Brendan Cowell

I was born and raised in Cronulla. When you put the words ‘Tribe’ and ‘Cronulla’ together the mind hurls itself back to 11 December, 2005 and that horrid day by the beach when a hateful, drunken tribe of white Australian males went about bashing anyone with mildly olive skin. Ironically, one of the guys they got was a Greek Aboriginal. What they needed was an authority,assessing family history and time lines: If you were here before the Drunk White Australian – pass go; if not – run!

Growing up in Cronulla was not always like this. Sure, there were Tribes, and these Tribes often met head-to-head, but never did it blow out in such a way. At school I was part of what would now be known as the emos. I listened to The Cure, read metaphysical poetry, and smoked bongs on the oval at lunch time. I got on well with teachers and attended rave parties, dancing for eight hours with a Chuppa-Chup in my gob.

Surrounding me were Surfies with their long, peroxide-blond locks framing their sun-belted freckle-fucked heads. When I was School ‘Vice’ Captain (ok, so maybe I’m not over it) I instigated a ‘Suggestion Box’ for school activities. The Surfies would only ever suggest a ‘Surfing Comp’ or ‘Bludge Day’. The Surfies and The Wogs didn’t get on. The Wogs (mainly Greek and Italian) would dress well and lacquer their hair with mousse. The Surfies would pop their soccer balls at lunch time and often crack onto their women on weekends. This would make for the odd scuffle but many of the two Tribes were friends, and strangely enjoyed the Tribalism. 

Cronulla is a heavenly place to visit. The manicured lawns, the handsome people, the beach! But something lurks beneath the sand here, there’s a threatened feeling down South and it bubbles at the surface. I’d much rather wander the streets of Redfern or Newtown at midnight than Cronulla.  

In 1994 I turned 17 and left Cronulla in a flurry. I needed to get out. I wanted to fiddle with some other Tribes. So I went to university in Bathurst then I moved to Newtown. If you like your Tribes colourful then move to Newtown, wander the length of King Street and collect your thoughts.

I still love Newtown. I’ve lived here 12 years and even though I’m drawn to living closer to that blue water in the east one day, this is my home.

I’m part of the Drinking Actor Tribe. We start early at the Coopers Arms Hotel (mid King St, you can smoke upstairs) wander down to the Courthouse (world class beer garden) then inevitably gather at the Town Hall hotel (it’s open and it loves you).

Tribes we may pass on our travels would be Chunky Lesbian (wouldn’t fight them), Uni Student (don’t stay long – can’t afford to), the Great Unwashed (often Members of the Greens), Rockabilly, Waif, Goth (what do they wear in summer?), Gay Yuppie, the Teenage Cool, and the Tribe of King Street Shop Owners who usually go broke in two months and move to the coast.

Unlike Cronulla, there is no ruling Tribe in Newtown. There is a strange and alluring sense of harmony, as all the Tribes wander gently by on the low-key sidewalks, checking out each other’s pants and smiling as if to say: “Hey man, nice tribe”.

In saying this I frequently jump in my Subaru and head down south over Tom Ugly’s bridge to Cronulla. For it is here that my grandmothers live, and it is here my football team, the Cronulla Sharks (who have never won a premiership), play. It is also where my history is, and a large section of my heart.

But I hate going in the sea. The waves open up like the mouths of sharks. Seriously, the waves are pushing us towards the land. Is this not a sign that we are not welcome?

Perhaps nature is a Tribe as well. If so, I should be more accepting, because Tribes are cool, as long as they’re not threatened by each other. On the contrary, Tribes should be Tribe-curious.

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