 no one seemed to bother with such legal technicalities. Still, I would have been surprised, on entering the intimidating grandeur of the bank’s skyscraper lobby that Monday morning, to know that I wouldn’t be leaving there for another fourteen months.
But rather than being a place of ambitious careerists, the bank had a very relaxed and fun-loving atmosphere, and I soon settled in nicely. And it didn’t much help this leisurely work ethic that in my first few months the place was overrun with temps (mostly backpackers) who’d been brought in to deal with the bank’s administrative backlogs. Although perhaps not the greatest of HR policies, it certainly did wonders for the social life of the place. Not a Friday went by without a very liquid lunchtime send-off for yet another temp leaving to travel up the Queensland coast. Friday afternoons, it hardly needs to be said − even by exacting Australian standards − tended not to be the most productive.
But despite my leisurely work environment, I was still trying to find my way around in this new country. My new home in Waverley was only minutes from the Eastern Beaches of Bondi, Tamarama, Bronte, Clovelly, Coogee and Maroubra, all of which lie to the south of the harbour mouth (but to the east of the city) and straddle the high coastline like rosary beads.
The first time I saw the beaches was with Rob a week after I’d moved in. It was a dull midwinter Sunday afternoon, and he’d called up, after two weeks in the Spartan surroundings of the hostel, to experience the creature comforts of home once more. After a cup of tea and some television, we went out for a walk. Not knowing where we were going, we just ambled along aimlessly for the next half-hour while he entertained me with stories about back home in Yorkshire. But turning a corner, he stopped in mid-sentence as Tamarama beach and the ocean opened up hazily in front of us.
I’d always imagined that seeing the expanse of the Pacific for the first time would be an overpowering experience, but the day was too dull, and it just looked like Dublin bay. Besides, Rob always kept me down to earth. Having left school at sixteen, he always gave me a hard time if I used ‘one of ’em big fancy words!’ There was no pretence about Rob. He’d a big heart, a great sense of humour and a clear Yorkshire view of the world – and I suppose that’s why I came to like him so much.
We walked down to the beach and, instead of marvelling at the wonders of nature, we just hopped along the surf like schoolboys or clambered among the weirdly shaped sand-walls. A grey sky lay low over the sea and, although neither of us mentioned it, the indistinct mass of the murky sea seemed to stretch on forever, and home really did feel like a world away.
After Rob left for Perth, I’d occasionally walk the high coast-line path along the Eastern Beaches on weekends. And passing through Clovelly graveyard, lying along the path high above the ocean, I remember first sensing Australia’s eerie sense of impassivity and remoteness.
Rows of headstones stand forgotten in the sunshine. And even though thousands of people must walk through it each year, the graveyard still has a wild air about it. As I knew few people in my first few months, I’d occasionally spent an hour there at a time deciphering the headstones.
Although there are several Italians, most of the gravestones belong to the nationalities which came to Australia before the Second World War: English, Scottish, Irish, Germans, even a few Americans. In particular, there are many from the late colonial period and the first few decades after Federation in 1901. Carved onto the stone are the names of sons lost in battle or at sea; beloved daughters taken by fever; mothers and wives lost in childbirth; or fathers, who for decades worked at their trades. One headstone reads to ‘Horace … [his surname has been eroded away by the salty sea air] aged 7, drowned at sea in 1911’. By his side are the graves of his parents, who died over twenty and forty years later. Alongside the date of death, the place of birth was given on all the headstones; it always seemed to be somewhere very far away.
Reading those headstones, I realised how fortunate I was. For the price of a few weeks’ pay, I could always catch a flight and be back in Ireland in a few days. For people coming to Australia as recently as half a century previously, there was no such luxury.
First Impressions
Water, or perhaps more accurately the ocean, is the overwhelming presence for the first-time visitor to Sydney. Dominated as it is by the vast harbour, Sydney has a seemingly endless expanse of coastline – which makes Cook’s decision in 1770 to land in Botany Bay and not within the confines of the harbour all the more peculiar.
As a consequence, the reality of Botany Bay (which like many I had mistakenly believed to lie within the harbour) came as a shock to the eleven wooden ships of the First Fleet at the end of their extraordinary voyage in 1788. After crossing three oceans, they must have considered themselves fortunate that in an era of primitive sea travel, of crammed and unsanitary conditions below deck, of rampant typhus, scurvy and brutality on board, that they had lost only forty-eight of the almost thousand people on board.
In some respects, it was only after the First Fleet had anchored that their real hardships began. By the time the ships set sail, Captain Cook had been dead for over eight years – he’d been stabbed, beaten and then hacked to death by natives in Hawaii in 1779. So when the fleet and the new colony were being planned, the authorities turned for instruction to Henry Banks, Cook’s chief botanist on his voyage of 1770.
The choice of Australia for Britain’s new penal colony had come indirectly out of the defeat in the American War of Independence in 1778. With the loss of the American colonies and the convict dumping grounds in Virginia and Maryland, alternative locations, such as the west coast of Africa, Canada and even Gibraltar, were considered, and soon discounted. Finally, the Home Office opted for Botany Bay in New South Wales, which Cook had discovered on his first Endeavour voyage almost two decades before.
There were compelling reasons for the founding of this new penal colony in Eastern Australia. Not only were the thousands of prisoners being held in hulks in many of the river estuaries around Britain and Ireland prone to rioting, coming onto shore and spreading disease among the general populace, but commercial interests also favoured it. The Dutch (who had already claimed Australia’s west coast the century before), but primarily the French, had been prowling around the Crown colony of Eastern Australia, and Britain feared for its commercial and imperial interests in the Indian and Pacific Oceans. If a permanent colony was established on the southern continent, it would secure Britain’s claims to the region’s nautical routes, in particular those to the Indies, the Orient and southern Africa.
Indeed, when the First Fleet eventually landed in Sydney, these fears were shown to be well founded, as they encountered the French navigator, La Perouse, who had arrived only days before. He dined with the officers, acknowledged their prior territorial claim, and had the graciousness to remark that ‘Enfin Monsieur Cook a tant fait, qu’il ne m’a rien laissé à faire, que d’admirer ses oeuvres.’ (‘Truly Monsieur Cook accomplished so much that there’s nothing left for me to do but admire his achievements’). He then set sail out into the Pacific, was swallowed up by the ocean and was never seen again. A suburb at the far end of the Eastern Beaches now bears his name.
But when the Home Office turned to Banks in the 1780s for more information about Botany Bay, the intervening years seemed to have played strange tricks with his memory. It’s true that Cook had committed an unaccountable and uncharacteristic error in reporting that the land around Botany Bay was rich and fertile, but it was Banks’ additions which were most responsible for falsifying the expectations of the budding colonists.
When the fleet set sail from England, it expected finally to come to anchor in a place with rich topsoil and only a thin tree cover, which would make clearing unnecessary and allow farming to thrive. There would be plenty of stone for building, and the anchorage was reported to be deep and well protected from the violence of the ocean. But instead, Philip’s fleet sailed into a shallow, exposed bay bordered by a flat, infertile plain of dry scrub and eucalyptus trees. They discovered at first hand that Cook had named the place out of regard for the forays of Banks and his fellow botanist, and not on account of any lush vegetation. This was certainly not a spot where a new settlement could survive.
So within days, Phillip, the colony’s first governor, set sail to Port Jackson, twenty kilometres up the coast – a place which Cook had observed, though not entered, eighteen years before. The fleet sailed through the harbour promontories and dropped anchor, and the first white Australian settlement – a penal colony – was founded in the southern continent on 27 January 1778.
As Robert Hughes recounts in The Fatal Shore, Philip was exultant at this new harbour. In a letter to Lord Sydney, the Admiralty Secretary after whom he quickly renamed the natural wonder, he described the inlet as ‘the finest harbour in the world, in which a thousand sail of the line may ride with the most perfect security’.
The disembarkation of the women didn’t take place until 6 February. After the sailors were issued rum freely, they joined with the male convicts in chasing the women and then raping or copulating with them along the rocks of the harbour near where the present-day Botanic Gardens lie.
The ships’ officers were horrified by the orgy. But they soon found that they had a more pressing matter to deal with – the very survival of the colony. With few trained farmers or tradesmen, and little in the way of foodstuffs or irrigation, most of the crops failed in the next few years, and starvation seemed a very likely prospect. Only by the strictest rationing and severest of floggings for stealing did the colony hold out until the arrival of the Second Fleet two and a half years later, in June 1790. Australia, it was clear from the start, was no place for the faint-hearted.
It’s little surprise, therefore, that for at least the first half-century of the colony, most visitors of rank viewed Australia as a hellhole they had to share with native savages and the bestial dregs of their now-abandoned civilisation. And unlike the Aborigines, who found an abundance of foodstuffs in roots and vegetation, in hunting and fishing, early colonial commentators found few natural resources or physical beauty in this continent of glaring, unendingly dry landscapes. The place seemed so barbaric and inhospitable that it could rot a man alive.
Robert Ross, the first lieutenant governor, wrote that: ‘in the whole world there is not a worse country’. David Collins, another ship’s officer, wrote to his family that ‘I am spending the Prime of my Life at the farthest part of the World, without Credit, without Profit, secluded from my Family … my Connections, from the World, under constant Apprehensions of being starved. All these considerations induce me … to embrace the first Opportunity that offers of escaping from a country that is nothing better than a Place of banishment for the Outcasts of society.’
That sense of revulsion continued until at least the 1830s. As Australia’s leading historian, Manning Clark, records: ‘In 1817 John Oxley [the explorer] told the Governor of New South Wales that most of the interior … was uninhabitable and useless for the purposes of civilised man…. Charles Darwin was so appalled in January 1836 by the “useless sterility” of the country [and] the “extreme uniformity in the character of the vegetation” … that when he left our country he wrote in his diary that he did so “without any sorrow or regret”.’
And those were the feelings of the respectable free colonists whose written expressions remain. What the mostly illiterate convicts thought, after surviving the squalor of transportation only to be washed up on this land of searing heat and hard labour, one can only imagine.
God’s Country
Shortly after arriving in Sydney, I decided one sunny afternoon to go down and see the Opera House.
From its wide steps, I looked out over the full stretch of Sydney harbour, and I was mesmerised. And it wasn’t the iconic shell roofs of the Opera House that left me open-mouthed; it was the walls. Why does no one ever mention that they’re covered with countless thousands of square white tiles, just like bathroom ceramics? And the Harbour Bridge is so near, just a few hundred metres across the glittering water, that its massive girders seemed to be almost within touching distance. How unassumingly proud, I thought, to have these two majestic creations, the bridge and the Opera House, both within spitting distance of each other, almost as if each were good-naturedly bemused at the fuss people seemed to make of the other. Despite the jokes about Australian ‘culture’, that, I thought, showed grandeur!
In the square below me, a bagpiper in full traditional costume was playing plaintive highland tunes which drifted up to the Opera House and out over the water. A sign at his laced-up feet asked for donations to help send him to the World Scottish Music Championships in Edinburgh later that year. Excited Japanese tourists came up to put their arm around him and snap a photo. They would bow courteously and smile amiably but, despite all their fine manners, they never put so much as a cent into his instrument case. I smiled wryly at the scene, but the sound of the bagpipes gave me a twinge of longing, evoking somewhere that, I felt instinctively, I wouldn’t be seeing for a long time.
For a few minutes, as my eyes took all this in, it seemed that the person sitting here on the hard concrete steps of the Opera House, gazing out over Sydney Harbour, was someone else. How could this be me?
‘The worst part of travel,’ Paul Theroux once wrote, ‘the most emotional, is the sight of people leading ordinary lives.’ That’s how I felt that afternoon. All around me in Sydney, and I knew back in Ireland, people were getting on with their daily lives: going to work, meeting up with their romantic partners, visiting their families, drinking with friends. But instead, here I was at the far end of the world living the limbo-life of a temporary resident, twenty-five, jobless, and very much alone. And despite all this, I still had only the haziest notion of why I was here.
In my time in Australia, I was to hear many interesting tales about why people had come; most seemed to involve either escape or a search for something that seemed to elude them in the confining familiarity of home.
In Queensland, an Englishman told me how, feeling devastated after his wife had left him, he had taken to drink. Sitting alone in the pub one night, he mulled over how to connect two odd-sized pipes stored in his garage and fix them to the exhaust of his car to gas himself. With the technical problem solved in his head, he made to leave. But then he met a friend whom he hadn’t seen for years at the pub door. She asked what was up and he replied with black humour: ‘Oh, nothing much, I’m just off home to kill myself.’ When he briefly told her why, she just said: ‘You do that, and who’s going to take care of your baby daughter?’ Hearing that, he broke down crying at the pub entrance. But for that chance encounter, he told me, he’d now be dead. He’d left for Australia soon afterwards.
A white South African I knew of had come to Australia after shooting a black intruder in post-apartheid Johannesburg. The courts acquitted him, but he had to get out. He just couldn’t breathe in his home country any more. In Sydney, I knew a guy who’d escaped England because he was afraid that in another heated argument he’d snap and kill his girlfriend.
Although my story, I knew, had none of their drama, it still seemed odd to think that only two months before I’d appeared quite settled in Dublin. Like most of my friends a few years out of college, I was working in a dull, apparently dead-end job, paying just enough to cover my rent, basic bills and the price of a few weekly pints. With unemployment so high in the early 1990s, I knew the mantra of ‘you’re lucky to have a job’ well enough. But surely, I thought, there has to be something better than this?
My enthusiasm for the job must have shown because one day, in the most thoughtful of ways, my boss invited me into her office to inform me that my temporary contract would not be renewed. Following an instant of alarm, I suddenly felt huge relief and to my boss’s surprise I thanked her warmly and breezed out of the office. Within the hour, I’d made up my mind to come to Australia.
Ostensibly I was now in Australia on a ‘gap year’ (to apply a term only then coming into use). Presumably when my twelve-month visa expired, and with the ‘bit of travelling’ out of my system, I would return to Ireland, resume where I’d left off and knuckle down to a normal life. But that’s not how I saw it. And I certainly had no interest in taking up where I’d left off in Dublin.
No, I had a different plan. Now it seemed to me that I could finally indulge a long-held fantasy. For years I’d wanted to escape to a faraway place, work a menial job to pay my way and, in my spare time, read just as the fancy took me.
Two books in particular had given me this idea. One was by a Welsh mariner whose boat had become ice-bound at the fall of an Arctic winter. In the months of polar darkness, he’d survived on tinned food and melted ice – and had lived in a world so strange that it had almost broken his sanity. But with springtime the light appeared, the ice cracked, and he returned home seeing the world through different eyes.
The second was Brian Keenan’s An Evil Cradling. His mental occupations while in solitary confinement in Beirut fascinated me. All the stories he’d read, or the events he’d experienced, he’d spin through his mind like a film reel. Then he’d cut and edit each frame so intricately that it was as if he were recreating luminous worlds within the universe of his own head.
That was the sort of traveller I wanted to be: I wanted to wander freely into infinite space. What purpose lay behind this quixotic undertaking, and what would come of it, I had no idea. But if I could do it in warm sunshine, and earn as much as I was getting in Ireland, what was there to lose? Australia seemed to make perfect sense.
Or at least it had when I was planning my journey in the secure comfort of Dublin. But now, on my own and so far away, I wasn’t quite so sure. Suddenly shuddering with cold, I looked up and saw the late-afternoon winter sunshine glinting off the harbour water and realised I must have been in a daydream for hours. Suddenly aware of what I’d taken on, I felt a surge of determination and knew I’d better just get on with it. So, grabbing my small backpack, I began walking briskly to Circular Quay station to catch a train back to my flat in the Eastern Suburbs.
I wasn’t long in Australia before my plan got a push in the right direction. Natalie, one of my first work colleagues, had immigrated to Australia from St Petersburg in Russia only a few years before with her physicist husband and two young sons. Very affable, highly cultured and brimming with energy, she would enthuse about Australia to me. The culture was wonderful – she loved attending plays and concerts in the Opera House – and she could think of nowhere better in the world to bring up children; the country, she felt, was so healthy and free.
But it was when she told me that she still had to unpack many of her two thousand books, still boxed up in the basement of her new Sydney home, that I decided that she was the person to ask about Pushkin. Was it true, I wondered, when they say he’s simply impossible to translate properly from the Russian?
Looking up from my computer screen, I saw her plump, pale face suddenly glow, as if infused by a memory. Then, drawing out the full sibilance of his name, she gasped breathlessly: ‘Ahh, Puusshkin …!’
Inspired by this undisguised response, within days I had finished the first part of Gorky’s visceral autobiography, and over the next few months I got through much of Chekhov, Pasternak, Mandelstam, Mikhail Sholokhov, and of course Tolstoy.
Being in Australia, however, I thought I really should have a go at some of its authors. ‘Help yourself to anything on my shelf,’ Dominque (an English teacher after all) said generously when I asked her for guidance. ‘But if I were you, I’d start with Henry Lawson. That’s where most people usually begin.’
