Not far from a fountain featuring the serene face of Buddha , it is 3am , I am in a penthouse , clad in shortie pyjamas, fanned by a cooling breeze after a brief storm with associated thunder and lightning swept through , an extraordinary panoramic view of Darwin stretching before me . Bustling , surprising, both annoying and inspiring, modern Darwin was a tiny outpost when I first arrived here in 1958 , a pimply innocent from the Big Smoke, Sydney.
By Peter Simon
In less than a week , my wife and I leave Darwin for Magnetic Island, North Queensland ; only time will tell if I ever set foot again in this Babylonian Territory capital . From the airport , through the harbour , taking in Mandorah, the navigation lights twinkling like fireflies , sheet lightning displays , I gaze at the scene , ruminating on the immense changes that have taken place in more than half a century . People, places and events pour through my mind . Looking down from my vantage point , the whole of the Central Business District is lit up like a Hollywood film set , ready for the cameras to roll in the latest Boom Town series, longer than the Rocky and Toy Story blockbusters. It is fitting that in a place named after worm and monkey expert , Charles Darwin, the tallest current building is named Evolution , 33 storeys. Mooted new high rises have fancy names like Manhattan, Freedom Tower , Kube ; Soho is under construction .
Darwin’s Pearly Kings –Paspaleys -already have a big footprint on the CBD ( and Broome,WA ) and are about to erect a new complex from the old bank building at the Smith Street Mall /Bennet Street corner . Anyway, Paspaleys appear to have developed into a bank of its own with its boundless treasures from Davy Jones’s Locker and has extensive overseas and Australian investments . It was inconceivable in the l950s that the tiny Paspaley pearling outfit would blossom into a global enterprise. Paspaleys have so many clams in the kitty that it even invested in Darwin’s rapidly built new refugee detention centre.
In what used to be a waterhole called Kitty O’Shea’s , which experienced hard times and closed for a short time , there has opened a new ersatz art deco exterior Hotel Darwin . I was told it incorporated features of the grand old hotel on the Esplanade , knocked down despite strong community protests. Over the years , I spent a lot of time in the famous Green Room in the Hotel Darwin, imbibing , spilling a bit of blood , interviewing interesting guests , so decided I must see the latest version before leaving LA on a jet plane . Sucking on a squash , I could not detect one vestige of the earlier pub , said not to have been bombed by the Japanese because they may have taken up residence there. Numerous photographs of the Marx Brothers were displayed along one wall . Are the Marx Brothers the new embodiment of this city? The bizarre weekend antics which take place in Mitchell Street would appear to rival any performances of the whacky trio.
DRINKING WITH REPTILES
Dwarfed by modern buildings , the recently re-opened Vic Hotel , in the Smith Street Mall, which , incredibly, closed because of financial problems some time ago , seemed to be the very throbbing heart of Darwin in my early days here when it was run by Richard and Alec Fong , jovial Ronnie Yip one of the memorable staff , a swarthy barmaid nicknamed The Egyptian. The people who drank there and the events played out on the premises will be covered in vivid detail in the continuing biography of NT crusading editor, Jim Bowditch. That is me, above, drinking with some of the Vic Hotel denizens in the l950s. The lively Workers’ Club , unfortunately, is no more and as I look down from my vantage point , where it used to be , I recall the characters I met there, one being a lady called Soupy Lips , obviously taken aback by my dazzling image , clad in my white long sox, white Navy shorts and sweaty neon white shirt , destined to yellow at the armpits. Damon Runyon would have been more than somewhat inspired by the boisterous guys and dolls in the noisy shed-like building who gathered there , carrying a wide range of nicknames , flamboyant and animated in discourse, yarns galore to tell .
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Leaning against the penthouse parapet in the wee small hours , I see the modern Chung Wah temple, the old tin “joss house “, blown away in Cyclone Tracy. I was present when the Gods were installed in the old temple , it having been looted during WW11. After the impressive installation ceremony, the entrance was closed at night. Mysterious drumming was heard from within the empty temple . The Gods were consulted ; back came the message that they felt enclosed . This was taken as meaning the temple should not be locked at night , so the doors were left open . The donation box was regularly cleaned out at night ; green dye was used to catch a thief.
Well lit is the old Brown’s Mart building , now a theatre, the Crown Law Office in earlier times , where the legal actors included cowboy boot wearing , eloquent Ron Withnall ; gentlemanly George Dickinson , who had attended Japanese war crime trials, worked for the Sydney Morning Herald and told interesting anecdotes about Sir Warwick Fairfax ; John Gallop, later a Supreme Court Judge, before whom I was called on two cases in vain bids to prevent journalists from holidaying at Her Majesty’s expense .Somebody else in Crown Law went under the nickname , Comical Con.
Thrust skywards in the greenery is the spire of the rebuilt after Cyclone Tracy Christ Church Anglican Cathedral , bringing back memories –one being our marriage there- the Liquor Vicar and the busy, civic minded warden , author Peter Spillett. A short distance from the church was the old English, Scottish and Australian tin bank in which the NT News first started life .
The cruise ship Regent , above , came into port while we were ensconced in the penthouse and added to the spectacle , a blaze of light at night. In the morning the sad news came through on the radio that a young American crewmember, a singer, had been found dead in her cabin. Before sunrise one morning, there is evidence that the streets of Darwin are literally lined with gold as a van is seen doing the rounds of the CBD emptying the parking ticket dispensers , sounds like a poker machine jackpot drop echoing across the city.
Open air boxing was big in Darwin back in the l950s, and I helped set up a makeshift boxing ring in the basketball courts for the fight promoter, Kiwi Terry Alderton. At one boxing night , lawyer John “Tiger “Lyons, sitting with another prominent legal man, Dick Ward, said he would back the red corner to win , and stretched out some of his thin, ginger strands of hair to highlight the point.
I well remember returning from a weekend fishing trip at Coburg Peninsula when the pilot tapped the fuel gauge , and said it could not be right. But it was –very low. Air Traffic Control was notified and we thankfully plopped down on the tarmac with a fire engine running alongside . On another light aircraft flight along the Arnhem Land coast with Opposition Leader , Jon Isaacs , and Bob Collins , the pilot suddenly realised he did not have enough fuel to get back to Darwin. Landing at a small settlement , the pilot berated himself in a most unnerving way. Another air adventure included going out in the RAAF Lincoln Bomber which used to be based in Darwin, looking for the yacht Sea Fox and it amazing crew, which included a chimpanzee ; an RAAF Sabre jet crashed in Darwin Harbour and I found the dead pilot’s helmet floating in the debris, which I recall looking down on the scene .
There are many people to see and loose ends to tie up before leaving Darwin in a matter of days . The car has to be taken in for attention as it refuses to start at times and has to be delivered to a depot to be trucked to Townsville . My decrepitude is obvious to one and all as I am referred to as an old man on three occasions . The final blow comes when a woman kindly offers me a seat in a packed bus, which I decline, with thanks. For some inexplicable reason, I begin singing discordant snatches of the Kinky Friedman song about Ol' Ben Lucas , who had a lot of mucus... Make a note on a scrap of paper , subsequently lost, to have a nip, tuck , apply Grecian 2000 to thin grey hair and book a session with a shrink and voice trainer .
It was so hot and sticky, I borrowed a cap with SCOTLAND on the peak, giving the impression that I am a visiting Highlander . When I retreated to the penthouse for relief from the sweaty conditions , my seven – year- old granddaughter , Steffi, showed me her impressive library of fairy books .These fairies seem to be thoroughly modern misses , one wearing Doc Martens and a designer label dress. Then Steffi challenges me to a game of chess .Groan. Never in all my years have I played chess, so I tell her, thinking ,hoping, that she will take pity on me and withdraw the challenge . Not Steffi . She revels in winning and realises I will be a pushover. Out comes the magnetic chess set and she supplies me with instant, baffling instructions on how to play the game . Naturally, she wipes the floor with me as I wanted to play the game like a combination of Chinese checkers , snakes and ladders and draughts, aggravating her in the process.
Grandson Kurt, 10, who recently had the rare experience of being the drum beater in dragon boat races in Malaysia during which the 18 year old race starter jumped into the water to cool off and drowned, his body not found for days , is full of surprises. Kurt shows signs of being another Steven Spielberg and showed me films he has made using Leggos and an old WW11 military tin toy plane I gave him ; as I see the plane streaking down towards the ground with its wheels down, I am reminded of the 1946 event in which a l2- year- old “ Javanese” boy, Bas Wie , stowed away in the wheel nacelle of a Dutch Dakota in Koepang and fell out on the tarmac in Darwin ; allowed to remain Australia, Bas lived in Government House and with the Administrator’s son, Mike Driver, who became a reporter , rode out on bikes with a rifle to hunt wallabies and take turns shooting at a pillbox in which one of them sheltered .
Grandson Kurt, 10, who recently had the rare experience of being the drum beater in dragon boat races in Malaysia during which the 18 year old race starter jumped into the water to cool off and drowned, his body not found for days , is full of surprises. Kurt shows signs of being another Steven Spielberg and showed me films he has made using Leggos and an old WW11 military tin toy plane I gave him ; as I see the plane streaking down towards the ground with its wheels down, I am reminded of the 1946 event in which a l2- year- old “ Javanese” boy, Bas Wie , stowed away in the wheel nacelle of a Dutch Dakota in Koepang and fell out on the tarmac in Darwin ; allowed to remain Australia, Bas lived in Government House and with the Administrator’s son, Mike Driver, who became a reporter , rode out on bikes with a rifle to hunt wallabies and take turns shooting at a pillbox in which one of them sheltered .
Memories come flooding back about the many court cases I have covered over the years , the latest being the plight of Darwin Aboriginal art gallery identity, Shirley Collins , ruined by her involvement in the Bank of America Down Under Tour of the US in the lead up to the 2000 Sydney Olympic Games . A strange early case involved the amazing so called half woman , no body from the waste down, who came to town with a circus and gave birth to a baby . Police officers that come to mind are burly Greg Ryall, who at the Darwin Airport slapped a throat bar on one of the Russian guards attempting to whisk Mrs Petrov out of Australia ; hero Jim Mannion ; police prosecutor , “Fangs” Metcalfe ; “Killer” Kane, who on leaving the force , a chip on his shoulder , frequently referred to the NT Police Farce and complained about police vehicles being illegally parked ... last heard of , he had supposedly bought a large vessel and traded up Asia way ; the extremely fit constable who committed bigamy.
The cavalcade of characters included the tragic women Violet Clancy and Ruby, regular court appearers ; the NT News cleaner , English remittance man , Drunken Donald Duncan, who fell into Darwin Harbour one night and drifted for hours ; murders , an inquest in which angels were mentioned .
Social writer Joy Collins, unable to come to work one day, rang from Batchelor to say she was in bed with a wog, resulting in a risqué response from the editor . Other individuals that come to mind include the dynamic Professor Harry Messel who took me on a crocodile survey of the Adelaide River ; American entrepreneur , Gus Trippe ; the enlightened magistrate , Stuart Dodds , with whom I did a circuit court trip down the track, meeting former NT Mounted Policeman , Jack Mahoney, then mine host at the Larrimah Hotel ; another great Territory Mountie, Ted Morey , who put pen to paper ; the jockey who was beaten with a frying pan and John the Log , caught at the wheel of a getaway car he could not start in a London holdup; a tired and emotional Bob Hawke making derogatory remarks to an Alsatian dog; "Cannonball" Cridland .
An unexpected and touching event took place when the Police Museum and Historical Society of the NT presented me with a copy of Peter FitzSimon’s latest book, Eureka, for editing its journal, Citation. Last minute research in the parliamentary library included following up angles on authors Xavier Herbert and Frank Hardy in particular and a number of other people and events . A goodbye visit was made to the always interesting, full of great stories and information , Genealogical Society of the NT. The small team of volunteers is incredibly knowledgeable and the source of many interesting and offbeat stories. I suggest the local media make regular contact with the group. On the way out the door , I am informed of a fabulous yarn involving London and the early British settlement of the NT, just one of number in the bulging ideas book.
With our family , we experience the CBD cafe society scene at the popular, very busy Java Spice on Sunday morning, where a strolling guitarist entertained . Down The Star Theatre arcade , I whipped into the coin, stamps and oddities dealer , my kind of territory, and searched through a mound of postcards , some French ones going back to WW1 , and purchased a wad , covering union matters, NZ, the abdication of Napoleon 1, and two views of Lord Howe Island ,where I went by flying boat when I was a schoolboy . Of particular interest is an early aerial shot of NZ’s Mount Tarawera , which erupted in l886, because I climbed it in the l960s with former NT News editor , Ross Annabell, author of the book about the Territory uranium boom , and we slid down on the loose scree into the crater bottom, the heat increasing the deeper we went . On that climb the top of the chasm was lined with red volcanic bombs (the magna which had shot high into the sky, cooled and came down as round balls ) and colourful lichens . Snow falling on the summit adds to the colourful scene , as do deer ,which bounded out of the swirling mist during our climb .
DARWIN FASHION NOTES
One of the first assignments I had as a reporter in Darwin did not involve crocodiles –it was a fashion night at the old Seabreeze Hotel at Nightcliff where the chemise look was introduced. I was present when the new Administrator , Roger Nott , addressed a meeting of worthy citizens in the Town Hall and said suits were not suitable for the Darwin climate and invited the gathering to remove coats ; he defined Darwin rig for formal occasions ... trousers , shirt and tie for men . There was a time when Legislative Council members were relaxed when it came to dress and a visiting press photographer was ordered out of the building for trying to take a shot of “shirt sleeve legislators.”
A menswear representative from south came to Darwin and was induced to make colourful and critical remarks in the NT News about the state of male attire in the Territory, which caused a lively and laughable local response. Opposition Leader Jon Isaacs introduced the safari suit to parliament . Now suits and ties are all the go for men in the Legislative Assembly Wedding Cake building . Women members tend to dress up in dark power suits , unlike Dawn Lawrie who injected , colour, bangles and piled up coiffure in her day. There is a strange situation in modern Darwin whereby the media insists on projecting an image of sweaty male Territorians in stubbies, singlets and thongs. Yet the glossy local magazines are replete with photographs of men in suits, ties , bowties, dickies ; women frocked up to the nines . The fashion scene at the Melbourne Cup frivolities at Fannie Bay racetrack equate to Flemington .
ENTERTAINED BY HOUDINI
The night before leaving Darwin , we dined at Tim’s Restaurant , he being a magician and the local Harry Houdini , who entertained us and the grandchildren with sleight of hand tricks. The food was laid out like a work of art . At the airport the next day, two of the great team from the Nightcliff Uniting Church Op Shop-Maude and Jo-surprised us by turning up to say farewell. Once again, I was selected by security to see if I had anything explosive on my person , footwear , jocks. Why me ? . Soon after arriving in Townsville , a young couple offer me a seat at a crowded bus stop ...Really must look like a weary old Fenian .
