Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, June 4, 2003


FARE THEE WELL FROM WIMMERA


ONE OF THE unrecognised art forms in rural Australia is the morning choreography of farmhands grabbing a sausage roll and sauce on their way to work. All wearing baseball caps, they get out of their utes and the first move is always to tug free their underpants from behind, and then to hitch up their jeans by the belt loops. These are the women. The blokes add an artistic flourish by rearranging their front ends as well. A stereotype is just an exaggeration of reality. I was watching the early parade while having a coffee in the Wimmera region of western Victoria, on the way home after visiting my son in Melbourne. Towns that have no scenic attractions such as a mountain or a lake have a hard time in the tourism stakes. In the Wimmera, tourist sites are few and far between unless wheatfields and large skies are your thing. In the Mallee, Karoonda's only claim to fame is being narrowly missed by a meteorite that crashed to earth 4km east of the town in 1930. I once met an old fella who was there at the time and he had neither seen nor heard a thing, just like the 99 per cent of a cricket crowd who misses the fall of a wicket. Before leaving Melbourne, I went into the RACV shop to ask if they had a strip map of the Wimmera? “Yes, are you a member?” the woman had asked. No. “You can't have it then. They're for members only.” What if I pay for it? “No.” $100? “No.” $1000? “Do I have to call security?” I later downloaded the same map from the RACV website for free. D'err. This morning I awoke with a sneezing fit in the motel room and could find no tissues. The reception desk was apparently there to ward off guests rather than to make them feel welcome. Autographed photos of country music singers lined the shelf. The woman took ages to answer the “Ring for Service” buzzer and at first she did not believe the room had no tissues. I thought I might need to provide a DNA sample from the back of my hand in order to pass muster. For dinner last night in the motel dining room, I ordered bruschetta, which I had always thought was chopped tomato on toast with olive oil on top. The Wimmera version came with tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, olives and green capsicum, which always repeats-repeats on me. I counted myself fortunate to find no ham and pineapple. The dining room had a “home cooked meals” sign over the door. I am no sentimentalist when it comes to home cooking. My mother's stew was a gristle pot; her tuna mournay was tuna mourning; and her minced meat pie was grey death. Strangely, my kids love “nana's pie” so there is no accounting for taste with some people. By now, I can hear mum saying, “Desmond, you have an awful lot to say for yourself.” My cousin Julienne was a dreadful cook, too, but her stock answer was that she could not be good both in the kitchen and in bed. I saw her husband Brian on my travels. “Her cooking has been on the improve for years,” he lamented.