A visit to the naked city It was a busy day yesterday. My wife and I determined to use a free $50 voucher for Perth's "C" revolving restaurant which is in the middle of the central business district.
But first we were determined to make a pilgrimage to
Japon, one of our favourite retail establishments. It's located in Subiaco which is about 4km west of Perth central. Subi would be a much more interesting place if the parking fees were not so high. It can cost more in parking that what you actually want to buy. Like $1.20 a half hour. We noticed a parking inspector writing out infringement tickets as fast as he could.
As usual
Japon was well stocked with exquisite items from the land where artistic design and utilitarian function still coexist. I purchased a set of four traditional saki cups with a mildly erotic design for $20. Erotica at Christmas? Better than giving a book on war. The purchase was gift wrapped at no extra charge. Even the gift wrapping was exquisite, and they finished it off with a length of red ribbon.
Then with our parking time almost run out, it was into Perth. We usually park in a subterranean abyss beneath the State's
Alexandra Library. Not cheap either, but one can usually find a space quite easily in the lowest level.
There is a dreadful jerky lift which brings you to concourse level. It's been jerky for many years which suggests something is out of alignment, but the building managers have never fixed it.
We set off on foot past the
State Art Gallery and transversed the walkway over the Perth railway station. This is the favoured area for gangs of itinerant youths to mug passers-by in the night. The TV stations invariably drag out stock security camera footage of attacks every time there is a new incident.
Even in the daytime there are plenty of scary looking people who hang about in the area. There are a few shady looking hawkers too - they do nothing to improve the mood - blankets spread out on the concourse displaying cheap jewellery and the sort of craft items which might have belonged in the hippy era four decades ago.
The streets and arcades of Perth are generally pretty grubby. They're all screaming for a decent scrub down. The city beadles have never got a handle on it. Most of the shops seem to put on a brave front against the grime. Their interiors are usually clean and well presented, although by the end of the day the sparklingness seems to be in need of a recharge.
We saw a few members of the Barmy Army - here for the Third Cricket Test - Poms versus Aussies. Their necks were pink from sunburn. I told a couple of the lads that our local beaches were great, just like our white pointers.
The "C" restaurant was on the 33rd floor of a tall building in windy St George's Terrace. It's not the tallest building in town, but the view was still fantastic. I could kick myself for leaving my camera at home.
The menu was priced to what you would expect for such a view. We had booked a table for two last week, otherwise we wouldn't have had a chance yesterday. We were right next to the window, and could see that the structure was indeed revolving in a clockwise direction taking us with it. I think it does about one revolution an hour.
Wishing to keep our cost down we went for a main course only, with a glass of iced water. We chose "snapper" with chips and a subtle salad on the plate for $27 each. The service was excellent, and many of the wait-persons seemed to have French accents. We had no complaints about anything and with the free voucher, we only had to part with an extra four dollars to pay for our experience. We had just about finished one revolution by the time we finished.
Our next destination was the awful "big bardie," the Perth Convention Centre, a brisk five minute walk from the high "C".
There was a mega remainder book/CD/DVD sale being presented by a travelling roadshow. No books over five bucks and there were plenty of good titles from publishers such as Melbourne University Press. There was a huge quantity of everything, all neatly set out in stacks on hundreds of trestle tables. Most of the CDs were modern rock - artists like Black Eyed Peas and Missie Higgens. No interest to me. Most were dearer than the books.
Luckily I found several trestles of classical music, a lot of it remaindered from the ABC and all at greatly reduced prices, some as low as a dollar. All up, my wife and I parted with about $130.
I also found a DVD of the ABBA movie in which I had a speaking part - seventeen bucks mind you.
The trouble with buying remaindered books and the other crap is that you have to lug them home. Unfortunately, "home" for us was our car parked underground on the other side of the city.
As we were staggering towards the State Library we could see that about fifty metres out in full view of the main entrance there was a man lying face down on the main thoroughfare and unconscious. Shamefully, absolutely everyone was ignoring him as they went about their business. The man was an Aborigine.
We stopped and gave assistance. There was no smell of alcohol, but he had a head wound over his right eye which had been cleaned up. I called to him for a minute or so and he opened his eyes, he seemed pretty confused and asked for soft drink. I asked him if he was diabetic and he mumbled yes. Still no one else was stopping. We too had become invisible. My wife went off to the Library cafe to get a bottle of soft drink. They gouged her for $2.50.
While I was waiting I found out his name was Johnny and he was from Alice Springs. He was
Yangkunytjatjara man - one of the language groups out that way. He was about 45 and had been in a fight. He had numerous amateur tattoos on his arms, the type which people inflict on themselves in prison. His clothes were typical of inland Aborigines who travel long distances, soiled by the dust of the road, and probably all that he possessed.
It's impossible for me not to feel compassion when I meet up with such people. He was typical of hundreds I have met from time to time. They are at the very bottom end of Australian society and have been subjected to a latent racism for their entire lives. Thus is the explanation for for his invisibility in his time of dire need. No one else cares.
I got him to sit up and take a drink from the bottle my wife had fetched. Almost straight away he seemed a bit better from the slight sugar recharge. I said he was too old to be fighting. I said I'd given it up many years ago and that was why I was still so good looking. That got a good natured laugh.
A uniformed security person arrived from the Library. He said an upstairs manager had instructed him to investigate if the man was an Aborigine. I assume someone had been looking from a window. I was surprised by the racialist candour and replied it shouldn't make any difference whether he was an Aborigine or not. He tried to retract, but I knew where he was coming from. I told him what I had learned and that responsibility for the man's well being was now being passed from me to him. Then I told Johnny I could do no more. He thanked me and we parted company.
About ten minutes later we had retrieved our car for $9.50 parking fee. As we drove south along William Street my wife could see up a side street the place where we had helped the man. A police "bongo van" had arrived. I hope they were sympathetic.
Thus ends this story of yesterday's visit to the naked city.
© MMVI Paul R. Weaver.
About the writerCheck out each month's subject index on the Calendar Page for my "common-man" monologues about survival in 21st century Australia – plus a little history occasionally. An original essay is added most days as part of an undertaking to write a couple of million words.
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