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Showing posts with the label history as i have been led to believe it

“She wonders if the White people understand that most Wirayuri men know how to work with the river and the land, even in times of flood. That the Marrimbidya is not something to be afraid of. Rather the bila is to be respected and relied upon for food, for transport, for life. That the men have been brave and smart.”

  Towards the end of the day, Tasman National Park, Tasmania. May 2021. Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray by Anita Heiss  I hope that  Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray  – “River of Dreams” in the Wiradjuri language – is but the first of many novels from the perspective of Australia’s original inhabitants as they confront the realities of invasion, colonisation and the calculated efforts to destroy over 50,000 years of continuous culture. This is the kind of book that I hope is (gently) introduced to younger readers and comes as a welcome relief from the self-mythologising nonsense that passes for historical memory in these parts. Heiss has woven a story through both a gendered and Wiradjuri lens that never seems forced or moralising. It follows many of the familiar patterns of the historical fiction romance, but in framing the central characters within the Wiradjuri cultural and linguistic tradition, what may have been a traditional tale is lifted into much more worthy territo...

“Not that Harry said any of these things or anything at all. Not that Harry even had words for what he thought. But Harry felt it and he felt it as a flame that consumed his body.”

The Tarn Shelf. Mount Field National Park, April 2021. Death of a River Guide by Richard Flanagan A strange thing this, Flanagan's first novel. There are moments of sublime beauty in which the rugged Tasmanian west is at once a critical character as it the creator of life and deliverer of death. Beginning with the moment of local river guide Aljaz Cosini's death, the book unravels through a series of flashbacks, imaginings, visions and hallucinations. From here, we travel backwards to Aljaz's birth, then further back to the births, lives and deaths of his forebears. From here, we jump back and forth across time and place, occasionally revisiting Alijaz in the split second of his death as the story plays out. Make no bones about it; the book can be hard going at times. Filled with magical thinking and allusions to Tasmanian history's hard and dark tales, our narrator stands in place for the State. The mongrel stock of convict and free settler, of immigrant and a darker ...

"You either feel you belong or you don't. And once that sense is there it can't be given up, willed away or reasoned out of existence."

  One of many. Davey Street, Hobart. March 2021. Why Weren't We Told? by Henry Reynolds This is an essential read for any Australian who still holds (what they perceive as) the benign view that Australia's foundation was a case of gritty settlement of an unoccupied land against the odds. Moreover, it challenges the notion that the fate of its Aboriginal occupants (however tragic) is primarily due to their primitivism rather than any specific colonial policy or action. Why Weren't We Told?  is an exciting and accessible history. The book serves as Reynolds' literary memoir of a journey from 'innocence' (believing the comfortable myth of Australia as one of heroic settlement) to understand the true horrors of invasion, dispossession and ongoing racism. While I thought of myself as being quite across the realities of the Australian story, Reynolds has done a fabulous and thorough job in unpacking and interpreting the trends in historiography and highlight the disti...

'They don't give me welfare. / I take it.'

Signs on a pole. Napoleon Street, Battery Point. June 2012. I do very much like this poem. Bill Clinton's favourite poet, allegedly... Momma Welfare Roll , Maya Angelou Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy HANDS bunched on layered hips Where bones idle under years of fatback And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation Of crimes cliched by Repetition. Her children, strangers To childhood's TOYS, play Best the games of darkened doorways, Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of Other people's property. Too fat to whore, Too mad to work, Searches her dreams for the Lucky sign and walks bare-handed Into a den of bereaucrats for her portion. 'They don't give me welfare. I take it.'

A discovery is said to be an accident meeting a prepared mind.

Antarctic ice core sample. Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, Hobart. February 2012. Sunday Top Five and this week I am mythbusting. Thus, I present My Top Five Common Misconceptions That Both Get My Goat And Frustrate Me Inordinately (This Week)! Sugar does not cause hyperactivity in children . Proven. Done. And. Dusted. Double-blind trials people . There is no difference in behavior between children given sugar-full or sugar-free diets. This is true even in those studies specifically looking at children with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder or those considered sensitive to sugar. So please, other parents, stop saying this over and over and over and over again . Your kids behaviour has more to do with getting hyped up by other kids at the party than it does with the fairy bread... Napoleon Bonaparte was not short. Actually, he was a little bit taller than the average Frenchman. of his time. He actually stood 168.6 centimetres tall (5 feet 6 inches). The average height in the ...

It is a fine thing to be honest, but it is also very important to be right.

Why indeed... Top of Nanny Goat Lane, Battery Point. July 2011. You would think that a concept like 'Genocide' would be relatively straightforward. As always however, it is anything but. Like the seemingly perfect couple from a film who never managed to get it together, it's... complicated. Definitional war? Top of Nanny Goat Lane, Battery Point. July 2011.

All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.

Martin Cash, George Jones and Lawrence Kavenagh (in paper form). The Guard Station, Eaglehawk Neck. January 2011. Martin Cash was Tasmania’s best know convict bushranger. He attracted fame for twice escaping from Port Arthur, which was at the time perhaps the World’s most notorious penal colony. As a smart chap, he cashed in with an autobiography that was released in 1870 – The Adventures of Martin Cash – which was kind of like a cross between The Wire , Prison Break and Glee . As with many famous Tasmanians, he was born in Enniscorthy, Ireland. His autobiography has him entering a life of crime when he shot a man in a jealous rage for making advances on his sweetheart, but records list his original crime as house breaking. Sentenced to seven years penal transportation, he arrived in Sydney in 1828. He quickly received his ticket of leave and worked as a stockman in New South Wales, but soon was suspected of cattle stealing and did as many crims did, and relocated to Tasmania. It wa...

Adventures are to the adventurous.

A bacon and egg roll and we’ll just wait and see what happens. Campbell Street, Hobart. January 2011. History – and historical memory – can be an odd business. It is hard to get a sense when you are in the present of the true historical magnitude of the events taking place around you. Conversely, it’s nigh on impossible to comprehend truly the importance of events that happened with the distance of time between you and it/them, removed as you are from the proper context. That does not stop us from trying of course. You may have seen the (most recent) attempt to tally up the views (and scores) of British historians along a set of criteria and deduce the “best” President of the United States . It is an interesting exercise, and makes for some great arguments (you can read all about it here), but ultimately it strikes me as being a bit of a futile exercise. While I will confess to be an FDR fan, I really couldn’t tell you if he was really X percent superior to (say) Grover Cleveland; or ...

One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes a revolution in order to establish a dictatorship.

I suspect that there was once a door here. Theatre Royal, Hobart. December 2010. As promised, here is Today's Sunday Top Five Seven, Nine Wonderful Uses For The Marvellous Oil Of The Genus Eucalyptus ! Eucalyptus oil also has anti-inflammatory and analgesic qualities as a topically applied liniment ingredient! Eucalyptus oil is also used in personal hygiene products for antimicrobial properties in dental care and soaps! Eucalyptus oil can be applied to wounds to prevent infection! Eucalyptus oil can also be as an insect repellent and biopesticide! Eucalyptus oil has been used as an effective way of killing dust mites! Eucalyptus oil is used in flavouring lollies, sweeties, candies and soft drink! Eucalyptus oil is also used as a fragrance component to impart a fresh and clean aroma in soaps, detergents, lotions and perfumes! Eucalyptus oil prevents the separation problem with ethanol and petrol fuel blends! Eucalyptus oil has a respectable octane rating and can be used as a fuel i...

I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.

History can be found anywhere. Elizabeth Street, Hobart. September 2010. Here you can see a ye olde time billboard (e?), advertising a long-since departed service station in Elizabeth Street, right smack bang in the middle of town. These days, you will struggle to find a service station anywhere that close to the CBD, they’ve all been bought up and converted into alcohol outlets (I kid you not). One day, I wonder what people will make of what we have done to our city.

Debt is the prolific mother of folly and of crime.

As this blog has demonstrated over the past 1,607 posts, Hobart is home to a lot of boats. What I have not stressed is the propensity for the owners of many – if not a majority – of those boats to pick a terrible pun as a name for their boats. Believe it or not, Concerto in Sea [pictured above] is indeed one of the wittier examples to be found in our many marinas and boatsheds around town. Just as in naming a child, the pressure of picking a moniker that will be able to weather the tests of time, trends and mean-spirited individuals is immense. I would like to think that I’ve performed well thus far with the world-renowned Henry and Ezra [with the added pressure of the pun tastic surname of Mc Crack en], and thus would flourish if faced with the challenge of a virgin ketch trembling in anticipation at the prospect of a lick of paint and a dignified name. That said, today I face a new kind of anxiety, Theme Thursday pressure! The Powers That Be have decided – in their infinite ...

If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you.

You might be fooled into thinking that the top of Mount Wellington is a peak of some kind, with Henry, Ezra, Jennifer and I all precariously balanced on tip toes while endeavouring to take photographs and spit on the people below us. Alas, you'd be wrong! The top of Mount Wellington is in fact a Mars-like landscape. In February 1836, Charles Darwin himself visited Hobart and climbed the vicious beast. In The Voyage of the Beagle , Darwin described the mountain thus: "... The summit of the mountain is broad and flat, and is composed of huge angular masses of naked greenstone. Its elevation is 3,100 feet (940 m) above the level of the sea. The day was splendidly clear, and we enjoyed a most extensive view; to the north, the country appeared a mass of wooded mountains, of about the same height with that on which we were standing, and with an equally tame outline: to the south the broken land and water, forming many intricate bays, was mapped with clearness before us. ..." ...

Diplomats were invented simply to waste time.

Here is the stark reality of alienation as seen from the eastern side of the wall. Brother set against brother is unfortunately as old as time itself...

Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out.

Wall in Battery Point, September 2009 . Look at that wall will you? Just look at that shoddy workmanship. Bloody convicts. No wonder they got sent off to the other end of the world... Tasmanians are a funny mob when it comes to convicts. You are probably aware that one of the primary reasons for the British settlement of Australia was the establishment of a penal colony far, far away to send their overabundance of criminals. Over the whole period of transportation of convicts, over 165,000 rapists, murderers, handkerchief thieves were dispatched to Australia. For us Tasmanians, we have an extra-special relationship with these vile scum pesky miscreants. You see, the soft, feeble and indolent New South Welch-people decided that the vilest, smelliest and foulest criminals would be better suited to somewhere else, away from them. Thus, a new penal colony was established in Van Diemen's Land! All those buggerers perverts cannibals kiddie fiddlers Irish prisoners who were unable to...

Liberty is a word which, according as it is used, comprehends the most good and the most evil of any in the world.

The statue of Abel Tasman stoically looks upon the Dutch flag on a sunny Hobart day. Of course, this morning it is raining yet again, and Abel is enjoying the chance to have the bird poo washed off his lovely Lutjegasti head. Abel seemed like a good bloke, even if he was a bit of a suck. Upon being the first European to stumble upon this fine island, he promptly named it Van Diemen's Land , in honour of his boss – Anthony van Diemen – head honcho of the Dutch East Indies, a bloke with big dreams and deep pockets who had visions of a grand Dutch empire that would extend into the “Great Southern Land”. So he sent Abel down here in 1642, a good year for most not named Charles I. Despite its obvious charms, the Dutch didn’t think much of the joint. Lazy buggers, the Dutch East India Company reckoned Tasman's explorations were a letdown: he had neither found a promising area for trade nor a useful new shipping route. With no existing thriving communities to leach upon – the Dutch (a...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

What can and doesn't have to be always, at the end, surrenders to something that has to be.

I love the zoom on my camera. I don't even need a tripod! If you can't guess, this is the moon, as seen from Geilston Bay yesterday morning while waiting at the bus stop. Yesterday was Bastille Day. I love Bastille Day. My favourite Bastille Day story relates to the initial storming. While many like to think of the brave folk liberating hordes of unjustly held political prisoners (and sawing their heads off the guards to dance about with the heads on poles), they actually found four forgers, two lunatics and one dirty old man. And a dog. No wonder they were so angry. Vive la révolution!

The most important things to say are those which often I did not think necessary for me to say — because they were too obvious.

Here is the face of an old quarry that can be found down next to Salamanca Square. A fair chunk of the Salamanca area itself is nestled into an old sandstone quarry itself. The demand for berths and storage saw the creation of new docks and sandstone warehouses in an area that had once been known as the 'Cottage Green'. The former row of original cottages were demolished for sandstone warehouses, and by the mid-1840s the bustling dock area had become known as Salamanca, in honour of the Duke of Wellington's 1812 victory against the slippery frogs in the Battle of Salamanca. [HOORAH FOR BLIGHTY!] As I've noted before, the whole waterfront area is re-establishing it's credentials as Hobart's night-time entertainment capital (that is, if one equates the concept of 'entertainment' with 'getting on the piss and having a scrap'). This is only fitting, as early in Hobart's history, it had developed a reputation as a rowdy and debaucherous place. A m...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.

Yesterday I showed Jen and Ez standing in the Signals House on Mount Nelson. Here is the singnals house itself. Early on in the history of Van Diemen's Land, they didn't have mobile phones, Internets or [gasp] even fax machines. So they made do with flags. Here upon this great big hill, they had a ruddy great pole with flags of all colours to send messages all the way down to Port Arthur, where the horrible and smelly convicts were kept. I'm not sure as to its veracity, but Henry tells me that this signal here is, "Darling, we're out of bread. Oh, and a carton of milk too while you're at it..." More views of the city and the river to come shortly.