The Unobservant Traveller

Prologue

The idea was suggested to me some time ago – in 1997 by a fellow plumber from Offaly, who I met on a building site in Cork, my home city. Apparently, Australia (particularly Sydney, on account of the upcoming Olympics) was the place to go. Plenty of work and a good standard of living were assured for all who ventured out there.

On arrival, and as forecasted by my friend from Offaly, there were loads of job vacancies and the outdoor lifestyle suited me fine. Sydney was also where I met Nichole, a local who I fell in love with not long after our initial meeting.

Before leaving Ireland, I’d just wanted to live and work somewhere else for a year. It was only after meeting several British and Irish backpackers on various building sites and hearing their stories of the places they’d visited that I started to think about seeing other parts of Australia. I had a decent amount of money saved up and intended to spend my last two months abroad, travelling around the country. I’d planned on visiting Bali as part of the trip, but because of visa complications, I wouldn’t have been permitted re-entry into Australia ... So I opted to go to Perth instead, which seemed far enough away, it might as well have been on a different planet.

Prior to my departure, there was the small matter of attending the Melbourne Grand Prix, for which I travelled down to in a car with a few flatmates. As my trip was going to commence there anyway, it would have been logical to continue my journey after this event. However, friends of Nichole and I getting married in Sydney a few days later, ruled out this possibility.

I’d never considered myself a big fan of motor racing, but the Grand Prix turned out to be an entertaining and well-run spectacle. We slept on the floor of Matt’s place, a guy who we knew from Sydney … And as Eddie Irvine won his maiden F1 race, it was celebrated with equal inebriation amongst Irish and British fans alike, long into the early hours.

I went back to Sydney for the wedding. After this, I still had a week before my trip began. As Nicole was working for most of this period, I visited the places that I had never got around to while living there ... These included: Palm Beach (where Home and Away is shot), the Hunter Valley wine region (with a coachload of retired Britons) and a three-hour round train ride to Wollongong – just to send a postcard to my flatmate Reggie ‘from the ‘Gong’.

After I got all this out of my system, we had another big gathering the day before my departure. There was a St Patrick’s parade in the city centre and we rejoiced in the customary, binge-drinking tradition.

At last, I was ready to hit the road.

Part One

A LONG WAY TO SEE A QUOKKA

It was eight thirty in the morning, as I stood in a stupor outside Central Station, in the run-down suburb of Surrey Hills. The excesses of the day before were beginning to reach their unwelcome, natural conclusion. This was a familiar feeling at this place … at this time. For my first three months in Sydney, I used to take regular weekend train trips from Rockdale to here – to visit friends living on Foveaux Street. Their local pub was The Excelsior, and after enjoying many a lock-in courtesy of Simon (a.k.a. The Bar-Nazi), I’d crash on their couch – with its myriad of colourful stains and evidence of fossilised rodents. The following morning, I’d make my way to Central Station, buy a bacon and egg roll while waiting for the train’s arrival and wrestle with my hangover, as I was at this moment.

I liked Surrey Hills, with its seedy surroundings and assortment of local eccentrics ... The area had character. Nights out in The Excelsior were where Nichole and I developed our relationship. I was sad to leave her behind, but we’d arranged to meet in Hervey Bay, as I was to make my way back towards Sydney via the Queensland coast around the start of May.

The plan was to do the majority of travelling on a Greyhound bus, with a couple of internal flights to offset time constraints ... This entailed: Sydney to Perth by bus, a flight to Alice Springs, another bus journey to Darwin, fly to Cairns and a final bus ride back to Sydney.

After consulting a map of Australia, it appeared to me that the only places I’d miss out on worth visiting by taking this route would be Coober Pedy, in South Australia and Broome, in Western Australia. Equipped with an accumulation of Hawaiian shirts acquired from Newtown’s second-hand clothes shops and a six-year-old guidebook, which former house-mates of Nichole’s had discarded, I boarded the Greyhound to Melbourne.

The bus departed around nine o’clock and wasn’t due to arrive until eleven that night – leaving just enough time to revert to feeling like a human being again. There was a scheduled stop in Albury after ten hours or so: to buy food, enjoy a cigarette or realise much too late that you despise long bus journeys.

Exhausted, but thankful for the on-board movies to pass the time, I arrived at Franklin Street’s interstate bus depot. My accommodation for the next three nights was the Queensbury Hill YHA, in North Melbourne. As this was described as ‘an easy ten-minute walk’ in my guidebook, I set off on foot in what I hoped was the right direction. I located the hostel, checked-in and shuffled off towards my allocated dorm. Inside the unlit room, I could just about make out a few restful figures in the occupied bunks. Without switching the light on, I threw my fatigued body on the remaining vacant bed ... Introductions would have to wait until the following day.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of rustling and lowered voices in a foreign language. Focusing my eyes, I caught sight of three pale, slim and serious-looking young men ... It made me wonder if there was a snooker tournament taking place in the vicinity. Out of politeness, I got up from the bed.

“… Morning lads,” I declared.

“Good morning,” all three responded, in reserved tones.

“I’m Danny.” I proceeded to shake hands with them all.

“I’m Soren.”

“Dennis.”

“My name is Jesper.” Their replies were far from enthusiastic.

“So … where are ye from?” I persisted. Their facial expressions suggested that this was a question they got asked often.

“We are from Denmark,” Soren stated, “… And you?”

“I’m from Ireland.” It sure was hard work at this early hour.

I extracted enough information from them to establish that they’d been travelling for almost six months. Starting in South-East Asia, they’d arrived in Darwin, made an overland trip as far as Melbourne and were on their way to Sydney. Their lack of anything resembling a tan indicated that they must have progressed at night ... A vitamin D deficiency might also have accounted for their sombre demeanours.

I proceeded to tell them of my plans and that I was just starting out. We concluded that this explained our contrasting attitudes and outlooks at present. I was aware of my eagerness to be amicable, but couldn’t help it. This was the beginning of a big adventure for me and … well, I was excited. My Danish roommates were nice guys – just a little travel-fatigued. We were at different points on the same curve. I speculated whether I would experience similar apathy further along the road … But that was for another day.

I headed for the cafeteria to get some breakfast. Afterwards, I had a quick look around to check out the facilities. The building’s interior was smart and contemporary – more like a small hotel. There was internet access, a games room containing a pool table and comfy lounges, a reading room, and a communal balcony with a barbecue and views of the city ... I was impressed.

Before leaving Sydney, I’d acquired YHA membership. My reasons: to stay in a better class of hostel and receive a discount for each night stayed. If they were all going to be up to the same standard as this, then I would have been more than happy ... However, as nice as it all was, I wasn’t going to hang around here all day.

I found Melbourne’s attributes to be comparable to those of my home town, Cork. Both hold the somewhat unenviable position of being their respective countries’ second largest cities. Because of this, maintaining intense rivalries with their adversaries – Sydney and Dublin, appeared to be an all-consuming compulsion for born-and-bred residents. While the bigger two remain in the ascendancy on most matters, both of the others’ locals will never acknowledge that their status is considered secondary to the majority of outsiders.

Strategic placement of Canberra’s location between Melbourne and Sydney was no coincidence. To have appointed either as Australia’s capital would still be met by outraged cries from the losing inhabitants. As a setting, Sydney’s magnificent natural harbour surpasses the Yarra River. However, Melbourne is deemed to possess a cultural advantage in most respects. It’s also been viewed on many occasions as one of the most liveable cities in the world.

When I arrive in a new location, one of the first rituals that I like to perform is to go for a walk … To acclimatise myself and get a feel for a place. The first thing I noticed about Melbourne was the staggering amount of well-kept parks. Added to this were imposing nineteenth-century buildings and the gentle clatter of passing trams. After further investigation, I discovered several independent bookshops and many an inviting café ... A vast array of diverse and inexpensive restaurants also suggested that eating out was a serious undertaking for locals.

When I was in Melbourne at the start of the month, I didn’t get to see much of the city centre. For four days and nights, it was an endless cycle of attending the Grand Prix, returning to St Kilda (where we stayed), to get drunk in its many pubs, sleeping in and going back to Albert Park again. The only variations I could remember were going to the casino for a few hours one night, and leaving a practice session early so we could spend the rest of our afternoon in a strip club.

St Kilda reminded me of Surrey Hills – decaying, run-down, but with an air of lost grandeur. Even though I was fond of the place, I ruled out a return visit, for fear of running into Matt. To begin with, I found him to be an amiable host, and when he heard about my upcoming trip, recommended that I arrive in Adelaide (my next proposed stop) via the Great Ocean Road. Throughout our short stay, while Matt gave the impression of being pleasant, it transpired that he held an ulterior motive for allowing five lads to sleep on his floor. Without any prior indication from Matt, he surprised us on the morning of our departure by requesting a payment for the privilege of imitating a tin of sardines. He fabricated some lame excuse about his landlord becoming aware of our stay ... Even Matt’s friend – Leonard, who was there as some kind of pathetic back-up, looked embarrassed. Feeling hung over and wanting to extract ourselves from an awkward situation, we yielded to his demand. It was an acrimonious ending, but at least it gave us something to talk about in the car on the way back to Sydney.

So for obvious reasons, I decided against contacting Matt on my return to Melbourne. If I met up with him, there was a more than realistic chance that he would have insisted on a fee for the pleasure. It was very easy to imagine Matt complaining about cyclists and increasing immigration levels, while keeping a close eye on a running meter ... It’s also unfair to have visualised him selling overpriced oranges in the aftermath of a world-wide nuclear explosion … but I couldn’t help it.

With all this running through my mind, I needed a distraction. After lunch, I decided to visit the Old Melbourne Gaol. I have always been fascinated with the macabre: disaster areas, old graveyards … or in this case, former prisons.

The Old Melbourne Gael is synonymous with Ned Kelly – the famous Australian bushranger. As he came from an Irish background, I was keen to learn more about him ... To be truthful, the building – on Russell Street, was also en route to my hostel.

The sight boasted to be one of Melbourne’s most popular city centre visitor attractions. This acclaim was down to its association with the aforementioned Mr Kelly ... What is it about Ned that makes him a folk hero, not just to Australians, but to people with no evident connection?

Construction of the present bluestone jail commenced in the early1840s (the third version of a prison at this location). Enlargement of the building became necessary when crime escalated during the area’s early 1850’s gold rushes … At peak capacity, it incorporated the entire block, but since ceasing to operate as a prison in 1929, considerable sections have been subsequently torn down.

It was hectic outside the entrance, but I didn’t let this put me off. Once inside, the mood turned sombre ... That is, as soon as I surmounted the bustling reception area. Of the extensive cell blocks in the remaining wing, there were three levels, which terminated in the Central Hall ... This is the part of the prison where it’s said 133 inmates faced an unforgiving noose. I entered each cell in turn (the majority of which were cramped and drab, with little or no natural sunlight penetration) and couldn’t help but get an eerie sensation.

What I found to be the most disturbing was the array of death masks. In the Victorian era there was a peculiar fixation with phrenology – demonstrated in the sheer quantity on display here. By analysing an individual’s countenance, popular opinion of the day decreed that their disposition could be interpreted.

The practice has long been an intriguing subject to me. I once worked in a house, which had an imitation skull in the hallway – with all the different areas of the brain mapped out … At least I hope that it was an imitation. By never discovering an underground lab where experiments were conducted on misfortunate vagrants … it’s probably safe to assume that one didn’t exist.

Almost every time I used to pass by the skull, I’d study the various sections and their locations. In doing so, the following occurred to me … By injuring your self-esteem, the repercussions will only duplicate. There’s no excuse for banging your concentration. To continue striking your perseverance would be foolhardy, and hitting your memory of events against a brick wall is only going to lead to a painful repetition.

Of all the exhibits on display in the cells, the chronicles of the female prisoners were the most fascinating. There was the case of Martha Needle, who administered poison to her entire family. However, I found the story of Frances Knorr to be the most chilling account ... ‘A kind motherly person, willing to adopt a child’ is believed to be how she publicised herself. For this service, Frances received around five pounds for every kid taken into her care. Whilst living in Brunswick, she murdered and then buried them in her backyard. Following Frances’s arrest, she was referred to as ‘the baby farmer’ (a common title at the time for women, who took in the children of others). On the day of Knorr’s execution in 1894, she was a mere twenty-six years of age.

Each of the Kelly gang’s central members’ snapshots was exhibited in the Old Melbourne Gaol. There was also an analysis of the conflict with the authorities, which resulted in their final gunfight. Inside one diminutive cell laid three glass cases. The first contained the authorisation for Ned Kelly’s capture and one of the gang’s home-made iron armour. Ned’s captivating pistols were displayed in another, and the last one bared his death mask. The self-guided tour ended with a rather gruesome recreation of Kelly’s final moments before his hanging – complete with a forsaken-looking model of the bushranger.

How the Kelly gang were apprehended is an interesting tale ... A train filled with constables, whose objective was to arrest the wanted men, was scheduled to depart from Beechworth. In anticipation, the gang’s strategy involved derailing them at Glenrowan. The scheme being, to create a massacre and demand that the Kelly’s mother be set free in exchange for any remaining survivors ... Failing this, they aimed to ride on to Benalla and rob some banks. With the tracks disabled, the outlaws passed the time by taking control of the Glenrowan Inn. An inebriated Ned boasted of the upcoming trap to a local teacher – Thomas Curnow. The impending catastrophe was averted when the schoolmaster convinced Kelly that he needed to take his sick wife home, but with permission granted, Curnow alerted the authorities at once. On hearing of the plan’s failure, the gang prepared for their pursuers’ inevitable advance by stockpiling ammunition and putting on their distinguishable armour.

During the shoot-out, the saloon was set alight … Kelly’s companions all died that day, but he was taken into custody. The very same magistrate, who’d imprisoned Ned’s mother, condemned him to execution. It’s been estimated that around 5,000 people converged outside Melbourne Gaol on the day of Kelly’s hanging. Many were compassionate, as there was widespread support amongst ordinary citizens for the bushranger. On November 11th 1880, at twenty-five years of age, Ned Kelly was executed. “Such is life” is believed to have been his final remark.

With enough information obtained for one day, I walked the short distance to the hostel. There was no sign of the Danes, so I freshened up and went out for a quiet meal. Afterwards, I resisted the temptation to go for a drink and returned to my accommodation. My fellow lodgers were still nowhere to be seen, so I resigned myself to a relaxing night in – reading a little and recapping the day’s events ... This didn’t upset me in the slightest, as the following day was St Patrick’s Day.