Bypass the Story of a Road Analysis Essay

McGirr takes virtually every detour possible and in doing so seems to suggest that life’s journey is at its most interesting when one strays from the central path. It is in the towns and rest stations that McGirr encounters individuals with interesting stories to tell – stories that give McGirr’s narrative its essential variety and ‘life’. McGirr’s interest is not only in what lies off to the side of the ‘main road’ in a literal sense. He is attracted by the lives of ‘ordinary’ people who are not famous or even particularly successful. Even when relating incidents from his life as a priest he enjoys telling stories that would otherwise never appear in print: attending the wrong wedding reception; seeing a bride answer a mobile phone. He does occasionally refer to famous or powerful people; even here, though, his preference is for the little known incident over the important, nation-shaping decision – such as John Curtin’s midnight pot of tea in a Gundagai cafà ©. In short, McGirr suggests that, although the highway itself is valuable, we must not forget or neglect places and lives that the highway bypasses, for these too constitute the ‘life-blood’ of the nation. And similarly, although the nation’s central story or history is important – that of, say, the Anzacs, the explorers, the two world wars – the stories that lie off to the side of the historical mainstream are equally worth knowing, are equally valuable. As narrator and author of this narrative, McGirr has a lot of control over how he depicts himself. Indeed, ‘the power of the person who gets to tell the story’ (p.19) is considerable, as he notes when discussing Hovell’s power over Hume in that regard. McGirr is depicted as a fairly affable, if occasionally bumbling figure whose decision to leave the Jesuit order after twenty-one years is a life-changing one. The decision prompts him to experience a number of ‘firsts’: he buys property in Gunning; embarks on an intimate relationship with Jenny whom he subsequently marries and has children with; and decides to travel on a bike down the Hume Highway and document his progress. McGirr might come across as something of an ‘everyman’ figure but his life-experiences mark him as someone rather eclectic (unusual). McGirr displays a capacity for droll humour throughout the narrative, and also a willingness to reflect deeply on his experiences and those of others. His reflective tendencies see him discuss his struggle to sincerely uphold the vow of obedience when he was a member of the Jesuit order (p.173), and also his feeling of being alone when he first joined the order (p.229). It might be argued that McGirr is depicted as someone who thinks a little too much: the discussion of his dilemma about buying orange juice with the money allocated to new Jesuits for ‘emergencies’ (p.228) is an example. Fortunately, his capacity for reflection does not make the text too ponderous. McGirr’s accounts of his developing relationship with Jenny and his self-deprecatory asides about his weight (p.31, p.98), snoring (p.227), age (p.32) and tendency to lecture others (p.142) depict him as a jovial, likeable bloke. Bypass, a hybrid work of creative non-fiction is a memoir, travel story, social history, romance and road story. The literary devices used in Bypass enliven and enrich the writing with sparkling wit. For example: ‘Hovell had been a naval captain. On land, however, he was all at sea.’(p 19) ‘They were like fishermen who were prepared to dam their own river rather than let it starve them.’(p 48) ‘A roadhouse is a place where everything that can’t be eaten has been laminated, and not all the food can be eaten.’(p 66) ‘Guerrilla warfare is the opposite of God who, for some unknown reason, makes his or her absence felt even when present.’(p 81) ‘I came to Gunning to hide, but people kept finding me.’(p 97) ‘Sturt went blind trying to see what none had seen before.’(p 170) McGirr’s anger at some social problems is often expressed in blunt metaphors, for example, when discussing gaming machines in Goulburn he writes: ‘They are abattoirs of the human spirit.’(p 90) His love for language is reflected, for example, where the text is an extended reverie on arcane words and their meanings eg panier (p 98), or in his jovial attempt to find a word to describe a group of prime ministers (pp 153-4). Humour is one of the most appealing features Bypass, for example the discussion of caravans with a fellow traveller (pp 110-1). Michael McGirr is masterly in creating punch lines to end his stories. eg ‘I don’t believe in washing your dirty laundry in public.’(p 263) The Hume Highway: The Hume Highway runs for over eight hundred kilometres inland, between Sydney and Melbourne. Early settlers, such as Charles Throsby and Hume and Hovell, made journeys overland that eventuated in the Hume Highway being developed. The road, initially sometimes called the Great South Road in New South Wales and Sydney Road in what became Victoria, has been re-routed, extended and improved over time. In 1928, it became officially known as the Hume Highway. A number of towns originally on the Hume Highway have now been bypassed to reduce both travel times and the amount of traffic (especially trucks) passing through town centres. The meaning of bypass: The term bypass means to go around something; a road bypass normally goes around a town or the centre of a town. There are many such bypasses on the Hume Highway, allowing the traveller to avoid built up areas and suburban streets. However, although Bypass is the story of a journey along the Hume Highway, the title makes it clear that McGirr’s main interest is in how the road goes around places and people, and what the effects of this might be – both positive and negative. For more about McGirr’s engagement with the notion of a bypass, see the section on Themes, Ideas and Values. The main idea in the novel Bypass is the idea of a journey. In literal terms, Bypass: the story of a road tells the story of a physical journey from one point to another: in this case, from Sydney to Melbourne. However, McGirr makes clear that a journey can have qualities that are more metaphorical. The literary references to Don Quixote and Anna Karenina, in particular, suggest very different types of journeys. The quotation from Don Quixote, ‘there’s no road so smooth that it ain’t got a few potholes’, implicitly signals Sancho’s philosophical take on the nature of relationships and life more generally. This attitude towards the vicissitudes of life clearly informs the text as a whole. For instance, McGirr comments about the degree to which his ‘silly adventure’ might impact negatively on his relationship with Jenny (p.137). Likewise, the comments he makes about the truckies whose marriages can suffer from their long hours on the road (p.52), suggest that physical journeys and emotional journeys are closely intertwined. The frequent references to Anna Karenina also signal McGirr’s interest in the romantic and tragic dimensions of life. The flirtatious comments about McGirr’s relationship with Anna Karenina, his predilection for relinquishing (and then recovering) the text from time to time and the inevitable decision to place her in close proximity to a railway (p.260) work symbolically as a comment on life more generally, as well as on the plot of Tolstoy’s novel. After all, Tolstoy’s Anna throws herself in front of a train. McGirr is all too aware of the fragility of life – both on the road and beyond it. In this novel, death and memorial are also an important theme. The ultimate destination in life’s journey is death. McGirr does not shy away from discussing the fragility of life and makes much of the memorials on the Hume Highway. Death is something that cannot be bypassed and, like ‘the road [which] has no respect for persons or status’ (p.158), it comes to us all. As McGirr notes when reflecting on the cemetery in Gunning, ‘even a long life is short’ (p.7). For McGirr the Hume Highway is ‘sacred space’ (p.15); it is ‘lined with countless reminders of death’ (p.178) and memorialises both those who have died on it and those who have died at war. While McGirr is respectful and interested in the memorials dedicated to the war dead, his main priority is to acknowledge that death comes to all and that the lives of all ordinary Australians – including soldiers – are worth acknowledging and commemorating. Indeed, this is clearly conveyed by his juxtaposition of the near-death experience of Kerry Packer (p.40) and the funerals of the Queen Mother (p.255) and the Princess of Wales (p.256) with the experiences of less well-known individuals. Packer’s blunt assertion that there is no life beyond the grave is contrasted with the more positive reflection of a woman who believed that her husband had ‘gone to the great swap-meet in the sky’ (p.41). Similarly, the vast amount of coverage and ceremony afforded the funerals of the Queen Mother and the Princess of Wales is diametrically opposed to the more poignant account of the interment of Anton, a lonely old man whose funeral was attended by three people: the undertaker, Anton’s neighbour and McGirr in his role as priest (p.256). McGirr says of those like Anton, ‘At least God knew this person †¦ even if nobody else did’ (p.256). McGirr’s accounts of death or near-death experiences are most chilling when he considers those who have endured harrowing experiences on the road. His discussion of the murders committed by Ivan Milat (pp.70–4) and by bushrangers (pp.77–83) brings home the fact that ‘the Hume has a dark side’ (p.70). Not wanting to sensationalise – or justify – the actions of these men, McGirr nonetheless provides some background details to depict them in ways that are complex, non-judgemental and at times unnerving. ENTRY SEVEN: PHILOSOPHY IN BYPASS Given McGirr’s work as a priest for much of his life, it is not surprising that this text is largely preoccupied with issues of faith and philosophical ponderings about life more generally. McGirr makes clear his continued belief in God (p.174) but is not heavy-handed in his discussion of faith. The gently humorous and respectful way in which he recounts Jenny’s aphorisms (wise sayings) about life is a case in point. His recollection of Jenny’s remark that he should ‘just accept [the Hume Highway] for what it is †¦ you’ll enjoy it more’ (p.155) is exemplary. His discussion of Jenny’s view that there is a concave (negative and convex (optimistic) way of looking at the world (p.170) – and that he ‘might be right’ (p.170) in thinking that he has a concave approach to the world is similarly light-hearted in tone but relevant to the book’s overall interest in forms of belief. The light-hearted banter continues when McGirr discusses his acquisition of the Chinese philosophical text, Tao Te Ching. Its pithy words of wisdom are for McGirr redolent of the bumper sticker sayings that he has liberally peppered throughout his narrative. At times, McGirr’s discussion of philosophical matters takes on a more earnest tone. His discussion of how, as a priest, he subscribed to the vow of obedience in an effort to ‘make up a sense of purpose which I otherwise lacked’ (p.173) and his related anxiety that he would reach the ‘point at which you can no longer recognise yourself in the things you are starting to say or do’ (p.173) signal his need to be honest with himself as well as with others. His comment that ‘the secret of being human is learning how to enjoy our limitations’ (p.301) suggests that honesty and humility are part and parcel of a reflective existence, McGirr is also interested in the ways in which others concern themselves with spiritual matters. His discussion of the House of Prayer in Goulburn shows how prayer provides respite from the manic nature of everyday life and celebrates those like Catherine who dedicate their lives to helping others in need find peace (pp.85–6). In a very different and secular vein, McGirr recounts the belief Liz Vincent has in ghosts – of people and of the road. Although Vincent does not believe in God, McGirr seems fascinated by her stories and sensitively recounts her belief that ‘the people we love can scarcely bear to leave us and sometimes hang around as ghosts’ (p.59). Perhaps more interesting is Vincent’s claim that the old Hume Highway near Picton has a ‘ghostly presence of its own’ (p.59), appearing before unwary drivers’ eyes and beguiling them into believing that the phantom road they are following is the real thing (p.59). ENTRY EIGHT: THE POLITICS IN BYPASS In some ways Bypass is a book about power – about who has it and who does not. As McGirr writes, ‘Roads are political. Building them is a sign that somebody is the boss’ (p.14). McGirr’s discussion of the impact on Merri Creek of the F2 freeway into Melbourne (p.284), the ensuing court case and the verdict that ultimately endorsed the freeway project, exemplifies the political nature of road-making. The very essence of a bypass, for instance, is a political act and McGirr makes this clear when discussing the difficulties surrounding the decision to create an internal or an external bypass for Albury in the late 1990s (pp.203–6). Concerns about the economic effect of a route directing traffic away from town are weighed up with concerns about the impact of noise and pollution that a new road near or through a town invariably brings. Tussles between federal and state governments, as was the case with the Albury bypass, certainly highlight the political nature of road-making, as do arguments between different interest groups. The issue of the Albury bypass, along with the 1979 truck blockade staged between Camden and Picton on a notorious stretch of road known as razorback (pp.47–51), illustrate power struggles of very different sorts. McGirr also points out that the amount of money spent on roads as opposed to public transport is a political act. He writes that ‘in the last ten years, for every dollar spent on laying rail in Australia, eight dollars have been spent on highways’ (p.92). This pattern of spending is, he continues, ‘a symptom of something deeper because government spending decisions simply mirror the interests of voters’ (p.92). Bypass: the story of a road is particularly concerned with the way the highway has been the backdrop for various well-known and not so well-known aspects of Australia’s history. From Hume and Hovell’s early markings of the Hume Highway, to the increased tea ration bargained for by Jack Castrisson when John Curtin visited the Niagara Cafà © in Gundagai, to Ned Kelly’s exploits, to the antics of the humble, ordinary Australians who travel on the Hume year by year, McGirr celebrates the way aspects of Australia’s history are part and parcel of the Hume Highway’s rich narrative. McGirr’s interest in Australian history is, however, not indicative of a desire to celebrate or endorse conventional representations of Australia’s past. In a number of instances, McGirr wants to query the legitimacy of idealistic views of the nation’s evolution. McGirr challenges the idea that Australia is an egalitarian nation, for example, and claims tha t this view is a ‘myth’ (p.200). He also reminds readers of the fraught relationship between colonisers and Indigenous Australians when he discusses the life and death of an Aboriginal man named Bill Punch who survived a massacre as a baby and went on to fight for the Allies on the Western Front in World War I (pp.246–7). McGirr’s willingness to temper some representations of Australia’s past is underpinned by an appreciation of the power of language. He notes that those who are in a position to write about the past can have more agencies in their lives and also more control of history than those who don’t (p.19). This awareness allows him to ponder on the way bushrangers and explorers have been depicted over time, and how being literate can impact on the type of individual one becomes (pp.77–8). McGirr is attentive to the idea that some histories are not told and that those that are relayed are not always definitive. Bypass: the story of a road offers a quirky exploration of the Hume Highway and the personalities of the people whose lives have been touched by the road in one way or another. At the age of 40, former Jesuit priest, Michael McGirr – armed with not much more than a copy of Anna Karenina, some spare clothes and a less than state-of-the-art Chinese built bicycle – set out to ride the 880 kilometres (547 miles) of the Hume Highway which links Sydney and Melbourne. While the ride forms the backdrop to McGirr’s book Bypass: The Story of a Road, like all good travelogue’s the ride itself is really just a frame to hang the real story around, which as the title suggests, is the story of the Hume Highway. From its humble beginnings as a rough track across the Great Dividing Range, to its current state as a modern dual carriageway, the Highway continues to serve as the major thoroughfare linking Australia’s two largest cities. Bypass took me on a wonderful jo urney covering the history of the Hume, and the politics that helped shape it. Along the way you meet some great – and not so great – Australian characters that have helped imprint the name of the highway into the Australian psyche. People like the 61 year old Cliff Young (great), who in 1983 won the inaugural Sydney to Melbourne foot race against competitors half his age. And men like Ivan Milat (not so great) who was convicted of the murder of seven young backpackers and hitch-hikers, all of whom he buried in the Belanglo State Forest. Then there are the explorers Hamilton Hume (after whom the Highway was eventually named) and William Hovell, who in 1824 along with at least six others, set of from Appin (near the present day Sydney suburb of Campbelltown) for the first successful quest to reach Melbourne. Through the novel, I also met truckies; the bushrangers Ben Hall and Ned Kelly; and the poets ‘Banjo’ Paterson and Henry Lawson. I attended a Catholic Mass in Tarcutta – officially the halfway point between Sydney and Melbourne – where apart from the priest and two parishioners, the only other people in attendance are the author of Bypass and his companion Jenny, who has by this tim e joined him on his ride to Melbourne. Reading this book, it seemed like I visited almost every country town along the route of the Hume Highway, and learn something about each of them. Towns like Goulburn, famous for the Big Merino and Goulburn Jail (where Ivan Milat is currently serving seven life sentences). I visited Holbrook and learn why the outer shell of the Oberon Class submarine HMAS Otway now sits in a public park in the middle of town. In Chiltern we pass by the childhood home of the Australian writer Henry Handel Richardson, and learn that Henry’s real name was Ethel Florence. I learned too, that like other female writers have done throughout history, Ethel wrote under a male nom de plume because at the time it was felt that women didn’t have what it took to be great writers. And I also visited the town of Yass, and drop by the Liberty Cafà © for a meal before continuing on the journey, and turning page after page. Across its many short chapters, Bypass also introduced me to some of the thousands of bumper stickers that adorn the rear ends of many Australian vehicles. In fact, McGirr uses stickers as chapter headings to introduce the readers to every aspect of his journey. Thus, the bumper sticker THE OLDER I GET THE BETTER I WAS, allows him to explain some of his own personal story and the reasons for his decision to ride the Hume Highway. In the chapter THE GODDESS IS DANCING, McGirr introduces us to his riding partner Jenny, and in DEATH IS THE MANUFACTURER’S RECALL NOTICE, we pause to learn about some of the many roadside memorials that mark the sites of fatal road accidents that line the Highway. To conclude, the book is immensely readable, always entertaining and informative, often surprising, and constantly filled with odd facts and humorous anecdotes. These keep the story moving along smoothly and effortlessly – which cannot always be said of Michael McGirr’s monumental bike ride.