Calling all Expats

[Shogun]

My dad was in the New Zealand army just after the war and I lived in Palmaston North as a kid we also lived in Australia and South Africa for a wile we came back to England in 1970 is there any expats over there want to talk about where they are from how long they have been there or are there any who went and came back tell us your story's or anyone who thinking of trying a new life down under.

[JANEYMAY01]

We came out to Aus three years ago after living in Sheffield for 50 years. Husband got a chance to transfer his job here.Taking some time to get used to this huge country after living in the same place for so many years. My husbands family is from Firth Park !!

[Derek Clayton]

My dad was in the New Zealand army just after the war and I lived in Palmaston North as a kid we also lived in Australia and South Africa for a wile we came back to England in 1970 is there any expats over there want to talk about where they are from how long they have been there or are there any who went and came back tell us your story's or anyone who thinking of trying a new life down under.

 

Hi Shogun,

my wife, 2 small kids and I left England in February 1971 for South Africa. We went to vanderbjlpark near Joburg to work for the Metal Box Company as a Lithographic Metal Decorator. We enjoyed S.A. it was a great place then, not now of course. Left there in 1973 and went to Australia where we still are, it was a great move and we have prospered well here.

We have been back to dear old Blighty many times for holidays, what a shame it has gone down the gurgler in many ways, I doubt it will ever reclaim it,s former glory. Australia can learn a lot from the UK in terms of what not to do to STUFF UP a country but I doubt that it will, the govt. here are just running scared of the minority groups inc. the dreaded illegals.

Unfortunately nobody listens to us, what do we know?

 

Delboy

[Shogun]

Hi Shogun,

my wife, 2 small kids and I left England in February 1971 for South Africa. We went to vanderbjlpark near Joburg to work for the Metal Box Company as a Lithographic Metal Decorator. We enjoyed S.A. it was a great place then, not now of course. Left there in 1973 and went to Australia where we still are, it was a great move and we have prospered well here.

We have been back to dear old Blighty many times for holidays, what a shame it has gone down the gurgler in many ways, I doubt it will ever reclaim it,s former glory. Australia can learn a lot from the UK in terms of what not to do to STUFF UP a country but I doubt that it will, the govt. here are just running scared of the minority groups inc. the dreaded illegals.

Unfortunately nobody listens to us, what do we know?

 

Delboy

We were in Cape town at the time and the race divide was not very nice at all, black seats and white seats in the park not a good time visit SA in the 60s

we were in Perth and Freemantle when we went to ozz I liked ozz but my Dad preferred NZ.

[Downsunder]

I wrote this account of our first days in Australia when we emigrated from Sheffield all those years ago.

 

The 18,000 ton liner glided soundlessly under the Harbour Bridge. Two tugs towed her into Pyrmont 13, a warm sunny day in February 1973. I turned over in my bunk, drunk from the captain’s farewell party on the last night at sea. The greatest adventure of my life was off to a bad start.

It was two months before, my new wife and I, walking home from the pub on a clear, crisp November night, stopped on a hill overlooking the twinkling lights of Sheffield and made this strange pact: ‘lets . . go . . to Australia’ We decided, at that very moment in time, to abandon ourselves and become two different people. The people we were, we left sitting on a bench, under a starry sky, holding hands. We’ve never been back to see if they are still there.

Our friends Brian and Kerry were at the wharf to meet us, I picked them out among the mass of people, laughing, waving, shouting, whistling. They would give us moral support, show us around, accommodate us and help us find jobs. They were renting a flat in Cremorne, two minutes from the harbour for forty dollars a week.

For some reason never explained to us, we had to spend our first night on Australian soil at the migrant hostel in Dulwich Hill. That night I lay awake listening to Chris gently breathing in the bunk above me. The hut was built of grey concrete blocks with matching lino on the floor. Two empty bunks and our suitcases completed the decor, we weren’t crowded out with things like tables and chairs. In the darkness I heard a faint whisper echo around the room.

‘What have we done?’

It came from the lips of every immigrant who had passed through this place, sleeplessly searching for answers.

So, what had we done?

We had abandoned our families, the brothers and sisters we grew up with, the cousins who would now become strangers. Chris’ mum would come home from work to an empty house. Who would feed the dog and put the milk bottles out? What would happen to Chris’s record collection? I thought about my dad. The second stroke had knocked him about, paralysed his right side, his speech was slurred, only mum could understand him. His arm curved inward towards the body, fist permanently clenched like a fast bowler walking back to his mark. I felt bad, real bad thinking about him. My dad. I was the second of three sons, he loved us all but was I his favourite? I seemed to spend more time with him, he took me to work, he took me camping, he took me to the football and even stopped to watch me play. It was me who went to the dentist with him when he had all his teeth out and later we went to the pub together and he gave me little cameo speeches about life. And now, like a true friend, at the time when he needed me most, what do I do? I get on a boat and sail away to the other side of the world.¬¬ What do you think of your favourite son now dad?

Daybreak came with glorious sunshine, the first day in a new world, the first morning of a new life. Our hut quickly became uncomfortably warm so we wandered out into the compound. I was still hung over from a cocktail of guilt and uncertainty but the warm sunshine had a friendliness about it and the billowing clouds somehow inspired hope. I rummaged around in my pocket for the slip of paper we were handed on our arrival, it was rubber stamped by the department of social services, then a typed message: PROVIDE ONE MIGRANT WITH ONE BREAKFAST TO THE VALUE OF THREE DOLLARS. Then someone’s signature in blue biro. Chris and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. I grabbed my jacket from the suitcase and we headed off down the high street looking for the Acropolis Milk Bar. The slip of paper bought us a hearty breakfast of bacon, egg, tomato and a mug of hot sweet tea. I was getting to like this place already.

It must have been just habit that I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket, I stared at the small white envelope in my hand, realising I hadn’t worn the jacket since we left home. Inside was a piece of blue writing paper folded in four. No. It can’t be. He can’t hold a pen, he battles to hold a spoon to feed himself but it was his writing. Barely legible, but unmistakable. It was dad’s writing.

 

Dear Phil,

Well how are you son, at least I have something to write about. For me everything went haywire when you went away. I knew you had to go away. I never wanted you to sweat and strive like I had to. Go for it son, my mind will always be with you. OK.

Dad

 

That was almost 40 years ago. I keep the letter in a safe place. Mum said it was the last thing he ever wrote. Whenever I’m feeling a bit melancholy or low, I take out his letter and read it. It doesn’t say anything extraordinary or profound. They thought dad couldn’t write because of the stroke but he managed to form the words with willpower, determination and hope.

Thats why it’s so precious to me.