Sunday, January 23

 

I have some more information about the phenomenon I’ve just noticed where buyers of slabs of beer remove one can or one stubby from the slab to enjoy on the way home.  Jamie tells me it is a ‘thing’, ‘an Australian tradition’ and ‘everybody knows about it’.  Clearly, I’ve led a sheltered existence.

 

The solitary drink is called a ‘traveller’ and can be a can or a bottle.  In Queensland, though, it is almost invariably a bottle.  The law there is that you can be charged if an opened container of alcohol is found in the vehicle.  Drivers keep the cap of the stubby handy to replace it if they are stopped; you can’t reseal a can.

 

We drove out to Burnie yesterday, stopping at Latrobe for coffee on the way.  While Marilyn waited in the coffee shop for our drinks, I walked Archie up and down on the footpath.  A car pulled in behind us and a man of about my age, with his wife, climbed out and headed for the café.  The man realised he had forgotten something, turned back to the car and collected his mask.

 

“Don’t forgot your mask,” I said. “Or you’ll be in trouble.”  I realised too late that I shouldn’t have spoken.  He replied with a snarl, “Bloody useless thing.  Does no good and the government won’t even tell us where the hot spots are.”  To make sure I heard him, he repeated, ”They won’t tell us where the bloody hot spots are.”

 

I had broken two of my longstanding rules.  I had made eye contact and I had initiated a conversation.  I call them the Dodge City Rules, and I find that they are useful when you are visiting a strange town (like Dodge City).

The rules are:

1.     Never make eye contact with a stranger,

2.     Never start a conversation with a stranger,

3.     If a stranger talks to you, make a non-committal answer and get away as quickly as you can,

4.     Keep your hand near your weapon.

 

The best I could do in this situation was grunt ‘It’s tough’, and clutch my weapon more tightly.  In my case, my weapon was my walking stick.  Happily, Marilyn arrived with our coffees and we made ourselves scarce.

 

Later we stopped at Somerset, another one horse town, for lunch.  We found ourselves sharing the same bit of shade outside the café with a couple of locals.  Being careful not to make eye contact, I carefully tried to ignore them but, without any provocation, one thought it important to tell me, “Andy Murray’s done well at the Australian Open but now he’s been beaten by that little Jap.” 

 

Casual racism is alive and well in north-west Tasmania.