Archival Angst

On Thursday before the big Easter holiday, I left the family for a solo expedition into the western Sydney suburbs and a visit to the New South Wales State Records Center (archives) in Kingswood. Getting there was half the adventure because I had to get up very early to catch the first ferry into the city at 6:40 am. It was the most beautiful crossing I have made to date, with the sun coming up over the Manly peninsula and seeing the Sydney skyline coming to life in the dawn from my vantage point in the very bow of the boat. The water was quite calm and the ride smooth.

My next stop was the Sydney train station. I knew I had to catch the line going west to the Emu Plains, and it was no more than a thirty second wait until it arrived. The trains are somewhat slow, hot, stuffy, and if I had been going in the opposite direction (INTO the city center) crowded and cramped. I realized that there would be the same conditions on my return trip later that afternoon, and I was thankful for that circumstance. As I went farther into the west, the country really flattened out, and there were not as many high rise buildings. The ethnicity of my fellow passengers changed, too, with those schoolchildren getting on and off at the stops representing several different countries and languages. The last train stop was St. Mary’s, where I was to catch a motor bus to the archives, and here I found a city core that was somewhat dilapidated and dominated by small Asian markets and tobacco stands operated by Middle Eastern proprietors. There was a preponderance of graffiti all over every vertical surface, and even the local supermarket had a security guard in the parking lot (never a good sign!)

The bus took me directly to the archives for a three buck fare that I thought a bit excessive, but then again, everything is expensive here. The New South Wales Records Center is located in a suburban area of Kingswood, just south of a sprawling and spacious college campus. The whole area around the facility looks like a golf course. The building itself is unimpressive, but then most modern architecture leaves me unimpressed. Once I was inside, a receptionist pointed me to the reading room, located on the second floor where there is a nice lounge for researchers when feeling the need to take a break. The reading room itself was pretty big, with banks of microfilm machines, a long counter where the clerks are stationed, and several large tables with comfortable chairs. I had ordered my materials ahead of time over the Internet, so they were all ready for my inspection as soon as I asked for them, but here is where I was surprised. You see, I had registered online to use the archives, providing my name, address, etc., but once I asked for the material the clerk did not even bother to ask me for ANY identification. I could have been anyone. Another surprise was their insistence that all researchers wear latex gloves to look at anything. They keep huge boxes of the damn things on the counter, just like at the doctor’s office, and everyone in the room looks like they are ready to start operating on a patient. They are uncomfortable, and completely unnecessary, in my opinion. What makes matters worse, they are absolutely angers to my health since my hand excema (which I have suffered with since my teen years) goes completely out of control when I wear such gloves for over five minutes. I had no choice, so I wore the things and tried to work quickly by using my digital camera to take notes from the manuscripts I pressed.

The discomfort of the gloves, and the lack of substantive records regarding Royal National Park’s conception and origin, convinced me to quit by about three thirty in the afternoon. I was unable to meet with any of the archivists at the place because this day, prior to the official Easter holiday long weekend, only the reading room clerks were working. I left my business card with them and requested to meet with one of the archivists after the holidays. The only difference in my trip back into the city was that the train was hotter than the hinges of hell in mid afternoon, but again, due to the direction I was going, mercifully uncrowded. My research did reveal one important clue. My next investigation will take me to the New South Wales State Library where personal manuscript collections are held.