Living with another family has been an experience different than I expected. At home, my room is a mess. At school I leave dishes in corners and my piles of clothes generally dominate most of the furniture. Living with another family would be a three-month exercise in diligence and self-discipline. Lucky for me, my new home is truly a bachelor pad in spirit—there are no hand-blown glass trinkets to break, the furniture and matching carpet, both a comfortable brownish color, ably disguise the worst spill.
Jim Andrews, my dad, originally came from a Maori village on the west coast of the north island of New Zealand. A carpenter by trade, he immigrated to Australia, as most Kiwis do, to find a job. Thirty years later, and despite his best efforts, he has permanently relocated to “the biggest island.”
The Andrews family grows with my weekly discoveries of a new son or daughter. At last count, I’ve met two boys and three girls, though I’m told two other brothers live in Brisbane. This does not account for the hundreds of cousins I’m convinced exist with Melbourne itself. On every trip to the market or milkbar, a new cousin is introduced. They are old and young, but all wave to Jim, usually before he recognizes whom he is waving back to.
I have nightly conversations with Jim. After dinner, we usually settle into the kitchen—with a cup of coffee and tea, usually the first of several. The topics are diverse but are initiated by Jim taking a sip of tea, setting his hands on table and making his customary opening statement, “Look, the (insert plural noun) are bloody wonderful (type of plural nouns),” and we proceed from there.
He tells me about his childhood in rural New Zealand, his family, the ones still there and the ones in Australia. We cover Maori culture, politics, the construction industry, footy and rugby (the dominant psyche of Australia), food, college, art, and occasionally religion. The ruminations fill up the better part of the evening, unless there is a big match on TV or I have plans. Steve and Mike, my host brothers, occasionally join us and sometimes the whole family drops in on the topic of the night.
On a recent Sunday morning, Jim woke me up at the prohibitive hour of 9 a.m. As my window shade flapped open, I heard from the kitchen, “C’mon mate, we’re going on a Tiki Tour. Get your coat on.” Bleary eyed, I followed him to the car, where Steve was patiently waiting, apparently in the same half-conscious state as I. “Now, I don’t know what you’ve seen of Melbourne, but today, I’ll show you the Real McCoy,” he said, starting the old Peugot and pulling out of the driveway.
The Tiki Tour, as I soon learned, is an overview of all the sites in the Melbourne area that are significant to Jim Andrews. We drove between the buildings he had worked on and pubs that he frequented with other Kiwis in his youth. Soon, we pulled alongside an empty lot and Jim stopped the car. He pointed to the intersection. “Right there,” he motioned, “the story goes that one of our chiefs put his spear in the ground on that spot when he visited Australia before the Poms showed up. We’re going to build our heritage center there. Come back in 10 years, it’ll be all up and running by then.” We pulled away, and I strained around to look. I had a hard time imagining a mighty chief planting his spear on a deserted street corner, but to Jim, it was the most important stop on the Tiki Tour.
