Chapter 9

Sam dressed formally: he put on a long-sleeved, button shirt and wore chinos rather than shorts. After all, this was to be his nod of respect to the administration. They set off together on their quests.

Sam was confronted by the customary gorgon: about fifty with bluish hair.

“I’d like to speak to the Vice-Chancellor for the Sydney campus.”

“May I ask why?”

“Yes, you may.”

They faced one another. She sitting, he standing.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Why do you wish to speak to the Pro-Vice-Chancellor?”

“A personal matter.” [Sam was beginning to enjoy himself.]

“And the subject?”

“I just told you it was a personal manner.”

“I can’t make an appointment unless I know the subject. The Pro-Vice-Chancellor is quite busy.”

“Well, I’ll just sit over there on one of those chairs and wait till there’s a lull.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Why not? Are they reserved?” [The gorgon was beginning to fret.]

“You can’t just sit there!”

“Well, can I lie down? Or sit on the floor? I won’t take up much space.”

At this point an older man wearing a tie, but no coat, entered. “Is she busy?”

“Oh, no sir.”

“Aha! So you lied to me!” Sam said.

“What’s that?” the older man asked.

“I requested an appointment with the Vice-Chancellor for Sydney and this woman said he was too busy to give me an appointment.”

“Eh?”

“He wouldn’t tell me what it was about.”

“I twice told you it was personal.” [Sam had learnt a good deal from Patrick.]

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. Well, young man, have you a name?”

“Samuel Hollister, sir.”

“And are you a student here?”

“Not in this building, sir. But at UNE.”

“Right. Well come with me.” He headed towards the door, knocked once and opened it.

“Hi. I came with a purpose, but encountered Mr. – uh – Hollister who’s got a query.” He turned to Sam. “A private query, I believe?”

“Not that confidential, sir, I just didn’t think it was any of her business.”

“Fine. Then proceed. The woman sitting down is the bloke you want to see. I’m just a spectator.”

“Of rather elevated status, I gather.”

“Hmmm.”

“Well, first of all, ma’am, I want to apologize. I said ‘he’ earlier.”

“Accepted. Go on.”

“To be succinct, my wife and I are about to complete our first trimester here at UNE. We have been looking at the calendar and...”

“There you are!” said the ‘spectator’, “I told you that people actually read it!”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, we were wondering how much was meaningful and how much was buff.”

“I’m not clear as to how that falls within my province.”

“Perhaps we might all sit?”

“Right. Let’s move to the table.” He got up and led them to a medium-sized oval table. “And now?”

Sam took the booklet from his bag, opened it and said: “Under the terms of the BA it reads ‘The Bachelor of Arts (BA) gives you the flexibility to tailor a unique degree to suit your individual interests and strengths. The BA is for students looking to enhance their knowledge, career prospects and personal interests by acquiring a range of analytical and communication skills. Your BA can be completed fully online or on campus.’ What does that mean?”

“Aha!” burst the spectator.

“Go on,” said the pro-Vice-Chancellor.

“Let me begin at the third sentence. ‘Fully online or on campus.’ Might that be read as ‘partially online’ and as ‘on one or more of the campuses’?”

“Interesting.”

“Then, in the middle it’s asserted that ‘The BA is for students looking to enhance their knowledge, career prospects and personal interests by acquiring a range of analytical and communication skills.’ Might that be ‘and/or’?”

“Can you expand on that?” the spectator asked.

“Yes. But I have a request: Who are you?”

“Sorry. I’m the Vice-Chancellor. And I’m quite interested in this.”

“I’m very interested in enhancing my knowledge. And in my personal interests. But I have no notion as to my career, so no notion as to my prospects. But my lectures in general seem to be focussed more on my future earning power than on intellectual matters. I am unable to discover the basis for my requirements, unless it’s part of a governmental employment scheme for narrow-minded toffs.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed the Pro-Vice-Chancellor. “And you certainly don’t need to acquire communication skills!”

“Sorry. I told my wife I wouldn’t explode.”

“But you’ve intrigued me. Tell me about yourself.”

So Sam told of his schooling and his months on walkabout.

“And your family is in Sydney?”

“Well, my parents and sister and paternal grandfather are; my maternal grandparents are in Canberra. My in-laws are in Iga Warta, in South Australia.”

“In Iga Warta?” she sounded incredulous.

“Yes, they’re Adnyamathanha.”

“And you?”

“I’m part Japanese.”

“And what do you want to learn?”

“I don’t know. A month ago I went to counseling services, where they seemed to think I was schizophrenic.”

“Why did they think that?”

Sam drew himself up. “My grandmother who is no more was nungungi. My father is a Carpet Python. I am known as Bunjil. My wife is Waa.”

The Pro-Vice-Chancellor stared at him. “Is this known?”

“Here in New South from Nowra to Yamba, in much of South Australia and in the Pilbara.”

“Have you been to Oorala?”

“Last week. I was acknowledged.”

“I see.” She turned towards the Vice-Chancellor. “This may be serious. If we treat Mr. Hollister and his wife well, we will rise substantially in the esteem of Aboriginal Australia.”

“That wasn’t my purpose,” said Sam.

“So much the better,” she responded.

“Hollister? Why do I know the name?”

“My grandfather was Director of the Australian Museum.”

“Of course! Is your father an academic?”

“No. He is a lawyer, working for several ministries here and in other states. My mother is an art historian and a curator at the Gallery.”

The Vice-Chancellor looked at his watch. “I’m going to leave soon, sorry. However, we’ve not gotten to the nub of your problem.”

“Well, very briefly, we’d like to complete some courses here, some in Parramatta and some via the Internet. And we’d like to actually have curricular freedom, not being forced into absurd classes.”

“That was certainly terse. Thank you. I’m going to run, but I leave you to the mercies of my aide.”

Sam rose. “Thank you, sir.” He put out his hand.

“And success to you.” He left.

“So. As I understand what’s proceeded, you and your wife want to continue earning your degrees from UNE, but may complete coursework here, perhaps in Parramatta and perhaps remotely, via the Internet.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, first of all, course credits achieved online, here in Armidale, in Tamworth, and in Parramatta are equal. Special arrangements – as during the virus a few years ago – are added from time to time.”

“That’s really fine. But now, we’re at the beginning of what’s in the calendar [Sam looked at the page again]: ‘The Bachelor of Arts (BA) gives you the flexibility to tailor a unique degree to suit your individual interests and strengths.’ So – how much ‘flexibility’ is there in tailoring ‘a unique degree’? Seriously.”

“If you have a specific array of courses, list them and I’ll tell you whether they are satisfactory or not. If I reject your proposal, you can demand a committee adjudicate.”

“That sounds fine, but do I make a list for your approval, or do I waste years in classes only to be told that it’s all in vain?”

“I think you could list a prospective set.”

“And how many? The Course and Unit Catalogue is unclear.”

“Really?”

“It says: ‘To obtain your degree you must complete a specified number and combination of units. Most undergraduate degrees can be completed in 3-5 years of full-time study or 6-10 years part-time.’ And it says: ‘If you are studying full time you will typically enroll in eight units over the three trimesters each year.’ That’s vague.”