Wednesday, January 17, 2018


Image result for image of Melbourne blacks rioting
No nothing to see here folks, at least not for the Leftist Victorian Government led by Chief Leftist, Premier Daniel Andrews (adoring fan of "Safe Schools" gender bending outrage). Victorian Police Commissioner Graham Ashton, currently tying himself into semantic knots over what constitutes a "gang", scoffs at the suggestion of Sudanese gangs causing mayhem in Melbourne. This while ramping up the battle against violent crime by African street gangs with a newly announced task force - curiouser and curiouser. His state of denial and irritation is a reaction to the charge from none other then Peter Dutton, the Minister of Home Affairs - a super-portfolio including Immigration - that Victorians are now too scared to go to restaurants at night for fear of African violence and especially of being followed home by dark people with evil intentions.

 Ashton though is still not swayed even after a wide-ranging poll had borne out exactly what Dutton was saying - that a majority of those polled were far less likely to go out at night than they were a year ago, intimidated as they were by gang violence.

 Peter Martin, writing for the Leftist fake news monger, the Sun Herald, Sunday January 14, 2018 does see a problem but it's actually the problem of the media (the Sun Herald excepted of course) creating the illusion of a problem. He helpfully gives an earlier example of the same phenomenon:

"In Adelaide a decade ago, it was the "Gang of 49". There never was a Gang of 49; The Advertiser coined the term to describe 49 mainly Aboriginal youths the police said they were looking for.

"The catchphrase had unfortunate consequences. Former police say it created gangs. Dispossessed, often homeless youths started saying they were part of Gang of 49 and stealing cars and doing ram-raids to prove it."

So there you are. See how easy it is for confusion to arise. Exactly the same thing is happening now with Victorians reluctant to venture out of their homes so terrified are they of rampaging Sudanese gangs. Silly sausages. They should be listening to Police Commissioner Ashton (who obviously knows on which side his bread is buttered) who Martin quotes as saying, it was "complete and utter garbage" to, as Martin fills in "suggest ... that Victorians aren't safe.

The next day Sydney's Daily Telegraph columnist, Tim Blair, not so cosily agreeable with the Police Commissioner, notes Ashton's inability to come to terms with the word "gangs" in relation to Sudanese, well, gangs. "Those aren't gangs ... Rather, they are young people coming together and networking through social media and then engaging in criminal activity." (Perhaps simply like rowdy behaviour or crossing roads against the "don't walk" signal.)  

But back to journalist/propagandist Martin and his shenanigans: "The perpetrators are overwhelmingly Australian-born." Sleight of hand really needs to be less ham-fisted to stand any chance of fooling anyone. "Australian-born" here is meant to imply that though they may be of Sudanese descent, the fact that they were born here and breathed Australian air and, given that race is simply a "social construct", they are magically just as dinky di Aussie as Crocodile Dundee. Here's a concession though: "Although Sudanese youths are over-represented in minor crime statistics (as might be expected given high unemployment and pockets of socio-economic disadvantage) [boo hoo] the perpetrators of serious assaults are 25 times more likely to be born in Australia than in Sudan or Kenya." Really! Only someone completely addled by drugs or Alzheimer's would be incapable of seeing through this garbage. Any reputable producer of propaganda would be throwing Martin out on his arse for this clumsy effort. In this second embarrassing attempt at deceit, he conflates the already used "Australian born" trick with no effort to adjust for the Sudanese percentage (born there or here; it doesn't matter) of the Australian population. And how atrocious does an assault have to be before it rates as "serious" in Martin's book?

So what are the figures when properly adjusted per head of population? Caroline Marcus, another Telegraph journalist quotes figures issued from the Victorian Crime Statistics Agency in a January 2 column. Specifically omitting Australian-born African Blacks, the information given is that "men of Sudanese or South Sudanese origin are six times more likely to be arrested by police than those who are Australian-born [that is, actual Australians]".

Could be the problem be here really racist white cops busting Sudanese kids just trying to have a little fun? Or so goes the Leftist wet-dream What then are their crimes if worse than pinching lunch-money from school-children? Let us count the ways.

Almost as an echo of the way Muslims celebrate New Year in Germany (rape, robbery and sexual molestation) and Paris (burning cars), Sudanese in Australia have their own unique take on celebration.

"In 'frightening' incidents on New Year's Eve  this year [2015] [Major Nottle of the Salvation Army] said large numbers of 'African youth' clashed on Russel and Swanston Streets in the early hours of the morning." This from a March 2016 article in The AGE, which being a fellow traveler with the Sydney Morning Herald and the Sun Herald, of course proceeded to roll out through the mouth of do-gooder  Nottle a defence argument citing disconnectedness, feelings of alienation, lack of education, lack of employment and the icing on the cake: after growing up in a country devoid of law and order, how were they supposed to recognise law and order when they saw it? Case dismissed.

Here though are a few statistics that would no doubt have have The Age journalist responsible for the foregoing apologia and Major Nottle desperately trying to imitate at least two of the three wise monkeys. They come courtesy of Victorian Police defying their government's bullshit initiative and relayed by gutsy, tell-it-how-it-is journalist Andrew Bolt (Herald Sun April 13, 2017):

Sudanese are 44 times more likely to break the law - than, presumably, everybody else living in Australia.

Bearing in mind they make up a mere 0.11 per cent of Victoria's population, they commit 48 per cent of aggravated burglaries, 5.65 per cent of car thefts, 13.9 per cent of aggravated robberies and 44 per cent of home invasions.

Let's for a moment focus on the latter which, in something of an understatement a recent commentator noted as "unAustralian" as indeed they are given they were unheard of before enrichment by mass, third world immigration. Now to ram home the 44 per cent figure, let's try putting it another way: our new black friends are 77 times more likely than are Australian youths to be committing these atrocities.

Anyone who has come home to find their home burgled knows well the sickening feeling of violation.  How many orders of multitudes worse must it be to be held up, robbed, threatened with violence or have violence used against you in your own home? The trauma caused would be unlikely to ever be completely outlived.

One of the major and most troublesome gangs calls itself the Apex Gang which isn't exactly well thought out or fearsome. Let's be honest here; it's not exactly up there with the Bloods and the Crips and may even be confused with the Apex Club, a non-profit group of philanthropists. However, philanthropists they are not, being the polar opposites, hate-twisted misanthropes who, like most of the other gangs, have diverse interests that include, car-theft, robberies, assault, destruction of property and of course, not to be left out of the general festivities, home invasions. A much favoured interest is targeting Chinese students for robbery and assault, notwithstanding a long-standing meme that white racism was what Asians in Australia had most to fear.

A car's front windshield is smashed by partygoers in Werribee.
Aftermath of African "party" in Melbourne

As with home-invasions, another form of crime previously unknown to Australians has arisen courtesy of the Sudanese repaying Australian generosity and refuge in the African way.

A year ago a happy crowd  attending the family-friendly Summersault festival in Melbourne's west were rudely introduced to this crime newly minted in Australia. It had been a day of fun, food-stalls and music. Around 10.00 pm while the crowd was enjoying the fireworks meant to be the climax of a pleasant day, a far different climax erupted. Initially, people distracted by the fireworks only started to become aware of a disturbance. The disturbance was a mob of up to seventy youths "of African appearance" swarming through the crowd, kicking and striking people and stealing wallets, purses, mobile phones and anything else they could lay their hands on. Saint John's Ambulance volunteers treated the injured and at least one person was hospitalised. Welcome to the jungle.

So what's being done? That is apart from Police Commissioner Ashton's hastily organised strike force to combat the crime-wave while he agonises over whether these gangs are really gangs. The betting would have to be that because of a State government dousing itself in politically correct perfume, it will be a softly softly approach with the police still kept on a tight leash. We've seen this before with Muslim crime, particularly in regard to rape, where police are placed in an impossible situation - too soft and they are accused of not doing their job, to hard and the accusations of racism start to fly. Is it any wonder the constabulary becomes effectively paralyzed?

With suspicions rife that this will be the end result, the ante has been upped and Leftist talking heads and politicians suitably outraged by a concerned group pledging to step into the void and do the job that is not being done. Naturally, the airwaves have been rent with the cry of "vigilantism!" Particularly irksome to the PC brigade is that the prospective "vigilantes" happens to be the True Blue Crew, a "far right" organisation pitted strenuously against mass immigration and multiculturalism, and have engaged in street battles against Antifa lunatics. So of course we get "Congratulations Australia. We've Normalised Neo Nazis". This after members of the TBC being interviewed on television by an interviewer perceived to be, horror of horrors, slightly sympathetic to the group's concerns.

All the group has revealed so far is that they will begin patrolling known trouble spots. If in the event of their being attacked, they are reserving their right to self-defence. Citizens' arrests would also be their absolute right. Conceding for argument's sake that they will become vigilantes, so what. Is that really so bad. It is not as though precedents haven't been set. It may be remembered that New York's Guardian Angels originated for exactly the same reason - to provide safety to citizens when no-one else was. Initially frowned upon, the organisation is now a world-wide phenomenon and has been actually praised by a number of New York mayors (but of course the Angels are not weighed down by the same explosive political baggage as the TBC).

In 2005, Professor Andrew Fraser, a Canadian born academic teaching Constitutional History at Macquarie University in Sydney ignited a furor by simply writing a letter to a local newspaper in which he claimed Australia was heading for trouble by agreeing to accept refugees from Sudan, people who were so different in every way to the host culture as to render them impossible to integrate. "Experience everywhere in the world shows us that an expanding black population is a sure-fire recipe for increases in crime, violence and other social problems," he wrote.

Outrage naturally followed. Initially, although hurriedly distancing itself from Fraser's views, Macquarie University stood by Fraser citing his freedom of opinion and expression. However, as academia, once the marketplace of ideas, has instead become a closed shop, support was wavering almost as soon as it was given. Fraser was then only around five years from retirement age. Would he be interested in an early retirement sweetened by a generous severance pay-out? Fraser said, "no thanks". He equated what was being offered as a "dishonourable discharge".

Worried and fearful, with the ball back in its court, the university leapt upon an outcry from the Sudanese community, represented by photogenic fellows in suits who could speak English, against endemic Australian racism, to suspend Fraser from teaching. The grounds were fears that the "race debate" would spill over onto the campus thus impeding students' ability to concentrate on their studies. This incidentally was not the first time an academic career in Australia has been destroyed because of temerity in not cleaving to the party-line.

To any reasonable person, Professor Fraser would now have to be vindicated. Unfortunately, the Left is anything but reasonable. It must remain blind to reality or its complete world-view would collapse and rather than that happen, it would prefer nations to collapse.

Friday, January 12, 2018


Image result for images of Limestone Coast
Back on the mainland, I feel somehow freer, less confined which when I reflect on it seems utterly ridiculous. After all, I was  only on Kangaroo Island – not Devil’s Island. But the road beckons and I succumb to its lure.

However, I don't get far. This is because I make a snap decision to turn of the road in the direction of a sign pointing to a place named Victor Harbor. I'd been slowing down anyway because of the scenery acting on my progress like a wind-anchor. But right up until now Victor Harbor had been a total black spot in my consciousness. On the quieter road diverting me closer to the coast, I'm already taking exception to the misspelling of "harbour". (The lame but best explanation later research throws up is that around the time of the settlement's founding, American spelling was making a concerted effort to muscle in on an Australian English just finding its feet.)

Officially its a city but I have a mental block in thinking of towns of this size as cities. As I ride along the dog-legged main street I can feel myself being captivated. Perhaps Aborigines really are on the money when they talk about spirits residing in various places. That may explain where the charm offensive is coming from - the spirit of Victor Harbor. I'll just rest for a bit, have a cup of coffee and then be on my way, I tell myself. After the coffee is drunk, and it being such a beautiful day, I decide to take a short stroll before throwing my leg over the bike.

As usual, I'm drawn to the sea. It fairly glitters in the noonday sun. But what do I see here? It's a long wooden causeway connecting the seaside to what looks like a scrub topped clump of rock. It's named Granite Island, I find out later. Even better, moving along the causeway pulled by two beautiful and beautifully groomed matching draft horses is an open upper deck tram appearing out of the nineteenth century. The horses are Palominos with white faces and tails and wearing impeccable white horsehair boots. Oh, this is just too much, I'm thinking. This is one of those moments when looked back on, it's realised one was happy. Blink and you miss it.


I really should get going, but what's that over there? Closer investigation reveals it is a whaling museum. Victor Harbor, like so many other southern Australian coastal locations rode not on the sheep's back but on the whale's back when whale oil was ocean-going gold. Unlike the whalers prowling the seas - windblown predators - the land-bound hunters such as operated from Victor Harbor took to the sea in flimsy whaleboats, no matter the weather, to row like hell in pursuit of the biggest animal in creation. This was definitely men's work. If it still existed today, it's highly probable that even the most feisty of the "girls can do anything" brigade would draw the line at entering this kind of employment.

As I'm standing for long moments outside the entrance of the museum, looking at my watch trying to decide if I have enough time to check it out, I hear a voice from inside saying, "Are you going to stand there all day or are you coming in?" I enter the cavernous building as though I've been pushed in the back. The owner of the voice turns out to be a young Englishman volunteering at this monument to a (happily) bygone era. He in no way matches the gruffness of the voice and I'm soon being beguiled by his knowledge of and passion for his chosen subject. I have to break away from him if I'm to see the exhibits here. I do, and it's fascinating. Rammed home is the realisation that catching the whale at distinct danger to life and limb was only half the fun. Extracting the oil was the other half. Brown tinted photos show men stripped to the waist, standing on dead whales and wielding what look to be poles with cutlass-like blades forming the business end. With these they would slice long strips of blubber from the whales. I've worked at some very physically demanding jobs myself but I can only imagine how hard this work would have been. 

Several rusting try pots are on display. These were the pots (roughly the size of those used by cannibals to make stew of missionaries in old cartoons) in which the sliced and diced blubber was melted down into the end product.

By the time I finish my journey into the world of whaling and have a parting conversation with the English volunteer it's well into the afternoon. As I rather subconsciously suspected, I'm not riding any further today. This quaint locale is where I would be pitching my tent.

I can't even follow through on my plan to get an early start the next day. A leisurely breakfast in a cafe smelling richly of coffee and croissants is followed by the inclination to have one final look around.

It's almost noon by the time I'm back on the highway that will take me along what is now known as the Limestone Coast, aka the shipwreck coast, an apt name as the area is virtually littered with old shipwrecks, far more than I ever thought possible. That's probably because I'm thinking in terms of modern navigation aids which by comparison, the navigational tools of the wooden sailing ships and even the later steamships were primitive. Some ships were wrecked because their captains believed them to be miles from where they truly were.

I want to make it in one hit to Mount Gambia, a city I have fond memories of, especially the incredible Blue Lake which oddly sits far above the town. This is because it is actually a dead volcano filled with water. It's a decent slog from start to finish and I'm not even sure why I want to cover so much distance. It's perhaps I feel I've been dawdling and need to make up some time, which I don't really because, as the Stones once sung, time is on my side.

Even so, I'm guilty of doing a little more dawdling on some of the areas I pass through, each in their own way every bit as enchanting as Victor Harbor. Unsurprisingly, most of the towns and villages along the coast have rich maritime histories. Wooden boats more than a century old tied up at street-long, grey/blue wooden wharves don't seem to be all that far out of place.

Eventually I come to the city of Kingston SE (South East, added to distinguish it from another Kingston in the state which later became Kingston on the Murray, adding another layer of protection against it being mistaken for the wrong town. Now one would think that development would have allowed the Kingston along whose main road I'm now riding to ditch the SE once it was safe from confusion, but it hasn't) I don't have any problem in thinking of this town as a city as it is spread out and confusing enough to be legitimately thought of as such.

The Big Lobster I can safely avoid without it troubling my conscience but with my passion for Australian history, how can I go past the maritime museum and replica nineteenth century village?
The museum is filled mostly with artifacts retrieved from wrecks, some rusting and decidedly worse for wear, while others appear to be in mint condition. I stand before and old diving helmet and suit and wonder how,with my claustrophobia, I'd like to have my head in such a thing, not to mention the total trust that one would have to have in those above pumping air down through a vulnerable rubber hose. Here is another job I suspect would not be causing women to complain about "male-dominated" professions.

Even while I'm expecting the exhibits I'm peeking through windows at the little re-created village below, eager to get down to it.

OK, it's a bit kitschy but I'm loving it, all the little shops in faithful rendering of a long ago time - the dress shop containing clothes so unlike what women wear today and which would no doubt cause the nineteenth century ladies to positively swoon. There's the blacksmith's, the ships chandler, the tiny newspaper with hand-operated printing press, the pub in the likes of which it would be highly unlikely for responsible service of alcohol regulations to be rigidly adhered to. Those pubs had a singular purpose. They were places in which to get pissed. There's even a quaint tea shop which sells real tea and coffee served by wenches in nineteenth century attire. I'm hoping the scones are not of the same era.

Coffeed and sconed, I continue my meandering. I pop my head into a shed stuffed full of old equipment that I'm tipping is the real deal. Instantly capturing my attention is an old sign on which is written in fading script, "Rocket Crew Practice" below which is a scarred blackboard where dates and times of practice were presumably chalked. To the uninitiated, the term "Rocket Crew" would conjure up an impossibly futuristic image for something supposedly belonging to one and a half centuries ago, but I'm familiar with the concept. I know it has nothing to do with men hurtling through space, notwithstanding the imagination of Jules Verne.

Au contraire, the rocket crews of which I speak operated far from outer space in the more familiar but often even more deadly environment of rocky coasts usually in the midst of howling storms. The mainstay of apparatus used by the crews was invented in 1808 by one of those old fashioned humanitarians who these days appear to be fairly thin on the ground. He was the Englishman, Henry Trengrouse who, appalled at the loss of life on ships smashed on coastal shores, dedicated himself to finding a way of alleviating it. (Lifeboats sent from the shore in violent seas often resulted in an even greater loss of life.)

He determined to improve on the semi-successful existing system of firing a lifeline from a mortar on shore to the doomed ship. The main reason for its limited success was that the instant velocity at which the shell left the mortar often snapped the line. Trengrouse reasoned that a line attached to a rocket which took longer to attain full velocity would solve the problem - and it did. The problem remaining was that a ship any further out from shore than around 500 yards, or about 460 metres, was out of range, the passengers and crew essentially doomed. Even so, an enormous number of ships were being wrecked within that range,

The rocket and tube from which it was fired was the centrepiece of equipment that usually needed a cart to transport - lines, rope, tripods, pulleys, blocks and tackle and breeches buoy which was a life ring forming the rim of a canvas bag with two holes in the bottom for legs to go through. The method comprised firing a rocket attached to a thin line over the stricken ship. In raging storms with wild winds, this was obviously no easy task and the reason regular practice was called for. Once succeeding to get the line aboard it would be used to pull aboard a hawser, or heavy rope which would be secured to the ship. The shore end of the rope would need to be at least initially attached to a higher point than where it was attached to the ship in order that a pulley attached to a line and holding the breech buoy could then be sent out to the ship and used to safely transfer passengers and crew to shore. It must have been the wildest flying fox ride imaginable. When the Sirius (a first fleet ship and workhorse of the early colony) was wrecked on a reef in Sydney Bay on Norfolk Island, a similar system was used to save the human cargo, supplies and much of the food of which the ship was making an emergency delivery.

In LP Harley's novel, The Go Between, the famous opening sentence is "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there". Was there ever a truer sentence written?

To be continued

Wednesday, January 10, 2018


Image result for cartoon images of voting

 You really think you live in a democracy? Ha ha ha! Sorry. It's just that, well "democracy" is really very close to being just a made up word like "homophobia" designed to have you thinking a certain way. For an analysis of this kind of scam, you couldn't do better than checking out George Orwell’s essay, Politics and the English Language. 

Speaking of Homophobia (you may say) haven’t we just been given an excellent illustration of true democracy in action in the postal vote/survey/plebiscite in which we were able to have our say in whether or not to overturn thousands of years of history, tradition and normality and allow homosexuals to marry? True enough; you were. But this was really just a gimmick to spin the illusion that people could prevent something that was going to happen anyway, by whatever means. Something this fashionable and trendy and such a hot number with the leftist hegemony was never going to be stopped.
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Let’s look at something a little more substantial and far more nation-wrecking than homosexual marriage – something like, say, mass immigration and its conjoined twin, multiculturalism. Now think carefully; when was the last time you were allowed to have a say regarding these twin evils. That’s right. Never. Rather than an illustration of democracy in action, this has been a graphic illustration of revolution from the top down. You were never allowed to have your say because our masters knew perfectly well what you would say – that you didn’t want a bar of either. Every opinion poll ever conducted has shown that conclusively.

To completely shut the people out of a political decision is obscenely easy. All that’s needed is a bipartisan policy. This is when Lib/Lab drops the charade of being mortal enemies in the game of my turn – your turn, and show their true colours of being a united elite saying “up yours” to the proles. “We have every right to do this because of conditions agreed to in the social contract,” they might add. (I see you scratching your head, trying to remember when you signed up to such a thing.)

The quarantining of the immigration issue represented a doubling down on any form of open debate with a place at the table for those most affected by it: those lacking the wherewithal to take take to the air in white flight. Former Prime Minister, Bob Hawke, for example, stated bluntly and arrogantly that “We will not allow to become a political issue in this country the question of Asianisation”. The Liberal Party and the lapdog media were only too happy to comply.

Their never-fail fall-back is to remind us after all that our political system is called representative or responsible government, meaning that we have chosen them to represent us and take on the responsibility for what happens (which curiously they never do. This is where the two-party system comes into its own. The party responsible for the fuck-up simply blames the other party for laying the ground-work to it.)

Image result for cartoon images of voting

It has to be grudgingly admitted they have a point. Anything coming close to the ideal democracy of which we dream could only appear in a city-state such as ancient Athens, about the size of Dubbo and even then, it was a male only affair (settle down girls). Applied to anything bigger, it would cause the system to seize up and collapse under the weight of its own complexity .

And of course, as civilization became more intricate, complicated and technologically advanced, Joe, the working stiff would have been hopelessly out of his depth in contributing in any meaningful way to arriving at a decision that would affect all. Representative government was an idea whose time had come. The problem here though is that, distilled into its purity, the idea was that mug citizen could compare and contrast candidates for government with a view to winnowing out the person with the views, opinions and attitudes closest to his own to represent him. Note the emphasis is on him (OK) or her. Him or her and not the frigging party to which said candidate belongs. This is the party trick that's been pulled on the proles for centuries.

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No matter what your "representative" has told you before the election, it doesn't matter. Once in, he or she will have to toe the party line and if by some slim chance that somehow coincides with what you want, then you've won the electoral lottery, but most times it won't. It's not outside the realms of possibility that a politicians' handbook exists providing a surfeit of excuses for not being able to follow through on a promise to voters. Top of the pops would be that a sudden, totally unexpected downturn in the economy has thrown up a road block to planned initiatives. Another favourite is that the previous government has wrought even more damage than was formerly suspected. This could be termed the "damage control" clause. Or perhaps, linked to the economic excuse, the sudden sinking of the dollar has unfortunately caused the expense of the bag of promises to be prohibitive. It doesn't matter that you know they are lying; they don't care. After all, lying is what politicians are expected to do. It goes with the territory almost to the point where it is a prerequisite for the job. And naturally to be able to lie so convincingly and so utterly remorselessly presupposes a certain level of psychopathology.  

If wondering who the all time champions in this game were, look no further than the 1940 US presidential election in which both candidates, Wendell Willkie and FDR, both went to the people promising to keep America out of the war when both were conniving to get America into the war. (The rest of course is history. FDR forced and allowed Japan to bomb Pearl Harbor - the infamous "back door" into the war.)

Most people have heard of "pressure group" politics but its possible few have considered the phenomenon as a wrecking ball swinging against what shell of democracy may be remaining. While all voters are equal (as long as they haven't voted early and often which in Australia is particularly difficult to rule out) not all pressure groups are equal so neither is the power they wield. And of course it all takes place after a government has been elected. The Teachers' Federation, for example, is powerful in its ability to steer curriculum toward the lunatic left. However, its power pales considerably in comparison to really big hitters like the media or big business, closely aligned of course. But the biggest elephant in the spare bedroom is the banks, while riding the elephant is the central banks and the central banks' central bank, the Bank for International Settlements, BIS, in Switzerland radioing instructions to the jockey. 

How powerful are the banks?  Would you agree that wealth equals power? Then how much power would you have if you had a machine that could produce an infinite supply of money?  It just so happens that the banks have such a machine whereby, courtesy of a magician's trick known as "Fractional Reserve Banking", banks have the ability to conjure up credit (money) out of thin air and then charge crippling interest on it. Their most valued customers? Governments of course - guilt edged prospects because of the power of taxation they have over their mug subjects. Common politicians' lie omitted from previous list: "we will reduce the national dept!". No they won't. The national debt will not only remain, but continue to grow like a fat person trapped in a MacDonald's. Why? Because this is the way the banks want it. Who after all would like to see their golden goose slip the chain?

And not to leave out a powerful interest or pressure group, let's not forget the Jewish Lobby, which former NSW premiere Bob Carr politely termed "the Israeli lobby", when wanting to draw attention to its power staggeringly disproportionate to the number of Jews in Australia.

Now for a spot of interactive blogging. See if you can guess from the short list of pressure groups provided which groups drive our immigration policy.

It could be argued that nothing prevents Joe Citizen from organising his own pressure group once he realises the worthlessness of his vote, but even if he had the time, the education, the resources, the energy after slaving at his slave job five days a week, or even the inclination, his efforts, given the phalanxes of hostile giants ranged against him, would be no more than a mosquito bite on a rhinoceros.  

All of the above may just provide some insight into why the American founding fathers decided to include the second amendment in the US constitution. They were prescient enough to know that there had to be a better way than the ballot box to get rid of a regime that was fundamentally opposed to the interests of the people for whom it was supposed to providing government, moreover, showing by its actions that it had nothing but contempt for those same people. Interestingly, they never even pretended to be giving birth to a democracy, something they feared and loathed as mob rule. It was the founding of a republic with only limited suffrage they were concerned with. Perhaps it was another example of their extraordinary vision that they knew exactly where democracy would lead to - a secular religion with fraudsters and psychopaths as its high priests. Where we are, at the end of that long road, democracy bears an uncanny resemblance to communism in that a promise of the purest freedom led to its opposite. 

Saturday, January 6, 2018


I'm now heading east in my planned curcuit of the south eastern Australian mainland back in the coastal belt where the great majority of Australians live and it's obvious why they've never wanted to leave it. The scenery I'm seeing through my visor is a 3D artistic rendering as though by a god. It's the most spectacular I've seen since a visit to New Zealand some years previously. (The Kiwis have to have something going for them beside the All Blacks.)

I slow down and lift my bug-spattered visor to get a better look. An extensive paint box has been used in the production: the fawn, grassy hills contrasting against hills coated in dark green foliage while the bright, spinach green of agricultural fields in the lowlands drink in the sun. To my right the the sapphire blue Indian Ocean glistens with bouncing sunlight. Between rocky outcrops almost as old as the planet itself, slivers of golden beaches try to hide. In this kind of environment it's common for me to be lured into a kind of mind-game in which I try to comprehend time spans in which  waves pound against timeless rock ad infinitum, and just as commonly this time, I feel it doing my head in.
I hug the coast all the way down Fleurieu Peninsula to Cape Jervis. There I descend to the terminal where cars are parked, waiting for the Sealink ferry that will transport them and their drivers and passengers to Kangaroo Island which I've already spotted draped almost mirage-like along the horizon. I've only learned recently it is much bigger than I imagined - around 170 kilometers in length.

Although mine is one of the first vehicles in the three lines waiting to board, after the Ferry has arrived, swung around, backed in and dropped its huge rear door, I'm about the last to get the signal to ride aboard. It hasn't been all that comfortable waiting under a merciless sun but I understand the need for a well organised, almost choreographed vehicular loading I'm finally rewarded with a private niche where my bike is secured by ropes to the handlebars.

It's not long after casting off that I fully appreciate the need to secure my bike against falling over. The three quarter hour crossing is as rough as guts. I try not to grin while watching fellow passengers  moving about the rear deck as laughably as comedians impersonating drunks and girls impersonating Marilyn Monroe trying to keep their dresses from blowing up around their heads in the brisk sea breeze.

At the the terminal at other end of the short trip, the first thing that strikes me is the colour of the water in the bay of the tiny town of Penneshaw where we dock. It's coloured an almost impossible turquoise. It's the same startling gem colour I will see again in most the bays around the island. The hills of the mainland rising out of the sea cause an odd feeling for a landlubber like myself looking back at my country without actually leaving it.

After the morning's ride, waiting in the sun and the sea voyage, however brief, I don't feel like going any further today so ride into the yard of a small hostel I've been told is good value - in other words, cheap. Being a habitual Scrooge regarding spending on accommodation, this appeals to me. Curiously, at the very bottom of Australia, I find two Chinese girls in charge. They both have the smiley, doll-like quality I'm often disarmed by in Asian girls. When I ask which one is the boss they both giggle and tell me the boss, the man who owns the place, is not here at the moment. It turns out the girls are in Australia on student visas and are working for accommodation in lieu of pay. I compliment them both on their English. They both giggle again and tell me that English is their major and that they are here to improve it.

They tell me I can sleep in the dorm for a modest tariff or in a private room not much bigger than a bed for ten dollars extra. For me, privacy trumps confined space so it's an easy decision to make and I begin filling the room up with some of my gear.

I've plenty of afternoon left so I begin exploring the small town on foot. Fortuitously, I discover the Penneshaw Maritime and Folk Museum which is only open from two till five. It's located in what was once the Hog Bay (former name of Peneshaw) Public School which operated from 1869 till 1967. The yard outside is littered with rusting machinery. There's nobody inside except the man who runs the place and his daughter who I can hear before I see her taking part in a spelling lesson given by her father. I hadn't expected to stay long but the man takes me under his wing and provides me with a guided tour. His obvious passion for the history of the island is infectious and I'm still in the place a half hour after closing time notwithstanding the impish daughter's not so subtle hints about
locking up and going home for "tea".

  Image result for Images of kangaroo island

I'm surprised to learn that the island was inhabited by whites even before Adelaide or the South Australian colony was even thought of, the Aborigines mysteriously abandoning the place some five thousand years earlier.  Females of the race only come back somewhat unwillingly as the mistresses of the wild white men, apparently including such no-frill types as sealers, whalers, escaped convicts, maniacs and assorted oddballs. Marx's former mate Bakunin, if he had known about it, would no doubt have been enraptured with the pure anarchy of the place. When it was decided by the bigwigs back in the old dart to found a colony on the south coast of the continent, it was on Kangaroo Island that the pioneering organisers planned their strategy and from where they launched their ships towards where Adelaide would materialise. To be a fly on the wall to observe how these upper crust Englishmen gentlemen interacted with the locals would have been a rare treat.

Another surprise for me is the number of ships coming to grief on the island - sixty since 1847, and some with tragically high loss of life. It's a reminder of how dangerous life could be (before our own safe-space era with rubber matting instead of naked earth in children's playgrounds) especially aboard ships

Bright and early the next morning I'm off to explore the rest of the island. Tastefully blended into the environment with good, clean facilities are camping areas thoughtfully placed around the island. My plan, if it can be called that, is to simply camp wherever takes my fancy. It's not long before this happens. It's one of the turquoise bays, this one named Vivonne Bay where an extra long jetty jutting out into the sea gives a clue about the radiant colour of the water. It must have something to do with the extended shallowness of the shoals. From high above where I am on the bitumen road, a red brown, gravel-strewn dirt road leads down to the jetty and assorted seaside paraphernalia. As I expected, my bike is skittish, sometimes causing heart in mouth reactions all the way down. I seriously do not want to drop the bike. From personal experience, there is probably more than a fifty per cent chance of damage ensuing, usually only slight such as a busted brake or clutch lever or removed gear shift but enough to render the bike unfit for duty and in such a location it's highly improbable that spare parts are readily available.

Image result for Images of kangaroo island
I've only just whacked in the last tent peg when a man looking to be retiree age walks over to me to talk motor bikes evidently with memories bubbling up from a long time ago. I can see a woman who I assume to be his wife in the background cooking on the barbecue in the open sided dining room. She's beaming at me, perhaps grateful for the break from her husband.

Throughout my journey so far, wherever I've been I've tried to tease out from people their views on mass immigration and multiculturalism. It's sometimes a delicate operation as people have learnt well by now their freedom of expression goes only so far. I usually unlock this verbal log-jam by hinting at my own views on the subjects. Once it's realised they are on safe ground, that we are sympatico, there's hardly any stopping them. Without exception, they are angry, upset, stunned, saddened by what is happening to their country. One feels the pain involved in their struggle to understand why.
However sometimes, as with my new acquaintance, the process is sharply abridged by his simply shifting his attention from my bike to asking where I'm from. When I tell him Sydney, that's all it takes. He feels sympathy for me. Lived there once himself - couldn't take it. Got tired of playing "spot the Aussie". He's really gathering a head of steam. "It's the politicians. They should all be burnt at the stake." When I suggest this might be going a tad too far he doesn't think so. However, he's much happier since he got the hell out of there.

This to me, is a huge problem. And it's common. Australians living outside of Sydney and Melbourne, the new Sodom and Gomorrah, appear to think that the problems defined so well in those cities will be contained therein, that as long as they distance themselves from those fallen metropolises, their lives will remain untouched, that the cancer will not spread, that it is not their problem. They seem incapable of conceiving that, just like the inexorable march of the cane toads from Queensland, it comes for them also - eventually and inevitably.

Back on the road again, I'm beginning to sort out my impressions of the island. The main impression is one of long roads through drab bush punctuated by scenes of hard-hitting beauty. I'm trying to resist the thought that the island may just be a fraction overrated. If it is, it's understandable as apart from tourism, it has no way of making money. However, there's no arguing with the fact that for one fascinated by exotic wildlife, this would be fauna fiesta. But me? Well, let's just say my policy has always been that if you leave the wildlife alone, it will leave you alone. I have to admit though that seeing seals frolicking in a natural habitat was worth seeing.

 For me, the value of the island is something more intangible. It has its own rhythm and ambience and engenders a sense of semi isolation - understandable of course. I suppose cops exist on the island but I haven't seen one. It could be my imagination, but I think I detect a lingering of the anarchic ways of the original wild men. And naturally the added bonus is, apart from foreign tourists and girls on student visas, I feel, even though they are strangers, I'm among my own kind - just like outside of the cities on the mainland.

My next  camp is at a place named American River, so named because it was where American whalers once based themselves and they thought it was a river, rather than, as closer inspection would have revealed, an inlet. Remarkably, these resourceful men built their own schooner from what was at hand and, not so remarkably, named it Independence. On the way I pass through Kingscote which just pips Penneshaw as being most like a town, even boasting a luxury hotel on the seafront. All the other settlements I've seen would barely rate as villages but quaint and relaxed.

Back in Penneshaw I succeed in securing once again my monk's cell at the hostel. A soft bed however makes everthing right with the world. In the morning when I'm about to ride down to the ferry terminal for the return trip, after all the care taken on treacherous roads, I blow it. The bike's stalled at the hostel entrance. I pull the choke out and hit the starter again - thinking the bike's in neutral. It's not. It leaps forward and hurls me sideways into hedge. I'm like a surgeon in a war-zone, checking for damage lightening fast. Thank Christ! I've caught a break. There is none. It's only then that I become aware of a warm wetness in my left sock. I pull my jeans up a few inches to see that it is soaked with blood. I've managed to strip a few inches of skin from my shin.

The one and only pharmacy doesn't open till ten - typically anarchic - so I buy bandage and tape from the local IAG, doctor myself and then ride slowly to where I was going before being so rudely interrupted - mentally kicking myself in the arse, but at the same time relieved I've been spared a worse outcome.

To be continued

Tuesday, January 2, 2018


Toy monkey reading The Descent of Man by Charles Darwin Thinkers Library - Stock Image
"Do not suppose for a moment that these statements are empty words: think carefully of the successes we arranged for Darwinism (Evolution), Marxism (Communism), Nietzsche-ism (Socialism). To us Jews, at any rate, it should be plain to see what a disintegrating  importance these directives have had upon the minds of the GOYIM." [from Protocol 2 of The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zionism - emphasis added]

"Disintegrating importance" indeed! It's impossible to calculate just how much Christianity, the bedrock of western civilization, and therefore western civilization itself, was shaken by the Darwin's theory of evolution. The existence of life, the miracle that could for millennium only be attributable to supernatural cause had been the bolt hole of all transcendental philosophies. If Christianity had an enemy with an implacable hatred toward it (which it did), a more destructive weapon could not be imagined. The theory of evolution had to have been as encouraging to atheists as as a fiery cross in the sky would have been to Christians.

Curiously, most people have heard of Darwin's madcap theory, believe in it because the so called experts have declared it case closed, but very few take the time to subject it to more than cursory scrutiny, because if they did they would become aware of why it has been termed "a theory in crisis" (Evolutions: a Theory in Crisis by Michael Denton) and as more people woke up to this it would be cast straight back to the time of the famous Scopes Trial of 1925 (The State of Tennessee V John Thomas Scope) probably better known as the Scopes Monkey Trial, or even into the garbage can of crackpot science. The media though, knowing a sensational story when they saw one, presented it as a battle royal between Science and Religion. 

The trial, after being fought out with big legal guns on both side, resulted in Scopes being found guilty of transgressing the law against teaching evolution and was fined $100. However the finding was overturned on a technicality. Oddly, the theory was virtually dead in the water until being resuscitated by the trial, perhaps not unintentional, as Scopes wasn't even sure he had been teaching evolution but was not averse to a landmark trial guaranteed to attract as much attention as a circus arriving in a small town. And it was a definite turning point given that the theory now with a second wind as it were then went from strength to strength - in similar inverse proportion to the decline of Christianity. There is after all only two real alternatives: creation or evolution - life arriving from another world being a non-starter as it simply pushes the question further back.

But does evolution genuinely explain life in all its forms, especially human life, or has the wool been pulled over our eyes? Was Darwin from his vantage point in 1859 when Origin of Species was first published, really in position to know enough, and was science developed enough for him to be able offer a convincing amount data. True science, it should be remembered, is of the empirical kind, a process whereby an experiment can demonstrate the same result repeatedly. Obviously, proving the theory of evolution by this method would be exceedingly difficult, although later Darwinists have claimed success, or rather, claimed to have seen it demonstrated in nature at an accelerated rate. More on this to come.

To give just one example to suggest both he and science weren't exactly at the top of their game, the single living cell was then considered simply a microscopic blob of protoplasym. Charles would no doubt have been flumoxed to learn that one of these tiny "blobs" contained as much information as a decent sized municipal library. This alone casts a long shadow over a theory that insists that a non-teleological process reached its pinnacle in man by miniscule incremental mutations. Even the evolution of an eye by this process, which incidentally as a partly developed mechanism would probably have been worse than useless in the great game of the survival of the fittest, pales into significance when compared to the working, networking and reproduction of this microscopic repository of immense information.

THE MISSING LINK Yes, the famous missing link. Something akin to the Scarlet Pimpernel, they seek it here, they seek it there, they seek it everywhere. Whether or not the highly sought after Scarlet Pimpernel was ever found is unknown to this writer but what is known beyond a doubt is that the missing link - not only between man and ape but between any two species - has never been found and in all probability will never be found. Each time the flag has been proudly raised, and this has happened on many occasions, it has had to be ignominiously lowered again. Archaeopteryx was a famous example of this. Here at last was an unequivocal ML. With the same uncontrollable excitement in which Doctor Frankenstein uttered the words, "it lives", evolutionists exclaimed "it exists", pointing to the fossil evidence of the transitional form between dinosaur and bird. Unfortunately and humiliatingly for them, under closer examination it was found to simply have been a bird.

Another fantastic breakthrough was when the first Australopithecine Africanus (Southern Apeman) was uncovered. Evidence seem to point to AA being an ape that walked, ergo .... However, along comes zoologist Solly Zuckerman who, if he'd read the Protocols, may have kept his mouth shut but he didn't. On considering AA's teeth, jaws, the size of the brain - determined by plaster casts of the interior of the scull - and probably most importantly the carriage of the head, decidedly similar to that of apes that walk on all four, concluded that AA was just an extinct ape. * 

But talk about persistence! In 1974 Donald Johanson and his side-kick, Tom Gray struck pay dirt with and almost complete hominid skeleton that came to be named "Lucy" whose restored form now stands upright and looking all but human except for the head in a glass case in London's Natural History Museum. Spoiler alert. Lucy was just another, albeit more complete AA. That Zuckerman had already lifted the lid on AAs, was completely and conveniently ignored.

As promised, the evidence for speeded up, observable natural selection: the finches observed by Darwin on the Galapagos Islands. Darwin noted that because of different types of food to be found on the different islands, finches living on those islands developed beaks appropriate to consuming the food. However, this can easily be explained by the proven existence of a "sleeping" gene that wakes up when adaptation to environment is needed. All species appear to have this measure of elasticity but it has its limits. So far, and no more. This has been shown graphically in man's meddling with dog breeding. The more eccentric the breed of dog produced, the more it becomes less fit for survival rather than the reverse. For example, bulldogs and similar breeds with pushed in faces have difficulty breathing.

The ability to adapt has been termed micro evolution, which obviously exists. Darwin's unforgivably long leap of faith was to extrapolate from this to macro evolution, the supposed ability of a species to transform into one entirely different which, to perhaps labour the point, has never been proven.

As with doctors, the lay person tends to place scientists and science itself on pedestals. It's all above board, ethically correct and immaculately pure and driven by ice cold Spockian logic most people think, at least sub-consciously. However, as the global warming scam, where scientists who disagree with the orthodox view are starved of funds and shut out of the conversation altogether, has so graphically shown, it ain't necessarily so. And so it is with Darwin's theory which is seen as universally accepted.

Scientists are human. The like to belong. To use the term, evolutionary, in a slightly different sense than used heretofore, to belong is to survive, to be exiled is to die. Scientists who come up with evidence incapable of being fitted into the standing paradigm tend to die, at least career wise. The mechanism at the centre of this process has been termed a "knowledge filter", filtering out troublesome contradictions.

For a comprehensive list of evidence liked by many to be dropped down the memory hole, simply pick up a copy of Forbidden Archeology: The Hidden History of the Human Race, by Michael Cremo and Richard Thompson. In this and similar books are well substantiated claims that almost cause hairs to stand up on the back of one's neck. One such startling example is a modern skeleton found in a coal vein - at least fifty million years old. Remember, homo sapien sapiens according to received wisdom are supposed to go back no more than around two hundred thousand years.

 Or check out Mysterious Origins of Man at More raised neck hairs and goosbumps. How about human footprints found next to dinosaur footprints around two hundred million years old? "Obvious hoax!" it was shouted by royally self-appointed keepers of the truth. "Those footprints were obviously carved in the rock." Problem for that was that both sets of prints led under limestone ledges which when removed excavator-like, were shown to continue. How about artifacts found at great depth in rocks millions of years old?

Then there's the shameful tale of stone spearheads found in South America proved by radiocarbon analysis to be at least two hundred thousand years old when the "out of Africa" theory holds that humans only reached the area no more than fifteen thousand years ago. The career of the archeologist who found the spear heads and stuck to her guns regarding the age she claimed for them had her career destroyed. Science at its finest.

Perhaps the moral of this whole story is not so much about who is right about one of man's most burning questions but about the modern epidemic of duplicity, perhaps not so modern, that we, the people must contend with and if truly wanting to avoid an unexamined life spent amongst the herd and find a measure of authenticity then one must travel the road ignored by the Department of Road Maintenance and diligently search for truth as one sees it.

* Shattering the Myths of Darwinism by Richard Milton

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
- Hamlet (1.5.167-8), Hamlet to Horatio

Friday, December 29, 2017


young man riding big bike motorcycle on asphalt high way against beautiful blurry background use for biker traveling and journey theme

Just after leaving Broken Hill I see a sign saying NO PETROL NEXT 200 KILOMETRES. I've got about three quarters of a tank. A quick calculation tells me I could probably shave it in but ... I head back to town. This is a part of the world I would definitely not like being stranded in. Only a few giant cacti with their arms raised to the sun would be needed to truly mark this landscape as the "badlands" of American westerns.

Again the stench of dead kangaroos scattered and decomposing by the roadside is as constant as the turbulence that buffets me. Often, up ahead, I see black clusters on the road. As I approach, the clusters fly apart, carrion birds interrupted in their feeding on the grisly road-kill. It's not something I'd be keen on doing anyway bu I've been warned to avoid running over the remains plastered on the bitumen. The shards of bone they contain can cause punctures.

The absolute dryness of the air has already caused my lips to feel as though scales have grown on them. Applying lip balm simply coats a slippery film over the roughness.

I've covered roughly one hundred kilometres from Broken Hill without, apart from the odd vehicle travelling in the opposite direction, seeing any sign of life human life. Then, in the distance, I can make out one solitary, lonely building that appears slightly dilapidated as I approach. It's a hotel - out here in the literal middle of nowhere. Naturally I'm not going to pass it up. Besides I'm deadly thirsty. I pull up carefully on the loose gravel, park my bike and go inside. The joint is empty of course - except for a middle-aged woman standing patiently behind the bar waiting to take my order. The word "surreal" doesn't cut it. For all I know, she could have been standing there like that for days waiting for a customer. I almost expect to see at least a few wisps of cobwebs attached to her clothing.

"What'll it be?" she asks. The perfunctory question sounds exactly as I've heard it asked in crowded pubs where it might have been the hundredth time that same night it had been asked. I tell her that cold soda water right now would be more welcome than the finest Champagne.

"Coming right up." The prosaic reality of the situation begins to disperse the crazy illusion I've walked into. She'd obviously been somewhere else in the pub on hearing my bike pull up and then gone to man her station behind the bar.

The monotony of the landscape is cheerily broken by a sign bidding me welcome to South Australia. It looks remarkably like New South Wales. But the geography at last begins to change in the reverse of how it did on my approach to the outback: the dirt  hugged by patches of bush that look to be, along with cockroaches, capable of surviving a nuclear attack, begin to be accompanied by bush that is trying to stand up. Then growths that could be exageratedly  described as trees begin to appear. More and more welcoming the country becomes until I'm near Peterborough, a hub of wheat country with its gently swaying fields of  man's ancient staple food since he first learnt to settle down.

Somewhere just south of Petersborough, rolling, lion coloured hills tell me I'm within striking range of the southern coast. Actual trees are growing in profusion. I'm beginning to feel more at home.

It's a long time since I've been to Adelaide. It seems bigger now - a bigger small city. The approach into the ever increasing density seems to be taking as long as the entry into a decent sized city. It's been a long day's haul, almost five hundred kilometres through dry, hot desolation. But then again, there wasn't much for which  to stop.

I find a cheap joint within the city proper to stay and a safe place to store my bike. A shower and a feed and I'm up for some exploration. I feel the familiar thrill of being in a strange city - well almost strange. I'm reminded of just how charming this city is. It's definitely grown since my last visit but I'm tickled that you can still see green, country hills from the centre of a city. Planned from the beginning, a little like Canberra but with a soul included, the grid system of the streets causes difficulty in getting lost, even for someone like me with an internal compass seemingly perpetually confused by a battery of magnets. But to the primary task at hand: observing the population. I want to know how far Adelaide has walked the plank of multiracialism.

A significant number of Asians are visible. On my last visit here, albeit many years ago, I can't remember there being any. However, from my cursory survey, it seems a manageable minority, not really much greater than to add an exotic dash of spice, much as Sydney's Chinatown did before it burst its walls. Whether Adelaide's host population is concerned about the Asian presence, I don't know. I suspect not, generally speaking. Like the people of Sydney once were, I fear they are frogs in a pot of slowly heating water and cannot extrapolate from the present to see where it's leading. One thing I'm fairly sure of though is that if a white inhabitant of Adelaide were to visit Sydney for the first time, he would be shocked and horrified by what he saw in spite of what he'd heard.

I spot and hear a few loud blacks in the city's pleasant hub of Rundle Mall - not ours but the imported kind. The not so dark from the sub-continent are also evident here, but again, not enough to inspire the fear of one's own racial death that one constantly lives with in Sydney. Strolling about the inner city is probably not the most efficacious way to take a city's multicultural pulse but it's reasonably reliable and besides, it's the only method of which I'm capable. All in all, I feel I'm walking about in what is still an Australian city.

Sadly noticeable though is a proportional number of white bums and beggars camping in prime locations, effectively giving the finger to everyone else and expecting money and sympathy in return. I for one, who have seen the most horrific of third world poverty and want, have no sympathy. 

I've somehow become aware of the city's Museum of Immigration. The next day, being the eternal glutton for punishment I am, I steal myself, bite the bullet and enter what I anticipate to be the devil's showroom.  However, causing me to slowly relax, it is not the blast of propaganda I've been hardened by. Notwithstanding the de rigueur featuring of the outrageous treatment and displacement of the local Aborigines and the not so gentle persuasion to accept European laws in place of tribal ones - who would have known for example that whites took umbrage at the sight of Aborigines wandering about the early town stark naked? - the treatment of the theme is surprisingly even handed. In fact it is conceded that a great deal of concern was shown for the Aborigines' well-being and ways and means for their protection was a primary issue.

 Most surprisingly, the exhibition dedicated to the white Australia policy treats the policy as a product of its time (although still a monumental mistake) and not something deliberately evil - the way it is usually presented via the historiographical crime of attempting to impose contemporary values and attitudes onto a bygone era.

I have to concede that the assembly and construction of the exhibits here have been very well done although at least some trumpet blowing is evident in the proud claim that South Australian was the only free state, meaning no penal colony ever existed here and no convict labour was ever used.

Of most interest to me personally is the information provided on the actual founding of the city. I marvel at how men from the other side of the world (which in those days was more akin to the other side of the moon) had the fortitude and vision to decide to generate here in a most alien and inhospitable land what would become an impressive city.

I have to admit I'm a sucker for painstakingly constructed models of sailing ship so it's hoped the reader will indulge me in my standing for some time before a glass case containing a superb model of a ship aboard which John Hindmarsh, the first governor of the colony of South Australia, arrived in Adelaide from Britain.
I mull over the odd name for a sailing ship - Buffalo. 

From Adelaide I plan to hug the coast all the way to Jervis Bay, the jumping off point for Kangaroo Island. This route takes me via Glenelg, Adelaide's answer to Bondi perched on Holdfast Bay in the Gulf of Saint Vincent. Naturally, it's also a long time since I've been here. I remember the sand, salt air and seagulls but not much else apart from it's lack of noteworthiness. What I see now comes as a shock. The development here is breath-taking. Towering apartment blocks are reminiscent of Surfers Paradise - but in a nice way.

 My luck is holding with the weather. A radiant, sunny day accentuates the beauty of the area. As I scan the wide-open green park-lands, I spy - could my travel-strained eyes be playing tricks on me? - a sailing ship in a kind of dry-dock. Naturally I'm drawn to it like a dog to a butcher's shop. I'm a little giddy. I don't believe it. It's the Buffalo. I take a few snaps from various angles, marvelling at the craftsmanship involved in the building of these wooden ships capable of sailing around the world. The technology involved is, to say the least, outdated, but for its day it was the best man's ingenuity could provide. And it's in remarkable good condition. Obviously a great deal of loving restorative work has gone into it.  It's not until sometime later that I discover that the ship I have swooned over is actually a replica ... but still.

To be continued

Tuesday, December 26, 2017


#Triumph #Trophy, disegnato con un’ossessiva attenzione per i dettagli, il tre cilindri da 1215cc a cardano offre coppia, performance e maneggevolezza per un’esperienza di guida sublime.

I mount my metal steed, leave the multicultural zoo, otherwise known as Sydney and go looking for Australia (respectful nod to Easy Rider).

 It's just after sunrise, my naive thinking being that I can avoid the punishing peak-hour rush but it seems I get caught in the rush to beat the rush. It's almost an hour of accelerating and braking before I reach the freeway leading west out of the city. Here at last I can open the Bonneville out and get acquainted to what will be the soundtrack of the trip: the howl of the engine being drowned out by the hiss and roar of the gale-force wind I'm creating by slashing through the atmosphere. The buffeting I'm getting from the turbulence will be my constant companion. (Note to self: get windshield.)

With the sun at my back, I'm soon climbing into the Blue Mountains. Although it's early summer, the wind-chill is combining with the cooler altitude to having me thinking I've ridden back into winter. I'm wishing I'd brought along something more substantial than the thin cashmere jumper I'm wearing under my jacket.

The huge Carrington Hotel dominates Katoomba. It's a time-capsule from the century before last when it was a summer retreat for members of the more affluent classes wanting to  escape the sultriness of Sydney. I don't stop here though. I haven't gone far enough. I feel I haven't yet escaped the gravitational pull of the great city behind me. I'm unsure of how many people now live in the mountains and commute to the city but I suspect it must be in the thousands. In an effort to beat the system, they've bought real estate here, the equivalent of which in Sydney is every day more unaffordable, they however spend probably as much as they've saved in toll charges and fuel bills or crippling rail fares, not to mention the countless hours lost in mind-numbing travel. Back and forth they go like the drones in Fritz Lang's Metropolis. This is the new working poor but they will one day own their own homes - and pay off the interests on their loans. That is, if they don't stumble along the way and have their bank foreclose on them.

I spur my machine onwards. It's warmer now on the plains on the other side of the mountains but loosening up my hands from their bunched positions is like prying open a death-grip. Towns I've been in before - Lithgow, Bathurst, Dubbo - for which I slow down to the required speed limit and consequently feel as though I'm hardly moving, I don't dally in. Except for fuel and coffee I keep moving. The pace of my departure has been like an escape, which in a way it is.

When my body and mind tells me I've done enough riding for the day I'm in the town of Nyngan. For me, this is virgin territory. Nyngan, Cobar, Wilcannia are just names I've heard in weather reports. Nyngan is dry enough for me to know I'm on the edge of the outback. It's a small town, neat but tired looking and I can imagine it lying prostrate in the full blast of summer.

A local tells me I should think twice about trying to reach Broken Hill in one hit but I'm still eager as a pup and I just want to move. Besides, I've just recently seen a woeful remake of the film Wake in Fright whose only redeeming quality was the locale in which it was shot, which is Broken Hill. Peculiarly, I'm keen to be alone in that kind of scorched, despair inducing landscape.

I'm grateful for daylight saving because I roll into Broken Hill with sunlight to spare. I'm now well and truly into the scrub. On this leg of the trip, the geography has changed markedly as it would on most other legs. From patches of green grass giving way to a uniform, dried out fawn colour and decent sized gums providing splashes of shade becoming sparser until they bid me farewell, tough looking stunted excuses for trees stood in their stead until they too gave out leaving only mean, low lying scrub. This also became sparser still till equalled in surface area by baked, naked dirt. I'd entered red sand, Mad Max country. I wonder if this ever would have become white men's country if it hadn't been for the fabulous wealth waiting to be dug out of the ground. I marvel at how Aborigines would have been able to not only subsist but do quite well in this kind of country. I've been reading Geoffrey Blayney's Triumph of the Nomads and have developed a new appreciation of the ingenuity and logic of  Aboriginal hunter and gatherer tribal life. It is truly sad that it has been trampled under the march of time but if any villain of the piece can be truly identified it would have to be historical inevitability.

 For most parts the Barrier Highway had been rifle barrel straight with only gentle undulations providing the only variety. The stench of decomposing road kill has been so constant I imagine I can still smell it as though my clothing has absorbed it. So much death. I'd been scared of causing even more of it. Hitting a kangaroo on a bike travelling at high speed can't end well - either for the kangaroo or the bike rider. The consternation however never lasted long and spurred along by a featureless landscape engendering the surreal feeling of riding furiously on a treadmill and going nowhere fast, I would  soon be gunning the bike again toward somewhere.

Belting in the pegs, I pitch my tent on hard but sandy dirt that almost immediately begins finding its way inside like some living thing seeking shelter, then I begin my introductory exploration of Broken Hill at the foot of a blazing sunset. I've travelled one thousand kilometres through space but decades through time to an Australia I knew when I was young - an Australia, oddly enough, consisting of Australians, before it was decided we were a "country of immigrants".  Each time I visit the country from the uncaring city I have to adjust to its natural friendliness. So again, I'm taken aback by being greeted by complete strangers. But reorientation doesn't take long and I quickly begin to feel comfortable. It's almost like being amongst family - people I instinctively understand and who understand me. We are bound together by so much: history, heritage, values, language, accent, sense of humour, basic trust, view of the world and, most of all, by the thin red thread.

The next day my exploration is more complete. This is a solid, upstanding community, an isolated island of civilization surrounded by a vast desert but hardly lacking in mod cons. I'm in fact so taken in by its modernity that in the evening I will exhibit my city slickness by asking in a cinema how many theatres it holds. "Only one," is the dour reply that brings me straight back down to earth. Some confusion then arises about the starting time of the one film. It's here that I find I'm now on South Australian time. Makes sense but seems somehow disloyal to the home state.

 Looking for the tourist information office, I pass an ornate, seemingly freshly painted building solid enough to be a fortress. Across arched entrances, right across the front of the building are painted the words, TRADES HALL. This is a reminder of the power the working class once held in this country, of a time when Australia was known as the "working man's paradise". The building I stand in front of represents the peak of power and unity attained by class warriors before apathy and complacency set in, enterprise bargaining, by which trading off rights took the place of winning new ones, was agreed to and the long, slow slide back into the maw of laissez faire capitalism began, its worst stench coming from union leaders doing deals with employers behind the backs of the rank and file. (Not mentioning any names here Bill.) The building is still owned by a combination of unions but is now little more than a hollow shell.

Not long after, I'm stopped in my tracks by a similarly ornate building, the bronze plaque on its cornerstone advertising that it was opened by Sir Henry Parkes, a man who if alive today would tower over our present Lilliputians in parliament like a political Gulliver. Here was a man amongst similarly extraordinary men who wrestled with issue no less great than the birth of a nation. The great issue of our time? Homosexual marriage.
To be continued


MOVE RIGHT ALONG FOLKS. NOTHING TO SEE HERE No nothing to see here folks, at least not for the Leftist Victorian Government led by C...