I'll be honest, for my first few days in Australia I languished in the dungeons of despair and felt as if I'd landed in one, giant, flat, characterless suburb, punctuated by the occasional functional shopping centre or empty park -- the UAE with a better finish. And with nakedness. Lots of nakedness. It's curious; proper clothing seems to have been entirely dispensed with here, even shoes in many cases; and people walk around in shorts so tiny they barely cover their underwear; which I doubt they wear -- it's probably too much trouble...
This, in my book, is definitely preferable to the 'please don't offend by showing any actual skin' brigade who so militantly patrolled the chat forums and malls of the UAE to ensure that the disrespectful were promptly put in their place (some statistics: I was asked on four occasions to cover up during my three years in the UAE -- twice by local, be-hijabed women; twice by older, middle-aged, grey, English women).
Then something happened. Firstly, I recovered from jet-lag; secondly, and more importantly, we drove up into the Perth hills one hot, lazy, sunny afternoon, and explored the beautiful and evocatively named villages of Kalamunda, Gooseberry Hill, Helena Valley, Swan Valley, Darlington; and I suddenly realised I could live here -- up in the hills among the woods and wineries -- and we found a house on legs, tucked away behind the trees, shortly afterwards.
Of course within days it was clear that I hadn't really thought it through and was now sharing a living space with a multitude of creatures -- most of which had more than two legs and were not in my legal custody -- and WHICH CAN ACTUALLY KILL YOU; meaning I can't really go outside or do anything more than make a run for the car with the baby under my arm whenever I'm forced to leave the house.
But the fact remains, the hills and indeed foothills (the chocolate-box pretty Guildford with its federation architecture could be easily mistaken for any small, old worldy English town) of Perth are breathtakingly beautiful.
Each morning I wake to a mild hangover (the wine is irresistibly good and cheap), the eerily human-sounding squawk of the ravens and the chattering merriment of the kookaburra's from the surrounding trees, and I truly feel I'm in among the natives (although we're pretty sure the neighbours, upon whom we've never laid eyes, are possibly in the possession of a couple of chainsaws and a cadaver or two in the basement). And although I know there are at least twenty creatures within spitting distance who would happily kill me for sport, I am content to be living in such an unusual and beautiful environment -- at least for now....
But there's something strange about going through culture-shock in a culture which has been largely based around the culture from which you've come and in fact I've met as many Brits and Scots (not as many Irish as I had imagined) as I have Aussies here and the place is peppered with 'ye olde English sweet shoppe' and such like, as ex-pats clamber for a taste of home, happy to experience it through nostalgia rather than returning to the drizzle and hoodie-wearing thugs.
Oddly enough, the Australians have more in common with the Brits and Irish than I realised -- despite their laid back demeanor, they are incredibly polite and any minor collision at a door or in a shop queue is as likely to result in a barrage of 'sorry's' as a Hugh Grant movie marathon, complete with an Elton John soundtrack....
And they use their cars as a form of self-expression with personalised number plates such as 'COCK5' and 'POOPIE' (I kid you not), or the dubious phenomenon of 'My Family' stickers, where each family member, or pet, is represented by their own character stuck onto the back window of the car. I of course immediately went out and purchased some of these although I did have the passing doubt that I might be inadvertently advertising the gender and general age-group of my kids to any potential paedophiles out there.... ah what the hell, they're cute, I'll risk it!
This, in my book, is definitely preferable to the 'please don't offend by showing any actual skin' brigade who so militantly patrolled the chat forums and malls of the UAE to ensure that the disrespectful were promptly put in their place (some statistics: I was asked on four occasions to cover up during my three years in the UAE -- twice by local, be-hijabed women; twice by older, middle-aged, grey, English women).
And the Boden frocks and skirts which I so rebelliously flaunted, sans cardigan, as I went about my business in Al Hamra, now serve as an invisibility cloak here in Oz, where I look about as sexy as Dame Edna. Actually I sort of miss all the intrusive male attention I received in the UAE; here in Oz I simply fade into the background in comparison to all the honey-limbed hotties as they stroll around, barefooted and lithe.
"Ah, middle age; I've been expecting you....."
"Ah, middle age; I've been expecting you....."
Certainly there are similarities with the UAE: this is a relatively young country (Western Australia in particular) struggling to establish itself -- just as Um Al Quawain or Ras Al Khaimah would laughingly refer to themselves as cities, so too will you see 'City of Wanneroo' or 'City of Joondalup' signs as you drive through these areas -- protesting too much of their city status -- which really aren't cities at all, just vast areas, filled with roads and Lego-brick houses; besides, I thought a city could only claim such status if it could boast a cathedral? Or did I make that up....
Suffice to say I wasn't exactly diggin' the place, which led to some deeply unpleasant self-analysis: If I hate it here, and I was less than enchanted with the UAE by the time I left, surely there is a common denominator here -- ME!
Suffice to say I wasn't exactly diggin' the place, which led to some deeply unpleasant self-analysis: If I hate it here, and I was less than enchanted with the UAE by the time I left, surely there is a common denominator here -- ME!
Of course within days it was clear that I hadn't really thought it through and was now sharing a living space with a multitude of creatures -- most of which had more than two legs and were not in my legal custody -- and WHICH CAN ACTUALLY KILL YOU; meaning I can't really go outside or do anything more than make a run for the car with the baby under my arm whenever I'm forced to leave the house.
But the fact remains, the hills and indeed foothills (the chocolate-box pretty Guildford with its federation architecture could be easily mistaken for any small, old worldy English town) of Perth are breathtakingly beautiful.
Each morning I wake to a mild hangover (the wine is irresistibly good and cheap), the eerily human-sounding squawk of the ravens and the chattering merriment of the kookaburra's from the surrounding trees, and I truly feel I'm in among the natives (although we're pretty sure the neighbours, upon whom we've never laid eyes, are possibly in the possession of a couple of chainsaws and a cadaver or two in the basement). And although I know there are at least twenty creatures within spitting distance who would happily kill me for sport, I am content to be living in such an unusual and beautiful environment -- at least for now....
But there's something strange about going through culture-shock in a culture which has been largely based around the culture from which you've come and in fact I've met as many Brits and Scots (not as many Irish as I had imagined) as I have Aussies here and the place is peppered with 'ye olde English sweet shoppe' and such like, as ex-pats clamber for a taste of home, happy to experience it through nostalgia rather than returning to the drizzle and hoodie-wearing thugs.
Oddly enough, the Australians have more in common with the Brits and Irish than I realised -- despite their laid back demeanor, they are incredibly polite and any minor collision at a door or in a shop queue is as likely to result in a barrage of 'sorry's' as a Hugh Grant movie marathon, complete with an Elton John soundtrack....
And they use their cars as a form of self-expression with personalised number plates such as 'COCK5' and 'POOPIE' (I kid you not), or the dubious phenomenon of 'My Family' stickers, where each family member, or pet, is represented by their own character stuck onto the back window of the car. I of course immediately went out and purchased some of these although I did have the passing doubt that I might be inadvertently advertising the gender and general age-group of my kids to any potential paedophiles out there.... ah what the hell, they're cute, I'll risk it!
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| DH got the surfer dad sticker only because the handyman dad was out of stock.... |
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