Curiouser and curiouser' says Alice when she finds herself in the weird and wacky Wonderland. It is a phrase which frequently springs to mind here Down Under, not least when observing the locals. You see dear reader, they sort of look like us, and apart from the need to cut every word in half because they simply can't muster the effort to intone the entire thing (time which could be better spent lighting a barbie or opening a beer), they sort of sound like us too -- well at the very least we share a common language. BUT in so many other ways the Australians are just utterly, hopelessly foreign.
For example; I was standing in a queue in IGA the other day -- bracing myself for the inevitable rip-off which was to come -- and in front of me was a tall man decked out in a high visability shirt and tiny, kylie-esque shorts. At the end of his spindly brown legs stood an enormous pair of steel-capped work boots, with ankle socks peeking charmingly over the top. His hair was regulation mullet with a very long, thin plait which extended all the way down to his bottom. Turning around he revealed a large, bushy beard. Could he be the local kids party clown, who has just let himself go a bit lately? Or worse, a robber who left his house that morning in a rush and forgot his trousers? No! Neither of these options -- he was just some bloke buying over-priced apples. 'How odd', I thought to myself as I placed my $6 pot of yoghurt onto the checkout.
It is moments like this that remind me with a jolt that I'm very, very far from home and what would be considered a summer look for a resident of a dodgy estate in Limerick for example -- or perhaps Latvia -- is a very normal and acceptable look for the regular Australian working man. And to think - this is the nation that gave us the flawless Cate Blanchet or the dapper Hugh Jackman!
Even the most normal looking person here is likely to have a tattoo or two about their person. It's all very 'Prisoner Cell-Block H-Chic', (at least it is in Midland where 'curb appeal' means having a sofa outside your front door). Really, you'd think after 200 odd years they might want to move on from the whole 'convict' look, it's just so 1835...
Even the simple art of shopping begins with the assumption that we're all petty thieves; if you don't believe me, try and leave Target without buying anything. As you exit the store, a woman with enormous hair stands sentinel and rifles through your bags to ensure you haven't stolen anything while you were in there. Can you imagine that? Such mistrust! Such indignity! Such outrage!!!
In they UAE the process was reversed (at least for the Westerners - the Southern Asians weren't spared the ignoble exit-inspection); at the entrance to Carrefour, a guard stood at a little desk and either stapled your bags together, or if they were plastic, heat-sealed them. It never ceased to irritate and insense me; the maddening assumption that unless they did this, one would most certainly indulge in a shop-lifting spree.
In Ireland they have a wonderful invention called electronic tagging - if you steal something, the electonic tag will set off an alarm as you leave the shop, and everybody in there will turn and stare at you with gleeful accusation. Having said that, I've been known to set it off just wandering too close to the entrance clutching something I'm considering buying.
And last summer while in Tesco in Roscommon, a family of very scary people (let's just say you couldn't understand a word they said, despite the fact they were Irish), wandered blithely from the shop pushing a groaning trolly, promptly setting off an alarm as they went. A couple of dozen shoppers looked on in amazement as the family sauntered up the road, while the young, skinny guard stood shuffling at his post by the exit, clutching his walky-talky and staring at his feet.
I was born guilty, and even as a kid -- when the principal would occasionally and dramatically call an emergency assembly because someone had stolen a bunsen burner, or fag ends had been found around by the bike sheds -- I would sit there, cross-legged, while my cheeks burned with guilt, for no other reason than I -- along with a hundred others -- was under suspicion. As a result, Target and K-Mart will be glad to know that they are profiting from this systematic mistrust since I am compelled to buy something -- anything -- rather than suffer the degradation of the exit-inspection by the large-haired woman. Of course from a marketing perspective this is a pretty effective way to get me to part with my cash, although I can't imagine it has the same effect with mulleted and tattooed majority.....
The Victorians...
And finally, am I alone in being momentarily thrown every time there is a news item about someone from the state of Victoria? The other day in the car as I listened to the news on ABC Classic FM, the newsreader announced that the body of a Victorian man had been discovered in his home. 'Bloody hell', I thought, 'how long has he been there?' as I pictured a skeleton wearing a top hat and frock coat, lying on a Persian rug surrounded by opium pipes and a yellowing copy of Thackery's Vanity Fair....
For example; I was standing in a queue in IGA the other day -- bracing myself for the inevitable rip-off which was to come -- and in front of me was a tall man decked out in a high visability shirt and tiny, kylie-esque shorts. At the end of his spindly brown legs stood an enormous pair of steel-capped work boots, with ankle socks peeking charmingly over the top. His hair was regulation mullet with a very long, thin plait which extended all the way down to his bottom. Turning around he revealed a large, bushy beard. Could he be the local kids party clown, who has just let himself go a bit lately? Or worse, a robber who left his house that morning in a rush and forgot his trousers? No! Neither of these options -- he was just some bloke buying over-priced apples. 'How odd', I thought to myself as I placed my $6 pot of yoghurt onto the checkout.
It is moments like this that remind me with a jolt that I'm very, very far from home and what would be considered a summer look for a resident of a dodgy estate in Limerick for example -- or perhaps Latvia -- is a very normal and acceptable look for the regular Australian working man. And to think - this is the nation that gave us the flawless Cate Blanchet or the dapper Hugh Jackman!
Even the most normal looking person here is likely to have a tattoo or two about their person. It's all very 'Prisoner Cell-Block H-Chic', (at least it is in Midland where 'curb appeal' means having a sofa outside your front door). Really, you'd think after 200 odd years they might want to move on from the whole 'convict' look, it's just so 1835...
Even the simple art of shopping begins with the assumption that we're all petty thieves; if you don't believe me, try and leave Target without buying anything. As you exit the store, a woman with enormous hair stands sentinel and rifles through your bags to ensure you haven't stolen anything while you were in there. Can you imagine that? Such mistrust! Such indignity! Such outrage!!!
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| We've got our eye on YOU! |
In they UAE the process was reversed (at least for the Westerners - the Southern Asians weren't spared the ignoble exit-inspection); at the entrance to Carrefour, a guard stood at a little desk and either stapled your bags together, or if they were plastic, heat-sealed them. It never ceased to irritate and insense me; the maddening assumption that unless they did this, one would most certainly indulge in a shop-lifting spree.
In Ireland they have a wonderful invention called electronic tagging - if you steal something, the electonic tag will set off an alarm as you leave the shop, and everybody in there will turn and stare at you with gleeful accusation. Having said that, I've been known to set it off just wandering too close to the entrance clutching something I'm considering buying.
And last summer while in Tesco in Roscommon, a family of very scary people (let's just say you couldn't understand a word they said, despite the fact they were Irish), wandered blithely from the shop pushing a groaning trolly, promptly setting off an alarm as they went. A couple of dozen shoppers looked on in amazement as the family sauntered up the road, while the young, skinny guard stood shuffling at his post by the exit, clutching his walky-talky and staring at his feet.
I was born guilty, and even as a kid -- when the principal would occasionally and dramatically call an emergency assembly because someone had stolen a bunsen burner, or fag ends had been found around by the bike sheds -- I would sit there, cross-legged, while my cheeks burned with guilt, for no other reason than I -- along with a hundred others -- was under suspicion. As a result, Target and K-Mart will be glad to know that they are profiting from this systematic mistrust since I am compelled to buy something -- anything -- rather than suffer the degradation of the exit-inspection by the large-haired woman. Of course from a marketing perspective this is a pretty effective way to get me to part with my cash, although I can't imagine it has the same effect with mulleted and tattooed majority.....
The Victorians...
And finally, am I alone in being momentarily thrown every time there is a news item about someone from the state of Victoria? The other day in the car as I listened to the news on ABC Classic FM, the newsreader announced that the body of a Victorian man had been discovered in his home. 'Bloody hell', I thought, 'how long has he been there?' as I pictured a skeleton wearing a top hat and frock coat, lying on a Persian rug surrounded by opium pipes and a yellowing copy of Thackery's Vanity Fair....
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