the australia blog

charting the highs and lows of my new life down under

As I drew closer to the 'upper quartile' of my thirties, and with the prospect of the next few decades stretching out before me like an uninspiring concrete pavement with the words "more of the same" chalked tauntingly in large, banal letters, I felt it was time for a life MOT. With punishing Australian visa restrictions kicking in at the age of forty, it was a 'go for it now or forever hold your peace' scenario. I can handle most things, but regret isn't one of them. I was at an inescapable crossroads; it was a simple binary choice. Now or never? Home or away? UK or Oz? Pigeons or Koalas? In March 2016, and after a gruelling bureaucratic process during which I was awarded a first class degree in tenacity, Australia became my new home. This blog charts the highs and lows of this, my emigrant adventure Down Under. 

 

 

destination chronicle: sydneyside

posted 06 july 2017

As a traveller you aren't often afforded the luxury of living somewhere for a sustained period of time; you parachute in, see the basics and, because time is money, parachute out again just as quickly - leaving with only a superficial sense of place and people. This particular Chronicle is, therefore, almost unique on my site; it's the result of living somewhere rather than merely visiting. Good or bad, all things are part of the wider experience of living in a country of which you are not native. Everything is interesting and daily life becomes one long tourist experience. And, of course, this is surely the whole point of emigration? One year on and I'm still in full tourist mode - my camera is very rarely off for long.

This one year milestone feels like the right time for me to gather my thoughts, package the experience and take stock of my first year as a resident of the New South Wales state capital and Australia's biggest city. From Bondi to Barangaroo, from Woollahra to Woolloomooloo and from Paddington to my home district of Pyrmont, this is Sydney as seen through the eyes of someone who thinks himself mighty lucky to live here: me. Read more

 

 

a winter's day at summer bay

posted 26 june 2017

Fifty or so kilometres north of Sydney, and around an hour's drive, brings you to the rather unassuming Palm Beach. By Aussie standards it's nothing special. By British standards it's beautiful - and famous...

It's 'winter' in Australia now; whilst this does mean torrential downpours on occasion (and I mean torrential), it also results in large stretches of the week being characterised by crisp blue skies with bright sunshine and balmy temperatures hovering around twenty. Desperate to see more of Australia, albeit confined to New South Wales owing to its giant size, we, on the spur of the moment, decided to hire a car and head north to the beach which doubles as 'Summer Bay' in the Australian soap 'Home and Away'.

Aussie soaps resonate strongly with British expats, the colour and character of this distant, exotic country offering an escape from what were probably, for many of us, grey days in a colourless urban landscape. It was only a matter of time before us two Poms made the expat pilgrimage to Palm Beach - the place we'd seen, tantaslisingly, on our teatime TV screens so often growing up.

Despite its notoriety 'Summer Bay' was near empty, save for a cluster of die-hard surfers, a few Sunday walkers in contemplative mood and a pod of dolphins which playfully made an appearance as we arrived. A couple of laps of the bay was justification enough for a fish roll and chips purchase from the North Palm Beach Surf Club, one whose exterior doubles as the beach house in the soap. Indeed, a Summer Bay sign hangs above the surf club's doorway with a reference to the "Club Patron: A. Stewart" - one of a few clues that this location is one with a televisual double life! If you're no fan of Aussie soaps, I can highly recommend a visit here anyway - it's beautiful, quiet and the fish and chips was the best I've tasted so far on this giant, scorched continent. The only danger is that you'll probably end up humming the Home and Away theme tune for the rest of your day just as I did.

[Left: one of my photographs of 'Summer Bay' with the iconic soap logo added].

 

 

a rude alignment: my moment with magwitch

posted 03 june 2017

Magwitch: a character from the incredible mind of Dickens brought to life in 'Great Expectations'. A "ne'er-do-well" convict, exiled to live in the far reaches of the British Empire in a strangely-named (as I thought at the time) part of the world called New South Wales...  

A remarkable day at work brought me face to face with a convict's ball and chain brought in by a student whose parents had dug it up in their Sydney back garden. The staff room hummed with 'wows' and 'awesomes'. Magwitch was now less a work of fiction but was there in person; the grim rusty relic a powerful conductor to Australia's murky past which, quite literally in this case, hovered just below the surface: colonialism, convicts, crime and other unmentionables carried out in the name of Empire that a delicate Pom would care not to think about...

A novel I had studied for my GCSE in English Literature at the age of fifteen and repeated at college had dramatically, almost rudely, aligned with my present. This moment of synchronicity had me thinking about things I normally dismiss as nonsense: destiny, fate and predetermination. This was my Magwitch moment. 

 

 

critter wars: the never-ending battle

posted 16 may 2017

Australia's reputation as being home to a fearsome collection of spiders definitely precedes it. Unlike many rumours and stereotypes, this one is truly deserved.

Aside from the obligatory range of giant cockroaches (some with wings) scurrying past the bathroom door, crawling across the kitchen hob or across the back of the sofa, there are the strange-looking butterflies whose colour and pattern I have not seen before, the furry caterpillars crawling up the side of the house, not to mention the skink lizards which somehow find their way onto my sofa and under the fridge (their eviction back out into the garden is fraught with danger because, firstly, they are fast and, secondly, because they drop their tails when threatened leaving a bloody splat - with the disembodied tail left twitching). My backyard has also played host to Pie Dish beetles, Harlequin beetles and a creature I have never even heard of before: the Cicada which, Google reliably informs me, is a cross between the cricket and the locust. Oh, that reminds me, we've had crickets too - one lives in the roof and makes his rather wonderful musical serenade each evening, the others just gatecrash our home altogether, happily hopping around whichever room takes their fancy. Catching those is fun. Then there are the slug trails we find around the kitchen floor in the morning.

I don't exactly live out in the wilds of the outback, and yet it's no exaggeration to say that some days I feel like our city-based home, with its small backyard, is overrun. It's all we can do to block up every gap, hole, crevice and crack in a bid to insulate ourselves from them. I must say, stepping barefoot on cockroaches in my early morning bleary-eyed state has, on two occasions now, proved to be a particular low point in my battle with the critters. Our home is surrounded by a toxic spray - a ring of chemicals which zaps any 'roach which scurries over it. We find them near-dead outside, laid on their back, legs twitching, most mornings. I don't like killing creatures, but I hate these things - and this is war! Perplexingly, even our indoor-only moggy has fallen foul of the Aussie beasts, somehow catching fleas. An Aussie friend tells me they could have been carried in on the back of a mouse or rat. Rodents as well?!

Then.

I was sat at the kitchen window reading 'Twelfth Night'. Something caught my eye in the first of the four window panes. I grabbed my phone and filmed the infamous Huntsman spider crawl brazenly across the full width of the window in broad daylight, its fangs seemingly as big as its legs. As these can grow to the size of a human hand, it was clear this was only medium-sized - yet still the largest spider I've ever clapped eyes on. The Huntsman does not build webs, but hunts - hence its name. It has extremely good eyesight, therefore, but could not see me on the other side of the glass divide, allowing me to film it unhindered and with a feeling of relative safety (even though I know this species of spider is harmless to humans - despite its size).

Apart from the sound of screeching bats at dusk as I try to relax in my bath, this must rank as my most Gothic of Aussie moments to date. I do, however, get a weird sense of satisfaction from these heart-stopping experiences: they are uniquely Aussie and are part of the 'fun', flavour and fear of this foreign land. They are part of the whole experience and, for this reason, I suppose I wouldn't have it any other way.

[Photo left: a still from my spider video - click to watch]

 

 

the moment you realise you've made it

posted 05 march 2017

There was a point in the last few weeks when I realised that I had indeed 'made it'. I was on my regular bus journey from Pyrmont, through the CBD and out to Bondi. The time was knocking on the door of 7am and the bus drove over Darling Harbour, its buildings lit up by the rising sun. Up stupidly early just to earn my Aussie Dollar, I was a Sydneysider, a commuter just like the rest. I felt the kind of irritation at the quotidian nature of it all: I must remember to tap off my Opal travel card; I hope he doesn't sit next to me; I despise this song (changes track on iPod [yes, I still have one]), this aircon's too cold...

And then it struck me. I had forgotten just how much time, money and stress it had taken for me to ride on this metaphorical bus to Bondi: the visas, the certificates, the accreditations, the language exams, the flights, the job interviews...

Paradoxically this mundane journey on a clapped-out State Transit bus was a symbol of my success; my goal of living and working in Australia had truly been achieved. Only when the foreign slips into the realm of the normal, only then can you claim to have become part of where you are, only then can you claim to have made it. This isn't a post about self-congratulation - more about being in awe of the fact that we've managed to pull it off. There were many times when I never thought we'd do so, when it all seemed so distant, so fraught with trouble and so littered with hurdles. But we have. I've made it. And no-one can take that achievement away from me.

We've also had our fair share of luck along the way which is, perhaps, testament to the Aboriginal saying which seems to play on a loop in my mind (and which dresses the foot of this blog): "Go with a clear, open and accepting spirit and the country will not treat you badly." Tomorrow I'm on that bus again and I think this time I'm going to enjoy the ride.

[Photo left: a banner welcomes me ‘home’ following a flight from New Zealand].

 

 

surviving sydney's hottest summer

posted 05 march 2017

The 1st of March heralds, officially, the start of Autumn in New South Wales and so it is from this more comfortable season that I reflect upon what has just been. As a Briton with vulnerable pink skin, a bald head and whom has a nasty habit of breaking out into a heat rash across his face when temperatures hover close to 40°, I must admit I was rather anxious about the onset of the Australian summer. I braced myself... Unfortunately for me Sydney was to experience record-breaking temperatures characterised by a cyclical weather pattern of long periods of intense heat and claustrophobic humidity broken only by terrifying thunder storms - after which the whole uncomfortable cycle began again.

Naively I associated UV levels with how sunny it was. This was Lesson #1: UV levels are extremely high and thus dangerous, even when cloudy. UV is no joke in Australia; a third of the population will develop skin cancer by the age of seventy. During my first Aussie summer, I didn't quite master the art of wearing a hat, long sleeves and sunscreen at the right times (I'd broken the golden Aussie mantra of 'Slip, Slap, Slop'). As a result, my face was perpetually red and my nose permanently sore. I have a UV app which sends me daily UV notifications but, to be honest, it plays out the same status most days: "extremely high UV". Many worry about deadly spiders and snakes, but UV light is undoubtedly Australia's most dangerous threat.

Lesson #2: British apparel just won't work Down Under. Teaching in a cheap suit in classrooms topping 45° owing to the lack of air conditioning prompted the buying of a whole new work wardrobe. Suits and shirts were replaced with 100% cotton chinos, 100% cotton short sleeve shirts and soft leather shoes. As one staff member commented, I'd transformed into an Aussie over the course of a weekend! My new work wardrobe helped a little but, alas, I still had to endure teaching Science Fiction to Year 9 with sweat dripping down my back. The heat is bad, but the humidity far worse.

Lesson #3: Australia is clearly not prepared for the increasing temperatures it is experiencing. This, I found, particularly shocking. At several points during the summer, factories were instructed by State Government to cease production in a bid to keep the electricity supply on as people across the State switched on their air conditioning units (western parts of New South Wales topped a face-sizzling 49°). At work, students were taken to the few locations where air conditioning was installed - classes were merged, students missed out on lessons - it was just too hot. The air cooling systems on public transport also couldn't cope. On too many occasions it was hotter on the inside than out. Back home if the weather was atrocious (wind, snow, rain, freezing temperatures) you stayed indoors if you could. The same approach applied here; if you didn't have to go out, you didn't. Cafes and city spaces niormally packed with people were near-deserted, only coming to life in the (slightly cooler) late evening. Indeed, overnight temperatures barely dropped from the daytime ones. Sydney saw its hottest night-time temperatures on record at 29°. Even my Aussie colleagues were complaining - and they've grown up in these extremes. Luckily for me, our Pyrmont home has aircon but, to my surprise, I found that most people in Sydney don't have this 'luxury' (surely 'necessity'?)

Lesson #4: it isn't always safe to leave Sydney for a weekend road trip. Living a short, ten-minute walk from Sydney's glitzy (and characterless) Central Business District, we are a comfortable distance away from any risk of bushfires. However, hopping into a hire car for the weekend during a heatwave could leave you stranded and surrounded by flames. Vision of kangaroos jumping for their lives from bushfires in rural New South Wales is frightening enough, but the emergency warnings running in bright yellow across the bottom of the ABC news channel screen are truly terrifying: "residents of X are warned to head to the nearest evacuation centre" or "residents of X have been told by the State Emergency Service (SES) that it is too late to leave - seek shelter where you can". Unsettling reminders for Sydneysiders at the start of 'Bushfire Season' come in the form of 'Controlled Burnings' where Sydney's outer fringes are protected by a ring of deliberately burnt out vegetation and forests (the white man has learnt this technique from Indigenous Australians and is deployed by fire departments). A blanket of smoke hovers uneasily over Sydney - the stench of which causes many an asthma sufferers to fasten their windows shut and others to avoid hanging out the laundry until the next day.

Lesson #5: cockroaches and other critters want to share the cool of your air conditioned home - expect, therefore, a mini-invasion of everything from spiders running around in your picture frames, cockroaches on your shower head and skink lizards on your sofa - not to mention the crickets jumping around the bedroom. Summertime in Sydney is 'invasion of the body scratchers' time.

The oft-dispensed advice that 'you'll acclimatise' or 'you'll get used to it' ring hollow. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. The Sydney summer comes with unusual and hidden dangers which go well beyond just putting on a bit of extra sunscreen. But, at least I made it – my first sticky, sweaty Sydney Summer. It has been an interesting and enlivening experience, one which has taken me away from the predictable regularity of Britain's seasons. I just wonder what this Aussie Autumn will bring…

[Photo left: the desert-like sun beats down over our tin-roofed home in Pyrmont].

 

 

seasonal australia disorder: christmas in oz

posted 11 january 2017

Sure, I've been abroad during Christmas several times, but this one was undeniably different. This was our first Christmas in Australia as permanent residents.

We deliberately booked our two week adventure around New Zealand so that we would be in Sydney on Christmas Day. Why? Because to be on Bondi Beach in the sun, wearing an obligatory Santa hat on Christmas Day, is a bit of a bucket list item with many a tourist, traveller and backpacker. No matter how cliché, we had to do this just once for the sheer novelty value! Spending Christmas Day on a beach in 32' heat was, frankly, for someone heralding from the northern hemisphere, utterly bizarre. Two things which do not belong together: a Christmas tree and a bakingly hot beach scene crammed full of parasols, factor 50 and thousands of people - some of whom had decided to bring their own Christmas trees along with their 'eskis'. Hitting the cold but powerful waves of the Pacific, losing my sunglasses and Santa hat in the process, was pretty awesome and, if I'm honest, brought out the kid in me. The fact that Channel 10 happened to be filming the Christmas edition of 'Bondi Rescue' was an added bonus...

A few days previous we attended the annual Pyrmont community carol singing service in Pyrmont's Union Square. I'm not big on Christmas but it was nice to be part of a community - especially being so far from 'home' and still very much an alien in this land (you can watch a video of the concert by clicking the image on the left). It's nice to experience a less garish Christmas - one which is kept in proportion and doesn't alienate you by trying to consume your every waking moment from September onward. Christmas only gets going in early December and in the increasing heat of the summer months, remains understated. For these reasons I preferred it infinitely...but don't mind admitting that a traditional wintery cold snap with a bit of ice, snow and travel disruption wouldn't have been unwelcome!

Christmas acts as a bit of a flashpoint for an expat and has highlighted an aspect of living Down Under which I have found the most unsettling: acclimatising to Australia's seasons and the order of the weather (not the weather itself, you understand). It's obvious, I know, but you don't really appreciate just how much your body, and, indeed, your emotions, are in-tune with the rhythm of the weather and calendar year until you live somewhere else where it is different. The weather, and what order it comes in, is a part of a pattern and pulse to which you’ve become accustomed: it’s a comfort blanket and is ingrained. This ‘meteorochronological’ order is also infused with memories, habits and expectations – all of which have gone out of my Sydney window in one big discombobulating throw. I think I've come down with SAD (Seasonal Australia Disorder).

 

 

destination chronicle: tasmania

posted 09 december 2016

Tasmania sounds like it should be a country in its own right. It's a heart-shaped island, a little smaller than England, south east of the Australian mainland. Access to "Tassie", to give it its Aussie abbreviation, comes by plane from Sydney or Melbourne or you can set sale from Melbourne on a boat. Our flight from Sydney took just under two hours and crossed the Tasman Sea. Hobart airport is, therefore, a domestic airport only. No international flights land here - its destination boards featuring Australian cities only. This serves to give Tasmania a feeling of isolation and solitude. Having flown in from a people-packed, humid and noisy Sydney, believe me, this was all a refreshing change. Stepping off the plane into fresh air and the coolest temperatures I had felt for a long time (16 degrees) was instantly revitalising. The intention was always to head to Tassie when Sydney started to get hot and sticky - and we'd timed it perfectly. On the weekend of our departure New South Wales hit 38 degrees with all of the dramatic thunder and lightning that is guaranteed to follow (and which disrupted our return flight home). Tasmania was, quite literally, a breath of fresh air. Read more

 

 

the sydney opera house lights up

posted 12 november 2016

I was there because I knew it was happening. We were among a minority of people lying in wait. Unsurprisingly most were there just enjoying the end of another week: wine buckets, friends and food - the kind of things which characterise the majority of Friday evenings at Circular Quays. There was no hint of what was to be projected except for small illuminated crosses which, for the purposes of alignment no doubt, occasionally appeared on the landmark's tiled surface and vanished just as quickly. 

Illuminated outlines of the Opera House's wonderful, and once-controversial, shell-like shapes appeared first, framing the giant poppies which then bloomed quietly and with no fanfare, slowly fading out and then majestically re-unfurling (watch the Sydney Opera House light up by clicking the photograph which accompanies this post). Many were evidently not expecting it judging from the "oohs" and the "ahhs" I heard around me as the poppies bloomed to commemorate Armistice Day.The tribute was perfectly fitting: understated, beautiful, dignified.

 

 

australian bureaucracy: a rant

posted 03 november 2016

This is Australia. They do things differently here. We have to formally register our pet with the City of Sydney Council. Quite why we have to do this when our cat has a microchip, her details registered with the local vet and she is therefore fully traceable is anyone's guess. She has also been tracked every step of the way, via her microchip, from London to Sydney by the Australian Department of Agriculture and Water Resources. We have to pay for this pointless but painful layer of bureaucracy, too, with an annual subscription to the council.

To this end, I had to walk out to the local Bidura Children's Court, a strange and ever-so-slightly sinister looking building with tin roof, wooden verandah and flanked by palms (left), to sign a Statuary Declaration form to be witnessed by a Justice of the Peace! This didn't look like any court building I had ever seen - a Wild West-style thing set back from the main road with wooden shutters - an architectural relic of the time when this land was a British penal colony.

I waited outside with a gaggle of shiny black-suited people who, in the sun, looked more like giant glistening beetles. They all seemed to be clasping packs of documents - probably relating to some tragic child-related court case or other. Two o'clock arrived and, exactly to time, NSW state staff resumed their work post-lunch: not a minute before and thankfully not a minute after. The sun was blazing and I sought escape. The weather report said 26' - but I keep forgetting this means in the shade. It was at least 30' in the glare of the Sydney sun. I hurried indoors and had my bags put through an airport-style scanner.

I was waved across in the direction of the JP where a rather snooty woman of middle age served me at the counter. She's the kind of condescending pen pusher you can expect to find in any government department. There must be a special training school for these people. "Have you got the form?" she demanded, after I told her what my business was being there. "I was informed I would be provided with one", I said pathetically but with a grain of frustration - and hint of menace (I don't tend to handle these situations well). She huffed. "We charge for these forms". Charge?! Are you joking? Begrudgingly she laboured over to her beige PC circa 2004 and printed one off for me gratuit (the NSW Government's generosity knows no limits). The computer groaned almost as much as she did. Everything moved so slowly; I felt like I'd been drugged with the administrative equivalent of Rohypnol. I peered in through the glass hatch desperate for some visual stimulation whilst I waited...

The words 'BIDURA CHILDREN'S COURT' were emblazoned on a cheap strip of perspex above the counter. A man with a limp pootled around the office at a glacial speed, went to a bookcase, collected a pack of paper two reams thick and, looking at it with an expression that seemed to say 'manana', shuffled brokenly back to his grey, standard-issue swivel chair. He wore grey trousers and, in this heat, a grey jumper too. He blended into this grey-beige office in a kind of bland camouflage. The clock on the wall, I noticed, displayed "27th October". It's the 3rd November. No one had noticed or, if they had, didn't care. What's a week to a lifeless office which moves so listlessly? If there had been a section for the year I have no doubt it would have displayed 1967 - or thereabouts. What's a decade or two in an office like this? With pointless bureaucracy completed and the all-important stamp plunged emphatically onto this most pointless of pages, I headed out of the building, Stat Dec in hand and ready to send this to the Pet Registrar at the council. God only knows what the next step will be in this scorched land - a land with beautiful beaches and the bluest of oceans surrounding it - but also one with a disturbing love of drowning itself in bureaucracy. I think I will always struggle to reconcile this place, which is so full of vivid colour, with its soul-sapping penchant for paperwork.

But my cat's worth it. Rant over.

 

 

the day the whales came: whale watching

posted 16 october 2016

We left Sydney's Darling Harbour and headed into where the harbour's waters become the Pacific Ocean to do something I've just never got round to doing but have always wanted: whale watching. This wasn't just any whale watching, either. The 20,000 Humpback Whales which pass by Sydney each year on their summer migration route south is one of the longest whale migrations in the world. Theoretically, at this time of year, mothers escort their young calves south to their feeding ground on Australia's east coast. Amazingly, this is exactly what happened...

The first hour of watching was characterised by glimpses here, half of a tail there, a bit of blowhole spray here - and all too quick to capture on camera. Exciting but frustrating. These Humpbacks were shy beasts. Or so I thought. The captain turned off the engine and we waited. Foolishly a rival operator's boat ran out of patience and zoomed off leaving this part of the Pacific all to us. And that's when it started - a three minute performance I have dubbed 'tail ballet' where mummy seemed to be showing her little calf how to flick its tail in and out of the water (pictured). Their tails were almost rhythmic and, at points, wonderfully synchronised choreography-wise, but indelicately making a belly-flop sound on their re-entry into the sea. Us paparazzi-like whale watchers billed and cooed contentedly. Tail ballet was soon over. We thought that was that. We’d had our money’s worth and cameras, which beforehand had been on frantic sentry duty clicking ten shots to the dozen, began to stand down.

Stupidly. Without warning, and about fifty metres from our boat, the larger of the two mammals breached the surface. It leapt into the air, lifting all of its huge bulk out of the water. Within point five of a second she was back in her watery world. No-one captured it on camera, of course, but we had all seen it. Photographs didn't matter. It was a remarkable sight. My British reserve left me and I joined in with the rest of the crazy tourist mob shouting, cheering and swearing. As our captain said, this was “the money shot”.

What followed were a succession of mini breaches by the calf as it swam in the opposite direction North, with mum swimming after it to bring it back on course (click the photograph which accompanies this post to view the video of this). In my mind I couldn't help but add a human dialogue to this wayward child episode. But, alas, we were already on borrowed time: the captain had gone well over so that we could see this heartwarming display of mammal matriarchy. Some board this boat filled to the brim with expectation but, crushingly, see nothing. I was more than satisfied with what I’d witnessed and stepped back on terra firma at Circular Quays grateful to Mum and her Littl'un for their hospitality.

 

 

'home ground': tasting indigenous australia

posted 10 october 2016

I found out about the Home Ground Festival purely by chance. A post by ‘702 ABC Sydney’ on social media showed photographs of dancers and performers from the previous day. Home Ground was only a two day festival based in and around the Sydney Opera House and billed itself as celebrating ‘First Nations’ worldwide, not just Australia. This was its last day and it was midday already! We immediately scrubbed our plans to travel out to the famed Manly Beach (who wants to see yet another perfect Australian beach anyway?) and got the Sydney ferry from Pyrmont Bay to the port hub at Circular Quays.

I’m fascinated by Indigenous Australia and the story it has to tell. I don’t yet understand it and this makes me all the more hungry to understand. I do, however, understand enough to know that the story I am hearing in Australia about the ravages colonial Britain has wrought, is depressingly familiar.

I was sceptical about the festival. There is always a danger that such events can feel ‘theme park’ and synthetic – like cultural candy floss. I go out of my way to avoid anything like this. In a world where almost everything feels contrived and packaged safely ‘for all the family to enjoy’ I search, in my travels, for authentic experiences and places. Just how authentic was a small festival on a sunny weekend outside a world famous Opera House in the de-facto capital of Australia really going to be? I also have concerns that such events are a demonstration of the ‘old colonial hand’ of Australia placating Indigenous people by permitting them their performance - after all, Australia is still yet to sign any formal, legally-binding treaty with Aboriginal Australians – setting it apart from countries like Canada and New Zealand who have already done so. Australia has never entered into negotiations with Indigenous people about the taking of their lands or their place in the new nation. Still, with virtually no experience of Indigenous culture, I brushed my nagging doubts aside and went with the touristy flow. I was interested but my expectations were low.

I made sure we got a good position sat, as we were, close to the circular, sand-filled arena a full half-an-hour before the dancing was due to start. Without any performers on it, the arena filled with naughty kids kicking sand and building castles. I was really beginning to regret coming, “we should have gone to Manly”, I thought. The one saving grace of this annoying spectacle was that this giant sandy circle had succeeded in bringing children, whose differing heritages were written in their faces, together in one big, fun play pen. How apposite considering what was to follow. A man in a characteristically Australian ‘Kangaroo’ leather hat (thankfully without the dangling corks) did his best to dislodge the children embedded, as they were, in all manner of sand mounds and sand holes. He brought reinforcements in the form of two extra staff members who brandished ‘sand flattening’ devices and a water hose! The performances, by NAISDA and a dance group called Excelsior, were now imminent…

Children vanished from the arena. The sand was flattened and sufficiently wet. The music started. I sat there not really knowing what to expect… The dancing lasted less than forty minutes but was as powerful as it was authentic. The music stopped and, from the main tent, a solitary man emerged with microphone in hand. He was the dancer who, I had previously observed, had felt every movement and every gesture. The passion was etched into his face. He was not just dancing to become something. He was that something. This was authenticity. He delivered an eloquent and moving speech over a melancholy soundtrack (you can watch this speech by clicking the photograph, left, which accompanies this post). When he mentioned his love of the land and its animals the hairs on my neck stood on end. “And I’m proud to be an Aborigine” was met with spontaneous applause from an enraptured audience. The theme park atmosphere immediately dissolved. We were all now in the realm of real-life, of real hardship, of real meaningful struggle – and the audience could taste the injustice. Using assonance he twinned “Aborigine” with what was the final, and most politically-charged word, of the whole piece: “Treaty”. He left the sandy stage to applause and with his head facing stridently forward, but then bowed...

The world famous Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge, perhaps symbols themselves of unwanted colonialist development on these lands, looked on. They seemed to lose a little of their magnetism. The real magnetism, of course, was on stage. The sun was beating down. My camera had overheated. I ambled away from the arena humbled and contemplative, looking up at the white man’s so-called world of progress and enlightenment glittering their gold in the unforgiving Sydney sunshine: anonymous, corporate glass skyscrapers devoid of character, compassion, culture and place. Money, money, money. Take, take, take. Steal, steal, steal. Money. Take. Steal. By force. All that glitters certainly is not gold.

I tasted a bit of real Australia today. I can only hope that the people who were here first do not associate me with the people who were here last.

 

 

destination chronicle: coastal new south wales

posted 05 october 2016

Proportionally speaking our route from Minnamurra in the south to Port Macquarie in the state's Mid-North, despite being over 1000km, covered a modest slice of the state. However, the sheer abundance of beauty and the diversity of sights created the sensation that we had, in fact, experienced several countries over the course of the long weekend. There were the Amazonian -like rainforests with their unusual, and slightly intimidating, flora and fauna which punctuated our walks out in the bush; the spectacularly beautiful paradisal beaches which would give any tropical island in the Caribbean a serious run for its money; the lush green pastures of rolling fields full of sheep which, perhaps fittingly, conjured up the words 'South Wales' in my mind and, perhaps most incongruously of all, the giant sand dunes which, with a little blurring of the eyes, could have been in the Western Sahara. Indeed, the dunes at Worimi Conservation Lands come with an impressive superlative: they are the biggest shifting sand dunes in the Southern Hemisphere. Welcome to a particularly stunning chunk of coastal New South Wales... Read more

 

 

five rules of the aussie language

posted 26 september 2016

It’s English, but not as I’ve known it. Moving to any country is about as immersive as travel can get. Some opt for countries with a different language (crazier people to countries with a different script) to maximise the experience. I, however, opted for one whose official language was the same as my own. It wasn’t laziness or cowardice on my part – I just have other priorities and learning a new language on top of everything else just wasn’t one of them. Or so I thought.

I’m not naïve. In my time I have watched my fair share of Aussie soaps and with my teenage self being an avid fan of Prisoner: Cell Block H, I started my life Down Under this year with a respectable number of pre-filled entries in my English-Australian dictionary. Bea Smith was always “bashing” someone, Lizzie was often found feeling “crook” because of her weak “ticker” and Doreen was regularly to be found in the “Rec room” playing a “ripper” game of cards. You see, I grew up on this stuff and so the Australian accent I now hear around me, and to some degree its slang terms, feel familiar and friendly. A linguistic homecoming, if you will. As a twice graduate of the English language and an English teacher by profession, listening to the Aussie tongue in its native habitat is all rather fascinating. A journey in itself.

Of uppermost importance is to understand how language is used in Australia. It is not how the British use it. Brits use language metaphorically; we are masters of encoding what we say desperate, as we are, not to offend anyone – ever. We invented the euphemism so as not to say anything which others may find uncouth or uncomfortable. We spend hours planning difficult conversations in advance – and then pour over them afterwards. We sieve and strain our intended message through a series of filters removing any offending content and, by the end, we are left with a bunch of words with no impact and no meaning. Our response to a friend’s invitation to join them at a restaurant is not “no, I don’t want to” but “Yes, I might see you there” or “I might pop along”. Our response to a friend’s ridiculous suggestion is not “no, that’s ridiculous” but “that’s interesting.” It is the language of avoidance. Sure it’s skilful but it is also painful. It takes time – and it’s so tiring to be a part of. No wonder everyone in England looks so exhausted and fed-up. Thankfully Australians do not have the same approach to Language.

Enter, stage bottom right, Australian candour and the most important first rule about the Aussie tongue. For Aussies, language isn’t about protecting others from offence, painstakingly letting people down gently, carefully – oh so carefully. Language here is principally functional: it’s about the conveyance of meaning – the whole point of language in the first place. It’s more literal and less metaphorical. It’s about revealing and not concealing. Why is this important? It’s important because knowing this may just help you to avoid thinking that people here are unkind, forceful or even discriminatory. Once this realisation has been made, you can move on to enjoying some of the other idiosyncrasies this unique take on the English language has to offer…


Rule Two: Leave Your British Sensibility Behind

It is perfectly normal to hear the words “bloody”, “bitch”, "pissed" and “crap” on television and radio at all times of the day – often spoken by reputable presenters of equally reputable programmes. There isn’t a hang-up about these words. Indeed, an Australian marketing campaign aimed at attracting more British tourists to the country was banned by the UK’s Advertising Standards Authority because it featured the word “bloody.” Similarly, an anti-litter campaign at home, run by the New South Wales state government, saw posters with the words “Hey Tosser!” displayed around Sydney (left). If you happened to be at Sydney Central railway station at around this time the posters were also accompanied by loud adverts played on a loop on screens with the word “Tosser!” voiced with gusto. Could you ever imagine this happening in an English city? Oh the complaints there would be. Mary Whitehouse. Grave. Spin. But this example underscores a key point about language in this country: it is used here to have a direct impact; an immediacy; a functionality. I often imagine what the English equivalent poster would have had as its heading. Perhaps something along the lines of “Would you mind, could you, erm, possibly, make sure, if you can, put your detritus in the bin – pretty please. When you have time”? Case in point. Language in Britain has become so careful, so agonised that its intended meaning has become diminished. Our social mores mean that anyone speaking too honestly or too directly is generally considered rude or ill-educated. Aussies find my very British linguistic perambulations frustrating. Say what you mean is the mantra here. There is virtue to be found in this approach to language, but sometimes it’s a little unpalatable… A discussion on the morning talk show ‘Studio 10’ on the offensiveness of the word “wog” had me truly shocked and choking on my museli. The word, which was voiced several times without reservation, was also writ large on the graphics bar at the foot of the screen in quotation marks with the strapline “Is it offensive to call people “wogs?”” I wonder what the English equivalent would have been in this case? Perhaps the “W word”?


Rule Three: Know About the Strange Suffixes

Often using ‘ie’ or ‘o’ as a suffix resulting in a contraction of the original, these words sound musical and friendly. Australians are famed for shortening their words in this manner and to go some way to illustrating this, here are a few examples I have heard along the way:
“Bottl-o” = off licence
“Renos” = renovations
“Preso” = presentation
“Pollies” = politicians
“Pozzie” = position
“Journo” = journalist
"Tradie" = workman or labourer
“Garbo” = bin man.


Rule Four: Learn the Weird and Wonderful – and Enjoy Them!

A favourite among friends and family on my Facebook page is my weekly series ‘Aussie English wot I learnt this week’. Here’s a compilation from the last two months . Aussie lingo is a veritable goldmine. Some are understandable, others utterly bizarre – and they’re the kind of words you’d only come across by living in a country, rather than visiting. Some of these have been found out the hard way…
“Back flip” = doing a U-turn
“Flip flop” = doing a U-turn or changing one's mind
"Gazetted" = officially sanctioned or appointed
“Leadership spill” = political leadership contest
"Laneway" = alley
“Watch house” = in police custody
“Stoush” = battle or wrangle
“Muck-up day” = prank day for senior school leavers in NSW
“Free dress” = non uniform day
“Wowser” = kill joy / party pooper / fun police
“Jackaroo” = male farm hand / cowboy
“Get a root” = get laid
“Punch on” = fight
“Spruik” = pr ‘sprook': spiel or sales patter
“Larrikin” = loveable rogue or scoundrel
“Eftpos” = a ridiculous acronym meaning paying by card in a shop
“Ice” = crystal meth
“Jam it” = shove it up your posterior
“Housing Commission” = council house
“Ute muster” = a festival where owners and their utes (pick-up trucks) gather
“King punch” = a deadly single punch attack
“Hoon” = boy racer
“Rort” = a scam or underhanded trick
“Sledging” = sustained intimidation of a sporting opponent / psyching out
“Goober” = goofy
“Bludger” = scrounger / sponger
“Billy” = a tin cooking pot used for camping
“Locked bag” = PO Box
“Divider” = central reservation
“blindside” = to surprise or to shock someone unawares
“Rug up” = wrap up
“Desexed” = neutered
"Jaffles" = toastie
“Cattywampus” = wonky
“Sanger” = sandwich
“Post pay” = mobile phone on contract
“Powerboard” = multiple plug sockets on a lead
“Pay wave” = contactless card payment
“Unit” = apartment
“Daggy” = grubby
“Strewth” = God's truth
“Home invasion” = burglary
"Stoked" = Very happy
"Telecast" = Televised
"Silent line" = Ex-directory phone line
"Op shop" = Charity shop
"Sourced" = Getting drunk
"Peak" = Rush hour
"Scripts" = Prescription
"On the schedule" = Medicines available on the Medicare system
“Nature strip” = I love this term for a grass verge
“Goon bag” = box of wine (with the bag/tap)
“Globe” = lightbulb
“Super” = short for superannuation and means pension
“Casual” = supply teacher
“Esky” = a portable cool box you take to the park
“Doona” = quilt or blanket
“Yabbies” = cray fish
"Vision" = footage. Had me thinking that all Aussie newsreaders were future-gazers
"Bulk-billing" = a medical practice where you don't have to pay
"BSB" = No, not the British satellite company before Rupert Satan Murdoch got his hands on it but your bank Sort Code
"Synoptic" = weather summary
"Plebiscite" = a very strange word for a referendum
"Victorian/Territorian" = a person from the state of Victoria/Northern Territory
"Equals" = hot drink sweetener.


Rule Five: Know the Linguistic Legacy of Place Names

Australia has some very unusual place names. A quick check on a map of New South Wales and, indeed, any other state or territory in this vast country, shows names like “Wallangarra”, “Boorowa”, “Mungindi”, “Zig Zag”, “Wagga Wagga” and my all-time favourite “Woolloomoolloo”. These, of course, reference – very importantly – Australia’s Indigenous heritage, named by the people who were here first. These names are a wonderful counterweight to the generic, off-the-shelf ones brought over by the British: “Sydney” (named after a man called Sydney), “Darwin”, “Perth”, “Exmouth”, “Carnarvon”, “Newcastle” – and even “Tamworth” for crying out loud!

Mercifully, the giant red sandstone monolith in the Northern Territory once-named “Ayers Rock” has had its Indigenous name of “Uluru” restored but is still officially listed as “Uluru / Ayers Rock” – the slash, of course, extremely significant here representing, as it does, an unresolved issue around power and language. It has, however, been given back to the Anangu people.

The British have also left another linguistic legacy in their ruthless wake – a whole host of pathetic, Carry On-style names which, far from being funny, are just plain embarrassing. A map of “Actual Australian Place Names”, published today by the ABC, shows names like “Creamy Hills”, “Blowhard Point”, “Licking Hole” and “Andy’s Knob”. Rather than being humorous, I think this smutty assault on a country with thousands of years of Indigenous history, sums up the causal arrogance of a colonialising force.

 

 

that was the week that was

posted 09 september 2016

Sunday. What has perhaps been the most worrisome part of the whole move came to its conclusion. Our wonderful cat Muffin had reached Sydney - having travelled from Manchester via Leigh-on-Sea in Essex, London Heathrow, Dubai and after ten days in the Melbourne quarantine centre. There was nothing left but to collect her from the Qantas Freight centre at Sydney Kingsmith International (left). We will never know if we did the right thing bringing her. Still, an important part of our family came 'home' – albeit bewildered and rattled. She's now reasonably content and is fast asleep next to me.

Tuesday. Two days later our shipment arrived after its 11,000 mile journey across the seas. Things we had done without for close to two months, and which had almost adopted a mythical, legendary air were now here. The taupe army had returned - weary and battered from their journey. A partially empty home, but one to which we had established a sense of order, was once again thrown into turmoil. We had mixed feelings about some of the stuff we had chosen to ship. It felt like the past had come back to haunt us - things we appreciated in the UK seemed incongruous and a little out of place in Sydney. This was meant to be a new life - but was beginning to look a lot like the old one. Three things I was really glad to get my hands on? The microwave, the alarm clock so I could see the time during the night and my house robe.

Friday. This was a day of mixed emotions as our three bedroom home in south Manchester, the sale of which had been proceeding at a glacial pace, completed. We were no longer property owners in the United Kingdom. The home we'd spent so much time and passion renovating transferred to people we hardly knew. Another connection to the UK was broken. We were quids in - but we were also out.

That was the week that was. Emigration complete? Well, nearly....

 

 

'studio 10': getting myself on aussie tv

posted 31 august 2016

Getting tickets for Channel 10's 'Studio 10' programme was nothing more than a few clicks on a facebook post. Two days later, on a Wednesday morning from 08:30-11:01, we found ourselves, true to the triumphant words announced at the show's start, being "beamed across Australia" from the channel's Sydney studios.

Sure the show is populist (what television output in Australia isn't), and putting its dreadful infomercials to one side, I happen to like it because it broadcasts live a mere stone's throw from our Aussie home and so it feels like our local station. The show's panel, made up five Aussies stuffed full of character, wit and japes, is instantly likeable. Their contrasting personalities and sometimes opposing politics makes the programme engaging and the must-watch morning show in our house. I've learnt a little about the Australian character from it, too.

We arrived around 8am - half an hour before the broadcast began - to make sure we got our hands on the much-promised "breakfast and coffee" which turned out to be a very Australian pancake (eat as many as you want) and, sadly, some Nescafe instant. Seeing as the programme is sponsored by the Australian coffee chain Gloria Jean's Coffees, whose miniature mock coffee shop, complete with barista, sits in a corner of the studio for maximum product placement punch, I was a little peeved to be dealt this inferior source of caffeine. However, every member of the audience is in line for a freebie. Each day a company is given a minute to display its product and, as part of the sponsorship deal, everyone in the audience gets one when the show's over. Luckily for me the product featured was a small canvas bag, worth $100 and, which, just so happened to be a perfect replacement for the increasingly tatty bag I take with me on my travels (so tatty, in fact, that on I took to mending it with needle and thread in a bus station in Bosnia and Herzegovina as I waited for my bus to Montenegro).

"Have you been here before?" the Audience Coordinator asked as we arrived, to which I said it was our first time. "Welcome to the family", she beamed. With our photo ID checked and our bodies waved with a security wand by an equally friendly security guard, we were into the studios along with, seemingly, twenty or so regular audience members one of whom was celebrating his 65th birthday and who received a happy birthday sing song from the presenters at the end of the show.

Unlike being in a TV audience in the UK where TV production can be ever so serious and a little pompous, I was able to take as many photos as I wanted to during the programme. Watching an Australian TV show being put together in front of me, with switches between vision, changes in set, live inserts from a reporter 'out in the bush', an unexpected breaking news item and a seamless changing of guests, was all rather fascinating. Seeing Sarah Harris, Joe Hildebrand, Denise 'Ding Dong' Drysdale and Jessica Rowe, who've regularly lit up my TV on a weekday morning, in the flesh, was pretty awesome.

We sat at the back by choice but still managed to appear on screen, albeit briefly, as the programme opened and a camera panned across a clapping audience responding like robots to the flashing "APPLAUSE" sign (left). For two seconds my face was indeed, and unfortunately for the Aussies, "beamed across Australia" from Studio 10. Ripper!

 

 

birthday on the bondi to bronte coastal walk

posted 15 august 2016

Walking the 6km from the world famous Bondi Beach, through Tamara and onto Bronte Beach (and back) is an awesome way to spend your birthday - especially when the winter weather in New South Wales isn't wintry in the British sense of the word. Sure, 'winter' here can comprise tempestuous storms with sheets of water falling unrelentingly for days but, more often than not, is comprised of the very opposite: beautifully blue skies, temperatures at a balmy twenty and a light breeze.

This most famous and most walked track in Sydney comes with a kaleidoscope of unusual flora (reds, pinks, yellows - even silvers) and the opportunity to snap iconic sights such as surfers with their boards riding the waves and groups of friends playing Beach Volleyball. There is also some pretty good street art to be found around Bondi Beach itself which, through skilful deployment of the spray can, helps to capture the trendy, surfey essence of the place.

Such a picturesque coastal walk as this, meandering along the coastline, and which looks out into the azure and turquoise blues of the South Pacific Ocean, brought me face-to-face with some of the deepest, richest natural colours I think I have ever seen. It is quite possible to imagine that you are partaking, as an extra, in an episode of Home and Away where someone has turned the colour temperature and brightness knobs to their maximum position. Your artificial instagram filters are superfluous on this walk - Mother Nature takes care of it.

 

 

"everybody needs good neighbours..." 

posted 28 july 2016

I'm constantly wrong-footed by neighbours wishing me "G'day" - even when I go to bring in the bins. They don't seem to understand that the proper way to treat your neighbours is:
a) to regard them with ongoing and completely unfounded suspicion;
b) to believe that every neighbour hates you and therefore needs to be ignored at all costs except when the situation renders this completely unavoidable (i.e: when walking along the same pavement and an awkward 'meeting place' occurs);
c) to ensure that a scowl is your default facial expression, rather than a smile, in a bid to shut down any likelihood of a dangerous situation of verbal interaction occurring;
d) to plan any exiting of your property well in advance by surreptitiously looking out of the window to check that no one deserving of even superficial interaction is about to socially ambush you with a greeting. Skilful operators of this particular rule will, from long study, know their neighbours' daily routines and will make maximum use of this information in avoiding the distress of coming face-to-face with a friendly neighbour.

Aussies could learn a lot from the British. I'm convinced these greetings are a local plot hatched by my neighbours to make me feel totally uncomfortable in this new land and a way to bully us out of the street.

The photo which accompanies this post is the view from our front door - the little white letterbox is ours. Our house faces 'Paradise Reserve' - a small patch of land somewhere between park and grass verge set aside for nature (these are all over the city). It's home to eucalyptus trees, some amazing-sounding birds and a bag lady who goes rummaging in the bushes in the morning from time to time! The whole ensemble is a wonderful sight when I go out to collect the morning post from our letterbox - if I'm accosted by a friendly neighbour it's an added bonus.

 

 

back to the future with a one-way ticket

posted 25 july 2016 

I have purchased many a one-way ticket in my time. But this was different; momentous, even (and not so because of its extortionate price tag). This was a one-way ticket from London to Sydney: my emigration had reached its second, and final, stage. I had spent the last three months back in the UK tying-up some very important loose ends but I was now leaving the country of my birth for the last time - with only a distant, foggy idea that I may return at some point in the future. Having been out here in March setting up the basics of a home I was, quite literally, heading back to the future. My flight, lasting close to twenty four hours, slowly but surely shifted Australia from the future and in to the present. I would no longer be able to think of life in Oz using the future tense. It was in the now and it positively demanded use of the present participle.

This ticket signalled a shift in tense, but also status. Typing this in our little house with its Aussie-style tin roof and a 'dunny' in the yard, I am very obviously no longer a traveller here; no longer a visitor or a tourist. I'm now a permanent resident of Australia and 'Sydneysider'. Trust me, it's as intimidating and exciting as it sounds.

 

 

end of the northern line: all change please

posted 24 june 2016

This post marks the end of what has been the most formative chapter in my life: seventeen years of living in England's North is now coming to a close. I have been an honorary northerner for most of my adult life - and now I'm set to swap its humble red brick buildings, familiar grey skies and cold snaps for the glass towers, oppressive heat and bright lights of a corporate Sydney. The image which accompanies this post is particularly fitting - even prescient and prophetic. The evocative Tyne Bridge in Newcastle being, as it is, so reminiscent of the iconic bridge at Sydney's Harbour.

The North has been good to me. This oft maligned part of England has motivated and inspired me in equal measure‎. I know more about Northern England than I do the part of the country where I was born and raised. I understand its mentality and adore its architecture. I take great joy in listening to its accents and have marvelled at its landscapes. I have studied in its universities, taught in its run-down schools and danced, perhaps badly, in its nightclubs and bars. It was in Leeds where I met the love of my life. It was in Leeds where we bought our first home. Our adorable cat, who is joining us on our Australian adventure, is also from Leeds and meows with a proud, Yorkshire accent.‎ It was in Sunderland where I discovered I could be a great teacher. It was in Newcastle-upon-Tyne where I learned that I could get through to even the most disenfranchised and damaged of children. It was in Manchester where my career reached a new peak - and it was in Manchester where I got married.

And it is Manchester which now represents the end of my journey on the Northern Line - one which has taken me from the soot-stained sandstone cottages of Yorkshire, to the majestic and masculine bridges of Tyneside, and to the red brick Victorian glories of Granadaland. At the risk of mixing my metaphors here, the Northern Line runs through me like an artery. It is, however, time to disembark; time to alight here. I've reached the end of the Northern Line. Thanks for the journey. It's been real.

The Station Master of Life trumpets triumphantly through the tannoy, "Your next destination will be Sydney Central. Please take all of your belongings, wits and hope with you. All change please, all change."

 

 

the day the movers came: a magical burglary

posted 17 june 2016

One of the most stressful episodes in our emigration (aside from those relating to securing the visa) has now passed: the dismantlement of the home. Of course, the home has been slowly disassembled over many months now: unwanted, broken and duplicate things binned, more valuable but superfluous items sold on, other things too specialist or special to vend have been given away to friends and family. The slow erosion of the home is manageable – liberating, even. You gain extra space you never knew you had. You make money from things you don't care for.

Today, however, was different. This was a full disembowling of domesticity. Three whirling dervishes with Mancunian accents descended on my home: their brown packing materials and long tape reels swirling and flying in the air like an ill-thought out beige fete. Within a mere three hours our colourful and characterful possessions were encased and suffocated in default, standard-issue packing materials. The lounge quickly became populated by strangely-shaped taupe objects: a new emigrant people preparing to set sail on their maiden voyage. For me, the whole spectacle hovered uneasily between burglary and impressive magic trick. The appearance of a white van outside meant that this act of magic could draw to its inevitable conclusion. Everything vanished in a puff of petrol fumes.

The house now echoes to my voice and to my footsteps. It’s a strange and unsettling feeling – but an emancipatory one, too. The cat looks around the empty shell befuddled and anxious. It is, perhaps, fitting that, emblazoned repetitiously across this cardboard army, were the words FRAGILE FRAGILE FRAGILE...

I went to make a cup of coffee only to find my coffee cups had vanished along with everything else: Ta-Dah! and Ta-Rah!

 

 

completing the aussie administrative jigsaw

posted 28 april 2016   

Today's post has been prompted by the overnight arrival of the last piece of what has been a rather unforgiving Australian administrative jigsaw. It's the final stage of a process which has taken well over a year to complete. As I fix this final bit into place, I am unsure as to the picture this Aussie jigsaw has created. I can say one thing for certain: it's a picture of uncertainty.

One thing you learn early on in the process of migrating to Australia is that the Australian government, and its states, are rigorously officious and love paperwork. They eat, sleep and breathe registration numbers, documents and evidence: you will not enter Australia unless they want you to and on their terms. The authorities, whose multifarious departments and wings thereof I have grappled with, know everything about me: my heritage, my qualifications, my pension and the state of my health.

Obtaining each piece of the jigsaw has cost, too. I have had to pay at each stage of the assessment. Nothing has been helpful, nothing has been gratuit. This is no free ride. For posterity's sake I have added the approximate costs of each stage of the process alongside. Of course, this migration is not about money - but so often has been. As part record, and part therapeutic recount, this is how I completed my Aussie jigsaw...

Stage 1: Gather all documents required for my teacher assessment with the Department of Immigration & Border Protection's gazetted quango AITSL. AITSL will assess my eligibility to be a high school teacher in Australia and is, for migrating teachers, the gatekeeper to Australia. Without its say so, I will not be permitted to apply for a visa. This process involved certifying documents, obtaining fresh transcripts from all three of my former universities as the originals were deemed lacking and countless emails backwards and forth seeking clarification. In one case, the University of Newcastle's Education Department had to produce three separate transcripts of my teaching qualification. I am glad to say that, in the end, it was third time lucky. AITSL charge: £350. Certification of documents costs: £250. University transcripts: £60. Time taken: 22 weeks.

Stage 2: I now have my AITSL certificate. It arrived in the post from Australia. This means I can progress to the next stage. Here I set up my IMMI account with the Department of Immigration & Border Protection. However, I do not make the threshold of a minimum of 60 points. Without this I will fail the points test and not progress to the next stage. Therefore...

Stage 3: I book my IELTS (International English Language Testing System) at Manchester University, revise and prepare, sit the exams alongside a whole host of international students on the day and, a fortnight afterwards, I receive my results: Superior English (the small matter of having two degrees in English and being a native English speaker cuts no ice with the Australian visa system - I must prove it. Even my first class degree in English is not proof, apparently). Superior does not only mean that I now meet the minimum threshold required - but go way above it, with a new total of 75 points and thus I leapfrog over others who have more average visa points scores of 60, 65 and 70. I will be among the first to be invited by the DIBP to apply for a visa having submitted my Expression of Interest (EoI). IELTS Cost: £150. Time: 10 weeks.

Stage 4: I return to my IMMI account and input my IELTS scores and submit my EoI application just in time for the next invitation round of ehich there are two per month. Some people with lower point scores languish on the EoI list for months, whilst those with higher scores go to the 'top of the pile'. It's cruel but part of the Aussie mentality - they only let the best in. I received an invitation to formally apply for my visa four days later.

Stage 5: This is a big one. It involves an upload of nearly fifty documents covering identity, skilled employment, language capability, a police background check, a health check and the nature of my relationship with my partner. Cost: £2150. Time: 30 weeks.

Stage 6: In order to teach in New South Wales I need to be registered with the Board of Studies and Educational Standards (BOSTES). I can't complete the online application form until I have a Working With Children Check (WWCC) number to input. To obtain one I need to have proof of address and need to pay the fee in person in a New South Wales state registry office. Bugger! I have to satisfy myself with a part setting up of my account with the Office of the Children's Guardian (OCG) and wait until I'm New South Wales next. The process is now on officially on hold but, in the meantime, I make sure I have sufficient copies of my qualifications and identity documents certified and ready for rapid deployment in this neverending bureaucratic battle. Cost: nothing but valuable time. Time: 3 months until I am in Australia in person.

Stage 7: I am now in Australia. Without doubt the most efficicent part of this whole affair was attending the NSW state office - a one-stop-shop of of state bureaucracy. First I had to register with them. At the same time I submitted an online application for my WWCC and used my newly-created account with the state of New South Wales to pay the $80 fee for my check. To my relief I had just the right documentation for them to register me and, in a rare example of flexixbility, allowed me to use my very temporary AirBNB accomodation booking (visible on a printed receipt) as proof of my address otherwise I would have had to wait until securing a proper shorthold tenancy... My WWCC comes through a fortnight later as an email just as I land back in the UK. Cost: £70. Time: 2 weeks.

Stage 8: Now that I have my all-important WWCC number, I can now complete my online BOSTES registration. I submit the form and deploy from their base in Sydney, via Australia Post, my certified qualifications certificates which had, military-wise, lain in strict, regimented order for their instruction to charge forth. I was getting good at this. My BOSTES registration comes through a week later as an email. Cost £50. Time: 2 weeks.

Stage 9: Now that I have my WWCC and my BOSTES numbers I can complete the Department for Education & Community's (DEC) online form to be eligible to work in state schools. This costs me nothing but I do have to complete a short module on child protection before submitting it. I am now in a queue on a first-come first-served basis for casual work in the Sydney area of NSW. Cost: £0. Time: Still waiting.

...and that is the story of how I assembled my Aussie jigsaw: sometimes a battle which I was close to cowardly waving the white flag at but one which brought out the stubborn fighter in me. It was a battle I won but only because of a tenacity I never knew I had, and a relish for beating the system - which I always knew I did have.

Total cost: £3100. Total Time: 16 months. Sleepless nights: Inestimable.

 

 

moving words at the welcome wall

posted 10 april 2016   

The word 'immigrant' is so frequently bound up with negative connotations and this blog is not the right place to debate this moot issue, suffice to say that having been firmly on one side of the fence all my life (the native, the indigenous, the homegrown) I am now on the other side (the alien, the foreigner, the outsider). I am now an immigrant - doing what so many others have done for hundreds of years: seeking out a better life for myself as I realise, in these days of 'yolo' and bucket lists, I only have one and so had better make the most of it. It is a migration I have had to fight for, a migration I have had to spend thousands securing and a migration I have had to dedicate hundreds of hours, jumping through ever more complicated and demanding administrative hoops, to achieve.

Featuring extracts of immigrants' experiences from a range of sources, The Welcome Wall, installed in 1999 at Sydney's Darling Harbour, commemorates and celebrates the six million plus people who have "crossed the seas to settle in Australia." I am now one of them. A bronze installation which I walked past and glanced at only nonchalantly at first quickly drew me in as personal tales of hardship resonated at this, the end of my third week as one of Australia's newest immigrants. One inscription from a Lebanese man struck a cord: "Everyone in Lebanon saw Australia as a dream country. When you get there it's not so. You have to start again. Ninety percent of the people from Lebanon come from the country. It's hard enough moving in your own country from the bush to the city let alone doing it on the other side of the world."

I suppose I found this entry consoling - personal testimony to how hard being an immigrant can be. Some 10,000 miles away from Dover's White Cliffs, I reflected on what we'd taken on; reflected on what we'd done; reflected on what we'd managed to achieve so far and reflected on the as yet unknown difficulties which inevitably lay ahead.

Thanks to my good friend Marjorie Morgan for the perfect 'Moving Words' title of this post.

 

 

cheapskate immigrants: vinnies & 2ndsworld

posted april 2016    

The fact of the matter is that 85% of emigrating is dealing with the practical and the everyday. It's less about wandering off into a field of dreams and more about which telecom company you're going to choose or which is the cheapest supermarket in your area. We had a rental agreement for a home, we had the keys and we had a bed, but that was about it. The panic at not even having a plate to eat off can easily lead to you throwing money at the problem by walking into the nearest expensive department store and spending hundreds on everyday essentials simply because you lack the local know-how.

Thankfully the Glebe branch of the Australian institution that is Vinnies came to the rescue. It was a veritable scrum of a charity shop with all of the basics we needed... An hour later I emerged from the store with a document shredder, two glasses, two mugs, two large plates, four small plates, three bowls, a glass water jug, a chrome jug for the coffee machine and two Ikea storage boxes all for $35 (£18). With so much of our emigration being super expensive, it was satisfying to feel like I was beating the system for a change. Thanks Vinnies!

In the UK renters are used to having white goods included with the property - even if it is labelled as an 'unfurnished' rental. This means that renting Australians cart their washing machines, fridges and freezers from house to house. It also means that if you're new to renting you have to buy your own. A tip from the estate agent led us to another of Sydney's secrets: 2ndsworld. Through its clunky and outdated website 2ndsworld specialises in end-of-lines, carton damaged stock and appliances with minor blemishes, shaving hundreds of dollars off of what I consider to be 'perfectly good goods'. In a single order delivered to our door we bought a small fridge freezer, a TV, a quintessentially Australian top-loading washing machine, a DAB radio, a telephone with answering machine and an iron. Thanks 2ndsworld!

Between them, Vinnies and 2ndsworld kitted our house out, turning it from an empty white box and into a liveable home with all of the basics in place. An obligatory trip to Ikea was up next - but I'll spare you the details suffice only to say that the Australian version of Ikea had some very interesting tweaks to its usual layout which reflected the cultural differences in this part of the world.

 

 

surviving my first aussie spider experience

posted 6 april 2016    

The fear of Australia's nasty insects is the hook upon which many an Englishman hangs his fear of emigrating to Australia. It's often cited, perhaps melodramatically, as the reason 'I could never live in Australia'. Australia's reputation as the home to some dangerous spider species certainly precedes it. To the British, whose experience of spiders reaches its peak at a pathetically-sized, half-limp-from-the-cold and harmless spider coming in for a quick warm by the radiator, Australia's in comparison are the stuff of many a Brit's nightmares. In the English mind Australia is synonymous with spiders first and cute kangaroos second. This has not gone unnoticed by Aussies. The British are renowned for having particularly acute arachnophobia.

Within two weeks of emigrating to Sydney I had my first spider experience. I had just collected the keys to our new home in Pyrmont and had hired Karl and his ute to help me get a bed and mattress from Potts Point over to the new house. As he was getting the mattress from the back of his ute I took to opening the metal insect screen and then the main door to the property. Something dropped onto my hand from above, hitting me and then fell further to the ground. Karl was alerted by whatever exclamation I had made. "I think I've just had my first Aussie spider experience" I said, looking at the ground. He bent over to take a closer look. "Ah, that's one of the good guys. He'll eat all of the insects in your house, you know." He knocked it across the front yard with his boot - pretty much deadening it (I think by accident). I put my house keys alongside it to place its size in context (left) and took a photograph which I later shared on social media, much to the horror and revulsion of friends back home. Karl then undid his reassuring stance: "Funny that this should happen to you today as this morning I brought a plant in from the garden and a redback spider ran across my boy's legs. He must have been on the plant. I thought my son was being a big drama queen shouting "redback!" but I saw it too when I ran in from the kitchen". I laughed, not really knowing anything about redbacks. Quickly correcting my laugh, Karl, more serious this time, said "it could have killed him". My laugh quickly morphed into a silent and stunned open mouth. Karl went on to educate me thus: any bite from a redback results in excruciating pain and a life-and-death phonecall for an ambulance (dial 000 he advised further). He returned to reassurance mode: "Don't worry, it's been years since anyone has died from a spider bite. All ambulance crews in Australia carry anti-venom for redback bites."

I don't mind coming across spiders if I happen to be lifting rocks out in the garden. I would expect it. But this thing fell on me from above when I was opening my front door! This is what had unnerved me the most - even considering that, by Australian standards, this spider is a titch (but by British standards a beast). After this incident, part of me wished we had opted for the relative safety of a white box apartment ten floors up in a modern block, rather than an old Australian bungalow with a tin roof and located opposite a wildlife reserve. I don't mind admitting that after this brush with an Aussie arachnid I have taken to shaking out all footwear before putting them on. I also hang clothes up at night, rather than leaving them on the floor.

 

 

postcode 2009: home sweet home?

posted 5 april 2016   

Well, after my post of the 29th March our luck in house-hunting changed. I suppose you could say that we made our own luck in finding our first home in Oz.

We were in Pyrmont, district 2009 to locals, viewing another property. It was run down, had the worst back yard imaginable (best described as a concrete slab sloping at near 45°) and faced directly onto a main road with all the inevitable noise and fumes that location would suggest. There was a four hour gap between this and the later viewing and so decided to 'walk the street' to check out the area. We were several hours before the official viewing time but, we noticed, a man was inside who, we thought, was a maintenance man doing a bit of last minute tidying up (it later turned out to be the landlord). We took our chance and asked if we could look around. He was Chinese and spoke very little English. He could only say no, right? Luckily for us he was more than happy for us to have a free roam around as he finished off some paint work. The house had every thing that so many in this price range didn't. The place felt right instantly. It was the complete opposite of yet another soulless apartment in yet another anonymous glass-clad tower accessible only by lift. This was a bungalow with a characteristically Aussie tin roof, was part of a little neighbourhood and faced a small wooded area with grass, a couple of benches and eucalyptus trees (these areas are known as reserves in Australia) with some awesome-sounding birdsong. This, my friends, was a traditional Australian house stuffed full of quirks and idiosyncrasies. We had to have it.

We had three hours' head start against the rest of the rental horde destined to descend on the property and so we immediately got to work in pulling out all the stops to secure the property. As UK homeowners we had no rental record nor references and so were, in this competitive Sydney market, on the back foot. We hot-footed it back to our AirBnB rental apartment at Potts Point which quickly became the nerve centre of our mission to get this house: extra detail was added to the application form, a letter was drafted to the landlord listing all of the reasons why we'd make good tenants, character references and even the pdf of the estate agent's flyer for our UK house sale, showing a cared-for and stylish abode, were offered up to the agent who passed them onto the landlord - as were the two financial sweeteners of an extra $25 per week in rent (about £15) as well as a month's rent in advance. Excessive? No. It did the trick - and we got the house the next day without any other Sydneysider seeing it.

So, after what initially seemed like an impossible task, we had secured our first home in Australia in the Pyrmont (pronounced 'Piermont') district of Sydney. I take great comfort from the fact that, unlike so many others moving to Sydney, we didn't head straight for the much-celebrated area Surry Hills. Instead we carved out our own path and didn't default in this way. As it happens, our Pyrmont home has a perfect location: it's a stone-throw from the newly-opened Light Rail with a direct link to Sydney Central station; a GIA supermarket selling all of life's essentials (even more essential when you consider we arrived with little else than the shirts on our back) and a dozen or so small restaurants and cafes serving cuisines from all over the world including Korean, French and Thai. The icing on the Pyrmont cake is the fact that Channel Ten television studios are a mere three-minute walk from the house with opportunities to be in the audience for a variety of light-weight television programmes. It's quite a strange thing to be watching a live show on 'ten' knowing that it's all coming from the bottom of your garden...

Welcome to Pyrmont, our first home in Australia...

 

 

a day at the iconic bondi beach

posted 3 april 2016    

This is, arguably, the most famous beach in the world. I am not a fan of beaches - but a visit to Bondi is different. It's different because it's a place at the very heart of Australia's outdoorsy culture equalled only, perhaps, by a visit to Australia's 'interior', known more colloquially as The Outback.

My Bondi induction came at the end of my first week as an immigrant in Oz. It's a quintessentially Aussie place and far less pretentious than I expected - stuffed full of people of all shapes and sizes. The real draw for me, still in tourist mode, were the surfers riding some incredible, and equally fierce, waves coming in from the South Pacific Ocean. There was also a little surf school in full flow on the beach. Arranged in a semi-circle, teenage-somethings took instructions from a blonde, straggly-haired surfer dude, mimicking his moves by paddling on the sand. Add to this the iconic lifeguards, sporting red and yellow 'Surf Rescue' gear (left) and beach watchtowers and it's safe to say Bondi is pretty ace. Even dogs have a paddling pool in which to enjoy their time at the beach.

 

 

rental mental

posted 29 march 2016    

Renting in Sydney: I didn't expect it to be easy, and of course I expected for there to be a high demand for property, but I expected it to be nothing like this. Sydney is most definitely a landlords' market.

You have to register for viewings online and receive text message confirmations - there is no human involved. Unbeknown to us you must have an Australian mobile phone number to do this otherwise your 'application' will not be accepted - computer says no. Cue hot-footing it to the local Coles supermarket to buy a SIM card which was not accepted by either of our locked mobiles. Cue second visit to Coles to buy a cheap handset. We were then given our long-fought for fifteen-minute appointment time. Computer said yes. Everyone else is given the same time, too: group viewings not individual ones. You're so naive. You arrive at the property in good time - and watch as, slowly but surely, half of Sydney arrives by foot and by taxi. You view them as competitors. It's not unlike going for a job interview. A minute before the allotted time the estate agent arrives, giving only a cursory glance to the ever-growing cohort of expectant, and tired, faces. She sets up a small advert board with the company name emblazoned across it. She knows the cards are stacked in her favour and gives not one iota more effort or politeness than she has to. She doesn't care for your plight - doesn't care that this unfair affair could scupper your dreams of a new life abroad. This is brutal supply and demand at its most cruellest and she is a small part of the machine. She beckons the crowd in who walk around the property, beleaguered and disheartened at seeing yet another over-priced, underwhelming abode. Some prospective tenants try to schmooze her in the hope this will advance their application should they put in their offer. It doesn't work. She is a robot going through the motions. She has twenty other viewings to do in Sydney today - and her route is mapped out by a computer which seeks to maximise number of properties by minute.

Our first day of viewings got off to an ominous start with a viewing at an old Victorian terrace in the Paddington area of the city (left). We were the first to arrive but were soon joined by others. The outside of the property was absurd - but this was no comedy. This house, with guttering missing, rusting tin corrugated roof, barred windows thick with dust, a rotting balcony and a door which hadn't been painted for at least fifty years was, indeed, up for rent. We decided to go through with the viewing - but only because, having made the long walk there, we felt we may as well see the whole, strange process through in the hope that it would place us at a greater advantage in later viewings. It may also illuminate us (ironic use - see later) as to the dimensions of this very Australian style of terraced property. What shocked me most was that others were still keen to view despite the Hammer House of Horror exterior - much of which was obscured by a large overgrown tree with tentacled roots swaying in the wind and whose trunk had spilled over the kerb, liquid-wise, and onto the road itself. I noticed that the electricity box above the door (which had number '12' on it but may just as well have had '13'), had a large yellow sticker across it saying 'disconnected!' Umpteen horror film clips replayed in my mind like a Gothic celluloid montage. The viewing of the interior took place in dim light owing to the lack of electricity but also because the sunshine was impeded by the overgrown tree and by the filth on the windows. We were in and out within four minutes - stopping only to marvel at the audacity of the faceless landlord who thinks this is all okay. I left angry and disillusioned. We retreated back to our rented flat in Potts Point for a regroup and an evening searching our souls and the internet for more dwellings.

 

 

triffids, aldi, elephants & container wars...

posted 16 march 2016   

There are many things you can take with you to Australia and there are many things which are forbidden. Some are obvious but others may surprise you. Anyone who's ever flown to the country knows you're not even allowed to take that little packet of free peanuts and raisins with you from the plane. All snacks must be left behind on the aircraft. Similarly, the partial 'hurray' I felt inside when I spotted an Aldi supermarket in Sydney on my holiday last year was short-lived. The familiar Aldi logo on the outside belied the fact that every food item on the inside was completely different. No chance of buying my Aldi usuals Down Under, then?

And this underscores a crucial point: Australia has a unique biodiversity - and it wants to keep it that way. So, it was especially sad saying goodbye to my home's little green friends (left) this week but, obviously, they couldn't come with us - not only would they not make the arduous journey but there was the tiny matter of it being completely illegal to bring any natural or organic items into Oz. My triffids are now adjusting to a new life in Liverpool. The day the triffids went was the point at which one more bit of my home's soul departed and also the point at which my new life Down Under edged that little bit closer.

And it doesn't stop there. Sheepskin rugs are also a red flag to DAFF (Department of Agriculture, Farming and Fisheries) and are best not taken in your shipping container if you want to avoid any hold-ups at the port. Oh - and don't forget that elephant handicraft from India carved out of wood. Whilst it may be varnished, are its feet varnished (and therefore sealed)? No? Then this could also be a problem which leads to you being fined and the item destroyed. And what about that wallhanging from Burma made out of palm leaves? Hmm, they'll not like that either. The small hand-held drum from Palestine with animal skin stretched across the top? Better check first. Then there's anything that has been used outdoors, including footwear and bike gear. It needs to be scrubbed spotless or else. In fact, it's probably best all round that you take your bike to the car wash. We've been advised to bathe our boots in stinky Jeyes fluid as a tactic to reassure any paranoid DAFF inspector who comes sniffing around our life's possessions. By the time I've excluded everything on their banned list, I'm not sure I'll need a third of a shipping container any more. What's left will probably fit in my back pocket.

 

 

the dilemma of moving our cat down under

posted 24 february 2016   

I'm a real animal lover and, over the last decade, have become immensely fond of our cat Muffin. We bought her from a rescue centre in Yorkshire and it has been the best £80 we have ever spent. As any cat owner knows, taking on a cat is a lifelong commitment. She really is the centre of our home and contemplating life without the little ball of fluff is very painful. From the off things were clear: no cat = no Australia. It's a dealbreaker.

You find yourself asking whether it's selfish to put a cat through the challenges of injections, quarantine and a near 11,000 mile flight. If only we could ask our cat what she would like to do but, of course, we can't. Of all of the things we'll be taking with us, Muffin is indeed the most precious of cargos. We've enlisted the help of PetAir UK, a pet emigration company which is co-ordinating Muffin's journey from Essex to Heathrow to Melbourne and then another flight onto Sydney after a ten day stint in quarantine. She'll be placed in a heated part of the plane's hold and, I hope, be in no more discomfort than the human passengers above. She'll be in her own purpose-built cage which is sprayed with relaxing pheromones.

I'm concerned that, if we left her behind, she'd never be cared for in the way we care for her and that she'd pine for us. You only have to see her perform and roll about on the carpet when we return home from a few weeks of travelling to know that she really enjoys our company and that there is a special bond between her and us. Talking to a mother whose daughter has emigrated to Sydney reassured me: she had left the cat behind with a close friend but, after a year, the cat was still so miserable that she had no choice but to arrange for her furry pal to join her, at great expense, in her new life Down Under. The realities hit home this week with a rather unpleasant set of events at the local vet who was trying to shave a patch of fur to complete the blood sampling required for the Rabies certificate for importation to Australia. Muffin had to return a second time to be sedated in order to allow the vet to do what he had to do. It is rather distressing seeing an animal you love upset and frightened and it has left me wondering, again, whether we are doing the right thing by taking her. As I type this she is sat next to me purring away as if the events of today at the vet had never taken place.

 

 

the revenge of the stuff

posted 06 february 2016   

Above everything else, bizarrely, this is the issue which has plagued me the most about emigrating: what do I do with all of my belongings? One accumulates so much stuff without even realising - especially if you have settled in one place for a few years. The anxiety about what's going to happen to it all is almost enough to stop your dreams of emigrating dead in their tracks. The old adage that your belongings soon end up owning you has never felt more true. 'We can't emigrate - look at all the stuff we have!' and 'We'll lose so much money trying to sell it ' and 'It's taken years to earn the money to buy...' are some of the thoughts which have plagued me endlessly. I want to start a new life - but this is the revenge of the stuff! Of course, it sounds ridiculous to not start a new, exciting chapter in your life just because of some clothing, furniture and objects d'art. Clinging to possessions is really a proxy battle: for 'possessions' supplant 'home' and 'the familiar' and you can see why the things you own can quickly end up owning you. It's the displacement of fear onto inanimate objects.

I began where most migrators do: ebay. I've managed to raise around £1,000 from selling stuff tucked away in cupboards, duplicates or things I'd fallen out of love with. The charity shop is the next port of call - the perfect place to send all of your 'what the hell is thats' and 'what was I thinkings'. It's when you progress from these two easier stages to the third where things become tough - the getting rid of stuff you actually like but know you don't or won't need. At this particularly tricky third stage seeking out friends or family who will really appreciate (and care for) some of the things you give away can take the sting out of this tail and keep you on course to win the battle.

For the stuff I just can't let go of I have to 'fess that it'll sail across the world's oceans and meet me at a port near Sydney in a few months' time courtesy of a shipping company. Not only will this mean I feel less bereft in my new home but it may just help fend off the worst of any homesickness once the initial excitement of 'Oh my god I did it!' has subsided. I'm all for a mid-life reboot but a complete annihilation of my life so far is discombobulating and far from healthy. I prefer to think of my emigration as a continuation and augmentation of my pre-existing life - not a complete wipe out and so some stuff is here to stay. It's a tie-break.

 

 

dipping my toe in to australian banking 

posted 03 february 2016     

Well, I am now the proud owner of an Australian current and savings account having been able to open this online and from the safety of my office back in the UK. I opted for a bank called Westpac - one of Australia's biggest banks and, according to its website, Australia's first ever bank. Obviously, this special type of migrant account can only be rendered fully operational by a visit in person at a branch Down Under but at least I have an account number and, err, BSB (the sort code equivalent). Still, you can't have everything and at least this is one item ticked off of my mundane migration list. Banking is likely to be a concern for any migrant and there are things to consider before making your choice.
Location: Unlike in the UK, banks in Oz do not share cash machines and so using your card in a competitor's ATM will cost you per withdrawal. Select your bank according to how many ATMs they have in your area.
Funding: If you want to transfer a sizeable chunk of your GBP into an AUD account think about using a transfer company which invariably has better rates. A short term solution could be to use your UK credit card by loading it with cash before you leave the UK, withdrawing it on arrival and then paying it into your branch.
Exchange: Keep an eye on the GBP to AUD exchange rate. Choosing the right time to convert your money could save you quite a lot.

 

 

destination chronicle: south east australia

posted 30 january 2016     

The launch of The Australia Blog is the perfect opportunity to share, in a new location, my Australia Destination Chronicle from August 2015. 

My journey to Australia marked my 66th country and, touching down on the continent of Oceania, my fifth continent too. Going Down Under is the furthest south I have ever travelled and the first time I've crossed the Equator; Australia therefore broke new travel ground - metaphorically and literally. This was a mini road trip along part of the famous Princes Highway and a small part of the picturesque Grand Pacific Drive from Sydney down the coast to Melbourne, stopping along the way at lesser-known places like Narooma and Mallacoota to sample Aussie life outside of the big cities. A visit to New South Wales' Blue Mountains at Blackheath and Katoomba using the Aussie train network ensured we sampled Australia's bushland too. Our adventure was therefore deliberately varied: cosmopolitan cities, coastlines, countryside, bushland and frontier towns with Wild West-style architecture - all by rail and by hire car. Read More

 

 

...and now the start of something else...

posted 29 january 2016    

It has been a long time coming but a visa, which gives me the right to live and work in Australia permanently, has arrived and it's all systems go for my first ever emigration - a mere 10,000+ miles away from everything I know. It will be great but I also have no doubt it will be really hard, too. There are lots of opportunities and, I have no doubt, lots of hurdles. I'm approaching this pragmatically: not everything is going to be sunshine and koalas. Obviously the awarding of the visa is the near end of the bureaucratic journey which has lasted, seemingly, years. It has taken us through periods of hope, periods of despair and periods of naive ignorance along the lines of 'it'll be okay' to get to this stage. It has been a process with its own rules, unfamiliar use of language, a whole host of new acronyms (AITSL, BOSTES, IMMI, DIBP, WWCC, VEVO) and unique sense of glacial timing...

This administrative roller-coaster has also included the expensive certification of documents by notaries, the contacting of three former universities for amended transcripts and other course-related documents, the sitting of English language exams at Manchester University (even though I am English born and have a first class degree in the subject) to increase my visa points score and thus my chances of receiving a visa invite sooner rather than later, and the humiliation of standing in my tighty whities in a med migration clinic being given the once over - including a HIV test. All of this has cost the not insignificant sum of £3,000. One thing is for certain: if you're not committed to migrating to Australia, you simply won't make it. You need stamina, a degree in Franz Kafka, another degree in patience - oh, and lots of money.

Having completed all of the hard work, it is only now that the real hard work begins. This is only the end of the beginning and the start of...something else. Not to overwhelm myself too soon but among my next steps are the finding of a place to live, getting a tax file number, having a Working with Children Check, registering with the teaching body in New South Wales and the small matter of finding a job!

 

 

 

 

Go with a clear, open and accepting spirit and the country will not treat you badly.
Australian Aboriginal Proverb