The conviviality of the shed

If your concept of a shed revolves around the idea of a tumble down edifice at the bottom of  the garden, inhabited by spiders and a lonely man in retreat from domesticity, then you may soon have to reconsider.  During the course of my exchange visit to the Federation University of Australia, I had the good fortune to meet, and attend a presentation by, Dr Barry Golding, a leading researcher in the field of men’s sheds (pun unintentional, but seems to be an occupational hazard for writers on this particular topic).  Now, I had heard of this movement, for that is what it is, when Dr Annette Foley visited the University of Chester last June, but I had not given it very much thought.  It was, I surmised, an interesting little development in its field (arrgh!), but of no great educational relevance.  How wrong I was.

However, before I go any further, I had better explain for those of you who are as ignorant as I was,  just what a men’s shed is in this context, or, at least, what I understand it to be; for a definitive explanation it is probably best to consult Barry’s very much better informed writings on the subject.  A men’s shed is a meeting place for men; it is a place where men of all ages can go to talk, interact, learn and further their general well-being in any number of ways. Those men who are no longer in paid employment due to age, redundancy or economic conditions can find a place and a purpose beyond the workplace, the home or the pub; a convivial place ( and we shall come back to that word later) where learning may take place, but where there are no rules or expectations except their own. There are no managers, no professionals, no experts, no teachers except themselves, and they have to meet nobody’s objectives or fit in with anybody’s plans except their own.  Furthermore, these sheds are mushrooming across the world; an amazing organic growth, driven by the perceived need of those involved, rather than by policy, whether institutional or governmental.  Akin to guerrilla gardening in its bottom up spontaneity and absence of institutional control, it could almost be seen as a form of guerrilla education; perhaps, a revolutionary new approach to learning.

Well, yes, but there are striking parallels in this new model with the remedies for the ills of our current education system proposed by Ivan Illich in Deschooling Society (1971), a work, which, although much neglected in  recent decades, appears no less radical today than it did over forty years ago.  What Illich proposed, was a total deinstitutionalisation of an education system which was designed to reproduce the status quo and shore up an inherently inequitable society.

"School is the advertising agency which makes you believe that you need the society as it is." (Illich, 1971,p. 113)

And the solution was to allow people to decide upon their own goals and their own curriculum within a setting of mutual help and concern, and with access to the resources they would need.

“Most learning is not the result of instruction. It is rather the result of unhampered participation in a meaningful setting. Most people learn best by being "with it," yet school makes them identify their personal, cognitive growth with elaborate planning and manipulation.” ( Illich, 1971, p38)

 Essential to this process, and the suggested replacement for institutional control, was the development of “learning webs” and  “conviviality”.   Of course, the learning webs envisioned in 1971 were not our present world wide web, although Illich did forsee the impact technology might have in freeing education from those who would wish to control it.  He was as much concerned with access to human webs for educational support, as with technological assistance.

"A good educational system should have three purposes: it should provide all who want to learn with access to available resources at any time in their lives; empower all who want to share what they know to find those who want to learn it from them; and, finally, furnish all who want to present an issue to the public with the opportunity to make their challenge known." ( Illich, 1971,p75)

This suggestion was expanded upon in 1973 with the publication of Tools for Conviviality, in which conviviality is redefined as a dynamic replacement for the control of human activity by institutions, professionals and managers.

“I intend it to mean autonomous and creative intercourse among persons, and the intercourse of persons with their environment; and this in contrast with the conditioned response of persons to the demands made upon them by others, and by a man-made environment. I consider conviviality to be individual freedom realized in personal interdependence and, as such, an intrinsic ethical value.” ( Illich, 1973,p11)

Men’s sheds seem to me to be just such convivial, post-institutional, alternatives to formal learning and, perhaps, a signpost  to at least one form that the future of education might take.  Interestingly,  development of men’s sheds has proceeded with great ease in many countries, on a spontaneous self-help basis.  However, in the UK, initially at least, there was some attempt by a charitable institution to control development, which almost entirely succeeded in missing the point.  Fortunately, that problem seems to have been overcome and we may have some confidence that men’s sheds will now be able to develop, even in the UK, without the threat of takeover by an institution or a  government department, or, horror of horrors, regulation by OFSHED (sorry, I couldn't resist it).

Could such de-institutionalisation spread  beyond adult education, possibly even into the state school sector? Well, if Room 13 is a portent, then perhaps that process has already begun.

Lost in space

As I was saying, before being inundated and finally submerged by the requirements of my job,  generally speaking the bush is anywhere beyond the city or town.  It is not necessarily part of the outback, although the outback is undoubtedly part of the bush. The term outback is reserved for those areas which are considered "beyond the black stump"(although the exact location of said "stump" has never actually been determined).  It seems to be as much an expression of a concept of remoteness, aridity and emptiness, as it is a geographical location.  It is "back o' Bourke"  and includes the "never-never", as the most extremely remote areas are called, but precisely where it begins, and where it ends, is open to debate. However, it does exist, and, for a wasteland, has a curiously intense attraction.


                         

    

Rounding a crater on Mars to find the city of Milton Keynes nestling behind it, would be an experience only marginally more surprising than the discovery of Alice Springs after a long journey across the red centre.   Following hundreds of miles of parched bush, scrub and sand, out of nowhere appears a fully functional city, complete with air-conditioned shopping malls, restaurants, sushi bars, swish hotels, taxi cabs and all of the assorted paraphernalia of a twenty first century urban centre.  It is astonishing, not in that it is remarkable in itself, any more than Milton Keynes is particularly distinguished, but that it should exist at all, so far from anywhere, and in such an overwhelmingly inhospitable environment.  It is a shock, that one can, perhaps, see mirrored in the faces of the small groups of aboriginals who sit in circles in the park, or on the banks of the waterless river Todd, or who cluster outside bottle shops and on street corners. Their art now framed and for sale in plush galleries on Todd Mall, or used as decoration on tea towels and coffee cups in the souvenir shops.


                         Alice Springs

 

After staying overnight in a backpackers' hostel (where my arrival raised the average age by several years), I joined a small group for a four wheel drive camping expedition into the red centre.  We were to spend several days visiting Mt.  Conner, King's Canyon, the Valley of the Winds, Kata Tjuta, Uluru ( Ayer's rock) and the Garden of Eden.  Camping would  be at cattle stations along the way and at camp sites close to King's Canyon and Kata Tjuta.  We were to cover 1000 km in the round trip, and were to sleep in swags. A swag?!?!





My swag under  a tree.

"Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a coolibah tree"









A swagman was an itinerant farm labourer in the outback, who travelled from farm to farm seeking work, carrying his bedroll, his swag, on his back.  Although swagmen are not as much a feature of Australian life as once they were, the swag is, and is a remarkably sensible piece of equipment for camping in a warm climate where it seldom rains. It  is, essentially, a large canvas bag, which, these days, contains a thin foam rubber mattress. One unzips the sides, places one's sleeping bag on the mattress, climbs in and zips up the sides again.  There is a canvas flap that can be flipped over to cover the head, but the swag is amazingly cosy even  without the flap, and the sensation of falling asleep while gazing up at the stars is really quite special. One can find a quiet spot under a tree, or pull the swag closer to the camp fire and listen to the crackling of the flames...............now, you can't get that at the Grosvenor or the Savoy!



In the trailer, we carried our swags, bags, food and water.  Our initial destination was Uluru  (Ayer's rock), some 450 km away; stopping en route at various cattle and camel stations, and the Mount Ebenezer roadhouse.  The drive was to be completed in daylight to minimise the risk of collision with kangaroos, cattle, camels and brumbies(wild horses); after tiredness, the second greatest cause of fatalities on outback roads. Closer to our destination we stopped to collect firewood, quite literally, from the bush, attacking the dried out remnants of bush and piling the wood on the roof of our vehicle for that night's camp fire.

 

                                                                               Naturalised Australian?

 

   

                                                                                                                   

Up the bush

 

 

I have been up the bush.  This, of course, does not mean that I have been trekking across the red centre, dodging man-eating crocodiles while skinning snakes and collecting witchetty grubs for my tucker (although, I must say, I was rather tempted by the kangaroo steaks for sale in Aldi last week).   No, it simply means that I have ventured out of the city, and travelled some 200 miles north east to the great dividing range.  I did, however, take the precaution of informing, slightly bemused looking, colleagues of my intrepid expedition, and of my expected date of return, while stocking the car with several litres of water, blankets, bug spray, first aid kit, compass, spade and knife ( not entirely sure what I intended to do with the knife, but it seemed somehow the sort of thing one should have).  Thus fully provisioned and prepared, I set off.                                      

 

                                               

Do you know, Australian motorways look almost exactly the same as English motorways? Most of the road signs are the same, the slip-roads are the same, the markings are the same, and they are just as straight, and just as grey as those in England.  The bush, at this time of the year, is, for the most part, a sort of khaki brown, dotted with varying numbers of, mainly gum, trees, and many of the paddocks appear empty of crops or stock.  The land has been baked dry by the latest in a series of excessively hot summers, and, although well-cared for, much of it seems empty. Road and scenery are the same, mile after mile. The driving, in many respects, is easy, for the main difference from similar English roads is the relative lack of traffic. The chief danger is falling asleep at the wheel, and the principal difference in road signage lies in the number and variety of signs warning drivers to rest.  The weather is warm, the sun bright and eyes quickly become tired.  It would be so easy to let one's eyes close for just a few seconds, and never open them again.   Sleep, it appears, not the snake or the spider, is the greatest danger in much of the twenty first century  Australian bush.

 

With frequent breaks for long blacks, I reached Beechworth,  a picture perfect Victorian town which appears to have transited the twentieth century with barely a mark on its nineteenth century streetscape.  If it were not for the cars, you could believe that you had stepped back in time; how could anything so seemingly fragile as clapboard buildings survive in such a perfect state for so long?  The effect is compounded upon stepping into the wonderful Tanswell’s Commercial Hotel, where I had booked to stay, and where Ned Kelly once took refuge in the cellar (let's face it, he was no fool, a well-stocked cellar is the place to hide).  Were he to return, I am sure he would have little difficulty in recognising either the exterior, or much of the interior, of the oldest hotel in town, built in 1853 to house and entertain the miners of the gold rush.  It has survived intact, with few concessions to modernity, and still serves good, honest meals at lunch and dinner, along with a shared board for breakfast.  It has the original public bar, and is well-patronised by locals, as well as tourists. It is just perfect.

 

 

 

 

 Tanswell's

 

 

 

 

 

After some time spent exploring Beechworth and its history, I returned to Ballarat via the King Valley and Brown Brothers’ vineyard, where, after several tastings (one can’t be too careful when faced with this sort of decision), I bought a bottle of wine called Patricia, which is a 2008 vintage Noble Riesling.  It is without doubt the best pudding wine ever made, and would in itself be sufficient reason for emigration to Australia, were it not also available in England.  If you ever get the chance to taste it, you must do so ( I’m afraid mine may have evaporated by the time I get home). It is truly the amber nectar, and, once tasted, is never to be forgotten.

Tracked down in the Australian bush

 

 

Bitey things

I have been in Australia for just over four weeks now (not crossing off the days or anything, you understand), and I have not been bitten, stung, sucked, nipped or pecked by anything, whether insect, reptile, mammal, bird or human. Now this would be a quite banal piece of information in most parts of the world, and indeed the norm in much of the northern hemisphere, but, here in Australia, it could be considered something of an achievement. For without a shadow of a doubt this country is home to more of the world’s biters and stingers than practically anywhere else on earth.  It is, at least potentially, the bitiest place in the world.

 

Aussie salute
In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, native Australians have a remarkably tolerant approach to their sometimes aggressive wildlife.  The assault of flying insects is often met with nothing more deadly than the Aussie salute: a gentle wafting of the hand in front of the face to bid the flies depart.  Indeed the salute is so ingrained in some, that they do it almost automatically, even when no mozzies are to be seen; on occasion, it is almost a royal wave. As a second line of defence, I am told, the famous cork strung hat, itself,  is not infrequently deployed at such events as summer race meetings, where, even when worn in irony, it is as efficient as ever in deterring attack.  Chemical sprays and lotions have of course been adopted by some, but Australians still seem to have a much higher threshold of tolerance to the insect blitz than many of their foreign visitors ; although not, it would seem, when it comes to the entrances to their houses. The springs on their anti-fly doors can snap shut with a  startling vengeance as soon as released, and you wouldn’t be the first unsuspecting tourist to survive the flies, only to be bitten by the house.

Fair go for sharks

Aussie tolerance of their native biters even extends to sharks.  In response to the danger of shark attacks ( around 10 to 12 a year) the government of Western Australia has introduced a catch and kill policy, whereby sharks are caught using baited drum lines and then shot.  Strange as it may seem, this provoked mass protests by thousands of Australians.  The protests were essentially on environmental and scientific grounds, but also related to one of the key principles underpinning the Australian character: the concept of the “fair go”.  It was clear from broadcast interviews with demonstrators that many simply thought that the sharks were not getting a “fair go”.  It was the sharks' environment that was being invaded and they had been there first, so deserved a “fair go” (think possibly, on reflection, that this aspect of the Australian character didn’t  reach full maturity until quite some time after 1788).   It is an appreciation of the entitlement of the shark to a “fair go” with which I think I might be inclined to agree…………well, right up until the moment I could see the fin approaching anyway..

 

Spiders

I have been assured that the world famous Australian dunny spider is not a problem anymore, since most Australians no longer have outside dunnies. However, these assurances have often been accompanied by a wry smile, followed  by advice to check my shoes in the morning, and that the newly favoured hiding place of the redback  spider was behind the sun visor of the car.   They were, of course, just engaging in the national sport of pulling the pommie’s leg.  However, I must admit, I do now, jokingly of course, check my shoes in the morning, and  have a quick glance behind the sun visor before I set off.  After all, this is Australia. 
Yeah
As an addendum to last week's brief consideration of Australian speech,  I have since noticed  a tendency to add   a somewhat drawn out "yeah" to the end of any statement or series of statements.  It is almost as if they are promoting agreement by agreeing with themselves.  And, oddly enough, it seems to work. Yeahhhhhh.

Coming the raw prawn

Now let us be quite clear about this from the outset: Australians speak English. Standard Australian English is practically indistinguishable from the standard form spoken in England.  However, there is also a variation in the colloquial dialect, similar to variations that can be found throughout the UK, and, indeed, in some respects less marked than might be found in some British regions.  Strangely, it is both highly distinctive and at the same time, in some ways, very familiar.  Quite often, it really does sound like “a kind of fossilized Cockney of the Dickensian era”, as Anthony Burgess once suggested.  Why not try “G’day, mate!” in your best cockney accent, if you doubt the hypothesis, and see if you can distinguish it from Australian.  Careful though, it’s catching. 

OK, you need some essential vocabulary.  The very basics with which to get by; let’s start with some opening pleasantries:

Good day (g’die or g’diemite)

The Australian equivalent  to “hello”, “good morning” or “good afternoon”.  Often accompanied by the general purpose endearment “mate”, which, these days, is non-gender specific and sometimes blended with the original greeting to make “G’daymate!” (although, come to think of it, I don't believe I have heard "G'day!" used by a woman). The appropriate response, of course, is a repetition of the original greeting. If you were to respond with “hello” or “good morning”, it might be thought that you were either a “pommy” , a “wowser” or “have tickets on yourself”.

                       G'day

How’s it going? (owzitgoin)

Strangely enough the English equivalent to this is not “How are you?” or “How do you do?” but much more like “Alright?”  It is not so much a question as to how you are, although it is that as well, but a question which offers the respondent the option to begin a discussion.  Appropriate responses can be a simple “good”, “not bad”, or similar, but with the possibility of taking the conversation further.  In fact, it was the British version of this conversation opener (“Alright?”) which caused most consternation amongst Australian students visiting the University of Chester.  At first, it seems, they imagined that it was an enquiry related to their physical and/or mental well-being, and were somewhat affronted to find that this was constantly in question, and that they might be thought to have a few “kangaroos loose in the top paddock”.

                                                   Round the bend?

No worries

The Australian equivalent of “You’re welcome” in response to any expression of gratitude. Endearingly reassuring, don’t you think?

It’s your shout 

 It’s your turn to buy the next round of beers/ coffees/cakes/ etc.   Do not under any circumstances ignore this invocation; the consequences could be dire.  In fact, preferably, never get into a situation where somebody might even contemplate saying this to you.  It is a social clanger on a par with stealing sweeties from toddlers (“lollies from ankle-biters”).  Under no circumstances should you attempt to “come the raw prawn”, and suggest any reason as to why you should not be getting  the “tinnies”, “stubbies” or “longies” in.    If you do, somebody is likely to get “ropeable” or “spit the dummy” and you will find yourself  “drinking with the flies”. You have been warned!

The bush

Refers to anywhere other than the town. It doesn’t  have to be in the outback,  “back of Bourke” or “beyond the black stump”; if it’s not in town, it’s in the bush.

                    The bush 

Tucker

Food is tucker.  It may start with brekkie which could include an egg from a chook, or some Vegemite on toast (sod all these quotation marks).  Following that, you might expect to take a cut lunch to work in your tucker bag  ( you’ll not need an esky for one lunch, but might need one for a picnic).  The typical cut lunch could include sangers or a sav, with bikkies and a Lamington ( chocolate/treacle sponge cake covered with coconut) with which to finish.  Your tucker can be bought at the milk bar or Woollies (yes, alive and well and living in Australia), or in one of the excellent restaurants.

However, you should not worry if you have not mastered the local language when you arrive, as all variations of UK English are  well understood, and visitors' attempts to get their tongues round the local phraseology is a constant source of amusement to the locals. The dialect is, nonetheless, an essential element in Australian identity, and I suspect that they are, rightly, very proud of its  assertive, and humorous, irreverence.

An esky

Australian kit

A few days after my arrival, my colleagues presented me with an “Australian starter kit”.  It included a fly swatter, sunscreen, insect repellent, wraparound sunglasses, a straw hat (I was told that I would have to supply my own corks for the brim), stick-on tattoos and a pair of thongs.  Now, before you get completely the wrong idea, I must explain that “thongs” is Australian for those cheap and cheerful sandals known in England as “flip-flops”.  A preference for skimpy G-string type underwear is not (as far as I know at this early stage in my research) part of the Australian national character.   However, each of the items in my presentation package does, I think, tell one something about what it is like to live in Australia, and, therefore what it might be like to be an Australian.

“Every stereotype in the book,” commented one onlooker. And, indeed, there was more than a nod in the direction of the caricature Australian with whom we are so familiar.  But that nod in itself, I suspect, tells us something about Australian self-confidence and sense of identity.  They are able to laugh at themselves and at others.  In Australia, you don’t take yourself too seriously or have too high an opinion of yourself, unless, of course it is a matter of life and death, or, even more importantly, sport.  There can’t be any other country in the world where sport is given quite such attention as in Australia.  All sports are played, and all taken very seriously.  If there were to be a secular church of Australia, I suspect that it would be the Church of Sport, and its icons would be Australian sporting heroes.  However, they might be inclined to retain the wine ......... and, perhaps, add some beer.

 

Of course all stereotypes contain an element of truth; the danger lies in imagining that they are the truth.   I have been wearing the straw hat, and been grateful for it, and, having never given it much thought previously, begun to appreciate why a set of corks dangling on strings from the brim, might actually be quite a good idea. Australians are a practical people, who care little for keeping up appearances, in the face of their, at times extreme, environmental conditions.  On arriving for my first day at work, for example,  in my beige linen suit and Panama hat (general issue, tropical gear, Englishman, for the use of), I was immediately advised to “ditch the coat” , and asked did I not have any shorts and sandals, which, upon closer inspection, I realised were being worn by most of my workmates.  After a day in which they so feared I might expire, they requisitioned the largest fan I have ever seen in my life to be placed in my office, I began to see the logic.

Unfortunately, I have, so far, found little use for the stick-on tattoos. Although, it is true that tattoos are very popular with many Australians, male and female, and wearing them might indeed help one to blend-in, when moving in certain circles, I am not entirely convinced that the stick-on variety would work.  They are often, as in the UK, acquired as an assertion of strength, and a rejection of authority and conventional values, as much as for the purpose of aesthetic enhancement.   And I am not quite sure how much of my masculine power and hedonistic rejection of social norms ,I might  succeed in conveying, by sporting my temporary stick-on anchor.

 

 

Ballarat

The city of Ballarat is, for the most part, a well-groomed city of suburbs. Broad, intersecting checkerboard streets stretch from north to south, and east to west.  The older thoroughfares distinguished by weatherboard bungalows with ornate Victorian tracery over their verandas.  The lawns as manicured as any to be seen in Surbiton or Wilmslow.   Its heart is  a large lake surrounded by beautiful parkland, that is a focus for much summer activity, or, quite often, inactivity.  It is called Lake Wendouree and owes its name, as it would seem does much else in this  contradictory country, to an almost total failure on the part of its early settlers to understand, or care for, its original inhabitants.  As the story goes, a Scottish squatter, asked an aboriginal woman the name of the swamp that later became the lake.  She is said to have replied, wendaaree , which I am told may be politely translated as "go away".  He didn't.

 

Helpful road signs

seen all around Ballarat

But, strangely enough, it is the most seemingly neglected area of Ballarat that is the most interesting.I say seemingly neglected, because there is no doubting the city's pride in the Victorian treasures of its Gold Rush city centre. There are plaques everywhere, proclaiming the origins of the many palatial Victorian buildings built during a period of golden prosperity from the late 1850s through to the 1890s.  However, in some ways,  it reminds me of the rural Irish towns of the 1960s, which often gave the impression of more town than people to fill it; as though the tide of population and prosperity that had once surged through the area, had long since ebbed.  Not a ghost town exactly, but, perhaps, a town of ghosts.  The train station, for example, is a remarkable piece of exuberant nineteenth century architecture, with a vast echoing, and beautifully preserved, Victorian booking hall and a  magnificent waiting room, quite capable of catering for many more passengers than now pass through.  However, the waiting room, waits, as it seems, in perpetual anticipation of an era that is past.

Almost the whole city centre area is a time capsule of  Victorian Australia, from the colonial shop and business frontages of Lydiard and Sturt streets, to the magnificent town hall, and hugely evocative reading rooms of the Mechanics Institute.  It takes little imagination to hear the ghosts of the Jersey Lily or Dame Nellie Melba singing on the stage of Her Majesty's Theatre. However, the ghosts are, perhaps, best imagined in the wonderful Craig's Royal Hotel. Taking afternoon tea in its foyer, admiring the Minton tiled floor, or sipping a cold beer in its bar, it is all too easy to see the top hatted mining speculators discussing their latest finds.  In fact, after two or three beers, I'm rather inclined to join in.

                                         

       

                                                                           Craig's foyer