They came at us like dreadlocked zombie salespeople, their toothless mouths stretched into pleading grimaces, trinkets rattling from their gaunt outstretched arms. As their slow advance relentlessly smothered us, panic and paranoia set in and their numbers swelled into what seemed like hundreds. The situation, my learned friend, was bleak indeed…
Last week I left you as your heroes Angry Turk, Billygoat, Typhoon and Sooty were with me aboard the lemon yellow Corona wagon, lazily gliding through picturesque hills bound for Nimbin. Unfortunately, as you will find out, if the highway we were slithering down was a long black snake, then Nimbin was surely the venomous apple lodged in it’s fangs.
But back to the action.
The great surging tide of hippies was by now so close that we could smell the lentils on their breath. If a clove of garlic, a silver bullet, or a stake through the heart would kill a vampire, then what, we frantically asked ourselves, would repel this plodding army of emaciated John Butlers and Janis Joplins? Soap and a scrubbing brush? A barrage of unsustainable Brazilian beef and battery eggs? A macro-economics textbook?
Mercifully, just as their yellowed fingernails began clawing at us, we found refuge in the local kebab shop, where we ate, drank, and came to the consensus that our stay in Nimbin would be brief. So after chilling out for a while we stepped back onto the street, the mob having diverted their attention towards another group of unsuspecting visitors, and quietly slinked back towards the Corona.
Just before getting in though, our hearts softened and we bought a Nimbin tea-towel off an aging woman, clearly fried by decades of drug use, who without a hint of irony warned us “Don’t go to the park. That’s where all the junkies are.”
As we drove away the woman became entangled in a screaming and clawing match with another vendor, who seemed to believe that the sale should have been hers. Textbook irony, my friend and reader - an embarrassing display of greed and competition in Australia's communal living mecca.
Angry Turk skidded the Corona out of there, not being an admirer of hippies at the best of times, and we soon became quietly contemplative, as people are prone to do on the return leg of a memorable road trip. To be honest I can't remember what music Billygoat chose for the drive back, but I'd like to think it included Pink Floyd's "Welcome to the Machine".
It seemed to me that capitalism must organically grow out of socialism, like penicillin forming on mouldy bread in a share house pantry - was it really inevitable? I was sure that Nimbin once worked, but as soon as a single member of the commune started selling glass beads or organic beetroot then powerful economic cogs began to turn and the end of the dream was nigh.
At least on the Gold Coast the greed, glamour and excess were shamelessly on display, so as we cruised back in there we felt strangely comfortable. Later that night Typhoon, Sooty and I made our customary trip to the casino, ordered a round of mango daiquiris, settled in around one of the bile-yellow roulette tables, and chased the elusive capitalist dream.
Saturday 25 November 2006
Saturday 18 November 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (8): Nimbin - Part One
"Look mate", said the orgasmically smiling Hertz man, "if you want to hire a car around here, don't say you're going to Nimbin. Say Byron Bay or something."
So began our search for the Gold Coast's shadiest car rental agency - the only firm brave or foolish enough (for it's a fine line, dear reader) to grant a cheap one day rental to a derelict trio of gentlemen on a football trip; that trio being Elephant* (your narrator), Billygoat*, and Angry Turk*.
Sooty* and Typhoon* would join the pilgrimage later, for they were still in bed desperately and fruitlessly attempting to recall the liquor-ravaged details of our previous evening's messy, graceless ejection from Conrad Jupiters casino, and subsequent skinny dipping shenanigans.
Anyway, we eventually stumbled across "Yahoo Car Rentals". It had a yard full of pre-1990 Fords, Toyotas and Mazdas, and the name certainly sounded reckless and carefree enough for our requirements. Yes, we each silently decided, this was the one.
After edging past two well-groomed Italian minders, their hands clasped mafia-style, we came across a jolly fat bloke in a Hawaiian shirt, halfway through a beer. He was the boss.
"Can we hire the Mini Moke?", enquired Angry Turk, never one for small talk or diplomacy.
"Nup", was lightning reply. He'd seen our type before. It transpired that he had owned several nightclubs in the area, but this was his business now - a dodgy business I suspected, but what's a bit of money laundering between new best friends. He refered to me as "old mate" and I like that in a man.
"How about the Corona?" I prodded, refering to the lemon yellow family wagon that caught all of our eyes on the way in.
Well, before you could say "i'll just whack it on old mate's credit card", we were swinging past the hotel and collecting the sleeping pair. Angry Turk was the designated driver and Billygoat assumed the navigator/DJ role, leaving Typhoon, Sooty and I in the back. Sooty, being the youngest and thinniest, was naturally made to sit in the middle.
A beer stop was made, shirts were compulsorily removed, Angry Turk pointed the car towards where he believed Nimbin to be, and we relaxed, trusting that his renowned driving skill would guide us there. For a while we cruised down the gently winding coastal road, crossing bridges over sparkling rivers and inlets, and at some unknown point entering New South Wales, but before long we turned right and headed inland.
Billygoat wisely selected The Smashing Pumpkins for the mountain leg, we gradually slumped further into our seats, Angry Turk's right arm found it's niche on the window sill, and pretty soon his steering arm expertly had us sliding and swaying down the road like well-lubricated prey down the belly of a long black snake. Bethlehem stars of sunlight panned across the bonnet and windscreen, and all was well in the world.
This blissful state of relaxation and meditation was soon shattered though, for Nimbin was all that I knew it would be and hoped it was not. But, ladies and gentlemen, that is a story for next week, when this two-part saga will reach it's conclusion.
* Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
So began our search for the Gold Coast's shadiest car rental agency - the only firm brave or foolish enough (for it's a fine line, dear reader) to grant a cheap one day rental to a derelict trio of gentlemen on a football trip; that trio being Elephant* (your narrator), Billygoat*, and Angry Turk*.
Sooty* and Typhoon* would join the pilgrimage later, for they were still in bed desperately and fruitlessly attempting to recall the liquor-ravaged details of our previous evening's messy, graceless ejection from Conrad Jupiters casino, and subsequent skinny dipping shenanigans.
Anyway, we eventually stumbled across "Yahoo Car Rentals". It had a yard full of pre-1990 Fords, Toyotas and Mazdas, and the name certainly sounded reckless and carefree enough for our requirements. Yes, we each silently decided, this was the one.
After edging past two well-groomed Italian minders, their hands clasped mafia-style, we came across a jolly fat bloke in a Hawaiian shirt, halfway through a beer. He was the boss.
"Can we hire the Mini Moke?", enquired Angry Turk, never one for small talk or diplomacy.
"Nup", was lightning reply. He'd seen our type before. It transpired that he had owned several nightclubs in the area, but this was his business now - a dodgy business I suspected, but what's a bit of money laundering between new best friends. He refered to me as "old mate" and I like that in a man.
"How about the Corona?" I prodded, refering to the lemon yellow family wagon that caught all of our eyes on the way in.
Well, before you could say "i'll just whack it on old mate's credit card", we were swinging past the hotel and collecting the sleeping pair. Angry Turk was the designated driver and Billygoat assumed the navigator/DJ role, leaving Typhoon, Sooty and I in the back. Sooty, being the youngest and thinniest, was naturally made to sit in the middle.
A beer stop was made, shirts were compulsorily removed, Angry Turk pointed the car towards where he believed Nimbin to be, and we relaxed, trusting that his renowned driving skill would guide us there. For a while we cruised down the gently winding coastal road, crossing bridges over sparkling rivers and inlets, and at some unknown point entering New South Wales, but before long we turned right and headed inland.
Billygoat wisely selected The Smashing Pumpkins for the mountain leg, we gradually slumped further into our seats, Angry Turk's right arm found it's niche on the window sill, and pretty soon his steering arm expertly had us sliding and swaying down the road like well-lubricated prey down the belly of a long black snake. Bethlehem stars of sunlight panned across the bonnet and windscreen, and all was well in the world.
This blissful state of relaxation and meditation was soon shattered though, for Nimbin was all that I knew it would be and hoped it was not. But, ladies and gentlemen, that is a story for next week, when this two-part saga will reach it's conclusion.
* Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
Saturday 11 November 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (7) Understatement
With the passing of Wally Foreman last week, we not only lost a legendary WA sporting figure and commentator, but I believe we also saw another nail embedded in the coffin of what was once the critical defining feature of Australian-ness: the gentle art of understatement.
Wally was more a Richie Benaud than an Eddie McGuire, more a Bush Tucker Man than a Crocodile Hunter, more a Pat Rafter than a Lleyton Hewitt. He was more a slowly brewed cup of tea than he was an instant coffee.
The slow death of understatement is of course is largely related to the influence of United States culture, and can be observed in just about every aspect of Australian society.
For example, modern Australian man will have an energy drink and watch a game of 20/20 cricket rather than have a beer and watch a test match. He will seek the fleeting fame that comes with morally corrupting himself on reality TV rather than take time to achieve something that is actually worthy of adulation. He will explore for enlightenment in a bookshop before he bothers to explore for it in himself, his environment, or those around him. Quick fixes are everywhere, and quality is hard to find.
The phenomenon is well illustrated by the rapid devaluation of the exclamation mark in writing. Unable or unwilling to express their extreme thoughts and emotions with the thousands of words available in the language, the modern email or text message writer resorts to using ever increasing numbers of exclamation marks, much like an amphetamine junkie who needs to up his intake each day in order to achieve the desired effect.
Where will this exclamation mark addiction end though? Will we invent a new punctuation character that means “extremely excited”? Sadly, many have already resorted to the punctuation equivalent of smoking crack cocaine: smiley faces and emoticons. Don't fool yourself though - the effect of those will wear off too.
The only answer is to just say no. Set yourself the challenge of not using a single exclamation mark in the next email or letter you write. Go cold turkey. You will have strong withdrawls, and your friends may become confused and upset, but stay strong and force them to decide for themselves whether you are serious or joking, genuine or sarcastic. Apparently it's poor email etiquette, but it's much more fun.
Bring back the understatement in your speech as well. A bone-dry quip mumbled by a casual unsmiling larrikin holds in it far more pleasure than brash and predictable American sitcom-style humour.
In fact, let's get rid of the exclamation marks from all aspects of our lives. Let's chill out, slow down, and have a good time. Peter Costello can stick his economic growth targets into the hole in the ozone layer as far as I'm concerned.
Organise some mates to chuck a sickie with you this summer, buy a few cartons of king browns, toast to Wally's memory, and settle in to watch the Ashes until the booze runs dry. Discuss the Englishmen’s pasty complexions and unsanitary bathing habits between overs - it's the Australian way.
Wally was more a Richie Benaud than an Eddie McGuire, more a Bush Tucker Man than a Crocodile Hunter, more a Pat Rafter than a Lleyton Hewitt. He was more a slowly brewed cup of tea than he was an instant coffee.
The slow death of understatement is of course is largely related to the influence of United States culture, and can be observed in just about every aspect of Australian society.
For example, modern Australian man will have an energy drink and watch a game of 20/20 cricket rather than have a beer and watch a test match. He will seek the fleeting fame that comes with morally corrupting himself on reality TV rather than take time to achieve something that is actually worthy of adulation. He will explore for enlightenment in a bookshop before he bothers to explore for it in himself, his environment, or those around him. Quick fixes are everywhere, and quality is hard to find.
The phenomenon is well illustrated by the rapid devaluation of the exclamation mark in writing. Unable or unwilling to express their extreme thoughts and emotions with the thousands of words available in the language, the modern email or text message writer resorts to using ever increasing numbers of exclamation marks, much like an amphetamine junkie who needs to up his intake each day in order to achieve the desired effect.
Where will this exclamation mark addiction end though? Will we invent a new punctuation character that means “extremely excited”? Sadly, many have already resorted to the punctuation equivalent of smoking crack cocaine: smiley faces and emoticons. Don't fool yourself though - the effect of those will wear off too.
The only answer is to just say no. Set yourself the challenge of not using a single exclamation mark in the next email or letter you write. Go cold turkey. You will have strong withdrawls, and your friends may become confused and upset, but stay strong and force them to decide for themselves whether you are serious or joking, genuine or sarcastic. Apparently it's poor email etiquette, but it's much more fun.
Bring back the understatement in your speech as well. A bone-dry quip mumbled by a casual unsmiling larrikin holds in it far more pleasure than brash and predictable American sitcom-style humour.
In fact, let's get rid of the exclamation marks from all aspects of our lives. Let's chill out, slow down, and have a good time. Peter Costello can stick his economic growth targets into the hole in the ozone layer as far as I'm concerned.
Organise some mates to chuck a sickie with you this summer, buy a few cartons of king browns, toast to Wally's memory, and settle in to watch the Ashes until the booze runs dry. Discuss the Englishmen’s pasty complexions and unsanitary bathing habits between overs - it's the Australian way.
Saturday 4 November 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (6) Fractures
In the glamorous and high action world of geology, it is recognised that observations made on a small scale are usually replicated on a large scale, and vice-versa.
For example, one can observe millimetre-wide fractures in rocks on Nannygoat Hill and proceed to speculate that there is a much larger-scale fracture nearby. And of course there is - the kilometre-wide Boulder Lefroy Fault Zone (BLFZ), which links the gold deposits of St Ives with those at Paddington, passing through South Kalgoorlie Mines and the Superpit along the way.
The BLFZ was the driving force behind the formation of these deposits over 2 billion years ago, and is therefore to be thanked for founding the glorious City of Kalgoorlie-Boulder and it's most sacred institutions: Race Round, skimpy barmaids, that bloke who tried to drive to Perth backwards, and of course the almighty Railways Football Club.
As mentioned the principle also works in reverse, so if I were to put the rock from Nannygoat Hill under a microscope, I would observe that each fracture is comprised of thousands of smaller fractures.
"So what?" I hear you say, "I stopped caring about rocks when old Tommy Smith threw one at my head in kindergarten."
Well, loyal and learned reader, stop shaking your fist at the sky and cursing Tommy Smith, because now that I've laid the geological groundwork, I want you to consider the application of this phenomenon to the worlds of business and politics.
So do you think that the large-scale actions of political and business leaders are reflected in the behaviour of individual constituents or employees? I think so.
A positive example from business might be a boss who catches the Prospector to Perth for a meeting, stays in a three-star hotel, and eats breakfast, lunch and dinner at Dodgy Gino's Coffee and Kebab Emporium. Such a boss can ask for cost savings and hard work from employees without inspiring contempt and cynicism, because he or she has led from the front.
Negative examples abound in the world of politics.
Can a Prime Minister who presides over pre-emptive strikes against other nations, legitimately be surprised or disgusted by a bouncer who pre-emptively strikes out at drunken nightclub patrons?
Can a Foreign Affairs Minister who turns a blind eye to torture, unashamedly scold a child for pulling the wings off a fly?
Can a local Federal Member who supports the oil-grabbing war in Iraq, cry injustice when a colleague takes his Caramello Koala from the communal office fridge?
I say no to all of these questions.
A fracture in values at the highest level inevitably causes a network of smaller fractures to spread throughout the lower levels - what's good for the goose is good for the gander.
The flipside though, is that if enough members of the gaggle are willing to change their own attitudes and behaviours - towards their environment, workplace, community, or anything else - then they can force the powerful geese to change. In life, as in geology, the microscopic controls the macroscopic.
For example, one can observe millimetre-wide fractures in rocks on Nannygoat Hill and proceed to speculate that there is a much larger-scale fracture nearby. And of course there is - the kilometre-wide Boulder Lefroy Fault Zone (BLFZ), which links the gold deposits of St Ives with those at Paddington, passing through South Kalgoorlie Mines and the Superpit along the way.
The BLFZ was the driving force behind the formation of these deposits over 2 billion years ago, and is therefore to be thanked for founding the glorious City of Kalgoorlie-Boulder and it's most sacred institutions: Race Round, skimpy barmaids, that bloke who tried to drive to Perth backwards, and of course the almighty Railways Football Club.
As mentioned the principle also works in reverse, so if I were to put the rock from Nannygoat Hill under a microscope, I would observe that each fracture is comprised of thousands of smaller fractures.
"So what?" I hear you say, "I stopped caring about rocks when old Tommy Smith threw one at my head in kindergarten."
Well, loyal and learned reader, stop shaking your fist at the sky and cursing Tommy Smith, because now that I've laid the geological groundwork, I want you to consider the application of this phenomenon to the worlds of business and politics.
So do you think that the large-scale actions of political and business leaders are reflected in the behaviour of individual constituents or employees? I think so.
A positive example from business might be a boss who catches the Prospector to Perth for a meeting, stays in a three-star hotel, and eats breakfast, lunch and dinner at Dodgy Gino's Coffee and Kebab Emporium. Such a boss can ask for cost savings and hard work from employees without inspiring contempt and cynicism, because he or she has led from the front.
Negative examples abound in the world of politics.
Can a Prime Minister who presides over pre-emptive strikes against other nations, legitimately be surprised or disgusted by a bouncer who pre-emptively strikes out at drunken nightclub patrons?
Can a Foreign Affairs Minister who turns a blind eye to torture, unashamedly scold a child for pulling the wings off a fly?
Can a local Federal Member who supports the oil-grabbing war in Iraq, cry injustice when a colleague takes his Caramello Koala from the communal office fridge?
I say no to all of these questions.
A fracture in values at the highest level inevitably causes a network of smaller fractures to spread throughout the lower levels - what's good for the goose is good for the gander.
The flipside though, is that if enough members of the gaggle are willing to change their own attitudes and behaviours - towards their environment, workplace, community, or anything else - then they can force the powerful geese to change. In life, as in geology, the microscopic controls the macroscopic.
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