The Lucky Country has been hit by a series of unfortunate knocks to its self-image lately. I am not referring to the controversy-ridden Australian cricket team - that would require a whole column in itself. Two great myths that were firmly attached to the Anglo-Saxon white Australian national image have come unglued under the pressure of scrutiny.
The famous story of Simpson the stretcher bearer and his donkey saving the wounded on the deadly beachhead at Gallipoli has prompted calls over the intervening years for him to be awarded a posthumous VC. Such things are not done lightly. Each case is carefully assessed and, in this instance, the digging about the Digger legend found much of the story to be bulldust. The man did exist. He was a stretcher bearer like many others at the site of the disastrous campaign. From that point on the legend has outpaced reality and morphed into myth. Born of a few scant details, the story of Simpson and his deeds has been burnished over time into a heroic representation of the true Ocker bloke. The investigation of eligibility for a VC has exposed the truth. This manipulation of the national psyche was based on nothing but creative invention.
The other unravelling of an Aussie icon has been the arrival of perspective on Ned Kelly. Regarded in some quarters as a noble outlaw of the outback, a rebel representing the downtrodden colonial poor, the real story is one of a villain, thief, liar and murderer. A recently published book about Ned Kelly shows a man who was not averse to dobbing in his mate if it served his purpose. This is hardly the stuff to build the myth of mateship around but for whatever reason, hidden deep in the historical evolution of the species white Australian male, the image of Ned in his heavy iron body armour, faced covered by a helmet, has come to represent something romantic and wild. The fact that he was a killer seems to have slipped off the agenda.
The dual explosion of two myths in a short space of time plus the trial of the Australian cricket team will have put a dent in the national psyche. This must hurt almost as much as the now famous tale of the colonial attempts to cross the Blue Mountains. Years and lives were lost trying to find a way to the land beyond the steep ridges that stand row on row. The Aboriginal people knew the way. They had always known but the colonial explorers, believing they knew best, did not ask them. Eventually, the story goes, they thought of asking for help and the local natives were quite happy to show them.
Colonial New Zealanders made similar blunders and we have our own myths that are sustained only by the force of belief. One of the great and least sustainable of these myths is that we have a green and pristine environment. The changes in the landscape, the extinction of so many species of birds, the loss of natural habitats and more recently despoiling of the rivers all have their source in human activity. Right now the myth we are grappling with is the revelation that much of what we believed about NZ is 100 per cent b*ll*hit.
