Melbourne After 45 Years

AS soon as we step outside the airport terminal, we smell it - the smoke.

It isn't obvious, as it might be if someone were incinerating rubbish on the other side of the garden fence. All one sees is a haze, betrayed by a blurring of the outlines of buildings in the distance.

Instinctively, we check the expressions of pedestrians for signs of concern. The bushfires have been burning north-east of Melbourne since December 6. The situation is serious. But the faces give nothing away. Incredibly, some people are smoking as they hurry along.

Within minutes, we are hurtling towards the city in a minibus, noting the withered grass between the factory buildings and drab warehouses.

"Prepare to die," is the startling message from an insurance company's roadside billboard.

Looking at the miasma surrounding the city's skyscrapers - closer now, as we approach our destination - we wonder whether death will come sooner than the solicitous insurer anticipates.

"The smoke was much worse three weeks ago," our waiter says that evening, as we survey the city's indistinct skyline from the hotel dining room. "It made your eyes red."

But our fears of slow asphyxiation are unfounded: by noon the next day, the smoke has cleared. We begin our scheduled cruise of the Yarra River under a blazing sun, in 35deg heat, and thank the Almighty for the awning as we head downstream toward the docks.

"There are tea and coffee facilities at the back of the boat," the man at the wheel informs us, as he begins a running commentary. "So if you're stark raving mad, you can make yourself a hot drink."

Later, he draws our attention to the sleek yachts of the "filthy, stinking rich" in a marina, and to the lesser craft of those who merely aspire to be wealthy.

If there's one thing I like about Australians, it is their healthy disrespect for power and privilege, their refusal to be impressed by anything that smacks of pretension.

At the end of our cruise, the tour bus driver who picks us up at Princes Bridge is equally irreverent.

"I don't care who you booked with," he says as the door snaps shut. "You're mine now." And with that, he lurches into the afternoon traffic.