Category Archives: The Public Bar

Workman’s Weekly

20 Wednesday Jan 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Mens, The Public Bar

≈ 31 Comments

Workman’s weekly.

You knew the week-end was coming to the end on any Sunday afternoon, rain or shine. A kind of gloom set in as if any enjoyment should never have been trusted in the first place. The suburban strips of hooded shops and steel awnings were closed up, and dogs and people had disappeared. Was this not the time on a Sunday afternoon to expect the arrival of the “Demon of Noontide’?

Some of the tens of thousands across Sydney and other places would now be getting ready for the routine of obtaining the ticket to work by rail during the week. In those days a weekly train ticket was the best option for those that did not yet have a car. This ticket was called ‘workman’s weekly’. It was coloured a cheerful red and had both the destination and the year’s week number printed on it. Next week the same colour but the next number would be featured.

It is rather nice to know that in those days, a workman and his workman’s ticket was part of a society that had not yet discovered the stigma that would later attach itself to the word ‘workman’ by some. How many would now saunter up to a rail station, let alone buy a” workman’s weekly ticket”?

Of course, to avoid queuing on Monday morning in the thick of it all, the better planned would get the ticket from the nearest railway station on the Sunday afternoon.

Therefore there would often be a slight flare up of life and respite from the ‘Sunday demon’ between four and six pm or so, especially around the railway stations, when one could see fellow workers, so staunch and brave, facing the coming week with an heroic and fearless grim determination to buy his weekly ticket.. Oddly enough, those tickets, as far as I remember, could also be bought by work-women. Perhaps I am wrong here. Was there some sort of letter of proof from employer that one was engaged in physical work?

Monday mornings were so much better for having survived the Sunday, another week and another quid was now coming up, we are talking about seventeen pounds ten shillings per week here, being about the average adult wage, back in 1956. It was mid-summer.

The trains had sliding doors that were manually wrenched open by burley blue yakka’ed station attendants. The waiting workers would flick away the Ready Rub fag end and all would align and board the train.

The trains then, as perhaps still now, were of a past era but very much accepted as being modern, almost in vogue. There were no toilets or water on board, so passengers would develop strong constitutions and camel like water retaining attributes and bladders, even travel by late pregnant women would be undertaken with no worries. The date on the steel couplings between carriages was around 1932 or 34 and above the seats were still those brass ornate luggage racks, now keenly sought by inner city residents to use as holders for their terracotta potted geraniums.

The workmen and their workman’s tickets were of the norm then and so were men in overalls and travelling women with hair curlers. The trains would be packed.

Heralds and Telegraph papers would be spread open and many women would knit, young men would glance through Post and Pix magazines, with photos of girls in swimwear revealing nude knees and even feet. The afternoon papers, Mirror and Sun featured scandalous stories of Princess Margaret’s romances and titillating scandals of Professors at Tasmanian Universities. Every six months or so, when sales were down, papers would print front page with a single word ‘WAR’. It was often a fracas in Egypt or disturbance in Malaysia. But the paper’s edition went sky high.

As the train arrived, its passengers would be disgorged and new ones would hop on, perhaps shift workers going home on the reverse trip.

Many workers carried those big bags that clipped together at the sides and would bulge downwards. Inside those bags one could easily have discovered tinned containers with clip on lids that held the previous night’s dinner leftovers. Those tucker tins and other goodies would then be eaten after the factory siren heralded the thirty minutes lunch break.

A lot of work carried out in factories was done by unskilled or semi skilled workers. It often involved very repetitive work, day in day out arms and hands sometimes combined with feet would perform the same movements all day. Those movements sometimes also had a counter on the machine and a minimum number of movements were required per day. To make extra money, it was encouraged to do more movements with working faster or taking shorter breaks. Often safety shields on machinery would be disengaged for extra speed, risking workers losing hands or limbs by compromising on safety.

But what sustenance the men derived from their tucker boxes of the previous night’s morsels, many women would get for tuppence out of the slotted coin machines fastened on the wall next to the bundy clock, in the form of headache powders. The bundy clock was that dreaded invention that would stamp arrival and finishing times at the factory.  Some stricter regimes also had time for lunch breaks recorded on those machines.

The bundy clock

It wasn’t so much the headache or other ailment those women suffered from, no it was more for the enjoyment of ‘getting a lift’, as I was often told. It was also not the single occasional paper foil of headache powder, no, three or four a day, and every day. Are you a bit sick, I asked? “No no, it picks me up you know, it makes me feel a bit better”.

Years later, when thousands of women developed liver and kidney ailments it was blamed on those headache powders, the ingredient of phenacetin was the culprit. Many women ended up with all sorts of organ breakdowns through their overuse.

I sometimes thought that in those times, with the six o’clock swill at the ‘Locomotive or Cricketer’s Arm’ and similar, and those men pissing money on boots and porcelain, with pyjama clad kids hanging around pubs waiting and hoping daddy would come home soon for dinner, had a lot to do with the ‘lift’ that those factory women were getting and needing out of the tuppence phenacetin loaded headache powder slot machines.

Then there were those that did not have clip on bags nor clipped tucker boxes. These were the recently arrived Europeans from complicated countries and backgrounds. Thick accents, some heavily vowel rounded, others guttural consonantly. Many silently doing the factory processing work, week in and out, bending over machinery, often imported from their home country, making bolts and nuts or putting thread on same.

Hungarians, Czechs, and Slavs with professorial demeanours and qualifications from Giessen or Vienna and with Cum Laude as well, doing now in factories what the Bill O’Reilly’s had done for generations. These were the times of ‘workman’s tickets, factory work and European migration’.

The Adventures of Mongrel and The Runt – Part 03 “Mongrel Saves The Day For A Perfect Evening”

15 Friday Jan 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar, Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 35 Comments

 

The Ordinance Inspector's ute in the days when he still cared to keep it clean - outside the Molong Town Hall .

Story and Pic by Warrigal Mirriyuula

The Emergency Department of any small country hospital is used to trauma, even major trauma. You may get gunshot wounds and stabbings in the big cities, and of course there’s always the motor vehicle accidents. You get those in the country too; but you don’t get the crushing and penetrating trauma you get off the farms.

So it was no surprise to the young attendant when Sister MacGillicuddie, spying the bloodied young man being helped through her doors, had stepped out from behind the reception area and taken efficient, no nonsense charge of the still bleeding Inspector. She took his weight on her big shoulders and helped him to a gurney in the curtained triage area. The young attendant, now with nothing to do, ambled about the reception, poking and sticky beaking for a bit, trying to hear what was being said behind the curtain without making it too obvious. He heard something about “no fracture”, “there’s a lot of blood here”, and he heard the young Inspector draw his breath in and moan slightly as Sister cleaned the wound.  “You’re going to need some serious stitching. I’ll better call Dr. Wardell.” She left the injured young man holding a wad of cotton wool and gauze to his head and went off to make the phone call.

The young attendant watched as Sister walked briskly up the centre of the hospital’s one general ward, her starched white sister’s veil looking like some Chesley Bonestell space illustration he’d seen in Life magazine. The phone was at the other end. She’d be gone a minute or two. He slipped behind the curtain and took a look at the young Ordinance Inspector. Half his face was developing a beaut bruise centred on the injury hidden under the wad he gingerly held to his hairline. He’d be alright the attendant thought.

“Listen mate, I gotta get back to the roadhouse. You’ll be alright. Old Wardell’ll stitch you like a Sunday school sampler. A handsome scar. The girls love a scar.” He put his hands in the pockets of his greasy overalls and swung on the spot for a moment.

The Ordinance Inspector, still holding his head looked up and wanly said “Thanks. Really thanks, I dunno what might have happened. Those bloody dogs might’ve tried to eat me.”

“Mongrel and The Runt!??! The young attendant just laughed. “Don’t be bloody silly man! It was Mongrel came and got me. He must think a lot of you that dog. He’s not one to put himself out unless there’s food in it for ‘im.” Something occurred to him. “What were ya doin’ up there anyway?

The young inspector took an inward look at himself. Molong wasn’t working out for him. Christ, he couldn’t even catch a couple of stray dogs without making a complete cock up of the entire issue. “I don’t know. I really just don’t know.” he sighed. Nothing seemed to make much sense. “I suppose I’ll have to buy those dogs a steak.” He tried to stand up and shake the attendants hand but was still too groggy and slumped back against the edge of the already rolling gurney. The attendant grabbed him and ensuring he was upright got the gurney back and helped him to lie down.

“Thanks again.” The inspector lay back with his eyes closed. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Billy, Billy Martin. Me an me brothers run the roadhouse.” He held out his oily right hand but of course the inspector’s eyes were still shut. Billy looked at the filthy paw and self-consciously withdrew it.

“Well thanks Billy. I’m Algernon, Algernon Hampton.” He opened his eyes and looked at Billy.

“Jesus, is that ya real name? S’bit Biggles init? Algernon? He said the name as if it actually had a bad smell on it. “What’a ya friends call ya?” He was genuinely convinced that no one would call him by that name.

“I’m not sure I’ve got any friends. Well not this side of the Victorian border.” He sighed again.

“Now ya just bungin’ on the agony.” Billy laughed. “It’s just a bump on the bonce mate. You’ll be right as rain in a few days. Anyway look, I gotta go or my idiot brothers’ll burn the place down or somethin’ worse. Come out and see me when ya get outa here. I’m always there.”

He turned and pulled the curtain aside just as Sister was about to do the same from the other direction. Old Wardell was bringing up the rear. The three of them outlined a complex rondel of apology and side stepping which ended with Sister barking, “Oh for goodness sake, Billy! Just get out of the way! You shouldn’t be in here anyway with your filthy clothes and hands!”

“See ya Sister, Doc. See ya “Head Case.” Billy called back, feeling better not using that other name. He ran outside, jumped in the ute and took off.

Sister sniffed a peremptory sniff. “Head Case indeed.” She muttered. “Still, he’s the only decent one amongst those brothers. Idle loafers except Billy.” She turned back to the Doctor and the patient. Doctor Wardell was looking at the dark blood oozing in vermilion beads along the laceration. The patient’s eye was beginning to close and the bruising was swollen and darkening to an ugly crimson purple. He looked like he’d done fifteen with Dave Sands.

While Sister prepared the curved needles with fine gut, Doctor Wardell did some very fine and fancy stitching. Particularly at the point in the laceration where a side cut produced two small flaps of skin that didn’t want to sit flat. He’d looked at the wound for several minutes in silence. The young Inspector looking up through his one open eye thought the old boy had dropped off, but then the doctor had said, “Right that’s how we do it.” and with much muttering at the tiny fine stitches and some help from Sister the wound was finally closed, cleaned and disinfected once more, and a clean dressing applied to soak up the little blobs of bloody ooze.

The doctor washed his hands in the basin and said over his shoulder. “Algernon isn’t it?” He turned and flicked the water from his hands onto the floor before drying them on a towel from the dispenser. Finishing up by drying between his fingers, he threw the damp wad of linen at the small laundry bin. It missed and fell onto the floor. Sister tisked audibly at the liberty the doctor took.

“Algernon you’ve had a very severe knock, you’re concussed and still suffering from a little shock, but your pulse is strong and regular. I’ve managed to close the wound nicely and the scar shouldn’t be too grotesque.” He puffed a little with an old man’s pride in a simple task done very well. The quality of his suturing was known throughout the district. “I’m a bit concerned about that eye though; and of course, as with all head cases, it’s best to wait a day or two to see what happens with your vision and memory, cognitive skills. That sort of thing.” He began to pack his bag. “I’ll get Sister to give you something to help you sleep and I’m recommending that you stay overnight or maybe until Monday morning. We might need to get Gruber out here from Bloomfield.” Bloomfield was a large psychiatric hospital located in Orange about 22 miles east. “He’s a specialist in these sorts of head cases.”

Algernon had heard about Bloomfield. “I’m not mad Doctor.” Algernon hurriedly interjected, “I’ve just had a crack on the scone.”

This amused Doctor Wardell and he had a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ll call him in his capacity as a specialist neurologist. You seem clear to me now but you never know.” He lightly gripped and squeezed the younger man’s arm. “Now you must get some sleep. I’ll drop in tomorrow morning.” He turned to Sister, “Give him a shot of phenobarb and make sure the nurse monitors his breathing through the night.” He pushed his stethoscope into his bag, snapped it shut and threw the brass latches. “Thank you Sister.”  Doctor Wardell did a stagey bow. “As usual your assistance has been both invaluable and reliable.” He smiled a broad gracious happy smile at her. “Oh go on with you Doctor. I’m not moved by such soft soap.” But you could see she really was.

The sun was going down and with the doctor gone, Sister had helped her patient into a bed in the general ward and given him his sleeping pill. There was only one other patient in the small ward. He was a snowy haired old bloke and he had his ear glued to a little portable radio while making notations in a newspaper with a stubby pencil. Algernon thought he recognised him and smiled a painful one eyed smile. The old boy turned and smiled back, then suddenly wincing in what was significant pain, “Kidney stones.” he said, as if each of those two simple words cost him an effort, sucking the air in between nearly clenched teeth. Algernon didn’t hear the rest, if there was any. He was already falling into a head throbbing barbiturate sleep.

Meanwhile Mongrel and The Runt had made their way down town. It was a beautiful Summer evening; warm air, clear skies and a light breeze. The dogs were hungry. They hadn’t eaten since MacCafferty’s that morning and after their eventful day they were on the hunt for some grub. They wandered all the way down Bank Street until they were outside the Freemasons. The front bar was noisy and still half full with the afternoon drinkers. They’d dissolve away over the next hour or two while the evening crowd crushed in for the darts tournament. There was twenty quid in it for the winner and a money prize always drew a big crowd of punters who’d wager loudly through out the bar. They’d bet on a single spear, they’d bet on doubles and triples, they bet on individual players and the teams comp; in fact they’d bet on anything. There was a roster for the cockatoo so no one bloke missed all the action. Hundreds of hard earned pounds would change hands on the grand final match at the end of the evening. Blokes’d be cadging smokes and botting beers ‘til next payday if it didn’t go their way; and it had gone that way very badly indeed a few years ago. A ring in team from Bathurst had turned up pretending they were the regulars from St Pat’s. One of them however was a past state and national champion. After blundering through the early rounds, the ring in had just turned it on and torn the locals apart. The ring’d taken the local punters for a little more than was thought fair in a country town. The issue had been settled a few weekends later at a dance in Blayney when one of the more robust locals made short work of the bloke who’d organised the ring and fixed the tournament. There had been talk of hand injuries to the ersatz champ but the kybosh was put on that as going too far. He was a former genuine champion after all. He ended up with a black eye and a fat lip instead. The St Pat’s team had played fair ever since.

There was nothing to eat at the Freemasons but both dogs could smell BBQ on the breeze so they set off to find it. It wasn’t far. Just up Bank Street at the Telegraph. Clarrie had decided it was such a nice night they’d have some music and spit roast a couple of pigs in the courtyard out the back of the pub. They’d been on the spit for about half an hour and the delicious smell of sizzling pig fat and crackling had drawn Mongrel and The Runt as though on leads being wound in by the turning of the spit. The courtyard out the back of the Telegraph had originally been an ostlers yard for the Cobb and Co coaches that carried the western mail before the railways. The courtyard was connected to Bank Street by a carriageway large enough to take big coaches and four. Mongrel didn’t hesitate and ran through into the courtyard where Clarrie was basting the dripping pigs with a paintbrush. “G’day Mongrel” Clarrie called as the dog ran up to him and sat down at his feet, looking from Clarrie to the pigs and back to Clarrie.

“Ya hungry mate? Where’s The Runt?” Clarrie looked around and then spied The Runt sitting in the shadows of the carriageway. He turned the carriageway light on and the smaller dog flinched a little. “Well come on then,” Clarrie said to The Runt, as he got down on his haunches, “Come on in. I won’t bite you.” but the little dog didn’t move. He just sat there against the wall in the carriageway. “Suit yourself Runt.” Clarrie said equably, knowing the little dog’s ways. He got up and went into the pub.

Emboldened by the departure of the man, The Runt joined Mongrel by the spit in the courtyard. In a moment Clarrie was back with a bowl loaded up with a couple of bones and some old lamb chops that had seen fresher days.  Clarrie took the food over by the old stables. The dogs followed. Clarrie dumped the meat on the cobbles and filled the dish with water from a tap on the wall. “There ya go boys. That’ll sort ya out.” He gave Mongrel a ruffle on the top of his head but The Runt was keeping Mongrel between him and Clarrie. “You’re a funny little bloke Runt. You really are.” Clarrie smiled and shook his head and went back to basting the pigs.

The dogs wolfed down the chops and lapped and slopped their way through a good drink. Then, selecting a meaty bone each, settled down to give them a good chewing. The Runt looked up from his bone and across at Clarrie occasionally. Clarrie wasn’t a bad human, and he had just fed Mongrel and The Runt, and he always felt friendly and had that sweet beer smell, but for The Runt people were a problem. A dog just couldn’t be sure if or when they’d turn on you. It was always better to be cautious. He kept an eye out for Clarrie but, like Mongrel, having had a good feed, the next pressing issue was a snooze. The dogs lay down together on an old sugar bag in a corner. They were both asleep in minutes.

The pigs turned, Clarrie basted, an odd assortment of locals turned up with guitars and fiddles and harmonicas. Beryl, Clarrie’s wife, loaded an old trestle table with salads and fresh bread, plates and eating iron. When the dogs woke up the courtyard was full of people. Mongrel noticed the young bloke from the roadhouse talking with Clarrie as Clarrie carved into the first pig. The young bloke was a freshly bathed pink and wearing an ironed shirt. Mongrel could smell the odd mix of mechanical swarf and soap all the way over in his corner. He seemed excited and Clarrie was hanging on his every word, looking over at Mongrel and The Runt from time to time as the young bloke told his tale. When the young bloke finished he stood back slightly and winked over at Mongrel as Clarrie just looked at the dogs, his mouth slightly open. Then as if gathering his senses he shook his head and laughed. “I’ll be buggered!” he exclaimed.

It was one of those nights when everything was right in Molong. As Algernon the young Ordinance Inspector slept his deep barbiturate sleep, the evolutionary miracle of regeneration repairing his battered bonce, aided no doubt by the painkillers and a shot of anti inflammatory Sister had thought prudent to add to his chart, the town enjoyed a memorable night.

It wasn’t that anything particularly exciting or important happened. They seldom do in country towns. It was that everyone who came into town that night found company enough, a good feed, a yarn and a joke. Many danced, some sang, every body that could, played an instrument or two. Raconteurs found ready audiences and drank well and deeply in every corner of The Telegraph and The Freemasons. Lies were told, myths were remembered. Even the Rev. Gamsby came down from St Johns to the Telegraph and danced with Beryl while Clarrie played congenial host. The company and communion of people just like themselves, with whom they shared a kind of spirit of place. Just like the old blackfellas; like Yuranigh whose grave was just out of town. It was a magic night. Even The Runt had a great time after Porky turned up at the Telegraph. They’d stayed together all night while Mongrel played the show off. Singing along with the fiddler, doing his entire repertoire of leaping tricks, nudging all and sundry for bits of pork crackling. Mongrel really liked pork crackling.

Down at The Freemasons the local team won the darts. Even those blokes that’d lost more than they could easily explain to the missus went home feeling good, and some of them that had won went home not a little amorous. What’s more, while a lot of beer was drunk and there certainly were many sore heads the next morning; on that magic night there were no fights, no crashes and no one embarrassed themselves on the way home. In fact every one went to their bed happy and safe.

It was special in its very ordinariness, but the most interesting thing that happened that night was that the people of Molong, having heard of the injured young man and the story of Mongrel’s run for help, began to think differently about the young Ordinance Inspector. He became one of them. No longer an outsider. The very rocks the town was named after had reached out and knocked away the past. In a curious way Mongrel, having run for help, had conferred on the young Inspector the same welcome he and The Runt knew from the people of Molong. It would be said around town that if this young bloke was good enough for Mongrel and The Runt, he was good enough for Molong.

Clarrie, having cleaned up the courtyard and shared a last port with Beryl in the cool night air, turned off the light in the carriageway and went in the back door of the pub. He turned around in the doorway with his finger on the courtyard light switch. He could hear Beryl climbing the creaking stairs to their apartments at the back of the hotel. He looked across the courtyard and saw Mongrel and The Runt curled up together on the old sugar bag. The Runts little back leg was kicking slightly. Clarrie smiled and snapped the switch off.

As he climbed the stairs after Beryl his smile broadened a little. He’d loved it when Beryl and the reverend were dancing. He’d remembered the bush dance at Cumnock all those years ago when Beryl was a slight and shy young girl and he was a diffident young man just back from the war. As he stepped onto the top landing he realised in an almost overwhelming moment how much he loved his wife and family, how much he cared for the people of this little town, how good his life was, how rich.

The lights went out in Clarrie and Beryl’s apartments. Most everybody else in town was already asleep. A few wispy clouds slid over the moon and the stars twinkled in the deep blue black of the western sky. Every now and then a dog barked or a curlew called as Molong dreamed a new day into beginning.

A Baha’i Barbeque

12 Tuesday Jan 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar

≈ 23 Comments

Picture 1: Farid’s daughter (obscured) plays guitar for a game of Pass the Parcel, whenever the music stops a prize is unwrapped.

Picture 4: The final prize is cleverly engineered to be ‘won’ by Farid.

Picture 5: At the end of the game, everyone piles onto Farid for a ‘group hug’.
Picture 6: Even the adults want to get in on the act as the group hug expands! Farid is evidently a very popular man!
Picture 7: Farid examines his ‘loot’.
Picture 8: A budding rockstar! This young lad (all of 10 years old!) and I had a brief but enjoyable ‘jam’ session, which was only let down by my lack of knowledge of ‘heavy metal’… And he let me play that gorgeous guitar too!

A Baha’i Barbeque

By

Astyages

As you all know, on Sunday 3rd of January (a week ago yesterday) I went to a barbeque held by one of Adelaide’s several local Baha’i communities in the parklands next to the Aquatic Centre in North Adelaide. It was a lovely day with temperatures much more pleasant than those we have been experiencing for the last few days. Before I talk about the barbie itself, however, let me tell you all why an agnostic amateur anthropologist like myself is so interested in this relatively new religion:

Baha’is believe that throughout history God has revealed himself to humankind through the words of a series of divine messengers, which have included, Abraham, Krishna, Zoroaster, Moses, Buddha, Jesus, and Muhammad. The teachings of these ‘prophets’, whom the Baha’is refer to as ‘Divine Mirrors’ because the message and light of the same, unique Divinity is reflected in them, have the nature of a ‘progressive revelation’. Each of the ‘Mirrors’ reflects a particular message for a particular people at a particular period in time; hence the need for more than one ‘prophet’. The religions founded by these ‘Mirrors’ all come from the same source and represent successive chapters in the development of what is essentially one religion, which comes from God.

The latest of these ‘prophets’ or ‘Mirrors’ is the Baha’i prophet from whose name they derive the name of their Faith, Baha’u’lah, who said that, “The earth is but one country and mankind its citizens,” and that, as foretold in all the ancient scriptures of the past, now is the time for Humanity to live in unity, according to God’s plan. Bahá’ís believe that the most crucial need facing humanity at present is to find a unifying vision of the nature and purpose of life and of the future of society. Such a vision, they believe, is revealed in the writings of Bahá’u’lláh.

They also believe that:

  • All humanity is one family.
  • Women and men are equal.
  • All prejudice, racial, religious, national or economic is destructive and must be overcome.
  • We must investigate the truth for ourselves, without preconceptions.
  • Science and religion are in harmony.
  • Our economic problems are linked to our spiritual problems.
  • The family and its unity are very important.
  • There is one God.
  • World peace is the crying need of our time.

Those piglets who have followed some of my debates on the subject of religion on ‘that other blog’ will perhaps recognize how very similar these beliefs are to some of my own, and although I personally still think that when Humanity finally grows up it will need its god(s) about as much as your average adult needs the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, I think that if any kind of religion is acceptable, it would surely be one such as this, with its emphasis on egalitarianism and the unity of the whole Human species.

This emphasis can be seen by observing the manner in which they organize events, which are very much all group efforts, emphasizing harmony and cooperation. I was also impressed by the emphasis on non-competitive games, as will be seen by the example of a game of Pass the Parcel, which I observed and photographed.

The Baha’i version of this game is quite different from the game I grew up with and used to play at birthday parties, school Christmas parties etc. In this perhaps more traditional version of the game, as the parcel is passed around a circle of players, the player who is left holding the parcel when the music stops unwraps a single layer of paper until finally after many, many layers of wrapping have been removed, the person who unwraps the final piece of paper is left holding the prize and is deemed, the winner; all other players are ‘losers’.

The Baha’i version of this game, however is different: as each layer of paper is removed a prize is revealed and whoever unwraps it keeps the prize thus ‘won’. The layers are cleverly alternated so that prizes which suit girls alternate with prizes which suit boys; a clever musician can thus make sure that everyone playing the game receives a prize; there are NO losers; everyone’s a winner!

All in all, I must say that I much prefer the Bahai version of ‘Pass the Parcel’! And if I were to ‘believe’ in any kind of religion at all, it would be one such as this, although I wonder if the Baha’is have heard of a similar religion which emerged recently in South-East Asia, Kao Dai… I must check that one out too!

Above are a few photos from the event which I hope will be self-explanatory, although I should perhaps point out that my new friend, Farid, is a teacher of Baha’i doctrine to many of the children present.

Picture 2: Girls’ and boys’ toys are alternately unwrapped; a lot of thought went into the preparation of this game!

Picture 3: A clever musician knows how to ensure that everyone gets a prize; everyone’s a winner; there are NO losers!

Craven A and spittle.

05 Tuesday Jan 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Public Bar

≈ 10 Comments

The cleaning at Roger’s Chains factory lasted just a few weeks, by which time I had earned some money which I gave towards the family for saving better accommodation.  I kept some which I put in a tin. My regular weekly spending was for a small packet of Graven A filter cigarettes, and the occasional orange drink called Fanta.  An apple pie, just once a week was a special treat.

My next job, without even losing one day was at another engineering factory, just a few streets behind the old job. It was run and owned by a man with just one leg. I seemed to be destined to meet creatures with missing limbs! Why was that so? Was life so fraught with accidents or danger here in Australia, that, people, dogs and cars would so casually go without important parts? The owner’s other leg was made of something artificial, perhaps wood, that used to creak when he slowly walked around the factory floor.  Did the leg’s hinges need lubricating?

His house was just in front of the factory. I sometimes used to see the wife.  She was very prim and proper and polite; contend to mind the petunias in the front garden, and keeping well away from the factory. The factory owner always had a cigarette hanging from his mouth which made the (bad)word fucking even more sinister sounding. The F seemed to go on forever, hissing with spittle as a lubricant. He did obey the rule though of never saying that in front of his wife.

The job of cleaning the factory floor was sometimes relieved by learning to work on machinery, a capstan lathe and milling machines, making nuts or bolts, putting threads on them, in fact, a bit of skill creeping into my daily routine. In the meantime I had saved for an old bicycle and saved bus money by travelling to and from work by bike.

The job was not what I intended to do when still back in Holland. I had some vague idea of studying to become an aircraft engineer. Sweeping a factory and buying lunches for factory workers was not all that inspiring, nor was the blatant homosexual capers that used to be played out very edifying. The non-stop pretend buggering was endemic, and the tolerance towards it staggering. Here was a really curious bit of factory culture. Most of the adult workers were married, had families or if not married, spoke about their girlfriends. Yet, it was almost as if all that homosexual pretend buggering was proof of being hetero sexual. To not partake in it, as I refused to do, was considered to be sissy. The social gatherings at that time showed similar traits. To be with women at a party was seen as having ‘poofter’ inclinations. You would not want to be seen with the opposite sex as this was being ‘soft’ and not masculine. Perhaps it had again something to do with the acute shortage of women during those penal times some decades before, and many just had to do with what was available and that was each other, and of the same sex. Old habits die hard. Another habit was to stick fingers up an unexpected worker’s bum through overalls or apron.  It was called ‘dating’.

Bucket Pissing and Apple Pies.

04 Monday Jan 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Public Bar

≈ 8 Comments

Anyway, as stated, mum took things in her own hand and despite having hardly any English took it upon her to salvage family. She dragged me and Frank around an employment agency and immediately found work. My first wage was about 4pounds and 5 shillings, but with overtime this could easily become 6 pounds. Frank, with his difficult behaviour and bouts of anger would go through many jobs, each time it seemed as if jobs were available almost everywhere one applied. My dad also finally got out of bed and after a few jobs in blue overalls managed to get a technical job that he knew something about. Telephone equipment was his expertise and he seemed happy in that, it offered some security.

The old house was noisy to the extent that in the mornings the daughters of the Van Dijks of which there were four, took turns pissing loudly in a bucket which was just on the other side of a rather flimsy partition, knocked together by Mr V.Dijk to give our quarters some sort of privacy. The privacy was a bit three legged as well, but we took great joy in the sound of their bucket noises and used to holler out Dutch coarse words, followed with great laughter and mirth making. It was a bit of relief from the hardship!

Three legged dog

My introduction to work was about at the time when dad was in the middle of his six weeks bedded down with a melancholy and deep depression. The pissing daughters next to the flimsy partition, the rats and three legged dog and car, took its toll. My first job was cleaning the floor of “Roger’s Chains”, which was a big metal shed factory with many men working machinery making links of chains, large and small. The part that I liked most was the ordering of the factory workers lunches. Meat pies, apple pies and soft drinks. I was amazed how some of them would just eat only half and throw the rest out, on the floor. I was almost tempted to eat those remnants, but did not for fear of getting infected with something horrible. The main problem was understanding the Australian accent or slang. I did notice one word that kept cropping up and seemed to be repeated in almost every third or fourth word. I decided to ask the Van Dijks. What is this fukking or fucgling or fouging, I asked them?  Now, you would have thought that their Dutch background would have immediately come to the rescue and explain the meaning of that word. No word in Dutch was something to be ashamed off. Sure, there are coarse words; even so, they are still just words. Instead, their assimilation to Australia and it’s culture was so successful that they immediately went into that silly world of sniggering and evasively trying to convey that there was something absolutely terrible going on with that word, without giving the requested explanation.

They finally told me that the word was bad and that it was alright for men to talk like that but never ever in front of a woman, how curious. Not using certain words in front of a woman? What was going on here? The next bit of salient advice from the Van Dijks was to always say, beggepayrden. If you don’t understand something, just say; beggepayrden. When passing someone on the bus, peggepayrden again. Well, beggepayrden we all did. I beg your pardon!

L’aubergade

31 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Dining Room, The Public Bar

≈ 15 Comments

Just when my reminiscing had calmed down and were having our second coffee in bed, up came the subject of popular inner city restaurants. I suppose, the period between the eighties and mid nineties. We had kids that were grown up enough not to need minding and enough dosh to occasionally go for a nosh. L’ironique was French and next door almost to our flower shop ‘Bloomsbury’. It was always good value and the peppery steak mignon with cantarelli mushrooms was my favourite. A great pity the owners walked out after that disastrous Rainbow Warrior affair in New Zealand  in 1985,when many locals turned against anything French, including L’ironique restaurant. The couple running it were actually from Belgique.

This is the reason of the picture of my first bike. I spent time in Southern Belgium just after the war when the Rotterdam quack reckoned I was too close to expiring and in dire need of good and more tucker than my mother could provide. I developed as a first language French and mes parents could not understand me when I finally returned after adequately been fattened up, mainly by bucket loads of mussels. I can still see steaming pots of them. Those temporary foster Belgians gave me that bike and had a large garden in which I was fascinated by all things flying, especially butterflies for which the kind people had given me a net to try and catch them.

The next best restaurant was in Cleveland street, Surrey Hills named L’aubergade. I feel it could still be there. They survived the anti French period. Another beauty but Italian was La Lupa, first in Surrey Hills and later in Balmain. I used to love their grilled liver soaked first in lemon juice.

Another Italian place in Liberty Street, Stanmore was the one for veal and oregano (saltimbocca). It was a family run restaurant in a large converted house.  I have forgotten the name.

So, there you are. My first bike. Mike has put me off the H Davison, I suppose too big and heavy, too US too. Think will contemplate the Duke. I saw a yellow one here in Goulburn, very sleek.

All the best for everyone but especially all the piglets in the New Year.

Gerard.

The Adventures of Mongrel and The Runt – Part 2 “Dogcatcher in The Rye”

29 Tuesday Dec 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar, Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 38 Comments

 

 

Dogital mischief by Warrigal

by Warrigal Mirriyuula

At dusk one Friday evening Mongrel and The Runt were checking out some old wombat burrows on the stony hillside across the creek from the baths. Not one of their regular haunts but they had been up here before. This time they fell in with a wombat grazing on the good grass in the swales between the bigger rock outcrops. After the dogs’ arrival the wombat seemed only to want to play. Unfortunately the way the wombat played was a bit too much for The Runt, so he retired to circle work the perimeter, only lunging in now and then to deliver a quick nip to the wombats bum, and then run away yapping like a fool. Mongrel and the wombat tumbled and ran, barked and grunted, nipped and bit and had a riot of a time. Then, the wombat seemed to have had enough and just wandered off to a burrow and disappeared down it. No amount of barking and whining or clawing at the entrance by the pair of dogs would draw the wombat back out.

At a loss for what to do without the wombat, they wandered back to town and hung out on the pavement out side Jimmy’s Chinese Takeaway. It was a good spot on a Friday evening. Blokes who’d won a meat tray at The Freemasons or the Telegraph always dropped in for “a bit’a’chink ta take ‘ome to the missus”. Mongrel and The Runt, being everyone’s best friend when meat was in the offing, could rely on one of the homeward wending drunks to generously toss them the bits of the meat tray they didn’t want. The Runt particularly liked it when “Porky” Miller won the tray. He’d actually come looking for them. Full of beer and not really certain of himself, he’d unsteadily get down on his haunches and hand feed The Runt the offal. The Runt loved lambs brains and kidneys and liver, and Porky was the only person in town that The Runt would actually approach. Porky always took the time to the give The Runt a scratch and a cuddle and quietly called him “Butch” when they were alone. If The Runt were ever tempted to retire from the life of a dog about town, it’d be Porky’s bed he’d be looking to sleep under and he wouldn’t mind being called “Butch” either. They had a lot in common Porky and The Runt. Porky was a Fairbridge boy and hadn’t had too easy a time of it when he was young. When sober he was reliable, hard working and taciturn. When drunk he was garrulous, generous to a fault and prone to singing old scouting songs badly and loudly; except outside Jimmy’s with The Runt, where he became a quiet, gentle man with love to spare for an ugly little stray dog. Mongrel left them alone. Porky’s pickings were always for The Runt.

This particular evening, as Mongrel went through his “sit”, “drop”, “rollover” routine for the amusement of the assembled Friday drunks outside Jimmy’s, Porky and The Runt went into their private collogue and all was right on Bank Street.

Neither dogs nor men particularly noticed the Holden ute with the Victorian plates pull up. Nor was it a matter of concern when a young man got out and wandered into Jimmy’s. He was obviously a bit of a dude with his polished RM Williams boots matching the shine on the backside of his new moleskins, and there wasn’t a scratch or a spot of rust on the tray in the back of the ute. One of the drunks then noticed that the dealer tag stuck in the back window of the Holden said some place in Caulfield.

“City boy”, thought the drunk, sluggishly remembering that Caulfield was in Melbourne, “’e’s a long way from ’ome.” But that was all. In time the young dude came out with his takeaway, got back in the ute and drove away.

Apart from a quick check between “rollovers” to see who had brought the stink, (the young dude was wearing aftershave and Mongrel had never smelled that stink on any of the locals), Mongrel and The Runt continued oblivious to this new human. Probably just passing through, he didn’t amount to anything of concern to two dogs about town. Yet.

Soon enough it was known around Molong that the new chum had come to town after being appointed the new Ordinance Inspector for the Cabonne Council. Some low watt bulb in local government, no doubt thinking that an outsider would have less trouble ticketing the locals for any infraction of the Ordinance Code, had chosen him on the basis of the distance from which he applied. He had encouraged the dude to relocate with offers of rural manhood, sustaining country air and subsidised housing. The dude didn’t know however that he was nothing more than ledger fodder in the eternal internecine warfare that constituted the local government apparatus. He had been reduced without his knowledge to an entry in a budget appropriation. Nobody, not even the man who had appointed him, cared whether he carried out his duties. He became the squarest of pegs in a peculiarly odd shaped hole called Molong. It was simple really. In a small place like this everybody that he ticketed for leaving their rubbish in the street, or not controlling the weeds on undeveloped land, or parking in the wrong place or in the wrong fashion; well they all knew the Mayor, a councillor or the head clerk or someone who could “fix” the ticket. Local government politics being what it is the fact was that only one of his tickets ever got processed and that one only got processed because the person to whom it had been given had moved away before his mate on the council could fix it.

To Mongrel and The Runt the new Ordinance Inspector was precisely nothing; except, from time to time, a lost molecule of that stinking aftershave. Weeks went by with out a sight of him while the dogs continued their rounds, making adventurous forays hither and yon and generally adding daily to their own legend. During this time it was becoming increasingly apparent to the new Ordinance Inspector that the only way he could prove himself lay in the provisions of the Local Government Dog Control Act and how that Act extended into his obligations as Ordinance Inspector. Pretty soon all the young dude’s time was taken up devising a dastardly plane to catch Mongrel and The Runt who were not only the most high profile strays in town, they were the only strays in town. He was, he realised, The Dogcatcher!

Sadly for him though, his growing knowledge of the layout of the town, never included the location of the dog’s nest at the abandoned ice works and he knew that he wouldn’t be adding to his popularity if he took the dogs in front of any of the locals. They seemed to hold Mongrel and The Runt in an unusually high regard that to his mind bordered on criminal abetment; they were after all strays. However, when the dogs’ names were mentioned in conversation around town he had noticed a fond and foolish tone creep into the voices of the speakers. In truth, as the young Ordinance Inspector began to feel increasingly irrelevant and unwanted in the town; so at the same time the friendship and fellow feeling between the townsfolk and the dogs had become all too confrontingly obvious. The dogs and their capture tipped from being an annoying problem to be resolved into the darker reaches of a driving obsession.

Country people are self-reliant people who don’t like interfering in other’s business. So it was that the townsfolk noted that the Inspector wasn’t issuing many infraction notices; they saw the decline in the young Ordinance Inspector but did not enquire as to his circumstances, nor did they interfere. They noticed he wasn’t as smartly turned out, his boots no longer shone and his shirts took on a crumpled look, as if he’d perhaps slept in them. He occasionally forgot to shave and he began to neglect his ute. It was beginning to look like any other farm ute. Its tray filling up with drifts of red dust and dry grass, rust setting in and the grill full of splattered bugs, the paintwork pitted with stone chips and sundry small dings and bends where he’d encountered the ubiquitous granite blocks lurking in the longer grass.

It all came to a head on another Friday night. Sick at heart and tired of the futility of his pointless job, the Ordinance Inspector had dropped into Jimmy’s for some fried rice with braised chicken and almonds. The usual drunks were their waiting on their orders or messing about with the dogs. Porky was loving The Runt up, whispering, “How are ya Butch, ay mate? ‘ad a good day?” and cadging bits from that night’s meat tray winner to feed him. Mongrel was doing his “leaping to grab the thrown morsel” act, barking excitedly between attempts as the drunks clapped and cheered his every effort. Everybody was happy except the dude. He was mumbling something to himself as he waited for his rice and chicken, alone inside, in the steamy, food smell suffused heat. He took his order and paid with bad grace, still mumbling to himself. Jimmy thought him maybe a bit mad and reminded himself that he better get that ticket fixed, the one for having an overflowing sullage trap out the back. He’d fixed the trap but forgotten to fix the ticket. He figured Macca up’t the council’d fix it for ‘im.

The dude came out onto the pavement and the look of contempt on his face left them all with no doubt what he thought of them and the dogs. “Bloody drunks, bloody dogs…” he spat, as he slipped on the gutter, almost losing his food and bringing a smirk to some of the assembled faces. As he got into the ute one of the drunks shouted, “Y’aughta calm down mate. Take it easy. Nothin’s that serious.”

The dude fumbled with his keys, finally getting them in and lighting up the ute. He crashed first and tore away.

“Bloody idiot, that bloke Butch.” Porky said gently to the small dog. “Doesn’t know ‘e’s alive.” The Runt didn’t care. He just rolled over in Porky’s lap so Porky could scratch his guts.

It was some time later as the young Ordinance Inspector looked at the cold gluggy remains of his meal in the spare little kitchen of his digs that he resolved to get those dogs no matter what; and there was no time for wasting. He’d do it tomorrow! No more messing about, they were strays and must be brought to heel.

He was up bright and early the next morning full of conviction. He assembled all the gear he thought he’d need in the back of the ute; net, control choker and his own recipe dog spray in the pump action dispenser. Ready and committed, he set off looking for Mongrel and The Runt.

Molong was quiet that clear clean early Saturday morning. Clarrie, the publican at The Telegraph was hosing down the pavement while he enjoyed a distracting smoke, a scratch and a look around. Old “’drews” from the newsagency was just getting back from his paper deliveries. His ancient battered, doorless VeeDub “dak dakking” up Bank Street, while Mrs. Hatter set out the fruit and veg display at her grocery. If you listened hard enough you could hear old MacCafferty out the back of his butchery, his cleaver “thunking” through the sides of lamb while his new sausage machine turned out a snarl of fat snowlers onto the stainless steel bench top.

The Ordinance Inspector was oblivious. He had his eyes out for the dogs only. He was still driving up and down the streets of the town some hours later when he spied, far off in the distance, the two dogs running up a hillside along the Wellington road.

Without a second thought and completely in the grip of his driving obsession to get Mongrel and The Runt, he dropped the ute a cog and planted his right foot.

To cut to the chase, he’d abandoned the ute after hitting one too many hidden blocks of granite as he drove wildly up the hillside, the ute drifting and skidding on the crushed rye grass pasture sown on the hillside for cattle fodder . He’d grabbed the net and run after the dogs who were by this time running along the rocky ridge line, stopping every now and then to turn and bark at the madman pursuing them through the rye. He wasn’t going to catch them and he wasn’t going to give up so the dogs thought he must want to play. It was a dog logic thing.

Mongrel turned and began to run towards the mad young man. The Runt was less certain and brought up the rear at a distance that provided for a quick getaway should it become necessary. As Mongrel came into range the young man flung the net with all his might. It expanded out as it turned lazily through a high arc of air. Mongrel thinking this was a new game, barked madly as he dodged the descending net and then just as quickly turned and took a mouthful of rope and began to run back towards the young man. The young dude was flabbergasted. What to do now? But the dog just dropped the net near him and barked at him as if to say, “Do it again!” The Runt kept his distance, this didn’t feel right to him and he remembered Porky not feeling right about this man, who even now was picking the net up and preparing another throw. Mongrel barked a few more happy snappy barks as he ran in and out waiting for the throw but the dude was doing some fancy footwork, feinting towards Mongrel, and to the side, as if to find the best launching point. It was all part of the game to Mongrel, his great wet red tongue all the way out as he dragged in huge breaths of air and shadowed the dudes every move.

The net was airborne again! It was a bad throw and it fell out of the air in a clump as Mongrel easily jumped aside. At the same time the young man lost his footing in the mashed rye and fell forward into a clump of longer grass. There was a thud and the young man lay very still.

Mongrel didn’t want the game to be over and barked at the prone figure a few more times. Then realising how tired he was, he collapsed in the grass for a good long pant.

Some time passed and the young man didn’t move. Mongrel wasn’t fussed but The Runt couldn’t contain his curiosity and hesitantly approached the man in the grass. As he got nearer he sensed there was something wrong. Very wrong. The man didn’t smell right, he wasn’t breathing right. The Runt barked his best big bark and jumped over the man. He could smell blood and noticed the grass was discoloured in places. He barked at Mongrel who got the message immediately and bounded over.

The dogs licked at the young Ordinance Inspector’s hair and nudged his face with their snouts. They gently pawed at his back but there was no response. This was very wrong and the dogs became anxious, keening and whining at the man a little. You can’t know what a dog knows, how a dog plans things or how they think, but they do, and sometimes it’s just confounding.

Mongrel took off down the slope as fast as he could go. The Runt barked him on but stayed with the unconscious young man. Mongrel took the fence down by the highway with barely the touch of a back claw and headed straight for the roadhouse. There’b be men there and they could make it right. He’s seen them do it before. When a man fell over, other men picked him up and he was alright. He bounded across the roadhouse forecourt, just missing being skittled by a departing truck, and barking madly went into the little office and jumped up on the desk scattering a pile of invoices and completely startling the attendant who fell backwards off his chair, before also getting the message and approaching the barking dog.

“What is it boy? C’mon Mongrel, what is it boy?” he leaned down towards the still barking dog. Mongrel grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him to the door where he let go and took off again up the highway. The attendant jumped in the roadhouse ute and took off up the highway after the dog. Only a mile up he suddenly pulled in.  The brakes locked up and he ended up against the clay berm in a cloud of dust and settling stones.  He’d seen Mongrel take the fence like it wasn’t there. It took him a little longer as he gingerly held the barbed wire wide enough to pass under. He saw the Ordinance Inspectors ute with the doors open, and a little way up towards the ridge, “Well I’ll be blowed!” he said to himself as he recognised The Runt sitting by the still unconscious body. He scrambled up the last of the hill and went down on his knees beside the young man. The dogs stood back anxiously awaiting an outcome. Looking at the drying blood the roadhouse attendant could see that the young bloke had fallen and hit his head on a rock. The skin was broken and bleeding, and he was unconscious, but otherwise he looked alright.

The attendant rolled the inspector over. He groaned a little. That was a good sign. Even the dogs thought so and came in to lick his face again. “No boys, leave ‘im alone,” the attendant said as he gently but firmly pushed the dogs away. “Let ‘im get some air.”

In time the young man came round enough to sit up on his own. He looked at the dogs in an unfocussed sort of way and hanging his bloodied head he intoned flatly, “Bloody dogs.”

Mongrel didn’t understand why he wasn’t pleased and looked at the man sideways to be sure he was getting the whole message. The Runt just figuring this was par for the course with ungrateful humans was remembering the feeling of what it was like with Porky.

“Y’aughta be more grateful mate.” said the attendant, not understanding the injured man’s attitude. “If it was’n’fa Mongrel ‘ere you’d still be out to it. As it is we can getcha up to the Hospital and getcha stitched up. You’ll be right as rain in the mornin’.” He gave Mongrel a quick ruffle on the top of his head and then helped the young man unsteadily to his feet.

After a slow and occasionally semiconscious climb down the slope and some difficulty getting through the fence, they all got in the ute, men in the front, dogs in the back, and drove off to the hospital. The dogs just loved the high speed trip to the Hospital. They hung their silly heads out over the side and lapped up the chaotic blustering wind of the slipstream in their faces. As the ute turned into the ambulance bay the dogs jumped out of the back, shook themselves and set off down town. The humans would take care of themselves and the dogs had places to be. They’d come back tomorrow, maybe, and check up on the young dude.

(It was a busy week for our canny canines and we still haven’t got to the bit where the dogs are chased through the hospital by an irate matron. That and more next week as things turn out nice again in Molong.)

Ecological Hoofprint

19 Saturday Dec 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

≈ 10 Comments

Let me first give some details about our lust for ‘crop and weed spraying’. BY 2006 our annual use of herbicides was over 18 000 tonnes and for insecticides over 8000 tonnes, fungicides another 3000 tonnes. This is the un-adulterated product. At a generally advised mix of 200 mls of the herbicide or insecticide per 100 litre of water that then gives every person (20.000.000 people) more than 600 litres of chemicals in which to spray crops, weeds. You could happily spray a litre per day and have plenty left at the end of the year. You can understand why we are leaving such an enormous ecological hoof/footprint every time when leaving the rural produce store. We are fond of chemicals.

Check it; www.environment.gov.au/soe/2006/publications/drs/indicator/196/index.html

So, once a year one receives a letter with a date whereupon a ‘Noxious Weed Inspector’ will come out to inspect weeds. He arrives in a large 4W drive car with a Shire logo painted on its doors and will ask how the poisoning of weeds is progressing. I generally act evasive and vague which is my nature and easy to comply with. He soon picks up on my lack of enthusiasm for spraying and killing dreaded weeds. After ten minutes or so of country banter we start on a walk towards the infestation of weeds along the river that might have survived or overcome the latest spraying of toxic poisons. I try and bring the conversation over to the subject of herbicide resistance. There is now a slight change in the demeanour of the Noxious Weed Inspector.

What makes a good Noxious Weed Inspector anyway? Do burning desires and ambitions lay dormant for years in a person before breaking out in an all consuming drive to become one? Is a fixation with weeds something one is born with, genetic predisposition perhaps? Are now, after all those years of study and hard work the essence of Weed Extermination in danger of being thwarted by “herbicide resistance”? How fickle life can be for Noxious Weed Inspectors.

www.weedresearch.com/summary/countrysummary.asp

We now have the world’s second largest list of   herbicide resistant weeds, 53 listed weeds resistant to herbicide, including the Serrated Tussock. Herbicide resistance is, simply put, the ability for plants to develop genetic change and become resistant to the poisons. Nature has this amazing ability and iron will to survive. It only takes mankind to really defeat them.

The problem is that most weeds thrive in areas that have been over-stocked, over cropped, over   fertilized and generally exploited for too long a period. Weeds are taking their revenge. The battle between farmers and weeds is not being won by the farmers it seems.

Our paddocks just have a very common but very invasive weed, Serrated Tussock. It is an escaped little plant from South America but the focus of much scorn and debate amongst Weed Inspector socials.  It is invasive but allowing paddocks to lay fallow and allow native vegetation to restore a balance again seems a better option than spraying.

We don’t make a living at all from farming, so for real farmers weeds are taking away part of their income. Certainly letting land fallow seems a luxury that not many can afford. However, the enormous cost of fighting weeds chemically might well become a worse option now. About 2.5 % percent of total farm cost in use of chemicals in 1988 has risen to 9% of total farm cost in 2006.

Monsanto is looking smug here.

Our weed inspector is not too keen on talk about herbicide resistance and quite rightly sees this as another attempt and an inroad on his authority to order killing weeds. He increases the speed of walking and furrows are now on his forehead. I appease and talk a little about the high cost of the chemicals recommended for killing weeds. The cost of those chemicals is between $350. – And $550. –  Per twenty litres.

He tells me he will impose an inspection cost/ fine of $110. – For any non compliance, he emphasises. Years of study, experience and inspectorial knowhow now come to the fore.

I casually tell him of NSW Water Catchment Authority and their concern of flow on of toxins in the river that at the end flows into the Warragamba Dam. That water will eventually be consumed by the people of Sydney. Never mind that. Just think of the platypuses. They get a direct king hit as soon as the herbicide washes into the river.  Our small acreage has almost two kilometres frontage to a river, hence another reason for us not to be keen with spraying Glyphosate, Flupropanate or other chemicals with even more sinister names.

From our perspective and experience over the last fourteen years, it has shown that weeds will thrive under stressed conditions. Spraying with chemicals has often marginal results. They come up even more and stronger next time around. In any case, the weeds now have’ heroically,’ developed herbicide resistance.

Our Weed inspector has now finished his tour of duty and has given me the option of getting a contractor out who will spray, not just the weeds by spot spraying, but do the job by boom spray. A boom spray is a contraption of a series of spraying nozzles on a five or six metre boom towed behind a tractor that will spray a swath of weed killers over the lot. The weed killer is ‘selective’ and will have a fantastic ‘residual’ quality, he enthuses. He is throwing everything at me now but somehow senses my sullen reluctance to weed killing and toxic mixtures. He again mentions the ‘$110. – Inspection/fine.

The advice of chemical suppression is against the latest science. Problem is that the Noxious Weed Act is from 1993 (Section 18) and that Australia’s worst weed, the Serrated Tussock, has started to morph into a most resisting little weed.  Herbicide spraying only gives it even more room next time around as native competing vegetation has been removed as well. Its dormant seed bank just sprouts up with even more chemical resistant tussock babies.

www.regional.org.au/au/asa/2003/c/18/kemp.htm

I tell him I will consider, but quietly reckon the inspection fee will be the preferred option, especially for the weeds. The platypuses have been giving a reprieve. The wombats are having a ripping time building and manning the ramparts. The blackberries continue with their impenetrable wall for future defence.

The Noxious Weed Inspector drives off.