Petrus Spronk
“Everything begins with a point”.
I found this quote, at the Art Gallery of NSW, as part of the Kandinsky exhibition, and it, for some unknowing reason, fascinated me. The Kandinsky exhibition, by the way, was absolutely breathtaking and more than well worth a visit. This was true for he rest of the holiday we were embarking on. A cultural hit. Getting high on the air of Sydney.
We arrived in Sydney after a twelve hour train journey. Yes, a full day on the train. This begs the question: why there isn’t a fast train connection between the two mayor cities of Australia?
The train slithers smoothly through the landscape, carrying a belly full of curious passengers. The train, which slithers from Melbourne to Sydney, takes us through a landscape dotted with familiar names – names such as Seymour and Albury where in days gone by you had to leave the train and walk the long way along the platform to another train because of a difference in the railway gauge. Then there was Wang for Wangaratta, Wagga Wagga, an Aboriginal name with the word repeated to indicate that the place is situated near water.
Inside the train the murmur of passengers, while outside the landscape clicks slowly by like an old fashioned movie. A movie in Technicolor’.
Arrival in Sydney.
Sydney has a definite different feel to Melbourne. Everything seems lighter. Maybe it is the harbour, maybe it is the air or the temperature difference, or maybe it is the paler blue colour of the sky.
Having settled with a beer, it occurs to me that there was something familiar about the day’s travel. Then it came to me. I realised that 66 years ago I undertook a similar (and my first train journey) in Australia, when we, my family and I, arrived by boat at Port Melbourne, changed from boat to train, and were transported to Bonegilla near Albury, where the ex-military, now military migrant camp, awaited us. Although this journey was 60-70 years ago I remember it as if it was yesterday, so vivid is that memory, especially when the train stopped about halfway into the journey, at a small town, where we received a cup of tea with white bread sandwiches cut into triangles. A small detail, but a strong memory.
Why, you may well ask, would the government herd boat load after boat load in to a place so far from, to us, the civilised centres of Melbourne or Sydney? Simple really. The government needed the migrants to move on and they figured that if they got the husbands a job in Sydney or Melbourne, being alone, they would pine for their families and would work extra hard to get a job, find a house and bring their family out from Bonegilla. Mission accomplished.
With my family it was a little different because my father didn’t want to go to such a metropolis as Sydney or Melbourne. He wanted to go to Adelaide. This meant that he would forfeit any assistance such as transporting us and our belongings from the camp. But he stuck to his guns and over time bought a car and transported his family to Adelaide. His mission accomplished.
To say that the arrival in Bonegilla was a little different than expected is an understatement. The train stopped at the Bonegilla platform, nothing more than a few planks. When the train departed and left a small group of people standing in that huge, and to us, empty landscape. Where is everyone? The silence was deafening. What will be next?
After a while, what appeared to be a large truck pulling a dark cloud along the horizon, became visible. Some time later we realised that instead of a truck it was an ancient faded yellow bus making its way toward us in a cloud of dust for collection and transportation to our new home, and take us to the camp were we received a key to the Nissan hut which was to be our new home for a while. I recall my dad burning his hand on the lock which had hung all day in the summer sun. Looking at it from here I am sure my parents must have seriously questioned what they had started.
A while later, having drunk my beer and strolling around King’s Cross, a place with so many restaurants that making a choice became difficult. I realised that the time between my first and last train journeys was filled with an extraordinary Australian adventure of possibilities.
Everything begins with a point.
Petrus Spronk (art@petrusspronk.com) is a local author and artist who contributes a monthly column to The Wombat Post.
