Meat Snob

The pub up the road in Melbourne was a truly trendy tavern. I know this because Lady Gaga once chose to eat there.

I assume she is no vegetarian (that meat dress...) and she is certainly not Australian, so just maybe we both noticed the same menu peculiarity.  There were three species of native animals on offer. 

I couldn't do it, the concept was simply too foreign to a Kiwi newcomer, I ordered a safer, domesticated meat option and wondered how Australians could so comfortably 'eat their own.'

All meat eaters have their personal preferences, but this prejudice was new.  It made me think about 'the meat that we eat' - here are my carnivorous conclusions:

• We like our meat to be plentiful but not too familiar.  We express outrage at the slaughter and consumption of endangered animals ('bush meat' and whales for example) but are also offended by those cultures who choose to eat animals that are commonly kept as domestic pets in the western world, even though we acknowledge that many of these animals have become feral nuisances.
• We do not like to think that our meat might have suffered during its brief life.  If cost is no consideration, we buy free range chickens and pork that has never been confined to a sow crate. 
• We prefer out meat to be lean, neatly packaged and cut into convenient sized portions.  Most of us do not like it to closely resemble its living counterpart. Hooves, feathers and offal are removed and easily identifiable body parts are generally not big sellers (pigs heads, ox tail, chicken feet).
• Conveniently, we can even choose to forget that out package of flesh once belonged to a living breathing animal - why else would we rename dead meat? Pig becomes pork, sheep becomes mutton or lamb, cow becomes beef, deer becomes... etc. etc
• Clever marketing has even attempted to re-brand certain species of animals as a completely new foodstuff.  Don't like venison? - here try some cervena! Would you eat chevon? - Why not? its the most commonly eaten meat in the world* 

Months later, another state, another restaurant with kangaroo on the menu. I shouldn't have voiced my prejudice.  Our host challenged my aversion. Didn't I know that introduced grazing animals were damaging the outback environment? He explained that hooves cause erosion, whereas marsupial feet do not. Kangaroos are plentiful, their meat is lean and they are perfectly adapted to the territory in which they range.  He suggested that I should try some.

And so I did.  It was a very, very large piece of meat, served rare (I was assured that this is the appropriate way to cook it).  It was bloody, smelt gamey and bled all over the accompanying vegetables. I tried it, did not enjoy it and certainly couldn't finish it. Lesson learned.

New Zealanders don't 'eat their own' because we can't.  Our extant native species are too precious to be sustainably harvested and too small to provide a decent meal.  We ought to be eating our pest species, but they are not readily commercially available and most of us are not prepared to shoot to kill. Smaller pest species carry diseases and there is a risk that their flesh might be tainted by the pesticides that are used to eradicate wild populations.


But Aussies have pest species too.  Deer, donkeys, horses and camels have all become feral pests.  These animals compete with marsupial grazers and domesticated species for food.  They destroy native plant life and spread invasive seeds in their droppings.
Why don't Australians eat their pest species? Well actually - they do.
The answer was right there in the meat chiller at Coles.  Camel burgers, conveniently packaged, nicely presented and placed right alongside various kangaroo cuts.

The next time I have an opportunity to cook for our kangaroo loving dinner companion I know exactly what I will be serving him (and I will have the lamb).




*goat

 

The Vernacular

It's the little things that you notice: they still have five cent pieces here, the magpies sound happier and of course there is no escaping the Aussie accent.

As a child, I endured a fair bit of teasing from older Australian cousins, "say six" they would order, and then fall about laughing; " she said sux! - now say fish and chips!"
I was always too timid to retaliate, scared that if I suggested that they were in fact saying "sex" they might ask me to explain what that word meant (and I wasn't entirely sure.....)

After a while you become used to the Aussie accent because most people you meet don't speak at all like Crocodile Dundee. There are rare exceptions however, when a friendly saleswoman referred to her "seester dee-owun een Keen-beer-ah" I was grateful that I hadn't asked her where Keen-beer-ah was located. Later, J explained that she had been referring to Australia's capital city.

Australians are startling fond of inventing diminutives, in fact they use abbreviations more than any other English speaking nation.  Some are familiar (barbie, brekkie, cuppa) others less so.  For example, an ambulance driver (who happened to be a member of the salvation army) seen refueling his vehicle a service station, would likely be described on this side of the Tasman as 'the salvo ambo at the servo'.
Even giant american corporates have pandered to the Australian 'appreciation for abbreviation.'
This year, thirteen Australian McDonald's outlets re-branded (for a limited time only).

Most 'strine' is easily interpreted, but every once in a while you encounter a word that is a uniquely Australian.  For example, if you were to have a 'bingle' while visiting Australia, would you be:

a) Experiencing a pleasant tingling sensation while enjoying a romantic encounter with a well known Australian model
b) Involved in a minor traffic accident
c) Running safely to first base while playing baseball

                                        (Correct answer at the bottom of the page)

Don't expect to hear 'fair dinkum.' The most common phrase in the Australian vocabulary is 'nah wurries' (translation = no worries).  I like it.  It nicely encapsulates the Aussie ethos of casual optimism and is much more pleasant than the meaningless, contradictory Kiwi equivalent (yeah nah). 'Nah wurries' usually means 'you are most welcome.'  It is an essential catchphrase for all shop assistants. Take possession of your purchase, say "thank you" and immediately the person serving will respond with "nah wurries."  The linguistic habit has crossed all cultural and geographic boundaries.  Aussies of every ethnic background say it (charming in an Indian accent) and even call center staff in distant countries have been instructed to use the phrase while talking to anyone who rings from Ausrtalia.

Overuse of the phrase should be guarded against however, does a double positive imply a negative? Recently a barmaid used it five times while serving us drinks, we wondered whether her first name might be Cliché?

                                                   The answer is of course b)

The Hotel

I can now claim to have been accommodated in a similar manner to Howard Hughes, if not in a similar style. Howard spent the last ten years of his life moving between hotels; our stay lasted just two months.  Was his desire to live in filth and seclusion a symptom of his deteriorating mental health? or could his decline be in any way attributed to his preferred form of accommodation? Poor Howard, If I had a time machine, I would hop aboard and warn him that hotel living can be isolating, uncomfortable and tedious.  I would not recommend it to anyone who had a predisposition to addiction or insanity. While the machine was still warm, I would also administer advice to Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen at the Chelsea Hotel.

It was no Chateau Marmont, but despite being inconveniently located in 'lard land' it was clean, tidy and well appointed. It was also very small. The 55 square meter apartment had generously proportioned hotel fixtures and fittings.  Within a few days it also contained two mountain  bikes, a set of golf clubs, ten large cartons of essential possessions and six large suitcases.  We learned to turn sideways while passing one another and discovered that it was inadvisable to cook fish in a small enclosed space and that electronic door cards are infuriatingly unreliable.

Signs on every level warned that 'day sleepers' were in residence and asked that guests should be considerate of their needs. Who were these somnolent shift-workers? I knew that there were other 'long-staying' guests but never encountered a single one.  Were they holed up in their rooms sorting peas by size and eating cornflakes with whipped cream like Howard Hughes?  Or had they simply left the hotel and gone to work during daylight hours? The only living souls that I ever encountered between nine o'clock in the morning and five o'clock at night were the housekeeping staff.  I stopped bemoaning the lack of space when a housemaid informed me that four doors down the corridor, a family with three small children and a baby were living in an identically sized room.

The housemaids were unfailingly polite, helpful and hardworking.  They were also somewhat unpredictable. At any time during the working day there would be a timorous tap on the door accompanied by the call "Housekeeping." Generally, they had simply come to service the room, but every so often one maid or young man was allocated a single task to undertake in each of the hotel's sixty rooms.
KNOCK, KNOCK
"Housekeeping, Hello, sorry to disturb you, I won't be long, I just have to:"

• "Check for spiders on the balcony" (Poisonous spiders?)
• "Empty the lint filter in your clothes dryer"
• "Check the blankets for stains" (YUK)
• "Wash the window"
• "Measure the thickness of each of your bed pillows" (I am not making this up!)
• "Clean the toilet" (60 toilets! - who had he annoyed?)

I was embarrassed to be reliant on their services, they were embarrassed by having to disturb me.  Privacy could simply have been guaranteed by hanging the 'Do not disturb' sign on the doorknob - but unlike Howard, I had not yet lost the desire for cleanliness or company.

The housemaids were frighteningly efficient, they could clean a room in under ten minutes and always left their trademark finishing touches behind: the toilet paper 'point' (known in the trade as 'toilegami') and a little row of toiletries in tiny plastic bottles accompanied by a square of generic hotel soap.
The soaps were too small, the tiny squares had sharp little edges and had been chemically formulated to simply dissolve without creating any cleansing foam.  Remembering the hotel soap story  I decided that it would be easier to simply place the soaps and unwanted toiletries in a drawer, than to convince a dozen or so different housemaids that they were not needed. Perhaps there is some truth to the hotel soap story - on the eve of our departure I gathered the toiletries together and returned them to the housemaid.  She seemed surprised and thanked me, then serviced the room as usual,  leaving another  four toiletries behind.

Had I discovered the reason why Howard Hughes found hotel living to be so attractive? Perhaps he was referring to the endless supply of free soaps when he advised his aides to "wash four distinct and separate times, using lots of lather each time, from individual bars of soap."

Idiots

Who doesn't enjoy a James Bond movie? Fast cars and faster women, larger than life villains and a catchy theme song.
In an effort to improve our Australian general knowledge we sourced the 1969 Bond movie which starred the Australian actor George Lazenby.  It was every bit as improbable as some of the later movies, incorporating ski chase sequences, brainwashed beautiful women and my favorite Bond movie motif  - the glamorous casino scene.

I have watched many more Bond movies, than I have visited casinos, but have yet to encounter a similarly glamorous location. Where are the chandeliers, impossibly beautiful women and men wearing Savile Row suits? Perhaps they exist in Monaco or Macao but in my experience they do not exist in Australasia.
Once, while visiting a casino on Queensland's Gold Coast, I thought that I might have found 'my people.' Glamorous, scantily dressed women were conspicuous in the casino lobby, but on closer inspection their true purpose became apparent - they were simply attempting some 'self-merchandising.' On another occasion I was invited to the high rollers floor in the Sky City casino.  Stupidly, I worried that I would be hopelessly under dressed, only to discover that the high rollers looked like they had just stepped out of LynnMall.

Clubs and Casinos play a large part in the lives of your average Australian. Both gambling venues provide plenty of poker machines ('pokies') however only casinos provide 'casino games' (with their attendant croupiers). Clubs are far more numerous and have a reputation for providing cheap meals and drinks.  I was not expecting to encounter glamour when we ventured into the nearest club, but once again X - town revealed a hidden surprise.  Perhaps the presence of a doorman should have provided a clue as to what lay inside; the vast foyer was every bit as grand as a James Bond movie set.  There were glittering lights, polished marble surfaces and pots overflowing with lush orchids.  Twin streams flowed down either side of  the wide entrance staircase.  We sat beside a trickling water course and enjoyed a very nice two course Thai meal and a bottle of Riesling; the bill came to $41.

Feeling rather pleased with ourselves, we explored and encountered a crowd who had gathered to watch a contest.  Competitors were pounding, slapping and thumping away at a row of pokie machines, the rules were simple; the person who could hit the button fastest and score the most 'hits' in a three minute period was the winner.  The contest was strangely popular, several dozen people were happily watching mindless machine bashing; one of the spectators informed me that competitors had signed up hours in advance for the chance to win prizes.  What a clever attempt to glamorize an otherwise mind numbing repetitive action! Push a button and you might win a prize - but wait...... wasn't it possible to do this by playing the machines in the normal manner?

It had been years since I had 'played the pokies.' The machines still had flashing lights and strange names (Amazon Queen, Enchanted Unicorn etc), but everything else was unfamiliar.  The happy tinkle of coins that signaled a win had been replaced with a chirpy little electronic noise and it was no longer necessary to insert individual coins and pull a handle, instead, the machine simply devoured bank notes.  We gave it a go.  The Amazon Queen promised 1 cent bets and smoothly ingested a ten dollar note.  We pushed the button, the machine whirred once and then............nothing! No tinkles or pings, the machine was simply dead.  Eventually, a weary boy was summoned.  We explained that the machine had eaten our money.  He patiently explained that before starting it was necessary to stipulate the size of each individual bet.  In the absence of any such instruction the Amazon Queen had simply taken the lot.  With one push of a button, we had bet (and immediately lost) a thousand times more money than we had intended to.  We had always believed the old adage, and now we had proved it - only idiots play the pokies.

The Bird League

My Father was born and raised in Australia and despite spending most of his adult life in Godzone, was always labelled as an 'Aussie.' During a recent visit, my Aussie Aunty mentioned that she had recently unearthed a certificate that identified my father as a member of the Gould League of Bird Lovers. A tiny amount of research revealed that this environmental education organisation still functions and actively recruited members from Australian schools during the 1930's.

I wondered whether it was peer pressure or simply the attraction of the collectible badges that made my Father sign up. Whatever his motives might have been, I was certain that his conscience must have bothered him as he made his joining pledge.  The membership drive was intended to protect native bird species by discouraging a very popular boys pastime during the 1930's; my Aunt reported that despite his enrollment, my father and his elder brother were not dissuaded from climbing trees and raiding nests in order to enlarge their extensive collection of birds eggs.

It is easy for a New Zealander to understand how the mania could have taken hold.  Australian native birds are inescapable, they are numerous, large, colorful and noisy (often all at the same time).
The majority are utterly charming; who couldn't love a multicolored parrot? Flocks of pink and grey Galahs' forage  along the roadsides while smaller green and red Lorikeets feed in the tree tops.
Other species are more boisterous than conspicuous: Cockatoos cluster and screech, Magpies warble and the ever present Crows obscenely caw "Fa-ark, Fa-ark."
Away from the urban centers the bird life gets even better; Pelicans, Ibis and even the occasional magnificent Sea Eagle can be seen in rural areas.

The inevitable comparisons between New Zealand and Australian bird life must be drawn.  Australian native birds are an inescapable feature of urban life.  Sadly the same thing cannot be said of New Zealand.
It is perfectly possible to go about your daily activities in any major New Zealand city without encountering any native birds whatsoever.  The common urban bird species that you will encounter were introduced from Britain during the nineteenth century; competition and predation has forced many of our native birds species to retreat to pockets of native bush and predator free sanctuaries.
While  most New Zealanders will have encountered Fantails, Wood Pigeons, Tui and perhaps the occasional Bell bird - how many native species could the average Aussie name?

While barefoot Australian boys in the 1930's were being persuaded to protect bird life, fifty years earlier, New Zealand boys were being recruited into 'Sparrow clubs' which rewarded the collection of  Sparrow eggs in an attempt to curb a damaging population explosion of this introduced species.
 
As a consequence of the smell generated by rotting partially 'blown' eggs, my father's precious egg collection was stored beneath the house. One day my Grandmother (who was born in New Zealand) amused herself by dipping one half of a very large hen's egg in cold tea.  She presented this strange specimen to her sons, telling them that it was a Kiwi egg.  They never thought to question its authenticity and carefully (and boastfully) placed it among their collection.  Within days the precious 'Kiwi egg' was stolen by a rival gang of boys from a neighboring suburb.

The lesson learned?  - its the scarcity of New Zealand's native birds that makes them so precious.

Roadkill

It doesn't pay to try and compare New Zealand and Australia, there are just too many contrasts.

While New Zealand is small (but perfectly formed), Australia is 'lucky' and vast.  

There are approximately 900,000 kilometers of roads in Australia; New Zealand has 90,000. 

Where there are roads, there are cars and where there are cars there is roadkill.  Here the similarity ends.

The last time I returned to Godzone, I was struck by the sheer number of squashed animals that ornament our rural roads. Being small, they are simply left there.  When fresh, they feed hawks, and eventually the combined effects of decomposition and compression by passing traffic reduces their sad little bodies to nothing more than a furry pancake or red smear on the tarmac.

And NOBODY CARES.  

Each animal versus car fatality is considered to be a small victory in the fight to protect our native species.  

It is not a nice thing to run over an animal on a rural road in the darkness.  A small thud, a sick feeling then a glance in the rear view mirror.  But would you stop, get out and check that the animal was dead? or render emergency medical assistance if it was mortally wounded? - HELL NO.  

Why not? There is almost a 100% chance that the animal you had just struck was an invasive introduced pest.  In New Zealand the only good possum is a dead possum, ditto rabbits and hares, and weasels and stoats (stoatally different and weasily distinguished).  Hedgehogs carry horrible fungal diseases and decimate our native invertebrates, while magpies and myna birds aggressively defend territory to the detriment of our native bird life.  

I once worked with a young English teacher who wrote his car off swerving to avoid a magpie. "Why would you DO that?" I asked.  "They're only Australians." Quietly, I wondered why he had never noticed that Magpies are almost impossible to run over.  They 'play chicken' by standing right at the edge of the road, and take a single swift sideways step, right at the very last moment, as if daring you to swerve.

The attitude to roadkill on this side of the ditch is completely different.
With the exception of Koalas, most animals that you are likely to hit are large enough to cause significant structural damage to your car. 'Roo-bars' serve a practical purpose, and striking an Echidna necessitates tire replacement.  Australian roadkill is  never subtle.  Large dead marsupials are a hazard to motorists and in many cases collisions with cars threaten the survival of local animal populations. 

As a new immigrant, I admired the numerous yellow road signs that notify travelers of the presence of Australian native species.  I thought that it was very helpful of the Australian roading authorities to advise watchful animal lovers of the possibility of observing these species in their natural environment.  Other signs are equally subtle. Some provide an emergency number that can be rung if you should encounter an injured marsupial, others simply warn of unfenced roads. 

In the absence of emergency assistance, there is an Australian protocol that should be followed if you should discover (or create) fresh road kill.  It involves determination, a strong stomach and a fair amount of prior preparation.

1. Take your 'Roadkill rescue kit' from the boot. It should contain a 'joey bag', sharp knife, gloves and a large sack with a drawstring neck.

2. Check for signs of life 

3. Determine the sex of the injured marsupial (kangaroo 'man-bits' are mercifully fairly obvious)

4. If female check the pouch for a joey

5. Try not to think of the Simpsons episode set in Australia.  Bart - (in pouch) "Ew its not like in cartoons." Homer - "Yeah, there's a lot more mucus."

6.  If the joey has fur, take it out, place it in the joey pouch, put it in the sack and drive hell for leather to the nearest vet

7. If the joey has no fur, settle your stomach.  Take the knife and surgically remove the teat it will be clinging to (do not attempt to pull it off the teat, this will kill it by pulling its mouth apart). Make sure the piece of flesh that the teat is attached to is too large for the joey to swallow and choke on. 

8. Place the joey in the joey bag, put this down your shirt, next to your skin to keep it warm and drive hell for leather to the nearest vet. 

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.  One day when we were happily driving aimlessly through the rural outskirts of Melbourne, we happened to notice a very large dead kangaroo by the roadside.  No big deal, we saw a few others on the same day and felt no particular sense of responsibility or urgency.  On the return journey, we noticed the same dead roo - but noticed that its tail was MOVING! What to do? the thing was huge! should we attempt to manhandle it into the back seat and drive it to a vets? What was that damn injured marsupial emergency number? Do you dig in the pouch if the thing is in its death throes? 

We slowed for a closer look, and witnessed.......... an enormous black crow exiting from beneath the kangaroos tail, a length of blood stained lower bowel clutched in its beak.  We drove on, nausea competing with a guilty sense of relief. Give me a hawk feeding on a dead rabbit any day. 

The Cinema

I have a certain fondness for a particular movie star.  A Korean bar girl once told J that he was "velly handsome, look just like Lobert Ledford." What good taste in men she had!
Opportunities for entertainment in X - town are limited, so I willingly accompanied the imposter to watch the Sundance Kid's latest movie which was screening locally at the middle aged friendly (mugger unfriendly) time  of 6.40

Taking sensible precautions (no valuables in sight, park under a street light) we ventured out into the epicenter at night.
The cinema was not a vast, soulless Hoyt's, and bore no resemblance to the splendidly renovated art deco theater that we used to walk to in Melbourne. It was small and unassuming and looked a lot like a bus station.  The foyer was strangely empty - no seats, few posters - just this huge sign on the wall
(above).
We were almost scared away. There was very little food for sale (and certainly no alcohol) - patrons were obviously quite capable of becoming abusive and aggressive without the  aggravating influence of a glass of cheap chardonnay.
Every now and then X-Town throws you a curve ball. When the imposter bought tickets we discovered that the theater not only looked cheap - it was cheap! Tickets were $6.00 each - every session, every day.
We marveled at the modest price and wondered how they made any money - there were very few customers.  A weary looking staff member was growling at kids who were swinging on the barrier ropes outside the closed theater door. They laughed at her.  The poor woman entered the closed theater, and very quickly emerged looking distressed and disgusted.  She rushed away to wash her hands - what had she touched?
Mercifully we never encountered the same offensive substance but there was a very strong, strange smell in the theater. I suggested burned popcorn, the imposter suggested vomit.  I tried hard to ignore it.
No seat numbers or ushers with torches here - first in, best seated. A couple sat strategically far enough in front of us to create no irritation, and then four noisy girls (ignorant of almost empty theater etiquette) sat - right behind us.  Almost immediately a pair of bare plump feet were placed on the back of the seat right beside me.  They stayed there for the entire length of the movie.  Fearful of  abuse and aggression, I tried to ignore them and consoled myself with the thought that the mystery smell was masking any foot odor.
We have been back twice since and on each occasion have encountered neither unpleasant aromas nor aggression.  When the lights went on at the completion of the Star trek premier I was charmed to discover that the vast majority of the patrons were young bespectacled males; X - town has a hidden population of nerds!
On our last visit the movie started at the slightly less middle aged friendly time of 7.40
When it ended we were astonished to find that the foyer was jam packed.  Standing room only; at least three or four hundred young people were waiting to claim the best seats in the next session.  Mystery of financial viability solved.  We had found the right place, at the wrong time.

The Catholic Club

Only one of us was eligible to darken the doorstep of the X-town Catholic Club, but I was prepared to bluff my way in if necessary.  Would they demand a baptismal certificate? or would a quick recitation of 'Hail Mary' suffice? If my suitability for entry was questioned, I was even prepared to divulge familial catholic celebrity, after all, it wouldn't be the first time that I had told people that my mother in law had once ironed the Pope's vestments.
As it happened, all races and religions were welcome and there was not so much as a portrait of the pontiff to be seen.
We had no idea what to expect inside the imposing Catholic Club. How naive could we have been? Fooled by the prefix 'Catholic' we had ignored the second word, and in Australia the word 'club' has only one meaning. It denotes a place where you can eat, drink, but most importantly --gamble.
The club's true nature became apparent as soon as we parked the car.  The place was so big that we couldn't find the entrance, and had to walk quite some distance (following others) to find the lobby.  We passed by hundreds of pokey machines in an outdoor smoking area.  They were enclosed by wire mesh, allowing smoke (but not punters) the chance of escape.  How clever! in this space patrons could indulge two vices at once! The area was crowded with Aussie battlers, all staring blank faced at whirling numbers and flashing lights, while feeding the machines with their hard earned dollars.
It was actually quite grand inside, a vast area of shiny marble flooring leads you to the reception desk where it was necessary to register as a visitor.
I foolishly asked the woman at reception what there was to do here apart from gamble.  She snapped at me "don't be like that!" and pointed out the dining areas and the bar.  She also handed over an advertising brochure that described the various acts that would be performing at the club's theater.  Dusty Springfield and Tom Jones together! - but wait, isn't Dusty dead? a closer look confirmed my suspicion - entertainment was primarily tribute bands. Was there anything else to do I asked? She looked doubtful, and described the weekly activities; line dancing and bingo.
Lacking a permanent address we were not able to avail ourselves of membership. For an annual fee of $8.00 members receive discounts on food and beverages. We retired to the bar, expecting to pay a hefty premium as a penalty for our lowly visitor status.  J was smiling when he returned with two drinks, without the membership discount, one wine and a small beer cost $5.90.
With our second round of drinks we drank a toast to Pope Frank, Googled "Catholic Clubs" and discovered that there is no link between Sydney's Catholic Clubs and the Catholic Church whatsoever.  A news article informed us that the clubs made $130 million profit last year.
The bar area began to fill, and the newly arrived punters began to cast covetous glances at the table we were occupying.  We were obviously in the wrong place.  Two men who had been quietly watching league on an enormous TV in the corner fled.  The newcomers were exclusively women, their accessories identified their purpose.  After claiming a seat, each woman readied themselves for their big night out, arranging a dizzying array of brightly colored bingo 'dabbers' on the table in front of them.
We left the bingo players to it.  As we walked out, past the T.A.B (where punters could place bets on virtual horse races) and through the vast area filled with pokey machines, it occurred to me that absolutely nobody was smiling.  Entertainment minus the fun, where success can be attributed to luck rather than skill.
Clubs of Australia have recently launched an advertising campaign, promoting responsible gambling.  Their slogan? "Clubs - part of the solution." - Sounds like a Tui billboard to me.

Hooters

A Hooters.
Right next door
Everyone we mentioned this to said "I didn't know there were any in Australia!"
A quick check of the website revealed that there are in fact three Hooters restaurants in Australia.  They have located their perfect target audience; each and every one is situated right here in southwest Sydney.
Muttering about the objectification of women, I vowed never to darken their doorstep and being a sensitive, new age guy, J concurred.
It didn't take long for my resolve to weaken; sick of eating in, we decided to venture out into Lard-land.
Options were limited, I refused to eat anywhere where food could be purchased while sitting behind a steering wheel.  We had already tried the steak house;  it's speciality entree was a battered deep fried onion.
The wood-fired pizza restaurant was not licensed and we had not thought to bring a bottle with us..
Hooters (or going home and eating cheese on toast) was our only option.  I dismounted from the high horse and tried to convince myself that our visit could be justified as research for the blog....
The first thing that strikes you when you walk into a Hooters is the televisions.  There must have been fifty or sixty of them, enormous flat screens decorate every vertical surface, smaller models have been installed  inside every dining booth. The combined effect was mesmerizing, their glowing plasma surfaces stole both concentration and conversation.  It was impossible to look away, there were no blank walls, white light flickered to the very edges of your peripheral vision. A sign at the entrance promised customers that they could watch every league match live; thank god there was no game on that night... the combined volume of every television would have been thunderous.  Mercifully our evening was almost sport-less, in the absence of a footy match half the television were showing Rodeo, the other half showed endless advertisements for........ Hooters.
The second thing that strikes you when you enter Hooters, is of course, the girls.  Do not expect playboy mansion, you will be disappointed.  The girls were strangely (but not scantily) dressed and none were particularly well endowed. Tight white singlets with owl logo, shiny orange nylon running shorts, ugly thick,beige tights and white slouch-socks.  The combined effect was very..... I'm just off for a jog (in 1983).
We were shown to our table by a conservatively dressed male staff member, who sighed wearily when I asked him where his orange hot pants were.
Soon enough, our waitress introduced herself, she was pretty, very young and scribbled a note on a napkin to ensure that we would not forget her name (would a name tag have spoiled her costume's decolletage?).
She had a strangely practiced, flirty manner....
"Go on, I know you WANT SOME" (dessert).
 "Another bottle of wine?" (we hadn't nearly finished the first one).
The meal was forgettable, the entertainment was not.
Mid meal, the slightly annoying rap music suddenly became deafeningly loud.  Four lucky Aussie blokes had chosen to celebrate their birthdays at Hooters that evening.  Three looked to be in their mid twenties, the fourth was celebrating his fourteenth birthday.  Each had a large white paper towel  hung around their necks. If you could overlook the fact that each towel was decorated with cute girly names and love hearts, you might have thought that they were about to sit in the dentists chair.
They stood on chairs side by side, a hooters girl took up position in front of each lucky patron and proceeded to give a sexy little dance.  More chicken dance than pole dance, lots of wiggling and posturing, suggestive but family friendly (yes there were several children present).
The three older blokes looked nonchalant and completely unembarrassed, they had obviously witnessed or perhaps experienced this entertainment before.  The fourteen year old looked as though he had died and gone to heaven.
Our waitress autographed our bill and decorated it with a love heart. J left her a tip "she tried so hard" he said.

The Train

Five hundred meters from the hotel is a train station.  Catch a train south and the first stop is X-Town, (do not alight).  Second stop south is the end of the train line; here you will be forced to alight and funneled into the vast M-Square mall.
Many, many people utilize the New South Wales public transport system.  During the day, the enormous car parks at the train station are full.  Hundreds, perhaps thousands of commuters are whisked northward each morning, returning home later in the evening to jump in their cars and clog the roads surrounding X- town.
For those of us who own no car and have only recently moved to the Wild South West, these trains provide so much more than an affordable commuting option; they provide the only means of escape.

Nine dollars is the price of freedom - a bargain considering that the cost of road tolls to and from the city is $8.80.
You arrive at 'Central' station twenty three stops after boarding a north bound train; our day trip to the city was leisurely by necessity.

Not much to do on a train except stare out the window (note to self, bring a book!). We pass the factory where J works; its back yard does not meet his required level of tidiness, I can't see that it looks any worse than many others, and in fact has less barbed wire and surrounding litter than most.
Land in these parts must be cheap and plentiful, acres have been devoted to car storage.  Rows and rows of identical cars are parked side by side awaiting delivery to lucky commuters.  J fantasizes about jumping the fence and driving off across the surrounding paddocks in a nice new Fiat Punto (surely they wouldn't miss one?) I have larger ambitions; we pass an army vehicle storage facility and I imagine hot wiring a camouflaged concrete mixer; who knew the army had so many? or even any? (surely they wouldn't miss one?)
An announcement warns that "due to track-work" we will have to catch a bus between stations; feeling clever, we alight in order to switch trains and take the alternative line into the city.  A man stands twitching in the doorway of our second train, "Piss off South-Westies and stop staring at me!"
South-Westies! - we are labelled by our train of origin; good to know that geographical discrimination is alive and well in Australia.
We sit several carriages away from our angry, self conscious fellow traveler.
What to say about the city? blue sky, blue sea, street markets and a very nice pinot - soon enough it is time to return to the epicenter.
Our trip on the alternative line took ninety minutes, hoping that "track work" would be finished, we caught the faster airport line home.
Mistake.
Herded onto buses that were not air-conditioned, we inched down the M5.   Nothing to look at out the window, so I was forced to appraise my fellow hot and grumpy travelers.  Directly opposite us sat a typical young 'westy' family: Mum, Dad and two small children, boy and girl.
An opportunity to practice one of my favorite snoopy pass-times; reading strangers tattoos.
I once sat behind a woman who had Sanskrit words tattooed on the back of her neck and used Google to translate them (peace, strength, or something similar). This young mother's tattoos were more difficult to decipher, trying not to stare too obviously, while decoding stupid Gothic script......
No pearls of wisdom here, could she REALLY have wanted to have both her children's names inscribed on her upper arm? In case she forgot them?
Dad had adopted a more artistic approach to self decoration, both arms were covered in outlined pictures, inked in black and obviously not yet completed.  Was he saving up to have color added? Was this why the whole family were riding on the bus?
The children were well behaved and consequently their parents were ignoring them.  We watched as the older girl (maybe two years old?) reached over and pulled a filthy plaster from her baby brothers knee, and then...... stuck it in her mouth! She noticed me watching her and ever so politely pulled the plaster from her mouth and offered it to me.
"No! Yucky" I said, startling her parents from their introspection.  They glared at me.
We were more than happy to rejoin the train line and got off at our station, which is directly opposite
the local rugby league ground.  Hundreds of fans were pouring off trains and parking their cars as we alighted. Six huge fully armed policemen stood scowling on the platform.  "Expecting trouble tonight" said a fellow traveler. He walked off to enjoy the game, whistling and smiling.

Lard land

I described the location of our apartments to a relative who lived nearby.  "Sheet, (he said) you're leeving in Lard land."
How true!, within a few hundred meters there are six fast food outlets, a steakhouse and a Hooters (more on Hooters later).
Stepping outside you are assailed by the combined efforts of eight industrial deep fryers, venting grease into the clear blue sky.  Smells are particulate, so is it possible to gain weight through inhalation?
Eating locally would be exactly like taking the leading role in the movie Super Size Me.
All manner of fried, toasted and roasted food are available within waddling distance, but there is nowhere to buy bread or milk.  It will be necessary to drive to the mall to fetch food.
The X-town mall is a stock standard, fairly modern establishment.  The only feature that makes it slightly remarkable is the mesh fence, topped by a triple strand of barbed wire that encloses the car park at ground level.
The mall was strangely empty and worryingly devoid of the three shops that any self respecting retail outlet should contain:

• A shoe shop with at least a few pairs of shoes that are both desirable and unaffordable 
• A book shop that does not sell books grouped together by price ($5 table!)
• A food outlet that sells coffee that is good enough to make you want to come back and buy another one

A fourth mall requirement is a shop that sells at least a few items of clothing that would match the desirable and unaffordable shoes.  The  X-town mall had several 'super-sized' clothing outlets, and a few shops that sold 'Nana clothes.' Worryingly, there was also a $2.50 shop.  Yes - a shop that sold numerous items of clothing, all of which cost $2.50.

There were, however a few familiar elements; povi masima and taro were on sale (perhaps if you have never lived in Auckland you are unfamiliar with these food items?)
The Coles supermarket was indistinguishable from any other Coles supermarket; it offered a dizzying abundance of food items but was strangely devoid of shoppers.  Our checkout operator's name tag identified her as "Sherly" (a spelling mistake - surely?).
A map that we had acquired showed a nearby area called M..Square.  An urban green-space? or perhaps a paved area similar to Cathedral Square? With nothing better to do, we investigated and discovered that the hoped for municipal plaza was in fact one of the largest malls in Sydney!
M. Square is a sprawling behemoth of a mall, so large that it has its own train station and has risen into the sky, bridging the entrance road which passes beneath it.
Ninety thousand square meters of retail nirvana; mystery of the missing shoppers solved. The mall was crowded with throngs of 'Aussie battlers.' There was even a David Jones;  happiness, I had found my temporary Tūrangawaewae.


 

Welcome to the epicenter

Nobody could say we weren't warned
A move to Sydney - We loved Melbourne, and surely all large Australian cities were similarly hot and large? (containing more citizens than the entire population of New Zealand).
I should have worried when my gorgeous Melbourne hairdresser warned me that "I wouldn't ever want to live there."
- was Sydney not gay friendly?
- was he simply demonstrating the strange prejudice that all Australians show for any state other than the one in which they were born and raised?
- or was this a gentle hint that the southwest suburbs of Sydney were considered to be undesirable by almost all Australians?
We visited for a recce and caught up with some Aussie/Sydney friends.  Where to live? we asked these long term Sydney residents.  J.T sketched a map on a bar napkin.
"Thees ees Seedney" (incomprehensible squiggles)
"Thees ees the ploice you weell be working" (named suburb)
"Thees whole area is Sheetsville" (whole southwestern Sydney location circled)
"And this is the EPICENTER of sheetsville" (X.town circled)

We laughed - and visited the epicenter.  Straight to the middle of main street.
Mistake.
This is not where people GO... (more on this later)
The very first citizen we encountered was very young, visibly pregnant, pushing a pram and defiantly smoking.
The main street contained employment agencies, bargain basement shops and  and establishments where short term loans could be acquired.
None of the superb skinny flat whites that I had become addicted to available here...

Driving hastily north from the epicenter we visited the numerous more desirable suburbs that had been sketched on the napkin map.
Mid week, 3 p.m, a one way $4.60 toll and 75 minutes later - leafy suburbs! water views! but who were we kidding? we couldn't afford to rent in this part of the fourth most expensive city in the world, and who would want to commute this far?

What to do? we had been offered temporary accommodation in serviced apartments until we found somewhere more permanent to live.  Who could refuse? Time was running out and we now had no idea where we wanted to live on a more permanent basis.

And so we moved into the only available apartments ... right in the epicenter.
The young man at the front desk could not have been more helpful. Our booking had gone missing but he found us a  room and then offered some very helpful advice.  When asked for a map of the town he told us "Nah maayte, preety straight forward, NEVER turn leeft at the lights (heading more west-ward) and eef you turn roight you'll end up in the moin street - don't go there! Everyone goes to the mall!!