Toads, Vines, Lamb and Whines

It’s extraordinary to think I have been in Australia for a month. The last time I spent that length of time here was my final year of university nine years ago. I have taken a lot less time than I did when I first arrived to acclimatise and settle into an Australian way of life. It’s all about knowing what to expect. Australia is one of those places where things are pretty predictable from one day to the next. I’m not sure my thoughts would be shared by the surfer in Sydney whose leg was on the receiving end of the latest shark nip this week. Someone suggested to me the other day it was high time shark nets, South Africa-style, were installed off popular swimming beaches. I have a simple answer to that ludicrous idea. The sea is their territory – you don’t see them flapping their way up coastal paths to install human nets in beach car parks. If you don’t fancy a one-on-one with the king of the underwater jungle stick to the pavement, it’s that simple. Or you can take heed of the latest advice from lifesavers and shark experts alike: don’t swim at dawn; don’t swim at dusk; don’t swim when it’s overcast. Don’t swim on dog beaches where the animal scent is in the water. Was it a bad idea to watch, for about the tenth time in my life, the original Jaws film the other day? What a classic. The special effects are atrocious, but who can deny its status as a classic? Now, about those shark nets ...

Going back to expectations – in exchange for free accommodation for my first few weeks I was asked to retrieve the daughter of my host from Perth Airport. She was on her way from South Africa via Mauritius and required collection at the ungodly hour of 2.00am. I decided to stay awake on the night in question and make my way there around 1.30am in the expectation that, at that time, it would be the only arrival and that she’d be through customs in a flash. Well blow me down if I didn’t come to the unpleasant realisation that not everyone in Australia is blessed with logic and foresight, as I was convinced they were. Yes, the 2.00am from Mauritius was on time. So was the 2.05am from Dubai. The 1.50am from Singapore was eleven minutes late, and its rival carrier also from Singapore was five minutes early at 2.02am. Not even Heathrow would consider this sort of a crazy pre-dawn schedule, let alone an airport that obviously brings in baggage handlers on work experience from Johannesburg for such graveyard shifts. It took forever for her to come through those gates. I finally lowered my head at 5.00am and my expectations along with it.

When I arrived at the airport myself early in February I glanced at a sign in the arrivals area advertising the Johnnie Walker Classic at a golf course I have played before – The Vines. In my jetlagged state I could have sworn the dates suggested the tournament was in progress and that I would miss it. It turns out the tournament was a couple of weeks later so, along with a friend of the family, I thought it would be rude not to take advantage of the $35 final day ticket price and head out to the foothills of the Darling Range for some sun and great golf. We weren’t disappointed. No, it wasn’t the opportunity to watch Ryder Cup star Anthony Kim close up and listen to him complain to his caddy about the speed with which his sports drink kept shooting out the bottle’s nozzle. Nor was it the chance to see, for about the fourth time in my life, that old stalwart of a player, Colin Montgomerie. With that Wallace and Gromit smile and easy, fading swing he’s a joy to watch, when he’s in a good mood. He jested at one point that the cups on each hole were too small, a problem we all seem to have encountered. It wasn’t even the sight of Lee Westwood, or the shock that Camillo Villegas and Greg Norman had missed the cut that got me going. It was a young Korean-born New Zealander by the name of Danny Lee. Danny, still an amateur and only eighteen, was within touching distance of the leaders throughout the tournament. With six holes to go on the final day he conspired to shoot four birdies to win in thrilling fashion. He became the European Tour’s youngest ever champion, and it was a joy to watch. I have since discovered he broke Tiger Woods’s record last year to become the youngest ever winner of the US Amateur Championship. Danny Lee is playing shortly in one of his last ever tournaments as an amateur. It’s called The Masters. Watch out for him there and beyond. As a footnote to this golfing paragraph also keep an eye out for Brendon de Jonge. A young Zimbabwean I was at school with who finished second on the Nationwide Tour last year and can already boast one top ten and three top 25 finishes this year on the PGA Tour.

I try very hard not to get depressed when I think about my lack of sporting ability. There was a time when I wasn’t a half bad tennis player, golfer, and cricketer. But these days I can’t even toss the ball straight to serve. I struggle to get a golf ball off the ground anywhere from 100 yards in, and the last time I played a proper cricket match I dropped a sitter, which turned out to be off the bat of the match winner. It is therefore with jealousy that I look upon one of my Australian cousins who, despite having inherited the large frame of my grandfather, has the touch of a surgeon, the eye of an eagle, and the balance of a Russian gymnast. There isn’t a sport he isn’t capable of picking up and enjoying. His latest endeavour is surfing. Whilst I have been flailing about like an oil-slicked seagull out in the puny wavelets of City Beach on a lie-down body board, he has been masterfully carving up the breaks at the famous Margaret River. At night, to keep his eye and balance in check, he skates a long-board around the neighbourhood, gracefully swishing from curb to curb, iPod in and with not a care in the world. I can’t even ride a bus gracefully. He was pulled over by the police the other day and immediately apologised for not wearing a helmet. It turned out they weren’t even aware there was a rule about helmets for skateboarders, and instead offered to ride behind him so he could see where he was going in their spotlight.

The Police do have their hands full in Perth, clearing up the odd vagrant and drunkard. But much like London, Perth seems to have established a network of decent enough buskers, some of which have been performing in the city centre since I was here as a teenager. The majority of them are B-grade opera singers, tone-deaf violinists, and magicians performing tricks that can only have come from Christmas crackers. But I came across the most bizarre pair of entertainers the other day, and their gimmick was pure genius. They had erected two old bicycles, wonderfully decorated with flowers and ribbons, with the rear wheels raised off the ground sitting on small rollers connected to motors. These motors were attached to antique Singer sewing machines. Members of the public were being encouraged to bring forward their repairs and alterations which would be mended by hand, powered by the customer’s pedalling. Of course small donations were gratefully accepted, but what a superb bit of creativity.

Back to golf – I have played my first round since arriving. A good friend of mine, formerly off a handicap of one, invited me to play at the crack of dawn at Wembley Park’s Tuart Course. Wembley Park is a superb public facility with one of the best practice greens I have ever putted on. Sadly the greens out on the course weren’t as good, but they were still wonderful to putt on, and were in another world compared to the stuff I have been subjected to in Zimbabwe. But as is always the way on a golf course, it doesn’t matter how short the layout is, or how true the greens are you still have to hit it straight. My sliced drive off the first tee, in front of two four-balls waiting to tee off, was a most inauspicious return to WA golf. The rest of the day failed to improve. I walked off with another mid-nineties round, fewer balls than I started with, and putting a stroke that should be on life-support. On the plus side it was a pleasure being able to remove the umbrella from my bag with no visible of signs of having to replace it any time over the next fifty years.

Golf in the sun is one of those quintessentially Australian activities, as is barbecuing. I have consumed enough lamb to last me a lifetime, but I had to laugh when I was told that my aunt, a teacher here, has a student in her class with the surname Lamb. What’s so funny about that, I hear you ask? His first name is Eyelike.

Yes indeed, Australia has many unique characteristics. In the middle of primetime viewing last night there was an advertisement full of drama and tension. It was advising viewers of the dangers of rubber vine, an apparently menacing plant in these parts. The ad explained how to prevent it and how to identify it, and finished with an emergency number that viewers could call if they had seen this evil vegetable. I can just imagine BBC 1 running an infomercial about the dangers of bluebells in spring. They are very particular about their flora and fauna here, normally with good reason. Australia has an incredibly fragile ecosystem, and when something foreign invades it is action stations for everyone. More often than not the foreign invader is usually quite poisonous or harmful. Perhaps the most visually arresting pest is the cane toad. A news report earlier this week informed the people of the State of Western Australia that for the first time ever cane toads have been spotted just inside the border with Northern Territory. They are a shocking and prolific invader, and I believe the humane way of disposing of them is to catch them and freeze them. For a first world country Australia sure has its quirky little problems. Having said that, I felt like I was right back in third world Zimbabwe yesterday. My cousin’s wife came home from teaching and complained about not being able to teach her art class. Why, I asked, was she prevented from doing this? Because there was no bloody electricity.