In the prolonged blink of a tiring eye, a scenery change has occurred. Green into gold like a bolt from the blue. A fine line scribed in over time by statistics, economics, and a dash of hope. A sharp boundary imposed on a gradational change. Wheat can grow profitably here, wheat cannot grow profitably there. Gutsy to be farming out this far.
I am starting to get unnerved by the sterile and refrigerated atmosphere of this train. Rail journeys should be hot, loud, blustery affairs. Character builders. The Prospector is safe, quiet, comfortable, and therefore boring. Option of living dangerously engineered out. My sealed window acts as little more than a television screen, scenery mutely panning by. Jack London: the proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I wonder if they’ll let me on the roof?
I have never felt as alive as when hanging out the side of a battered, groaning steely hulk of a train bound for a village 40 km south of central Calcutta, my life literally in my hot clammy hands. An adrenaline-heightened awareness of the speed, the heat, the colours, the smells, the people. Of life. A glorious engagement with my environment as a pulsating participant, rather than a disassociated rubberneck. Living.
I just got a bottle of water, and on the way back I couldn’t resist a stickybeak at what Junior Beckham was scribbling on his notepad. Angst-ridden lyrics for a new teen anthem? A bloody massacre scene? No. Calculus equations. Somewhat unexpected I must say. School holidays isn’t it? Very studious young chap.
In year 8 mathematics I raised my hand and asked: “Why do we have to learn calculus?” The room was swept with shocked intakes of air. Numerous murmurs of qualified support. Minor giggling. A 5 minute discussion with the teacher failed to convince me of the subject’s merit, and I was asked to stay behind. He offered me a book on the usefulness of calculus. I dismissed it offhand as blatant propaganda.
The showdown was the talk of recess. I was a hero. Sure, I was wrong – calculus is important – but what was more important at that age was that I took it to The Man. I kept the bastards honest. George Orwell: better the lone wolf, than the cringing dog. I was back to being a cringing young pup come exam time though. The Man has far-reaching tentacles.
Just got another cup of tea from the snack bar. A ham-cheese-tomato sandwich in the display case is labelled “connoisseur” and “gourmet”. Better be some damn fine cheese. A silverside-cheese-pickle version is “delialfresco” when to me it is neither of those thoughtlessly concatenated words. The individually-packaged muffins are “home-style”, just like those loaves of bread that are “country-style” because they have a bulbous shape, a dusting of flour, and a smattering of rolled oats glued to the top. I begrudgingly dips me lid to those marketing folk. They know that a thin swirling smokescreen of old fashioned goodness is more than enough to distract our attention from the accelerating erosion of same.
At Merredin now, and a woman has taken the spare seat next to me. Looks busy and efficient. Sharp features. Fixed nervous smile. Like Reverend Lovejoy’s wife. My greeting is warmly reciprocated, but nothing further is offered. Silent trip on the cards?
I’m typing this up in Perth now – it turns out she was very, very talkative. One comment on the weather and we were away. Certainly no time to pen a part three or four. Lovely lady.
Footnote: the journey’s token “annoying little boy” got out at Midland and donned a West Coast Eagles jacket. I should have known.
Happy New Year to you all!
Saturday 30 December 2006
Saturday 23 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (13): Prospector - Part One
I sit aboard the Prospector bound for
An old English gentleman’s pre-recorded voice is giving me the lowdown on the finer details of the journey. Michael Parkinson or similar. Englishmen’s voices sound important, distinguished. Australianmen’s don’t.
I imagine Paul Hogan: “We will arrive at East Perth Terminal at approximately 1:30 pm”. Or Bryan Brown: “A gap exists between the train and the platform”. Insincere. Passenger confusion over whether the piss was being taken. Australian humour is all in the eyes. That’s why I can’t wear sunglasses. People try to fight me – especially foreigners. Kiwis are OK.
A teenage boy sitting across the carriage to my left is wearing sunglasses. Large aviators. Completely unnecessary in a train on an overcast day. Looks like a junior Beckham. He and mum going backwards. Dad and younger sister opposite, going forwards like normal people. Better to look forwards than backwards, or so motivational people and books say. Have to look backwards sometimes though. One can see what goodness, badness, happiness, sadness or sameness is left in one’s wake.
Junior Becks’ glasses are designed to hide embarrassment. Family train trip to
What is the “true” meaning of Christmas? If “truth” is what most believe then – at this moment and in this country – Christmas is a time to give and receive increasingly more expensive presents. And nobody can deny, as the song goes. There’s the cynic in me. Stop it.
Junior Becks’ old boy is listening to headphones. He speaks up about something out the window but does so far too loudly, as people are prone to do. Wife and son groan in unison. “Dad, shut up” threatens Junior Becks, with slow emphasis on the latter two words. Fair call. Dad laughs uncaringly. Junior Becks shakes his head, mouth open. I suspect that a squint of disbelief lies beneath his shades. The reflective glasses deny his father the intended effect.
Stop press: he has just taken his sunnies off. Goodness and intelligence in his eyes. Cruelly held captive before.
He has a pen and notepad. Like me. Pen in mouth and eyes wandering, then a burst of pen on page. Like me. Good Lord, could he be writing an alternative view on life aboard this carriage? Judging me as I judge him? Misjudging me as I misjudge him? I vainly adjust my hair. Just in case. My appearance is a bad way to judge me, the speed of my speech is worse. Only one person I know talks slower than me. His name is Christian.
Just returned to my seat from the snack bar. Cup of tea, cheese and biscuits. Prospector tradition. Driving tradition is a cheese sausage at Southern Cross. No license at the moment though. Pissy driving on Kal Cup day. Silly me.
Unfortunately the tea is in a paper cup. I prefer a proper dainty cup and saucer, so I can pretend to be a moustachioed British Officer riding a first-class train through a newly conquered landmass. Tracks laid by oppressed local savages. Safari suit. “I say, this looks to be good grazing country. Now where’s that brandy chaser? Three huzzahs for the Queen old chaps!”
I finish with a piece of cake, baked by my housemates during an unusual fit of domesticity. Christmas treat. Moist. Icing on the cake was, for me, the icing on the cake. Thanks boys.
Not even in farming country yet, but so much written. Part two next week. Merry Christmas to all.
Saturday 16 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (12): Trust
In the Kalgoorlie Miner earlier this year, a lady visitor was asked what she thought of Kanowna during “Back to Kanowna Day”. Her response was stunningly blunt, but absolutely correct: “There’s nothing here”.
Initially I just giggled and turned the page, but in the ensuing days her words drifted around my brain like a ping-pong ball traversing the Sahara. I was unnerved by her candor and acute powers of observation and began to wonder whether she was simply stating the facts - in which case I admired her cutting forthrightness - or shrewdly implying that something far more sinister was going on.
Was she calling the very existence of the town into question? Where I had seen - in my imagination - Father Long preaching endless riches from the balcony of the Kanowna Hotel, had she seen nothing but bare ground and the ever-present fragments of tin and glass? When standing atop Warden’s Hill, had she looked out and seen a monumental conspiracy, where I had been naïve enough to picture a bustling township?
I’m sure the lady wasn’t so skeptical, but her comment reminded me that a trip to the Kanowna townsite, like many aspects of life, is largely an exercise in trust. I never personally had a rum can in the White Feather Hotel after a hard day's labour at the battery, but historians assure us that such places existed and I have no reason to doubt them.
We need to have some trust in those better informed than us, or else we could only ever know that which we had seen with our own eyes. Think about what you would know if not for a trust in others.
Problems arise though when experts attempt to convince the public of facts that cannot be "seen", which goes a long way towards explaining the reluctance of some to accept the science behind global warming. I've never seen global warming but, being a scientist myself, I have faith in the rigorous scientific process. I’ve never seen love but I believe that it exists because I’ve seen hardened men dragged into shoe shops, heads hanging low, by gorgeous womenfolk.
I watched "An Inconvenient Truth" last weekend and yes - like all documentaries - it aims to make the viewer feel a certain way, but what makes it so utterly compelling is it's use of graphs and images to present global warming, thereby allowing the layman to "see" the evidence.
The first courageous step, to paraphrase Alcoholics Anonymous, is to admit that we have a problem, and I feel that to continue to deny the phenomena's existence, or our contribution to it, or the urgency of the situation after viewing the film is to put oneself on a par with members of the Flat Earth Society.
So surely the debate must now move on to solutions, where for once - and I feel dirty saying this - I am partially in agreement with the Howard Government: we certainly need to reduce our own emissions, but by far the biggest contribution we can have as a nation is to use our world-class scientific resources to develop technology that will help out the world's biggest polluters.
Hooray for science!
Initially I just giggled and turned the page, but in the ensuing days her words drifted around my brain like a ping-pong ball traversing the Sahara. I was unnerved by her candor and acute powers of observation and began to wonder whether she was simply stating the facts - in which case I admired her cutting forthrightness - or shrewdly implying that something far more sinister was going on.
Was she calling the very existence of the town into question? Where I had seen - in my imagination - Father Long preaching endless riches from the balcony of the Kanowna Hotel, had she seen nothing but bare ground and the ever-present fragments of tin and glass? When standing atop Warden’s Hill, had she looked out and seen a monumental conspiracy, where I had been naïve enough to picture a bustling township?
I’m sure the lady wasn’t so skeptical, but her comment reminded me that a trip to the Kanowna townsite, like many aspects of life, is largely an exercise in trust. I never personally had a rum can in the White Feather Hotel after a hard day's labour at the battery, but historians assure us that such places existed and I have no reason to doubt them.
We need to have some trust in those better informed than us, or else we could only ever know that which we had seen with our own eyes. Think about what you would know if not for a trust in others.
Problems arise though when experts attempt to convince the public of facts that cannot be "seen", which goes a long way towards explaining the reluctance of some to accept the science behind global warming. I've never seen global warming but, being a scientist myself, I have faith in the rigorous scientific process. I’ve never seen love but I believe that it exists because I’ve seen hardened men dragged into shoe shops, heads hanging low, by gorgeous womenfolk.
I watched "An Inconvenient Truth" last weekend and yes - like all documentaries - it aims to make the viewer feel a certain way, but what makes it so utterly compelling is it's use of graphs and images to present global warming, thereby allowing the layman to "see" the evidence.
The first courageous step, to paraphrase Alcoholics Anonymous, is to admit that we have a problem, and I feel that to continue to deny the phenomena's existence, or our contribution to it, or the urgency of the situation after viewing the film is to put oneself on a par with members of the Flat Earth Society.
So surely the debate must now move on to solutions, where for once - and I feel dirty saying this - I am partially in agreement with the Howard Government: we certainly need to reduce our own emissions, but by far the biggest contribution we can have as a nation is to use our world-class scientific resources to develop technology that will help out the world's biggest polluters.
Hooray for science!
Saturday 9 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (11): Information
Loyal readers of this column will remember last week’s hypothetical everyman, who’s ordered existence at the Broad Arrow Tavern was thrown into chaos by the arrival of a nightclub and kebab shop. Disloyal readers should hang their heads in shame, recite fourty Hail Marys, and read on in search of redemption.
Regardless of which camp you are in, prepare now to let your imagination run wild as we rejoin our lovable simpleton on his perilous journey through modern life (if this was television the screen would go all blurry now, and a harp would start playing).
Old mate is perched at the bar of the Broady listening to RadioWest on his first ever wireless, which just arrived in the mail from the big smoke. After a short while, and despite his limited intellect, he tires of listening to the nauseating rememberance of yesteryear and switches to the ABC where, after a few inoffensive jokes from a delightfully smug chap called “Ted Bull”, the news headlines come on:
“Kambalda invades Widgiemooltha for rich nickel reserves: insurgents fight back. Rising sea levels swallow statues on Lake Ballard: tourists numbers fall, Menzies residents struck by poverty. Celebrity shock: Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan split."
He is startled by all this suffering, nearly toppling off his bar stool, and becomes concerned that Widgie terrorists or global warming may destroy his beloved home. He is also desperate to know who Jennifer and Vince are, and why they felt it necessary to separate.
In order to keep abreast of developments, he decides to subscribe to the Kalgoorlie Miner newspaper; an outstanding and impartial journal that is worth every cent of it's crazy low price - or so he has heard.
He reads the paper cover to cover every day, but starts to become confused. In the Kalgoorlie Miner, the Widgiemooltha combatants claim that they are "freedom fighters", not terrorists, and a man in a cowboy hat says that global warming is "a pack of lies", even though all the qualified labcoat-wearing scientists say that it's true.
He begins to feel less certain about life than ever and, despite nothing having changed at Broad Arrow, decides to lock his doors at night to keep out Widgie terrorists, Menzies refugees and that nasty love rat Vince Vaughan. He lies sleepless worrying about rising sea levels and the fate of poor Jennifer, who is so unlucky in love (cue blurry screen and harp music).
Last week our unfortunate friend found out that greater choice can cause greater stress, and he has now discovered that more information can lead to more uncertainty, fear, and helplessness.
Of course just like choice last week, more information is a good thing, but the dilemma for the modern person is that they must suffer either the guilt that comes with ignoring everything that happens to unfamiliar people in far-flung places, or the sense of helplessness that comes with taking it all to heart.
Well, luckily for us, a clever person came up with a solution: "Think Global, Act Local".
So if you want to stop global warming then don't have baked beans for breakfast. If you want world peace then invite someone from Boulder over for tea and scones (keep an eye on your silverware though). If you want more laughter then write a ridiculous opinion column for the local newspaper.
Before you do anything ask: "What would the effect be if everyone did what I'm about to do?"
Regardless of which camp you are in, prepare now to let your imagination run wild as we rejoin our lovable simpleton on his perilous journey through modern life (if this was television the screen would go all blurry now, and a harp would start playing).
Old mate is perched at the bar of the Broady listening to RadioWest on his first ever wireless, which just arrived in the mail from the big smoke. After a short while, and despite his limited intellect, he tires of listening to the nauseating rememberance of yesteryear and switches to the ABC where, after a few inoffensive jokes from a delightfully smug chap called “Ted Bull”, the news headlines come on:
“Kambalda invades Widgiemooltha for rich nickel reserves: insurgents fight back. Rising sea levels swallow statues on Lake Ballard: tourists numbers fall, Menzies residents struck by poverty. Celebrity shock: Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan split."
He is startled by all this suffering, nearly toppling off his bar stool, and becomes concerned that Widgie terrorists or global warming may destroy his beloved home. He is also desperate to know who Jennifer and Vince are, and why they felt it necessary to separate.
In order to keep abreast of developments, he decides to subscribe to the Kalgoorlie Miner newspaper; an outstanding and impartial journal that is worth every cent of it's crazy low price - or so he has heard.
He reads the paper cover to cover every day, but starts to become confused. In the Kalgoorlie Miner, the Widgiemooltha combatants claim that they are "freedom fighters", not terrorists, and a man in a cowboy hat says that global warming is "a pack of lies", even though all the qualified labcoat-wearing scientists say that it's true.
He begins to feel less certain about life than ever and, despite nothing having changed at Broad Arrow, decides to lock his doors at night to keep out Widgie terrorists, Menzies refugees and that nasty love rat Vince Vaughan. He lies sleepless worrying about rising sea levels and the fate of poor Jennifer, who is so unlucky in love (cue blurry screen and harp music).
Last week our unfortunate friend found out that greater choice can cause greater stress, and he has now discovered that more information can lead to more uncertainty, fear, and helplessness.
Of course just like choice last week, more information is a good thing, but the dilemma for the modern person is that they must suffer either the guilt that comes with ignoring everything that happens to unfamiliar people in far-flung places, or the sense of helplessness that comes with taking it all to heart.
Well, luckily for us, a clever person came up with a solution: "Think Global, Act Local".
So if you want to stop global warming then don't have baked beans for breakfast. If you want world peace then invite someone from Boulder over for tea and scones (keep an eye on your silverware though). If you want more laughter then write a ridiculous opinion column for the local newspaper.
Before you do anything ask: "What would the effect be if everyone did what I'm about to do?"
Saturday 2 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (10): Choice
Consider a situation where a friend rings and says “I’m at the pub, come down for a drink”, then hangs up without telling you which of the 30 or 40 local bars they are referring to. It would be pretty hard to find them wouldn’t it? Or would it? In reality, most of us probably only frequent a handful of trusty drinking holes.
For example I go to the Tower for drinks after work on Fridays (not during football season though, because the coach gets all sooky and unreasonable if we turn up for training legless), deBernales for Saturday night benders, and the Federal for lazy Sunday afternoons betting on Cannington dogs or Hong Kong trots or whatever other group of filthy animals happens to be running in circles at the time.
So when faced with so many choices, why is it that we drift towards the same well-beaten track? I think it’s a desire for familiarity that we all have. The quandary of these sparkling economic times though, is that as our choices increase we become less able to find the certainty and comfort that we crave.
A man living at Broad Arrow, to continue with the pub example, will be comfortable when in need of a grease-laden hamburger and an icy cold beer because he has just one place to go, but what would happen if a nightclub and a kebab shop opened over by the water tank?
Maybe he would continue to frequent the Broad Arrow, but be torn with longing to know what is going on in the flash new nightclub, or to taste one of these new-fangled Mediterranean treats. Maybe he would abandon the Broady for the new disco-dancin' souvlaki-eatin' lifestyle without hesitating, but then wistfully look back at his old haunt with a quivering tear of reminiscence in his eye. You would have to agree that whether it’s better or worse, easier or harder, his life is certainly more complicated.
Moving along, it strikes me that one of the peculiarities of the modern world is that the wealthy are the worst affected by stress, depression, and other "lifestyle diseases". How is it, for example, that a man living comfortably on $2000 a week can be more stressed or depressed than a checkout chick on $300 a week, or a Somalian corn farmer earning $10 a week?
I think that the wealthy man simply has so many choices that he gets sucked into a sort of alphabet soup whirlpool, drowning amongst Ralph magazines, Harvey Norman electrical catalogues, and copies of Business Review Weekly. He is constantly reminded of all the fashions, gizmos, shares and properties he needs in order to be considered successful, but countless high-profile examples demonstrate that wealth, and therefore greater choice, do not equate to happiness - if anything, the opposite may be true.
Don’t get me wrong, choice is essential, but the challenge for us modern folk is to make choices that complement our true passions and goals, and to not allow ourselves to be blinded by the neon lights of consumer culture.
I leave you today with words from the song "Freedom of Choice", by iconic 1980’s keyboard pop group Devo:
“In ancient Rome there was a poem, about a dog who had two bones. He picked at one, he licked the other, he went in circles till he dropped dead."
For example I go to the Tower for drinks after work on Fridays (not during football season though, because the coach gets all sooky and unreasonable if we turn up for training legless), deBernales for Saturday night benders, and the Federal for lazy Sunday afternoons betting on Cannington dogs or Hong Kong trots or whatever other group of filthy animals happens to be running in circles at the time.
So when faced with so many choices, why is it that we drift towards the same well-beaten track? I think it’s a desire for familiarity that we all have. The quandary of these sparkling economic times though, is that as our choices increase we become less able to find the certainty and comfort that we crave.
A man living at Broad Arrow, to continue with the pub example, will be comfortable when in need of a grease-laden hamburger and an icy cold beer because he has just one place to go, but what would happen if a nightclub and a kebab shop opened over by the water tank?
Maybe he would continue to frequent the Broad Arrow, but be torn with longing to know what is going on in the flash new nightclub, or to taste one of these new-fangled Mediterranean treats. Maybe he would abandon the Broady for the new disco-dancin' souvlaki-eatin' lifestyle without hesitating, but then wistfully look back at his old haunt with a quivering tear of reminiscence in his eye. You would have to agree that whether it’s better or worse, easier or harder, his life is certainly more complicated.
Moving along, it strikes me that one of the peculiarities of the modern world is that the wealthy are the worst affected by stress, depression, and other "lifestyle diseases". How is it, for example, that a man living comfortably on $2000 a week can be more stressed or depressed than a checkout chick on $300 a week, or a Somalian corn farmer earning $10 a week?
I think that the wealthy man simply has so many choices that he gets sucked into a sort of alphabet soup whirlpool, drowning amongst Ralph magazines, Harvey Norman electrical catalogues, and copies of Business Review Weekly. He is constantly reminded of all the fashions, gizmos, shares and properties he needs in order to be considered successful, but countless high-profile examples demonstrate that wealth, and therefore greater choice, do not equate to happiness - if anything, the opposite may be true.
Don’t get me wrong, choice is essential, but the challenge for us modern folk is to make choices that complement our true passions and goals, and to not allow ourselves to be blinded by the neon lights of consumer culture.
I leave you today with words from the song "Freedom of Choice", by iconic 1980’s keyboard pop group Devo:
“In ancient Rome there was a poem, about a dog who had two bones. He picked at one, he licked the other, he went in circles till he dropped dead."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)