By Liane Arno
“WHERE do you come from?” We were in Nauru doing our volunteer work when we met up with an expat. You know from your own travels that this is a common first question.
“You won’t have heard of it.”
“Try me,” he responded.
“Right down the south of Victoria, a bit past Phillip Island,” I said.
“Yes – but what’s the name?” he persisted.
“Wonthaggi,” I eventually provided, knowing full well he didn’t have a clue where it was.
“You’re shitting me! I was born there.”
“WHERE do you come from?” We were in Nauru doing our volunteer work when we met up with an expat. You know from your own travels that this is a common first question.
“You won’t have heard of it.”
“Try me,” he responded.
“Right down the south of Victoria, a bit past Phillip Island,” I said.
“Yes – but what’s the name?” he persisted.
“Wonthaggi,” I eventually provided, knowing full well he didn’t have a clue where it was.
“You’re shitting me! I was born there.”
Can you imagine? There we were in the middle of the Pacific on a tiny island of 10,800 people, the nation with the second-smallest population in the world after Vatican City, the least visited country in the world, known to Australia only as the land of bird shit and destination point for asylum seekers, and we came across John Short, fellow Wonthaggian.
“You wouldn’t happen to know Pat Wishart, would you?” he asked “I haven’t seen him since I left Wonthaggi 50 years ago.”
“For goodness sake – we live in Wishart Street and Pat is our neighbour up the road!”
John’s fondest memories of Wonthaggi are heading out with his mates to surf after school. His grandmother, Lucy Hamilton, drove them there in her old Austin. She figured if she stuck by them they wouldn’t get into any trouble.
John went to the Wonthaggi Tech and learned carpentry and at 18 decided he would discover the world. He headed over to Asia where he generally stayed out of trouble (except for an accidental entanglement on the Indian Sri Lankan border including a delivery of grenades and Kalashnikovs but that is another story) before heading back to Australia.
He decided to head to Eden. Full of ideals he joined a protest for the retention of the virgin forest. As a carpenter he almost wept to see the beautiful timber being sold to the Japanese for woodchips. The protesters did what protesters do – including setting machines on fire – but logging only stopped when it was revealed that the people of Australia were getting $2 a ton for the woodchips.
“You wouldn’t happen to know Pat Wishart, would you?” he asked “I haven’t seen him since I left Wonthaggi 50 years ago.”
“For goodness sake – we live in Wishart Street and Pat is our neighbour up the road!”
John’s fondest memories of Wonthaggi are heading out with his mates to surf after school. His grandmother, Lucy Hamilton, drove them there in her old Austin. She figured if she stuck by them they wouldn’t get into any trouble.
John went to the Wonthaggi Tech and learned carpentry and at 18 decided he would discover the world. He headed over to Asia where he generally stayed out of trouble (except for an accidental entanglement on the Indian Sri Lankan border including a delivery of grenades and Kalashnikovs but that is another story) before heading back to Australia.
He decided to head to Eden. Full of ideals he joined a protest for the retention of the virgin forest. As a carpenter he almost wept to see the beautiful timber being sold to the Japanese for woodchips. The protesters did what protesters do – including setting machines on fire – but logging only stopped when it was revealed that the people of Australia were getting $2 a ton for the woodchips.
John found himself a job as a lighthouse keeper after a stint of painting them. In September 1986, the old light at Montague Island lighthouse was turned on manually by keeper John Short for the last time after 106 years of service. He found his way back to Victoria and set up a sawmill in his mum’s back yard in Frankston – until the neighbours complained. He found a derelict petrol station in Baxter and started milling timber and making furniture. He starting looking around for ways to source timber and found that the local transfer station had a sign advising that anyone bringing in timber for disposal had to cut it into 12-inch lengths. John went to the council and lobbied the minister. The sign came down and the Urban Log Recycling Depot came into being. John became very successful. At one stage he had 12 staff, three timber mills and an annual turnover of $750,000. “But my hands never got dirty. And I had no more money in my pocket than when it was just me and Mum.” He decided to give the game away and go back to his craft – this time by restoring timber boats. There is a resounding theme to John, isn’t there? Timber and the sea. It was while John was working on a boat and chatting to a bloke who said, “I’m going to Nauru for a job. Do you want to come?” “Why not?” was John’s reply. His job was to fix the cantilevers on the wharf that are so so essential to a population reliant on freighted goods. The original Cantilever #1 was bombed by the Germans during WWII but another was built after the war. Lack of maintenance meant it was only just operational. | A troubled history John Short is fascinated by the story of Nauru. There were originally 12 tribes who are now represented by the 12 points on the star of the Nauruan flag. They mainly lived on coconut and pandanus fruit but they also caught juvenile fish and raised them in the natural lagoon slightly inland. In the 1830s Europeans landed and some stayed, including a couple of convicts who escaped from Norfolk Island. The Europeans traded their alcohol and firearms for fresh water resulting in a war that brought the Nauruan population down to less than 1000. Germans arrived and took over the island - brought about a peace – and discovered phosphate. World I brought Australians who took control and, with the British and the New Zealanders, took over the phosphate mining. They also brought with them the flu which killed 230 islanders. With such a perilously small population they feared extinction and so a competition was announced – a prize for the baby that brought the population back to 1000. They still celebrate Angam Baby Day. During World War II fierce fighting took place over this strategic part of the world. The Japanese took over the island. They beheaded the Australian doctor and seven soldiers who decided to stay on the island. They took a boatload of islanders who had contracted leprosy out in a boat and let it sink. And they deported over 1000 men of the still very small population to the Chuuk Island to work as labourers. Many would not return. I weep as John tells me the mixture of sadness and joy as those who survived sailed back to Nauru – emaciated – and back to an island littered with the debris of war and with no food. When we were in Nauru – this month all these years after the war – an unexploded bomb was found and fortunately safely detonated. |
He loved working with his crew – 12 of them 40 feet in the air. He tells of the times when one of his crew would see an octopus below, grab a rebar and spear it from his perch on top of the cantilever. John is almost salivating as he tells me how magnificent is the taste of octopus freshly caught and grilled.
He found the people incredibly friendly. On one occasion, standing beside his broken-down old Harley, a ute with a few locals stopped by, picked up his bike with ease (Nauruans are famous as weightlifters) and took him home. Not only had he brought his Harley, he had also brought a surf board. The surf is not up to the surf at Cape Paterson but good enough – and at 29 degrees a lot warmer! His first surf brought hundreds of local kids to the beach wanting to learn.
He set up a surf club and went about getting donations of boards. He was asked to teach lifesaving skills. After all, the asylum seekers were typically not swimmers but would be brought to the beach and might need some help if they got into trouble.
He found the people incredibly friendly. On one occasion, standing beside his broken-down old Harley, a ute with a few locals stopped by, picked up his bike with ease (Nauruans are famous as weightlifters) and took him home. Not only had he brought his Harley, he had also brought a surf board. The surf is not up to the surf at Cape Paterson but good enough – and at 29 degrees a lot warmer! His first surf brought hundreds of local kids to the beach wanting to learn.
He set up a surf club and went about getting donations of boards. He was asked to teach lifesaving skills. After all, the asylum seekers were typically not swimmers but would be brought to the beach and might need some help if they got into trouble.
John fell in love with the island, its people. He is married to a local woman. He mills sustainably sourced local timber and makes furniture for local people, including the President of Nauru, who is a good friend and to whom he refers as H.E. (His Excellency).
He is now a board member of the Nauru Chamber of Commerce and keen to make a difference. He is constantly coming up with ideas on how things can be improved or how businesses can be created. He has a couple in mind at the moment – one of them to have a paddle boarding competition around the island.
After all, where else would you be able to paddle board around a nation?
He is now a board member of the Nauru Chamber of Commerce and keen to make a difference. He is constantly coming up with ideas on how things can be improved or how businesses can be created. He has a couple in mind at the moment – one of them to have a paddle boarding competition around the island.
After all, where else would you be able to paddle board around a nation?