AROUND the old Whacker family property, I can report most things still seem to be White Anglo Saxon (sort of) Protestant.
Except for the odd South African, of course, and some of those blokes have very odd views about how to run a farm, I might add.
However, what I have noticed of late is the belated arrival of multiculturalism in our neck of the woods.
Of course, we have always had the occasional Afghani or two because the link with the old pastoral routes, and connecting the river ports with Melbourne, and the cameleers who opened them up, is still strong in our south-eastern corner of good old agricultural Australia.
There’s always been a Khan or Singh in the local cricket teams – and occasional footy side.
But the other day, I stopped to have a think about what was going on.
My barber is now a Jordanian. The dentist is a Syrian. The newest doctor in town is, I understand, Nigerian. And there’s no doubt a couple of local farms would not have kept going without some enthusiastic Sudanese, Malay, Filipino and Vietnamese assistance.
One by one, these different faces have popped up and, as far as I know, quickly fitted into the local scene without so much as a hiccup.
The local school is starting to look like a small branch of the United Nations – I was going to say League of Nations, but that would only give away my age.
Like any school, I have noticed the yard at lunchtime is still full of happy faces, lots of laughter and the occasional harried teacher trying to keep it all under control.
There’s still only one taxi company in town, which still has only two taxis, and they are run by three Indian brothers who keep them going around the clock.
I still haven’t quite worked out where they fit in the required shuteye – but they seem to.
A more bizarre change in the local landscape a few years ago occurred when this city slicker of foreign origins arrived and started planting olive trees as far as the eye can see – alongside some fairly significant avocado acreage.
What in the world is he doing, I asked myself at the time. Having checked out the olive market this week, I might still ask the same question. Yields appear to be down, the smaller growers are getting hurt most, in a year which was originally meant to be a winner. Sounds like farming to me.
But his avocados are going gangbusters and I’ll give the little bugger his due – he works bloody hard on the farm and in the community, which is more than I can say for some of the more established drongos around here.
Anyhow, the point I am trying to make is I don’t really understand the fuss around multiculturalism and neither, God bless ’em, do the multiculturals who have come here.
When I first met the Jordanian bloke who cuts what little hair I have left, I asked him where he was from.
“Adelaide, Mr Whacker,” he said.
I had a little sigh to myself and grumbled: “God help us, another bloody Croweater”.
