Outback Penguin

by Stuart Kells

  As it was still early in the morning, and all the business houses I wished to visit would not be opening for three hours, I walked down to Circular Quay and took the ferry boat to Manly. I did not know the boss’s address, so I called on Mr Thompson. Soon after my arrival, Mr and Mrs Brown and family trouped in. After a ‘pow wow’ I decided to take a room at the same place they were staying at and, accordingly, did so, proceeding then back to Sydney. I fixed up everything – passport, visa, income tax clearance certificate and ticket (which included a book of tickets to be used between Marseilles and London). I called on Mr Ramsford but he was over in the west, and Mr Rowlands had left Sydney the previous evening.

  55 Ville de Strasbourg

  21 Jones Bay, Pyrmont

  Wednesday, 17 February 1926

  Well, curse me for a fool for ever trying to save a few quid by travelling ’tween deck class. Here I am jammed among a crowd of rotten Froggie sailors, none of whom can speak English, in a ten berth cabin, perspiring, swearing, cursing, sweating, raving, fuming, sorrowing and all sorts of other things. I don’t think I have ever been so sorry for anyone as I am for myself at the present moment.

  The rotten boat was due to sail at 11am and here we are, at 4pm, still taking on cargo. Everything is rotten: cabin, food, no conveniences, sailors, officers, boat, weather and also my temper. I really don’t know what the H– to do. For two pins I would leave the damned boat and go by a respectable British one. No more of these Froggie things for me, anything rather than this. There are a couple of ’tween deck passengers, but none of them speak English; they are Italians and don’t even know French. The crew are a mixture of Froggies, Dagos, Chinese, Japs and Indians – a rotten crowd – and here am I, sleeping among them. Ye gods, that ever I should have come down to this.

  Still, the boat hasn‘t gone yet and I’ve still a good mind to get off. I should only drop about £12 and what is that when one is wealthy.

  Damn the Ville de Strasbourg, and the agents, and the Captain, and the builders, and everybody and everything. We have our meals off a table with no covering, tin mugs for cups and glasses, tin bowls instead of plates, no knives, and forks and spoons non-plated. Instead of tea we get rotten, sour vinegar which is termed ‘wine’, and we have to wash up everything we use. And the last time I travelled on a boat was on the Dimboola, first class, and now –

  Not even any towels provided.

  Friday, 19 February 1926

  I feel a lot more contented now than I did while making my last entry. I have managed to secure a transfer to the second class part of the ship, this being brought to pass by the aid of some bad French and some good English money. I approached the maître d’hôtel and offered him a fiver, but he would not take a cent less than £7. After this had been given, and accepted, everything was all right and now I am in a four berth cabin which has two occupants as well as myself, both of whom speak English. One is a Swiss and the other a Norwegian-Belgian. The latter is married and his wife a New Zealander. Another New Zealander shares a cabin with her. The meals are a lot better, although the hours of meals will take some time to get used to: coffee, and bread and butter, at 8am; lunch at 11am; tea, and bread and butter, 4pm; and dinner at 6pm.

  Now, of course, I enjoy such luxuries as sheets in my bed, towels, table cloth, serviettes etc., and at lunch and dinner we have wine instead of tea, and coffee afterwards.

  The ship is fairly heavily laden with cargo and as the sea is also smooth we are experiencing very little pitching or rolling and, so far, I feel ‘good o’.

  As I did very little writing in Sydney, I think I will now recall a few of the events that occurred while I was there. The first evening I was in Sydney I spent at Manly. Mr Thompson first took me for a walk around the town and afterwards took me to a variety show at a small theatre facing the Ocean Beach. Saturday morning I had a real laze-in. In the afternoon I went for a walk with Mrs Thompson and we watched a cricket match for an hour or so. In the evening we all – Mr Thompson, Mr and Mrs Brown and myself – went to a picture show in Manly. The picture showing was Monsieur Beaucaire. Sunday morning saw Mr T., Mr B., Mr Smith and myself in for an early morning swim at one of the pools where it is safe to swim. In the afternoon, Mr Smith (who shares the Thompson house), Mr B. and Mr T. went to the Manly Golf Club for a game, and I drove Mrs B. and children to Taronga Park where we visited the Zoo.

  Monday, 22 February 1926

  For the last few days I have not been at all well, my complaint being mal de mer. We are, at present, in the Great Australian Bight and although one would not call it rough the swell is fairly great. I am not too well now, but much better than I was. Although the food on board is very good, I have only attended the meals because it was for my good and have not yet enjoyed one meal.

  In order to preserve some sort of order in this diary I will deal with the events of last week first and leave the doings of the last few days for mañana or whenever I again write.

  Coming back from Taronga Park Zoological Gardens on Sunday afternoon, the fourteenth, I was careless enough to drive the wrong side of a ‘silent cop’, which is a stone raised about nine to twelve inches above the level of the road at certain crossings and, when making a full turn, one must keep to the outside of it. Rather hard to explain, but obvious in practice. In this particular instance, traffic was congested and I did not see the ‘silent cop’ but a non-silent cop saw me drive the wrong side of it and stopped me. He let me off with a caution and did not ask me for my licence. This was lucky as I had not got one, and I could not have used Mr Brown’s as in NSW all licences have the owner’s name, age, height and colour of eyes on them.

  After leaving Mrs B. and family at ‘Blanothol’, I proceeded to the Manly Golf Club where I picked up Mr Smith, Mr B. and Mr T. I also had a long, iced shandy which was most acceptable. In the evening Mr T., Mrs B. and myself called on one of Mr B.’s sisters, who is married to the man who bought out Sangar Gedye’s – I forget his name.

  On Monday morning I went surfing with Mr Brown. Nobody goes to Manly unless they surf. I don’t know exactly what surfing stands for but I should think that it is the art of riding on the crest of a wave. A wave has got to be just in the act of breaking for one to get on it. Just before a suitable wave reaches one, you turn around in the direction which the wave is going and swim for your life, and away you shoot. At Manly the undertow is very dangerous and it is only safe to surf in between two flags which the authorities place on the beach. The distance between the flags varies according to the weather, tide etc., but often it is not more than 100 yards. Then, needless to say, the allotted place is alive with people and it is very hard to surf without banging into people. Most of the people there just seemed to be standing, waist high, in the water and either jumping up when the waves struck them or else diving under them. I manoeuvred myself until I was just outside the flag limit and then managed to have quite a good time.

  It is certainly a very exhilarating sport, but in a crowd I think swimming is, in many ways, preferable.

  Of course, the trouble with Sydney Harbour as regards swimming is sharks. Many people talk lightly of them and a few swim in places where it is possible for sharks to reach them, but not many. For most people know of the fierceness of the man-eating sharks and can recall cases where sharks have attacked and mutilated persons in four, or even three, feet of water. Tragedies occur every year and I am afraid will occur every year, forever and ever, amen.

  Every suburb of Sydney with any water frontage has its lifesaving club, or clubs. These are composed of a very fine body of men – all strong, good swimmers – and expert lifesavers who give their services. I think every beach has at least one lifesaver on duty at any time, and on Saturdays and Sundays a lot in attendance. Perhaps there will be one or two professionals in each club.

  Lifesavers wear a belt and when they go out to rescue anybody a line is attached to this, the other end of the line being attached to a reel. As soon as the lifesaver has hold of the person in dif
ficulties, he turns over on his back and other members of the club turn the reel, which brings him in. These men are all fearless and often go out to rescue persons who are being attacked by a shark. At many of the beaches, high towers have been erected from which men are on duty as ‘look outs’. From a height a shark can be observed much sooner than he can be from the beach. As soon as one is observed, the alarm is given and all bathers retire to the beach. I am told it is surprising how quickly the bathers move on these occasions. Then a boat will go out to try and catch the shark and, if they succeed, great is the joy. Too much cannot be said in praise of the lifesaving clubs, for in the course of a year they save thousands of lives and say nothing about it.

  Well, to get back to my doings. In the afternoon I went into the city with Mr and Mrs Brown, and Clive. We first of all had dinner at Farmers, in the roof garden, and afterwards visited The Prince Edward Theatre. This is by far the most up-to-date and best appointed picture theatre I have ever visited. The lighting effects were really magnificent and besides a floating orchestra – the whole platform on which the orchestra played is capable of rising about eight feet, which is most effective – there is a large organ and a special organist ‘imported’ from America. The picture being screened was Scaramouche, adapted from the book by Rafael Sabatini (who is about the most popular historical novelist of this age). This picture is well worth seeing, as it gives one a very true impression of the commencement of the French Revolution and makes one think that, in some ways, the revolution was justified. I think I should have been with the revolutionists.

  After the picture was over, Mrs Brown and Clive went back to Manly and, after a drink at the ‘Australia’ (reputed to be the best hotel in Sydney), Mr Brown and I had dinner at the Grosvenor. In the evening we went to the Grand Opera House – a second rate theatre – at which Are You a Mason – a second rate play – was on. We left at half time and caught the ‘ten’ boat to Manly. On Tuesday morning I received word that my boat did not sail until Wednesday, so I was to have one more night than I had expected in Manly. I did not do much in the morning but in the afternoon I went into Sydney and called on Mr Ramsford. We had afternoon tea at Farmers and a good long talk. He had just come back from Adelaide and Melbourne where he had been on business, and was looking very well in spite of the heat. On Monday, at 12 noon, it was 102.2°F and ninety-two per cent humidity. A ‘southerly buster’ in the afternoon caused the temperature to drop twenty degrees.

  Mr Ramsford was the first person I had met who had seen my parents since I left home. The first time I met him was on the eve of his departure for England and the second time on the eve of my departure for the same place. I wonder where, and when, we shall meet the third time.

  After I left him I purchased a few necessities I required for the voyage and then, as it was still warm, had some iced coffee. In the evening I took Miss Thompson to Katja, the best play on in Sydney, and, as I escorted her home, I missed the last boat to Manly. This, let me inform you, leaves Sydney at 11.35pm I therefore had to journey by a roundabout route. I caught the 12.00 midnight boat to Cremorne and from there the last train to The Spit. By hurrying across this I was able to catch the last tram to Manly, which I reached about 1 o’clock. The next morning I caught the 8.15am boat to Sydney and took a tram from the Circular Quay to the station. Here I collected my luggage and took a yellow cab to No. 21, Jones Bay, Pyrmont, which I reached about 11 o’clock. The hour of sailing had been postponed again, from 11am to 4pm, and it was after 5pm before we left. I do not know what the temperature was that day, but I bet it wasn’t far off 110°F.

  Tuesday, 23 February 1926

  It is rather interesting, living on a French boat. Of course, everything is foreign: passengers, food, even the notices are sometimes hard for me to decipher. To begin with the passengers: at the table I am at there are seven or eight nationalities represented. Although I admit I am not a worthy representative, I must first mention the English race – of which I am the only true member in second and third class; two New Zealand ladies consider themselves as belonging to a different country, although of the same race. One Norwegian-Belgium, one Swiss, several French, several Italians, one Greek and one Czecho Slav. At other tables are representatives of India, Germany, Yugoslavia, Brazil and Holland. So when I mention that the passengers are of mixed nationalities I am not far from speaking the truth. Our table stewards are Japs and Chinese. The maître d’hôtel is a typical Froggie.

  The food is really very good, far away better than the stuff they dished up on the Bendigo. The soup is always good, the fish we have had has been perfect and I have never had meat so well cooked. Vegetables are prepared in a different way to the English method and sometimes we have a separate course for certain vegetables. Tonight, after beef, potatoes, cabbage and carrots, we had boiled peas.

  We have fruit every day – tonight, pineapple – and always cheese, of which, so far, we have had four different varieties, all good. One lot being the best I have tasted since leaving home. We finish off each meal with coffee. In the morning, by tipping a Jap five francs, we have coffee and bread and butter brought in to us at 7.30am.

  Unfortunately, the accommodation is very limited as the dining room has to serve for everything. We are now in the throes of the Australian Bight and as the waves sweep right across the ship we are forced to keep below decks. Believe me, it can be rough in this quarter of the globe. ‘Of that there is no possible doubt!’

  Thursday, 25 February 1926

  It is still very rough, but as I am fairly well I will not complain too much about it. In fact, I think the waves are very fine to look at. They have a majestic beauty of their own and although, as they break against the bows and side of the ship and sweep right across the decks, they look very beautiful, I think they need an even more substantial obstacle to come into contact with to show, to its full extent, their terrific force and distinctive charm. I have in mind a rugged coast.

  I think every time I make an entry during this voyage I will attempt to describe one person – a fellow passenger or a member of the crew, or else one of the sailors of the Cassiopie who are returning to France after serving for a certain number of years on that boat, which is a bateaux de guerre. For today I think I will choose as my ‘object’ one Hans Blum. He is a cabinmate of mine and in a week I have learnt quite a lot of his eventful life. He was born in April of the year 1900 and is, therefore, twenty-six years of age, and the country of his birth is Switzerland. Of a fairly slim build, he has exceptionally broad shoulders – a characteristic of his countrymen, he declares – fair hair, bluey-grey eyes and a deep voice. He speaks Swiss, Italian, German, Russian, French and English, and at different times has been an airman, telegraph linesman, draughtsman, a member of a cable laying gang, a stoker and a garçon. Almost needless to say, he has had many interesting experiences.

  He was a member of a telegraph, or cable, gang that travelled right across Russia and Siberia, to the coast, during the course of their work. For nearly 3,000 miles his only means of transport was a sledge drawn by reindeer which could cover as much as 200 miles a day. On two or three occasions they pitched their tent in the evening and in the morning woke to find themselves buried in anything up to ten feet of snow. ‘Snow bears’ would follow them for days, but they were cowards and would run away if a dog barked at them.

  He went to Australia eighteen months ago and was attached to a gang of two who patrolled the telegraph line between Adelaide and Darwin, and he liked the life and work immensely. But, unfortunately, while trying to break in a wild horse he was thrown and the horse kicked him in the chest, breaking a couple of ribs, one of which perforated his lungs. After three months in hospital, in Sydney, the doctors said that the only chance he had of recovering was to live for at least a year in the land of his birth. Those three months ate up all his savings and, very reluctantly, he decided to leave Australia but is happy when he thinks that, in twelve months’ time, he will be returning.

  Owing to the rough
sea we are making very slow headway, but we must travel many miles up and down in the course of a day. We ought to pass out of the Bight tomorrow, as Cape Leeuwin is under 200 miles away. I trust it will be calmer after we have altered our course to north-west from west, or west-north-west by west, which is our present course.

  Very often I will make short notes in a small pocket book I have and, on referring to them, write more or less at length in here. While in Sydney last week I made a few such notes and will now embellish them and rewrite them. To commence, I will copy word for word. As I sat in the lounge of the Grosvenor Hotel, waiting for dinner, I recalled many things that had happened in the immediate past (to distinguish from the distant past). I thought of scenes that had fixed themselves in my mind for ever. The lights of Sydney Harbour as seen from Manly at night time. A yacht race that took place one afternoon: ‘White Wings’. The ferry trip across, pitching and tossing. And so forth, for a couple of pages. The scenes I just touched on are indeed very fine, although they are described in a few words. Looking at the harbour from Manly at night time one can see thousands of lights. Firstly, up above, are the stars and perhaps the moon. Along the shore are the lights of the various suburbs, some rows of lights one knows to be a street, another bright, revolving light one knows is a lighthouse on one of the Heads. In the water itself are dozens of lights which denote where certain buoys are whose object is to warn mariners of certain dangers; some of these are white and steady and others are red and flick on and off at regular intervals. Right in the middle of the harbour is a row of moving lights all yellow and gold, except one which is bright green. This is a ferry boat which has just left Manly and is now opposite The Heads, on its way to Circular Quay. Another indistinct row of lights, which is also moving, is an incoming ferry boat.

  But before I finish, let me say a word on Sydney girls. All shingled, bobbed or bingled, with close fitting hats, short dresses and half of them wearing flesh coloured silk stockings. I think they form as fine a specimen of womanhood as could be found in any part of the world. Generalizing, they are very well developed and exceptionally good looking. They dress smartly and in fairly bright colours. If you want to see if they really are well proportioned, go to Manly, for they walk about there in bathing costumes with wraps or overcoats lightly thrown over their shoulders and may be seen so clad at almost any hour, in any street, walking to or from the surf. And on Saturdays or Sundays the Ocean Beach itself is one mass of lightly clad young female Australians, with young males in attendance.