CHAPTER 21 Perth
When setting out on a long car drive, a friend of mine used to make himself comfortable by loosening his shoe laces and unbuttoning the waistband of his trousers, until, getting out of the car one day in a hurry, his shoes fell off and his trousers dropped down. Nevertheless, the principle is sound, and the experienced traveller devotes time and thought to his comfort.
"In the old days," said an American at my side, "the hostesses had time to do a good job. “First", he elaborated, "you would get a hot towel as soon as you were in your seat, then candy for take-off, later a drink, magazines, food, cold towels and so on. But flight times have been better than halved and the girls have to keep running to make out."
"And supersonic flight is on the way," I contributed.
"Yeah! I guess then they'll have the cabin crew all lined up ready, and as you climb the steps to the aircraft, one girl will pop a candy in your mouth, the next will hand you a cut-lunch, the third give you a quick wipe with a hot towel, and so on. Mind you," he continued, "service is pretty lousy on some lines right now. The other day I saw a hostess shaking a guy who was asleep by the shoulders, and saying: 'Do you wanna magazine? Do you wan "something to read?"
At this moment, the Captain's very English voice announced that during our flight over the Indian Ocean we had lost our hydraulic oil, and the undercarriage would have to be lowered manually. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep, in case volunteers were required out on the wing for this operation.
"This is standard procedure," he continued imperturbably. But British captains always sound unflurried, and would doubtless announce that the plane was regrettably just out of fuel, in the same calm manner, whereas, though providing excellent service, Japan Air Lines usually manage to sound sinister or ominous, as the voice from the P.A. system speaks of "your fright-crew", expresses the hope that you have "enjoyed your fright", and the wish to "fry with you again."
The landing at Perth, Australia involved nothing more, alarming than fast braking and a wait on the landing strip for a tractor to tow us in. Perth Airport in the early hours has a ghostly air, due no doubt to the traveller's awareness of his utter remoteness. He is perched on the western tip of a vast country consisting it is said, of "five cities in a desert".
The nearest of these is almost as far away as Moscow from London, but between Perth and Adelaide is little but scrub and desert. Of the five cities, one is built around possibly the most beautiful harbour in the world, and two of the others would take high places on many travellers' lists of attractive cities.
"Wake up!" should my American friend, throwing some gravel in the general direction of the famous black swans. "Wake up, goddammit, there's tourists here!"
The black swans, till then sleeping peacefully on the ornamental pool, set up a dismal squawking. I knew how they felt; I, too, have been awakened at 1.30 a.m.
"I wonder how they keep them here," said the American, "there's nothing to stop them flying away."
"Probably the pond is too small," I suggested. "You know how much space even a lighter bird needs to get air-borne." "They could use the run-ways!"
In Perth I met one of the hundred thousand migrants to arrive each year.
"Before I came," he said, "I kept hearing about how careful I'd have to be if I didn't want to be called a Pommie bastard and have my face bashed in. And how I mustn't make jokes about manacle marks on wrists, because they're touchy about being descended from convicts. It nearly put me off coming. After all, you like to feel you'll be welcome. But do you know," he continued, "I never seem to meet any Aussies." He instanced his home suburb where Australians were outnumbered ten to one, mainly by British migrants, helped out by Spanish, Italian and Greek settlers.
"I reckon the Aussies are a dying race," he concluded, "and they've got them somewhere in the outback on tribal reservations next to the Aborigines."
He then gave me his views on the treatment of the dwindling Aboriginal population.
"They aren't getting a fair go," he said. "This is supposed to be a democracy, so they should get the same pay for doing the same job, and how they spend their money - on grog or whatever - is their affair."
That evening a business acquaintance took me from his office to an R.S.L. club. (The Returned Services League is a nation-wide ex-servicemen's association.) There, without difficulty, I was able to bring the conversation round to the same issue.
"You've got to put some restrictions on them," said one florid character, rapping on the bar to attract the steward's attention, "they're like children - very primitive."
"That's true," agreed the man to his left. (To be strictly accurate, he said: "Thash true", but it was then almost nine o'clock and we had been at the bar since six.) "You can't trust them to use liquor sensibly, so, in their own interests you've got to restrict them."
"Same again, Captain?" enquired the steward, who, throughout the evening made a point of using the war-time rankings of the various ex-officers present. They did not seem to mind.
"Of course," said the florid man, "you can't pay them what you'll pay a white stockman, they're too unreliable. Just when you might need them, they'll 'go walkabout'."
This magic phrase, several times incanted, seemed to dispose of the equal pay issue and I respectfully asked for enlightenment.
So far as I could follow the explanation, "walkabout" is equivalent to the White's summer holiday. The Aboriginal stockman, after long, boring spells herding cattle in interminable areas of semi-desert, likes to go away for a change, and a chance to visit his relatives and tribe. The White Australian, after long, boring spells on factory assembly lines, likes to go away for a change, and a chance to visit his relatives and friends. Both are prepared to cover long distances; the one by car, the other on foot. For his "walkabout", the White uses his three weeks holiday, Christmas, New Year, Proclamation Day and sundry strikes.
Whether the Aussie is able to use liquor more responsibly than the Aboriginal, who can judge? It is true that he is in better practice, and has felt justified in progressively eliminating restrictions on his own drinking. The famous "six o'clock swill" has now disappeared in favour of a ten o'clock closing time.