The now exceedingly crusty former premier of Victoria, Jeff Kennett, recently postulated that my island state in the southern seas would, in all ways, be better off becoming governmentally attached to Victoria. As one might expect, Taswegians united in their outrage at such a suggestion, but, to a thinking few, it made sense – economies of scale and all that. In the halcyon days of the Bacon/Crean years, at the turn of the millennium, it was all going so swimmingly – glowing economy, novel educational reforms praised internationally and supported encouragement of a vibrant arts/cultural community. Then, of course, came the GFC, and that combined with inept politicians, voluminous red tape, micro local government and the dastardly Aussie dollar blitzing that of the US, we are once more spiraling down to rust-bucketness. When our complete rescue package in the one basket, our shining light, the Tamar Valley Pulp Mill, recently went belly up, and with it, the final nail, it would seem, has now been driven in. Its demise, caused largely by an arrogant management thinking (much in the same way as in the recent super-trawler debacle) that the mill could be established in one of our iconic tourist/wine producing regions, and everyone would say ‘how wonderful’. If they had the common sense to put it out of the way behind industrial Burnie, as also proposed, then nobody would have 'given a rats', or at least to the same degree. Perhaps our salvation is, as the local paper, the Mercury, seriously suggested, to come by replacing the ovines and bovines in our Midlands paddocks with wallabies, and that could lead us out of this malaise. I like this idea – cut down on climate changing gas, and feed the world with a more than palatable product. It seems, for the time being though, our goose is well and truly cooked. Yes there is some logic in Kennett’s desire for us becoming a part of our neighbouring state across the water and, although it’s now hard to imagine, we were once that, but in reverse. And ‘the not giving a rats’ is one of the themes of Boyce’s remarkable book, which is in part about a Vandemonian ascendency, a natural sequel to his fist tome on Tasmania’s early colonial years. This ex-social worker, if not rewriting Australian history, is certainly redefining it – illuminatingly.
Yes, it is hard to imagine that this beautiful, if flawed, island was once the economic power house of our nation’s early times. The Derwent and Coal Valleys, along with the pasturelands of the Midlands, fed struggling ‘confined’ Sydney and surrounds, whilst its sealers and in-shore whalers created a rich micro-history, as well as early exports. When the central grazing land had been ‘squatted’ out, it was the entrepreneurial spirit of the Batmans, Fawkners and Hentys that, from Launceston, set a new course for our early history, gave it a good shake, and sent our embryo nation off on a narrative changing collision course. They didn’t ‘give a rats’ about the expedient protocols of the official anti-expansionist policy. ‘Australia Felix’ lay over the watery horizon and they ‘went for it’. The governing bodies in Hobart Town, Sydney and London then had to play ‘catch-up’!
For me, growing up, Australian history was, in strict order, explorers –sea, then land – first settlement, convicts, gold rushes, bushrangers, federation, and Gallipoli. Nothing before 1770 was worth mentioning, nothing after 1915. The ‘Black Line’ was the only smidgeon of anything to do with the First Australians I can remember, and I suspect this was only in Tassie. By the time I ended fronting a classroom, the average public school student ‘couldn’t give a rats’ about all this either – the Australian past, to them, was so 'gay'. Instead I told stories about our history, usually to do with a novel we may be reading, a celebration or something that had occurred on the news – definitely not labouring the continuum. I’d probably be sacked now under our regressive new generic curriculum, aimed at the top and bugger the rest.
But Boyce makes our history come alive to any to those of us that are still captive to it by choice. It had always seemed to me that the Gold Rush was the game breaker, the defining event enabling us to gain the necessary ‘pull’ to make the transition from a penal colony to semi-independence. It seems our author, with ‘1835’ marks it decades earlier with the ‘squatter invasion’ that stretched from Wilsons Promontory to Hervey Bay.
There is much that fascinates with this recounting, and much that causes sad rumination. Of course the losers in all this were our indigenous people, for, as the land grab reached its zenith, those pushing back the frontiers, in truth, did not ‘give a rats’ about anything that stood in their way. Once the evangelical movement, with its emphasis on protecting native rights, lost sway, UK and colonial authorities conveniently, and for some venally, enacted legislation that placed into law the death knell of any notion of native entitlements. Once at least given lip service in notions such as ‘Batman’s Treaty’, benevolence quickly became violence, and ‘war’ erupted in the Western Districts of Port Phillip. My island’s ‘Black Wars’ have been microscopically poured over, and the Nepean/Hawkesbury, as well as the Kimberley, conflicts have garnered recent currency. Perhaps none of these had the same devastation and lasting effects as the blood letting in this region, which received nary a mention in Wikipedia’s forays into our frontier conflicts when checked.
As with ‘Van Diemens Land’, with its tales of kangaroo economies and the necessary ‘freedom’ for felons to prevent Sydney-like semi-starvation, there is much to intrigue in this account. There is the bigger picture of the theories Boyce relates for the quick and massive demise of the Aboriginal population of Port Phillip. Then there is the micro-picture – just who was this Annie Baxter who, although sympathetic to the plight of the First Australians, nevertheless rode out on ‘hunting parties’? I scoured cyber-ether for more gen on her.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, but reading the AGL Shaws and Manning Clarks of my university days was decidedly a chore, but a book by James Boyce is something to savour, ensuring that I, and many like me, will always ‘give a rats’ about our nation’s past.