What I Overdid on my Holidays

I have a habit of getting sick on holidays.  On our Lindeman Island honeymoon, I had sunstroke and heat rash. On holiday with a friend at Lake Cathie I had an allergic reaction to sun block that brought me out in hives. I have had food poisoning in Katoomba, Adelaide, Cessnock and Southend on Sea. I have broken my ankle in two places: Sydenham & Millthorpe. Admittedly the Sydenham ‘trip’ wasn’t a holiday, I was on my way to work, but falling over in Millthorpe was a decisive break in our Orange winter break!

Recently a planned Sydney visit was presaged with foreboding when I developed a nasty cold and needed Sudafed and nasal spray to get through the car journey and that evening’s performance of Candide at the Opera House. However, judiciously balancing activity and rest over the following days got me fit as a flea* for dinner with friends and An Evening with Jimmy Webb by week’s end. My smugness was to be challenged though – imminently…

 

The ABC reported on Sydney's heat and humidity on 15 March

According to an ABC news report, Saturday 15 March was the hottest autumn day Sydney had experienced for 149 years. Temperatures nudged 40 degrees and humidity was over 70%. Sydney’s mugginess was one reason for our decision to leave that city. Early in the day, I was coping well through brunch, a bit of telly and an afternoon nap. When I headed to town I noticed that the air conditioning on the train to Kings Cross was struggling a little, but waiting for my friend, Ian, by the Victoria Street station exit I felt a pleasant breeze while enjoying the passing parade of tourists and denizens.  

The calm before the sweat tsunami

Ian arrived dapper in pressed jeans and a T-shirt and joggers, both of luminous white. I teased him about his immaculate appearance and he admired my colourful jungle print dress. Our dinner/theatre booking at The Old Fitzroy was over an hour away so we had ample time to amble through Potts Point to Woolloomooloo. Both assuming we knew where we were headed, we went north down Victoria Street toward Garden Island Dockyard and turned left/west into Cowper Bay Wharf Roadway and ferocious sun.  We turned off briefly into Brougham Street mistaking a backpacker hostel for The Old Fitzroy but did a U-turn. Ian is ex-navy so I appealed to his supposed navigation skills only to be told he had left his sextant back in his apartment. I consulted my phone but the combination of the map’s scale, the ever reorienting little blue arrow and conflicting verbal directions sent us crisscrossing through Woolloomooloo. Soon my steamed up glasses and sweat filled eyes prevented me from seeing the screen clearly anyway. Ian’s glasses were back at the apartment with his sextant. Tourists from Byron Bay, New Zealand and Ireland we asked were as clueless as us and with better reason. 

At the corner of Bourke and Dowling Streets we intimated that we were well wide of our destination. By this time I was a sodden wreck and had rung the pub and left voicemails twice hoping to get directions. Cathedral Street was a denominator common to the phone app and to Ian’s recollections but we couldn’t agree whether to turn right or left at the corner of Forbes. Luckily a kindly local convinced us to go right and lo, the sign for The Old Fitzroy came into view. Appropriately enough, that signage contains the phrase ‘This must be the place’. We were 5 minutes early for our dinner booking having traversed Woolloomooloo for approximately 45 minutes. Two flights of stairs took us to the restaurant cooled only by ceiling fans. I asked where the loos were so that I could ‘repair’ my hair and visage and the charming maitre’d pointed back down those two flights of stairs. One jug of iced water, 2 glasses of Sauvignon Blanc a piece and some ill-advised pate and gnocchi later, it was time to see Iphigenia in Splott in the basement theatre. Back down the stairs we hurried and, as the last to enter, found the only remaining seats, on a narrow bench at the very top of the steeply raked rows.  

The Old Fitzroy pub, theatre and restaurant in Woolloomooloo (Google for directions)

The brick walls of the small theatre are uneven and painted a dull black. The air conditioning seemed to be the evaporative sort with humidity poorly managed. The atmosphere was claustrophobic. Meg Clarke, in skanky active wear, used the four intersecting grey rectangles that comprised the set dynamically to deliver her monologue. We were introduced to her character who is a tear away young Welsh woman in an unsatisfying relationship with a thick bloke who fails to pick up his dog’s droppings in the street.  Her main recreation is getting blotto in Splott and one night, fulfilling this mission, she meets a soldier, an amputee, with whom she begins a passionate affair. That’s about as far as I got…

I wonder how it turns out...

I felt waves of cold sweat wash over my brow and I flopped forward in three distinct micro second movements coming to rest on the shoulder of the audience member in front of me. The next I knew I was lying on the bench seat unable to right myself and semi delirious. A disembodied woman introduced herself as a doctor. She took my pulse, described my colour, clamminess and respiration to others and at one point stroked my cheek reassuringly. I heard someone say ‘call an ambulance’ and report back that there would be a two hour wait. The anonymous doctor took matters into her own hands and spoke to the ambulance dispatch people. In ten minutes paramedics were on the scene.

The Old Fitzroy is somewhere between a hundred and a hundred and fifty years old. It is amongst the most intact pubs of its era still operating and perhaps the only one to have maintained its performance space for decades. Before Iphigenia in Splott it staged a smorgasbord of praised productions including plays by Harold Pinter and Lillian Hellman and solo shows by Paul Capsis and iOTA. Given its age the fact that it is not an accessible building is unsurprising. This presented special challenges for the ambos. The gurney made it through the doors and a special folding carry chair got about half way up the incline. Somehow my support squad, which included Ian, the doctor, the man whose shoulder I had come to rest on (I think), and the paramedics eventually got me vertical, down a couple of stairs and into the seat and from there onto the stretcher/gurney. All the while the kind ambulance officer talked me through what was happening  as they got me settled in the ambulance and applied monitors for my heart rate, took my temperature and pulse and measured my  blood pressure which was a disturbing 80/30. She gave me a tubular vomit bag to clutch but fortunately, while I felt woozy, I didn’t need to use it. Ian stayed beside me on the trip to St Vincent’s and tolerated the hospital environment until 11pm despite its less than happy associations for him.  I was a little uninhibited in my conversation apparently as twice he responded to my statements with ‘TMI’. I do remember warning him not to steal my frock when they made me divest myself of it for a hospital gown. Its riot of candy colours would have shown off his complexion to excellent effect. 

St Vincent’s staff were amazing in their thoroughness and good humour and the care they took of me.  I had two more ECGs, blood and urine tests (I hadn’t peed from 3 pm to 11.20 pm which supported a dehydration diagnosis), three lots of fluid and oxygen because my level was initially 87. When I explained that there was no one with a car to come and collect me they moved me to a quieter area of the Emergency Unit where I managed to get some reasonable sleep amidst the symphony of machines that go ping, PA announcements and patient call buzzers. While Sydney sweltered through that uncharacteristically sultry autumn night I was cool enough in my cubicle to need two blankets.  In the morning I was given a breakfast of juice, cereal and yoghurt and provided with four soft towels to have a shower. By the time I was discharged and caught a taxi back to where I was staying my electrolytes and spirits were high. I scored a taxi driver whose daughter coincidentally works in Pathology at St Vincent’s and who knew about the history of the Grand Pacific Blue Room currently being refurbished as the Olympia Boutique Hotel on the corner of Oxford and Streets. That was of course right up my alley! And I made my 3.30 pm flight home with ease.

St Vincent's brekkie pack

Everyone has been commiserating with me about this incident but I think I had a very easy time of it and am full of appreciation and gratitude for everyone who intervened especially lovely solicitous Ian who kept me light hearted throughout. I am sorry I interrupted the play and the enjoyment of the other audience members. When Lucy Clements, Artistic Director of New Ghosts Theatre Company emailed me the following day to enquire how I was going, I apologised for my show stopping performance and she was kind enough to reply:

please don’t think twice about the show stop – the plot points you missed in the play were all about how wonderful healthcare staff are, but how hard it is for them to work with such large funding cuts – so the events that unfolded in reality (being told the ambulance would take 2 hours to attend to you!!) were much more dramatic, poignant and impactful to us than the play ever could be.

What a trouper! I will certainly visit the Old Fitz again but will be avoiding Sydney humidity. As for my and Ian’s inability to make the walk from Kings Cross Station to the pub in the nine minutes Google maps now tells me is standard, let not our excitement in meeting up after almost a decade ever again eclipse the need for sensibly checking our route in advance, or at least let’s not leave the sextant at his place again!

*why are fleas particularly ‘fit’? I suppose they must do their squats to be able to jump like that.

Throw another dead fish on the concrete…

Australians have a reputation  for loving marine cuisine – witness Paul Hogan’s (infamous) ‘Throw another shrimp on the barbie’ tourism campaign. In reality less than 5%  of our weekly grocery budget goes on fish and seafood and that is over twice the percentage we spent on them in the 1970s-80s when Hoges’ campaign aired.  We also prefer the convenience of canned and frozen fish to preparing it fresh.  These days we eat out significantly more than we did 35 years ago;  I don’t know how often we choose fish/seafood when we dine at a restaurant or café but that impeccable source, Wikipedia, claims fish and chips is our favourite take away (I would have thought Thai or pizza).

 Hoges sure knew how to get a good spot for his barbies!

Sydney’s Fish Markets hold an almost iconic status. No ‘silly season’ reporting is complete without vision or audio featuring supposedly seafood-mad Sydneysiders queuing there at dawn on Christmas Eve to cart away kilos of prawns! Indeed Sydney Fish Markets, besides being the supply hub for retailers and restaurants throughout the greater metropolitan area, attract 3.5 million non-trade visits a year. Many people presumably take their purchases home, but many eat sushi or fish and chips  at the numerous food outlets there.

Last week I met up with some friends from the UK for lunch at the Sydney Fish Markets.  We had been to Doyles, Watsons Bay on their previous trips and we thought we’d give their more centralised restaurant a go. A few things struck me: the fish markets, or what I could see of them (I’m temporarily in a wheelchair) are not picturesque, they have a grotty industrial atmosphere, are smelly and their site seems to be at least 50% crowded car park. The Doyles restaurant is quite prosaic, with plastic chairs and tables and nothing to compare with the ocean views of its eastern suburbs cousin. The patrons on that day were overwhelmingly bussed-in Japanese tourists. 

 The Sydney Fish Markets at Blackwattle Bay, Pyrmont

It set me wondering: are the Fish Markets, like the Ploughman’s Lunch, a kind of marketing ploy?  Has a tawdry, semi-industrial precinct been spruiked as a must-see tourist destination  playing fast and loose with Sydney’s actual relationship with its fishing industry?

I decided to investigate…

When the First Fleet arrived in Port Jackson, six months on a diet of dried meat, rice and peas had left its occupants craving fresh food. Of course what they most needed was fruit,  vegetables and protein.  The first category will have to wait for another post. Their protein needs were met initially by roasting rats, crows, even dogs, and the occasional kangaroo or emu, and soon by trading  with the indigenous population for fish.  Aboriginal fishing technologies (e.g. spears, shell fishhooks and small canoes) were well developed and  fish made a substantial contribution to the diet of the Cadigal people.  By contrast, the British colonisers were ill-equipped  and poorly skilled in the fishing methods required to catch Port Jackson’s  580 plus fish species. They may not have had much of a taste for fish either.

Cadigal people of Port Jackson fishing  soon after European settlement (source NSW State Library) 

Although we know today that fish is  a good part of a healthy diet and many historical sources remark on how plentiful fish was at the time, the early settlers eschewed fish (and fruit and veg for that matter) preferring to maintain the meat-centric diet of their homelands. Mutton (lamb) quickly became plentiful and cheap while beef and poultry were reserved for special occasions such as Christmas and weddings.

Prior to the advent of steam powered ships, refrigeration and haul net and trawling styles of fishing,  catching fish on a large scale and keeping it fresh was quite a  cumbersome business.  Individual  fishermen sold their catches close to the harbour shores. The fish were often washed in polluted water and sold directly from wharves. They spoiled fast and any attempts to distribute them were made by horse drawn cart in the cooler night time hours. 

Water colour of European men fishing - early days of the colony (source NSW State Library)

  

Sydney had no central fish market until 1872 when a grandiose building was erected by the city council  on the block bounded by Forbes, Bourke and Plunkett streets in Woolloomooloo. This commodious neo-classical brick building comprised two levels, with administrative offices fronting Forbes St and a lower building surrounding an inner courtyard. A large central tower with a multi-faced clock and an ornate curved copper hood topped the structure. Over the entrance was emblazoned 'M. Chapman - Mayor' and 'A Market  for the Sale of Fish’.

Sydney's first centralised fish markets in Woolloomooloo in their heyday. Exterior (above) and engraving of interior in 1875 with dead fish on concrete (below). Sources: City of Sydney Archive Pix and State Library of Victoria.

In his book, Sydney Harbour -  A History, Ian Hoskins describes  how fish were laid out in chalk circles on the building’s concrete floor with the fisherman’s name inscribed beside them.  By now ice could be used to keep fish fresh for longer but it is no surprise to learn that in Regency and Victorian society fish was frequently consumed at breakfast time  before it deteriorated.  The short ‘shelf life’ of fish, as Hoskins also discusses in his book,  led many people to eat only fish they had caught themselves. Doing so was clearly a cost saver too.

Because of the proximity to the fish markets, oyster cafes proliferated in Sydney’s eastern  end and suburbs in the later 19thC. Whether the markets themselves had capacity to serve seafood for direct consumption doesn’t seem to be recorded anywhere.  Presumably there was something to draw patrons though  as Shirley Fitzgerald in her entry on Woolloomooloo in The Dictionary of Sydney,  mentions  that ‘fights at the fishmarkets and in the pubs around the wharf (became) daily occurrences’ during this period and  contributed to the social decline of the area. 

 

  
Early 20thC - the 'new' Fish Market cnr Engine & Thomas Streets, Haymarket
White sign with black lettering in centre of picture proclaims 'FISH' - this looks like the retail section (source City of Sydney Archive Pix).

In 1911, a new Fish Market opened on the corners of Thomas & Engine Streets in the Haymarket area.  The City of Sydney Council photo archive has photographs of  it under construction and by 1919 there was a retail shop attached. Again it is only supposition, but I assume that meals could be had or at least you could buy a bottle of oysters to go. My paternal grandmother enjoyed bottled oysters with vinegar, bread and butter all her life. Her purchases very likely originated from one of the many government–licensed fish agents operating out of the Haymarket premises. However in their mid 20thC incarnation there was nothing inviting about the Sydney Fish Markets which had been modernised to  remove all character and from photos do not seem to feature any retail outlet or eatery.

  

What the Haymarket premises looked like by the 1960s (source: City of Sydney Archive Pix).

Between the two world wars increasing focus was placed on the production of fish for domestic consumption and to reduce Australia’s reliance on food imports. After World War II attention turned to developing the industry for the export market. Lamb remained Australians’ preferred dinner time protein well into the 1970s. I don’t have stats to back this  up but I’d guess that  various waves of immigrants have increased Sydney’s appetite for seafood. It is after all a staple of the Mediterranean and Asian diets. The Sydney  Fish Markets relocated to their current site at Blackwattle Bay in 1966. They were privatised in 1994 . The management trust comprises families and networks of Italian, Greek and Chinese Australians which reflects the central place fish consumption plays in these cultures.

In a recent article on the Fish Markets bemoaning the abandonment of plans to improve them, Matt Khoury lambastes the state government and shareholders, the Catchers Trust and the Sydney Fish Market Tenants and Merchants Pty Ltd, for their lack of attention and to both the aesthetic and environmental aspects of the markets. This is how he describes the market:

While it sells itself as a tourist attraction, the smelly fish market has been an exercise in self-interest for decades. As it stands, plastic seats on metal stands overlook the dirty and aptly named Blackwattle Bay. Heritage falls apart on the harbor's (sic) shore, iron rusts, and there is no foreshore access. Two huge cement factories that dominate the view around the bay pollute the water.

All that is not a disincentive to the 3.5 million annual visitors and is irrelevant to the restauranteurs and suburban fishmongers who source their product from the market.  It will be interesting to watch how the venue evolves and to see if a working market and a tourist/recreational magnet can flourish side by side.

 

 The seagulls like the Sydney Fish Markets just the way they are!