James McKenzie Watson’s summer: heat that could roast a chook and wombats hogging the fan
Visiting a random part of inland Australia in the summer is kind of like choosing blindly from a bag of jalapeños: no matter what you get, it’s probably going to be uncomfortable. And yet, as with the jalapeños, there’s something oddly compelling about the subtle variations in flavour. Western hot is distinct from eastern hot. Southern hot’s not the same as northern hot. My flavour involves houses turning into islands and wombats lying spread-eagled on their backs beneath ceiling fans – which the humans who own the house begrudgingly allow because, after all, it is a wombat. (This is a true story – I’ll get to it in a minute.)
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Every summer, the towns of central-west New South Wales transform into archipelagos. Not actual chains of islands, but houses separated from one another by the heat. It results partly from the area’s unique geography: the central west begins at the edge of the Great Dividing Range and cascades down into the western plains, leading to temperature extremes at both ends of the spectrum. It’s hard to mentally prepare yourself for a hellish summer when there’s snow on the main street (I’m looking at you, Orange). Harder still when so many new arrivals come for the “milder climate”.
So when summer begins and Dubbo records its sixth 40C day in a row, here’s what we do. We keep our commitments (farming, work, school, care). Then, we go inside. And we don’t. Come. Out. Like in an actual archipelago, the Heat Archipelago’s defining trait is isolation despite proximity. The streets empty. Heat and light guard the exits. Towns that normally function as enormous hives settle into scalded stupors. There, on our brick and fibro islands, we’re cut off from our neighbours by heat that could roast a chook, never mind fry an egg.
These are ‘heat days’, ‘lazy days’, ‘lost days’. We bemoan them at the time, but they form strangely bright memories
I’m a millennial, born in 93. I grew up in Coonabarabran, at the northern end of the central west, and was a privileged enough child for “summer” to be synonymous with Daikin, Mitsubishi and Fujitsu. My childhood home was fitted with a reverse cycle air conditioner, the boundaries of the Heat Archipelago clearly defined by its reach. My mum, however, grew up in a Coonabarabran farmhouse without air con; instead, it had a roof space to absorb heat, a veranda to keep sun off the walls, and a large, sheltering garden – energy-efficient means of insulation lost in many modern designs. She tells stories of their single evaporative cooler, the whole family wandering around in their undies, and, yes, a wombat joey she reared lying flat on its back beneath the only fan in the house. Her dad was unimpressed that the wombat got the fan.
While Mum appreciates the efficacy of these methods, she’s not a luddite, particularly in the face of ever-hotter summers. As I was growing up, she compromised between tradition and modernity by opening every door and window at dawn to invite through channels of cool, eucalypt-scented air. Once the sun had risen above the row of lemon gums shielding the kitchen, she pulled shut the blinds and plunged us into a cavern-like dark. The air con went on only when this trapped air began to superheat.
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My memories of childhood in the Heat Archipelago are, well, pleasant. I was lucky enough to have a loving, adequately cooled home and lots to do inside. Monopoly, puzzles, Game Boy, the whole first seasons of Lost and Scrubs on DVD. Lying on the couch with my brother, both in our jocks and damp with sweat, the Ashes on in the background, the house almost entirely dark. A scene that would sound esoteric and ridiculous if it wasn’t so universal, not just across the central west but the country. It’s not even unique to humans – what are wombats without access to ceiling fans doing down their darkened burrows if not claiming their own islands? These are “heat days”, “lazy days”, “lost days”. We bemoan them at the time, but they form strangely bright gems in our memories. Something about the lethargy and inertia they inspire. About the often-forced proximity with our fellow island-folk.
As an adult, I’ve reflected on this phenomenon with mingled fondness and concern. It’s impossible to discuss without evoking the dark spectre of what drives the increasing heat and the role air con plays in this cycle. It also prompts questions around those without the luxury of staying indoors because of housing insecurity, economic hardship or domestic violence. The Heat Archipelago isn’t just a quirk of the intersection between culture and climate. It’s a basic necessity.
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But it’s also an ingrained cultural experience and something we’ve built a unique narrative around. How many Mudgee families celebrate the new year with Netflix in darkened living rooms? How many Parkes teenagers ride out the heat by filming TikToks under the air con? How many wombats find themselves holed up in farmhouses because good lord, there was snow here six months ago, can’t this place just decide if it wants to be alpine or arid? The causes and implications of this unique manifestation of summer can be debated separately. The fact that so many people have tasted this flavour is reason enough to celebrate it.
James McKenzie Watson is the author of the novel Denizen