Published The Advocate, June 18, 2005
SITTING in The Republic bar, North Hobart, killing time waiting for a dinner guest, my eyes were fixed on the drinks fridge stacked with bottles of an apple cider labelled Mercury. Now there’s a thought: Must get the brewery to bottle a beer called Advocate. Speaking of branding, a young woman in Ugg boots was wearing a T-shirt with the printed message across her chest: "Make Time – Sulk Every Day." My life had lowly beginnings and has been tapering off ever since. Even so, the world is not bad enough to turn me into a sulky billboard. My guest was B, a divorce lawyer. What a dispiriting job she must have, dealing with the same problems every single working day of her life; sharing other people’s nightmarish existence; the squabbling over the kids; and the vicious pettiness right down to the last piece of cracked china. How does B cope dealing with the same battles, time and again? How does she turn off? She drinks triple vodkas and tonic. B’s own life is far removed from the concerns of most of her clients and she is no whinger: "Never complain about your misfortunes because half the people couldn’t care less and the other half think you are getting exactly what you deserve." Exactly. Nor does she have much time for psycho-prattle. To thine own self be true? Live according to your values? "Blah. The Nazis were true to their values and six million died in the gas chambers. Blah-blah." I passed on telling her about my own hairshirt existence and went back to my hotel room under the snowy brow of Mt Wellington, to be awoken by the sound of loud voices on the street. "I rooly-rooly loves you!" a girl was sobbing-yelling. A boy mumbled something drunkenly in reply. The heavy rain glowed orange in the street lights. It was too wet even for battling young lovers to be standing in the open. "No, I rooly-rooly loves you!" she insisted. Mumble-mumble. The odd thing about sound is the higher up you are in a building, the louder are the voices on the street below. Lying in bed on the fifth floor was like having them sit on the window sill. Mumble-mumble. "No, I rooly-rooly…" And on it went, interrupted finally by the strangled heave of the boy vomiting. Or it might have been the girl. At 4.30a.m. I was woken by the squealing and shrieking of girls carousing along the street. Buh-luddy hell, is there no end? "We’ve got the whole world, in our hands; we’ve got the whole world, in our hands…" they were singing over and over. Then, unable to remember the next verse, they shrieked again.
Teenage girls, nominally under the care of their parents, running wild and drunk with exposed midriffs. It is not wise to categorise people by their postcode but the whole of 7000, which looks nice and neat when written down like that, is an unruly place that should not be visited alone in winter.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Published The Advocate, June 11, 2005
TIM, the Port Arthur guide, said three lashes were enough to lift the skin and convicts at the penal settlement received between five and a hundred lashes. Some convicts deliberately flaunted the regulations so they would be whipped again and again. Some even sang little ditties while being flogged, Tim said, and they became cult heroes among the other convicts. Yep, it’s called sadomasochism. The freshly lashed convicts were put to work at the boat slipway, up to their chests in the icy harbour because the saltwater was considered good for their wounds. Those gaolers were all heart. Lesser punishments included short rations of bread and water, solitary confinement and having a blanket removed. Character building, Tim said, with the relish of a man who spent 35 years as a teacher. His patter included ho-ho asides such as the man who received a life sentence but the bridesmaids looked lovely; and describing thongs as Taiwanese safety boots. He was full of praise for the beautiful convict stonework often done by adolescent boys, the youngest a nine year old transported for stealing a box of tools. A penal settlement is one way of fixing the current shortage of skilled tradesmen. Among Tim’s group was a Goth couple - pale, gaunt aliens with long black hair and black Dracula cloaks like matching batwings. After the tour, they headed straight for the Isle of the Dead. There are 1,100 graves on the Isle of the Dead, out of a convict population of about 12,500 over half a century. Yet, Tim said, the death rate at Port Arthur was lower than for industrial England, proving the outdoor life and an occasional flogging was better for your health than working in the dark, satanic mills. If we thought Port Arthur’s punishments were overly brutal and degrading, the Silent Prison was worse. New prisoners were kept separate from other convicts. With no-one to talk to, communication with the guards was by hand signal only. The guards’ boots were muffled in cloth. Outdoors, the newcomers were made to wear calico masks to make their anonymity complete. They were kept in isolation for three months. Some came out sane; some didn’t. Soon the settlement found it needed a lunatic asylum, which later became the seat of local government. And so it goes. Port Arthur is a theme park now. Tourists climb its ruins imagining themselves locked in the cramped cells and marvelling at the inhumanity of it all. Such fun. At the memorial to the 1996 Port Arthur massacre, the mood changes. Here, at the shell of the Broad Arrow Café, the reflecting pool and the memorial cross, people stand in disbelieving silence as if the events of that terrible day are unimaginable, still too raw and painful to bear. The gunman’s name is not mentioned anywhere at Port Arthur. The price he paid for shooting dead 35 people was to have his identity erased. Now he sits in his own Silent Prison, as if he never existed. If only.
TIM, the Port Arthur guide, said three lashes were enough to lift the skin and convicts at the penal settlement received between five and a hundred lashes. Some convicts deliberately flaunted the regulations so they would be whipped again and again. Some even sang little ditties while being flogged, Tim said, and they became cult heroes among the other convicts. Yep, it’s called sadomasochism. The freshly lashed convicts were put to work at the boat slipway, up to their chests in the icy harbour because the saltwater was considered good for their wounds. Those gaolers were all heart. Lesser punishments included short rations of bread and water, solitary confinement and having a blanket removed. Character building, Tim said, with the relish of a man who spent 35 years as a teacher. His patter included ho-ho asides such as the man who received a life sentence but the bridesmaids looked lovely; and describing thongs as Taiwanese safety boots. He was full of praise for the beautiful convict stonework often done by adolescent boys, the youngest a nine year old transported for stealing a box of tools. A penal settlement is one way of fixing the current shortage of skilled tradesmen. Among Tim’s group was a Goth couple - pale, gaunt aliens with long black hair and black Dracula cloaks like matching batwings. After the tour, they headed straight for the Isle of the Dead. There are 1,100 graves on the Isle of the Dead, out of a convict population of about 12,500 over half a century. Yet, Tim said, the death rate at Port Arthur was lower than for industrial England, proving the outdoor life and an occasional flogging was better for your health than working in the dark, satanic mills. If we thought Port Arthur’s punishments were overly brutal and degrading, the Silent Prison was worse. New prisoners were kept separate from other convicts. With no-one to talk to, communication with the guards was by hand signal only. The guards’ boots were muffled in cloth. Outdoors, the newcomers were made to wear calico masks to make their anonymity complete. They were kept in isolation for three months. Some came out sane; some didn’t. Soon the settlement found it needed a lunatic asylum, which later became the seat of local government. And so it goes. Port Arthur is a theme park now. Tourists climb its ruins imagining themselves locked in the cramped cells and marvelling at the inhumanity of it all. Such fun. At the memorial to the 1996 Port Arthur massacre, the mood changes. Here, at the shell of the Broad Arrow Café, the reflecting pool and the memorial cross, people stand in disbelieving silence as if the events of that terrible day are unimaginable, still too raw and painful to bear. The gunman’s name is not mentioned anywhere at Port Arthur. The price he paid for shooting dead 35 people was to have his identity erased. Now he sits in his own Silent Prison, as if he never existed. If only.
