Australians come up with a radical solution to the Republican question

From Canberra we drove over the beautiful (many things in Australia are prefixed by the word beautiful, where we might use excellent) Snowy Mountains. The Snowy Mountains Project was essentially a giant job-creation scheme in the immediate post-war years; it attracted thousands of migrant workers from all over Europe to build a giant dam to generate electricity. As is often the case with these things, the plan, which seemed at first to be an excellent ("beautiful") one, had some serious unforeseen consequences: as the current environmental campaign puts it, "the Snowy River is dying". The Snowy, a beautiful river which flows down from the Snowy mountains through a stunning valley, has been reduced to approximately 1% of its original flow levels. At some points, the entire flow is channelled into a single pipeline 50 centimetres in diameter, reducing the flow to paltry levels. The problem is that, in addition to the electricity supply for all of New South Wales and the Australian Capital Territory (i.e. Canberra and the surrounding area), the Snowy Mountains Project also provides large quantities of irrigation water to Australia's powerful farming lobby, so that they can unsustainably produce food. As a result, the river is slowly dying. There is a major campaign to increase the flow levels through the river - the main dam holds 27 times as much water as Sydney Harbour - but it is running up against extremely powerful vested interests. Whether this campaign succeeds is seen by many as a litmus test of Australia's environmental commitment, which is often questionable at best - it's the only country in the world that generates more per capita greenhouse gases than the US, and they lobbied successfully at the Rio climate change conference for permission to increase their output of greenhouse gases. In parts of the river valley, it's difficult to envisage the token trickle that is left of the river creating the vast valley which remains as a testament to the once-mighty river.

From the Snowy Mountains, we made our way to a tiny place called Gelantipy, so small that virtually no Australians have ever heard of it. There we stayed on a farm which has in part been converted into a backpackers' hostel. There we were fed most excellently (and a bargain at $5) before being piled into the back of a "ute" (a "sports utility vehicle" or pick-up truck) in excessive numbers to go on what was described somewhat misleadingly as a "night hike" (no walking involved) to see wildlife. It was cold, misty and extremely uncomfortable, as well as more than a little hazardous - I almost fell off the back of the truck, and was hanging on for dear life as we bumped our way through a field before being dragged back on board by a couple of fellow passengers. Overall, the wildlife was not cooperating, apart from numerous cows (some of whom were admittedly fairly wild and more than a little angry, protective of their calves) and plentiful sheep, we caught only a fleeting glimpse of a wombat bounding away. We returned to the hostel a little cold and more than a little disappointed. However, things were to pick up. As we sat on the veranda to round off the evening, a baby possum came boldly up to us to say hello. At first we were very cautious, not knowing how the possum might react and not wanting to scare it off (they're very small and very cute), but it was evidently very tame and quite used to dealing with people, and within a few minutes it was willingly clambering all over us happily posing for classic tourist photos. Needless to say we took advantage of the situation to take many snaps. The hostel's dog was looking on with a gleam in its eye, and would not be shooed off. In the end we decided to go to bed, and the possum was so obviously enjoying our company that it decided to come with us - certainly the first time I've ever heard of taking a possum for a walk! The dog continued to follow us, and worried as we were that it was looking for a tasty little snack, we eventually succeeded in chasing it off. The possum came inside the outhouse where we were staying and delighted a couple of other backpackers who had stayed up, despite the uncomfortably early departure the next morning.

Veronika and possum - which is which?

We left Karoonda Park bright and breezy (well, early at any rate) the next morning, heading for Lakes Entrance (another place usually prefaced by the word "beautiful"). About 9 in the morning, we reached the local winery, where we took advantage of the free alcohol on offer (despite the time) to taste about a dozen different wine varieties - they were mostly pretty good, but I must confess to missing a nice bottle of Lisjak's most excellent Teran. We even stretched our budget a little to buy a couple of bottles. Our host was pretty amusing in a rehearsed sort of way. By the end, I was more than a little wobbly on my feet, but fortunately we were staying in ("beautiful") Lakes Entrance for a few days, so this was not too much of a problem.

As with much of Australia, Lakes Entrance has a Carstairs connection, this one pretty strong. One of the pioneer families of the area was a family of fishermen, descended from Cellardyke fishermen. They had a powerful impact on the area, so much so that there is even a street named after them, on the site of their original home. While in Canberra I had read a little typescript manuscript in the National Library entitled "Reminiscences of early Lakes Entrance" by one John Carstairs. In my genealogically dedicated (some might say obsessed) way, I visited the graveyard (a little bit of morbidity anyone?) up on the hill overlooking the lakes, and to my delight I discovered around a dozen Carstairs gravestones. Fortunately there were no mourners in sight, as I'd have felt more than a little intrusive wandering around, notebook in hand and merrily taking pictures of gravestones if there had been anyone grieving for their recently departed loved ones. Combined with a trip to the local library, I was able to piece together the family and to connect them to an old fishing family in Fife. The patriarch of the Lakes family was lost at sea in 1897, an all-too-common experience in the early days of the fishing industry in the area. The Lakes of the name are a series of four or five lakes (Australia's largest inland lakes) separated from the sea only by a spit of beach just a few dozen metres wide but around ninety miles long (whence the name "Ninety Miles Beach" - let it not be said that Australians lack imagination when it comes to toponymy!). In natural conditions, the lakes were closed to the sea for several months a year, before the waves would create an entrance by bursting through the sandy spit, each year at a different location. The shifting nature of the entrance was obviously a bit of a problem for fishing and shipping in general in the lakes, which were otherwise navigable, and so it was decided to build a fixed entrance. The only problem was that the colonial government were unwilling to fund the construction, and so the locals took matters into their own hands. Years of fundraising later, a permanent entrance was finally built; this helped open up the surrounding farmland to markets in Melbourne. In turn, this helped develop the township (Australians rarely refer to villages, although many of the townships are in effect villages).

Rush hour on the Ninety Mile Beach

After a few days in Lakes Entrance, it was time to move on. When the OzEx bus came in, we were taken again to the winery (suited me, although the second time I took things a little easier with the old vino), but this time we went by boat for a short trip up the lakes. This gave us a different perspective of the lakes, and we saw some parts of the lakes system we hadn't seen from our various walks and hill climbs.

From the winery, our drive was largely uneventful, albeit quite pretty with some excellent scenery. We stopped off at a few points to check out the views, but as is often the case in areas with gum trees, the eucalyptus oil made the air fairly hazy. Still, it's always worthwhile checking out viewpoints to get a sense of scale and an idea of the emptiness of Australia, and this is even before we hit the outback proper. We kept on going to reach Philip Island, home of one of Australia's largest (and most over-commercialised) tourist attractions, the penguin parade. On one particular beach, the fairy penguins (I believe, the world's smallest penguins) come ashore at dusk each day to return to their burrows. To accommodate the tourist hordes, they have built what amounts to a grandstand, and the whole setup is geared towards maximising numbers and thereby profit. Needless to say, although we fancied seeing the penguins, we gave it a miss. Instead, we treated ourselves to the luxury of nachos, the brainchild of Rachel, a girl from Oregon who was also travelling on the OzEx bus. We spent the very cold evening drinking beer in the hostel bar and failing to book accommodation in Melbourne, our next stop.

The following morning we hopped on the bus for our last leg of the first stage of our trip. We arrived in Melbourne late morning and walked the kilometre or so to our hotel, a dingy dive called the Carlton Hotel, the sole saving grace of which was that it was right in the centre of town. The dodgy clientele and the resident cockroaches made us wish that we didn't have to stay for any length of time, but unfortunately our need of visas for India meant that we had little choice - we were here for ten days. Still, a number of opportunities presented themselves. I took the time to do some more work, while Veronika caught up on some reading. Also, we met a number of friends: Barbara Schlamberger from Slovenia, Mark Oman, sort-of from Slovenia, and Chrisy Dennis, not at all from Slovenia. In between my busy work and social schedule (!) I also managed to find some time to do some family history research, in both the state library of Victoria and in the excellent Genealogy Society of Victoria. I acquired a considerable amount of information about the Carstairs, as well as about the Shields (of whom more later) and some sundry other lines.

Virtually our first day in Melbourne, we met up with Barbara Schlamberger, who happened to be on a visit to Australia, and conveniently for us was able to take some stuff back there for us. This was very handy, as our rucksacks have been getting heavier the longer we've been travelling, despite having already sent back a package weighing some 13 kilos. With Barbara and Don, we went for a drive around Melbourne a bit before stopping for a cup of coffee and then a trip up the Rialto Towers, allegedly the tallest building in the southern hemisphere. Our timing was for once perfect, as we got to the top just as dusk was setting in. We got an excellent view of Melbourne by day, then had a couple of beers and a chat, and were just in time to catch the lights of the city coming on.

The next day I worked, but the day after that we went for a bit of a walk around Melbourne; we'd been here once before for a day, on the hottest day of the year, and so it was pleasant to be able to stroll around town without almost dying of the heat. Probably my favourite building in Melbourne is Flinders Street Station, which in common with many railway stations around the world was obviously built to impress, a task which it achieves with considerable success. Another favourite building is the gilded theatre, which to my mind is vaguely reminiscent of some of the buildings in Prague. Also of note was the large statue of one Rabbie Burns, demonstrating that the Ozzies are not completely devoid of taste!

Flinders Street Station, Melbourne

At the weekend we met up with Chrisy Dennis and her daughter Gina. Together with them we went for a wander along the Yarra river, which despite its dirt brown colour is apparently fairly clean, although I for one would certainly not risk swimming in it. The south bank of the Yarra has in recent times undergone something of a regeneration as a prime site, and it's now lined with over-priced bars and restaurants full of the "beautiful people". We had eaten lunch in Brunswick, a newly trendy part of Melbourne lined with not-over-priced bars and restaurants (Melburnians seem obsessed with food; you can hardly walk fifty feet in the city without coming across some eatery or other), in a very excellent Vietnamese restaurant; the most unusual feature of our meal for me was the slightly bizarre drink, which consisted of coconut, green tapioca and kidney beans. It sounds strange, but it was very tasty, and decorative to boot, with three distinct layers giving a colourful look to our meal. The next day Veronika was forced to suffer once more as Chrisy and I discussed Carstairs again and exchanged data; fortunately, by now Veronika is well used to my genealogy habit and was armed with a good book!

Sunday night, we met up with Mark Oman, a fellow member of Ljubljana cricket club. We arranged to meet in a popular and well-known bar, the Geebung. Mark had warned us to get there early, and when we arrived it was soon clear why - there was a long queue outside. I usually have a policy of not going to bars or clubs where you have to queue to get in, but I decided to make an exception. I tried to phone Mark on his mobile to let him know what was happening, but both phones in the vicinity were out of order - it seems that the criticisms levelled at Telstra concerning service levels in the bush should also apply to urban areas as well. In the end we got in fairly soon - they have strictly enforced fire-safety limits on the number of punters allowed in bars, and there was a girl outside with a clicker - I was reminded of the famous Brian Hanrahan quote from the Falklands War - "I counted them all out and I counted them all in again". In the end I needn't have bothered, as Mark wasn't in the bar in the first instance, and in any event he didn't have his mobile with him anyway. We ended up finding him and had a few beers with him and some of his friends. We then went for dinner in a very fancy Chinese place in the centre of town - definitely worth a splurge.

Monday was given over to genealogy, and on Tuesday we had some "practical genealogy" - a visit to Sunbury - home of cricket's ashes - to meet Frances and Ron Wilson, and as it turned out Rita Fitzpatrick as well. Frances and Rita are sisters; their father, Andrew Shields, was the elder brother of my grandmother, Isabella Dickson Fleming Shields. We caught the train up to Sunbury, which is effectively an outlying suburb north of urban sprawl of Melbourne. We spent a very pleasant afternoon chatting to Frances, Ron and Rita before catching the train back to Melbourne.

Our final day in the city was spent on such prosaic matters as picking up our visas from the Indian consulate, which as it turned out was on the same street as the house where the Shields had lived as children. We then caught the OzEx bus to Torquay.

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