Observations and self-pity

So three months on this massive island and I'm still grappling with the cultural implications of living upside down. By turns it's all so familiar here: the people; the language; the fact that I can't find a babysitter; but then so foreign: the ubiquitous scrap-booking (no really; why?); the refrigeration of fresh dog-food in the supermarkets, right next to the trays of lamb chops and chicken necks (dry heave); the way cashiers round off every transaction to the nearest dollar since reaching into the till to retrieve your 3 cents change is really too much trouble.

Socks for sale, only used once! $2

One thing that has become very clear -- and not surprising considering the living costs -- is the relative frugality of the way of life here; nothing is thrown away that can be reused, sold, swapped. I mentioned in an earlier post about the buy, sell, swap groups on Facebook, and have been curious to discover that these aren't the preserve of large, expensive items such as fridges or bookshelves, but in fact any old tat, ranging from an old pair of trainers ($20) to a plastic tupperware dish ($1). And regardless how knackered the item looks in the picture, it will invariably come with the dubious claim 'only used once!'. 

Makes me wish I'd brought all the crap I'd bagged up and dragged to the nearest St. Vincent De Paul shop back in Ireland; I could have recouped the cost of shipping it over with Pickford's, with a few dollars left over for a cheap box of Sauvignon Blanc from my local, demurely-named bottle-shop, Liquor in the Valley, (I kid you not. Is my mind in the gutter or does that sound a bit rude, and if so -- was the double entendre intentional? If so -- why?)

One thing is clear; there is a social hierarchy in Oz, of which the poor, downtrodden-looking Aboriginies seem to be right at the bottom of the heap. In fact I've yet to see a healthy, prosperous looking Aboriginal person -- not that I've seen many at all, they are largely hidden from view. Invariably they are damaged looking souls; often limping, missing an eye, scarred, neglected, drunk. Public opinion seems to fall into one of two camps: that the Abbo's are feckless drunkards, pandered to by a restitutive government keen to atone for past crimes, or a sad, lost people, ill-equipped to navigate their way around a hostile world, deserving of our compassion. To me, judging by the hollow-eyed stares, they look like they've just given up.

And finally....

My blog post on the Irish Times website last week stirred up quite a bit of controversy, and considering the juxtaposition of the melodramatic headline 'This time, emigration is a life sentence not a lifestyle choice' against a smug-looking picture of me and DH sitting in the Laughin' Barrel vineyard quaffing a nice bottle of Chardonnay (not the most tear-jerking of images) it's no surprise.

I didn't quite think that one through really although of course I didn't write the headline, but the quote was taken from the piece. I chose that picture because I wanted to impress the point that we were happy with where we were; to avoid the whiff of victimhood that can accompany these personal accounts, like one of those vile stories in Chat magazine featuring a photo of some whey-faced, track-suited hag, sitting staring vacantly at the camera, gnawed fingernails encircling a mug of tea, 'My Tragedy: My nan had my boyfriends baby!'

Some comments were understandably critical: Poor diddums, crying into her Chardonnay in the sunshine, what a bleedin' tragedy. Could I really be so deluded that I believed that we deserved pity?

Boohoo, the Chardonnay just isn't chilled properly!

Well of course not, and although I stated this clearly in the piece, I'll reiterate it to be clear: while I didn't want to leave Ireland this time -- anyone who follows this blog will know this -- I don't at any level feel that living up here in this beautiful part of Australia is a life sentence. It's undeniably a privilege. What saddens me -- and the point I was trying to express in the piece -- is the fact that for now and possibly ever, Ireland is not a viable option for a life or a future. We have a home there, a family, a history; it's not easy to turn our backs on all that with the very strong possibility that we may never be able to resume that life, that our children will grow up strangers to their cousins, uncles, aunts, culture; their country. The life sentence I was referring to was the life unlived in Ireland, not the one we're living here.