I am at a park in Melbourne’s western suburbs. This square-shaped place faces a sandy beach and a strip of restaurants and cafés. Three Moreton Bay figs loom knowingly over life below. Sandy paths swirl in all directions, drawing you to multiple mini-destinations. Rarely do people stray from these paths as they wander. There is a timber rotunda, a playground, a street library, a barbecue area and a toilet block. The entire reserve is peppered with drinking fountains, bins, park benches and signs. All is in order.
Signage points to an entry and exit point. The ten meter smoking perimeter around the playground, while invisible, is also obvious as conspicuous smokers puff away at its edges. Families sitting on the grass form a bodily boundary. Their circles seem perfectly spaced. I resist the urge to get out my tape measure.
It’s Sunday morning. A boot camp is in full swing in a far corner of the park. Puffing, oof-ing and high-fiving. Nearby I find history in the form of “The Logan Historical Homestead”. There is a horse trough out front - evidence of past dwelling practices - dwelling practices that didn’t include boot camp. I peer inside a window to see Edwardian furniture and heavy velvet drapes. A ghost-like woman peers out at me, but on second glance it is a dressed store dummy. A group of elderly people make their way inside for Devonshire tea. My tummy rumbles.
It’s Tuesday. I arrive to the sounds of a weekly market and the smell of freshly baked bread. The crowded sidewalks bubble with conversation and the usually well-defined boundaries of the reserve are softened as people spill out onto the surrounding paths. Others walk off the path altogether to avoid the market. The tempo is slower. Feet meander, rather than rush.
It’s Saturday afternoon. Picnic rugs dot the grass. Families share fish-n-chips. Dog walking abounds. The play equipment swarms with small bodies in brightly colored clothes. Delicious smells waft from the direction of sizzling barbecues and people navigate around one another like ants. Parents eye me suspiciously as I cross over the border of the playground sans children.
My observations beget multiple meanings. This is a place for community, a place for play and a place for work. A place for children, the elderly, parents, lovers, locals, and visitors. A hub of constantly changing sounds, sights and smells from the early morning boot camp to the mid-morning squeals of children playing. The smell of a sea breeze mixed with fish-n-chips on a hot night sits in contrast with the quiet stillness of a cool Autumn day. The noise of teenagers laughing is mixed with the sound of a leaf blower.
The ensemble of tasks I see around me are what Tim Ingold refers to as taskscapes; the actions from which the meanings of landscapes are born. These multiple meanings bring with them the potential for incongruous obligations, responsibilities and rights.
Signage everywhere reminds you of what you should and shouldn’t do. ‘Alcohol consumption prohibited in this area’, ‘All dogs must be on a leash’, ‘No smoking within 10 meters of playground’, ‘No littering’ and ‘No golfing’. ‘Take a book, give a book, share a book’ is printed on the ‘Street Library’. Looking inside it seems there has been more taking than giving. I turn around and see ‘Do the right thing. Put it in the bin’. These signs seek to prevent disorder. To remove what Mary Douglas terms ‘dirt’.
I notice that the less people there are in the park, the less potential there is for conflict. There are ample barbecues for mid-week visitors, more than enough equipment to play on and the grass carpet for multiple picnic rugs. Smells and sounds do not compete. The capacity for empathy is of little concern.
But the weekends change everything.
I see a man sitting alone guarding two limited resources, atop of which sit what I assume to be his belongings: bags of food that seem to stake his claim to two barbecues and two tables. I watch as another family approaches. There is a period of conversation that, from afar, looks amicable enough. Soon after, the man removes his belongings from the second table, making way for the family.
Meanwhile, nearby, a teenage girl sits on a swing staring into her mobile phone. A woman approaches with a toddler. The teenager glances up. She immediately gets off the swing and offers it to the toddler. Despite the tsunami of signage suggesting otherwise, I see a community capable of solving their own conflicting interests.
I realise as I wander about and scribble notes in my notebook, and in my mind, that this melting pot of multiple meanings is not representative, but rather born of my own experiences and biases.
What lies beneath the Moreton Bay figs ... is me.
References:
Douglas, Mary 1966, Purity and Danger: an analysis of concepts of pollution and taboo, Routledge & Kegan Paul Limited, London
Ingold, Tim 2000, The perception of the environment, Routledge, London
McKee, Emily 2016, Dwelling in Conflict, Stanford University Press, California