From underworld hitmen to stolen packages, Scumshine isn’t what it used to be

In the end, it was a life-changing barbecue chicken that convinced me to move to Sunshine West. Well, that, Kororoit Creek, and the price of a three-bedroom house on 500 square metres.

Originally named Braybrook Junction, the area was renamed Sunshine in 1907 when residents petitioned for the name-change in honour of the Sunshine Harvester, one of the first commercially available combine harvesters in Australia, produced right here in Sunshine.

Sunshine West takes up a fair-sized chunk of the Brimbank Council area – west of Sunshine train station, bordered by the creek to the east, the ring road on the west, the V/Line to Geelong to the north and Boundary Road to the south. It’s one-third residential, one-third industrial, and one-third its reputation as one of Melbourne’s toughest suburbs.

Like much of the west of Melbourne, Sunshine West has seen successive waves of migration. Only 45 per cent of current residents were born here and 78 per cent have at least one parent who was born overseas. Post-war migration saw large Polish, Maltese and Greek communities settle here. In the 1970s, a large Vietnamese contingent arrived, followed by Indian, Filipino and now Sudanese migrants. There is no shortage of amazing food options from around the world.

Sunshine West looks and feels like 1970s suburbia. A consistent spread of orange brick houses with terracotta tile roofs, wide street frontages and a driveway for every house. Don’t expect to find a Robin Boyd or a Harry Seidler here, though. An architect viewing our house described it as “mid-century modest” – a homage to the rapid urban development of the era; well-built, simple houses, fulfilling the Australian Dream.

Sunshine, Scumshine or Scummers as it’s colloquially known, has a long history of underworld goings-on. It’s hard to miss the news stories about teenage gangs and machete attacks at the train station, but this is far from a recent development. Sunshine West has been home to some of the most notorious figures in Melbourne’s organised crime scene.

Andrew “Benji” Veniamin was an altar boy at the Greek Orthodox church around the corner. When my neighbours moved into their house 25 years ago, they found shotguns stashed in the roof. Not long after, while at home with her toddler, my female neighbour heard a shot ring out, signalling the end of “The Sunshine Boy”, Dino Dibra, in the street over. These days, you’re more likely to encounter someone taking their backyard chickens for a run by the creek than notorious hitmen. Though visiting friends still crack plenty of jokes about surviving the “mean streets”, crime, apart from the aforementioned violence at the station, tends to be confined to postal deliveries being stolen from front porches. That and the idiots who ride their dirt bikes along the creek.

On weekend mornings people stroll with takeaway coffees in jars, a telltale sign that they’ve visited Cafe Sunshine, a stalwart of the Sunshine CBD, opened by a Persian refugee, and specialising in good coffee, sustainability, and Persian food.

Down by the creek, someone has strung a long rope swing from a giant gum tree on the side of a hill. Children queue up to take turns. Singles, doubles, dirt in the shoes, hands, hair. Skinned knees, rope burns, bikes and scooters tossed to the side of the path.

A seven-year-old boy takes his turn from high on the hill at the same time as a man on a bike rounds the corner. The cyclist slows his pedaling, surprised at the small human projectile hurtling towards him. The swing hangs for second midair, the boy and cyclist face off centimetres apart, before the swing retracts from the potential collision. Back on the ground, children dissolve into fits of giggles. Each swing is now proceeded by a chorus of “you’re good to go” as they check the paths for each other. Mostly people smile as they walk past, sometimes stopping to make sure the rope won’t break, or to tell stories of their own childhoods playing on similar swings in far-flung countries. It’s the small things that build community and connection.

The social fabric out here is tight. People in the west look after each other and look out for each other more than I’ve seen in other places. Maybe years of getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop in terms of government investment has left people more reliant on each other. Despite recent signs of gentrification, the area is still one of the more socially disadvantaged in the state.

Friends elsewhere think Sunshine West is far away, but transport is easy. The train runs every five minutes in the morning and delivers you to Melbourne Central within 21 minutes. The Ring Road and the M1 are easy to get to and connect to most places. The V/Line will get you to Geelong or Ballarat if you want a regional adventure, and hopefully, you’ll soon be able to catch a train straight to the airport. But you don’t really need to leave. There’s a pool, a cinema (which until recently was resplendent with purple ’90s cinema carpet), a library, the busy law courts and a weekly market held on Hampshire Road, Sunshine proper’s main drag, which sells everything from crystals and hand-knitted jumpers to pots, pans and electrical equipment.

Bars and pubs (without pokies) are still few and far between, but if you’re keen, you can sit inside the Bottlemart on Hampshire Road and have a drink there.

Some years ago, I dragged two preschool children through several house inspections solo. Exhausted, I took us to the closest place that we could sit down and eat. We arrived at a cute barbecue restaurant built in an old petrol station.

The large outdoor area was sheltered from the road by succulents and native trees and grasses. The kids immediately spotted the giant cubby house filled with books and toys. Inside, tiled orange and yellow tables dotted the space, and the smell of meat over charcoal reminded me how hungry I was. Which brings me to the chicken.

Maybe I was just hungry, but that barbecue chicken and chips may have been the best I had ever tasted, and sealed the deal on moving further out. Six years later, that chicken is still pretty good (I also now have my own backyard brood). So is life in Sunshine West.

Jakin Ravalico is a Melbourne engineer.

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