Swanning

I've been "swanning" this week.

This was the term used when I was in 7RAR to describe hitch-hiking around Phuoc Tuy in various RAAF aircraft. It was not officially condoned, but when I was a POGO (Personnel on Garrison Operations) a blind eye was turned providing you finished up back at Nui Dat when the jaunt was over in time for your next duty. It usually cost a fixed quantity of the preferred tipple, although donations from the Q Store were gratefully accepted.

Most of my swanning was in Land Rovers (usually semi-official as an armed escort) but I very occasionally managed to get on aircraft. Some of my colleagues had seen most of Phuoc Tuy and the neighbouring provinces by the time they were RTAd*.

I was reminded of this experience this week when I hitch-hiked on another agency's aircraft in order to get to one of the more far-flung schools on my list. Between 7am and 6pm, I was able to visit two schools 700km from base, and 200km apart. If I had gone by road, I would have used three days by the time I'd covered the same territory, and the bulk of the time would have been spent in non-productive activity, viz driving down the Warrego.

This swanning is all highly formal and above board, involving reams of paperwork, approvals at all levels, and intricate Health & Safety briefings. It actually makes a great deal of sense, as the aircraft are already chartered for one agency, and another agency can tag along to share costs and improve efficiencies. In the end, the taxpayer shells out a lot less by this simple act of interagency cooperation.

The day held a few surprises. One of them was the level of security at these very small airstrips. Since 9/11, every bush strip that operates scheduled services of any kind has to have pin code access to the flight line, and any aircraft on the strip must be properly secured. This leads to the unlikely spectacle of bush strips surrounded by three metre security fencing. At least it keeps the wildlife out. I can understand the reasoning. Any aspiring terrorist could hijack a light aircraft and use it to fly to a larger airport and in this fashion access a secure area, and use it as a jumping off point for an attack.

One downside of this is that the aircraft left on the strip are completely locked down, and by the time they've sat on the tarmac in 40 plus temperatures for three hours (as our aircraft had) they're not good places to be for the first half hour or so. I can report on good authority that it takes a Piper Cheyenne thirty-five minutes to cool down, even at 18000 feet.

The pilot was an interesting bloke, who looked about ten years younger than the aircraft. He was, however very safety conscious, following his pre-flight checklists to the letter prior to every departure. It surprised me to note that the controllers he conversed with were all in Brisbane, and their gender balance was about 50/50.

Incidentally, one of the schools I visited had a sign on the door of a small room entitled "Room for Improvement". I'm not sure what was inside, and didn't have time to check, but the next time I'm there I'll go inside for half an hour or so.

Maybe time in that special place will be helpful - assuming it's not too late for someone of my vintage, even if I have to travel 700km to get there.

* Return to Australia.

Lemming Land

Because I have three sprogs studying in Brisbane, I spend a bit of time travelling in Lemming Land.

Lemming Land is the name I give to conurbations such as the one that stretches from the Sunshine Coast to the Gold Coast, and takes in all of metropolitan Brisbane. I have no choice but to approach it from the Ipswich bypass, well-known as one of the most congested (and dangerous) roads in the state.

Why "Lemming Land"? – Well because when I get caught in the bumper-to-bumper chaos that is a daily occurrence, I can't help but think of Lemmings. Generally, I avoid peak hour like the plague, but I had to get my number one daughter to an interview on the far north side at 8.30am, so didn't really have a choice.

I have, in the past, crashed in my son's digs overnight to get an early start, but that's not always a good idea. Twenty something males aren't always keen on overnight stays from sixty plus rellies – it cramps their style somewhat.

I left Toowoomba at 5.30am to give myself plenty of time. I was still on the road at 8.15. I got her there barely on time (she lives in the inner city) after a journey that was anything but stress-free. On two occasions (on the Ipswich bypass and the Centenary Highway), it would have been quicker to leg it.

Driving a car into the city is not smart, but invariably I have some item or another to deliver to one of the three. Ever tried travelling on a city bus or train with a stick-on mirror? It reminded me a bit of the crew from "Top Gear" travelling the length of Vietnam with paraphernalia tied on their scooters. (Hilarious stuff – I don't know if you watched it).

Can-do Campbell (Lord Mayor of Brisbane) might be advised to set up an infrastructure of large parking stations and a light rail network, if he wants to keep cars out of the city. They're dropping the limit to 40kph in the CBD, which might improve safety, but will do nothing at all to remove congestion. I couldn't live in Brisbane. The farther west you travel, the saner the world becomes.

St Mary's

For only the second time in my sixty-one years, I'm embarrassed to call myself a Catholic.

The first time followed an incident in March 1970 in Fire Support Base Anne in Phuoc Tuy province in South Vietnam.

The second time is in the context of the dismissal of Fr Peter Kennedy from St Mary's Parish in South Brisbane.

Back in 1970, my platoon took a break from patrolling to rest up for a day or two in the fire support base, about halfway through operation Concrete 1.

The catholic padre (Keith Teefey – a great priest) was there, and let it be known that he would conduct a service – ecumenical of course – in which he would distribute communion. He also said that everyone – irrespective of denomination – was welcome to receive this communion, providing they did so respectfully.

There was an almost 100% roll-up at the mass, and many of my non-catholic mates took up his offer. In fact, I remember vividly the uncommon reverence most of them showed. This made perfect sense in the context of the situation. We were, after all, patrolling in a war zone, with the clear understanding that we were, to use the cliché, "in harm's way".

I was so impressed with this, that I penned a letter to my parents, describing in glowing terms what I'd seen. My dad, who was very much inspired by Vatican 2, told the parish priest in conversation next Sunday at mass in my home town, Texas. (Qld – not USA).

This priest, a conservative old Irishman, reported the conversation to the Bishop of the Diocese, after admonishing my father because he (my dad) was of the same supportive opinion as I was. Two things followed – the bishop had the good sense to ignore the complaint, and my father was shunned by the priest for the rest of his time in the parish.

Given that my dad was the principal of the local state school, and my two younger brothers attended the convent school, this created a very awkward situation in the small town.

I was amazed to hear the full story when I returned home. It surprised me to discover the level of bigotry and ignorance that lingered from the pre-Vatican 2 era.

Well, I'm surprised once more. For the life of me, I can't see what's "Catholic" about Archbishop Bathersby's action. The word "Catholic" means – " broad or wide-ranging in tastes, interests; having sympathies with all; broad-minded; liberal."

Somebody should explain this to Bathersby, or buy him a dictionary.

I was also gobsmacked to see Bathersby interviewed on TV describing the church as "Roman Catholic". No Catholic uses this term.

I hope this doesn't signify a hardening of the church's attitude towards liberation theology. Pope Benedict XVI has long been known as an opponent and has issued several condemnations when he was head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. The Church's work with disadvantaged communities is one of the major factors that has kept it relevant in a rapidly-changing world.

Perhaps archbishops don't get out much.
I don't hold out hope for the future of the institutional church if this is indeed the case. The community of faith may be all that remains.

I wish Peter Kennedy and his flock the very best.

Jimbour

Yesterday we joined a convoy of Mazda MX5s on a run out to Jimbour station. It was a great day, combining the enjoyment of driving the MX5, exploring the fascinating heritage listed site, a great lunch, and some good company.
It was overcast, which made the driving very pleasant, as "top down" is de rigueur for these runs – only a wimp would drive under a roof, even if it is made of vinyl.











Jimbour House was built in 1877 for a cost of $30000 from materials sourced locally. The timber came from the Bunya Mountains, and the slate and stone from a quarry less than 10k away.


It is an astonishing building, with a grandeur which seems strangely out of place in the rural environment. I could see it in a big city, or more fittingly somewhere in Europe, but it must have been the centre of a dignified and lavish lifestyle in its heyday.
Money and power in the colony at the time was carried on the sheep's back, and the families who worked this beautiful country were the movers and shakers of their day.

The house itself would have been a haven from the elements with walls over a foot thick, and it was heated and lit by gas generated from a nearby coal seam.
The whole setup was self-supporting, with a "kitchen garden", extensive stables, and later a sealed airstrip. The airstrip was in use yesterday when a party of sightseers flew in from Archerfield in a beautiful Mooney M20J.





There is a church on site, still in use, and featuring a projection box in the rear near a belfry. As far as I know, it's the only chapel in the country which doubles as a cinema.




The Russell family, who still work the property, were pioneers in the use of aircraft to defeat the tyranny of time and distance presented by poor roads and the Blacksoil country.
There is a large hangar on the property housing at least one aircraft – a Beech Baron, from what I could see through the crack in the locked roller doors. (When I say "roller doors", I mean heavy doors sliding sideways on rollers – just like in the movies – not your woosy domestic variety). Lunch was great, and being able to eat it in the deep shade of some large Jacarandas was very pleasant. They also make their own wines, and their 2003 Shiraz is excellent. Unfortunately, I was unable to partake because I was driving. I was forced to buy a bottle or two to take home to remember the day by.

Moving House

I must be getting old and deluded.

My understanding has always been that houses stay in one place as vehicles drive past.

I've discovered that's not necessarily the case. Sometimes (in fact very often recently) houses move past, whilst cars park behind them. On my recent journeys west along the Warrego, as often as not, I've come across houses on the move. They have come in all shapes and sizes, from dongas intended as accommodation for miners, to colonial mansions, usually split in two, crawling along the highway.

In my last five trips, I've encountered moving houses three times. That's a pretty fair average.

Today, between Chinchilla and Miles, I crawled along for about forty minutes at thirty five to forty kph. The posted limit road on this road is 110kph, and that's a safe speed on this very good road.

I would have lost about an hour's productive time, because of the initial delay, and then when the rig finally pulled over, the time taken to negotiate the banked up traffic was an issue. There's a real cost to my clientele. The legalities of this are unknown to me, but I reckon a smart-arse lawyer could have a field day.

I guess these things have to be moved somehow, but my observations indicate that some of the people doing the moves are cowboys. Last year I followed one of these moving houses which amputated twenty or thirty roadside guide posts on one slightly narrower stretch of the highway between Morven and Augathella.

The contractors didn't seem even slightly embarrassed.

Today's house was shedding bits and pieces along the way. Perhaps they were being paid on the delivered weight – the building's configuration didn't seem important.

I'm glad I wasn't the owner.

All Gone!

Today our youngest left home to attend Uni in Brisbane.

She was up at 5.30am, and organised to the nth degree. She left with a song in her heart and her hopes and anticipation high.

She's the last of four to launch, a process that has taken about eight years in all.

Our home, which once sheltered six people, and was always full of noise, comings and goings, music, laughter, mess, argument and the accumulated detritus of young adults is now quiet, ordered and predictable.

I guess I should be grateful, but I will miss them.

Times have changed.

I left home at age thirteen to attend boarding school, and was in a job at fifteen. My dad, a product of the depression, wasn't happy when I resigned this job (a clerk in the Forestry Department) in March 1963, to become effective in December the same year.

To him it was security – to me boredom and drudgery. I left after a year and went back to school. I was able to do so, because I started school at four, and was always a year and a half younger than everyone else. Going back to school was the first (and best) real decision I ever made.

Back then, Uni was free, living was cheap, and choices were limited and life simpler as a result. Not so now. It's a tough road, as most need part time work to live, and living is not cheap. Many finish degree courses with a HECS debt rivaled only by the cost of getting into the housing market.

In that sense I don't envy them.

At least my sons didn't have to register for National Service and run the risk of being hauled halfway across the world to be shot at.

Funny thing is, I wouldn't begrudge a form of National Service, for both sexes, so long as it didn't involve compulsory military service in a war zone, unless of course the country was under direct threat.

That will never happen of course – the political risks are just too high.

For now – we're back to a situation we haven't experienced since 1983; the last time there were two of us in the house. I'm looking forward to it – but it really is bittersweet.

Poor Performance

There is an interesting confluence of stories in today's Courier Mail, which on first glance don't seem to be connected.
On page 9, there's an account of John Mulcahy's departure as CEO of Suncorp. On page 10, an article about self-funded retirees appears. This second one, about government's abandonment of this group in the face of the current financial train wreck, isn't on their website, and I can't link to it, but this earlier story is relevant.

They're linked in my mind.

About six years ago whilst still in harness as a school principal, I was seconded for six months to work in a senior Human Resources position. Our District Director at the time was trying to get field personnel into her office in an attempt at culture change.

One of the less pleasant aspects of this otherwise fascinating job was the responsibility of recommending to the District Director, action to be taken with non-performing teachers. Every now and again, I had to recommend termination (after the completion of a process called Diminished Work Performance) to the DD. Sometimes, it fell to me to break the bad news to the teacher in question. It was really the principal's responsibility, but on occasion it was easier on all concerned, if someone disconnected with the school did this. Once, a teacher for whom I had recommended termination got hold of my home phone number and made life a bit difficult for myself and family for a while. Being phoned at weird hours to be asked "How can you sleep?" wasn't fun. My attempt at wit - "I was doing OK on the sleep issue until the phone rang" went over like a lead balloon.

This made be very familiar with both the consequences and fallout of under performance. The main victims, of course were the kids in these teachers' classses.

Compare this situation with the fate of Mulcahy, CEO of Suncorp, after the value of the company has fallen $12 billion from its peak of $19 billion. According too this report, he's left of his own accord, and has taken with him $20 million pocketed during a six year period. He also holds 1.3 million shares, worth $9.26 million on current share values, and has another 400000 incentive shares worth $2.8 million. His payout figure is $2.4 million.

Why is under-performance tolerated rewarded in this fashion in private industry? It's interesting to compare this situation to my experience. The cliché that does the rounds in Tory blogs is that the public service doesn't act to manage under-performance. I don't see anyone complaining about merchant bankers in a similar situation on blogs such as Bolt's or Blair's. How is this connected to the story on self-funded retirees?

Obviously, we (I'm one of them) are taking a beating in the current situation. I'm better off than most asset-wise, but it's not fun watching the accumulated rewards of forty-five years of work diminish rapidly (I left school at fifteen and started contributing to super in 1962). It effects my capacity to help my kids, as I'm not prepared to access any of my accounts, and won't until things start to turn. How long this will take is anyone's guess - we're in uncharted territory. I hope I'm still compos mentis enough to enjoy what's left. The job I do because I enjoy it has become useful about now.

It makes my blood boil to understand that smart-arse bankers are handsomely rewarded for making such a mess of their work in providing security for their investors and employees, whilst self-funded retirees are denied the same security through no fault of their own.

But it must be OK – the market rules, after all.