Crystal Rose-Lee escapes the village and gets after the goods in Whistler, B.C. Berger photo
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Crystal Rose-Lee escapes the village and gets after the goods in Whistler, B.C. Berger photo
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IF IT ONLY TOOK 1,332 PEOPLE TO COLONIZE AUSTRALIA WHEN THE FIRST FLEET LANDED THERE IN 1788, THEN WHISTLER, WHICH HIRES 2,000 AUSSIES A YEAR, PROBABLY ISN’T EVEN A PART OF CANADA ANYMORE. AT LEAST, THAT’S THE WAY IT FEELS EVERY AUSTRALIA DAY.
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’m meeting my fixer at the Longhorn Saloon—de facto main terminal for Whistler’s Australia Day comings and goings. I needed a tour guide/translator/security detail and his qualifications are as good as they come. A deep-pit underground miner from Queensland, 200 pounds of meat and muscle, he stands a head above the crowd, is not afraid to throw a punch, can charm a waitress into an extra shot with a sly grin and a generous tipping hand, is familiar with the sleeping arrangements inside the Whistler lockup, has been pepper-sprayed by the RCMP and can drink a Canadian softball league under the table. And he works for beer. | I’m late for our rendezvous.
I sweet-talk the doorman into letting me pass, even though the bar is on lock-down until a wave of people washes out the door. My apparent sympathy for the doorman’s predicament as one of the few nonAussies on staff, forced to work this shift, acts as a secret handshake. We roll our eyes that après circa 3 p.m. is actually this messy. ¶ My fixer is holding a table for us in the corner of the patio (did I mention he’s my little brother?). I try to gauge how long I’ve kept him waiting. ¶ “Is that your first beer?” I nod to the half-consumed pint in front of him. ¶ “Second.” ¶ “How long have you been here?” ¶ “I can drink a beer in two minutes.” ¶ “I’ll get you another then,” and I push my way into the bar.
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With a few more additions to the family, the Treadways may soon reach ski nation status on their own. Tessa at Blackcomb, B.C. Berger photo
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y the quirk of a geographer’s etch-a-sketch doodle, known officially as the International Date Line, Australia Day in Whistler begins up to 18 hours after it starts in its initiating zone, which means that most patriotic ‘strine ski-bums have a full day’s worth of imbibing under their belts by sun-up on January 26. This might be part of the reason that “the day the Australians take over” is known to Whistlerites more commonly as “the day to stay out of the village at all costs.” Most Australians, although they clearly travel propped-up to mark the occasion (inflatable jet-boats, balls and kangaroos, jerseys, flags, bunting and court jester hats to match their green and gold underwear) probably couldn’t tell you what they’re celebrating. Whatever the origins of the national holiday, it’s a bloody good excuse for a piss-up. I don’t have the stamina to keep pace with a 20-something Aussie seasonal worker on an Australia Day bender, at least not if I hope to make any cogent observations about the larger phenomenon of Antipodean
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WHATEVER THE ORIGINS OF THE NATIONAL HOLIDAY, IT’S A BLOODY GOOD EXCUSE FOR A PISS-UP. occupation of Canadian mountain towns. As it is, my first waft of the Longhorn’s beer-soaked atmosphere and all I can think is “Isn’t that the same playlist from a decade ago?” So, I’ve been tracking sightings of Aussie Day revelers since first chair, from a remote beer-proof location, logging coordinates, identifying marks and inculpatory behaviour. The consistency of sightings is as if a choreographed flash mob of semi-homeless people descended on Whistler Mountain to take unwary commuters by surprise: 9:15 a.m. Inside the Roundhouse. Fifteen young males. Dressed in flags and facepaint, slamming back cans of Kokanee. 12:30 p.m. Outside the Round-
house. Three guys in Y-fronts, two very drunken girls in bikinis. Cape-draped in Aussie flags, going skiing. Temp: -5 C. And so it goes. I’m dressed for a mid-winter afternoon. Like a Canadian. I push into the Longhorn and am bodychecked by a wave of humidity, earsplitting noise and one drunk chick dressed in a wife-beater, sweatbands, fake tattoos and hot pants, who rebounds off me back to her posse with the obliviousness to other people’s personal space issues that comes with alcoholimpaired motor control. I order up two beers thinking I really need something harder, and wend my way back to the patio door like a cattle dog deftly dodging the
hooves of the flock, thinking, as cattle dogs surely do, ‘You stupid, stupid sheep. No wonder you get eaten for dinner...’ Down go the beers on the table. My brother’s pint is empty. “Have you been in there? It’s a fucking zoo.” He sits back, chuckling. | “It’s funny. At the same time I was standing at the bar on my own thinking, ‘Who are these clowns?’ I’m thinking, ‘God, I wish my mates were here.’ ” In other words, it is a zoo. But it’s our zoo. And sistah, you might have traded your Vegemite sandwich for a PB&J or a poutine-to-go, and you might take extra care these days to pronounce your ‘r’s, but these are your people… no matter how much they make you cringe.
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t’s been 10 years since I did Aussie Day in style although I’ve never sharpied the Southern Cross on my flesh or run naked through the Village (my brother upheld the family honour). Aussies used to be the most nakedly apparent foreign workers in Whistler: visas, exchange programs and a cultural penchant for working holidays meant every other accent seemed as broad and toneless as the outback. But by 2010, the Australia Day holiday celebration seems thin and patchy, not through any lack of commitment on the part of the participants, but by sheer paucity of numbers. The Olympic media’s epiphany: “Whistler is full of Aussies!” was, like everything Olympic, about a decade out of date. These days, Filipinos, Kiwis, Japanese, South Africans and Brits fill out the resort’s rank and file. Whistler Blackcomb has turned to recruiting in Poland, the
Czech Republic and Spain in an effort to enhance employee cultural diversity, and the Aussies are moving on to other buzz-worthy destinations being hyped by friends and forums like ski.com.au. And while they’re still here (and noticeable, given a stereotypical lack of volume-control, self-consciousness or inkling that people might regard their hi-jinks as obnoxious or offensive), and still represent the largest percentage of Whistler Blackcomb’s new hires each year at 15-20 per cent, they’ve begun establishing equally noticeable colonies outside “Whistralia,” where they’re not just the worker bees, but owners and investors. From Cardrona in New Zealand, to Niseko in Japan, to the B.C. Interior’s Big White and Silver Star resorts, the colonials have thoroughly colonized the ski world. And I’m not sure the White Planet is better for it... I mean how many semi-naked drunken Aussies does the world need? It’s only 4 p.m. and I’m already voting
for them all to be shipped back. Given that a beach-and-bush dominated population of 21.2 million is able to generate 2.1 million skier days a season in Australia’s handful of “ski fields,” to figure as one of the top three inbound markets for both Aspen and Whistler, and to send 50,000 skiers to New Zealand, 17,000 to Japan, and 30,000 to Canada every season, the land Down Under does punch above its weight in skitopia, at least on a per capita basis. What my fellow Longhorn revelers don’t realize, however, as they bond over their global vagabond ways and raise the spectre of every cultural meme from the Boxing Kangaroo to the Bundy Rum Bear, is that they’re playing out a 222 year-old Australian tradition of washing up on the shores of new places and ignoring the natives, declaring the place terra nullius, fresh for takeover. Whatever local once meant in Big White, Hokkaido or Whistler, it changes completely once the Aussies arrive en masse.
Chad Hendren deep in the suds on Blackcomb, B.C. Berger photo
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AUSSIES ARE PART OF THE TRIBE, KEEPING SNOW CULTURE THE WORLD OVER ALIVE.
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ustralia Day fittingly is a celebration of a cultural take-over. It marks the landing of the 11 ships of the first fleet, a floating penal colony of shoplifters, dirtbags, political prisoners and economic refugees, washing ashore after a nasty eightmonth journey, the British government simultaneously ridding itself of its troublesome underclasses, spreading its Empire to an outpost on the other side of the world, and stocking up on New World riches like lumber, lamb, gold and wool. It’s kind of a dubious thing to celebrate, at least if you’re Aboriginal, and spent the subsequent 220 years saying “Actually, we’d rather have an apology than a public holiday.” Then again, maybe I should just leave politics aside and have a good time. National displays of unity (as any Canadian sporting the red and white when Sidney Crosby potted the Olympic gold-medal winning overtime goal would acknowledge) are less about questioning your nation’s contribution to the global geopolitic than about defining yourself by what beer you drink and allowing yourself to get caught up in a profound sense of belonging.
But we don’t belong here tonight. Maybe because we’re not 20 years old anymore. Maybe because I wonder if needing to take part in some ostentatious display of national identity while traveling in a different country suggests a kind of complex, a way for the White Planet’s least appreciated citizens to remind everyone that for their paucity of mountains and snow, the Aussies are part of the tribe, keeping snow culture the world over alive. The local culture might take a hit... But global snow culture is fed by every enthusiast who straps on a set of boards and declares themselves willing to journey to the ends of the earth to get their fix. A bunch of our friends are heading out for sushi. The Aussie Day revellers will move on from here to the same old playlist at MoeJoes and Tommy Africa’s, and they’ll think they’re showing Whistler how to party, not realizing that this particular rite of passage is as common as a powder day—it just feels fresh when it’s your first time. But unlike a powder day, Aussie Day gets old. Fast. We down the last of our bitter Aussie beer and leave the Men at Work, the naked runs, the TimTams and the recurring chants of “Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!” to the kids. ×
As long as there are hangovers, there will be pow days to cure them. Brett Crabtree, Whistler Backcountry. Beach photo
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