2008 Adelaide via Brisbane

This next section of my memoirs concerns our return to Australia , Adelaide in 2008.

Brisbane and Adelaide September 2008


This is the continuing story of an ageing Irish pedagogue.
It deals with the rehabilitation of the nomad, beginning with his return to Australia after a nine year absence in Borneo.

No-one knows it until now, but I’m hoping that this diary will be my secret weapon. Perhaps ‘weapon’ is too strong a word: maybe ‘vehicle’ or ‘instrument’ would be more appropriate.

There has to be some way of doing this: President Bush got it wrong –it’s not the ‘war against terrorism’ that is so dangerous for us all–it’s the war against complacency in our human naure. For too long I’ve kept this knowledge to myself-this frustration I feel with complacency. But now is the time to share it with the world.

Why is it that every time I meet an Irishman, American,Canadian, Aussie or a Brit, that I bristle with such antagonism? I’m not joking –just ask my wife –she’ll tell you. She’s always telling me off for making snide remarks about these ‘Homelanders’.

Some would say complacency is the hallmark of all human nature. Maybe I agree.. But I believe that complacency is much more marked in some cultures than others. For me, complacency is most marked in the ‘Homelander’ cultures of the developed world.

What is a ‘Homelander’ you may ask?. A homelander is a native of a developed country who is still living there and who has chosen never to live outside of his/her own country for a significant period of time.

‘Nomads’ like myself have originated in developed countries cultures but I am not a homelander because I have chosen not to live there for most of the time.

Sometimes nomads are expelled from a country, but in my case I have been in self- imposed exile for most of my life.

‘Homelanders’ for me are the millions of Irishmen and women, Englishmen and women, Australians and New Zealanders, Europeans, North Americans and Canadians who have chosen never to live and experience life in another country, even though they have had the means to do so.

They have never felt the need to propel themselves out of their homeland in search of something more meaningful. Obviously, many citizens from ‘developing’ cultures do not have the means to leave their country – these citizens are not, by my definition homelanders.


Why do I rail against them? Well, for a start most of them are Republicans in the United States, Tories in the United Kingdom, or paradoxically ‘Liberals’ in Australia.

This should be good enough reason in itself. But more specifically, homelanders usually share a raft of characteristics which irritate me: they are all homeowners, jobowners and carowners. They are almost all landowners and have some shares in the stockmarket. In short they are consumers and materalists. I am envious of them all.

They almost all are nauseatingly patriotic and talk about how great their country is. Often, they are humourless and incapable of accepting even the slightest criticism of their ‘Homeland’. some of them are rude, selfish and conceited. Many show not the slightest appreciation of how blessed they really are not to have been born in a developing country. Many of them either curl their lips in contempt or snarl at foreigners for taking their jobs.

The lack of curiosity.

Yes , there are plenty of reasons to despise them? But personally, for me the worst thing of all about homelanders is they have the gall to ignore me.

They will not let me be useful to them – they won’t let me be part of their life. When I return to UK or Australia or Ireland it is always the same: the homelander is always saying to me .

“You? You are useless. What can I learn from you? What do I need you for? . I don’t need you!”

I am invisible.

They look at my diffidence and secretly hope for my demise. They want to be able to say “I told you so”-so justifying their own lack of adventure.

Well, beware homelanders!

You’d better gird your loins for the hour of revenge is at hand.

The pen truly is mightier than the sword!

After nearly eight years in Borneo in September 2008 I arrived in Brisbane to be greeted by a friendly and talkative taxi driver who gently relieved me of eighty-six dollars for the pleasure of a twenty-five minute ride while we chatted on our way to Petrie where I used to live. As an Irishman I value chat and the chat was good –but not worth eighty-six dollars.

I was on my way to visit my son R______ who is at University-and thence to Adelaide where M and J had recently arrived to resettle in Australia.

I spent a delightful time with D_____, L_____ and their daughter who was once my own daughter J_____’s chum.

They seemed so positive and engaging. I son warmed to the atmosphere and began to enjoy myself. We had a great time reminiscing and bringing each other up to date on the past eight years. I really felt like they were pleased to see me! That has to be almost a first for me in Australia.

The second night I spent with ‘Billy’ and his wife who are running the Kallangur Motel, situated in the suburb we used to live in eight years ago.

They were also helpful and friendly. I can’t get over it. What’s happened? Why is everyone so friendly?. What has happened to the miserable old Queenslanders I once knew in the nineties? Billy arrives at my door in the morning with a plate of breakfast big enough to feed the British army –so big I don’t need to eat again until the evening.

He is waving in his hand a piece of paper which turns out to be my return plane ticket to Brunei. He said he had found it blowing around in the yard outside my door. I thank him profusely with the exaggerated gratitude you have when you have just experienced a close encounter with disaster.

But too soon! I look for my other ticket to Adelaide –and it’s missing! Yes, I must have dropped it on my way to the motel with L_____ the previous night. My elation suddenly turns to dejection –but wait a minute.. Ah! –it’s an ‘E-ticket’ –and I can print it out on the computer! It is just one little victory for me in the ‘War against technology’. Billie is happy for me too.

Next day, I meet R____ in Gilhooleys. He wasn’t able to pick me up at the airport the previous night because his car had been broken into and his license stolen. Nevertheless he’s calm and relaxed. Of all the Nixons R____ is the most relaxed. He calmly proceeds to explain that his Chemistry department at University has been ‘closed down’ just before his final semester began but that that everything is ok and he will still graduate more or less on time in December or January 2008/9. I think to myself: closing departments and flexible graduation dates -what is that all about? What does it all mean? In my day it was all organized: finals in June –all together now lets have a nervous breakdown and then , for most of us,…lets graduate together!

The next night we spend a perfectly charming evening in an Irish Pub in Kallangur called ‘Finnegans’. I remember this pub was just opening up when we left Kallangur. What a night of live entertainment! The group were as good as I’ve ever seen , and that includes thirty years ago in the Dublin Pubs. It was unbelievable! When we lived in Kallangur for seven years in the nineties we had never witnessed such live entertainment. In fact, the only time we ever left the house in Kallangur was to eat was to go out to McDonalds once every three weeks! (and ‘Sizzlers’ on Christmas Eve once a year –not on Christmas day itself because it was twice the price on Xmas day).

R______ mentioned to me that the centre of Brisbane was so cosmopolitan. I told him that for me it had always been like this –even in the nineties. I had worked in the centre then and he had been living in the suburbs as a young boy. It was just that he had been brought up in Kallangur where there weren’t any people from overseas.

Anyway, the second day we went to the Kallangur storage facility to inspect our belongings. They had been there for eight years. They were in a tin shack covered in dust an inch thick. It was like Tuttenkamen’s tomb: there was very little of value visible. No doubt there were photos in there somewhere which were of sentimental value.

I worked out that we had paid about fifteen thousand Australian dollars for the privilege of maintaining this collection of ‘memorabilia’ during the past eight years. R___was going to end this painful saga by retrieving some stuff and sending the rest to the dump in the near future.

And so to Adelaide. Boarding the plane the wind managed to pluck my electronically produced boarding pass from my passport. I arrived at the door with no ticket and was whisked aside for scrutiny while my credentials were checked out . Encarceration was avoided and a new ticket appeared from nowhere almost instantaneously!. Another small victory for me in the war against technology.

At about the same time R_______ told me later that he was resting on a bench somewhere in Brisbane and managed somehow to spill his car keys on to a public bench!

I am not the only ‘loser’ in the Nixon family.

The urban environment of Adelaide is pristine - almost clinical in its beauty. The light is bright –the roads are wide– some vast and almost wider than they are long. There are footpaths everywhere – often with nobody on them -except curiously, the odd cyclist. Why they choose to cycle on the footpaths I don’t know-maybe they are agaraphobic and are afraid of the space on the roads? Maybe it is too dangerous to cycle on the roads?

Maybe the cyclists are Irish.

Like all Australian cities Adelaide is essentially empty space. Everywhere in Australia there is hardly a soul anywhere to be seen. The wind, on the other hand, is everywhere – harassing you with it’s freshness and sometimes its ferocity. The air reeks of cigarette smoke, barbecued sausages (snags) and onions. It is dry–my lips are cracked. The churches are everywhere- beautiful churches with bells that surprise and charm on a Sunday morning. The parks are everywhere – beautiful grassy open spaces with nothing or nobody in them except trees and parrots. Graceful buildings are everywhere – stadia and museums – mostly with nobody in them. The heterogeneity and contrast is everywhere: old ,young , white hair , black hair – tall, short, black , white yellow. Everything is …well heterogeneous-even the contrasting clothes and colours.

Society seems atomized.

The unit is not the individual as in the UK. For the most part –it seems to be the couple –as in young couples–or just friends. There are very few ‘groups’ of people.

People don’t move in groups like they do in Asia, Africa, or South America.

Just when I’m beginning to relax and think “This is a pleasant place” my tranquility is interrupted by a monumental roar. The roar is human and comes either from a passing car –in which there is a drunk or overexuberant youth. Perhaps it is the despairing roar of some desperate pilgrim embroiled in a domestic dispute who has lost patience with his partner or found himself otherwise trapped in the web life has spun around him.

No, this is not Borneo. Here in Australia, there is always the hint of danger-the random threat and menace of the unknown - the hallmark of the developed country. But on the whole, the atmosphere on the street is really quite benign- certainly not as threatening as other parts of Australia.-not as safe as Asia by a long chalk –but non–threatening nevertheless.

The people behave strangely: there are ‘wackos’ in Australia. I am standing looking at a beautiful church and a weirdo sidles up to me and says

“G’day sir!’

He’s spotted me a mile away and sized me up as an interesting outsider worth a touch for a couple of dollars. And I say

‘See ya lighter mite’ brushing him aside immediately feeling mean, low and guilty.

There is always the unpredictable note of discord –you can never quite relax.

It’s not like Asia. It’s not like anywhere else in the rest of the world.

Maybe this will surprise you… The typical Aussie is so compliant and law-abiding.

As he arrives on the kerb to cross the road, instead of wandering across the road and challenging oncoming vehicles to stop like any self-respecting Irishman in Borneo, he stops dead so abruptly that if you were behind him you would crash into him.

He waits like a robot for instructions from the little green man! Like a well trained poodle. He or she then waits for what seems like ten minutes for the green man to permit him to cross. When the light flashes the pedestrian has to set off like an Olympic sprinter in order to make it across the vast road before a motorist cuts him down.




Expensive and busy

Twenty minutes from the airport to Kallangur in Brisbane –eighty six dollars in a taxi-Allah! Five hundred thousand dollars for a three-bedroomed house; three dollars fifty for a coffee; seven dollars for a beer, a hundred and fifty three dollars for a one course meal for three. What ever happened to the cheap Australia I used to live in the nineties?

Everybody is busy and bursting with energy! The shop assistants and the waiters can’t do enough. With everyone I talk to I feel like I am imposing and a nuisance. I feel the constant need to apologise for my presence to complete strangers before I even open my mouth- to the shop assistants, the waiters, the bank tellers, the receptionists in the estate agent, and even the motorists for getting in their way at a pedestrian crossing ‘their’ road. Even with friends I feel the same:

“Sorry for taking up your time listening to this phone message. I’m sure you are busy doing other really important things.. Sorry for getting in your way. Sorry, sorry, sorry- sorry for existing! I’ll just swipe my self-destruct button so that I can get the hell out of your way once and for all. Then I won’t be bothering you any more. Sorry…”