It was a 12- hour drive from Carnarvon to Quairading, a settlement 200 km East of Perth . It used to be a railway terminus with a sheepyard attached. Sometime in the sixties an enterprising soul began a pub here, near a village built on the private grounds of a strict teetotalling landlord. And its thirsty inhabitants decided that if the pub couldn't be in town, they'd take the town to the pub. The wooden houses rolled along on logs, and brick houses were simply taken apart and reassembled.
I didn't go to Oz to be in the wheatbelt with the windsurfer gathering red dust. Flat yellowness, flies, heat and rednecks. The Quairadingians at least have their pub- but I'd be on-call permanently. I grudgingly got bribed into it by the AMA.
But the little guesthouse that the Shire put me in was surprisingly cute, even arty. Owners Aisha and Ron found to their cost that Quairading wasn't ready for an uptown restaurant yet, but I joined their meals in the evenings and I doubt if there was better food East of Perth.
Anyway, the next morning I went to work. A bit apprehensive- anaesthetics isn't really doctoring. I sort of expected a pokey shack with a stethoscope and a scriptpad in it. But the first of many pleasant surprises: it was a purpose-built, modern surgery with computers. And after tea Phyllis directed me to 'my' hospital for a ward round. Roomy, fully carpeted, chandeliers and glass-in-lead to embellish the new building.
It turns out that the surrounding farmers sometimes die rich and belatedly invest in the community. There's sea, river nor forest here but plenty of wheat and sheep. The 700 Quairadingians manage to keep a cute hospital, a beautiful old folks home, a high school, tennis club and 18-hole golf course going: 'we employ someone to cut the grass, but of course all pitch in for busy-bees to maintain it'. Perhaps the least scenic or exciting place I've ever been for longer than 10 minutes but still strangely enjoyable. And that is because of the Ozzies.
Everyone friendly, open and helpful. The community spirit infectious. The bloke with the shoulder made my hamburger at lunch.
'I'd like to admit mr. X'
-Fine.
'Whaddaye mean, fine, are you are proper nurse or faking it?'
- No, it's OK, send him over....
' This is scary, please pretend you're rushed off your feet, there's no beds, no staff, or an on outbreak of diarrhea in the hospital!'
The above actually happened, but it's part of a bigger thing. I spent a year in the UK. Despite all the lovely people in the hospital, the good folks in the department- I didn't really feel part of it. While watching the kitesurfing in Perth, a bloke strolled over and we yakked a bit. 'And in that bucket over there, there's ice. And in that ice, there's beer. Take one.' A bit later I got introduced to his mates.
I've spent ages cold and dripping wet ashore back in Portland Harbour, actively looking around for a bit of a peer-group. Everyone polite, but that's where it stops in England. Funny thing is that the bloke offering me the beer was an ex- Pommie. My current theory is that every group has got its rites of passage. In Oz, you're at least halfway there if you can hold a can in your hand and do a bit of yarn-spinning or breeze-shooting. With a bit of training that's within everyone's reach. In the UK it may be fox-hunting or something equally exotic. I've often wondered whether the English know what it might be.
Anyway... good to be back in Oz. Drove the 600 k's to Esperance today in the untiring Hilux 4Runner. Endless bush and puffy clouds in the sky. Closer to the coast someone had planted bright-green pine trees in the red earth. With the blue and white, I'm sure there's an African flag with the lot in it. Lots of wildflowers in bloom. I'm applying for a permanent visa and will report on Esperance soon.
With love or regards, as the Kees may be.
