In the wake of the recent debate about the paucity of prize-winning female Australian authors, and the mooted establishment of a new literary award (The Stella Prize) specifically for women, Meanjin literary magazine is running a Tournament of Books to promote great books by Australian women.
I was invited to review two books from a shortlist of fifteen chosen by the Meanjin panel and ‘rank’ them:
‘A Kindness Cup’ by Thea Astley Vs ‘The Secret River’ by Kate Grenville
In the acknowledgements to Thea Astley’s novel ‘A Kindness Cup’ she mentions an ‘incident’ at The Leap near Mackay in Queensland which provided the ‘impetus’ for her book. Impetus is far too polite a word to describe the inferno of rage that appears to have inspired this novel. And for ’incident’, read Aboriginal massacre.
The novel was first published in 1974, just a couple of years after Labor Prime Minister Gough Whitlam established the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Land Rights and a year before he handed back some Gurindji land in the Northern Territory to its traditional owners. Gurindji, like many other indigenous groups, had been dispossessed, massacred then exploited as free labour over the previous decades. At last these stories were beginning to be spoken and written about by European Australians.
My copy of ‘A Kindness Cup’ is now thirty-five years old and it fell apart, one page at a time, as I re-read it for Meanjin. This literal disintegration became a metaphor for the story printed on the yellowing pages. The main character, Dorahy, is invited back to the (fictional) QLD town of The Taws where several decades earlier he witnessed the results of an act of white male mob violence. There is to be a twenty-year town reunion and Dorahy, a former schoolteacher in The Taws, can’t keep away. He is still seeking justice and the quest is sending him mad.
Dorahy hovers around the partying townsfolk like a blowfly circling a pack of dogs, goading the perpetrators and trying to enlist support for his cause. But in this seaside town the leaders of the pack have since been knighted. One dismisses the massacre as the town’s ‘growing pains’. The present blurs with the past as Dorahy’s mind obsessively rehearses the events leading up to the crime. One of the victims, Lunt, whose sympathy for his Aboriginal neighbours nearly cost him his life, is now a recluse. As Dorahy wages his righteous campaign, Lunt’s accommodation with the past and Dorahy’s inability to let it go are distilled down to a New Testament versus Old Testament view of humanity.
Astley’s prose is rich with poetry, especially when she’s describing the alienating Australian landscape where ‘the sea still burns its blue acid’ and ‘the terrible brown and green distances eat away at the compass outside.’ Occasionally she over-reaches and the images jar: ‘Gracie lies there and in a conglomerate of memories she inspects husbands one and two’.
There is a cast of fully fleshed-out white characters: Boyd the kindly newspaper editor who is sucked into the wake of Dorahy’s fury; Gracie the returning opera diva who sweats in the tropical heat and yearns for her younger, Sylph-like self. Most of the Aboriginal characters, though, are shadow puppets flitting wordlessly around the edges of the white man’s sub-conscious.
Embodied in the character of Dorahy, the author’s rage carries the reader along with immense energy. It’s the kind of anger that so frightened critics of the ‘black armband view of history’ three decades later, they refused to utter the word sorry. Astley demands our empathy; in the end, though, she rewards us with despair.
Thirty years after the publication of ‘A Kindness Cup’, Kate Grenville traversed similar territory in ‘The Secret River’. Like Astley she drew on some historical facts in creating the story of William Thornhill, an English convict transported to Sydney Cove in 1806 where he makes a new life with his growing family on the banks of the Hawkesbury River.
Thornhill falls in love with the Australian landscape and, more importantly, with the seductive pleasures of land ownership. But when his ambitions are challenged by the indigenous owners of the land he calls Thornhill’s Point, tragedy becomes inevitable.
Grenville’s canvas is wider than Astley’s. She takes us all the way from Thornhill’s childhood in London, a life of constant hunger with ‘the gnawing feeling in his belly, the flat taste in his mouth, the rage that there was never enough’, to his old age as a wealthy colonialist whose ‘children wore boots and (who) was never without a chest of the best Darjeeling in the house.’ Her cast includes some of the same ‘types’ found in Astley’s novel: Thornhill’s neighbour Blackwood who is sympathetic to the local indigenous tribes; the bullies Saggity and Smasher who see the ‘savages’ as less than human. But the Aboriginal characters are also given distinct personalities, and thereby dignity.
As in ‘A Kindness Cup’, the fulcrum of Grenville’s narrative is an Aboriginal massacre described in horrific, moment-by-moment detail. Re-reading it five years after I first encountered ‘The Secret River’, the sheer horror of this scene once again left me weeping with rage and sorrow.
Describing a novel as having a ‘project’ is a risky business, but it seems to me both these authors wanted their readers to confront and vicariously experience the shameful history of the colonisers’ dealings with indigenous Australians. Both are critical of the brutal patriarchal worldview that defined land as territory to be conquered, just as you might conquer a woman (‘Ah you bitch country’, says one of Astley’s characters, sucking a pinch of dust from his fingers, ‘I love you’) and Aborigines as vermin to be eradicated.
In ‘A Kindness Cup’, Dorahy’s rage against this worldview is disabling and, in the end, futile. Thea Astley’s own worldview, it seems, is a dystopian one.
‘The Secret River’, though, ends with the image of William Thornhill scanning the cliff tops through his eye glass, searching the forest for ‘a man as dark as the scorched trunk of a stringybark’. Thornhill has been changed by the cruelty he has both witnessed and perpetrated – he is sorry – and in his regret there is the promise of redemption.
Kate Grenville gets my vote this time but PLEASE read them both.
In the back room of the Innisfail Historical Museum, past the antique egg cups, the yellowing christening gowns and the old war rifles, is a collection of black-and-white photographs labelled “Cyclone, March 10th, 1918”. The images show wooden buildings littering the main street like spilled matchsticks. Men in braces and hats stand beside the piles of wood, hands on hips.
There’s something familiar about the cheerful look on their faces. It’s the same expression I’ve been seeing all week on the faces of Mission Beach residents – like the woman in the supermarket who told me ‘I’d rather have a cyclone than a flood or bushfire any day!’
On February 3 2011, Cyclone Yasi hit tropical north Queensland, destroying property and crops along the length of what’s known as the Cassowary Coast. The category-five storm caused massive damage to the resort infrastructure at Dunk and Bedarra islands and they won’t be taking bookings until at least April 2012.
At Mission Beach, two hours south of Cairns, the waterfront facilities (including the Clump Point Jetty and boat ramp) were ripped to pieces. Most buildings suffered some kind of structural or water damage. The irrepressible residents, however, have picked themselves up, repaired their buildings and resumed the coastal tourist trade. According to Angi Matveyeff, the manager of Mission Beach Tourism, two-thirds of the town’s cafes and restaurants are operating and almost all accommodation has reopened.
We’re staying at the beachside Castaways Resort and Spa, where the gym remains closed due to water damage. Otherwise, Castaways is fully operational and many rooms have recently been refurbished. Accommodation bookings are steady and the resort’s Bibesia restaurant is popular with locals on their night off.
Walking south along the beach towards Wongaling Beach we marvel at the resilience of Mission Beach’s picturesque coconut palms. The tidal surge that followed Yasi gouged the sand from under these trees, leaving their spaghetti-like root systems exposed. Most clung on, though, and have survived.
Occasionally we come across a rusting fridge half buried in the sand. It’s hard to know whether this is detritus left by Yasi or if it’s been here since Cyclone Larry swept through in March 2006. Two decades before Larry, Cyclone Winifred damaged 190 buildings in and around Innisfail (On the road between Mission Beach and neighbouring El Arish, one wag has left a hand-painted sign: “Hi Winifred, I’m in ELarrysh, got my Yasi kicked by every cyclone.”)
Cyclones aside, this part of north Queensland is one of the wettest regions in the country. The nearby town of Tully receives an annual average of 4000 millimetres of rain, symbolised by its giant Golden Gumboot monument. The week we visit the Cassowary Coast (spanning from Babinda in the north to Cardwell in the south), there are showers almost every day. There’s a strong wind, too, which is bad news for our planned island-hopping day trip with Coral Kayaking.
It’s good news, however, for the people hiring out BloKarts from the Adventure Centre (rebuilt on wheels after Yasi, for a quick getaway). I watch these go-carts with sails hurtle up and down the hard sand while I brave the choppy surf of Mission Beach.
We make the most of the sunny breaks, dropping in at the visitor information centre and the C4 Environment Centre next door to find out how the endangered cassowaries have survived Yasi.
These flightless blue-necked birds have inspired their own monument at South Mission Beach. Bus drivers like to advise backpackers that the ten-foot tall concrete and steel “man-eating” cassowary is “life-size”. (Fortunately most don’t buy it).
“Their habitat has been damaged, so the cassowaries are confused and hungry,” we’re told. “They’re wandering into places they don’t usually go, like car parks, looking for food.” Fortunately the birds can usually find a meal at one of a hundred rainforest feeding stations established on the Cassowary Coast, where rangers leave fruit for them each week.
The rainforest damage is starkly visible on the Licuala Fan Palm Walk in the Tam O’Shanter National Park. A decade ago I wandered here under a dappled canopy of native palms, keeping an eye out for wallabies and cassowaries. Now we marvel at the trunks of immense eucalypts, their roots bared, lying fallen beside the path. The little signs alerting visitors to different plant species have become advertisements for ghost trees. (The wallabies seem to have migrated to South Mission Beach where they’re feasting happily on lush front lawns.)
Five kilometres north of Mission Beach we tackle the walk up Bicton Hill in the Clump Mountain National Park. Some glades and gullies of rainforest remain unscathed. At the top of the hill the cyclone has stripped away foliage, creating a stunning new 360-degree view of the Cassowary Coast.
Intrigued by descriptions of Innisfail as the “art deco capital of Australia”, we head north up the Bruce Highway through canefields, stopping to pick up a heritage walk brochure at the Innisfail Tourist Centre. The roof here is still covered with a giant tarp but otherwise it’s business as usual.
Innisfail is architectural proof that good things can come from bad. The cyclone that ripped the town to pieces in 1918 prompted an art-deco building boom in the 1920s and ‘30s. Wooden constructions were replaced with more sturdy concrete and brick buildings, with the decorative curved and hand-tiled facades, porthole windows and geometric leadlight designs of the era. Starting at the Johnstone River, we follow the heritage walk around town, pausing to admire the freshly painted deco-style banks, arcades and cafes lining the streets.
The Innisfail Historical Museum is housed inside the blue-and-white deco glory of the Memorial School of Arts, where we stare at old photos of the cyclone-ravaged town. Finally we head up the hill to where Our Lady of Good Counsel Catholic Church presides over the town. It’s a grand confection of cream and gold turrets, fully refurbished after Cyclone Larry in 2006. Like the rest of the town, it seems to have survived Yasi’s fury with minimal damage.
We drive back along the winding Old Bruce Highway, known as Canecutter Way, through a long valley of canefields flanked by cloud-topped mountains. As we pass the silver towers of the Bundaberg Sugar Mill in South Johnstone the sickly-sweet smell of processed sugar follows us down the road.
At Mena Creek we pull into a crowded car park and follow the signs to the entrance of Paronella Park. We can hear rushing water as our tour guide leads us down a steep path towards a patch of remnant rainforest. Suddenly, looming up from under the tall trees, there’s a ruined castle with turrets and balustrades, and right beside it, a gushing waterfall drops into a hidden valley.
Our tour guide explains that a Spanish immigrant named Jose Paronella made his fortune in the 1930s buying and selling Queensland cane farms. He bought five hectares of rainforest, built a small cottage for his family to live in and employed local labourers to construct this astonishing Spanish-style castle right beside the Mena Creek. He hired out the glamorous ballroom for weddings and dances and invited courting couples to wander along the landscaped paths he created in the rainforest. Visitors played on his tennis courts, swam in the creek at the bottom of the falls and bought ice-creams made by his wife, Margerita.
Paronella was an innovator, installing Australia’s first privately owned hydro-electric power plant under the waterfall. After his death the property changed hands several times and a fire in the ballroom caused extensive damage. Floods and cyclones have also taken their toll, and these days the castle is a series of picturesque moss-covered ruins. But someone has always rescued the heritage-listed Paronella Park from natural disaster and these days it’s one of the most popular tourist attractions in the state.
On the way back to Mission Beach we detour via Silkwood to visit the Murdering Point Winery. Here the Berryman family produces award-winning wines with tropical fruits including mango, passionfruit and Davidson plum. We buy a bottle of sweet lychee wine and that evening we raise a toast to the never-say-die spirit of tropical north Queenslanders.
(A version of this blogpost appeared as a travel article in the Fairfax Traveller in August 2011.)
‘Shy’: such a small word, and it begins with an instruction to keep quiet: shhhh. It’s used to describe the timid, unconfident people in our midst, those who prefer to remain silent as a way of avoiding attention. At least, that’s one common stereotype we attach to this particular temperament trait. And unfortunately it’s a description that simply doesn’t fit the public perception of our Prime Minister, Julia Gillard.
Yesterday the PM admitted to being shy at a Press Club Luncheon; a gathering of perhaps Australia’s most cynical political journalists. Today’s headlines are entirely predictable: ‘Gillard’s ‘Shy Girl’ Plea For Understanding’, ‘Gillard Confesses She’s A Shy Girl’, ‘Shy PM Fights Back Tears’. Whether it was a strategic move aimed at gaining sympathy and thereby political advantage, or a simple statement of fact (or both), it was a mistake.
Our perceptions of shyness are a veritable Rubik’s Cube of contradictory behaviours. On the positive side, we associate it with empathy, sensitivity, loyalty and with being a good listener. We often assume that behind the blushing façade, shy people are sweet-natured and harmless.
Few of these stereotypes fit our image of the current Prime Minister. Her perceived lack of loyalty to, or empathy for, her predecessor Kevin Rudd still hounds her, and those opposing a carbon tax claim Julia Gillard is not listening to their concerns.
On the negative side, shyness is linked with self-consciousness, hypersensitivity, self-pity, emotional withdrawal, social awkwardness, ‘goody-goody-ness’ and a lack of assertiveness. Shy people are often thought to be simply unwilling (too lazy, perhaps) to make an effort in social situations or to be ‘team players’ at work. Shyness is perceived as a form of weakness, a character flaw that should be erased with the help of assertiveness training, psychological counseling or even pharmaceuticals.
Publicly ascribing these qualities to one’s own personality, albeit tacitly, is clearly not the best way to win friends or influence people. Indeed, confessing to shyness more often provokes bullying than sympathy. Even our use of the word ‘confession’ implies that there is something shameful about being shy. And after all, who wants to vote for a weak leader?
Many, though, would find it hard to believe that someone who has climbed the political ladder to become the first female Prime Minister is timid. The Prime Minister usually presents herself in the media as calm, confident, assertive and in control; in her own words, a woman of ‘steely determination’.
So by ascribing any of these stereotypical shy attributes to herself, positive or negative, she risks being perceived as ‘Ju-liar’ once again, only this time we’ll assume she’s lying about her own personality. Television reporters have already begun joking about ‘the REAL real Julia Gillard’, and one Age Online commentator described her as ‘looking like a woman trying to get out of a speeding fine.’ If she’s not directly lying, then at best she appears to be trying to make excuses for her own perceived failings.
But what if we were to take her at her word?
Psychologists I have interviewed about shyness claim the essence of this temperament trait is ‘fear of negative evaluation’. We all experience this fear at times, but for shy people the anxiety about how others perceive us is much more extreme, persistent, and at times disabling.
As Prime Minister, Julia Gillard has frequently been criticised for not sticking to policy positions and promises, for doing political ‘backflips’ and for being overly concerned with opinion polls. Admitting to being shy is like admitting those criticisms are valid; she’s so worried about negative evaluation by Australian voters, she can’t stick to her guns.
Perhaps the biggest problem for the Prime Minister in admitting to shyness is her gender. Many of the stereotypical attributes of shyness are traditionally associated with ‘typical’ female behaviours. Men are assertive, women are timid. Men are the speakers, women are the listeners. Men stick to their guns, women are easily swayed by their emotions. Most female political leaders are forced to try to counter these stereotypes throughout their careers or risk being dismissed as unfit to lead. (I suspect Malcolm Fraser is deeply shy but his emotional reserve was deemed acceptable because he was a man.) With one small word, Julia Gillard has confirmed the prejudices of those voters who were already suspicious of her simply by virtue of her gender.
Many of these myths and stereotypes about shyness (and gender) are just plain wrong. Shy people find strategies to overcome the anxieties accompanying this particular temperament trait. I’ve interviewed self-describing shy people who have become highly successful actors, musicians, teachers, broadcasters, corporate leaders and politicians, often adopting alternative ‘personae’ that enable them to lead their professional lives in public while they protect their private lives from scrutiny.
Perhaps that’s part of the problem here. With Bob Hawke, what you saw was what you got – an extrovert with no need for a self-protective professional persona – and much of his popularity was based on our sense that he was ‘the real deal’. Perhaps our obsession with the ‘real’ Julia Gillard reflects our prurient desire to strip away the political persona and see the vulnerable person underneath. Unfortunately for the Prime Minister, women rarely gain sympathy by stripping.
In admitting to shyness the Prime Minister sought our understanding, perhaps even our pity. I fear she is more likely to have lost our respect.
(A version of this article was published in the Sunday Age on July 17th, 2011.)
If you haven’t heard of Ned Kelly, indeed if you haven’t developed a passionate view on the question of whether he was a murdering criminal deserving of capital punishment or a folk hero martyred by the criminal murdering Victorian justice system, you probably don’t deserve to be called an Orstrayan.
[Ned Kelly](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ned_Kelly) has made it into our cinematic canon, been fictionalised by some of our best novelists, eulogised by some of our best songwriters, and taught on the school syllabus. Ned has inspired local tourism ventures all over country Victoria, and every year a bunch of eminent lawyers get together to re-enact his criminal trial.
But what of his sister Kate?
It’s a cliché to say that history often ignores women, but clichés usually become clichés because they are true. These days, few Australians have any knowledge about what happened to the pretty teenager whose resistance to police sexual harassment fuelled some of the ensuing conflict between her bushranging brother and the local constabulary.
While the process of festishising dead Ned’s body parts and armoury was getting underway, Kate Kelly was getting on with her life. According to novelist and scholar Merrill Findlay, after Ned’s death Kate briefly became a teenage celebrity:
‘(She was) as famous, perhaps infamous, as many of today’s celebs. People queued to meet her and to watch her ride. They bought postcards of her in her mourning outfit, a fashionable black silk riding habit. And then she disappeared. She fled her fame, her family, her friends, the north-eastern Victorian hill country she had grown up in; she changed her name several times; and then re-emerged, in the mid-1880s, on the flat inland plains of central western NSW.’ (riverartsfestival.org.au)
The story of Kate’s life once she reached NSW has become an all-consuming interest for Merrill Findlay. Her research into Kate’s life and tragic death in the NSW town of Forbes inspired her to write a series of poems about ‘Mrs Catherine Foster’, as Kate was known during this time. Merrill then commissioned award-winning New Zealand composer Ross Carey to set her five poems to music, and together they have produced the Kate Kelly Song Cycle.
But wait, there’s more.
Merrill wanted to share this story with the local community in Forbes, where she herself now lives, and for the past year she has been working to create an arts festival during which the Kate Kelly Song Cycle will be premiered in early September 2011. She has enlisted the support of a range of community organizations and creative artists to help produce this ever-growing community festival:
‘The inaugural Kalari-Lachlan River Arts Festival will be held beside the Forbes Lagoon, central western New South Wales, on 3-4 September 2011, as the opening event for the NSW Landcare & Catchment Management Forum. It will be directed by Stefo Nantsou, resident director with Sydney Theatre Company, and feature the premiere of The Kate Kelly Song Cycle … plus live musical performances from Classical to Country, a Lantern Parade, an Arts & Crafts Village, a Writers & Readers Tent, a Farmers & Landcarers’ Tent, a Healing Arts Alley, art exhibitions, ‘slow food’ stalls, wine tastings in the Festival Lounge, markets, sports and much much more.’
When Merrill Findlay’s novel, ‘The Republic of Women’ (pub. UQP) was launched in Melbourne in 1999, she invited me to sing an aria from Verdi’s ‘La Traviata’, an opera about a woman haunted by her past, desperate to create a new life for herself, but who comes to a tragic end.
A decade later Merrill invited me to sing the inaugural performance of the Kate Kelly Song Cycle, a chamber opera about another woman haunted by her past, desperate to reinvent herself, but whose life ends in a mysterious tragedy:
‘The premiere takes place beside the very lagoon in which the body of Ned Kelly’s sister Kate was found in October 1898. This legendary woman’s story is told from diverse perspectives in this new work, including that of her abusive husband Bricky Foster, and Quong Lee, the grocer at whose corner store she would have shopped.’
The Festival is only the latest in a long list of Kate Kelly projects inspired by Merrill Findlay.
She has also been largely responsible for initiating:
– The Kate Kelly Walking Trail and occasional Kate Kelly Heritage Tours in Forbes
– A campaign to stop the demolition of the historic Quong Lee’s Store next to where Kate’s inlaws the Foster family lived from the 1860s and where Kate herself would have shopped
– A leaflet about Kate’s life in Forbes which is now distributed through tourist outlets
– Signage and landscaping near where Kate’s body was found, including a walking trail
Other ongoing benefits from the growing interest in Kate Kelly include:
– Restoration and revegetation of the lagoon foreshore where Kate’s body was recovered
– Rehabilitation of remnan native grasslands near the lagoon
– An increased awareness of the richness of the region’s indigenous and non-indigenous cultural heritage and histories
– Several new ‘tourist destinations’
– A heightened sense of place within the local community
So if you’re anywhere near Forbes during the first weekend of September, I invite you to come and celebrate the life of Kate Kelly with us, and meet the people who’ve worked so hard to create a place for this ‘disappearing woman’ in Australian history.
(See ABC radio website for a review of the Kate Kelly Song Cycle premiere)
(Addendum: In 1982 English-born Australian writer Jean Bedford wrote a controversial novel based on the life of Kate Kelly entitled ‘Sister Kate’, but is no longer in print. And Frank Hatherley wrote a comic play called ‘Ned Kelly’s Sister’s Travelling Circus’, last performed in 1980)
About eight years ago I paid a visit to Baxter Detention Centre in South Australia. It was an eye-opener. Tall barbed-wire fences, security gates, bored blank-eyed guards, and a community of alternately hopeful and hopeless detainees from all over the world, stuck in limbo. Statistics became living breathing people for me during the few hours i spent inside those fences.
I was reminded of that visit when i watched some previews this week of a new SBS television series called ‘Go Back To Where You Came From’, due to be screened on June 21 – 23, during Refugee Week. The producers have embraced our ‘reality hunger’ (as American writer David Shields calls it) and created a three-part documentary in which a group of six Australians literally go back to where many of our asylum-seekers have come from. Most of these Australians don’t approve of the re-settlement of asylum-seekers in our community and believe they should be sent straight back home.
The six Australians meet refugees in their new homes in Sydney and Wollongong, then board a leaky boat and travel to Malaysia where they meet some of the people waiting to come here. Then they fly to the countries in whose refugee camps these frightened asylum-seekers have spent time waiting to be offered a safe haven. They put faces to statistics, embrace real live weeping human beings, and have their preconceptions challenged in ways few us are willing to allow.
It is riveting television and my only regret is that it will be screened on SBS to an audience who are most likely already ‘converted’ to the cause of refugees. In an ideal world it would be screened on all the commercial TV channels in prime time, and reach an audience who may have little knowledge of the traumas suffered by people desperate to leave all that is familiar, board these leaky boats and seek safety.
You can listen an interview with the presenter of the new SBS series, Dr David Corlett, on [The Conversation Hour](http://www.abc.net.au/melbourne/conversations/) on 774 ABC Melbourne, which i co-hosted today with Jon Faine.
After my trip to Baxter i wrote a series of columns for The Age about some of the people I had met there. These stories inspired the most correspondence of any of the columns i wrote over three years. I have posted them below for your interest:
‘Cream Cake’ said the label in big black letters. It looked fresh and delicious, but I hesitated for a moment at the cash register. Maybe cream cake was culturally inappropriate. Maybe they had already tried Australian cream cake and found it too sweet, or not sweet enough. Maybe there was something else that I should be taking with me. But what?
Distracted on my arrival by the two tall rows of barbed-wire fencing and the no-man’s-land of white pebbles in between them, I forgot about the cake. It wasn’t until after pressing the red button and waiting for the giant steel door to open, walking along a mesh-enclosed corridor to the next steel door, entering the reception area which was buzzing with flies, handing over my three different types of photo identification, filling out five separate forms, emptying my pockets of personal items, putting them in a locker and walking through a metal detector, that I remembered the gift.
So back I went for the cream cake, through the metal detector and the steel doors, and when I returned one of the guards held out his hands. “I’ll take that.” “Why?” “Because that’s the rule.” “Can’t I take it to the people I’m visiting?” “No.” “But what will you do with it?” “It has to go to Property.” “What will Property do with it?” “They might take it through tomorrow, if they have time.” “Why not today?” “Because that’s the rule.” “So my friends won’t be able to eat the cake today?” “No.” “So if they get the cake at all, it will be stale?” The guard just smiled at me. Stale, mate.
Inside the waiting room the Coke machine hummed loudly, and I wondered why Coke was okay but cake was forbidden. A door opened and a slight young woman was let into the room. She kissed me on both cheeks, holding my hands tightly, and thanked me for coming. She’d been here at Baxter for three weeks, after two years at Curtin, after many days at sea, after five months in Indonesia, after her husband had had ‘big problems’ in Iran and they had fled for their lives.
She was teaching herself English, but a dictionary couldn’t relieve the dead weight of boredom that hung over every long day. A cat called Rosie had adopted her, and kept her company when she lay awake in her compound in the small hours of the morning. I wondered about her husband, locked in a separate compound with no cat and no wife to keep him company. “I brought a cake, but they wouldn’t let me bring it in”, I explained. She smiled again and shrugged. She was used to people saying ‘no’ for no good reason.
Two more detainees were allowed in through the security door. One wore a white chef’s coat which smelt of fried chicken. He was working eight hours a day in the hot kitchen, earning one point an hour, one dollar a point, to buy phone cards. He was another recent arrival from Curtin, where there was nothing to eat from five pm until breakfast time, and the detainees were often hungry. Here at Baxter, where there was plenty of food, he had lost his appetite. Perhaps it was because he had exhausted every possible appeal option, and after three years behind barbed wire, he could soon be forced to return to Iran. When I mentioned the cake he simply held up his hands and shook his head sadly.
The other man carried a white stick and said little. Twenty-eight days on a hunger strike in Curtin had robbed him of his sight, and possibly of his mind. The others led him gently into the court-yard so he could sit with us in the afternoon sun. They talked and talked, as if they’d been starved of communication, until it was time for me to leave.
And as I walked out through the steel doors, savouring my freedom, I knew that even though the cream cake would be stale by the morning, our conversation would be fresh in their minds for days to come.
Tried ringing M’s lawyer again last week. No one there. Left another message. Wonder if M has been able to get out of bed today. Wonder if she knows that yesterday was World Refugee Day. Wonder if she’d think it was some kind of sick joke.
Most days M doesn’t get out of bed until lunch time. Some days she goes back to bed around mid afternoon. Sometimes I ring late in the afternoon, and after I’ve scrabbled around, trying to find the scrap of paper on which I’ve written her detainee number and have been put through to the right compound, I wait on the end of the line for a long time until the loudspeakers have woken her up and she’s stumbled out of bed to the public phone. M’s always glad to hear from me, and always sounds surprised that I’ve bothered to ring again. She rarely complains, but I can tell she’s struggling.
Three years in limbo would take its toll. Three years of trying to hang onto hope, while those around you are sinking deeper and deeper into hopelessness. Escaping from her home country probably saved her life, but it has already cost M her marriage. How do you keep a relationship together when you have nothing to do all day, nothing new to talk about, no children to care for, no home to renovate, no garden to tend, and neither of you know what your future will be? You’re both fenced inside the same small enclosure, but the emotional gap between you grows wider and wider, until eventually it is unbreachable.
Most of the time M stays in bed because she’s run out of reasons to get up in the morning. Recently, though, illness kept her there. She had shooting pains in her guts, and was worried that it might be her appendix. M’s mother and both her brothers had to have theirs removed, so perhaps it runs in the family. She tried to explain this to the detention centre guards, but she’s not sure whether they understood her, because M’s English still falls apart when she’s under stress. After about a week of severe pain, a nurse came to see her and gave her a couple of Panadol. She hasn’t seen a doctor yet, and doesn’t expect they’ll organise one for her. I’m outraged, but she’s used to it.
A few months ago, M rang me herself. It was early in the morning, so I knew something good must have happened to get her out of bed. She’d just found out that she was to be given a temporary protection visa. Soon she would be free, at least for a while. She sounded so happy, it was as if I was speaking with a different person. I sent her some postcards of Melbourne landmarks, and promised to show them to her when she was released from detention.
Even though she had been granted a visa, she’d been told there would still be a wait of ‘a couple of weeks’ while the Australian Federal Police ran a ‘character check’ on her. I could tell them a few things about her character, I thought to myself. I could tell them about the first I met M, in a sterile waiting room in a remote detention centre, where she offered me a cup of tea and half a precious chocolate bar which she had saved for her visitor. I could tell them about how even the stony-faced guards smiled when M spoke to them. I could them about how she’d given the cake that I’d brought for her to another woman in the same compound, because it was her birthday. I could tell them about M’s love of Hollywood romances, which has had me scouring my local video stores for films with guaranteed happy endings to mail to her. But I don’t suppose the police would be interested in that kind of information.
It’s been almost three months since that early morning phone call, and M is still in detention. I rang her case officer from the Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs about six weeks ago, but he didn’t know when M would be released. I rang again a couple of weeks ago, and he suggested I try calling M’s lawyer to check that the original request for a character check had actually gone through to the Federal Police. I rang the lawyer’s number but there was only an answering machine, and no one returned my call. So I rang again last week; still no response. The case officer reckons M will have to send in another request to the police, but he doesn’t know how long she’ll have to wait after that.
Tried to ring M yesterday afternoon but she was asleep and even the loudspeakers didn’t wake her. Happy World Refugee Day, my friend.
When the mobile phone rings I recognise the interstate number on the little screen, and hesitate before answering. Please let this be a good day. A day marked by the kindness of a stranger or the promise of work. A day with dignity.
I take the call and it seems that, today at least, things are okay. Hello, M sings into my ear. How are you, my friend? How is your family? We talk about the events of the past week, and she can even laugh about the afternoon she got completely lost in the big city, caught the wrong train and ended up way out west with no idea how to find her way home. It all took several hours, by which time she’d missed her weekly English lesson.
I can tell M feels ambivalent about this. She is trying hard to learn our unwieldy language, and her spoken English is getting better by the day, but the classes are frustrating. They are full of refugees just like her, people from every corner of the globe, but most of the time she can’t understand what they are saying because their accents are even stronger than hers. She persists, though, because she still finds herself falling through the gaps in her English several times a day. I speak carefully to her over the phone, slow enough to be clear but hopefully not so slow that I sound patronising. I know how it feels to be spoken to as if you are deaf, or stupid, rather than just foreign.
M is happy today because she has finally met the lawyer who argued her case for a Temporary Protection Visa, and ended her long years in limbo. She shared a meal with him and his wife, and they invited her to visit them in Melbourne. That makes two more people in this country who know she exists. Which probably makes it easier for her to believe she exists, when she’s having a really bad day.
I wanted her to come to Melbourne when they let her out of the remote detention centre. But M had made a friend in there, so she went to the town which her friend had moved to after his visa came through. On the first day they spent together outside the high wire fences, he had taken M for a long bushwalk. After three years in confinement, the sudden sense of space made her feel dizzy. They walked for hours until her legs couldn’t go any further. She had expected that, once she was free, the constant tiredness which had been afflicting her in the detention centre would lift. But freedom was tiring, too.
It was tiring, dealing with something new every second of the day. New language, new customs, new rules. Street signs, road maps, train schedules, government bureaucracies, they were all bewildering. A woman had stared at her for a long time at a bus stop. Finally the woman approached and said she wanted to take a photo of M’s beautiful face and put it in a magazine. The woman gave her a phone number, but M isn’t sure if she should ring. Is it a nice magazine or something sleazy for men? Will she be able to tell the readers of this magazine why she had to leave her home and family and spend three years behind bars, and how it feels to know that she might be sent back again when her three year visa is up – or will they want her to take her clothes off?
The next day she rings me again. It’s not a good day. The man at Centrelink has just told her that they are stopping her unemployment benefits. They’re the rules, he says. She has no work and no income, and the generous stranger with whom she has been living for the past three months needs her spare room back. The church is trying to find M somewhere else to live, but they’ve had no luck so far.
I am helpless. We both are. M wants to come and visit me soon, but until she knows how she will get through tomorrow, she can’t plan any further ahead than today.
Missing out on the end of a story can be intensely frustrating. Like hearing a couple on a tram discussing whether they’re about to break up, and then watching them get off the tram before the question is resolved. Like watching a couple of enticing episodes of ‘Carnivale’ on ABC television and then missing the rest because you’re out every Sunday night for a month. Or like reading several ‘This Life’ columns about an Iranian refugee in a remote detention centre, and not finding out what happened to her once she’d been released.
I’ve been contributing regularly to The Age for three years now. Of the one hundred and fifty columns I’ve written during that time, the stories I’ve told about my friend M and her slow journey through the Australian immigration system have elicited the biggest response of all. ‘Whatever happened to that woman’, people ask me, ‘the one in the detention centre? Is she okay?’ So in the interests of ‘narrative closure’, as the film buffs call it, and to satisfy those readers who wrote to me expressing their concern about this anonymous young woman, here are the facts.
M spent three long years in detention, waiting for her status as a genuine asylum-seeker to be formally recognised. I first met her one hot afternoon in a sterile visitor’s room at Baxter, where she held my hands tightly and talked about the two young brothers who she hadn’t seen for years, and about the cat that she had adopted in the detention centre and how it was helping to keep her sane. We stayed in touch and I sent M postcards of Melbourne’s green parks, promising to show them to her when she was released.
M was finally granted a Temporary Protection Visa in 2003, and made her way to Sydney with her adopted cat. M’s partner had been living there since he was released from detention, a year before M’s visa came through. Freedom was hard for M. She had been ground down by years of boredom, uncertainty and anxiety. She found it difficult to commit to anything, like her regular English lessons or the waitressing job she finally found after months of searching for work. She missed her family back in Iran and worried about their safety. M loved Sydney’s big air-conditioned shopping centres, but her partner couldn’t persuade her to go to Bondi Beach with him. All that bare flesh was too much for a modest Iranian girl.
But M stuck with her studies and focussed on the idea of becoming a nurse. She liked caring for people, and had heard that there was a shortage of nurses in her new country. M’s English gradually improved, and early in the New Year she was interviewed for a place in a nursing course. M was so nervous before the interview, she thought she was going to be sick. But she passed the language test and was accepted into university.
Two weeks ago M phoned me. She was in Melbourne for a brief holiday before her studies began, so we arranged to meet for a picnic. I gathered together some friends, and we met M and her partner in the St Kilda Botanical Gardens on a Sunday evening. She looked a little different to when I had last seen her in Sydney. There were blonde streaks in her dark hair, and her smile came more easily. We sat on a rug eating cold chicken and toasting her new nursing career with glasses of bubbly. After dinner we all played boules on the soft, summer grass and the young Iranian couple won every game. They apologised but I could tell they were delighted with their beginner’s luck. When the sun disappeared we packed up the picnic and said our goodbyes. She’s going to be okay, I thought to myself.
I’m sorry, readers. You’ve been misled. I’m afraid I can’t finish this story. When M’s Temporary Protection Visa runs out, it’ll be up to the Federal Government to decide whether she stays in Australia or is forcibly returned to Iran. All I can do is keep my fingers crossed.
On the day the conservative Victorian Coalition Government decided to make Welcome to Country ‘optional’ for state politicians, I thought it was timely to post a column I first wrote for The Age several years ago exploring my own reaction to this important Australian tradition…
I’m standing on a barge in the middle of the Maribyrnong River, feeling confused. There’s a tall, elegant woman standing beside me, holding aloft a sprig of gum leaves, and she’s inviting me to take a leaf and pass the rest on. Our amplified voices are booming out across the crowd of locals who’ve gathered on the riverbank to enjoy a community festival. I take a leaf, but I don’t know what to do with it. I’m meant to be hosting this event, but before the first act has even begun, I’m feeling at a loss.
The elegant woman beside me is a Wurundjeri elder, and she has just performed a Welcome to Country ceremony. She has spoken simply and graciously about her ancestors, about their spiritual beliefs, and their links to the history of this place. She speaks as if they are standing right here beside us, and she explains what they expect of us as visitors to their land. I understand, and yet I don’t. My ancestors are dead, I hold no spiritual beliefs, and although I feel at home here, I know little about the history of this quiet, winding river. The ceremony ends with some words spoken in a language I cannot comprehend, and as I hand over the sprig of gum leaves to a woman sitting on a picnic rug, the look of confusion on her face mirrors my own.
Over the following few weeks I find myself at half a dozen events where official proceedings begin with a Welcome to Country. At community meetings, concerts and award nights, in local halls, public parks and conference rooms, I listen as indigenous elders from different tribes of the Kulin Nation tell stories about their totems, such as Bunjil the eagle and Waang the crow. I see audience members shuffling uncomfortably, and I find myself wondering whether any of us understand the significance of this new welcoming ritual, or whether it’s simply tokenism.
How am I meant to feel when I’m welcomed to country? What exactly is being asked of me? And what should I take away from these brief moments of symbolism in the busy business of life? It is disturbing and slightly embarrassing to be welcomed like a stranger to a place which feels utterly familiar. It’s as if I’ve left my home for a while and when I’ve returned, someone else has made it their own, and I have to knock politely on the front door to gain entrance.
Maybe this is the simple heart of the matter. For two whole centuries it was assumed (and enshrined in law) that Australia had been ‘terra nullius’ when Europeans arrived. In other words, no one home, so make the place your own. And we did. It wasn’t until Eddie Mabo dug in his heels, and refused to accept that his home belonged to someone else, that we finally had to relinquish the idea of Australia as an empty land just waiting to be colonised.
When Wurundjeri or Boonwerwrung elders welcome me to their traditional lands, it forces me to look at my local park or town hall with new eyes. It asks me to imagine how this country might have looked when their great-grandparents felt just as ‘at home’ here as I now do. It reminds me that, less than a couple of centuries ago, these places must have felt utterly alien to my immigrant forbears. And it helps me to understand the ongoing relationship that indigenous communities have with this country. When those elders ask us to ‘respect their land, their beliefs and their people’, it is a gentle reminder that for a long time, few white Australians did. No wonder I feel uncomfortable.
I don’t really mind this kind of discomfort, though. It encourages me to imagine what it’s like to be in someone else’s shoes. It’s the kind of imaginative leap that will be invaluable in our slow but sure progress towards reconciliation.
‘Magical thinking is causal reasoning that looks for correlation between acts or utterances and certain events. In clinical psychology, magical thinking is a condition that causes the patient to experience irrational fear of performing certain acts or having certain thoughts because they assume a correlation with their acts and threatening calamities’. (courtesy of Wikipedia)
Perhaps I shouldn’t return to New Zealand. Ever.
I visited Christchurch for their Winter Arts Festival and some time later they had a terrible earthquake there. In March this year I went to Auckland for their annual Arts Festival and last week they had a freakish typhoon there. Magical thinking leads me to wonder if there’s a causal relationship. I hope not, because I’m having a little love affair with New Zealand.
It’s not your usual Kiwi-Aussie love affair, inspired by blinding white snowfields, bubbling mud pools and bungee jumps into bottomless canyons. Dare-devilry and odiferous ponds hold little appeal for me. But after my recent trip to Auckland I’m nursing a quiet passion for New Zealand popular culture.
Gazing across the vast expanse of KareKare beach, west of Auckland, I suddenly understood why I couldn’t quite recall whether Jane Campion’s movie ‘The Piano’ was filmed in colour or black-and-white. On a cloudy autumn day, this coastal landscape where Campion set her gothic love story was rendered in metallic sheens of silver, grey and ash. The sea was much calmer than when actor Holly Hunter was carried from the surf onto the shore. Still, I was faintly disappointed not to see a grand piano perched in the black sand with a child cart-wheeling around its mud-caked legs.
KareKare beach was the last stop on my brief popular cultural pilgrimage on the north island. My fella and I had been invited to perform for four nights in the Auckland Arts Festival, a three week program of local and international music, dance, theatre and visual arts. Most nights after the show we would head to Aotea Square, a grassy space between the Auckland Town Hall and the Aotea Centre theatre complex. The square had been transformed into a Festival hub, complete with a Spiegeltent and an open-air bar for artists and audience members. Here we met up with some of the country’s most prolific songwriters and screenwriters, and I began formulating a little plan to get a first-hand look at the places made famous in New Zealand songs, films and TV shows.
Crowded House frontman Neil Finn made a guest appearance at the Festival with us one night. As the rain began falling on Aotea Square after the show, I was reminded that the lyrics of his song ‘Four Seasons In One Day’ refer not to Melbourne (as many like to think) but to Neil’s home town. So when our gigs had all finished and we had a couple of free days in Auckland, I set off with my fella to see ‘the sun shine on the black clouds hanging over the Domain’.
The Auckland Domain is a seventy-five hectare park in the central suburb of Grafton. It was created in the mid 1840’s around the cone of the long extinct Pukekawa volcano. As we puffed up the hill, past duck ponds fed by underground springs, the sun was in hiding and a warm drizzle was falling on the manicured sporting fields spread across the floor of the crater.
At the peak of the cone, beyond the century-old wooden cricket pavilion and the elegant greenhouses in the Domain’s Wintergarden, you can get practically a 360-degree view of Auckland city. Neil Finn had told us that he tries to go cycling around the Domain at least once a week, but there was no sign of him or his bicycle on this wet morning. We opened our umbrella and wandered towards the Auckland War Memorial Museum, a grand building that sits proudly at the top the Domain like a giant square crown. Opened in 1929, the museum houses much more than war memorabilia. When we got to the entrance I did a double-take at the sight of the wide stone stairs covered with leopard-print.
It turns out the Museum was hosting an ‘Outrageous Fortune’ exhibition, celebrating the local television series which transfixed New Zealand audiences over four years during the ‘noughties’. Set in the working-class suburbs of west Auckland, the comedy–drama follows the fortunes of a crime family matriarch with a fondness for animal prints, Cheryl West, who tries valiantly to get the family to go straight. (Turns out the young woman who’d collected us from Auckland Airport was a New Zealand actor who’d had an occasional role in the series for several years, playing an Auckland ‘slapper’ with a fondness for oral sex, Draska Doslic.)
We’d met the show’s avuncular co-creator James Griffin at the bar in Aotea Square a couple of nights before. Outrageously successful as a screenwriter, Griffin and his co-writer Rachel Lang had originally named the show after Hamlet’s famous ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’ speech, and then decided to keep the gag running. The title of each episode was taken from Shakespeare’s play about the rotten old state of Denmark (‘Contagious Blastments’, ‘Tis So Concluded’, ‘Think Yourself a Baby’, etc.) and somehow they managed to find titles for six series’ worth.
So after we’d finished checking out the Domain we headed to Auckland’s most famous record shop, Real Groovy (these days also selling CDs, movies, vintage clothes, video games and books) in Queen St, to buy up the first two series of ‘Outrageous Fortune’ on DVD. (We’re currently half-way through the second series and COMPLETELY HOOKED.)
I also bought a second copy of one of my favourite CDs of the last couple of years; ‘Marvellous Year’ by New Zealand singer-songwriter Don McGlashan. In the decades since he made the move from being an orchestral French horn player to playing with outfits including Blam Blam Blam, The Front Lawn and The Mutton Birds, Don McGlashan has become a household name in NZ. He has written music for theatre, television, film (he composed the music for Jane Campion’s feature film ‘An Angel At My Table’), dance and sporting events, as well as producing several award-winning solo albums. Since ‘Marvellous Year’ came out in 2009 it had been getting quite a thrashing in my car stereo system, and I thought my sis might like it too. (She does, and when Don comes out to do some gigs in Melbourne in late July, we’ll be there with bells on).
It was courtesy of Don McGlashan that we got a chance to visit KareKare beach. He’d done a couple of guest spots with us during the Festival, playing the euphonium and singing his haunting song ‘White Valiant’ from the Mutton Birds album ‘Flock’. We’d asked his advice about good places to go walking (or tramping, as they say in NZ) not far from Auckland, and he’d offered to come with us to the west coast.
On our last day in New Zealand Don picked us up from our hotel and drove us through the undulating western ‘burbs of Auckland (no sign of Cheryl West or Draska Doslic, more’s the pity) all the way to the sea. Our first stop was a carpark behind Piha Beach, where we met up with Don’s friend Geoff Chapple.
Geoff is a journalist, playwright, screenwriter, musician and activist (he played a major role in the New Zealand anti-apartheid campaign against the 1981 Springbok rugby tour, and later wrote a book about it called ‘The Tour’). He wrote the screenplay for the Vincent Ward movie ‘The Navigator’ and Geoff’s also the person responsible for kick-starting a successful campaign to establish a walking track from the tip of New Zealand’s north island to the bottom of the south island. (To prove it could be done, Geoff walked the trail himself, bush-bashing half the time, and later wrote a book about it called ‘Te Araroa – The New Zealand Trail’)
So who better to lead us around the stunning cliff-tops of the west coast? This was my second visit to Piha Beach, but the first time I’d seen those wild little bays that stretch north of the surfing village where Neil Finn has his holiday house. We tramped down the hill and along the wide black sand beach, wishing we had more time so we could take a dip in the waves. But we wanted to get to KareKare before sunset, so we jumped back in the cars and headed further south.
When did you last watch ‘The Piano’? It’s worth getting it out on DVD for another look. The landscape is entirely breathtaking and so are the performances by Holly Hunter, Harvey Keitel, Sam Neill and Anna Paquin (only three Academy Awards? – I reckon the team should have taken home a dozen). The chiaroscuro beaches at KareKare stretch for an eternity and even with dozens of holiday homes dotted along the hillsides, you can still feel how strange and Other this place must have been for those first generations of whitefellas, chopping down the ancient forests on the muddy hillsides.
A week after we left Auckland Don McGlashan copped a car-door in the ribs when he was cycling home one day. He was laid up for weeks.
Dangerous times in New Zealand Mon Amour.
(A version of this article appeared in The Big Issue magazine in September 2011.)
It all began with the semiquavers. Bashing through a Bach prelude, I noticed that the dots on the page seemed to be dancing in time with the music. That might work okay in a scene from the 1940 Disney animation Fantasia, but when you’re out of practice, you need the notes to keep still. So I stopped practising.
The next clue was my creeping reluctance to read the papers. Once an avid consumer of news, I’d become incapable of reading an article from start to finish. Short attention span, I thought. Just another victim of the collective Attention Deficit Disorder afflicting us in the information age. (Strange, though, that I could still listen to a two-hour radio documentary without a problem.) So I cancelled my newspaper subscription.
Next there was the Light Deficit Disorder. My bedside lamp had served me well for decades, but now it was too dim, so a second lamp was installed above my head. Late at night, though, and even with two lamps glaring, I still found it hard to get through more than a few pages of a novel before having to close my eyes. I reluctantly considered resigning from my book club.
By now, any sensible person would have figured out what was wrong, but when you’ve experienced a miracle your senses sometimes desert you.
Fifteen years ago, I couldn’t see clearly past the end of the bed. Trying to find my way back to my beach towel after an ocean swim was like a Burke and Wills expedition. I needed a guide to help me find my way onstage for the opera productions I was involved in. Without glasses, I couldn’t navigate my way to my front door, let alone to the other side of town.
Then, at the turn of the millennium, I paid a man with more than a decade’s worth of specialist medical training an awful lot of money to sedate me, prop open my eyelids and slice off a tiny section of each eyeball. When I awoke, I could see everything.
Trees that used to look like plates of mashed peas when I took off my glasses suddenly had individual leaves on their individual branches. Blackboard menus in restaurants were legible, and actors on distant theatre stages were recognisably male or female.
My spectacles were donated to the local op shop and I invested in my very first pair of non-prescription sunnies. Through the miracle of modern ophthalmological medicine I now had 20-20 vision, and I felt super-human.
So you would understand my reluctance to admit that those halcyon days had come to an end. Laser eye surgery might have cured my short-sightedness, but as far as I’m aware no one has found a cure for old age. Like practically every other forty-something on the planet, I was succumbing to the sad inevitability of age-related long-sightedness.
Driving from one place to another might still have been a doddle without glasses, but as soon as I strayed from my usual routes and needed to look up the street directory, I was stuffed. Printed street names that used to look like logical sequences of letters from the Roman alphabet now looked like trails of squashed ants.
The good news was that I didn’t have to give up piano practice, newspapers or my book club; the bad news was that I had to rejoin the human race. The first time the optometrist led me to one of those back-lit racks of spectacles and asked me to choose a new pair, I panicked and fled the store.
I felt like shouting: I AM NOT READY TO HAVE A DISABILITY AGAIN. I don’t want to fish around endlessly in the bottom of my bag for glasses, leave them behind at cafes, accidentally swap them with my partner’s, forget that they’re perched on top of my head, or sit on them when I leave them on the beach towel. And I don’t want to have to attach them to one of those little plastic chains that cartoon grannies wear around their necks.
But resistance was futile. Returning to the optometrist, I ordered the cheapest frames they had and, when the new glasses arrived, I put them on, bought a newspaper and read it from cover to cover. Then I finished the novel my book club mates had raved about six months ago. And I loved it. Then I went to the piano, opened up Bach’s 24 Preludes and Fugues and began to play. The notes stood still and the accidentals stuck to the notes. As I began to enjoy the sound of the music again, I remembered that my hearing is still superhuman. For now, anyway.
(This column was first published in The Big Issue, No 378, 12th April 2011)
If you haven’t caught up with the Danish crime series ‘The Killing‘ yet, you’ve probably had less sleepless nights than the rest of us.
The series was broadcast on SBS television in Australia in 2010, but I’ve only recently watched it (all twenty gripping episodes) on DVD.
‘The Killing’ (or ‘Forbrydelsen’ as it’s originally titled in Danish) is being broadcast on TV in the UK right now, hence the recent spate of newspaper articles focussing on Sara Lund (the lead female character) and her woolen jumper collection.
In honour of this growing popular cultural obsession, we’ve been workshopping a few thesis titles, in case any Lund fans would like to turn their obsession into a post-graduate qualification.
Feel free to pinch one of these, and we’d also welcome your own contributions to the list (send them in via the Contact page on this website):
1) ‘Knit One Purl One: potency and subversion in Lund’s performative persona’
2) ‘Tightly Wound: the repression of Scandinavian sexuality in a post-Feminist state with particular reference to the the post-patriarchal performative discourse of Sara Lund’s jumper in Forbrydelsen’
3) ‘Passionless Post-Fashion Praxis: the captioned capture of post-feminist cache’
4) ‘Hand Wash With Care: re-imagining the Scandinavian screen-based sweater-crime sub-genre’
5) ‘Lund, Lanolin and Liminality: the agrarian fashion aesthetics of Danish TV crime’
6) ‘The Missing Body: emptiness and absence in the embodiment of empathy as expressed by Sara Lund’
I know we love to sentimentalise victims. When bad stuff happens to people, we assume they’re saints. Journalists are the worst offenders. Even tax-dodging, cartel-concocting captains of industry become national heroes when they get ill or die, according to the newspapers. But I refuse to let my embarrassment about the worst narrative clichés of my profession prevent me from stating what I believe to be true: the residents of Christchurch are the nicest people I ever met.
Two years ago I spent a week in this geographically-displaced English regional town, performing in the Christchurch Arts Festival. The niceness began even before I arrived. Boarding the plane from Melbourne, I observed a couple of young New Zealanders helping a hunched elderly lady to put her hand luggage in the compartment above her head. A couple of moments earlier I’d overheard one of them saying quietly to the other ‘Gosh it’s a bit funky round here, isn’t it?’ Perhaps they didn’t realize that the faint smell of faeces was coming from the old woman they were about to help. Perhaps they did, and it didn’t matter. Either way, they smiled benignly at her and made sure the door of the compartment was firmly shut on her scuffed bag.
Smiling was quite a thing in Christchurch. Strangers walking past you in the street all seemed to nod and smile, and many of them said hello. Each hello felt like a personal welcome, as if they were surprised and delighted that you actually chose to visit their town. It was mid-winter and most days the temperature didn’t go above single digits, so I bought some possum socks and felt at one with the other possum-sock, possum-hat and possum-scarf-wearing pedestrians as I walked to the Festival venue each day from my hotel.
The hotel was across the road from Hagley Park, a vast clean green space bounded by a shallow stream optimistically called the Avon River. The park was swarming with ducks, all busy with their complicated social lives. Handsome emerald-necked drakes bullied each other out of the way of Plain Jane ducks, oblivious to the joggers and dog-walkers and hand-holding lovers who criss-crossed the park all day long. I got lost in the Botanical Gardens that adjoin Hagley Park one day and had to be talked out of there by a friend on a mobile phone. There are worse places to get lost.
The Avon River is fed by an underground spring, a taxi driver proudly informed me. It hasn’t flooded in 150 years. Children learn to fish in it, and every five years it’s re-stocked with salmon and trout, just so that every child has a good chance of catching something. Best not to drink from it, he advised me, but it’s pretty damn clear, isn’t it!
Coming from the dry flatlands of bayside Melbourne, it was extraordinary for me to walk out of the hotel each day to the sight of the snow-covered mountains that line both sides of the Canterbury Valley, like luscious slices of lemon meringue pie. One day we caught a bus to the foot of the Port Hills and hiked up to Evans Pass where we stood sucking in that clean cold air and taking photos of each other in front of faraway Lyttelton Harbour. Seasoned trampers passed us on the trail with their nobbly sticks and their nobbly knees and their ever-smiling wind-chapped faces.
By the time we made it to the bottom of the hill our legs were shaking, but we found a café in London Street, Lyttelton with old typewriters and children’s bicycles hanging from the walls beside pictures of Che Guevara and a vinyl-spinning DJ playing hits of the 80’s. The coffee was so good I had to have three cups. Then we ordered fish and chips across the road and ate them sitting on the window ledge of a pub down by the port, enjoying the afternoon sun and licking our salty fingers clean.
Back in Christchurch the Festival people looked after us as if we were their long lost cousins. There was friendly Wendy on the lights, and M the muscley sound guy who’d spent four years living in Melbourne, hoping to make it big as a musician. He and his band mates had been ‘kingpins’ in Christchurch, he said, but they wanted to find a bigger pond, and the word on the street was that Melbourne was the ‘coolest city in the southern hemisphere’ for rock’n’roll.
But the big pond wasn’t so welcoming and he ended up working in JB Hifi selling guitar strings and missing his family. Eventually he came back home to Christchurch and found a doe-eyed girlfriend who was an equestrian star. ‘She doesn’t know much about music but she knows a shitload more about horses than I ever will’, he said.
‘What was it I was trying to get the horse to do? The one after a trot?’ he asked her one night when we were having after-show drinks in the bar. ‘That’d be a canter’ she replied with a patient smile.
When our shows were all finished I didn’t want to go home. I fantasized about coming back in summer and bringing a big lilo and floating all the way down the Avon River to the sea (is that where it goes?) one warm day, lying on my back watching the sun trickling through the fronds of the weeping willows, salmon nibbling at my fingers.
I’d never even heard of the word ‘liquefaction’ back then.
I’ve been watching the TV news this week and I haven’t seen anyone in Christchurch smiling.
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