Journal articles on the topic 'Paleobotany Victoria Western District'

The environment, duplex soil types and trends in crop production in South Australia, southern New South Wales, north-eastern and north-central Victoria, the southern Wimmera and the Victorian Western District are reviewed. In the latter 2 regions, pastoral industries dominate and crop production is curtailed by regular and severe soil waterlogging, except for limited areas of lower rainfall. Subsurface drainage can eliminate waterlogging, but is feasible only for the Western District where subsoils are sufficiently stable. The other regions all have a long history of soil degradation due to cropping practices, but these effects can now be minimised with the use of direct drilling and stubble retention cropping methods. A vigorous pasture ley phase is still considered necessary to maintain nitrogen levels and to restore soil structure to adequate levels for sustainable farming. Future productivity improvements will require increased root growth in the subsoils. Deep ripping, 'slotting' of gypsum, and crop species capable of opening up subsoils are techniques which may hold promise in this regard. The inclusion of lucerne, a perennial species, in annual pastures and intercropping at intervals is a technique being pioneered in north-central and western Victoria and may provide the best opportunity to crop duplex soils successfully without associated land degradation.

Swamp wallabies have dramatically extended their distribution through western Victoria and south-eastern South Australia over the last 40 years. Newspaper reports from 1875 onwards show that on European settlement, wallaby populations were confined to eastern Victoria, including the ranges around Melbourne, the Otway Ranges and Portland District of south-western Victoria, and a tiny part of south-eastern South Australia. Populations contracted further with intense hunting for the fur trade until the 1930s. In the late 1970s, however, wallabies began spreading into drier habitats than those initially recorded. Possible causes underlying this change in distribution are discussed; some seem unlikely but, because wallabies began spreading soon after the introduction of European rabbit fleas as vectors of myxomatosis, the cumulative effects of releases of biological agents to control rabbits appear important. A caution is given on assuming that thick vegetation in high-rainfall areas provides the only habitat suitable for swamp wallabies, but, most importantly, the study shows how native mammals may benefit if rabbit abundance is reduced.

Explanations are made for the choice of a neotype from Kurnell, Botany Bay, N.S.W., Australia. A new combination is made for G. microphylla from Australia (Queensland, New South Wales, Victoria, South Australia and Tasmania) and Norfolk Island. A new species, G. arenaria, is described from the East Kimberley District of Western Australia, and the Northern Territory. The three species are illustrated in detail. Keys are provided to distinguish these taxa from their allies.

Two experiments were conducted in 1983 and 1984 in the Hamilton district in south-western Victoria, which examined, in 1983, the interaction of cultivars of different maturity with sowing date and, in 1984, the interaction of soil waterlogging with anthesis date. In the first experiment the grain yield of Isis and Condor were not significantly (P = 0.05) affected when sowing was delayed from 18 April to 13 May despite greater DM yield at anthesis of the April sown crops (44% with Isis and 8 1 % with Condor). Early sowing resulted in early flowering and in Condor 25% fewer grains per ear. When the effect of anthesis date on grain yield was examined in 1984 at a poorly drained site (Hamilton) and a nearby better drained site (Tabor), it was found that early flowering caused yield reductions of 46 and 25%, respectively. The reduced yield at Hamilton was caused by fewer grains per ear and a lower kernel weight. Grain yield was found to be associated with the severity of waterlogging during the 30 days before anthesis. For each 1% decline in the mean air-filled porosity of the surface soil at this time, yield was reduced by 0.29 t/ha (r2 = 0.83; P< 0.05). When the soils became waterlogged, nitrogen concentrations in the plant tops declined to low levels between stem elongation and anthesis. The need to avoid waterlogging damage during stem elongation in spring may necessitate anthesis being delayed beyond the time currently recommended for the district.

Changes in soil pH from a long-term experiment at Hamilton, Vic., associated with time, fertiliser application, and stocking rate were assessed. The pH was measured in a 1 :5 suspension of soil in water (pHW) from 1980 onwards and in a 1:5 suspension of soil in 0.01 M CaCl2 (pHCa) from 1984 onwards. Topsoils (0–10 cm) were sampled regularly from 1980 to 1999, and the soil profile to a depth of 80 cm in 1994. The site was sown to perennial ryegrass, phalaris, and subterranean clover in 1977. Treatments fertilised with different amounts of superphosphate were grazed by sheep at stocking rates of 7–19 dry sheep equivalents (DSE)/ha. Average applications of phosphorus (P) ranged from 0.5 to 38.7 kg P/ha.year. The pHCa of the topsoil in 1984 was 4.9. It decreased at an average rate of 0.005 pHCa or 0.008 pHW units/year, with little variation due to fertiliser or stocking rate. Measurements in 1994 revealed subtle but statistically significant (P < 0.01) trends in soil pHCa that were associated with grazing pressure, inputs of fertiliser, and whether or not areas sampled were used by the sheep for camping. The top 0–5 cm of soil was slightly less acidic (+0.07 pHCa units) in the camp areas compared with non-camp areas. Below 5 cm to a depth of 80 cm, camp areas were more acidic (–0.19 pHCa units). At the highest stocking rates, heavier applications of superphosphate were associated with greater subsoil acidity: –0.06 pHCa units per 100 kg phosphorus (P) applied. There was no relationship at medium stocking rates. At low stocking rates, higher P applications were associated with more alkaline subsoils. Net removal of product from 1979 to 1994 (wool and meat removed from plots and excreta transferred to camps) was estimated to be equivalent to 140–380 kg/ha of lime over this 15-year period. The organic carbon (OC) content of the topsoil did not change over 20 years of records from 1979, and was unaffected by inputs of P. In 1994, the OC content of the 0–5 cm layer of topsoil was greater than the 5–10 cm layer (mean values 5.5% and 3.8% respectively; P < 0.001). The OC content of camp areas was higher than that of non-camp areas, this difference being more pronounced in the 0–5 cm layer (P < 0.01). It was concluded that the rate of change of pH was slow because of the high pH buffering capacity of the soil, the small amount of alkalinity removed in product, and the generally high perennial grass content of the pastures. Soils shown to be at greatest risk of acidification from this study were those under camp areas, and where high fertiliser rates were applied to pastures with a low perennial grass content. Rotational grazing should diminish these problems by reducing the concentration of excreta in camp areas, and favouring perennials over annuals in both camp and non-camp areas. Inputs of lime may eventually be needed to compensate for the acidifying effect of product removal.

Under a future climate for south-eastern Australia there is the likelihood that the net effect of elevated CO2, (eCO2) lower growing-season rainfall and high temperature will increase haying-off thus limit production of rain-fed wheat crops. We used a modelling approach to assess the impact of an expected future climate on wheat growth across four cropping regions in Victoria. A wheat model, APSIM-Nwheat, was performance tested against three datasets: (i) a field experiment at Wagga Wagga, NSW; (ii) the Australian Grains Free Air Carbon dioxide Enrichment (AGFACE) experiment at Horsham, Victoria; and (iii) a broad-acre wheat crop survey in western Victoria. For down-scaled climate predictions for 2050, average rainfall during October, which coincides with crop flowering, decreased by 32, 29, 26, and 18% for the semiarid regions of the northern Mallee, the southern Mallee, Wimmera, and higher rainfall zone, (HRZ) in the Western District, respectively. Mean annual minimum and maximum temperature over the four regions increased by 1.9 and 2.2°C, respectively. A pair-wise comparison of the yield/anthesis biomass ratio across climate scenarios, used for assessing haying-off response, revealed that there was a 39, 49 and 47% increase in frequency of haying-off for the northern Mallee, southern Mallee and Wimmera, respectively, when crops were sown near the historically optimal time (1 June). This translated to a reduction in yield from 1.6 to 1.4 t/ha (northern Mallee), 2.5 to 2.2 t/ha (southern Mallee) and 3.7 to 3.6 t/ha (Wimmera) under a future climate. Sowing earlier (1 May) reduced the impact of a future climate on haying-off where decreases in yield/anthesis biomass ratio were 24, 28 and 23% for the respective regions. Heavy textured soils exacerbated the impact of a future climate on haying-off within the Wimmera. Within the HRZ of the Western District crops were not water limited during grain filling, so no evidence of haying-off existed where average crop yields increased by 5% under a future climate (6.4–6.7 t/ha). The simulated effect of eCO2 alone (FACE conditions) increased average yields from 18 to 38% for the semiarid regions but not in the HRZ and there was no evidence of haying-off. For a future climate, sowing earlier limited the impact of hotter, drier conditions by reducing pre-anthesis plant growth, grain set and resource depletion and shifted the grain-filling phase earlier, which reduced the impact of future drier conditions in spring. Overall, earlier sowing in a Mediterranean-type environment appears to be an important management strategy for maintaining wheat production in semiarid cropping regions into the future, although this has to be balanced with other agronomic considerations such as frost risk and weed control.

This investigation is an extension of earlier work on rainfall patterns in eastern Australia. Using district averages rather than rainfall data for individual cities or towns, further evidence is provided for cyclic variations in precipitation with periods of 18–19, 10–11 and 6–7 years. Results from various regional areas in western Queensland and western New South Wales differ from those found further south in Victoria, and connections are suggested between El Niño/southern oscillation events and the incidence of drought in these two separate areas. Such findings are consistent with ecological aspects of the quasi-periodic occurrence of bushfire seasons as observed in both Victorian eucalypt forests after prolonged drought, or after intermittent widespread rains in the semi-arid Mallee rangelands of western New South Wales. The ~19-year cycles may be at least partly a reflection of solar and lunar tidal components and the ~11-year cycles (connected with the Sunspot cycle) could be the result of absorption of short wavelength solar emissions in the stratosphere and resultant photochemical events magnified to produce sea surface temperature changes. The ~19-year cycles are apparently associated with either increased or decreased rainfall, and such connections appear to reverse in parts of Australia about every 100 years. These reversals have been associated with major droughts at the end of the 19th and 20th centuries.

Setobaudinia Iredale, 1933 is a genus of camaenid land snails endemic to the Western Australian Kimberley. It comprises 20 currently recognised species, most of which occur within the north-western high precipitation zone between the Admiralty Gulf and Collier Bay and within less than 60 km distance from the coast. Exceptionally, two species are found on isolated limestone outcrops in the drier interior of the Victoria River District, Northern Territory. By studying the differentiation in shell and genital anatomy as well as in the mitochondrial markers 16S and COI, we revise the taxonomy of Setobaudinia and describe new taxa. The Northern Territory species S. victoriana Solem, 1985 is identified as a member of the genus Trachiopsis, which otherwise comprises species from the York Peninsula, Queensland. The species Damochlora spina Solem, 1985 is shown to be a member of the genus Setobaudinia. A new species from the eastern Kimberley has been identified as the sister group of Setobaudinia. It is placed in the new genus Kymatobaudinia for exhibiting morphological characteristics that differ from those of all other Setobaudinia species. In addition, we describe nine new species from coastal areas and islands off the cost throughout the south-west to north-west Kimberley: S. angustilabiata, sp. nov.; S. colmani, sp. nov.; S. incisa, sp. nov.; S. kessneri, sp. nov.; S. latilabiata, sp. nov.; S. longiflagellata, sp. nov.; S. malbyana, sp. nov.; S. minima, sp. nov.; S. plana, sp. nov. ZooBank Publication code: http://zoobank.org/References/3C953F1A-62E5-4CE5-9D5E-D8D5774B4059

Since the European settlement of Australia in 1788, 25 mainland terrestrial mammal species have become extinct, more than on any other continent during this period. To determine if the causal factors are still active, it is necessary to better understand the species and their status preceding these regional extirpations or extinctions, and examine the historical record for clues to the cause(s) of these declines. From an extensive review of historical material, primarily newspaper accounts, we collated >2700 accounts of quolls. We discovered 36 accounts that demonstrate the propensity for quolls to become hyperabundant. The geographical distribution of accounts implies that most refer to Dasyurus viverrinus, but an account from Normanton district (Queensland) likely applies to D. hallucatus. More than 110 accounts demonstrate that disease/parasite epizootics occurred in south-eastern Australia, commencing on mainland Australia possibly in the goldfields region of Victoria in the 1850s, or in south-eastern South Australia and south-western Victoria in the mid to late 1860s, and implicate these as the initial primary factor in the regional extirpation of Australia’s quolls. The loss of D. viverrinus populations in south-eastern Australia was reportedly from population abundances and densities that were sporadically extraordinarily high, hence their loss appears more pronounced than previously suspected. Accounts describing the widespread, rapid and major loss of quolls suggest the possible involvement of several pathogens. Ectoparasites such as Uropsylla tasmanica and ticks appear to be described in detail in some accounts. A few others state comortality of Felis catus and Canis lupus familiaris, suggestive of a disease of either or both of these species, such as Canine Distemper Virus, a morbillivirus with a propensity to be non-host specific, that may have caused the decline of the quolls, perhaps vectored by the reported ectoparasites. We also collated 23 presumed independent accounts of cats negatively impacting quolls, two of which describe significant mortality, and three presumed independent accounts of fox predation. These highlight the capacity of both of these introduced predators to have reduced quoll distribution and abundance.

The Australian and Papua New Guinean species of the water beetle genus Gymnochthebius Orchymont, 1943, are revised, based on the study of 4,904 specimens. The genus is redescribed, and redescriptions are provided for G. australis (Blackburn), G. brisbanensis (Blackburn), G. clarki (Deane), G. levis (Deane), G. lividus (Deane), G. notalis (Deane), and G. tenebricosus (Deane). Lectotypes are designated for Ochthebius australis Blackburn, 1888, and Ochthebius tenebricosus Deane, 1931. Ochthebius fischeri Deane, 1931, and Ochthebius leai Deane, 1931, are synonymized with Ochthebius australis Blackburn, 1888; Ochthebius flavocinctus Deane 1933, is synonymized with Ochthebius lividus Deane, 1933; and Ochthebius angustipennis Deane, 1931, is synonymized with Ochthebius clarki Deane, 1931. Twenty-nine new species are described, and a key to the 36 species known from Australia and Papua New Guinea is given. High resolution digital images of all primary types are presented (online version in color), the male genitalia are illustrated, and Australian geographic distributions are mapped. Only one species, G. clarki, inhabits both Australia and Papua New Guinea; two species, G. bacchusi n. sp. and G. papua n. sp. are endemic to Papua New Guinea; 33 species are endemic to Australia. Members of Gymnochthebius are found at the gravelly/sandy/silty margins of flowing and standing water. A preliminary grouping of species according to microhabitat substrate is presented. Correspondences between ventral morphology and microhabitat preferences suggest that a few species are evolving toward humicolous habits. New species of Gymnochthebius are: G. angulonotus (Queensland, Tinaroo Creek Road via Mareeba), G. bacchusi (Papua New Guinea, Morobe District, c. 7 miles Lae Bulolo Road), G. benesculptus (South Australia, Warburton River, 1 km N White Bull Yard Kalamurina Stn.), G. coruscus (South Australia, Warburton River, 1 km N White Bull Yard Kalamurina Stn.), G. fontinalis (South Australia, Elizabeth (Mound) Springs, 7 km NW Coward Springs R.S.), G. fumosus (New South Wales, Sydney), G. hesperius (Western Australia, Lyndon River Bridge), G. inlineatus (Western Australia, Millstream, creek near Deep Reach), G. lustrosulcus (Queensland, Cloncurry), G. minipunctus (Northern Territory, Palm Valley), G. nanosetus (Northern Territory, Roderick Creek, Gregory National Park), G. nicki (Victoria, Possum Hollow falls, West branch Tarwin River, 5.6 km SSW Allambee), G. nigriceps (South Australia, Mound Spring near Coward Springs), G. papua (Papua New Guinea, Morobe District, ca. 10 km S Garaina Saureri), G. perpunctus (South Australia, Somme Creek, between Angaston and Sedan), G. pluvipennis (South Australia, Warburton

Stocking rate is often the most important and manageable factor influencing the profitability and environmental sustainability of pastoral properties. Methods for determining carrying capacity, and therefore stocking rate, include subjective approaches based on land manager experience, long-term ‘benchmark’ stocking rates and techniques using computer-aided predictions of pasture growth. This paper presents a new approach for objectively calculating short-term livestock carrying capacities of pastoral properties by integrating remotely sensed ground cover assessments as a proxy for land condition. The study region was three commercial pastoral properties in the north Australian pastoral region (above 26°S). Two properties were situated in the Victoria River District of the Northern Territory and a third in the Kimberley region of Western Australia. Annual pasture growth was estimated using GRASP, a deterministic, point-based, native pasture model developed for semiarid and tropical grasslands, which was calibrated for the different land types in the study region. Carrying capacity estimates were further refined by investigating trends in landscape cover change between years using data from satellite imagery assessment. These tools have been shown to be useful for inferring land condition and pasture growth within these regions of northern Australia but had not been integrated before this study. This study developed an approach for inferring rangeland pasture condition and applying it to refine short-term carrying capacities, thus aiding decision making. The approach developed in this study is considered to be more applicable for commercial land management than currently available methods for determining carrying capacities on pastoral properties in northern Australia.

The rodent fauna of the monsoonal tropics of the Northern Territory comprises 23 native species and two introduced species. Three species (Zyzomys maini, Z. palatalis and Pseudomys calabyi) are endemic to the area, and four species (Pseudomys hermannsburgensis, P. desertor, P. johnsoni and Notomys alexis) enter the area only on its southern (arid) fringe. The rodent fauna is closely related to that of the Kimberley, Western Australia. Distribution maps for all species are given. One species (Z. palatalis) has an extremely restricted range and is regarded as critically endangered. The lack of information on the distribution and abundance of rodents in general in this area is evident in the national classification of five of its species (Xeromys myoides, Mesembriomys macrurus, Notomys aquilo, Pseudomys desertor and Pseudomys johnsoni) as Insufficiently Known. The two introduced rodents (Mus domesticus and Rattus rattus) are virtually restricted to urban and highly modified areas, although R. rattus also occurs on one uninhabited island. In contrast to that of much of the rest of Australia, this rodent fauna has apparently retained its full complement of species since European colonisation. This enduring legacy is attributable largely to the relatively limited modification of its environments. However, three species (Mesembriomys macrurus, Rattus tunneyi and Conilurus penicillatus) appear to be declining. The pattern of decline in these species, and in the mammal fauna generally, is obscured by the very limited historical data. However, declines appear most pronounced in the cattle country of the Victoria River District and Gulf regions. Priorities for the management of this rodent fauna include survey of poorly known areas, survey for poorly known species, monitoring of rodent communities, and landscape-wide management of the three pervasive processes with probably greatest impacts – fire, grazing and feral predators.

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Phellinus robustus (P. Karst.) Bourdot & Galzin Fungi: Basidiomycota: Hymenochaetales Hosts: Mainly oak (Quercus spp.) and chestnut (Castanea spp.), but also many other species of broadleaved and coniferous trees. Information is given on the geographical distribution in EUROPE, Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia (former), France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Lithuania, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Central Russia Russian Far East, Southern Russia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, UK, Ukraine, ASIA, China, Shaanxi, Israel, Japan, Taiwan, Turkey, Uzbekistan, AFRICA, South Africa, NORTH AMERICA, Canada, Mexico, USA, Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Connecticut, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Texas, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, SOUTH AMERICA, Venezuela, OCEANIA, Australia, New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea.

Background: Mimosa diplotricha is an emerging or established weed in many parts of the world, including many countries in Africa, where it is impacting on biodiversity, crop and pasture production, and driving socio-ecological change. Objectives: To establish the current distribution of M. diplotricha in eastern and southern Africa and its impacts on livelihoods in northern Malawi. Methods: Records on current distribution were collected from roadside surveys, literature reviews and herbarium data. Household surveys were conducted in the Karonga District, Malawi, to understand its impacts on local livelihoods. Results: Mimosa diplotricha is abundant in western Ethiopia, southern Tanzania, and northern and southeastern Malawi with isolated populations in western Rwanda, Burundi, Mozambique, and on the northern shores of Lake Victoria in Uganda. Most respondents said that M. diplotricha invasions were reducing the amount of grass and shrubs in rangelands, with over half saying it reduced crop yields. This invasive plant is also reducing the availability of medicinal plants and other natural resources. Conclusions: Mimosa diplotricha has the potential to significantly expand its range in eastern Africa, and parts of southern Africa, and as such there is an urgent need to develop and implement an integrated management strategy, including biological control, to reduce the negative effects of this invasive plant on local livelihoods.

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Burkholderia andropogonis (Smith) Gillis et al. Bacteria. Main hosts: Sorghum spp., maize (Zea mays), clover (Trifolium spp.), velvet bean (Mucuna spp.) and vetch (Vicia spp.). Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Bulgaria, Hungary, Italy, Poland, Portugal, Russia, Russian Far East), Asia (Brunei Darussalam, China, Henan, Hong Kong, Iraq, Japan, Honshu, Pakistan, Philippines, Taiwan and Thailand), Africa (Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya, Nigeria, Rwanda, South Africa, Sudan, Togo, Uganda, Zambia and Zimbabwe), North America (Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Quebec, Mexico, USA, Arkansas, California, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, Virginia and Washington), Central America and Caribbean (Costa Rica, Cuba, El Salvador, Haiti and Honduras), South America (Argentina, Brazil, Minas Gerais, Santa Catarina, Sao Paulo, Uruguay and Venezuela) and Oceania (Australia, New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, Victoria, Western Australia, Federated States of Micronesia and New Zealand).

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Burkholderia andropogonis (Smith) Gillis et al. Hosts: Sorghum spp., maize (Zea mays), clover (Trifolium spp.), velvet bean (Mucuna spp.) and vetch (Vicia spp.). Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Bulgaria; Hungary; Italy; Poland; Portugal; and Far East, Russia), Asia (Brunei Darussalam; Hong Kong, China; Iraq; Israel; Honshu, Japan; Pakistan; Philippines; Taiwan; and Thailand), Africa (Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya, Nigeria, Rwanda, South Africa, Sudan, Togo, Uganda, Zambia and Zimbabwe), North America (Alberta, British Columbia, Nova Scotia and Ontario, Canada; Mexico; and Arkansas, California, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, Virginia and Washington, USA), Central America and Caribbean (Costa Rica, El Salvador, Haiti and Honduras), South America (Argentina; Minas Gerais, Santa Catarina and São Paulo, Brazil; Uruguay; and Venezuela) and Oceania (New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, Western Australia and Victoria, Australia; Federated States of Micronesia; and New Zealand).

Abstract Fences were critical in the fight against rabbits in colonial Australia. Initially, domestic rabbits were farmed in pens or paddocks fenced with paling fences or walls. Wild-caught rabbits imported from England escaped and became serious pests from the 1850s. As their status changed from protected private property to a major pest, the functions of fences changed to fencing rabbits out. Legislation requiring or specifying rabbit-proof fences lagged several years behind recognition of rabbits as a problem. Most log and brush fences in infested districts were burnt to destroy rabbit harbour. Dry stone walls were modified in many ways; paling, slab, picket and stub fences were all tried, but were unsuccessful, and by 1886 netting was standard. Using examples from the rich agricultural Western District and the considerably poorer Mallee Region of Victoria, this article describes the many forms of rabbit fences used between the 1850s and the mid-1880s. All of the experimentation with different structures was by individual landholders, with colonial governments conspicuous by their lack of involvement until they erected rabbit-proof barrier fences.

Abstract A description is provided for Lasiosphaeria ovina. There are records of this species on living branches and leaves, dead leaves, bark, branches, twigs, periderm and wood (often decorticated and very decayed or wet). Some information on its habitats, dispersal and transmission, and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Mauritius, Morocco, South Africa and Uganda), Central America (Costa Rica and Panama), North America (Canada (British Columbia, Newfoundland and Labrador, Ontario and Quebec)), USA (Alabama, Arizona, California, Colorado, Connecticut, District of Columbia, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia and Wisconsin)), South America (Argentina, Brazil (Goiás and Sao Paulo) and Chile), Asia (Georgia Republic, India (Maharashtra), Japan, Kazakhstan (Vostochno-Kazakhstanskaya), Oman, Pakistan, Philippines, Russia (Kamchatka) and Turkey), Australasia (Australia (Tasmania, Victoria and Western Australia) and New Zealand), Europe (Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bulgaria, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Iceland, Irish Republic, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Slovakia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine and UK) and associated organisms and subtrata.

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Monilinia fructicola (Winter) Honey. Leotiomycetes: Heliotiales: Sclerotiniaceae. Hosts: manly Rosaceous stone fruits. Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Austria, Croatia, France, Mainland France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Italy, Mainland Italy, Montenegro, Poland, Romania, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Mainland Spain, Switzerland), Asia (Azerbaijan, China, Chongqing, Fujian, Gansu, Hebei, Hubei, Liaoning, Shandong, Yunnan, Zhejiang, India, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Uttar Pradesh, Japan, Hokkaido, Honshu, Korea Republic, Taiwan, Yemen), Africa, (Nigeria, Zimbabwe), North America (Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Mexico, USA, Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin), Central America &Caribbean (Guatemala, Panama) South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Minas Gerais, Parana, Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catarina, Sao Paulo, Chile, Ecuador, Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, Venezuela), Oceania (Australia, New South Wales, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia, New Caledonia, New Zealand).

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Monilinia fructicola (G. Winter) Honey. Ascomycota: Helotiales. Hosts: Rosaceous stone fruit trees (Prunus, Malus, Pyrus spp.), especially peach (Prunus persica). Also grape (Vitis spp.), flowering quinces (Chaenomeles spp.), hawthorns (Crataegus spp.) and loquat (Eriobotrya japonica). Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Austria, Czech Republic, France, Mainland France, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Mainland Italy, Spain, Mainland Spain, Switzerland, UK), Asia (China, Hebei, Shandong, India, Himachal Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh, Japan, Honshu, Korea Republic, Taiwan, Yemen), Africa (Nigeria, Zimbabwe), North America (Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Mexico, USA, Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachussetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin), Central America and Caribbean (Guatemala, Panama), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Minas Gerais, Parana, Rio Grande do Sul, Sao Paulo, Ecuador, Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, Venezuela), Oceania (Australia, New South Wales, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia, New Caledonia, New Zealand).

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Hylotrupes bajulus Linnaeus. Coleoptera: Cerambycidae. Hosts: firs (Abies spp.), spruces (Picea spp.), pines (Pinus spp.), larches (Larix spp.) and Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii). Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Albania, Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Cyprus, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Faroe Islands, Finland, Aland Islands, Mainland Finland, France, Corsica, Mainland France, Germany, Greece, Crete, Mainland Greece, Hungary, Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Mainland Italy, Sardinia, Sicily, Latvia, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Macedonia, Malta, Moldova, Montenegro, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Azores, Madeira, Mainland Portugal, Romania, Russia, Central Russia, Northern Russia, Siberia, Southern Russia, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Balearic Islands, Canary Islands, Mainland Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, UK, Channel Islands, England, Wales and Ukraine), Asia (Armenia, Azerbaijan, China, Jiangsu, Republic of Georgia, Iran, Iraq, Israel, Lebanon, Syria and Turkey), Africa (Algeria, Cote d'Ivoire, Egypt, Libya, Madagascar, Morocco, South Africa, Tunisia and Zimbabwe), North America (USA, Alabama, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Louisiana, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Missouri, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas and Virginia), South America (Argentina, Brazil, Rio Grande do Sul and Uruguay), Oceania (Australia, New South Wales, Queensland, Tasmania, Victoria and Western Australia).

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Peronospora viciae (Berk.) Casp. Chromista: Oomycota: Peronosporales. Hosts: broad bean (Vicia faba), tiny vetch (V. hirsuta), common vetch (V. sativa), winter vetch (V. villosa), lentil (Lens culinaris subsp. culinaris), pea (Pisum spp.) and vetchling (Lathyrus spp.). Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Austria, Bulgaria, Cyprus, Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, France, Mainland France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Mainland Italy, Sardinia, Lithuania, Malta, Montenegro, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Central Russia, Serbia, Spain, Balearic Islands, Canary Islands, Mainland Sain, Sweden, Switzerland, UK, Channel Islands, England and Wales, Scotland, Ukraine), Asia (Afghanistan, Bangladesh, China, Jiangsu, Georgia, India, Delhi, Himachal Pradesh, Punjab, Uttar Pradesh, Uttarakhand, West Bengal, Israel, Pakistan, Syria, Taiwan), Africa (Ethiopia, Kenya, Morocco, South Africa, Tanzania, Tunisia, Uganda, Zimbabwe), North America (Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Mexico, USA, Alabama, California, Colorado, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Louisiana, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Montana, New Hampshire, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Oregon, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, Washington, Wisconsin), Central America and Caribbean (Jamaica), South America (Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Uruguay), Oceania (Australia, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia, New Zealand). P. viciae is a common pathogen in areas where its host plants are grown, especially in cool and humid areas.

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Botryosphaeria dothidea (Moug.) Ces. & de Not. Dothideomycetes: Botryosphaeriales: Botryosphaeriaceae. Hosts: Confirmed on more than 24 host genera, including woody plants, such as Acacia (= Vachellia), Eucalyptus, Vitis and pistachio. Information is given on the geographical distribution in Africa (Algeria, Ethiopia, Malawi, Namibia, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Tunisia, Zambia, Zimbabwe), Asia (China, Anhui, Beijing, Chongqing, Fujian, Gansu, Guangxi, Guizhou, Hebei, Henan, Hubei, Jiangsu, Jiangxi, Liaoning, Ningxia, Shaanxi, Shandong, Shanghai, Shanxi, Sichuan, Tianjin, Yunnan, Zhejiang, Hong Kong, India, Andhra Pradesh, Assam, Chhattisgarh, Gujarat, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Madhya Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Uttar Pradesh, Iran, Japan, Hokkaido, Pakistan, Philippines, Syria, Taiwan, Turkey), Europe (Austria, Belgium, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Italy, Sicily, Lithuania, Montenegro, Poland, Portugal, Serbia, Slovenia, Spain, Canary Islands, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK, England), North America (Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, Ontario, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Mexico, Panama, USA, Alabama, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maryland, Mississippi, Missouri, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Texas, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin), Oceania (American Samoa, Australia, New South Wales, South Australia, Victoria, Western Australia, New Caledonia, New Zealand) and South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Parana, Pernambuco, Santa Catarina, Sao Paulo, Chile, Colombia, Paraguay, Uruguay, Venezuela).

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Blumeria graminis (DC.) Speer Fungi: Ascomycota: Erysiphales Hosts: Poaceae, commonly wheat (Triticum aestivum), barley (Hordeum vulgare), oats (Avena sativa) and rye (Secale cereale). Information is given on the geographical distribution in EUROPE, Albania, Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Cyprus, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Faroe Islands, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Macedonia, Malta, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Central Russia Russia, Eastern, Russian Far East, Northern Russia, Southern Russia, Western Siberia, Serbia and Montenegro, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, UK, Ukraine, ASIA, Afghanistan, Armenia, Azerbaijan, China, Anhui, Chongqing, Fujian, Gansu, Guangdong, Guangxi, Guizhou, Hebei, Henan, Hubei, Jiangsu, Jiangxi, Jilin, Liaoning, Nei, Menggu, Ningxia, Qinghai, Shaanxi, Shandong, Shanxi, Sichuan, Xinjiang, Xizhang, Yunnan, Zhejiang, Republic of Georgia, India, Bihar, Chhattisgarh, Delhi, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Punjab, Rajasthan, Sikkim, Tamil Nadu, Uttar Pradesh, Uttaranchal, Iran, Iraq, Israel, Japan, Hokkaido, Honshu, Kyushu, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Korea Republic, Kyrgyzstan, Mongolia, Nepal, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Taiwan, Turkey, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Yemen, AFRICA, Algeria, Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya, Libya, Malawi, Morocco, Mozambique, Rwanda, South Africa, Sudan, Tanzania, Tunisia, Zambia, Zimbabwe, NORTH AMERICA, Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland, Northwest, Territories, Nova Scotia, Nunavut, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Yukon, Greenland, Mexico, USA, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Maine, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode, Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wyoming, SOUTH AMERICA, Argentina, Brazil, Mato Grosso do Sul, Minas Gerais, Parana, Rio Grande do Sul, Sao Paulo, Chile, Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, OCEANIA, Australia, New South Wales, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia, New Zealand.

Abstract Background The identification and mapping of at-risk populations at a lower administrative level than the district are prerequisites for the planning, resource allocation and design of impactful control intervention measures. Thus, the objective of the current study was to conduct sub-district precision mapping of soil-transmitted helminthiasis (STH) and schistosomiasis in 29 districts of north-western Tanzania using the current recommended World Health Organization criteria. Methods A cross-sectional survey was conducted in 145 schools between March and May 2021. A urine filtration technique was used for the quantification of Schistosoma haematobium eggs, whereas quantification of Schistosoma mansoni and STH eggs was done using the Kato–Katz technique. Microhaematuria was examined using a urine dipstick. Results The overall prevalences of any STH and schistosome infections were 9.3% [95% confidence interval (95%CI) 8.6–9.9] and 14.6% (95%CI 13.9–15.4), respectively. The overall prevalence of S. mansoni was 8.7% (95%CI 8.1–9.3), and 36.4%, 41.6%, and 21.9% of the children had low, moderate, and heavy infections, respectively. The overall prevalence of S. haematobium was 6.1% (95%CI 5.5–6.5), and 71.7% and 28.3% of the infected children had light and heavy intensity infections, respectively. The prevalence of microhaematuria was 7.3% (95%CI 6.7–7.8), with males having the highest prevalence (8.4%, P < 0.001). The prevalences of Trichuris trichiura, Ascaris lumbricoides and hookworm were, respectively, 1.3% (95%CI 0.1–1.5), 2.9% (95%CI 2.5–3.3) and 6.2% (95%CI 5.7–6.7). Most of the children infected with STH had light to moderate intensities of infection. The overall prevalence of co-infection with STH and schistosomiasis was 19.1%. The prevalence of schistosomiasis (P < 00.1) and STH (P < 0.001) varied significantly between schools and sub-districts. Schistosoma mansoni and S. haematobium were observed in 60 and 71 schools, respectively, whereas any STH was observed in 49 schools. In schools where schistosomiasis was observed, prevalence was < 10% in 90.8% of them, and ranged from ≥ 10% to < 50% in the other 9.2%. In schools where any STH was observed, the prevalence was < 10% in 87.7% of them. Conclusions The data reported here show that schistosomiasis and STH are widely distributed around Lake Victoria. In most of the schools where schistosomiasis and STH occurred the transmission thresholds were low. These data are important and need to be taken into consideration when decisions are made on the implementation of the next round of mass chemotherapies for schistosomiasis and STH in Tanzania. Graphical Abstract

Background: Warfarin is the most frequently used oral anticoagulant worldwide and it is the oral anticoagulant of choice in South Africa for reducing thrombosis-related morbidity and mortality. However, the safety and efficacy of warfarin therapy depends mainly on careful monitoring and maintenance of the international normalised ratio (INR) within an optimal therapeutic range.Aim: The aim of this study was to describe the profile and the anticoagulation outcomes of patients on warfarin therapy in a major warfarin clinic in the Western Cape Province of South Africa. Setting: Victoria Hospital - a district hospital in Cape Town. Methods: A cross sectional review of clinical records of patients on warfarin therapy who attended the INR clinic from 01 January 2014 to 30 June 2014 was done. Data analysis was done with STATA to generate appropriate descriptive data.Results: Our study showed that atrial fibrillation (AF) was the commonest indication for warfarin use in this study and hypertension was the commonest comorbidity among these patients. Only 48.5% achieved target therapeutic range; 51.5% were out-of-range. There was a significant association between alcohol consumption and poor anticoagulation outcomes (p-value < 0.022). Anticoagulation outcomes were better among the older age groups, male patients and in those with AF. The prevalence of thrombotic events while on warfarin treatment was 2.2%, while prevalence of haemorrhagic events was 14%. Most of the patients with bleeding events were on concurrent use of warfarin and other medications with potential drug interactions.Conclusion: In our study, patients who achieved target therapeutic control were less than the acceptable 60%.Keywords: Oral anticoagulant, anticoagulation outcomes, therapeutic control, percentage INR within target therapeutic range (%ITTR),Time in therapeutic range (TIR)

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Phthorimaea operculella (Zeller). Lepidoptera: Gelechiidae. Hosts: Solanaceae, especially tomato (Solanum lycopersicum) and potato (S. tuberosum). Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Bulgaria, Croatia, Cyprus, France, Greece, Hungary, Italy (Sardinia, Sicily, Malta), Portugal (Azores, Madeira), Romania, Russia, Serbia, Spain (Canary Islands), UK (England and Wales), Ukraine), Asia (Bangladesh, China (Guizhou, Yunnan), Georgia, India (Bihar, Gujarat, Himachal Pradesh, Karnataka, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Meghalaya, Orissa, Punjab, Tamil Nadu, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal), Indonesia (Java, Sulawesi, Sumatra), Iran, Iraq, Israel, Japan (Honshu, Kyushu, Shikoku), Jordan, Korea Republic, Lebanon, Myanmar, Nepal, Oman, Pakistan, Philippines, Saudi Arabia, Sri Lanka, Syria, Thailand, Turkey, Vietnam, Yemen), Africa (Algeria, Burundi, Cape Verde, Congo, Congo Democratic Republic, Egypt, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Kenya, Libya, Madagascar, Malawi, Mauritius, Morocco, Reunion, Rwanda, Senegal, Seychelles, South Africa, St. Helena, Sudan, Tanzania, Tunisia, Zambia, Zimbabwe), North America (Mexico, USA (Alabama, Arizona, California, Colorado, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, Nevada, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, Washington, Wisconsin)), Central America & Caribbean (Antigua and Barbuda, Bermuda, Costa Rica, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Haiti, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, St. Vincent and Grenadines), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil (Bahia, Goias, Minas Gerais, Parana, Rio Grande do Sul, Sao Paulo), Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, Venezuela), Oceania (Australia (New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), Fiji, French Polynesia, Guam, New Caledonia, New Zealand, Norfolk Island, Papua New Guinea).

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Botryosphaeria ribis Grossenb. & Duggar. Ascomycota: Botryosphaeriales. Hosts: plurivorous. Information is given on the geographical distribution in Europe (Cyprus, France, Greece (Crete, Mainland Greece), Italy (Mainland Italy, Sicily), Netherlands, Portugal (Madeira, Mainland Portugal), Spain (Mainland Spain), UK (Channel Islands, England and Wales, Scotland)), Asia (Bangladesh, Brunei Darussalam, China (Fujian, Hebei, Heilongjiang, Hong Kong, Jiangsu, Jilin, Liaoning, Nei Menggu, Shaanxi, Sichuan, Zhejiang), Georgia, India (Andhra Pradesh, Bihar, Chhattisgarh, Delhi, Gujarat, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Manipur, Meghalaya, Punjab, Rajasthan, Tamil Nadu, Uttar Pradesh, Uttarakhand, West Bengal), Indonesia (Java, Kalimantan, Sumatra), Iran, Israel, Japan (Honshu, Kyushu, Ryukyu Archipelago), Korea Republic, Malaysia (Peninsular Malaysia, Sabah, Sarawak), Myanmar, Nepal, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Thailand, Turkey), Africa (Cote d'Ivoire, Ethiopia, Ghana, Guinea, Kenya, Madagascar, Malawi, Mauritius, Mozambique, Niger, Nigeria, South Africa, Tanzania, Tunisia, Uganda, Zambia, Zimbabwe), North America (Canada (Alberta, Manitoba, Ontario, Yukon), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin)), Central America and Caribbean (Barbados, Costa Rica, Cuba, Dominica, Grenada, Honduras, Jamaica, Trinidad and Tobago), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil (Espirito Santo, Minas Gerais, Para, Pernambuco, Rio de Janeiro, Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catarina, Sao Paulo), Chile, Columbia, Uruguay, Venezuela), Oceania (Australia (New South Wales, Queensland, Victoria, Western Australia), Federated States of Micronesia, Fiji, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands).

Abstract A description is provided for Trametes versicolor. Some information on morphological characteristics, its associated organisms and substrata, habitats, economic impacts, dispersal and transmission, conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Benin, Burundi, Cameroon, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Ethiopia, Kenya, Libya, Malawi, Morocco, Nigeria, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Tanzania, Uganda, Zimbabwe.), Antarctica, Asia (Armenia, Azerbaijan, China, Anhui, Gansu, Guangdong, Guanxi, Guizhou, Hainan, Hebei, Heilongjang, Henan, Hong Kong, Hubei, Hunan, Jiangsu, Jiangxi, Jilin, Liaoning, Nei Mongol Autonomous Region, Qinghai, Shandong, Shanxi, Sichuan, Xinjiang, Yunnan, Zhejiang, Cyprus, Georgia, India, Assam, Goa, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Karnataka, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Meghalaya, Punjab, Rajasthan, Sikkim, Tamil Nadu, Uttarakhand, West Bengal, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Japan, Kazakhstan (Almaty), Kyrgyzstan, Laos, Malaysia, Mongolia, Myanmar, Nepal, Pakistan, Philippines, Russia, Singapore, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Thailand, Turkey, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Vietnam, Atlantic Ocean (Bermuda), Australasia (Australia, Australian Capital Territory, New South Wales, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia, New Zealand), Caribbean (Cuba, Dominican Republic, Haiti, Jamaica, Puerto Rico), Central America (Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Panama), Europe (Andorra, Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Ireland, Isle of Man, Italy, Kosovo, Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK), Indian Ocean (Réunion), North America (Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador, Northwest Territories, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Yukon, Mexico, USA, Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming), Pacific Ocean (USA, Hawaii), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Acre, Amazonas, Bahia, Distrito Federal, Espírito Santo, Mato Grosso do Sul, Minas Gerais, Pará, Paraná, Pernambuco, Rio Grande do Sul, Rio de Janeiro, Rondônia, Roraima, Santa Catarina São Paulo, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Paraguay, Peru, Suriname, Uruguay, Venezuela))).

Abstract A description is provided for Laetiporus sulphureus growing on a wide range of woody plants. Some information on its taxonomy, morphology, dispersal and transmission and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Cameroon, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Ethiopia, Kenya, Senegal, South Africa, Tanzania, Tunisia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, China (Guangxi, Jiangxi, Sichuan, Xinjiang Autonomous Region), Republic of Georgia, India (Assam, Chhattisgarh, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Kerala, Meghalaya, Rajasthan, Sikkim, Uttarakhand, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal), Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Japan, Kazakhstan (Aktobe, Almaty, East Kazakhstan, South Kazakhstan, West Kazakhstan), Laos, Mongolia, Nepal, Pakistan, Philippines, Russia (Altai Krai, Altai Republic, Amur Oblast, Irkutsk Oblast, Khabarovsk Krai, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Novosibirsk Oblast, Omsk Oblast, Primorsky Krai, Republic of Buryatia, Republic of Khakassia, Sakha Republic, Sakhalin Oblast, Sverdlovsk Oblast, Tomsk Oblast, Tyumen Oblast, Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug), Korea Republic, Taiwan, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Bermuda, Spain (Canary Islands), Australia (New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand, Dominica, Guadeloupe, Jamaica, Trinidad and Tobago, Belize, Costa Rica, Honduras, Panama, Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bulgaria, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Irish Republic, Isle of Man, Italy, Latvia, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Montenegro, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia (Astrakhan Oblast, Belgorod Oblast, Bryansk Oblast, Chuvash Republic, Ivanovo Oblast, Kaliningrad Oblast, Kaluga Oblast, Kirov Oblast, Krasnodar Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Moscow Oblast, Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, Novgorod Oblast, Orenburg Oblast, Penza Oblast, Pskov Oblast, Republic of Adygea, Republic of Bashkortostan, Republic of Dagestan, Republic of Mordovia, Republic of North Ossetia-Alania, Republic of Tatarstan, Samara Oblast, Saratov Oblast, Stavropol Krai, Tambov Oblast, Tula Oblast, Tver Oblast, Ulyanovsk Oblast, Vladimir Oblast, Volgograd Oblast, Voronezh Oblast, Yaroslavl Oblast), Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK, Mauritius, Réunion, Canada (British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Quebec), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Hawaii), Argentina, Brazil (Amazonas, Bahia, Distrito Federal, Espírito Santo, Paraná, Pernambuco, Rio de Janeiro, Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catarina, São Paulo), Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Guyana, Venezuela) and hosts (Quercus, Salix, Prunus, Fagus and Populus spp.).

Abstract A description is provided for Tremella mesenterica, a parasite on mycelium of (perhaps exclusively) Peniophora spp. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, dispersal and transmission, habitats and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Benin, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Morocco, South Africa, Tunisia), Asia (Armenia, Azerbaijan, China (Hong Kong, Sichuan, Yunnan), Georgia, India (Chhattisgarh, Karnataka, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Meghalaya, Sikkim), Iran, Israel, Japan, Kazakhstan (Almaty, East Kazakhstan), Lebanon, Malaysia, Philippines, Russia (Altai Krai, Amur Oblast, Irkutsk Oblast, Jewish Autonomous Oblast, Kamchatka Krai, Khabarovsk Krai, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Omsk Oblast, Primorsky Krai, Sakha Republic, Sakhalin Oblast, Sverdlovsk Oblast, Tyumen Oblast, Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug), South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Turkey, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan), Australasia (Australia (Australian Capital Territory, New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand), Caribbean (Jamaica, Puerto Rico), Central America (Costa Rica, Honduras, Panama), Europe (Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bulgaria, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Faroe Islands, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Iceland, Ireland, Isle of Man, Italy, Jersey, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia (Arkhangelsk Oblast, Belgorod Oblast, Bryansk Oblast, Chuvash Republic, Ivanovo Oblast, Kaliningrad Oblast, Kaluga Oblast, Kirov Oblast, Komi Republic, Kostroma Oblast, Krasnodar Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Mari El Republic, Moscow Oblast, Murmansk Oblast, Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, Novgorod Oblast, Perm Krai, Pskov Oblast, Republic of Adygea, Republic of Bashkortostan, Republic of Dagestan, Republic of Mordovia, Republic of Tatarstan, Tula Oblast, Tver Oblast, Udmurt Republic, Vladimir Oblast, Voronezh Oblast, Yaroslavl Oblast), Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK), Indian Ocean (Réunion), North America (Canada (Alberta, British Columbia, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador, Northwest Territories, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Yukon), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming)), Pacific Ocean (USA (Hawaii)), South America (Argentina, Brazil (Bahia, Mato Grosso do Sul, Minas Gerais, Paraná, Rio Grande do Sul, Rio de Janeiro, Santa Catarina, São Paulo), Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, French Guiana, Guyana, Peru, Venezuela)).

I can remember setting up the dish, all the excitement of assembling it [...] and then putting the motor on. And in the late afternoon, you position the dish and kind of turn it, to find the right spot, and all of a sudden on this blank television screen there was an image that came on. And it was shocking knowing that this noise and this thing would be there, and begin to infiltrate – because I see it as an infiltration, I see it as invasion – I’m not mad on television, very choosy really about what I watch – and I see it as an invasion, and there was GWN as well as the ABC. I just thought ‘by golly, I’m in the process of brain-washing people to accept stuff without thinking about it, like consciously considering either side of any case’ [...] The one thing that protected you from having it on at all times was the need to put on the generator in order to power it. I felt a bit sad actually. (Savannah Kingston, Female, 55+ – name changed – homestead respondent) This paper addresses the huge communications changes that occurred over the past fifty years in outback Western Australia. (What happened in WA also has parallels with equivalent events in the Northern Territory, Queensland, in the larger properties in western New South Wales and northern South Australia.) Although the ‘coming of television’ – associated in remote areas with using a satellite dish to scan for the incoming signal – is typically associated with a major shift in community and cultural life, the evidence suggests that the advent of the telephone had an equivalent or greater impact in remote areas. With the introduction of the telephone, the homestead family no longer had to tune into (or scan) the radio frequencies to check on predicted weather conditions, to respond to emergencies, to engage in roll call or to hold a ‘public meeting’. As the scanning of the radio frequencies ended, so the scanning of the satellite signals began. As Sandstone resident Grant Coleridge (pseudonym, male, 40-54) said, only half ironically, “We got the telephone and the telly at the same time, so civilisation sort of hit altogether actually.” The scale and importance of changes to the technological communications infrastructure in remote WA within a single life-time spans pre-2-way radio to video livestock auctions by satellite. It comes as a surprise to most Australians that these changes have occurred in the past generation. As recent viewers of the unexpectedly-successful Mongolian film The Story of the Weeping Camel (2004) would know, one of the themes of the Oscar-nominated movie is the coming of television and its impact upon a traditional rural life. The comparative availability of television outside the rural areas of Mongolia – and its attraction to, particularly, the younger family members in the Weeping Camel household – is a motif that is explored throughout the narrative, with an unspoken question about the price to be paid for including television in the cultural mix. It’s easy to construct this story as a fable about the ‘exotic other’, but the same theme was played out comparatively recently in remote Western Australia, where the domestic satellite service AUSSAT first made television an affordable option just under twenty years ago. This paper is about the people in remote Western Australia who started scanning for the satellite signal in 1986, and stopped scanning for the RFDS (Royal Flying Doctor Service) 2-way radio phone messages at about the same time. Savannah Kingston (name changed), who in 1989 generously agreed to an in-depth interview discussing the impact of satellite broadcasting upon her outback life, was a matriarch on a rural property with four grown children. She had clear views upon ways in which life had changed dramatically in the generation before the satellite allowed the scanning of the television signal. Her recollection of the weft and warp of the tapestry of life in outback WA started thirty-five years previously, with her arrival on the station as a young wife: When I went there [mid-1950s], we had a cook and we ate in the dining room. The cook and anyone who worked in the house ate in the kitchen and the men outside ate in the outside. So, with the progress of labour away from the bush, and the cost of labour becoming [prohibitive] for a lot of people, we got down to having governesses or house-girls. If the house-girls were white, they ate at the table with us and the governesses ate with us. If the house-girls were Aboriginal, they didn’t like eating with us, and they preferred to eat in the kitchen. The kids ate with them. Which wasn’t a good idea because two of my children have good manners and two of them have appalling manners. The availability of domestic help supported a culture of hospitality reminiscent of British between-the-wars country house parties, recreated in Agatha Christie novels and historically-based films such as The Remains of the Day (1993): In those early days, we still had lots of visitors [...] People visited a lot and stayed, so that you had people coming to stay for maybe two or three days, five days, a week, two weeks at a time and that required a lot of organisation. [int:] WHERE DID YOUR VISITORS COME FROM? City, or from the Eastern states, occasionally from overseas. [Int:] WOULD THEY BE RELATIVES? Sometimes relatives, friends or someone passing through who’d been, you know, someone would say ‘do visit’ and they’d say ‘they’d love to see you’. But it was lovely, it was good. It’s a way of learning what’s going on. (Savannah Kingston.) The ‘exotic other’ of the fabled hospitality of station life obscures the fact that visitors from the towns, cities and overseas were a major source of news and information in a society where radio broadcasts were unpredictable and there was no post or newspaper delivery. Visitors were supplemented by a busy calendar of social events that tied together a community of settlements in gymkhanas, cricket fixtures and golf tournaments (on a dirt course). Shifts in the communications environment – the introduction of television and telephone – followed a generation of social change witnessing the metamorphosis of the homestead from the hub of a gentrified lifestyle (with servants, governesses, polo and weekends away) to compact, efficient business-units, usually run by a skeleton staff with labour hired in at the peak times of year. Over the years between the 1960s-1980s isolation became a growing problem. Once Indigenous people won the fight for award-rate wages their (essentially) unpaid labour could no longer support the lifestyle of the station owners and the absence of support staff constrained opportunities for socialising off the property, and entertaining on it, and the communication environment became progressively poorer. Life on the homestead was conceived of as being more fragile than that in the city, and more economically vulnerable to a poor harvest or calamities such as wildfire. The differences wrought by the introduction of newer communication technologies were acknowledged by those in the country, but there was a clear resistance to city-dwellers constructing the changes as an attack upon the romance of the outback lifestyle. When the then Communications Minister Tony Staley suggested in 1979 that a satellite could help “dispel the distance – mental as well as geographical – between urban and regional dwellers, between the haves and the have-nots in a communication society”, he was buying into a discourse of rural life which effectively disempowered those who lived in rural and remote areas. He was also ignoring the reality of a situation where the Australian outback was provided with satellite communication a decade after it was made available to Canadians, and where the king-maker in the story – Kerry Packer – stood to reap a financial windfall. There was a mythological dimension to Australia (finally) having a domestic satellite. Cameron Hazelhurst’s article on ‘The Dawn of the Satellite Era in Australia’ includes a colourful account of Kerry Packer’s explanation to Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser of the capacity of domestic satellites to bring television, radio and telephone services to isolated communities in arctic Canada: And I [Packer] went and saw the Prime Minister and I explained to him my understanding of what was happening in those areas, and to his undying credit he grasped on to it immediately and said ‘Of course, it’s what we want. It’s exactly the sort of thing we need to stop the drift of people into urban areas. We can keep them informed. We can allow them to participate in whatever’s happening around the nation (Day 7, cited in Hazelhurst). Fraser here, as someone with experience of running a rural property in Victoria, propounds a pro-country rhetoric as a rationale for deployment of the satellite in terms of the Australian national policy agenda. (The desire of Packer to network his television stations and couple efficiency with reach is not addressed in this mythological reconstruction.) It is difficult, sometimes, to appreciate the level of isolation experienced on outback properties at the time. As Bryan Docker (male, 40-54), a resident of Broome at the time of the interviews, commented, “Telegrams, in those days, were the life-blood of the stations, through the Flying Doctor Service. But at certain times of the year the sun spots would interfere with the microwave links and we were still on morse from Broome to Derby during those periods.” Without reliable shortwave radio; with no television, newspapers or telephone; and with the demands of keeping the RFDS (Royal Flying Doctor Service) 2-way radio channel open for emergencies visitors were one of the ways in which station-dwellers could maintain an awareness of current events. Even at the time of the interviews, after the start of satellite broadcasting, I never travelled to an outback property without taking recent papers and offering to pick up post. (Many of the stations were over an hour’s journey from their nearest post office.) The RFDS 2-way radio service offered a social-lifeline as well as an emergency communication system: [Int:] DO YOU MISS THE ROYAL FLYING DOCTOR SERVICE AT ALL? Yes, I do actually. It’s – I think it’s probably more lonely now because you used to switch it on and – you know if you’re here on your own like I am a lot – and you’d hear voices talking, and you used to know what everybody was doing – sort of all their dramas and all their [...] Now you don’t know anything that’s going on and unless somebody rings you, you don’t have that communication, where before you used to just hop over to another channel and have a chat [...] I think it is lonelier on the telephone because it costs so much to ring up. (Felicity Rohrer, female, 40-54, homestead.) Coupled with the lack of privacy of 2-way radio communication, and the lack of broadcasting, was the particular dynamic of a traditional station family. Schooled at home, and integrated within their homestead lifestyle, station children spent most of their formative years in the company of one or other of their parents (or, in previous decades, the station staff). This all changed at secondary school age when the children of station-owners and managers tended to be sent away to boarding school in the city. Exposure of the next generation to the ways of city life was seen as a necessary background to future business competence, but the transitions from ‘all’ to ‘next-to-nothing’ in terms of children’s integration within family life had a huge socio-emotional cost which was aggravated, until the introduction of the phone service, by the lack of private communication channels. Public Relations and news theory talk about the importance of the ‘environmental scan’ to understand how current events are going to impact upon a business and a family: for many years in outback Australia the environmental scan occurred when families got together (typically in the social and sporting rounds), on the RFDS radio broadcasts and ‘meetings’, in infrequent visits to the closest towns and through the giving and receiving of hospitality. Felicity Rohrer, who commented (above) about how she missed the RFDS had noted earlier in her interview: “It’s made a big difference, telephone. That was the most isolating thing, especially when your children were away at school or your parents are getting older [...] That was the worst thing, not having a phone.” Further, in terms of the economics of running a property, Troy Bowen (male, 25-39, homestead respondent) noted that the phone had made commercial life much easier: I can carry out business on the phone without anyone else hearing [...] On the radio you can’t do it, you more or less have to say ‘well, have you got it – over’. ‘Yeah – over’. ‘Well, I’ll take it – over’. That’s all you can do [...] Say if I was chasing something [...] the cheapest I might get it down to might be [...] $900. Well I can go to the next bloke and I can tell him I got it down to $850. If you can’t do any better than that, you miss out. ‘oh, yes, alright $849, that’s the best I can do.’ So I’ll say ‘alright, I’ll take it’. But how can you do that on the radio and say that your best quote is [$850] when the whole district knows that ‘no, it isn’t’. You can’t very well do it, can you? This dynamic occurs because, for many homestead families prior to the telephone, the RFDS broadcasts were continuously monitored by the women of the station as a way of keeping a finger on the pulse of the community. Even – sometimes, especially – when they were not part of the on-air conversation, the broadcast could be received for as far as reception was possible. The introduction of the phone led to a new level of privacy, particularly appreciated by parents who had children away at school, but also introduced new problems. Fran Coleridge, (female, 40-54, Sandstone) predicted that: The phone will lead to isolation. There’s an old lady down here, she’s about 80, and she housekeeps for her brother and she’s still wearing – her mother died 50 years ago – but she’s still wearing her clothes. She is so encapsulated in her life. And she used to have her [RFDS] transceiver. Any time, Myrtle would know anything that’s going on. Anything. Birthday party at [local station], she’d know about it. She knew everything. Because she used to have the transceiver on all the time. And now there’s hardly any people on, and she’s a poor little old lonely lady that doesn’t hear anything now. Can you see that? Given the nuances of the introduction of the telephone (and the loss of the RFDS 2-way), what was the perceived impact of satellite broadcasting? Savannah Kingston again: Where previously we might have sat around the table and talked about things – at least the kids and I would – with television there is now more of a habit of coming in, showering and changing for dinner, putting on the motor and the men go and sit in front of the television during [...] six o’clock onwards, news programs and whatnot and um, I find myself still in the kitchen, getting the meal and then whoever was going to eat it, wanting to watch whatever was on the television. So it changed quite appreciably. Felicity Rohrer agrees: [Int:] DO YOU THINK THERE HAVE BEEN CHANGES IN THE TIME THAT YOU SPEND WITH EACH OTHER? Yes, I think so. They [the homestead household] come home and they – we all sit down here and look at the news and have a drink before tea whereas people used to be off doing their own tea. [Int] SO YOU THINK IT’S INCREASED THE AMOUNT OF TIME YOU SPEND TOGETHER? Yes, I think so – well, as a family. They all try and be home by 6 to see the [GWN] news. If they miss that, we look at the 7 o’clock [ABC], but they like the Golden West because it’s got country news in it. But the realities of everyday life, as experienced in domestic contexts, are sometimes ignored by commentators and analysts, except insofar as they are raised by interviewees. Thus the advent of the satellite might have made Savannah Kingston feel “a bit sad actually”, but it had its compensations: It was definitely a bit of a peace-maker. It sort of meant there wasn’t the stress that we had previously when going through [...] at least people sitting and watching something, you’re not so likely to get into arguments or [...] It definitely had value there. In fact, when I think about it, that might be one of its major applications, ’cos a lot of men in the bush tend to come in – if they drink to excess they start drinking in the evening, and that can make for very uncomfortable company. For film-makers like the Weeping Camel crew – and for audiences and readers of historical accounts of life in outback Australia – the changes heralded by the end of scanning the RFDS channels, and the start of scanning for satellite channels, may seem like the end of an era. In some ways the rhythms of broadcasting helped to homogenise life in the country with life in the city. For many families in remote homes, as well as the metropolis, the evening news became a cue for the domestic rituals of ‘after work’. A superficial evaluation of communications changes might lead to a consideration of how some areas of life were threatened by improved broadcasting, while others were strengthened, and how some of the uniqueness of a lifestyle had been compromised by an absorption into the communication patterns of urban life. It is unwise for commentators to construct the pre-television past as an uncomplicated romantic prior-time, however. Interviews with those who live such changes as their reality become a more revealing indicator of the nuances and complexities of communications environments than a quick scan from the perspective of the city-dweller. References Day, C. “Packer: The Man and the Message.” The Video Age (February 1983): 7 (cited in Hazelhurst). Hazelhurst, Cameron. “The Dawn of the Satellite Era.” Media Information Australia 58 (November 1990): 9-22. Staley, Tony. Commonwealth Parliamentary Debates. Canberra: House of Representatives Hansard (18 October 1979): 2225, 2228-9. The Remains of the Day. 1993. The Story of the Weeping Camel. Thinkfilm and National Geographic, 2004. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Green, Lelia. "Scanning the Satellite Signal in Remote Western Australia." M/C Journal 8.4 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/01-green.php>. APA Style Green, L. (Aug. 2005) "Scanning the Satellite Signal in Remote Western Australia," M/C Journal, 8(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/01-green.php>.

Abstract A description is provided for Ganoderma applanatum. Sporophores of this fungus are found on both living and dead trees, where the fungus causes a decay of heartwood resulting in a white soft spongy heart and butt rot. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, dispersal and transmission, habitats and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Angola, Benin, Congo, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Ivory Coast, Kenya, Madagascar, Morocco, Mozambique, São Tomé and Principe, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Sudan, Tanzania, Togo), Asia (Azerbaijan, Brunei Darussalam, China (Anhui, Fujian, Gansu, Guangdong, Guangxi, Guizhou, Hainan, Hebei, Heilongjiang, Henan, Hong Kong, Hunan, Jiangsu, Jiangxi, Jilin, Nei Mongol Autonomous Region, Qinghai, Shaanxi, Shanxi, Sichuan, Xinjiang, Yunnan, Zhejiang), Christmas Island, Cyprus, Georgia, India (Assam, Chhattisgarh, Gujarat, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu & Kashmir, Karnataka, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Meghalaya, Orissa, Punjab, Rajasthan, Uttarakhand, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal), Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Japan, Kazakhstan (Almaty, East Kazakhstan, Kostanay, South Kazakhstan), Laos, Malaysia, Nepal, North Korea, Oman, Pakistan, Papua New Guinea, Philippines, Russia (Altai Krai, Altai Republic, Irkutsk Oblast, Kamchatka Krai, Kemerovo Oblast, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Krasnoyarsk Krai, Novosibirsk Oblast, Omsk Oblast, Primorsky Krai, Sakha Republic, Sverdlovsk Oblast, Tomsk Oblast, Tyumen Oblast, YamaloNenets Autonomous Okrug), Singapore, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Thailand, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Vietnam), Australasia (Australia (Australian Capital Territory, New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand), Caribbean (American Virgin Islands, British Virgin Islands, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Guadeloupe, Haiti, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Trinidad and Tobago), Central America (Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Panama. Europe: Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bulgaria, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Ireland, Isle of Man, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Republic of North Macedonia, Romania, Russia (Arkhangelsk Oblast, Belgorod Oblast, Bryansk Oblast, Chuvash Republic, Ivanovo Oblast, Kaliningrad Oblast, Kaluga Oblast, Kirov Oblast, Kostroma Oblast, Krasnodar Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Mari El Republic, Moscow Oblast, Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, Orenburg Oblast, Oryol Oblast, Penza Oblast, Perm Krai, Pskov Oblast, Republic of Bashkortostan, Republic of Tatarstan, Samara Oblast, Smolensk Oblast, Tula Oblast, Tver Oblast, Udmurt Republic, Vladimir Oblast, Vologda Oblast, Voronezh Oblast, Yaroslavl Oblast), Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK), Indian Ocean (Seychelles. North America: Canada (Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador, Northwest Territories, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming)), Pacific Ocean (American Samoa, Cook Islands, Federated States of Micronesia, Fiji, French Polynesia, Guam, Marshall Islands, Samoa, Tuvalu, USA (Hawaii)), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil (Acre, Alagoas, Amapá, Amazonas, Bahia, Espírito Santo, Minas Gerais, Pará, Paraíba, Paraná, Pernambuco, Rio de Janeiro, Rio Grande do Sul, Rondônia, Roraima, Santa Catarina, São Paulo), Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, French Guiana, Peru, Suriname, Uruguay, Venezuela)).

IntroductionI work at a regional campus of La Trobe University, Australia. More precisely, I work at the Bendigo campus of La Trobe University. At Bendigo, we are often annoyed when referred to and addressed as ‘regional’ students and staff. Really, we should not be. After all, Bendigo campus is an outpost of La Trobe’s metropolitan base. It is funded, run, and directed from Bundoora (Melbourne). The word ‘regional’ simply describes the situation. A region is an “administrative division of a city or a district [… or …] a country” (Brown 2528). And the Latin etymology of region (regio, regere) includes “direction, line”, and “rule” (Kidd 208, 589). Just as the Bendigo campus of La Trobe is a satellite of the metropolitan campus, the town of Bendigo is an outpost of Melbourne. So, when we are addressed and interpellated (Althusser 48) as regional, it is a reminder of the ongoing fact that Australia is (still) a colony, an outpost of empire, a country organised on the colonial model. From central administrative hubs, spokes of communication, and transportation spread to the outposts. When Bendigo students and staff are addressed as regional, in a way we are also being addressed as colonial.In this article, the terms ‘region’ and ‘regional’ are deployed as inextricably associated with the Australian version of colonialism. In Australia, in the central metropolitan hubs, where the colonial project is at its most comprehensive, it is hard to see what remains, to see what has escaped that project. The aim of this article is to explore how different aspects of the country escape the totalising project of Australian colonialism. This exploration is undertaken primarily through a discussion of the ways in which some places on this continent remain not regional (and thus, not colonial) how they keep the metropolis at bay, and how they, thus, keep Europe at bay. This discussion includes a general overview of the Australian colonial project, particularly as it pertains to First Nations Peoples, their knowledge and philosophies, and the continent’s unique ecologies. Then the article becomes more speculative, imagining different ways of seeing and experiencing time and place in this country, ways of seeing the remains and refuges of pre-1788, not-regional, and not-colonial Australia. In these remains and refuges, there persist the flourishing and radical difference of this continent’s ecologies and, not surprisingly, the radical suitedness of tens of thousands of years of First Nations Peoples’ culture and thinking to that ecology, as Country. In what remains not regional, I argue, are answers to the question: How will we live here in the Anthropocene?A Totalising ProjectSince 1788, in the face of the ongoing presence and resistance of First Nations cultures, and the continent’s radically unique ecologies, the Australian colonial project has been to convert the continent into a region of Europe. As such, the imposed political, administrative, scientific, and economic institutions are largely European. This is also so, to a lesser extent, of social and cultural institutions. While the continent is not Europe geologically, the notion of the Anthropocene suggests that this is changing (Crutzen and Stoermer). This article does not resummarise the vast body of scholarship on the effects of colonisation, from genocide to missionary charity, to the creation of bureaucratic and comprador classes, and so on. Suffice to say that the different valences of colonisation—from outright malevolence to misguided benevolence–produce similar and common effects. As such, what we experience in metropolitan and regional Australia, is chillingly similar to what people experience in London. Chilling, because this experience demonstrates how the effects of the project tend towards the total.To clarify, when I use the name ‘Australia’ I understand it as the continent’s European name. When I use the term ‘Europe’ or ‘European’, I refer to both the European continent and to the reach and scope of the various colonial and imperial projects of European nations. I take this approach because I think it is necessary to recognise their global effects and loads. In Australia, this load has been evident and present for more than two centuries. On one hand, it is evident in the social, cultural, and political institutions that come with colonisation. On another, it is evident in the environmental impacts of colonisation: impacts that are severely compounded in Australia. In relation to this, there is vital, ongoing scholarship that explores the fact that, ecologically, Australia is a radically different place, and which discusses the ways in which European scientific, aesthetic, and agricultural assumptions, and the associated naturalised and generic understandings of ‘nature’, have grounded activities that have radically transformed the continent’s biosphere. To name but a few, Tim Flannery (Eaters, “Ecosystems”) and Stephen Pyne, respectively, examine the radical difference of this continent’s ecology, geology, climate, and fire regimes. Sylvia Hallam, Bill Gammage, and Bruce Pascoe (“Bolt”, Emu) explore the relationships of First Nations Peoples with that ecology, climate, and fire before 1788, and the European blindness to the complexity of these relationships. For instance, William Lines quotes the strikingly contradictory observations of the colonial surveyor, Thomas Mitchell, where the land is simultaneously “populous” and “without inhabitants” and “ready for the immediate reception of civilised man” and European pastoralism (Mitchell qtd. in Lines 71). Flannery (Eaters) and Tim Low (Feral, New) discuss the impacts of introduced agricultural practices, exotic animals, and plants. Tom Griffiths tells the story of ‘Improving’ and ‘Acclimatisation Societies’, whose explicit aims were to convert Australian lands into European lands (32–48). The notion of ‘keeping Europe at bay’ is a response to the colonial assumptions, practices, and impositions highlighted by these writers.The project of converting this continent and hundreds of First Nations Countries into a region of Europe, ‘Australia’, is, in ambition, a totalising one. From the strange flag-plantings, invocations and incantations claiming ownership and dominion, to legalistic conceptions such as terra nullius, the aim has been to speak, to declare, to interpellate the country as European. What is not European, must be made European. What cannot be made European is either (un)seen in a way which diminishes or denies its existence, or must be made not to exist. These are difficult things to do: to not see, to unsee, or to eradicate.One of the first acts of administrative division (direction and rule) in the Port Phillip colony (now known as Victoria) was that of designating four regional Aboriginal Protectorates. Edward Stone Parker was appointed Assistant Protector of Aborigines for the Loddon District, a district which persists today for many state and local government instrumentalities as the Loddon-Mallee region. In the 1840s, Parker experienced the difficulty described above, in attempting to ‘make European’ the Dja Dja Wurrung people. As part of Parker’s goal of Christianising Dja Dja Wurrung people, he sought to learn their language. Bain Attwood records his frustration:[Parker] remarked in July 1842. ‘For physical objects and their attributes, the language readily supplies equivalent terms, but for the metaphysical, so far I have been able to discover scarcely any’. A few years later Parker simply despaired that this work of translation could be undertaken. ‘What can be done’, he complained, ‘with a people whose language knows no such terms as holiness, justice, righteousness, sin, guilt, repentance, redemption, pardon, peace, and c., and to whose minds the ideas conveyed by those words are utterly foreign and inexplicable?’ (Attwood 125)The assumption here is that values and concepts that are ‘untranslatable’ into European understandings mark an absence of such value and concept. Such assumptions are evident in attempts to convince, cajole, or coerce First Nations Peoples into abandoning traditional cultural and custodial relationships with Country in favour of individual private property ownership. The desire to maintain relationships with Country are described by conservative political figures such as Tony Abbott as “lifestyle choices” (Medhora), effectively declaring them non-existent. In addition, processes designed to recognise First Nations relationships to Country are procedurally frustrated. Examples of this are the bizarre decisions made in 2018 and 2019 by Nigel Scullion, the then Indigenous Affairs Minister, to fund objections to land claims from funds designated to alleviate Indigenous disadvantage and to refuse to grant land rights claims even when procedural obstacles have been cleared (Allam). In Australia, given that First Nations social, cultural, and political life is seamlessly interwoven with the environment, ecology, the land–Country, and that the colonial project has always been, and still is, a totalising one, it is a project which aims to sever the connections to place of First Nations Peoples. Concomitantly, when the connections cannot be severed, the people must be either converted, dismissed, or erased.This project, no matter how brutal and relentless, however, has not achieved totality.What Remains Not Regional? If colonisation is a totalising project, and regional Australia stands as evidence of this project’s ongoing push, then what remains not regional, or untouched by the colonial? What escapes the administrative, the institutional, the ecological, the incantatory, and the interpellative reach of the regional? I think that despite this reach, there are such remains. The frustration, the anger, and antipathy of Parker, Abbott, and Scullion bear this out. Their project is unfinished and the resistance to it infuriates. I think that, in Australia, the different ways in which pre-1788 modes of life persist are modes of life which can be said to be ‘keeping Europe at bay’.In Reports from a Wild Country: Ethics for Decolonisation, Deborah Bird Rose compares Western/European conceptualisations of time, with those of the people living in the communities around the Victoria River in the Northern Territory. Rose describes Western constructions of time as characterised by disjunction (for example, the ‘birth’ of philosophy, the beginnings of Christianity) and by irreversible sequence (for example, concepts of telos, apocalypse, and progress). These constructions have become so naturalised as to carry a “seemingly commonsensical orientation toward the future” (15). Orientation, in an Australian society “built on destruction, enables regimes of violence to continue their work while claiming the moral ground of making a better future” (15). Such an orientation “enables us to turn our backs on the current social facts of pain, damage, destruction and despair which exist in the present, but which we will only acknowledge as our past” (17).In contrast to this ‘future vision’, Rose describes what she calls the ‘canonical’ time-space conceptualisation of the Victoria River people (55). Here, rather than a temporal extension into an empty future, orientation is towards living, peopled, and grounded origins, with the emphasis on the plural, rather than a single point of origin or disjunction:We here now, meaning we here in a shared present, are distinct from the people of the early days by the fact that they preceded us and made our lives possible. We are the ‘behind mob’—those who come after. The future is the domain of those who come after us. They are referred to as […] those ‘behind us’. (55)By way of illustration, when we walk into a sheep paddock, even if we are going somewhere (even the future), we are also irrevocably walking behind ancestors, predecessor ecologies, previous effects. The paddock, is how it is, after about 65,000 years of occupation, custodianship, and management, after European surveyors, squatters, frontier conflict and violence, the radical transformation of the country, the destruction of the systems that came before. Everything there, as Freya Mathews would put it, is of “the given” (“Becoming” 254, “Old” 127). We are coming up behind. That paddock is the past and present, and what happens next is irrevocably shaped by it. We cannot walk away from it.What remains not regional is there in front of us. Country, language, and knowledge remain in the sheep paddock, coexisting with everyone and everything else that everyone in this country follows (including the colonial and the regional). It is not gone. We have to learn how to see it.By the Fox or the Little EagleFigure 1: A Scatter of Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo Feathers at Wehla. Image Credit: Terry Eyssens.As a way of elaborating on this, I will tell you about a small, eight hectare, patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country. Depending on the day, or the season, or your reason, it could take fifteen minutes to walk from one end to the other or it might take four hours, from the time you start walking, to the time when you get back to where you started. At this place, I found a scatter of White Cockatoo feathers (Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo—Cacatua galerita). There was no body, just the feathers, but it was clear that the Cockatoo had died, had been caught by something, for food. The scatter was beautiful. The feathers, their sulphur highlights, were lying on yellow-brown, creamy, dry grass. I dwelled on the scatter. I looked. I looked around. I walked around. I scanned the horizon and squinted at the sky. And I wondered, what happened.This small patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country is in an area now known as Wehla. In the Dja Dja Wurrung and many other Victorian languages, ‘Wehla’ (and variants of this word) is a name for the Brushtail Possum (Trichosurus vulpecula). In the time I spend there/here, I see all kinds of animals. Of these, two are particularly involved in this story. One is the Fox (Vulpes vulpes), which I usually see just the back of, going away. They are never surprised. They know, or seem to know, where everyone is. They have a trot, a purposeful, cocky trot, whether they are going away because of me or whether they are going somewhere for their own good reasons. Another animal I see often is the Little Eagle (Hieraaetus morphnoides). It is a half to two-thirds the size of a Wedge-tailed Eagle (Aquila audax). It soars impressively. Sometimes I mistake a Little Eagle for a Wedge-tail, until I get a better look and realise that it is not quite that big. I am not sure where the Little Eagle’s nest is but it must be close by.I wondered about this scatter of White Cockatoo feathers. I wondered, was the scatter of White Cockatoo feathers by the Fox or by the Little Eagle? This could be just a cute thought experiment. But I think the question matters because it provokes thinking about what is regional and what remains not regional. The Fox is absolutely imperial. It is introduced and widespread. Low describes it as among Australia’s “greatest agent[s] of extinction” (124). It is part of the colonisation of this place, down to this small patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country. Where the Fox is, colonisation, and everything that goes with it, remains, and maintains. So, that scatter of feathers could be a colonial, regional happening. Or maybe it is something that remains not regional, not colonial. Maybe the scatter is something that escapes the regional. The Little Eagles and the Cockatoos, who were here before colonisation, and their dance (a dance of death for the Cockatoo, a dance of life for the Little Eagle), is maybe something that remains not regional.But, so what if the scatter of White Cockatoo feathers, this few square metres of wind-blown matter, is not regional? Well, if it is ‘not regional’, then, if Australia is to become something other than a colony, we have to look for these things that are not regional, that are not colonial, that are not imperial. Maybe if we start with a scatter of White Cockatoo feathers that was by the Little Eagle, and then build outwards again, we might start to notice more things that are not regional, that still somehow escape. For example, the persistence of First Nations modes of land custodianship and First Nations understandings of time. Then, taking care not to fetishise First Nations philosophies and cultures, take the time and care to recognise the associations of all of those things with simply, the places themselves, like a patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country, which is now known as Wehla. Instead of understanding that place as something that is just part of the former Aboriginal Protectorate of Loddon or of the Loddon Mallee region of Victoria, it is Wehla.The beginning of decolonisation is deregionalisation. Every time we recognise the not regional (which is hopefully, eventually, articulated in a more positive sense than ‘not regional’), and just say something like ‘Wehla’, we can start to keep Europe at bay. Europe’s done enough.seeing and SeeingChina Miéville’s The City and The City (2009) is set in a place, in which the citizens of two cities live. The cities, Besźel and Ul Qoma, occupy the same space, are culturally and politically different. Their relationship to each other is similar to that of border-sharing Cold War states. Citizens of the two cities are forbidden to interact with each other. This prohibition is radically policed. Even though the citizens of Besźel and Ul Qoma live in adjoining buildings, share roads, and walk the same streets, they are forbidden to see each other. The populations of each city grow up learning how to see what is permitted and to not see, or unsee, the forbidden other (14).I think that seeing a scatter of White Cockatoo feathers and wondering if it was by the Fox or by the Little Eagle is akin to the different practices of seeing and not seeing in Besźel and Ul Qoma. The scatter of feathers is regional and colonial and, equally, it is not. Two countries occupy the same space. Australia and a continent with its hundreds of Countries. What remains not regional is what is given and Seen as such. Understanding ourselves as walking behind everything that has gone before us enables this. As such, it is possible to see the scatter of White Cockatoo feathers as by the Fox, as happening in ‘regional Australia’, as thus characterised by around 200 years of carnage, where the success of one species comes at the expense of countless others. On the other hand, it is possible to See the feathers as by the Little Eagles, and as happening on a small patch of land in Dja Dja Wurrung Country, as a dance that has been happening for hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years. It is a way of keeping Europe at bay.I think these Cockatoo feathers are a form of address. They are capable of interpellating something other than the regional, the colonial, and the imperial. A story of feathers, Foxes, and Little Eagles can remind us of our ‘behindness’, and evoke, and invoke, and exemplify ways of seeing and engaging with where we live that are tens of thousands of years old. This is both an act of the imagination and a practice of Seeing what is really there. When we learn to see the remains and refuges, the persistence of the not regional, we might also begin to learn how to live here in the Anthropocene. But, Anthropocene or no Anthropocene, we have to learn how to live here anyway.References Allam, Lorena. “Aboriginal Land Rights Claims Unresolved Despite All-Clear from Independent Review.” The Guardian 29 Mar. 2019. <https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2019/mar/29/aboriginal-land-rights-claims-unresolved-despite-all-clear-from-independent-review>.Althusser, Louis. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses (Notes towards an Investigation).” On Ideology. Trans. Ben Brewster. London: Verso, [1971] 2008.Attwood, Bain. The Good Country: The Djadja Wurrung, the Settlers and the Protectors. Clayton: Monash UP, 2017.Brown, Lesley. The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary: On Historical Principles: Volume 2. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993.Crutzen, Paul, J., and Eugene F. Stoermer. “The ‘Anthropocene’.” Global Change Newsletter 41 (May 2000): 17–18.Flannery, Timothy F. “The Fate of Empire in Low- and High-Energy Ecosystems.” Ecology and Empire: Environmental History of Settler Societies. Eds. Tom Griffiths and Libby Robin. Edinburgh: Keele UP, 1997. 46–59.———. The Future Eaters. Sydney: Reed New Holland, 1994.Gammage, Bill. The Biggest Estate on Earth: How Aborigines Made Australia. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2012.Griffiths, Tom. Forests of Ash. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001.Hallam, Sylvia. Fire and Hearth: A Study of Aboriginal Usage and European Usurpation in South-Western Australia. Rev. ed. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 2014.Kidd, D.A. Collins Gem Latin-English, English-Latin Dictionary. London: Collins, 1980.Lines, William. Taming the Great South Land: A History of the Conquest of Nature in Australia. Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1991.Low, Tim. The New Nature: Winners and Losers in Wild Australia. Camberwell: Penguin Books, 2003.———. Feral Future: The Untold Story of Australia’s Exotic Invaders. Ringwood: Penguin Books, 1999.Mathews, Freya. “Becoming Native: An Ethos of Countermodernity II.” Worldviews: Environment, Culture, Religion 3 (1999): 243–71.———. “Letting the World Grow Old: An Ethos of Countermodernity.” Worldviews: Environment, Culture, Religion 3 (1999): 119–37.Medhora, Shalailah. “Remote Communities Are Lifestyle Choices, Says Tony Abbott.” The Guardian 10 Mar. 2015. <https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2015/mar/10/remote-communities-are-lifestyle-choices-says-tony-abbott>.Miéville, China. The City and the City. London: Pan MacMillan, 2009.Pascoe, Bruce. Dark Emu, Black Seeds: Agriculture or Accident? Broome: Magabala Books, 2014.———. “Andrew Bolt’s Disappointment.” Griffith Review 36 (Winter 2012): 226–33.Pyne, Stephen. Burning Bush: A Fire History of Australia. North Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1992.Rose, Deborah Bird. Reports from a Wild Country: Ethics for Decolonisation. Sydney: U of New South Wales P, 2004.

Special Care Notice This article contains images of deceased people that might cause sadness or distress to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers. Introduction Like many cities, Perth was founded on wetlands that have been integral to its history and culture (Seddon 226–32). However, in order to promote a settlement agenda, early mapmakers sought to erase the city’s wetlands from cartographic depictions (Giblett, Cities). Since the colonial era, inner-Perth’s swamps and lakes have been drained, filled, significantly reduced in size, or otherwise reclaimed for urban expansion (Bekle). Not only have the swamps and lakes physically disappeared, the memories of their presence and influence on the city’s development over time are also largely forgotten. What was the site of Perth, specifically its wetlands, like before British settlement? In 2014, an interdisciplinary team at Edith Cowan University developed a digital visualisation process to re-imagine Perth prior to colonisation. This was based on early maps of the Swan River Colony and a range of archival information. The images depicted the city’s topography, hydrology, and vegetation and became the centerpiece of a physical exhibition entitled Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands and a virtual exhibition hosted by the Western Australian Museum. Alongside historic maps, paintings, photographs, and writings, the visual reconstruction of Perth aimed to foster appreciation of the pre-settlement environment—the homeland of the Whadjuck Nyoongar, or Bibbulmun, people (Carter and Nutter). The exhibition included the narrative of Fanny Balbuk, a Nyoongar woman who voiced her indignation over the “usurping of her beloved home ground” (Bates, The Passing 69) by flouting property lines and walking through private residences to reach places of cultural significance. Beginning with Balbuk’s story and the digital tracing of her walking route through colonial Perth, this article discusses the project in the context of contemporary pressures on the city’s extant wetlands. The re-imagining of Perth through historically, culturally, and geographically-grounded digital visualisation approaches can inspire the conservation of its wetlands heritage. Balbuk’s Walk through the City For many who grew up in Perth, Fanny Balbuk’s perambulations have achieved legendary status in the collective cultural imagination. In his memoir, David Whish-Wilson mentions Balbuk’s defiant walks and the lighting up of the city for astronaut John Glenn in 1962 as the two stories that had the most impact on his Perth childhood. From Gordon Stephenson House, Whish-Wilson visualises her journey in his mind’s eye, past Government House on St Georges Terrace (the main thoroughfare through the city centre), then north on Barrack Street towards the railway station, the site of Lake Kingsford where Balbuk once gathered bush tucker (4). He considers the footpaths “beneath the geometric frame of the modern city […] worn smooth over millennia that snake up through the sheoak and marri woodland and into the city’s heart” (Whish-Wilson 4). Balbuk’s story embodies the intertwined culture and nature of Perth—a city of wetlands. Born in 1840 on Heirisson Island, Balbuk (also known as Yooreel) (Figure 1) had ancestral bonds to the urban landscape. According to Daisy Bates, writing in the early 1900s, the Nyoongar term Matagarup, or “leg deep,” denotes the passage of shallow water near Heirisson Island where Balbuk would have forded the Swan River (“Oldest” 16). Yoonderup was recorded as the Nyoongar name for Heirisson Island (Bates, “Oldest” 16) and the birthplace of Balbuk’s mother (Bates, “Aboriginal”). In the suburb of Shenton Park near present-day Lake Jualbup, her father bequeathed to her a red ochre (or wilgi) pit that she guarded fervently throughout her life (Bates, “Aboriginal”).Figure 1. Group of Aboriginal Women at Perth, including Fanny Balbuk (far right) (c. 1900). Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: 44c). Balbuk’s grandparents were culturally linked to the site. At his favourite camp beside the freshwater spring near Kings Park on Mounts Bay Road, her grandfather witnessed the arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Irwin, cousin of James Stirling (Bates, “Fanny”). In 1879, colonial entrepreneurs established the Swan Brewery at this significant locale (Welborn). Her grandmother’s gravesite later became Government House (Bates, “Fanny”) and she protested vociferously outside “the stone gates guarded by a sentry [that] enclosed her grandmother’s burial ground” (Bates, The Passing 70). Balbuk’s other grandmother was buried beneath Bishop’s Grove, the residence of the city’s first archibishop, now Terrace Hotel (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Historian Bob Reece observes that Balbuk was “the last full-descent woman of Kar’gatta (Karrakatta), the Bibbulmun name for the Mount Eliza [Kings Park] area of Perth” (134). According to accounts drawn from Bates, her home ground traversed the area between Heirisson Island and Perth’s north-western limits. In Kings Park, one of her relatives was buried near a large, hollow tree used by Nyoongar people like a cistern to capture water and which later became the site of the Queen Victoria Statue (Bates, “Aboriginal”). On the slopes of Mount Eliza, the highest point of Kings Park, at the western end of St Georges Terrace, she harvested plant foods, including zamia fruits (Macrozamia riedlei) (Bates, “Fanny”). Fanny Balbuk’s knowledge contributed to the native title claim lodged by Nyoongar people in 2006 as Bennell v. State of Western Australia—the first of its kind to acknowledge Aboriginal land rights in a capital city and part of the larger Single Nyoongar Claim (South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council et al.). Perth’s colonial administration perceived the city’s wetlands as impediments to progress and as insalubrious environments to be eradicated through reclamation practices. For Balbuk and other Nyoongar people, however, wetlands were “nourishing terrains” (Rose) that afforded sustenance seasonally and meaning perpetually (O’Connor, Quartermaine, and Bodney). Mary Graham, a Kombu-merri elder from Queensland, articulates the connection between land and culture, “because land is sacred and must be looked after, the relation between people and land becomes the template for society and social relations. Therefore all meaning comes from land.” Traditional, embodied reliance on Perth’s wetlands is evident in Bates’ documentation. For instance, Boojoormeup was a “big swamp full of all kinds of food, now turned into Palmerston and Lake streets” (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Considering her cultural values, Balbuk’s determination to maintain pathways through the increasingly colonial Perth environment is unsurprising (Figure 2). From Heirisson Island: a straight track had led to the place where once she had gathered jilgies [crayfish] and vegetable food with the women, in the swamp where Perth railway station now stands. Through fences and over them, Balbuk took the straight track to the end. When a house was built in the way, she broke its fence-palings with her digging stick and charged up the steps and through the rooms. (Bates, The Passing 70) One obstacle was Hooper’s Fence, which Balbuk broke repeatedly on her trips to areas between Kings Park and the railway station (Bates, “Hooper’s”). Her tenacious commitment to walking ancestral routes signifies the friction between settlement infrastructure and traditional Nyoongar livelihood during an era of rapid change. Figure 2. Determination of Fanny Balbuk’s Journey between Yoonderup (Heirisson Island) and Lake Kingsford, traversing what is now the central business district of Perth on the Swan River (2014). Image background prepared by Dimitri Fotev. Track interpolation by Jeff Murray. Project Background and Approach Inspired by Fanny Balbuk’s story, Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands began as an Australian response to the Mannahatta Project. Founded in 1999, that project used spatial analysis techniques and mapping software to visualise New York’s urbanised Manhattan Island—or Mannahatta as it was called by indigenous people—in the early 1600s (Sanderson). Based on research into the island’s original biogeography and the ecological practices of Native Americans, Mannahatta enabled the public to “peel back” the city’s strata, revealing the original composition of the New York site. The layers of visuals included rich details about the island’s landforms, water systems, and vegetation. Mannahatta compelled Rod Giblett, a cultural researcher at Edith Cowan University, to develop an analogous model for visualising Perth circa 1829. The idea attracted support from the City of Perth, Landgate, and the University. Using stories, artefacts, and maps, the team—comprising a cartographer, designer, three-dimensional modelling expert, and historical researchers—set out to generate visualisations of the landscape at the time of British colonisation. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup approved culturally sensitive material and contributed his perspective on Aboriginal content to include in the exhibition. The initiative’s context remains pressing. In many ways, Perth has become a template for development in the metropolitan area (Weller). While not unusual for a capital, the rate of transformation is perhaps unexpected in a city less than 200 years old (Forster). There also remains a persistent view of existing wetlands as obstructions to progress that, once removed, are soon forgotten (Urban Bushland Council). Digital visualisation can contribute to appreciating environments prior to colonisation but also to re-imagining possibilities for future human interactions with land, water, and space. Despite the rapid pace of change, many Perth area residents have memories of wetlands lost during their lifetimes (for example, Giblett, Forrestdale). However, as the clearing and drainage of the inner city occurred early in settlement, recollections of urban wetlands exist exclusively in historical records. In 1935, a local correspondent using the name “Sandgroper” reminisced about swamps, connecting them to Perth’s colonial heritage: But the Swamps were very real in fact, and in name in the [eighteen-] Nineties, and the Perth of my youth cannot be visualised without them. They were, of course, drying up apace, but they were swamps for all that, and they linked us directly with the earliest days of the Colony when our great-grandparents had founded this City of Perth on a sort of hog's-back, of which Hay-street was the ridge, and from which a succession of streamlets ran down its southern slope to the river, while land locked to the north of it lay a series of lakes which have long since been filled to and built over so that the only evidence that they have ever existed lies in the original street plans of Perth prepared by Roe and Hillman in the early eighteen-thirties. A salient consequence of the loss of ecological memory is the tendency to repeat the miscues of the past, especially the blatant disregard for natural and cultural heritage, as suburbanisation engulfs the area. While the swamps of inner Perth remain only in the names of streets, existing wetlands in the metropolitan area are still being threatened, as the Roe Highway (Roe 8) Campaign demonstrates. To re-imagine Perth’s lost landscape, we used several colonial survey maps to plot the location of the original lakes and swamps. At this time, a series of interconnecting waterbodies, known as the Perth Great Lakes, spread across the north of the city (Bekle and Gentilli). This phase required the earliest cartographic sources (Figure 3) because, by 1855, city maps no longer depicted wetlands. We synthesised contextual information, such as well depths, geological and botanical maps, settlers’ accounts, Nyoongar oral histories, and colonial-era artists’ impressions, to produce renderings of Perth. This diverse collection of primary and secondary materials served as the basis for creating new images of the city. Team member Jeff Murray interpolated Balbuk’s route using historical mappings and accounts, topographical data, court records, and cartographic common sense. He determined that Balbuk would have camped on the high ground of the southern part of Lake Kingsford rather than the more inundated northern part (Figure 2). Furthermore, she would have followed a reasonably direct course north of St Georges Terrace (contrary to David Whish-Wilson’s imaginings) because she was barred from Government House for protesting. This easier route would have also avoided the springs and gullies that appear on early maps of Perth. Figure 3. Townsite of Perth in Western Australia by Colonial Draftsman A. Hillman and John Septimus Roe (1838). This map of Perth depicts the wetlands that existed overlaid by the geomentric grid of the new city. Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: BA1961/14). Additionally, we produced an animated display based on aerial photographs to show the historical extent of change. Prompted by the build up to World War II, the earliest aerial photography of Perth dates from the late 1930s (Dixon 148–54). As “Sandgroper” noted, by this time, most of the urban wetlands had been drained or substantially modified. The animation revealed considerable alterations to the formerly swampy Swan River shoreline. Most prominent was the transformation of the Matagarup shallows across the Swan River, originally consisting of small islands. Now traversed by a causeway, this area was transformed into a single island, Heirisson—the general site of Balbuk’s birth. The animation and accompanying materials (maps, images, and writings) enabled viewers to apprehend the changes in real time and to imagine what the city was once like. Re-imagining Perth’s Urban Heart The physical environment of inner Perth includes virtually no trace of its wetland origins. Consequently, we considered whether a representation of Perth, as it existed previously, could enhance public understanding of natural heritage and thereby increase its value. For this reason, interpretive materials were exhibited centrally at Perth Town Hall. Built partly by convicts between 1867 and 1870, the venue is close to the site of the 1829 Foundation of Perth, depicted in George Pitt Morrison’s painting. Balbuk’s grandfather “camped somewhere in the city of Perth, not far from the Town Hall” (Bates, “Fanny”). The building lies one block from the site of the railway station on the site of Lake Kingsford, the subsistence grounds of Balbuk and her forebears: The old swamp which is now the Perth railway yards had been a favourite jilgi ground; a spring near the Town Hall had been a camping place of Maiago […] and others of her fathers' folk; and all around and about city and suburbs she had gathered roots and fished for crayfish in the days gone by. (Bates, “Derelicts” 55) Beginning in 1848, the draining of Lake Kingsford reached completion during the construction of the Town Hall. While the swamps of the city were not appreciated by many residents, some organisations, such as the Perth Town Trust, vigorously opposed the reclamation of the lake, alluding to its hydrological role: That, the soil being sand, it is not to be supposed that Lake Kingsford has in itself any material effect on the wells of Perth; but that, from this same reason of the sandy soil, it would be impossible to keep the lake dry without, by so doing, withdrawing the water from at least the adjacent parts of the townsite to the same depth. (Independent Journal of Politics and News 3) At the time of our exhibition, the Lake Kingsford site was again being reworked to sink the railway line and build Yagan Square, a public space named after a colonial-era Nyoongar leader. The project required specialised construction techniques due to the high water table—the remnants of the lake. People travelling to the exhibition by train in October 2014 could have seen the lake reasserting itself in partly-filled depressions, flush with winter rain (Figure 4).Figure 4. Rise of the Repressed (2014). Water Rising in the former site of Lake Kingsford/Irwin during construction, corner of Roe and Fitzgerald Streets, Northbridge, WA. Image Credit: Nandi Chinna (2014). The exhibition was situated in the Town Hall’s enclosed undercroft designed for markets and more recently for shops. While some visited after peering curiously through the glass walls of the undercroft, others hailed from local and state government organisations. Guest comments applauded the alternative view of Perth we presented. The content invited the public to re-imagine Perth as a city of wetlands that were both environmentally and culturally important. A display panel described how the city’s infrastructure presented a hindrance for Balbuk as she attempted to negotiate the once-familiar route between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford (Figure 2). Perth’s growth “restricted Balbuk’s wanderings; towns, trains, and farms came through her ‘line of march’; old landmarks were thus swept away, and year after year saw her less confident of the locality of one-time familiar spots” (Bates, “Fanny”). Conserving Wetlands: From Re-Claiming to Re-Valuing? Imagination, for philosopher Roger Scruton, involves “thinking of, and attending to, a present object (by thinking of it, or perceiving it, in terms of something absent)” (155). According to Scruton, the feelings aroused through imagination can prompt creative, transformative experiences. While environmental conservation tends to rely on data-driven empirical approaches, it appeals to imagination less commonly. We have found, however, that attending to the present object (the city) in terms of something absent (its wetlands) through evocative visual material can complement traditional conservation agendas focused on habitats and species. The actual extent of wetlands loss in the Swan Coastal Plain—the flat and sandy region extending from Jurien Bay south to Cape Naturaliste, including Perth—is contested. However, estimates suggest that 80 per cent of wetlands have been lost, with remaining habitats threatened by climate change, suburban development, agriculture, and industry (Department of Environment and Conservation). As with the swamps and lakes of the inner city, many regional wetlands were cleared, drained, or filled before they could be properly documented. Additionally, the seasonal fluctuations of swampy places have never been easily translatable to two-dimensional records. As Giblett notes, the creation of cartographic representations and the assignment of English names were attempts to fix the dynamic boundaries of wetlands, at least in the minds of settlers and administrators (Postmodern 72–73). Moreover, European colonists found the Western Australian landscape, including its wetlands, generally discomfiting. In a letter from 1833, metaphors failed George Fletcher Moore, the effusive colonial commentator, “I cannot compare these swamps to any marshes with which you are familiar” (220). The intermediate nature of wetlands—as neither land nor lake—is perhaps one reason for their cultural marginalisation (Giblett, Postmodern 39). The conviction that unsanitary, miasmic wetlands should be converted to more useful purposes largely prevailed (Giblett, Black 105–22). Felicity Morel-EdnieBrown’s research into land ownership records in colonial Perth demonstrated that town lots on swampland were often preferred. By layering records using geographic information systems (GIS), she revealed modifications to town plans to accommodate swampland frontages. The decline of wetlands in the region appears to have been driven initially by their exploitation for water and later for fertile soil. Northern market gardens supplied the needs of the early city. It is likely that the depletion of Nyoongar bush foods predated the flourishing of these gardens (Carter and Nutter). Engaging with the history of Perth’s swamps raises questions about the appreciation of wetlands today. In an era where numerous conservation strategies and alternatives have been developed (for example, Bobbink et al. 93–220), the exploitation of wetlands in service to population growth persists. On Perth’s north side, wetlands have long been subdued by controlling their water levels and landscaping their boundaries, as the suburban examples of Lake Monger and Hyde Park (formerly Third Swamp Reserve) reveal. Largely unmodified wetlands, such as Forrestdale Lake, exist south of Perth, but they too are in danger (Giblett, Black Swan). The Beeliar Wetlands near the suburb of Bibra Lake comprise an interconnected series of lakes and swamps that are vulnerable to a highway extension project first proposed in the 1950s. Just as the Perth Town Trust debated Lake Kingsford’s draining, local councils and the public are fiercely contesting the construction of the Roe Highway, which will bisect Beeliar Wetlands, destroying Roe Swamp (Chinna). The conservation value of wetlands still struggles to compete with traffic planning underpinned by a modernist ideology that associates cars and freeways with progress (Gregory). Outside of archives, the debate about Lake Kingsford is almost entirely forgotten and its physical presence has been erased. Despite the magnitude of loss, re-imagining the city’s swamplands, in the way that we have, calls attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities. We hope that the re-imagining of Perth’s wetlands stimulates public respect for ancestral tracks and songlines like Balbuk’s. Despite the accretions of settler history and colonial discourse, songlines endure as a fundamental cultural heritage. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup states, “as people, if we can get out there on our songlines, even though there may be farms or roads overlaying them, fences, whatever it is that might impede us from travelling directly upon them, if we can get close proximity, we can still keep our culture alive. That is why it is so important for us to have our songlines.” Just as Fanny Balbuk plied her songlines between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford, the traditional custodians of Beeliar and other wetlands around Perth walk the landscape as an act of resistance and solidarity, keeping the stories of place alive. Acknowledgments The authors wish to acknowledge Rod Giblett (ECU), Nandi Chinna (ECU), Susanna Iuliano (ECU), Jeff Murray (Kareff Consulting), Dimitri Fotev (City of Perth), and Brendan McAtee (Landgate) for their contributions to this project. The authors also acknowledge the traditional custodians of the lands upon which this paper was researched and written. References Bates, Daisy. “Fanny Balbuk-Yooreel: The Last Swan River (Female) Native.” The Western Mail 1 Jun. 1907: 45.———. “Oldest Perth: The Days before the White Men Won.” The Western Mail 25 Dec. 1909: 16–17.———. “Derelicts: The Passing of the Bibbulmun.” The Western Mail 25 Dec. 1924: 55–56. ———. “Aboriginal Perth.” The Western Mail 4 Jul. 1929: 70.———. “Hooper’s Fence: A Query.” The Western Mail 18 Apr. 1935: 9.———. The Passing of the Aborigines: A Lifetime Spent among the Natives of Australia. London: John Murray, 1966.Bekle, Hugo. “The Wetlands Lost: Drainage of the Perth Lake Systems.” Western Geographer 5.1–2 (1981): 21–41.Bekle, Hugo, and Joseph Gentilli. “History of the Perth Lakes.” Early Days 10.5 (1993): 442–60.Bobbink, Roland, Boudewijn Beltman, Jos Verhoeven, and Dennis Whigham, eds. Wetlands: Functioning, Biodiversity Conservation, and Restoration. Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 2006. Carter, Bevan, and Lynda Nutter. Nyungah Land: Records of Invasion and Theft of Aboriginal Land on the Swan River 1829–1850. Guildford: Swan Valley Nyungah Community, 2005.Chinna, Nandi. “Swamp.” Griffith Review 47 (2015). 29 Sep. 2015 ‹https://griffithreview.com/articles/swamp›.Department of Environment and Conservation. Geomorphic Wetlands Swan Coastal Plain Dataset. Perth: Department of Environment and Conservation, 2008.Dixon, Robert. Photography, Early Cinema, and Colonial Modernity: Frank Hurley’s Synchronized Lecture Entertainments. London: Anthem Press, 2011. Forster, Clive. Australian Cities: Continuity and Change. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2004.Giblett, Rod. Postmodern Wetlands: Culture, History, Ecology. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1996. ———. Forrestdale: People and Place. Bassendean: Access Press, 2006.———. Black Swan Lake: Life of a Wetland. Bristol: Intellect, 2013.———. Cities and Wetlands: The Return of the Repressed in Nature and Culture. London: Bloomsbury, 2016. Chapter 2.Graham, Mary. “Some Thoughts about the Philosophical Underpinnings of Aboriginal Worldviews.” Australian Humanities Review 45 (2008). 29 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-November-2008/graham.html›.Gregory, Jenny. “Remembering Mounts Bay: The Narrows Scheme and the Internationalization of Perth Planning.” Studies in Western Australian History 27 (2011): 145–66.Independent Journal of Politics and News. “Perth Town Trust.” The Perth Gazette and Independent Journal of Politics and News 8 Jul. 1848: 2–3.Moore, George Fletcher. Extracts from the Letters of George Fletcher Moore. Ed. Martin Doyle. London: Orr and Smith, 1834.Morel-EdnieBrown, Felicity. “Layered Landscape: The Swamps of Colonial Northbridge.” Social Science Computer Review 27 (2009): 390–419. Nannup, Noel. Songlines with Dr Noel Nannup. Dir. Faculty of Regional Professional Studies, Edith Cowan University (2015). 29 Sep. 2015 ‹https://vimeo.com/129198094›. (Quoted material transcribed from 3.08–3.39 of the video.) O’Connor, Rory, Gary Quartermaine, and Corrie Bodney. Report on an Investigation into Aboriginal Significance of Wetlands and Rivers in the Perth-Bunbury Region. Perth: Western Australian Water Resources Council, 1989.Reece, Bob. “‘Killing with Kindness’: Daisy Bates and New Norcia.” Aboriginal History 32 (2008): 128–45.Rose, Deborah Bird. Nourishing Terrains: Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness. Canberra: Australian Heritage Commission, 1996.Sanderson, Eric. Mannahatta: A Natural History of New York City. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2009.Sandgroper. “Gilgies: The Swamps of Perth.” The West Australian 4 May 1935: 7.Scruton, Roger. Art and Imagination. London: Methuen, 1974.Seddon, George. Sense of Place: A Response to an Environment, the Swan Coastal Plain, Western Australia. Melbourne: Bloomings Books, 2004.South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council and John Host with Chris Owen. “It’s Still in My Heart, This is My Country:” The Single Noongar Claim History. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 2009.Urban Bushland Council. “Bushland Issues.” 2015. 29 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.bushlandperth.org.au/bushland-issues›.Welborn, Suzanne. Swan: The History of a Brewery. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 1987.Weller, Richard. Boomtown 2050: Scenarios for a Rapidly Growing City. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 2009. Whish-Wilson, David. Perth. Sydney: NewSouth Publishing, 2013.

Introduction This article presents the trans-disciplinary encounters with and perspectives on embodiment of three creative-arts practitioners within the Deakin University research project Flows & Catchments. The project explores how creative arts participate in community and the possibility of well-being. We discuss our preparations for creative work exhibited at the 2012 Lake Bolac Eel Festival in regional Western Victoria, Australia. This festival provided a fertile time-place-space context through which to meet with one regional community and engage with scales of geological and historical time (volcanoes, water flows, first contact), human and animal roots and routes (settlement, eel migrations, hunting and gathering), and cultural heritage (the eel stone traps used by indigenous people, settler stonewalling, indigenous language recovery). It also allowed us to learn from how a festival brings to the surface these scales of time, place and space. All these scales also require an embodied response—a physical relation to the land and to the people of a community—which involves how specific interests and ways of engaging coordinate experience and accentuate particular connections of material to cultural patterns of activity. The focus of our interest in “embody” and embodiment relates to the way in which the term constantly slides from metaphor (figural connection) to description (literal process). Our research question, therefore, addresses the specific interaction of these two tendencies. Rather than eliminate one in preference to the other, it is the interaction and movement from one to the other that an approach through creative-arts practices makes visible. The visibility of these tendencies and the mechanisms to which they are linked (media, organising principle or relational aesthetic) are highlighted by the particular time-place-space modalities that each of the creative arts deploys. When looking across different creative practices, the attachments and elisions become more fine-grained and clearer. A key aim of practice-led research is to observe, study and learn, but also to transform the production of meaning and its relationship to the community of users (Barrett and Bolt). The opportunity to work collaboratively with a community like the one at Lake Bolac provided an occasion to gauge our discerning and initiating skills within creative-arts research and to test the argument that the combination of our different approaches adds to community and individual well-being. Our approach is informed by Gilles Deleuze’s ethical proposition that the health of a community is directly influenced by the richness of the composition of its parts. With this in mind, each creative-arts practitioner will emphasize their encounter with an element of community. Zones of Practice–Drawing Together (Jondi Keane) Galleries are strange in-between places, both destinations and non-sites momentarily outside of history and place. The Lake Bolac Memorial Hall, however, retains its character of place, participating in the history of memorial halls through events such as the Eel Festival. The drawing project “Stone Soup” emphasizes the idea of encounter (O’Sullivan), particularly the interactions of sensibilities shaped by a land, a history and an orientation that comprise an affective field. The artist’s brief in this situation—the encounter as the rupture of habitual modes of being (O’Sullivan 1)—provides a platform of relations to be filled with embodied experience that connects the interests, actions and observations produced outside the gallery to the amplified and dilated experience presented within the gallery. My work suggests that person-to person in-situ encounters intensify the movement across embodied ways of knowing. “Stone Soup”. Photograph by Daniel Armstrong.Arts practice and practice-led research makes available the spectrum of embodied engagements that are mixed to varying degrees with the conceptual positioning of material, both social and cultural. The exhibition and workshop I engaged with at the Eel Festival focused on three level of attention: memory (highly personal), affection (intra-personal) and exchange (communal, non-individual). Attention, the cognitive activity of directing and guiding perception, observation and interpretation, is the thread that binds body to environment, body to history, and body to the constructs of person, family and community. Jean-Jacques Lecercle observes that, for Deleuze, “not only is the philosopher in possession of a specific techne, essential to the well-being of the community, a techne the practice of which demands the use of specialized tools, but he makes his own tools: a system of concepts is a box of tools” (Lecercle 100). This notion is further enhanced when informed by enactive theories of cognition in which, “bodily practices including gesture are part of the activity in which concepts are formed” (Hutchins 429) Creative practices highlight the role of the body in the delicate interaction between a conceptually shaped gallery “space” and the communally constructed meeting “place.” My part of the exhibition consisted of a series of drawings/diagrams characterized under the umbrella of “making stone soup.” The notion of making stone soup is taken from folk tales about travelers in search of food who invent the idea of a magical stone soup to induce cooperation by asking local residents to garnish the “magical” stone soup with local produce. Other forms of the folk tale from around the world include nail soup, button soup and axe soup. Participants were able to choose from three different types of soup (communal drawing) that they would like to help produce. When a drawing was completed another one could be started. The mix of ideas and images constituted the soup. Three types of soup were on offer and required assistance to make: Stone soup–communal drawing of what people like to eat, particularly earth-grown produce; what they would bring to a community event and how they associate these foods with the local identity. Axe soup–communal drawing of places and spaces important to the participants because of connection to the land, to events and/or people. These might include floor plans, scenes of rooms or views, or memories of places that mix with the felt importance of spaces.Heirloom soup–communal drawing of important objects associated with particular persons. The drawings were given to the festival organizer to exhibit at the following year’s festival. "Story Telling”. Photograph by Daniel Armstrong.Drawing in: Like taking a breath, the act of drawing and putting one’s thought and affections into words or pictures is focused through the sensation of the drawing materials, the size of the paper, and the way one orients oneself to the paper and the activity. These pre-drawing dispositions set up the way a conversation might occur and what the tenor of that exchange may bring. By asking participants to focus on three types of attachments or attentions and contributing to a collective drawing, the onus on art skills or poignancy is diminished, and the feeling of turning inward to access feeling and memory turns outward towards inscription and cooperation. Drawing out: Like exhaling around vowels and consonants, the movement of the hand with brush and ink or pen and ink across a piece of paper follows our patterns of engagement, the embodied experience consistent with all our other daily activities. We each have a way of orchestrating the sequence of movements that constitute an image-story. The maker of stone soup must provide a new encounter, a platform for cooperation. I found that drawing alongside the participants, talking to them, inscribing and witnessing their stories in this way, heightened the collective activity and produced a new affective field of common experience. In this instance the stone soup became the medium for an emergent composition of relations. Zones of Practice–Embodying Photographic Space (Rozalind Drummond) Photography inevitably entails a certain characterization of reality. From being “out there” the world comes to be “inside” photographs—a visual sliver, a grab, and an upload, a perpetual tumble cycle of extruded images existing everywhere yet nowhere. While the outside, the “out there” is brought within the frame of the photograph, I am interested rather in looking, through the viewfinder, to spaces that work the other way, which suggest the potential to locate a “non-space”—where the inside suggests an outside or empty space. Thus, the photograph becomes disembodied to reveal space. I consider embodiment as the trace of other embodiments that frame the subject. Mark Auge’s conception of “non-places” seems apt here. He writes about non-places as those that are lived or passed through on the way to some place else, an accumulation of spaces that can be understood and named (94). These are spaces that can be defined in everyday terms as places with which we are familiar, places in which the real erupts: a borderline separating the outside from the inside, temporary spaces that can exist for the camera. The viewer may well peer in and look for everything that appears to have been left out. Thus, the photograph becomes a recollection of what Roland Barthes calls “a disruption in the topography”—we imagine a “beyond” that evokes a sense of melancholy or of irrevocably sliding toward it (238). How then could the individual embody such a space? The groups of photographs of Lake Bolac are spread out on a table. I play some music awhile, Glenn Gould, whose performing embodies what, to me, represents such humanity. Hear him breathing? It is Prelude and Fugue No. 16 in G Minor by Bach, on vinyl; music becomes a tangible and physical presence. When we close our eyes, our ears determine a sound’s location in a room; we map out a space, by listening, and can create a measureable dimension to sound. Walking about the territory of a living room, in suburban Melbourne, I consider too a small but vital clue: that while scrutinizing these details of a photographic image on paper, simultaneously I am returning to a small town in the Western District of Victoria. In the fluid act of looking at images in a house in Melbourne, I am now also walking down a road to Lake Bolac and can hear the incidental sounds of the environment—birdcalls and human voices—elements that inhabit and embody space: a borderline, alongside the photographs. What is imprinted in actual time, what is fundamental, is that the space of a photograph is actually devoid of sound and that I am still standing in a living room in Melbourne. In Against Architecture, Denis Hollier states of Bataille, “he wrote of the psychological power of space as a fluid, boundary effacing, always displaced and displacing medium. The non-spaces of cities and towns are locations where it is possible to be lost in a collective space, a progression of thoroughfares that are transitional, delivering the individual from one point and place to another—stairwells, laneways and roadsides—a constellation of streets….” (Hollier 79). Though photographs are sound-less, sound gives access to the outside of the image. “Untitled”. Photograph by Rozalind Drummond from “Stay with me here.” 2012 Type C Digital Print. Is there an outline of an image here? The enlargement of a snapshot of a photograph does not simply render what in any case was visible, though unclear. What is the viewer to look for in this photograph? Upon closer inspection a young woman stands to the right within the frame—she wears a school uniform; the pattern of the garment can be seen and read distinctly. In the detail it is finely striped, with a dark hue of blue, on a paler background, and the wearer’s body is imprinted upon the clothing, which receives the body’s details and impressions. The dress has a fold or pleat at the back; the distinct lines and patterns are reminiscent of a map, or an incidental grid. Here, the leitmotif of worn clothing is a poetic one. The young woman wears her hair piled, vertiginous, in a loosely constructed yet considered fashion; she stands assured, looking away and looking forward, within the compositional frame. The camera offers a momentary pause. This is our view. Our eye is directed to look further away past the figure, and the map of her clothing, to a long hallway in the school, before drifting to the left and right of the frame, where the outside world of Lake Bolac is clear and visible through the interior space of the hallway—the natural environment of daylight, luminescent and vivid. The time frame is late summer, the light reflecting and reverberating through glass doors, and gleaming painted surfaces, in a continuous rectangular pattern of grid lines. In the near distance, the viewer can see an open door, a pictorial breathing space, beyond the spatial line and coolness of the photograph, beyond the frame of the photograph and our knowing. The photograph becomes a signpost. What is outside, beyond the school corridors, recalled through the medium of photography, are other scenes, yet to be constructed from the spaces, streets and roads of Lake Bolac. Zones of Practice–Time as the “Skin” of Writing, Embodiment and Place (Patrick West) There is no writing without a body to write. Yet sometimes it feels that my creative writing, resisting its necessary embodiment, has by some trick of metaphor retreated into what Jondi Keane refers to as a purely conceptual mode of thought. This slippage between figural connection and literal process alerted me, in the process of my attempt to foster place-based well-being at Lake Bolac, to the importance of time to writerly embodiment. My contribution to the Lake Bolac Eel Festival art exhibition was a written text, “Stay with me here”, conceived as my response to the themes of Rozalind Drummond’s photographs. To prepare this joint production, we mixed with staff and students at the Lake Bolac Secondary College. But this mode of embodiment made me feel curiously dis-embodied as a place-based writer. My embodiment was apparently superficial, only skin deep. Still this experience started me thinking about how the skin is actually thickly embodied as both body and where the body encounters, not only other bodies, but place itself—conceivably across many times. Skin is also the embodiment of writing to the degree that writing suggests an uncertain and queered form of embodiment. Skin, where the body reaches its limit, expires, touches other bodies or not, is inevitably implicated with writing as a fragile and always provisional, indexical embodiment. Nothing can be more easily either here or somewhere else than writing. Writing is an exhibition or gallery of anywhere, like skin in that both are un-placed in place. The one-pager “Stay with me here” explores how the instantaneous time and present-ness of Drummond’s photographs relate to the profusion of times and relations to other places immanent in Lake Bolac’s landscape and community (as evidenced, for example, in the image of a prep student yawning at the end of a long day in the midst of an ancient volcanic landscape, dreaming, perhaps, of somewhere else). To get to such issues of time and relationality of place, however, involves detouring via the notion of skin as suggested to me by my initial sense of dis-embodiment in Lake Bolac. “Stay with me here” works with an idea of skin as answer to the implied question, Where is here? It creates the (symbolic) embodiment of place precisely as a matter of skin, making skin-like writing an issue of transitory topography. The only permanent “here” is the skin. Emphasizing something valid for all writing, “here” (grammatically a context-dependent deictic) is the skin, where embodiment is defined by the constant possibility of re-embodiment, somewhere else, some time else. Reminding us that it is eminently possible to be elsewhere (from this place, from here), skin also suggests that you cannot be in two places at the one time (at least, not with the same embodiment). My skin is a sign that, because my embodiment in any particular place (any “here”) is only ever temporary, it is time that necessarily sustains my embodiment in any place whatsoever into the future. According to Henri Bergson, time must be creative, as the future hasn’t happened yet! “Time is invention or it is nothing at all” (341). The future of place, as much as of writing and of embodiment itself, is thus creatively sheathed in time as if within a skin. On Bergson’s view, time might be said to be least and greatest embodiment, for it is (dis-embodied) time that enables all future and currently un-created modes of embodiment. All of these time-inspired modes will involve a relationship to place (time can only “happen” in some version of place). And all of them will involve writing too, because time is the ultimate (dis-)embodiment of writing. As writing is like a skin, a minimal embodiment shared actually or potentially with more than one body, so time is the very possibility of writing (embodiment) into the future. “Stay with me here” explores how place is always already embodied in a relationship to other places, through the skin, and to the future of (a) place through the creativity of time as the skin of embodiment. By enriching descriptive and metaphoric practices of time, instability of place and awarenesses of the (dis-)embodied nature of writing—as a practice of skin—my text is useful to well-being as an analogue to the lived experience, in time and place, of the people of Lake Bolac. Theoretically, it weaves Bergson’s philosophy of time (time richly composed) into the fabric of Deleuze’s proposition that the health of a community is linked to the richness of the composition of its parts. Creatively, it celebrates the identity that the notion of “here” might enable, especially when read alongside and in dialogue with Drummond’s photographs in exhibition. Here is an abridged text of “Stay with me here:” “Stay with me here” There is salt in these lakes, anciently—rectilinear lakes never to be without ripple or stir. Pooling waters the islands of otherwise oceans, which people make out from hereabouts, make for, dream of. Stay with me here. Trusting to lessons delivered at the shore of a lake moves one closer to a deepness of instruction, where the water also learns. From our not being where we are, there. Stay with me here. What is perfection to water if not water? A time when photographs were born out of its swill and slosh. The image swimming knowingly to the surface—its first breaths of the perceiving air, its glimpsing itself once. The portraits of ourselves we do not dare. Such magical chemical reactions, as in, I react badly to you. Such salts! Stay with me here, elsewhere. As if one had simply washed up by chance, onto this desert island or any other place of sand and water trickling. Daring to imagine we’ll be there together. This is what I mean by… stay with me here. Notice these things—how music sounds different as one walks away; the emotional gymnastics with which you plan to impress; the skin of the eye that watches over you. Stay with me here—in your spectacular, careless brilliance. The edge of whatever it is one wants to say. The moment never to be photographed. Conclusion It is not for the artists to presume that they can empower a community. As Tasmin Lorraine notes, community is not a single person’s empowerment but “the empowerment of many assemblages of which one is part” (128). All communities, regional communities on the scale of Lake Bolac or communities of interest, are held in place by enthusiasm and common histories. We have focused on the embodiment of these common histories, which vary in an infinite number of degrees from the most literal to the most figurative, pulling from the filigree of experiences a web of interpersonal connections. Oscillating between metaphor and description, embodiment as variously presented in this article helps promote community and, by extension, individual well-being. The drawing out of sensations into forms that produce new experiences—like the drawing of breath, the drawing of a hot bath, or the drawing out of a story—enhances the permeability of boundaries opened to what touches upon them. It is not just that we can embody our values, but that we are able to craft, manifest, enact, sense and evoke the connections that take shape as our richly composed world, in which, as Deleuze notes, “it is no longer a matter of utilizations or captures, but of sociabilities and communities” (126). ReferencesAuge, Mark. Non-Places: An Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity. London: Verso, 1995. Barrett, Estelle, and Barbara Bolt. Eds. Practice as Research: Approaches to Creative Arts Enquiry. London: I. B. Tauris, 2007. Barthes, Roland. The Responsibility of Forms. New York: Hill and Wang, 1985. Bergson, Henri. Creative Evolution. Mineola, New York: Dover Publications, 1998. Deleuze, Gilles. Spinoza: Practical Philosophy. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1988. Hollier, Denis. Against Architecture: The Writings of Georges Bataille. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1989. Hutchins, Edwin. “Enaction, Imagination and Insight.” Enaction: Towards a New Paradigm for Cognitive Science. Eds. J. Stewart, O. Gapenne, and E.A. Di Paolo. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2010. 425–450.Lecercle, Jean-Jacques. Deleuze and Language. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002.Lorraine, Tamsin. Deleuze and Guattari’s Immanent Ethics: Theory, Subjectivity and Duration. Albany: State University of New York at Albany, 2011.O’Sullivan, Simon. Art Encounters: Deleuze and Guattari—Thought beyond Representation. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.

IntroductionIn March 2015, I visited the Lambing Flat Folk Museum (established 1967) in the “cherry capital of Australia”, the town of Young, New South Wales, in preparation for a student excursion. Like other Australian folk museums, this museum focuses on the ordinary and the everyday of rural life, and is heavily reliant on local history, local historians, volunteers, and donated objects for the collection. It may not sound as though the Lambing Flat Folk Museum (LFFM) holds much potential for a fashion curator, as fashion exhibitions have become high points of innovation in exhibition design. It is quite a jolt to return to old style folk museums, when travelling shows such as Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty (Metropolitan Museum of Art 2011 – V&A Museum 2015) or The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier (V&A Museum 2011­ – NGV 2014) are popping up around the globe. The contrast stimulated this author to think on the role and the power of curators. This paper will show that the potential for fashion as a vehicle for demonstrating ideas other than through rubrics of design or history has been growing. We all wear dress. We express identity, politics, status, age, gender, social values, and mental state through the way we dress each and every day. These key issues are also explored in many museum exhibitions.Small museums often have an abundance of clothing. For them, it is a case of not only managing and caring for growing collections but also curating objects in a way that communicates regional and often national identity, as well as narrating stories in meaningful ways to audiences. This paper argues that the way in which dress is curated can greatly enhance temporary and permanent exhibitions. Fashion curation is on the rise (Riegels Melchior). This paper looks at why this is so, the potential for this specialisation in curation, the research required, and the sensitivity needed in communicating ideas in exhibitions. It also suggests how fashion curation skills may facilitate an increasing demand.Caring for the AudienceThe paper draws on a case study of how Chinese people at the LFFM are portrayed. The Chinese came to the Young district during the 1860s gold rush. While many people often think the Chinese were sojourners (Rolls), that is, they found gold and returned to China, many actually settled in regional Australia (McGowan; Couchman; Frost). At Young there were riots against the Chinese miners, and this narrative is illustrated at the museum.In examining the LFFM, this paper points to the importance of caring for the audience as well as objects, knowing and acknowledging the current and potential audiences. Caring for how the objects are received and perceived is vital to the work of curators. At this museum, the stereotypic portrayal of Chinese people, through a “coolie” hat, a fan, and two dolls dressed in costume, reminds us of the increased professionalisation of the museum sector in the last 20 years. It also reminds us of the need for good communication through both the objects and texts. Audiences have become more sophisticated, and their expectations have increased. Displays and accompanying texts that do not reflect in depth research, knowledge, and sensitivities can result in viewers losing interest quickly. Not long into my visit I began thinking of the potential reaction by the Chinese graduate students. In a tripartite model called the “museum experience”, Falk and Dierking argue that the social context, personal context, and physical context affect the visitor’s experience (5). The social context of who we visit with influences enjoyment. Placing myself in the students’ shoes sharpened reactions to some of the displays. Curators need to be mindful of a wide range of audiences. The excursion was to be not so much a history learning activity, but a way for students to develop a personal interest in museology and to learn the role museums can play in society in general, as well as in small communities. In this case the personal context was also a professional context. What message would they get?Communication in MuseumsStudies by Falk et al. indicate that museum visitors only view an exhibition for 30 minutes before “museum fatigue” sets in (249–257). The physicality of being in a museum can affect the museum experience. Hence, many institutions responded to these studies by placing the key information and objects in the introductory areas of an exhibition, before the visitor gets bored. As Stephen Bitgood argues, this can become self-fulfilling, as the reaction by the exhibition designers can then be to place all the most interesting material early in the path of the audience, leaving the remainder as mundane displays (196). Bitgood argues there is no museum fatigue. He suggests that there are other things at play which curators need to heed, such as giving visitors choice and opportunities for interaction, and avoiding overloading the audience with information and designing poorly laid-out exhibitions that have no breaks or resting points. All these factors contribute to viewers becoming both mentally and physically tired. Rather than placing the onus on the visitor, he contends there are controllable factors the museum can attend to. One of his recommendations is to be provocative in communication. Stimulating exhibitions are more likely to engage the visitor, minimising boredom and tiredness (197). Xerxes Mazda recommends treating an exhibition like a good story, with a beginning, a dark moment, a climax, and an ending. The LFFM certainly has those elements, but they are not translated into curation that gives a compelling narration that holds the visitors’ attention. Object labels give only rudimentary information, such as: “Wooden Horse collar/very rare/donated by Mr Allan Gordon.” Without accompanying context and engaging language, many visitors could find it difficult to relate to, and actively reflect on, the social narrative that the museum’s objects could reflect.Text plays an important role in museums, particularly this museum. Communication skills of the label writers are vital to enhancing the museum visit. Louise Ravelli, in writing on museum texts, states that “communication needs to be more explicit and more reflexive—to bring implicit assumptions to the surface” (3). This is particularly so for the LFFM. Posing questions and using an active voice can provoke the viewer. The power of text can be seen in one particular museum object. In the first gallery is a banner that contains blatant racist text. Bringing racism to the surface through reflexive labelling can be powerful. So for this museum communication needs to be sensitive and informative, as well as pragmatic. It is not just a case of being reminded that Australia has a long history of racism towards non-Anglo Saxon migrants. A sensitive approach in label-writing could ask visitors to reflect on Australia’s long and continued history of racism and relate it to the contemporary migration debate, thereby connecting the present day to dark historical events. A question such as, “How does Australia deal with racism towards migrants today?” brings issues to the surface. Or, more provocatively, “How would I deal with such racism?” takes the issue to a personal level, rather than using language to distance the issue of racism to a national issue. Museums are more than repositories of objects. Even a small underfunded museum can have great impact on the viewer through the language they use to make meaning of their display. The Lambing Flat Roll-up Banner at the LFFMThe “destination” object of the museum in Young is the Lambing Flat Roll-up Banner. Those with a keen interest in Australian history and politics come to view this large sheet of canvas that elicits part of the narrative of the Lambing Flat Riots, which are claimed to be germane to the White Australia Policy (one of the very first pieces of legislation after the Federation of Australia was The Immigration Restriction Act 1901).On 30 June 1861 a violent anti-Chinese riot occurred on the goldfields of Lambing Flat (now known as Young). It was the culmination of eight months of growing conflict between European and Chinese miners. Between 1,500 and 2,000 Europeans lived and worked in these goldfields, with little government authority overseeing the mining regulations. Earlier, in November 1860, a group of disgruntled European miners marched behind a German brass band, chasing off 500 Chinese from the field and destroying their tents. Tensions rose and fell until the following June, when the large banner was painted and paraded to gather up supporters: “…two of their leaders carrying in advance a magnificent flag, on which was written in gold letters – NO CHINESE! ROLL UP! ROLL UP! ...” (qtd. in Coates 40). Terrified, over 1,270 Chinese took refuge 20 kilometres away on James Roberts’s property, “Currawong”. The National Museum of Australia commissioned an animation of the event, The Harvest of Endurance. It may seem obvious, but the animators indicated the difference between the Chinese and the Europeans through dress, regardless that the Chinese wore western dress on the goldfields once the clothing they brought with them wore out (McGregor and McGregor 32). Nonetheless, Chinese expressions of masculinity differed. Their pigtails, their shoes, and their hats were used as shorthand in cartoons of the day to express the anxiety felt by many European settlers. A more active demonstration was reported in The Argus: “ … one man … returned with eight pigtails attached to a flag, glorifying in the work that had been done” (6). We can only imagine this trophy and the de-masculinisation it caused.The 1,200 x 1,200 mm banner now lays flat in a purpose-built display unit. Viewers can see that it was not a hastily constructed work. The careful drafting of original pencil marks can be seen around the circus styled font: red and blue, with the now yellow shadowing. The banner was tied with red and green ribbon of which small remnants remain attached.The McCarthy family had held the banner for 100 years, from the riots until it was loaned to the Royal Australian Historical Society in November 1961. It was given to the LFFM when it opened six years later. The banner is given key positioning in the museum, indicating its importance to the community and its place in the region’s memory. Just whose memory is narrated becomes apparent in the displays. The voice of the Chinese is missing.Memory and Museums Museums are interested in memory. When visitors come to museums, the work they do is to claim, discover, and sometimes rekindle memory (Smith; Crane; Williams)—-and even to reshape memory (Davidson). Fashion constantly plays with memory: styles, themes, textiles, and colours are repeated and recycled. “Cutting and pasting” presents a new context from one season to the next. What better avenue to arouse memory in museums than fashion curation? This paper argues that fashion exhibitions fit within the museum as a “theatre of memory”, where social memory, commemoration, heritage, myth, fantasy, and desire are played out (Samuels). In the past, institutions and fashion curators often had to construct academic frameworks of “history” or “design” in order to legitimise fashion exhibitions as a serious pursuit. Exhibitions such as Fashion and Politics (New York 2009), Fashion India: Spectacular Capitalism (Oslo 2014) and Fashion as Social Energy (Milan 2015) show that fashion can explore deeper social concerns and political issues.The Rise of Fashion CuratorsThe fashion curator is a relative newcomer. What would become the modern fashion curator made inroads into museums through ethnographic and anthropological collections early in the 20th century. Fashion as “history” soon followed into history and social museums. Until the 1990s, the fashion curator in a museum was seen as, and closely associated with, the fashion historian or craft curator. It could be said that James Laver (1899–1975) or Stella Mary Newton (1901–2001) were the earliest modern fashion curators in museums. They were also fashion historians. However, the role of fashion curator as we now know it came into its own right in the 1970s. Nadia Buick asserts that the first fashion exhibition, Fashion: An Anthology by Cecil Beaton, was held at the Victoria and Albert Museum, curated by the famous fashion photographer Cecil Beaton. He was not a museum employee, a trained curator, or even a historian (15). The museum did not even collect contemporary fashion—it was a new idea put forward by Beaton. He amassed hundreds of pieces of fashion items from his friends of elite society to complement his work.Radical changes in museums since the 1970s have been driven by social change, new expectations and new technologies. Political and economic pressures have forced museum professionals to shift their attention from their collections towards their visitors. There has been not only a growing number of diverse museums but also a wider range of exhibitions, fashion exhibitions included. However, as museums and the exhibitions they mount have become more socially inclusive, this has been somewhat slow to filter through to the fashion exhibitions. I assert that the shift in fashion exhibitions came as an outcome of new writing on fashion as a social and political entity through Jennifer Craik’s The Face of Fashion. This book has had an influence, beyond academic fashion theorists, on the way in which fashion exhibitions are curated. Since 1997, Judith Clark has curated landmark exhibitions, such as Malign Muses: When Fashion Turns Back (Antwerp 2004), which examine the idea of what fashion is rather than documenting fashion’s historical evolution. Dress is recognised as a vehicle for complex issues. It is even used to communicate a city’s cultural capital and its metropolitan modernity as “fashion capitals” (Breward and Gilbert). Hence the reluctant but growing willingness for dress to be used in museums to critically interrogate, beyond the celebratory designer retrospectives. Fashion CurationFashion curators need to be “brilliant scavengers” (Peoples). Curators such as Clark pick over what others consider as remains—the neglected, the dissonant—bringing to the fore what is forgotten, where items retrieved from all kinds of spheres are used to fashion exhibitions that reflect the complex mix of the tangible and intangible that is present in fashion. Allowing the brilliant scavengers to pick over the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life can make for exciting exhibitions. Clothing of the everyday can be used to narrate complex stories. We only need think of the black layette worn by Baby Azaria Chamberlain—or the shoe left on the tarmac at Darwin Airport, having fallen off the foot of Mrs Petrov, wife of the Russian diplomat, as she was forced onto a plane. The ordinary remnants of the Chinese miners do not appear to have been kept. Often, objects can be transformed by subsequent significant events.Museums can be sites of transformation for its audiences. Since the late 1980s, through the concept of the New Museum (Vergo), fashion as an exhibition theme has been used to draw in wider museum audiences and to increase visitor numbers. The clothing of Vivienne Westwood, (34 Years in Fashion 2005, NGA) Kylie Minogue (Kylie: An Exhibition 2004­–2005, Powerhouse Museum), or Princess Grace (Princess Grace: Style Icon 2012, Bendigo Art Gallery) drew in the crowds, quantifying the relevance of museums to funding bodies. As Marie Riegels Melchior notes, fashion is fashionable in museums. What is interesting is that the New Museum’s refrain of social inclusion (Sandell) has yet to be wholly embraced by art museums. There is tension between the fashion and museum worlds: a “collision of the fashion and art worlds” (Batersby). Exhibitions of elite designer clothing worn by celebrities have been seen as very commercial operations, tainting the intellectual and academic reputations of cultural institutions. What does fashion curation have to do with the banner mentioned previously? It would be miraculous for authentic clothing worn by Chinese miners to surface now. In revising the history of Lambing Flat, fashion curators need to employ methodologies of absence. As Clynk and Peoples have shown, by examining archives, newspaper advertisements, merchants’ account books, and other material that incidentally describes the business of clothing, absence can become present. While the later technology of photography often shows “Sunday best” fashions, it also illustrates the ordinary and everyday dress of Chinese men carrying out business transactions (MacGowan; Couchman). The images of these men bring to mind the question: were these the children of men, or indeed the men themselves, who had their pigtails violently cut off years earlier? The banner was also used to show that there are quite detailed accounts of events from local and national newspapers of the day. These are accessible online. Accounts of the Chinese experience may have been written up in Chinese newspapers of the day. Access to these would be limited, if they still exist. Historian Karen Schamberger reminds us of the truism: “history is written by the victors” in her observations of a re-enactment of the riots at the Lambing Flat Festival in 2014. The Chinese actors did not have speaking parts. She notes: The brutal actions of the European miners were not explained which made it easier for audience members to distance themselves from [the Chinese] and be comforted by the actions of a ‘white hero’ James Roberts who… sheltered the Chinese miners at the end of the re-enactment. (9)Elsewhere, just out of town at the Chinese Tribute Garden (created in 1996), there is evidence of presence. Plaques indicating donors to the garden carry names such as Judy Chan, Mrs King Chou, and Mr and Mrs King Lam. The musically illustrious five siblings of the Wong family, who live near Young, were photographed in the Discover Central NSW tourist newspaper in 2015 as a drawcard for the Lambing Flat Festival. There is “endurance”, as the title of NMA animation scroll highlights. Conclusion Absence can be turned around to indicate presence. The “presence of absence” (Meyer and Woodthorpe) can be a powerful tool. Seeing is the pre-eminent sense used in museums, and objects are given priority; there are ways of representing evidence and narratives, and describing relationships, other than fashion presence. This is why I argue that dress has an important role to play in museums. Dress is so specific to time and location. It marks specific occasions, particularly at times of social transitions: christening gowns, bar mitzvah shawls, graduation gowns, wedding dresses, funerary shrouds. Dress can also demonstrate the physicality of a specific body: in the extreme, jeans show the physicality of presence when the body is removed. The fashion displays in the museum tell part of the region’s history, but the distraction of the poor display of the dressed mannequins in the LFFM gets in the way of a “good story”.While rioting against the Chinese miners may cause shame and embarrassment, in Australia we need to accept that this was not an isolated event. More formal, less violent, and regulated mechanisms of entry to Australia were put in place, and continue to this day. It may be that a fashion curator, a brilliant scavenger, may unpick the prey for viewers, placing and spacing objects and the visitor, designing in a way to enchant or horrify the audience, and keeping interest alive throughout the exhibition, allowing spaces for thinking and memories. Drawing in those who have not been the audience, working on the absence through participatory modes of activities, can be powerful for a community. Fashion curators—working with the body, stimulating ethical and conscious behaviours, and constructing dialogues—can undoubtedly act as a vehicle for dynamism, for both the museum and its audiences. As the number of museums grow, so should the number of fashion curators.ReferencesArgus. 10 July 1861. 20 June 2015 ‹http://trove.nla.gov.au/›.Batersby, Selena. “Icons of Fashion.” 2014. 6 June 2015 ‹http://adelaidereview.com.au/features/icons-of-fashion/›.Bitgood, Stephen. “When Is 'Museum Fatigue' Not Fatigue?” Curator: The Museum Journal 2009. 12 Apr. 2015 ‹http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.2151-6952.2009.tb00344.x/abstract›. Breward, Christopher, and David Gilbert, eds. Fashion’s World Cities. Oxford: Berg Publications, 2006.Buick, Nadia. “Up Close and Personal: Art and Fashion in the Museum.” Art Monthly Australia Aug. (2011): 242.Clynk, J., and S. Peoples. “All Out in the Wash.” Developing Dress History: New Directions in Method and Practice. Eds. Annabella Pollen and Charlotte Nicklas C. London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming Sep. 2015. Couchman, Sophia. “Making the ‘Last Chinaman’: Photography and Chinese as a ‘Vanishing’ People in Australia’s Rural Local Histories.” Australian Historical Studies 42.1 (2011): 78–91.Coates, Ian. “The Lambing Flat Riots.” Gold and Civilisation. Canberra: The National Museum of Australia, 2011.Clark, Judith. Spectres: When Fashion Turns Back. London: V&A Publications, 2006.Craik, Jennifer. The Face of Fashion. Oxon: Routledge, 1994.Crane, Susan. “The Distortion of Memory.” History and Theory 36.4 (1997): 44–63.Davidson, Patricia. “Museums and the Shaping of Memory.” Heritage Museum and Galleries: An Introductory Reader. Ed. Gerard Corsane. Oxon: Routledge, 2005.Discover Central NSW. Milthorpe: BMCW, Mar. 2015.Dethridge, Anna. Fashion as Social Energy Milan: Connecting Cultures, 2005.Falk, John, and Lyn Dierking. The Museum Experience. Washington: Whaleback Books, 1992.———, John Koran, Lyn Dierking, and Lewis Dreblow. “Predicting Visitor Behaviour.” Curator: The Museum Journal 28.4 (1985): 249–57.Fashion and Politics. 13 July 2015 ‹http://www.fitnyc.edu/5103.asp›.Fashion India: Spectacular Capitalism. 13 July 2015 ‹http://www.tereza-kuldova.com/#!Fashion-India-Spectacular-Capitalism-Exhibition/cd23/85BBF50C-6CB9-4EE5-94BC-DAFDE56ADA96›.Frost, Warwick. “Making an Edgier Interpretation of the Gold Rushes: Contrasting Perspectives from Australia and New Zealand.” International Journal of Heritage Studies 11.3 (2005): 235-250.Mansel, Philip. Dressed to Rule: Royal and Court Costumes from Louis XIV to Elizabeth II. New Haven: Yale UP, 2005.Mazda, Xerxes. “Exhibitions and the Power of Narrative.” Museums Australia National Conference. Sydney, Australia. 23 May 2015. Opening speech.McGowan, Barry. Tracking the Dragon: A History of the Chinese in the Riverina. Wagga Wagga: Museum of the Riverina, 2010.Meyer, Morgan, and Kate Woodthorpe. “The Material Presence of Absence: A Dialogue between Museums and Cemeteries.” Sociological Research Online (2008). 6 July 2015 ‹http://www.socresonline.org.uk/13/5/1.html›.National Museum of Australia. “Harvest of Endurance.” 20 July 2015 ‹http://www.nma.gov.au/collections/collection_interactives/endurance_scroll/harvest_of_endurance_html_version/home›. Peoples, Sharon. “Cinderella and the Brilliant Scavengers.” Paper presented at the Fashion Tales 2015 Conference, Milan, June 2015. Ravelli, Louise. Museum Texts: Communication Frameworks. Oxon: Routledge, 2006.Riegels Melchior, Marie. “Fashion Museology: Identifying and Contesting Fashion in Museums.” Paper presented at Exploring Critical Issues, Mansfield College, Oxford, 22–25 Sep. 2011. Rolls, Eric. Sojourners: The Epic Story of China's Centuries-Old Relationship with Australia. St Lucia: U of Queensland P, 1992.Samuels, Raphael. Theatres of Memory. London: Verso, 2012.Sandell, Richard. “Social Inclusion, the Museum and the Dynamics of Sectorial Change.” Museum and Society 1.1 (2003): 45–62.Schamberger, Karen. “An Inconvenient Myth—the Lambing Flat Riots and Birth of a Nation.” Paper presented at Foundational Histories Australian Historical Conference, University of Sydney, 6–10 July 2015. Smith, Laurajane. The Users of Heritage. Oxon: Routledge, 2006.Vergo, Peter. New Museology. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1989.Williams, Paul. Memorial Museums: The Global Rush to Commemorate Atrocities. Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2007.