Tattoo YouIf truth be told New Zealanders are probably somewhat envious of their trans-Tasman neighbours, they are so confident and so frustratingly good at almost everything. Even Rolf Harris, whose family home we passed on our trip up the Swan River, had a suite of skills including holding an Australian age-group swimming record in backstroke, believe it or not. They are just so damned good.
Aussies may naturally be first rate at many things but also what makes them excel is that they are also hardy; Perth rivals Wellington for wind and our (optimistic) trips to the beach show just how determined they can be against all forms of adversity. Each day at around lunchtime, a sea breeze known as the Freemantle Doctor springs up and it can be an unpleasant, gusty wind. Akin to the cold Christchurch easterly, it can make life on the beach distinctly unpleasant and this is where our colonial neighbours clearly outshine Kiwis. When we ambled innocently onto the sand at Swanbourne Beach one morning intending to bask lazily in the sun and enjoy the warmth, we were met by an army of beach dwellers prepared for the Doctor. Erected on the beach was a maze of coloured windbreaks, behind each one huddled a cluster of people and at first glance it seemed odd but within half an hour we knew why; the wind gusted up, quite viciously, negating any benefit of the sun and while we lay exposed on our loungers with the sand stripping away the top layer of skin these other people lay smugly protected from the elements. We watched one latecomer, a woman, as she chattered to other dwellers with all the familiarity of one of Tiger Woods’s girlfriends as she unraveled a 10 metre long windbreak and then produced a mallet to drive the supporting stays into the ground and then a shovel to heap sand around the base to block out any draft. Now that is preparation and a resolve that us Kiwis just cannot compete with.
A week later, with the wind subsided, or so we thought, and the sun at its full glory we had another go, this time at Warnbro Beach, about 40 kilometers south of Perth. We unpacked, set up loungers and pulled up the sun umbrella - and no sooner had we done that than a gust of wind wrenched it from the ground, hurled it along the beach and then into the water. Resembling something like Benny Hill, Marty, adorned in little but sunglasses and hat, chased the brolly as it tumbled down the beach and into the sea, he eventually swimming out to retrieve the blessed thing as it sank beneath the waves.
And this is where we had our earlier lesson reinforced. On re-erecting the umbrella we observed our beach neighbours. All had their umbrellas anchored in at least two places; a heavy weight attached to the centre pole and sandbags supporting the stays against the prevailing wind. This is why Australians are great; they take adversity in their stride and barely bat an eyelid when faced with conditions that would have us retreating indoors.
One benefit of our beach trips has been that, on two trips to Warnbro Beach, we have watched dolphins frolicking a mere 50 meters offshore. Add to that the signs warning about running turtles over crossing the road and the sight of a squadron of pelicans flying in formation with us down the Highway and it is little wonder we have become obsessed with animals.
While Australians may be admirable at many things they seem not so great at race relations. Trevor, the flat mate of friends, thought that expressing frankly a dislike of “Abbos” was more honest than in the United States where there are any number of euphemisms to discuss Afro-Americans in derogatory terms without appearing to do so. Another young woman we met, and she was nothing flash, described all aboriginals as bad but while she conceded under questioning the potential that there could be some good ones, she was quite certain she hadn’t met or heard of any. The problem with indigenous people, it appears, is the effect that White man’s firewater, alcohol, has on them, and the public labeling of this as an “Aboriginal problem” has prompted a strong reaction from popular actor and television host Ernie Dingo (pronounced Deeengo). Dingo argues that there are more white problem-drinkers in Australia than the entire Aboriginal population and we can believe it if the weekend’s news reports are anything to go by. Graphic film footage on television showed quite vicious brawling in town, including three instances of people smashing glasses into the faces of others, and young men kicking each other unconscious. All of those involved were pale skinned people, just as were the one in four drivers caught with alcohol in their systems when stopped while driving on Kwinana Highway during a weekend blitz. Of some ironic comfort was the fact that two off-duty police were among the offenders, one for driving while over the legal blood-alcohol limit and the other for being a general pest while drunk. Perhaps Dingo has a point.
On another note we enjoyed overhearing an intriguing conversation between a group of young people after two of them returned from getting additions to their already extensive body art by a local tattooist. Inked down the spine of one is the phrase “Forgive and Forget” which suggests that he is yet to reconcile whatever issues he has and take this advice (not that he can read it from on his back to be reminded), and on the neck and heading down the back of his partner in scrawled writing, the first fifteen lines of The Desiderata. When asked if getting the tattoos hurt, the young woman thought about it for a moment, agreed that it did quite a bit, but for comparison said that it was nowhere near as painful as getting a Brazilian. We must remember that.
Aussies may naturally be first rate at many things but also what makes them excel is that they are also hardy; Perth rivals Wellington for wind and our (optimistic) trips to the beach show just how determined they can be against all forms of adversity. Each day at around lunchtime, a sea breeze known as the Freemantle Doctor springs up and it can be an unpleasant, gusty wind. Akin to the cold Christchurch easterly, it can make life on the beach distinctly unpleasant and this is where our colonial neighbours clearly outshine Kiwis. When we ambled innocently onto the sand at Swanbourne Beach one morning intending to bask lazily in the sun and enjoy the warmth, we were met by an army of beach dwellers prepared for the Doctor. Erected on the beach was a maze of coloured windbreaks, behind each one huddled a cluster of people and at first glance it seemed odd but within half an hour we knew why; the wind gusted up, quite viciously, negating any benefit of the sun and while we lay exposed on our loungers with the sand stripping away the top layer of skin these other people lay smugly protected from the elements. We watched one latecomer, a woman, as she chattered to other dwellers with all the familiarity of one of Tiger Woods’s girlfriends as she unraveled a 10 metre long windbreak and then produced a mallet to drive the supporting stays into the ground and then a shovel to heap sand around the base to block out any draft. Now that is preparation and a resolve that us Kiwis just cannot compete with.
A week later, with the wind subsided, or so we thought, and the sun at its full glory we had another go, this time at Warnbro Beach, about 40 kilometers south of Perth. We unpacked, set up loungers and pulled up the sun umbrella - and no sooner had we done that than a gust of wind wrenched it from the ground, hurled it along the beach and then into the water. Resembling something like Benny Hill, Marty, adorned in little but sunglasses and hat, chased the brolly as it tumbled down the beach and into the sea, he eventually swimming out to retrieve the blessed thing as it sank beneath the waves.
And this is where we had our earlier lesson reinforced. On re-erecting the umbrella we observed our beach neighbours. All had their umbrellas anchored in at least two places; a heavy weight attached to the centre pole and sandbags supporting the stays against the prevailing wind. This is why Australians are great; they take adversity in their stride and barely bat an eyelid when faced with conditions that would have us retreating indoors.
One benefit of our beach trips has been that, on two trips to Warnbro Beach, we have watched dolphins frolicking a mere 50 meters offshore. Add to that the signs warning about running turtles over crossing the road and the sight of a squadron of pelicans flying in formation with us down the Highway and it is little wonder we have become obsessed with animals.
While Australians may be admirable at many things they seem not so great at race relations. Trevor, the flat mate of friends, thought that expressing frankly a dislike of “Abbos” was more honest than in the United States where there are any number of euphemisms to discuss Afro-Americans in derogatory terms without appearing to do so. Another young woman we met, and she was nothing flash, described all aboriginals as bad but while she conceded under questioning the potential that there could be some good ones, she was quite certain she hadn’t met or heard of any. The problem with indigenous people, it appears, is the effect that White man’s firewater, alcohol, has on them, and the public labeling of this as an “Aboriginal problem” has prompted a strong reaction from popular actor and television host Ernie Dingo (pronounced Deeengo). Dingo argues that there are more white problem-drinkers in Australia than the entire Aboriginal population and we can believe it if the weekend’s news reports are anything to go by. Graphic film footage on television showed quite vicious brawling in town, including three instances of people smashing glasses into the faces of others, and young men kicking each other unconscious. All of those involved were pale skinned people, just as were the one in four drivers caught with alcohol in their systems when stopped while driving on Kwinana Highway during a weekend blitz. Of some ironic comfort was the fact that two off-duty police were among the offenders, one for driving while over the legal blood-alcohol limit and the other for being a general pest while drunk. Perhaps Dingo has a point.
On another note we enjoyed overhearing an intriguing conversation between a group of young people after two of them returned from getting additions to their already extensive body art by a local tattooist. Inked down the spine of one is the phrase “Forgive and Forget” which suggests that he is yet to reconcile whatever issues he has and take this advice (not that he can read it from on his back to be reminded), and on the neck and heading down the back of his partner in scrawled writing, the first fifteen lines of The Desiderata. When asked if getting the tattoos hurt, the young woman thought about it for a moment, agreed that it did quite a bit, but for comparison said that it was nowhere near as painful as getting a Brazilian. We must remember that.
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