As a typical Strayan you probably won’t go down to the middle of nowhere and go cross country from Perth to Sydney driving if you can help yourself. You might not ever see a snake in the wild, even though it might slither into your backyard uninvited. You’d drink heaps of beers until it’s coming out of your ears, that’s for sure, and you’d definitely be celebrating Christmas sweating outside. That one is inevitable. You most likely can’t surf or wrestle crocodiles, but you might watch the Ashes and get heartbroken every time Australia goes to England. Yeah, it’s hard being an Aussie.
But old mate Bill here is one of them yanks. He’s been to the continent a couple of times and he likes it every time. In short, he’s not the type of American that’ll be convinced that you ride a kangaroo to school. He’s a bit more grounded and erudite, funny even. He’s the type of guy who you wouldn’t think of much at first, until you’d start talking with him. Plus, he’s naturally observant. More observant I’d say than the average Australian about their own country. Like me. I’m one of them ignoramuses.
On a hippie trail, head full of zombie
Bill started off in Sydney, takes the second longest train line in the world to the what seems to be underrated Adelaide — a city that most Strayans would think to be the arse of the country because it’s aptly right on the bottom, and it’s a bit shit in there. Then he goes around to Melbourne, ends up in Queensland, then fucks off to the Middle East for whatever reason. He came back with a mate and just goes off cross country through the desert to Uluru. Magically, he even has the time to fit Perth and Western Australia in. I don’t know why, cos I’m from Perth meself and I reckon it’s a bit of a shithole.
In any case, Bryson’s cross country trip shines a different light even if you’re a bogan with your stupid-ass flano and you’re drinking a Carlton Cold in a VB stubby as we speak. Most Australians, as Bill observed, would be living a few kilometres away from the coast. They’d rarely ever see the bush let alone go cross country to visit Uluru. Bryson has, and he can tell you all about it. As far as travelogues go, Down Under is an entertaining read.
His observations of the city is as astute as his observations in the bush. He even went out to Bondi for a surf and just missed out on getting eaten by a shark. He’s even been to Canberra and like the rest of us, thinks that it’s a bit shit. He’s gone walkabouts from Perth CBD to Fremantle — a feat that maybe a handful of Perth locals (counted on one hand, and I’d question their mental state if they have done so) have done. He also tried to understand the fascination with cricket albeit failing miserably, like my missus. She doesn’t get it.
Inevitably, he was astounded by how the wildlife is always trying to kill you. There’s significant amounts of pages scattered throughout on the mention of spiders, snakes, crocodiles and the whole wealth of maritime fauna around the island. To get this out of his mind, he drank enough beers to last most people’s lifetime while jostling with the locals.
So yeah, lucky bastard had a roar of a time I’d say.
Are you trying to tempt me? Because I come from the land of plenty
What separates Bryson from the average traveloguer is his nuanced approach to the places that he visits. Like any decent writer, he’d pick up gems of information that is beyond the library’s catalogue. He’s done his research to the point of shaming most other Australians about their own history. For every place he visits, Bryson gives the rundown of the history but not just exactly what happened, but why the place came to be. Even why Australia came to be — we all know that Australia started off as a convict dump, but that it is a one-way ticket really left a whole lot of people who finished their sentence with nowhere else to go. The new citizens had to make do. Australians started out rough, but has since become a bit more sedentary albeit with that grit and dryness of humour still intact.
But I’m appreciative that Bryson did not stay away from the Aboriginal issue. It is always an awkward conversation with any Australian in a bar, and kills the mood. I really had no idea with what happened in Myall Creek, and as far as Bryson saw, neither did the residents. Myall Creek was the first time in Australian history that whites were prosecute for the crime against Aborigines. For most Australians, the aboriginal issue is best forgotten, a problem acknowledged by everyone but equally acknowledged that there are no solution. Bryson also fell guilty into the habit: “Then I did what most white Australians do. I read my newspaper and drank my coffee and didn’t see them anymore.”
He also trekked all the way to Geraldton in order to find living stromatolites — the remnants of the fossil era where we might have originated from, still intact in the Western Australian waters. I remember coming across this back in the North of Perth and didn’t think much of it, but it was a big deal for Bill as he’s a bigger nerd than I am. But it is journeys like these, that not many Australians think about that make Down Under a worthwhile read, even a quarter century after the publication of the book.
