MateLand

When we moved up here, my biggest concern was being surrounded by country blokes. It was unfounded, for while a lot of men look like they'd beat me to a pulp without raising a sweat, everyone so far has been friendly to a disconcerting degree.


Walking anywhere is an exercise in social interaction. Whereas in Darlinghurst, if you say hello to a stranger on the street they'd assume you were a) angling for money or b) planning an assault, here it's par for the course – everyone does it. Constantly.
Even the local motorcycle club, the Gladiators, are more likely to organise a fundraiser for a local children's charity than cause a showdown with police. They are uniformly scary-looking – facial tattoos and savage mullets – but are actually quite non-threatening and beloved for keeping the dickheads out of the neighbourhood.
They've even been allowed to install their own signage on the street where their headquarters are:

They make a lot of noise hooning up the main drag on Friday meeting nights but it's a small price to pay.