The Road out of Pinjarra August 2, 2008
Posted by dodo in : Air Tickets, Australia, England, Europe, Hotels, Melbourne, Sydney, Tour, Trails, Trip , trackbackI am sitting in the shade of a gum tree, by the side of a dusty road in Pinjarra, Western Australia. It has taken me fifty lifts to reach Pinjarra; a name on the map you do not notice until fate holds you there.
After three months’ travelling in Australia, hitch-hiking has become an addiction; the stimulation of a new acquaintance, a frank exchange of views, and then back on to the roadside — a self-contained experience without any repercussions.
I have been waiting for a lift for four hours. I seem to be a permanent figure in this small town, loitering under the shade of a eucalyptus, with my blue sunhat pulled over my eyes.
On the other side of the road, two old aboriginal women, one with a grey beard, stumble away from the local park after their afternoon drinking session. The road back towards the shops and bars melts into water, thanks to the oppressive dry heat. The beardless aboriginal, who is wearing a black polka-dot dress, collapses on the pavement. Her friend squats by her side, looking into the sun. I notice that she is squatting in the shade cast by a telegraph pole.
I have visited Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide, Kalgoorlie and Perth thanks to the goodwill of timber-workers, fruit-pickers, farmers, sheep-shearers, pensioners, housewives, drunks, fishermen, truckies, a postman, a policeman, a ferryman and an inebriated, middle-aged Englishman who looked suspiciously like Ronnie Biggs. My duty was to supply conversation to break up the monotony of the heat-haze on the straight roads through the bush.
What will I discuss with my next host? How many snakes and kangaroos he has killed in his car, English as opposed to Australian beer, a possible Test successor to fast bowler Dennis Lillee, or Conservation. The latter can be a dangerous word for hitch-hikers in Australia, particularly with farmers and timber-workers. Most farmers I travelled with regarded National Parks as scrub full of snakes. One farmer was livid that he could not go into his local National Park and chop wood for his barbecue. Unless you like being marooned in out-of-the-way places with a half-empty water bottle, it is not a subject a hitch-hiker should get drawn into.
I fell into the conservation trap again with a Sydney chiropractor concerning native, and non-native, birds in Australia. After tea, if he was in the mood, the chiropractor would go out and shoot starlings in his garden, because they had been introduced from Europe. I suggested that starlings had probably been in Australia longer than his family, and if his argument was translated into human terms then an aboriginal would have a justifiable right in hoisting a spear into his chest.
`Do you mind being called a Pommie Bastard?’ inquired the chiropractor. ‘I hear that England is in a bad way. A lot of people out of work. Most of our trade union problems are caused by infiltrating Poms.’ Only a foolish hitch-hiker makes this mistake twice.
It is not only individuals who get ravelled up in this native/nonnative business. In Western Australia it is an offence to cultivate blackberries in your garden, and it is also your duty as a citizen to report to the authorities any sightings of sparrows or starlings. The information board outside the Freemantle Police Station displayed a poster which offered a reward for information leading to the conviction of a person who had murdered a High Court Judge. Next to it was a picture of a rogue starling with the caption, ‘Have you seen this bird?’
Back in Pinjarra the old, semi-conscious aboriginal groans, and then lapses back into sleep; another fringe dweller out for the count. A white Australian boy appears, and proceeds to do ‘wheelies’ around the two old women on his racing bike. Could this scene be acted out every day at 4.45pm on the road out of Pinjarra?
Sweat pours from beneath my hat, and my shorts are going raggy at the hem. My peeling, sunburnt nose resembles a small bundle of rags. Australian flies must be the most persistent in the world. I wonder if the British introduced them? The heat is getting to me. I drink the last few drops of water from my flask.
`Want a tinny, son?’ inquires a voice from behind me.
I turn around and see a small, fat man leaning on his garden fence. He is wearing white shorts, and laughter lines run in deep creases by the sides of his eyes.
`Oh, thanks very much.’
He delves into his portable coolbox and fishes out an ice cool can of lager. The beer slips down my throat. No sooner have I got excited about the cool sensation in my throat than the can is empty.
`Those two old abos look like they’ve had a skinful, ‘ observed my benefactor. ‘My son works for the housing dept around here. You know that when a black fella dies the whole family moves out of the house and goes walkabout. They’ll not return for love nor money, because of the bad spirits. Now where’s the logic in that?’
`I suppose it’s tribal superstition,’ I reply. ‘They were more nomadic before the whites colonised the country, and their tribal huts would be more temporary structures than council housing. I wonder if they would sooner live in a tribal but than the white man’s three-bedroomed house with fully-fitted kitchen?’
`I’d like to see them get the plans through the government housing regulations. Besides, what sort of life would that be?’
`What sort of life is hitch-hiking?’
`Your choice, son.’
`Exactly.’
`I see your angle. The whites repress the aborigines. Don’t forget, son, that a lot of Australian people’s ancestors did not ask to be deported from Jolly Old England! You know we were the Poms, not you lot. We were the Prisoners of Mother England.’
`Fair dinkum,’ I replied.
`Honours about even, son.’
We both laughed.
At that moment the blue flash of an estate car passes my field of vision. The brakes are applied and the passenger door opens. I turn to say cheerio to the old man, but he is digging under a pair of stringy barks, with his back turned towards me.
Vince and Fred are part of an Italian rock band called Casablanca. They are going as far as Collie.
`Where are you from?’ asked Vince.
`England,’ I replied.
`Someday I would like to travel abroad. Travel broadens the mind,’ confirmed Vince.
It certainly does when it is hot in Pinjarra and you cannot get a lift.
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