Mallee Born

I have talked before, about being born into “a dry husk in the middle of nowhere” – well, the "dry husk" is actually called Geranium, a town located in an area known as the Murray Mallee, and while this tiny farming community did have its virtues; a great community spirit being among them, relative peace and quiet, and a child’s winter scrubland discovery park out the back of the ole homestead, being others; the isolation (both social and geographical), the drab dry landscape, the searing heat, the flies and the lack of general facilities, were points I remember with just a little disdain.

As a child I had woefully awful looking teeth and compromised hearing. This winning combination of mild impediments meant I had to travel to the city, from time to time, to see specialists. “The city” was a good two hour drive away, but despite the distance, I didn’t mind these trips, because the city was somewhat of a wonder to me.

The first thirty minutes of our city bound journey were the most excruciating. Mile after mile of unchanging bitumen scenery, skirted with creamy limestone rubble, and thickets of scraggly mallee trees lined the road on either side, limiting the journeyman’s view to the road side and straight ahead. The Mallee Highway would easily make my top 5 list of “most boring stretches of road” (The Hay Plains taking top honours, however).

The final 40 minutes of the journey toward the “big city” were my favourite. Parched flat landscapes transformed into rolling hills, as we began the ascent into the Adelaide foot hills. Brown and golden hues were replaced by cool shadows and lush greenery. The road would start to wind, and the higher we ascended the better the view; where we had been eye level with the golden sway of wheat, an expansive vista emerged, revealing yet more green rolling hills and deep valleys. A sense of relief would wash over me at around a place called Stirling in the Adelaide Hills, where the trees appeared taller and more tightly clustered. A couple of grand old homes would peek out from forest-like surroundings; inspiring my imagination of how urbanised folk might live.

Whenever we went to the city to visit a doctor or orthodontist, we got dressed up in our sacred clothes; the ones we kept for special occasions, the pretty things that were seldom enjoyed. After our round of appointments, we would venture into Rundle Mall to stock up on goods unavailable in our neck of the woods. I enjoyed taking in the sights and sounds of the city; the gardens and buildings, the colour of the stores and their merchandise, the clicketty clop sound my good shoes made on the pavement; dodging the crowds as we huddled under the store fronts and eaves to avoid the rain, drifting along; me a speck within a sea of people. I especially enjoyed studying the clothes that city people wore; the business suits, the high heels, the fabrics and how these various fabrics moved and floated. Everything in “The Mall” was a wonder and a delight to me; our visits made especially sweet by Mum, who allowed us to indulge in a variety of treats not usually available to us in the country; such as a fish and chip lunch in a department store cafeteria, and a chocolate donut for dessert; an ice cream in a cone, a bag of sweets to take home, from Darrell Lea, and usually something else; a book, piece of clothing or a toy. Even when Mum and Dad went to the city alone for the day, they never failed to bring us back a special surprise – it was like receiving a souvenir from their “holiday”!

In reality though, I never got a really good glimpse of city life. Mum would drive into the centre of the city, along the same streets every time; parking in the same car park across from the University of Adelaide, with its Gothic halls looming in the foreground, a place where the grand iron gates set my mind going on yet another fantastical journey. Nevertheless, my impressions of the city were fairly limited, and seemed to leave me ever the more curious and wanting.

I was aware that the city was well populated compared to my little town, which boasted a district of just 80 people when I lived there, but since we always drove along the busy commercial streets, I never really witnessed suburban life, and I remember one day asking my mother where all the city people lived. “In the houses behind all the shops”, was her reply. I took this literally of course, and tried to peer down the narrow alleyways and side roads as we motored past, never really catching a glimpse of those illusive city folk playing in their front yards or doing at-home-city-people-things. Over the years, my curiosity built to a point where I could only see my life and my future there, in the city.

As a ten year old, my family moved from the dry husk in the middle of nowhere, to Murray Bridge; a large rural town straddling the Murray River, approximately located one hour east of Adelaide, but the big city still beckoned, and at seventeen I moved there, seeking employment. I enjoyed my life there. The ocean was close. The energy of my seaside suburb hummed. It was exciting, but as I grew older, I realised that the hustle and bustle, the noise and the concrete claustrophobic jungle were not really for me. I enjoy the various conveniences of the city, but I prefer more lush tranquil environments and expansive horizons. Today, I am happiest where there is opportunity to visit nature on a regular basis, and be blessed with the sounds of birds chattering and the wind whistling as it darts through the leaves of trees. I need to have green colours around me; dry landscapes fill me with a bit of a sense of suffocating panic, like I too might evaporate and shrivel. I enjoy the city, but the country is in my blood and my soul, and if I had to choose, it would be in these, more peaceful havens that you would find me.