Why seeking a new life abroad won't always mean the grass will be greener

[mc_squared]

Why seeking a new life abroad won't always mean the grass will be greener

 

By PHILLIP KNIGHTLEY - More by this author » Last updated at 00:55am on 1st September 2007 Comments (12)

A wet and rainy summer, flash floods, a new dose of bad news most days, stealth taxes, a spate of gun and knife crimes and suddenly it seems that half the population of Britain wants to head off to the sun - for good.

The official figures tell the story. Longterm migration from the UK reached 385,000 in the 12 months to July last year, the highest figure since 1991.

Where are all these disillusioned citizens heading?

Mainly to Australia, which already has 1.3 million former British residents, whingeing away because the Aussies won't stop calling them "whingeing Poms"; or Spain, which hosts 761,000 in ghettos on the various Costas; to the U.S. (678,000 scattered all over the country) and to France, with 200,000 mostly in Normandy and Brittany, which is odd considering the climate there could best be described as English.

Scroll down for more

 

Off to a new life: British families emigrate to Australia in the 1940s

 

Since migration is one of the most important steps one can take in life - up there with marriage, divorce and becoming a parent - and since it pits two major human emotions against each other - the desire for stability against the desire for change - then these new potential migrants must surely have given their decision a lot of thought.

You might even be contemplating joining the exodus, especially given that Australia is bending its immigration laws to attract more Poms.

But as one who, 50 years ago, headed the other way, from Sydney to London, may I offer a spot of advice to would-be emigrants everywhere? Wherever you head in the world, life overseas seldom lives up to expectations.

Australia may have many attractions: the weather, the beaches, the scenery, the sporting facilities, the restaurants, the friendliness and the noisy optimism are all extremely attractive.

But before you trudge off to Australia House and begin the two-year process of getting that coveted visa, I suggest you consult some of the one million Australians who live abroad, many of them in Britain.

Ask them one simple question: Why did you leave "Godzone country" as Aussies fondly describe the country of their birth?

The answers might make you think twice before you pack.

It was British TV star Jeremy Clarkson who advised against going to Australia because it was "a vast cultural desert populated by man-eating sharks, killer crocodiles, poisonous spiders and men in shorts".

His comments were so outrageous that on a subsequent visit to Oz, I embarked on a nationwide speaking tour to show audiences how such ignorant prejudices were damaging the country's image.

But the very day I set off, a shark ate a woman in South Australia, a crocodile killed a man in Queensland, there was a plague of poisonous funnel-web spiders in Sydney and, of course, the streets were full of men in shorts.

As for culture, a brewery in Melbourne had just launched a new boutique beer called P**s, with the slogan "Get on the P**s".

At least those Brits who have chosen Spain or France are not victims of the tyranny of distance that bedevils those who have chosen Australia. They can be back here in a few hours - and often are.

But they have other problems to contend with. They are never really accepted. Otherwise why do they huddle together in British ghettos - the Costas are full of them - and eat roast beef on Sundays at local British theme pubs run by other British migrants?

They battle with Spanish bureaucracy and complain among themselves about the plague of beggars, purse snatchers and pickpockets that infest cities such as Barcelona. (A visit to a cash point in a Barcelona street has to be planned like a military operation.)

And what chance is there of a British migrant family in the Dordogne being accepted by the French (unless they make an enormous effort) when a former prime minister of France was once dismissed by a political rival as: "Not really French... his family has been here only since the 16th century"?

Don't imagine that Australia's any better in this regard, either. Let's consider that idea of socalled 'mateship' that Australians make a big deal about.

They call each other 'mate' all the time - "me best mate", "me oldest mate", "me work mate" and, for a woman, "me longhaired mate". And, only this week, it was announced that under changes to immigration regulations, potential migrants will need to sign a statement declaring their willingness to obey the terms of 'mateship', as an indication of their acceptance of Australian social values.

That's right - G'Day Mate to you too!

Very sociable is how it all seems. But don't believe a word of it. A mischievous English acquaintance, a long-time resident of Australia, plays a cruel game at Sydney dinner parties.

He invites all the guests to name their best, their REALLY best mate. The women invariably name their husband or boyfriend.

The men invariably name a male - someone from work or a golf partner.

And when I hear reports claiming that Australian men have become more caring and considerate towards women, I can only laugh.

On one recent trip Down Under, I noticed a group of builders at a Sydney Test match prepare for a day of cricket and drinking.

There were two women in their party. How nice, I thought. They've brought along the wives to enjoy the cricket too.

Far from it. It transpired that the women's job was to queue in relays at the bar and carry the trays of beer to the men's seats.

Even the famed Australian egalitarianism is more likely to breed jealousy and resentment than a sense of kinship.

Aussie attitudes to successful men or women goes like this: "If we're all equal and that person has done so well in life, then he or she must have had an opportunity that I didn't".

Or to put it another way: "I could do their job just as well as them... so why haven't I got it?"

When Paul Keating - Australia's former Prime Minister - was Treasurer he complained: "Sydney's full of blokes who couldn't manage a piggy bank who reckon they can do a better job of being Treasurer than I can. And the bastards don't hesitate to tell me so."

D. H. Lawrence thought that egalitarianism even would make Australia ungovernable because there was a distinct reluctance to accept the responsibility of command or to enjoy the pleasure of obedience.

I saw Lawrence's theory in action on a dockside in Sydney. A naval officer spent five minutes explaining to a group of sailors why he was about to give the order he was - because he knew if he did not, they might not obey it.

Egalitarianism's sister in the Aussie mindset is "a fair go", "a fair crack of the whip" - which means an obligation to behave in a fair and reasonable manner to one's fellow man (or at least to fellow Australians).

But this has spilled over into the business world, to the amazement of the British and Americans.

American executive Bob Joss notes: "Australians start with the notion that if you're making a profit, you must be screwing somebody."

"In Australia, profit is often a dirty word."

So much for the land of opportunity.

Oh I know how depressing this English summer has been. It is so easy to be tempted by the joys of Bondi beach and prawns on the barbie, Aussie friendliness and noisy optimism.

Or by French village life with its leisurely pace, fine food and wine. Or Spain's sunshine, relaxed approach to life and manana attitudes.

Even the frenetic dynamism of American super-power can be appealing.

But believe me, there is a big difference between visiting a country for relatively short periods, and ripping up roots established over many years to go and live there permanently.

However tempting it may be to head to a new home overseas, you will soon discover that your adopted nation has just as many problems as the country of your birth.

Still think that Australia is now a far more civilised and tolerant nation than Britain? Think again. In some respects like civil liberties and attitudes to asylum seekers, it has gone backwards.

And it still struggles over its relationship with Aboriginals. But that appears to be changing in an amazing manner.

It's my theory that white Australians are becoming more and more like Aboriginals with every day that passes.

How so? Well, white Australians wear fewer and fewer clothes. They eat kangaroos, emus and crocodiles. They cook the meat of animals outdoors and on open fires.

They often turn to "bush" remedies rather than conventional medicine.

They have started to worship the land and become angry when it is disturbed by logging and mining.

And they hold regular Aboriginalstyle corroborees - or ceremonial meetings - on beaches.

At these barbies white tribes from all over the area attend, strip nearly naked, paint their faces and compete with each other to master the surf.

So if the new wave of British immigrants can cope with all the above, then good luck to them.

But I suspect that some will end up like a family I met in Melbourne. They left Ealing for the delights of Bondi beach, the sunshine, the outdoor life.

Five years on they had moved to an inland suburb of Melbourne with its cold, drizzling rain and English atmosphere.

They had furnished their house so it was a replica of their old one in London, down to flying ducks on the hallway wall and table place mats showing Buckingham Palace.

And only then, 15,000 miles away, were they as happy as they had been before they left Britain.

The truth is, migration is never easy - no matter which way you are going.

Back in the Fifties when the world's oceans were full of British passenger liners, one ship heading for Australia with British migrants would pass within hailing distance of another carrying Aussies heading for Britain.

Each group would line the rail and shout at the other: 'Go back! Go back!' Not much has changed since then, except the ships have been replaced by planes.

Even 50 years on, I can still remember the sense of disappointment when I finally arrived here.

Viewed from my native Australia, a country where nothing ever seemed to happen, culturally constricted, its people ground down by illiberal laws on drinking and entertainment, repressed by censorship and moral disapproval, Britain had seemed a haven of civilised living, full of opportunities to break into the 'Big Time'.

When I got here, I was appalled at what I found: the bomb damage, the cramped neglected housing, the poverty, the class divide, the low wages and low expectations.

Only the fellowship of other migrants from all over the world kept me here until it was too late to change my mind. So where do I feel I belong? Where is home?

Like most emigrants, these are questions I still ask myself all the time. For all its faults, I still miss Australia and cherish my trips back.

When the plane comes in over the Blue Mountains after that interminable flight from London and there is the Sydney Harbour Bridge sparkling in the early morning sun, and I realise that in a few hours I'll be caught up in the bubbling hedonism of a young country free from the burden of history, my heart lifts and I know deep down I'm an Australian. You can't beat the bonds of birth.

Yet when I leave El Vino wine bar at Blackfriars on a late autumn evening after a conversation that is as stimulating as you would find anywhere in the world, there is a view across the Thames that is magical.

In the foreground is the solid presence of the Unilever building where generations of young men had their yellow fever shots before going off to the far outposts of empire.

In the middle distance is Sea Containers House and further up the river the Oxo Tower. Softened by the English twilight, the scene is an oil painting, timeless and reassuring. When I look at it I know I am by choice a Londoner.

So am I an Aussie or a Brit? In truth, I'm both, doomed like all migrants to be torn for ever between the two.

Wherever life's journey may take you, that's a sobering thought for all those disaffected Brits who dream of finding the promised land elsewhere.