I sit in Cargo, a trendy pub tucked neatly under an expensive apartment and condo complex in the Melbourne Docklands. We end class here today after a walking lecture through the streets of Melbourne. Starting at Victorian Parliament on Spring Street and weaving our way through various precincts and neighborhoods, the group arrives conveniently at this bar.
Our lecturer, Kier, had taken us on a tour of Melbourne’s cultural geography. Parliament sits on a hill, presiding over the city, but also ensuring that 19th century sewage never reached its steps. Chinatown weaves in and out of Parisian Bourke and Collins Streets and alleyways once rife with crime now thrive with counter-culture nightclubs and bars. Across the Yarra River the walking class ends, surrounded by the future of Melbourne, a harbor finally embraced and reclaimed by Melburnians.
Another surprise lays in wait. Bill the director pulls out a hat brimming with slips of paper printed with country Victorian towns. One by one we draw out locales: Castlemaine, Alexandra, Yea, Achuca, and I draw Mansfield. Remember the Melbourne drop-off? (Recall episode two, Neurotic Scott in the City) This is its big brother. The Victoria drop-off marks the beginning of our independent study. Independently we each must venture into rural Victoria for a weekend to grasp what it is to be a country Aussie.
I’ll be staying at the Mansfield Backpackers’ Inn on High Street. Three places on the internet have described its accommodations as “simple and efficient, but very clean.” Clean is a plus after only recently talking to another Carl who left a Sydney hostel with 273 ‘mystery’ bug bites. My V/line bus from Melbourne pulls in across the street from the Inn just as fireworks are going off. Inadvertently, I had walked into the kick-off of the annual Mansfield High Country Festival.
My field work begins. I have to make friends as fast as possible with the knowledge that the socialites in my group staying in towns closer to Melbourne have significant head-starts. I check into my room in a low brick row-house long enough to put down my bag and wander into town. High Street is already buzzing with activity.
The town extends cardinally from Memorial Square, a stretch of green inhabited by a war memorial to the town’s fallen. Each corner boasts a pub hotel: The Commerical Hotel, The Mansfield Hotel, The Delatite Hotel, and The Mansfield Inn. Each has its own character and I am clearly too young, not tattooed enough, and not owning enough Harley’s for three of the four pubs. I settle on the Mansfield Hotel, buy a pot of beer at the bar and meet my first locals.
The McFarland Family is the High Country Scottish Bagpipe Brigade. They are in town for Saturday’s parade down High Street. Naturally I’m wondering why they’re in kilts on Friday. “We rehearsed earlier and it’s great wearing the gear out,” says Andrew, one of three sons. I nod my head as though I understand the logic.
I spend the night chatting with Brigade. The Festival is a high point in the community calendar, drawing Victorians from all over. Events not to miss include the Bush Market, the Rotary Cook-off, the Trash to Treasure Swap and the Ned Kelly re-enactment on Sunday. I’ll be here for it all. We chat until the pub closes and I walk the 40 meters back to my hostel.
The next morning, I browse the Bush Market, watch the parade and cheer at the Rotary Cook-off. Fitted with my red backpack, hiking boots and camera, I blend in—apparently half of Melbourne has followed me here. I stop at a milk-bar for lunch and Ginnie, the owner, confirms this observation. “Most of the locals stay in today, there’s just too many crowds. Today and Easter, they stay in,” she reveals, “By Sunday they’ll come out again.” Thankfully I’ll still be here. By sunset, the town quiet returns as High Street empties and the curious city folk head south again.
On Sunday, I walk to the fairgrounds to catch the all-day horse demonstrations. On the way there, I count six or seven ‘funny looks.’ This is a technical term of course, but it seems I’ve been found out—they say, “You are not from Mansfield.” At the fairgrounds I get breakfast and the woman behind the counter asks me where I’m visiting from. I hesitate before answering, “The States actually. Why, do I look out of place?” She smiles and hands me my cutlery, “No, it’s just that it’s mostly town people out here today, and you looked unfamiliar.”
The horse demonstration is impressive, so are the sheep herding, whip cracking, polo-lacrosse and bull riding exhibitions. Half-time brings Mansfield’s pioneers in wagons and bull carts onto the field. I sit in the shade and take pictures, thoroughly excited by it all. “Where are you visiting from?” the man sitting with his cattle dog next to me asks. “The States actually, I’m here for the weekend.”
When my bus pulls away from the bus station that evening, I wish I could stay a few more days. It’s hard to get a sense of where you are in a weekend, or in three months for that matter, but I’ve had a look at yet another side of Australia that I might have not seen.
