Coming to a new life in Umina
After six weeks on the ship, we finally arrived in Sydney early in 1951.
On the way over we had sailed past Gibraltar then through the Mediterranean and briefly dropped anchor at various exotic ports, namely Port Said, Aden and Colombo.
A bus was waiting for us at Pyrmont and together with many other families we walked down the gang plank and started our new lives in Australia.
The bus driver, a jolly but rather overweight gentleman sang all the way to Umina.
He kept everybody entertained, even though none of us had a clue what he was saying or singing.
However, two songs I do remember were The Monkey Honeymoon and Goodnight Irene.
To an 11-year-old, this was a pretty good and exciting introduction to our new home.
The bus dropped us off in Augusta St around midnight and the very first thing we did the following morning was to check out the beach.
What an amazing sight!
The beach was pristine with the water a translucent and glittering blue.
The bay was framed by hills on either side almost like two giant arms embracing all that water, with only the opening between Box Head and Barrenjoey serving as a reminder to the Tasman Sea beyond.
For us kids it was a great adventure - learning a new language, making new friends.
But it must have been strange and difficult for our parents during the initial period.
Constant blackouts meant a steady supply of candles and shillings for the electricity meter.
Preparing meals was a real challenge with frequent blockages of primus stoves and using a combustion stove on a hot summer's day.
We relied on a water tank and hand pump in the backyard for all our domestic needs and when you got down to the last few rungs on the tank and the wrigglies start to emerge, you would have to cut down on the bathing or pay to have your tank refilled.
The other major problem was the outdoor loo.
Toilets were located in the backyard often with little or no light.
A nature call in the middle of the night was certainly no joke.
Red-back spiders, flies and mosquitoes regarded the dunny as their rightful home.
Nightsoil, as it was euphemistically called, was removed in the early hours of the morning and many a time a late night stranger from a party would bump into one of these gentlemen carrying an often full can on their shoulder with the occasional disastrous result.
At Christmas time, you would usually find a small card on the throne with a not-so-subtle poem suggesting that a small reward would not be inappropriate to show one's appreciation for their arduous and rather unpleasant work.
So you would leave a few bottles of amber fluid in order to thank these anonymous but indispensable workers.
Letter, 29 Jan 2009
Fred Landman, Daley's Point