More from the Summer Sillies

 

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A squadron RAAF, preparing to drop their acoustic torpedoes.

Dear reader, another installment of, “when we could really do things” a time before the ‘innovation revolution’ and ‘thought bubbles’, were a mere….. ‘thought bubble’.. Another tale of Derring do when innovation was a byword for ‘can-do-ism’.  And if you couldn’t improvise, you’d just volunteer and stick a bayonet in Jerry. Read on. 

‘Anson’s over the Australia’.  Oil on Canvas signed 1942, (artistes impression)

This is perhaps the last image taken of the Australia building, Once the tallest building in the world, (or arguably the southern hemisphere). It served both a prominent and symbolic role in protecting Melbourne from the imminent threat of Japanese invasion during those dark days of 1942.

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Fiendish Japanese radio detection crew. 14th Sukiyaki at work intercepting allied code.

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Radio detection crew, busy at ” detecting’

In those early months of 1942, the threat of invasion was very real. The Ministry of Defence, searching for an early warning system to augment the coastal defence systems at Point Nepean and Queenscliff, were looking to radar. An initial radar array constructed along the ridge-line of the Dandenong ranges could detect aircraft up to 200 miles away and as demonstrated during the Battle of Britain, would give adequate time for the squadrons of Wirraways, Buffalo’s and Beaufort’s time enough to be airborne and direct the smack bang into the middle of the enemy. Unfortunately due to an administrative error, a scheduled “Controlled Burn” was initiated along the north face of the range in mid January. In no time, the entire radar array was engulfed in flame, the crews incinerated, and all that remained, as the enquiry states were a ‘molten heap of metal and what to all intents and purposes resembled a pile of bed frames”. With the fall of Singapore in February 1942 the situation was so dire, the Ministry advertised publicly for “an invention or instrument that would provide at the most impossibly brief short notice protection from oncoming Japanese aircraft and surface fleets’.

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Wilfred T Bumbleton. Deaf inventor of Radio Detection Device.

Upon this hour of need, a deaf amateur radio technician, raised his hand. Wilfred T Bumbleton is virtually unknown today, Yet in 1942 he developed the world’s first transceiver diode detection unit. A simple adaptation to any AWA or Radiola wireless. It could be transformed into a small hand held radio frequency wave detector. By sending out a series of short high frequency blips it could detect with stunning accuracy any surface vessel up to 500 miles distant. It could also, with a trained morse instructor receive and send signals. Giving, distance, height, speed and location of any incoming object, and point with incredible accuracy to the shortest route of interception. In a word, “A true war winning weapon”. The Ministry of Air Defence quickly set about to adapt several thousand radio receivers into a grid and placed an array of some fifty fully automated sets upon the uppermost floor of the Australia Building, then Australia’s highest structure. Satisfied that they were now capable of early warning, they waited for the feared onslaught. To ensure the systems inviability under invasion, the ground floor and all entrances were sealed in concrete. The system was impregnable.

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Armorer prepares to activate the Acoustic torpedo by winding up the spring. Serviceman, polishing the warhead.

Curiously, nothing happened for several weeks, and then as if compressed like a spring, sightings and detection literally went through the roof. In a space of twenty four hours the coastline was seemingly ringed with hostile aircraft carriers, the waters were teeming with midget submarines, and the air, drenched in incoming bombers, fighter and float planes. Entering a state of red alert the defences were put on standby and every available resource bough to bear on the expected attack. However it was revealed rather than detecting aircraft and hostile forces, the array was picking up friendly forces and though process of radio magnetic triangular dissonance was multiplying their existence some twenty fold. Worse still friendly forces were in active combat with each other with tragic loss of life. Faced with an invasion on itself, and war with its own people, the Ministry of Defence had no option but to bomb the Australia building and cut off the ring of radio directed terror that had enveloped the state. A flight of some twelve Avro Anson’s armed with acoustic torpedoes delivered the coup de grace and the building, the radio and the inventor were vanquished from the face of the earth.

More from the Irriwaddy

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Joon as a slightly older man

Dear reader, due to unforseen technical difficulties, we were not able to offer you this most excellent second installment of what happened on the Iriwaddy, until Monteith from the IT department was able to put matters right. He is currently on secondment to the Russian Government where he is ably asisting them in decoding sensitive videotape linked to the Trump presidency. We hope to release these scintilating images in installments soon. But for those who have waitied, at last, the tale of two tourists upon the far flung mudlfats of the Iriwaddy, (try saying it wih a mouthfull of marbles) can be resolved once and for all. And a parental warning, some of the scenes depicted here may be distressing to miners.

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Time to get back to the ferry

We tipped the potters as advised by Joon. He then started talking about how interesting the Australian currency was. He asked us to show him some. A fiver, a tenner, – did we have a one hundred to show him?  How did it compare to US currency? Could we show him some of that?

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The tension was indescribable

We were travelling back towards the ferry, Joon’s head lolled at alarming angles as he slept. On waking he told us more about the tsunami, saying how important it was that we visit the makeshift village of the survivors.  We were not that keen. He was insistent. They really like having visitors he said. The children love to high five foreigners he said. I felt sick in my stomach. The Wife* felt sick in hers. We were in deep, and sinking. Come he says, leading us along a shit lined path. I hang back, look at the healthy caged pig and think of bacon.

Don’t give them money says Joon. That would be bad. But you could give them rice, yes, rice would be good, the head man will see that it goes fairly to everyone. Can I meet the headman asks the savvy Wife*? Probably not here responds Joon. Let me take you to the rice merchant he adds, you can buy a bag and they will deliver it! We reluctantly go to the rice merchant. After a show of unlocking storerooms, we are admitted and shown stacks of rice, some of which have names written on them, ‘from Sven from Sweden’ ‘ from Karl, Germany’. You write your name on the bag you give says Joon. Samples of long grain and short grain rice are produced, with the comment that one is superior.  Only $55 for a fifty-five kilo bag Joon tells us with joy. Ah, a thousand dollars a tonne I respond and bolt for the car. Desperately I google rice prices. Bullshit price I know. I tell Joon his price is outrageous. He says I misunderstood, he meant $55 for two bags. Oh Christ I say under my breath. Why is your husband so angry with me Joon asks the Wife* for the fourth time.  Foolishly I agree to pay for one bag of rice, not two.

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The monkey’s were trained in the art of subterfuge

We go back to the ferry in silence. As we alight the taxi, having paid the driver Joon says he expects to be paid too. How much? People pay me 60 to 75 he says. We are aghast. HTF did we get into this? We give him slightly more than half what he asks, he feigns gross offence. We walk off. On the return ferry we see him, obviously in search of hi next ‘clients’.

At the end of the day a trip that should have cost less than fifty, been most enjoyable, cost us three times that, left a sour taste, and I cannot find my wallet.
The Wife* understands my distress.
* The term ‘Wife’ is used in its generic sense. Only our closest friends call us Gen and Eric


Indeed, what will happen to Cecil sans wallet. Is he working to pay off his rice debt, or as we speak getting into ” Rice Futures”. Either way it’s bubble bubble toil and trouble, and these rice bubbles are liable to go ” Snap Crackle and Pop” at any moment. Hold fast as we await his next thrilling installment. From India no less where the rice paddies wear sari’s.

Poetry Sunday 15 January 2017

Ira Maine Reprised

A BUCOLIC TRAGEDY

My chance has gone, all hope dispatched,
Tears inundate my veggy patch.
I’d thought to fill your pastures sweet
With broccoli and purple beet,
Or share with you the Grand Mystique
Of Brussel sprouts and Fenugreek.

I’d noticed,oh, there’s much to tell
Of how your perfect buds do swell.
You rail against each sod and weed.
I’ve noticed how you husband seed…
And noticed with what pink-cheeked bliss,
You galvanise Asparagus.bucolic 2.1But now I find (my senses cloud…)
And must accept that you’ve allowed
The path between our beds to grow,
For all around the rumours crow,
You’ve got another in my stead
To labour in your potting shed.
bucolic 1A lesson’s here, and learn it well,
In matters horticultural,
Don’t take your ease, your ploughshare spent.
Come plough again, her pleasure bent.
Lest there might come another in
To fructify her compost bin!.

Ira Maine
April 2013

MDFF 14 January 2017

Today’s dispatch is  Sheep.  Originally dispatched on 24 October  2015

He pai ra oku hoa,

Today’s theme is ‘sheep’, but don’t worry, am not about to bore you with a salvo of recycled Aotearoa sheep jokes.

I will however mention that when Warren Mundine was asked what he thought of Gary Foley having called him “the white sheep of the family”, Warren laughed and thought it was funny.

Rainbow… Black sheep of the family…
…”you got to play by the rules or pay the penalty…”

What family? ‘Family Australia’?
Whose rules?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gA_U-Eaato

Once again I recycle one of my all time favourite quotations:

“Cultural survival is not about preservation, sequestering indigenous peoples in enclaves like some sort of zoological specimens. Change itself does not destroy a culture. All societies are constantly evolving. Indeed a culture survives when it has enough confidence in its past and enough say in its future to maintain its spirit and essence through all the changes it will inevitably undergo. ”

This by Wade Davis, author of that seminal tome: The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World

The Yuendumu Magpies made it to the grand final in Alice Springs.

Months earlier invitations went out for the re-opening of Yuendumu’s Men’s Museum.

Some years ago Yuendumu’s Warlpiri Media Association (now trading as PAW-Media) http://www.pawmedia.com.au/ produced the widely acclaimed video series ‘Bush Mechanics’

When it was shown on national television many comments were made about the cleverness of the protagonists. Some commentators took it all too serious and failed to fully appreciate the exhilarating sense of humour and delicious sense of irony that is a hallmark of Warlpiri society. I hate to disappoint those that saw Bush Mechanics and swallowed that there ever was such as a functional clutch plate carved out of mulga wood. Call me cynical, but the “aren’t they clever” (surprise surprise!) comments bring to mind the kind of comments one hears at the zoo when seals perform clever tricks.

Not all that long ago the disempowerment, stigmatisation, stereotyping and marginalisation that tear at Warlpiri social fabric was temporarily eclipsed by the brief but spectacular AFL career of Yuendumu’s native son Liam Jurrah https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NF-_HszEC9s

Yuendumu received a much needed boost to its self esteem and the esteem it is held in by others.

Aussie Rules Football has been an integral part of Yuendumu’s cultural landscape for over half a century. It is social glue.

Thus when Yuendumu made it to the grand final, there was a mass exodus from Yuendumu. A month later under the headline ‘Community deserted as illegal camping spikes in Alice Springs’, the Centralian Advocate quoted Alice Springs Council’s Corporate Community Services director: “The biggest thing we believe was driving that spike, what we heard from police and rangers, is that virtually the whole of Yuendumu had decamped and were in Alice Springs due to payment of royalties”

Later in the article NT Police Commander Danny Bacon, mentions the finals match as being a significant factor. As for the ‘royalties’ furphy, these are usually not paid in cash and were not the main driving force behind the exodus nor in the implication (in the article) that some people chose to camp illegally as they couldn’t consume alcohol in regular accommodation.

The result of the grand final coinciding with the Men’s Museum opening was that the latter was attended by more non-Warlpiri spectators than Warlpiri people. The visitors (and locals) were regaled with traditional women’s dancing at the Warlukurlangu art centre http://warlu.com/ and after lunch proceeded to the museum (and in so doing walked past the $7.6M Yuendumu Police Complex which was officially opened yesterday).

Jakamarra had been much involved in the preparations for the Museum re-opening, and as the President of the Yuendumu Football Club, was torn as to where he wanted to be on that day. He opted for the museum and gave one of the opening speeches.

Two Jangalas had brought their karli (boomerangs) which they started to click on conclusion of the speeches in preparation to singing traditional Warlpiri songs. They were joined by Jakamarra and Japanangka. Just as a group of kardiya (whitefellows) might sit around a campfire with a guitar: “What shall we sing?” “Kumbaya?” “The lion sleeps tonight?” , so the foursome discussed “What shall we sing?” “What about Bah Bah Black sheep?” was Jakamarra’s suggestion… most people laughed but not all. A visitor was overheard whispering to her friend “Did you hear that? How disrespectful to those traditional song men!” Yes indeed, and if you burn out your clutch in the bush, you carve one out of mulga wood.

I’m very pleased to inform you all: The Yuendumu Magpies won!

The lost sheep (Adrian Munsey)…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqVKvRTmbj0

When Mary had a little lamb
The Doctors were surprised
When old MacDonald had a farm
They couldn’t believe their eyes

Kite ano koutou wawe tumanako ahau

Frank

 

PS- I haven’t had a chance to comment much on Australia’s leadership change. Suffice it to say that Nigel Scullion remains the Minister for Aboriginal affairs and Mal Brough has been elevated to the front benches. Aborigines remain the black sheep of the family.

I did however remember a quote that encapsulates my opinion:

“A new society cannot be created by reproducing the repugnant past, however refined or enticingly repackaged. NELSON MANDELA, Nobel lecture, 1993

 

 

You’re better off staying at home.

Dear reader, when I travel overseas I like to stay at resorts. You’ll find only the nicest kind of people, and it’s very safe. In actual fact it’s just like staying at home really. Please bear with us as Cecil relates a tale of what can go very wrong on the other side of the Irriwaddy. And if there’s a moral in this, it’s stay at home. Where pollies with household names like Susan, George and Peter can diddle you and we pay them for it.

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Cecil and his “wife”. Getting some local knowledge before setting off.

Cecil begns… “The Wife* and I are much chastened, not chaste, nor chased, but chastened.

We have been mercilessly conned by a superior being. A 16 year old Muslim from Yangon. (Where is Pauline Hansen when you really need her?) I’ll start at the beginning. Here we are in Burma/Myanmar, actually in the city of Rangoon/Yangon, (well, on the Irrawaddy/Ayeyarwady River near Bagan – I think only the names change, all else remains the same, as in Australian Prime Ministers Rudd/Gillard, Abbott/Turnbull).

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Cecil and ‘Wife’ meet their guide.

It was Boxing Day, although the locals failed to notice. The Wife* and I, having perused our Lonely Planet guide, decide, subsequent to undertaking our self-guided walking tour of downtown Yangon, to take the ferry across the Yangon River to Dalah, then taxi to the delta village of Twante. This ferry trip is analogous to that from Manhattan to Staten Island. We slip across to the ferry terminal from The (Imperious) Strand Hotel (rooms from US$633), where we’d had mid morning coffee. The Terminal, though crowded, is most welcoming of foreigners, the return trip costing less than a dollar each, bottled water included. The fun started at boarding. Queues are unheard of in these parts, it is just a seething mass that squeezes like toothpaste from a tube into the ferry. I clutch my bag securely to my side. The Wife* can fend for herself. English is spoken, in her ear, in mine. Close your bag, Stay close to me, I will make sure nothing happens. I turn my head and see a tall (by local standards) young man.

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From bad to worse. Cecil and ‘wife’ will be lucky to escape with their shirt.

Once on the boat he introduces himself, writing his name, at my urging, in my note book: Joon. He quickly tells us his father died in the tsunami 8 years ago and that he looks after his mother and family. He says he is only 16. We believe him. Where are you going he asks? Twante is the reply. I will take you, because no one at Dalah speaks English, and with me you will see good sights and I will take you to my home to meet my mother. How much? We ask. Oh, whatever you like he says, I just want to show you good things, maybe you pay nothing. Alarm bells started to ring in my ear when Joon seemed unable to secure a cab at all, let alone one with seat belts. Finally after thirty minutes he engaged one for 50% over the reputed going rate. It was rough, cramped, and seemed to rush through the interesting parts and slow to a crawl where things were more mundane. After forty minutes of bouncing and sweating we stopped at a lake with a temple in the middle. From the four cardinal points bridges lead to it. The small unimpressive temple was inhabited by two or three monks and myriad intertwined diamond backed pythons of all ages and sizes. Ok, we said, can we go now? So Joon then took us along an even rougher road to a local pottery where we observed the hand making of uniform mid sized garden pots. We tipped the potters as advised by Joon. He then started talking about how interesting the Australian currency was.

He asked us to show him some. A fiver, a tenner, – did we have a one hundred to show him?  How did it compare to US currency? Could we show him some of that? (to be continued)

What will happen to Cecil? Will he show his guide the colour of his money? Will he rock the boat, and upset the applecart, (rickshaw)? Stay tuned for tomorrow’s enthralling episode. 

2016 and all that. On a reflective note.

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Susan Ley. No conflict of interest, we get the politicians the lobbyists pay for.

Dear reader, a fragment from a friend of a friend. That’ what you get in the silly season.  We received this as an email and thought it was worth a look. Much of what is said has been said before by Ira Maine. In this instance there’s a familiarity that makes it fresh, and leap of the page. What’s for 2017? More of the same, and perhaps a meltdown of economies, ecology and the system that supports us. But according to Rupert and his mates it’s “business as usual’, and we’ve never had it so good. Either way this era is the era of non truth and the management satrapcy who’ve snuffed out imagination. Our solution? Be a manager or a real estate agent. There’s no risk and the rewards are immeasurable. Now to this fragment. 

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Malcolm Turnbull. The imagination deficit at work.

The consensus among most of my friends seems to be that 2016 was a terrible year, and the beginning of a long decline into something we don’t even want to imagine. 2016 was indeed a pretty rough year, but I wonder if it’s the end – not the beginning – of a long decline. Or at least the beginning of the end….for I think we’ve been in decline for about 40 years, enduring a slow process of de-civilisation, but not really quite noticing it until now. I’m reminded of that thing about the frog placed in a pan of slowly heating water… This decline includes the transition from secure employment to precarious employment, the destruction of unions and the shrinkage of workers’ rights, zero hour contracts, the dismantling of local government, a health service falling apart, an underfunded education system ruled by meaningless exam results and league tables, the increasingly acceptable stigmatisation of immigrants, knee-jerk nationalism, and the concentration of prejudice enabled by social media and the internet.

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Lord Rupert. ‘Business as usual’.

This process of decivilisation grew out of an ideology which sneered at social generosity and championed a sort of righteous selfishness. (Thatcher: “Poverty is a personality defect”. Ayn Rand: “Altruism is evil”). The emphasis on unrestrained individualism has had two effects: the creation of a huge amount of wealth, and the funnelling of it into fewer and fewer hands. Right now the 62 richest people in the world are as wealthy as the bottom half of its population combined. The Thatcher/Reagan fantasy that all this wealth would ‘trickle down’ and enrich everybody else simply hasn’t transpired. In fact the reverse has happened: the real wages of most people have been in decline for at least two decades, while at the same time their prospects – and the prospects for their children – look dimmer and dimmer. No wonder people are angry, and turning away from business-as-usual government for solutions. When governments pay most attention to whoever has most money, the huge wealth inequalities we now see make a mockery of the idea of democracy. As George Monbiot said: “The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the purse is mightier than the pen”. Last year people started waking up to this. A lot of them, in their anger, grabbed the nearest Trump-like object and hit the Establishment over the head with it. But those were just the most conspicuous, media-tasty awakenings.

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We beg to differ. Mr Malcolm (of the 70 votes)Roberts,  is neither charismatic nor thoughtful.

Meanwhile there’s been a quieter but equally powerful stirring: people are rethinking what democracy means, what society means and what we need to do to make them work again. People are thinking hard, and, most importantly, thinking out loud, together. I think we underwent a mass disillusionment in 2016, and finally realised it’s time to jump out of the saucepan.  This is the start of something big. It will involve engagement: not just tweets and likes and swipes, but thoughtful and creative social and political action too. It will involve realising that some things we’ve taken for granted – some semblance of truth in reporting, for example – can no longer be expected for free. If we want good reporting and good analysis, we’ll have to pay for it. That means MONEY: direct financial support for the publications and websites struggling to tell the non-corporate, non-establishment side of the story. In the same way if we want happy and creative children we need to take charge of education, not leave it to ideologues and bottom-liners. If we want social generosity, then we must pay our taxes and get rid of our tax havens. And if we want thoughtful politicians, we should stop supporting merely charismatic ones.  Inequality eats away at the heart of a society, breeding disdain, resentment, envy, suspicion, bullying, arrogance and callousness. If we want any decent kind of future we have to push away from that, and I think we’re starting to.

There’s so much to do, so many possibilities. 2017 should be a surprising year.

Bloody hope so, (Ed)

Poetry Sunday 8 January 2017

Ira Maine Reprised

Inspiration.

Quick, so the intensity’s not lost,
Hang out the white nets,
Wild birds won’t wait for ripeness,
Enough to sack a city.

The New Year nets I hung round
My apple trees, stopped a hawk,
A bat-hung, watchful windsock,
Daring me to stand my ground.

Nets,cut loose, had half disguised
Old heretic painted eyes,
Silt the Saviour, Set divides,
Godhead. Gaping, mesmerised.

This Moor’s murderer overcrowds my mind.
Mark how this ghost has undermined our rhyme,
Before Osiris, my race, already old,
Had ushered daylight, turned the sky, old mole!

I am an eel in the river,
I am an oak in the forest,
I am the felloes of Heaven,
I am the passage of light.

I’ve set my nets in the mind’s eye,
Alert for the blur
Of tachyon, meteor,
A windfall of passage hawks.

IRA MAINE
Thumnails Ira Maine

MDFF 7 January 2017

IF YOU DID NOT READ THIS DISPATCH IN THE LAST WEEK THEN YOU HAVE ANOTHER CHANCE TODAY
The dispatch is  Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics.  Originally dispatched on 14 December  2015.  

Hiya Folks, Namaskarum,

So the 2015 Parliamentary closed with one of my favourite politicians in hot water. It couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow. Once again we that live at the Front of the multipronged ethnocentric assimilationist attack that Remote Aboriginal Australia continues to be subjected to, derive one of the few joys we get to enjoy… Schadenfreude.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbJcQYVtZMo …. Ode an die Freude…(the Flash Mob)

Back when Mal Brough was one of the main architects of the Northern Territory Emergency Response, he shamelessly lied through his teeth to justify the Howard Government’s last throw of the dice in an attempt to avoid electoral defeat. The collateral damage done to the social fabric of these unique remote communities was of no concern to those political opportunists nor to those that followed.

Yet now almost a decade later we suddenly hear in the Parliament that Mal Brough is being accused of telling porkies, and his new boss (need I remind you that ‘mal’ means bad in Latin?- apologies to all the good people called Mal) springs to his defence “these are only allegations”. C’mon Mal, why not call a spade a spade? He’s a fucking liar and always has been and always will be.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1n03a7cLf0M (Lies- The Knickerbokkers)

Jack Waterford, the Editor-at-Large of The Canberra Times, is a journalist who in my humble opinion most persistently hits the nail on the head in relation to Indigenous Affairs in Australia.

The definition of ‘At Large’ in an on-line dictionary is “… especially of a criminal or dangerous animal) at liberty; escaped or not yet captured”. I for one hope they never capture him.

Jack’s latest contribution so encapsulates what I have tried to reveal in countless musical dispatches, that I’m offering it in its entirety as a Christmas Present.

Aborigines have again been caught out letting their comparative disadvantage increase, compared with non-Aboriginal Australians and concentration camp inmates at Manus Island. Scores of our best statisticians are now hard at work looking down the wrong wombat holes in search of an explanation.

How could this happen under our first prime minister for Indigenous affairs? Or indeed, under the maternalistic reign of Jenny Kabbarli Macklin, the wise and all-knowing oracle able to reinterpret any evidence that did not suit her preconceptions? How could 10 years of photo opportunities of miscellaneous ministers, policemen and army generals (the latter supplied with their public relations officers) walking with Aboriginal children towards remote area primary schools actually produce worse educational outcomes, whether in school attendance rates, or in reading, writing and arithmetic?

How could it be that after so many expensive prime ministerial weeks in Aboriginal communities, showing Aborigines, in front of thousands of specially imported white public servants, how to hammer in nails, that we now know most of the objectives of the “closing the gap” will not be achieved, and that in many cases, the gap of Aboriginal disadvantage, compared with other Australians has widened?

Would it have been worse without such stunts? Or without the hand-chosen advice from hand-chosen Aboriginal leaders without constituencies but ample access to the media? Or the efforts of professional bureaucrats inside the single most important department of state, under the guidance of the leader of the public service?

Or is it, as usual, the blackfellas’ fault again. These dreadful people who rebuff all efforts to help them. Are these surly ingrates about to squander the opportunities to be provided by our determination to “give” them a constitutional affirmation of their existence, whether they want it or not?

Those who suspect the latter might note that, so cunning have been these recalcitrant folk, that even when, or if, their health, educational, economic or mortality statistics improved (compared with how they had been some years before) they did not improve by as much as the equivalent improvement for the whole population. That is, they fell further backward even when going forward. (Just like, except worse, than most of the bottom half of the population under the last 20 economic boom years.)

One of the latest encyclicals describing, if not doing anything very much to change the situation is a report by the Productivity Commission, filling in for the now-abolished COAG Reform Council in preparing the necessary annual report on COAG’s work, under the National Indigenous Reform Agreement, on progress in meeting COAG’s Close the Gap targets.

This report points out that there is now a massive whitefella industry in preparing annual national reports describing, in entirely impersonal but voluminous detail, on Indigenous outcomes and disadvantage. Most of those involved in this industry, some at $400,000-plus a year, have their salaries paid from money described as going to Aboriginal affairs, but can manage for years without actually having to encounter a disadvantaged Aborigine.That’s in line with the fact that only about one dollar in every 10 notionally being spent on Aboriginal Australians is ever touched by an Aboriginal hand.

The authors of this (200-page plus umpteen-page set of statistical addenda) report note:

“The commission estimates that the total page count for the other national reports is close to 2000 pages, with the equivalent of almost 7000 pages of data available as electronic attachments.

“There is considerable overlap and duplication across the various reports. And some of the data used for the assessments are not updated each year, which means for annual Closing the Gap reports there is little option between data updates than to reiterate past findings.”

This is most unmannerly on the part of the Productivity Commission. The normal practice is to deplore waste and duplication among programs benefiting Aborigines, rather than the Aboriginal industry, on which the national prosperity may rely, particularly if Malcolm Turnbull’s innovation thing takes off. Indeed the usual practice is to call for more reports, better statistics, more conferences and working parties, even if they are to be focused on ways of cutting the overlap.

To be fair on the PC, however, it gives the statistics a pretty good look-over and comes up with some cogent criticisms of them, which might, with the right bureaucratic opportunism, require a good deal of further joint study, preferably away from the office. Perhaps, in the circumstances at Yulara, if at a cooler time of year.

The other reports to which the PC refers are never, of course, issued simultaneously. That has the effect, inter alia that one can choose any one of them to prove almost anything, other than that life for Aborigines is improving, or improving much. There’s the Overcoming Indigenous Disadvantage report; the Report on Government Services: Indigenous Compendium; the Prime Minister’s own Closing the Gap report; and the Institute of Health and Welfare report on the Health and Welfare of Australia’s Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People’s Overview. And there’s  the ATSI Health Performance Framework Report produced by the Health Minister’s Advisory Council; and, of course the Indigenous Expenditure report.

This booming industry has, alas recently had a few economic setbacks, at least for those given to weighing, counting, parsing, measuring and calculating Aborigines, if not, necessarily, for the benighted subjects of all of these attentions.

We are, for example, now deprived of regular very glossy reports from a Commonwealth coordinator-general for remote Indigenous services, who was, by the end of a generally unlamented reign under the last government, given partly to co-ordinating the work of other coordinators-general as well as making up his own not particularly reliable statistics of whatever took his fancy. It is not clear that anything much, other than empires, collapsed after the function was dispensed with.

Then there was another body – almost the only actually useful one, as far as Aboriginal communities were concerned – called the Closing the Gap Clearing House. It gathered information on what programs actually seemed to work, and what did not. It also collected program evaluations, as well as material reviewing (as opposed to auditing) the efficacy of particular policies and programs. This had the clearly undesirable effect of allowing good and bad experiences in one region to inform decisions in other regions. This is a function best carried out by ministers, from their own deep reservoirs of experience and ideology, and by those officials who have learnt that promotion depends on the paper flow with colleagues, not achievement in different communities.

Naturally, the clearing house was the first to go, as an efficiency, even as efforts were redoubled to increase the complicatedness, uselessness and detachment of any number of other activities designed to get better transparency, accountability and, no doubt these days, agility and innovation in Aboriginal affairs.

It should not be assumed that I have even begun to describe the limits of such enterprise in closing the gap on Aboriginal disadvantage. The surprising thing is that the statistical reports are concerned with matters such as bums on seats in preschools rather than spreadsheets in Canberra.

Or in each of the other capitals, including on City Hill, which itself has no triumph of which to speak. Virtually every single one of the states and territories has a bureaucratic operation duplicating each and everything that the Commonwealth and COAG does in trying to close the gap, if only to feed in doubtful statistics, or political marketing advice, to the powers that be within their domains.

And these are but mere government bodies, staffed by officials. There is now an additional group of academic and non-government agencies, and lobbies in the health, education and welfare industry, churning out data, or copying selected pieces of other people’s data, all for the higher and greater good of Aborigines, whether they want it or not. Not much of it is greatly informed by any effort to get an Aboriginal viewpoint on the results of these labours, other than with the facilitation of a further industry of urgers and observers ready to say, for a price, that the victims have been told and seem to understand what has been decided for them.

Of course the Closing the Gap industry is itself but the mere tip of an iceberg of investigation, reports, inquiries, tests, tracts, commissions and consultations generated among whitefellas in Aboriginal affairs, and used to decide what’s best .

More than 40 years ago, writing about Aboriginal ill health in a book, I commented that the academic medical literature already contained at least one paper describing it for every Indigenous family, and predicted that a day would come soon when there was at least one for every Indigenous individual. I expect that this time has arrived. Not much of this scholarship did much to improve health.

Aboriginal ill health is but a subset of an academic and official literature pontificating on Aboriginal disadvantage in education, in incarceration, in social and economic status, and morale. Most is very sympathetic to the problem, whatever it is. Some have been quite angry and strident about the persistence of disadvantage, or the failure of everyone to fix it.

No national shame, here or elsewhere has been better documented, recorded, discussed or made the subject of so many conferences, inquiries and consideration. One can wake, like Rip Van Winkle, from a sleep of decades and take up a conversation on appropriate policy as if nothing had changed. Other than that a few more generations have been stolen and a few more tens of billions spent .

No problem has seemed so intractable, in spite of sincere, earnest and well-funded efforts to do something about it. Scores of politicians, from prime ministers down, have sworn they will personally make a difference. If there has been an inclination to scoff, there has been some acknowledgment that it has been said before, but that this time he, or she, means business.

I have known and observed every single minister for Indigenous affairs, however described , since the function acquired ministerial status in 1968. Yet I cannot think of a single one since, perhaps, Peter Baume in 1980, whose contribution made a positive difference to outcomes in Aboriginal affairs. And I wouldn’t really write home about Baume.

Even when the bad decisions or well-meaning but stupid interventions of hopeless ministers had negative outcomes, the ministers had a good less long-term impact than one might imagine. No one expected much better, and their appropriate fate is, simply to be forgotten. Can anyone, for example, remember anything, good or bad, that Amanda Vanstone or Phillip Ruddock did in Indigenous affairs? Yet Vanstone apparently has expertise to offer the constitutional recognition argument, and is, accordingly, back on the public payroll .

One could write a history of Aboriginal communities, families or individuals without thinking of a single thing that any federal minister (or prime minister) did or said that made much of a difference to their lives, or which even had much long-term impact on policy and practice, or social or economic outcomes.

That is not very remarkable. Aborigines may attract bureaucrats, academic and politics like dogs attract fleas. As is often noticed and deplored, some get into all sorts of unhealthy interdependence relationships, sometimes extending over generations, trapping people in long, and often highly dysfunctional cycles of helplessness, hopelessness and depression.

Such people – the givers as much as the takers, the people making lives and careers from it as much as people from whose misery they profit – need help, not least in weaning and being weaned .

For all that, only Aboriginal people can liberate themselves from their conditions. The most that their friends, people who think they are their friends, and people who think they know best for the objects of their pity, can do is to help create the environment in which that liberation can occur. More reports, more studies, more seminars, and more bureaucrats are unlikely to help much. They are, in fact, the biggest problem.

I say amen to all that, but Jack “only Aboriginal people can liberate themselves from their conditions” is much much easier said than done. “The environment in which that liberation can occur” is all but non-existent. But, never let that flickering little flame of hope be extinguished.

…Deep in my heart, I know that I do believe..
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkNsEH1GD7Q  (We shall overcome- Joan Baez)

…. A change is gonna come, and there is Beauty in the World… Not least in these remote Aboriginal communities.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qX7ZsxD3Ik (Macy Gray – Beauty In The World)

Have a Happy Christmas,

Pinne Kanam.

Frank

Postcard

Dear reader, you may have noticed that things have been a bit quite on the pcbycp front. The fact is that we all needed a break, and as we while away the long days wondering if we really care about the latest test scores we bring you fragments from afar.  Piece by piece we recover from the year just had, and segway into the year that’s with us now.

2016 was ” interesting”.  Let’s hope that 2017 is not too ‘exciting’. One thing we can count on is that the P.M for “Thought Bubbes’ will be hard at it once again to prove his reformist credentials.  And after the backpack legislation was passed we know that our estimations are higher than high. We truly do get the best politicians the lobbysists pay for. No sign of reform or an agenda. That’s real-politik speak for maintaining the status quo.   

Now, for a fragment from Cecil. He’s been travelling a bit lately and you may like to share his insights; If not, you can always listen to Channel Nine’s cricket coverage and be insulted regularly and without remission. Some people like a bit of pain. It keeps them ‘on their toes’, so to speak. 

From Cecil,

burma-4

Rickshaw to Rangoon

‘The wife* and I have been in Myanmar since Christmas. I’m writing this while awaiting our flight to Bagan.

burma3

The roads are just not up to scratch.

Myanmar more specifically, Yangon, has been better than expected. Highlight has been the circle train, a three hour journey around the city- the only metropolitan service – total distance about 45 km, cost 35 cents. Within the circle live some 8 million people. From the train we saw extraordinary innovation, houses cobbled together from any and every imaginable material (although not an igloo to be seen). Every few hundred yards there were people, invariably young men, playing ‘chinlone’ a cross between volley ball and soccer, usually three a side on the smallish dirt courts. These courts often seemed to have been cleared on the trackside. Plenty of Paddy’s as we got further from the centre of town, the farmers here being an obvious underclass (as almost everywhere).

The lowlight, although highly educational was a three and a half hour con of which we were the targets. I’ll tell you about that when the wife* and I have recovered.
(Just occurred to us sitting in the airport, more modern, functional and better designed than Tulla, that a fabulous Cargo Cult exists here to. The aeroplane brings the wealth, at least that is what the economic hit men say.)

burma-5

Flying the Focker. Cecil and wife prepare to board

Back to the circular train, we saw a number of farmers up to their chests (Burmese people are generally very short) in water tending their crops. Also lots and lots of kite fliers with extraordinarily long lines rolled onto reclaimed 300mm electric cable reels. The kites seemed to have no tails, yet flew very high and stable.
We are now on a Fokker, flying to Bagan. For the first time here we are surrounded by tourists. In front of us a group of about twenty French tourists. They must have been staying in air conditioned comfort, as one or two wearing parkas, the rest with pullovers and scarves. We are wearing attire more suited to the tropical climate.

Boarding has commenced for our Mann Yadanarpon Airlines ‘Enjoy Royal Service’ to Nyaung (Bagan), and the service and plane are equal to the best we’ve encountered.
* The term ‘Wife’ is used in its generic sense, the Wife* is married, as am I’.

Poetry Sunday 1 January 2017

Ira Maine reprised

AN UNFASHIONABLE POEM

IRA MAINE

Here by this hand as you will see
I’ll upend Gerontology,
I’ll muster words upon the page
To coax from language love,or rage,
Or set great heaven in a fit,
But soft, have I the wit for this?

unfashionable poem 1.1I might of course, set something down
To blast my foes, make trumpets sound,
Or praise a breast or raise a crest,
Get sometime secrets off my chest,
Yet gladly these I would eschew
If one dear thing I could but do…


 I’d love, upon this printed sheet
To scatter grace notes at your feet,
To order words in perfect round,
So syllables would music sound,
Then all your heart (how hope recurs…)
Would soften to my singing words.

Yet read…and all falls headlong down,
I lack the wit for Siren sound,
And all the music in my head
By this same wit is left unsaid.
What’s left is, as these notes record,
An old hand, stumbling after words.