This is Hallam, the neighbourhood that came last in our survey of the liveability of 314 Melbourne suburbs. Ian Rose pays a visit to see what it's like - and finds out whether South Yarra (in top spot) is all it's cracked up to be.
We all know by now that those astute researchers at the Economist Intelligence Unit have this year declared our beloved Melbourne the world's most liveable city, but as we raise another cup of latte to our sweet, exalted selves, we should spare a thought for Harare, the capital city of Zimbabwe.
For the second year running, Harare finished at the very bottom of the list of 140 cities included in the survey. This seems a bit harsh. For though the Southern African city is beset by water shortages, car-jackings and tyranny, its Mukuvisi Woodlands boast wild-roaming giraffes, wildebeest and impalas, and who doesn't love an impala?
Tellingly, there was no mention of giraffes among the criteria used by the so-called Intelligence Unit. Neither was there in the Melbourne Magazine's survey, conducted by Tract Consultants and Deloitte Access Economics, which used 14 topographical, infrastructural and cultural criteria to rank every suburb in the world's most liveable city. It put South Yarra at the top and, as there has to be a wooden spoon in every league table (even if it is just due to a quirk of statistics) this one went to Hallam. I vow to uncover Hallam's own giraffe factor, but before doing so, it makes sense to investigate the other end of the spectrum, and to see for myself what's so bloody great about South Yarra.
The morning sun, of course, is shining brightly on the chosen 'burb as I leave the train station and head across a bustling Toorak Road. Strolling along the presumptuously named Darling Street, where art deco frontages nestle alongside Victorian terraces and '70s apartment blocks, I am nearly knocked down by a yummy mummy's humungous pram. Across the street, a sprightly seventysomething gent powerwalks in slacks and polo-shirt, ignoring my hoarse "G'day", but I eventually find someone willing to talk to me, at the Lawson Grove Shop and cafe, in the elegantly dishevelled form of local artist Jeff Martin. In shades and borderline obscene low-slung skinny jeans, fortysomething Jeff is returning home from a night out, but despite his fragile state is happy to hold court on thesubject of South Yarra, affecting an upper-crust English accent for larks. "The only problem with this place is the rowers," he declaims. "They make such a racket as they pass throughfrom the city."
Martin and his hipster friends at the cafe, Dane the urbane builder and Jyoti of the exquisitely tattooed right arm (William Morris poppies, don't you know), make me feel so welcome that I am halfway in love with them by the time I finish my second excellent flat white. Next stop is Prahran Market, and en route I encounter a posse of fag-breaking women. I ask the oldest if she'd care to share any insights on working in Melbourne's most liveable suburb. "On any other day, I'd really like to talk to you and tell you some things," she responds with a smoky sigh, "but I'm just not in the vibe right now." No more in the vibe, it turns out, are the staff at the market's swanky Essential Ingredient store, who take issue with my pestering their customers with inane queries, and request that I leave.
At least I manage to procure an expensive tuna sandwich from one of the market's many delis, and decide to head to Fawkner Park to eat it when my attention is snagged by a young woman walking towards me, gauchely dressed in floral-print frock and purple knee-high socks. Confusingly, a plastic bag containing six grapefruits is swinging from her left wrist. Surely she'd have an interesting angle on her neighbourhood's liveability? I dither, groping for an opening gambit, and she is gone, moving with surprising speed.
After walking around in circles for hours, I make it to the park and collapse on the grass. Within minutes, a gym teacher is organising a class of boys from one of the nearby schools into a softball game, so close to me that the freckled and hyper-active third baseman almost treads on my sandwich.
I take a cab back to Chapel Street, and the diabolical traffic allows me the benefit of my driver's lengthy and hysterical address on everything that is bad about South Yarra, from the speed cameras to the drugs and troublesome deviants. By the end of the journey, I am in need of a drink. I take a seat outside at a table that faces the traffic-choked street, and eavesdrop on a conversation between a pugnacious-looking thirtysomething male in mirror shades and too-tight suit and an older woman, who seems to be his acquiescent publicist. "I've had enough of radio," he bellows, "I'm successful! You know how successful I am! I need new challenges." His companion nods stoically, sipping at her spritzer. At one point, Mr Big stops a passerby in his tracks with an accusation of not having responded to a Facebook message. The passerby, a "friend" I would have to assume, mumbles something about having been really, really busy lately, only for this self-styled sultan of Chapel Street to announce with a triumphant snarl, "Well, I'm starting up this new production company, see? And you'd know all about it, if you ever answered your phone." Suitably abashed and impressed, the Facebook friend makes good his escape, and so do I.
For what remains of the afternoon, I wander the streets, chatting to residents, visitors and workers. Attila, manager of the Complete Wash launderette on Punt Road, a business that has thrived in the area for 40 years, says the only thing wrong with the place is "a slightly wealthy attitude". Terry Beavis, owner of the corporate-focused South Yarra Art House, talks up the local art scene. I talk crime with a police officer: he uses the word "diversity", and it's not the first time I've heard it today. Pam and Dawn, two of the genteel and senior volunteers at the local Citizens' Advice Bureau on the second level of Prahran Market, both talked about the wonderful mix of people around here, and at the time I thought they may be a little delusional, but I can now see their point: South Yarra's postcodes encompass multi-million-dollar mansions and social housing, with Melbourne's most popular party drag cutting a vomit-spattered swathe through the whole thing, not to mention the delightful little pockets of stylish eccentricity, such as the Beverly Hills art deco apartment buildings on Darling Street.
I'm walking along Domain Road, opposite the Botanic Gardens, past the early-evening drinkers and diners who fill the boulevard restaurant and bars, when once again I spot the woman in purple socks and floral frock. As she approaches, I make my plea. "I wonder if you'd mind having a chat about life in South Yarra?" She turns her gaunt face towards me with the ghost of a smile, shakes her head once and breaks into a run, still swinging those mysterious grapefruits as she goes.
Some 35 kilometres south-east of South Yarra, nowhere near a beach, or a tram, criss-crossed by major roads and powerlines, is Hallam. Ever the friend to the underdog, I am resolved to have a good time here, but it could be a stretch. The sky is overcast and unpromising on this Saturday morning and on being dropped off at the famous Hallam Hotel, on the Princes Highway, I feel as though I have been stranded on a vast, bleak industrial estate. To my right, a Hungry Jacks and KFC, to my left, a furniture clearance centre, an enormous but slightly flaccid balloon bobbling above its roof promising LESS 4 CASH, and between myself and anywhere, several lanes of traffic that seem intent on passing through as rapidly as possible. I explore one artery on foot, past kebab vans, the Temptations sex shop, vacant lots of reeds and dandelions, and a "bus truck service centre", a sprawling yard of dilapidated vehicles and diesel stench, before turning back in search of coffee.
At the intersection between the Princes Highway and Hallam Road, tucked behind Hungry Jacks and the KFC, there is a row of eateries, including Flashy Chaps Fish 'N Chips, the Jaipur Palace Indian restaurant, and a Subway. One middle-aged couple luncheons in silence on the terrace seating outside the most upmarket-looking place, Positano, determined to enjoy the traffic views, despite the fumes and din. I head into the Euro Cafe and Bakehouse, and discover inside a haven of good cheer, with regular customers happily testifying to the quality of wares on offer.
"I drive over from Berwick to pick Mum up every Saturday," explains Gail, while her mother, Betty, nods her agreement from behind a tea-cup, "and we come here every week without fail." I ask Teresa, the owner, how long she has been in business. "Six-and-a-half years. We're doing OK. It used to be a massage place - a medical massage place, not funny massage," she assures me. Teresa is from Portugal's Madeira Island, famous for its colourful gardens, perpetually mild and sunny climate, and New Year celebrations that feature the biggest fireworks display in the world. What does she think of life in Hallam? She grins broadly. "I think it's nice, actually. I like everything, anyway!"
The tuna sandwich she serves me is less soggy and disappointing than yesterday's from Prahran Market, and the Portuguese custard tart that I gorge on, while making my way along the Princes Highway, is sublime. In the kids' playground on the corner of the street, two oversized children see-saw with violent enthusiasm. The op shop is closed, as is the Lifespan Mobility store, which offers a broad range of scooters, wheelchairs and walking-frames, but the handwritten sign outside advises that "if you are returning a hired item, you can leave it at the bakery next door". Not wishing to yield to the temptation of more cake, I enter instead the magical world of Hallam Hobbies, where I find Fred, the owner, studiously flying a miniature helicopter around the store by remote control.
Nearby is Niran, who has been trying to sell his Tattslotto business for the past five months in order to focus on his other enterprise, manufacturing and supplying school uniforms. He took over the Tatts store a year ago when he lost his job as an applied physicist ("I can't tell you who I was working for - it might get me into trouble"), and he says he chose Hallam because "it's the nature of this business that the less well-off the area, the better. By and large, wealthy people don't buy lottery tickets." (Hallam folk are, generally, worse off than South Yarra folk, but it's hardly Harare: 16 per cent of Hallam households live on more than $94,000, compared to 34.9 per cent of South Yarra households, according to the 2006 census; at the other end of the scale, 24 per cent of Hallam households live on less than $30,000 a year, compared to 21.3 per cent of South Yarra households.)
While I talk with the genial Niran, a stocky lady of somewhat amphibian appearance, wearing a pair of kaleidoscopic leggings, an assortment of massive bangles and a T-shirt that announces in sequinned letters I DIDN'T ASK TO BE MADE THIS PERFECT, purchases a fistful of Quick Picks, and I silently wish her luck. For the most part, though, the people of Hallam do not seem to require moral backing from condescending interlopers such as myself. Again and again, I encounter uncomplaining, open human beings, who seem to find the place perfectly liveable, thanks very much, from Anne Danne, whose Mixing Bowl cookery shop has been offering home-baking classes for the past 20 years ("what she can do with a bit of dough is nobody's business," I am informed by devotee Rosemary), to Samara Eades, the weekend sales assistant at sex shop Temptations ("Ask About Our Loyalty Programs and F***erware Parties!"). Samara is in her 20s and as happy discussing life in Hallam as the astonishing qualities of the nine-function "we-vibe" sex toys she peddles so heartily. She tells me she's from Queensland, and ended up here following a stint in the navy, and though she works only weekends, she earns enough to live on, and is happy with her lot. "It's good here, there's less graffiti than in the city. I live on kind of a slow street but the neighbours are fantastic, and once a week we'll get together and have a barbecue."
No visit to Hallam would be complete without dropping in to the Hallam Hotel, a cavernous establishment with a huge bistro area, TAB and public sports bar, function rooms and drive-through bottle shop, widely reputed to "really go off" during regular live music events. Most of the patrons this Saturday afternoon are hard-looking men, gathered in groups of four or more to gamble, drink and swear. I summon my gruffest voice at the bar, am served by a glum septuagenarian lady in scarlet false nails and burgundy bouffant, and take a seat in the narrow courtyard outside, where I find myself transfixed by the back of my neighbour's head. He is a wiry sixtysomething in tight jeans and battered biker jacket and boots, with the voice of a million roll-ups, and snaking beneath his baseball cap and down his back is the most tightly arranged plait of slate grey hair that I have ever looked upon. And as I sit somewhat warily sipping my beer, I am lost in admiration for the thing. How did it get there? Did he do it himself? How?
I have discovered Hallam's giraffes. They are, of course, its people, those contradictory, baffling and beautiful beings who have far more bearing on the "liveability" of an area than any arbitrary considerations such as tree coverage or distance from the coast. Every suburb has them. Even South Yarra.
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