Wednesday, February 14, 2018


Retreating in the face of even the stickiest issue has never been my style. And being one with nary a qualm when wading in where angels fear to tread, I rounded up my gang of hard men to go in hard to get the hard facts on something I'd had strong suspicions about for a long time - the Asian takeover of the Australian sex industry. These hard hitters had all the right qualifications: they were young, they were eager, they ranged from mildly ugly to scared to look in a mirror, they were sick of getting knock-backs and they weren't above paying for it.  "You pay for it whichever way you cut it so why not cut out the bullshit?" was a common refrain.

Would I be chipping in towards the expenses of the survey? No,  I wouldn't be; they just needed to do what they did anyway, only more often, and with their eyes open, at least most of the time. Just knowing they were involved in an important contribution to man's expanded knowledge should have been reward enough.

Although not entirely swayed by this argument, they proceeded anyway to split up and head in different directions with instructions to report back to me with the unvarnished truth. "Remember, go in hard," I urged.

Sydney, being the capital of the Australian sex-industry, was chosen to be the canary in the coal mine. Besides, although Melbourne is a strong contender for the title, my boys were unanimous in their stating they would not go that far for a holiday let alone a quick bang or two - unless I was agreeable to paying for accommodation and train fares. They could get that thought right out of their heads.

Early results soon began dribbling in. It seemed my hunch was right. The lower tiers of prostitution - what may be termed the K Mart and the Reject Shop of the sex trade - had been almost completely conquered by Asian girls. The girls who had traditionally paid hourly rent on grubby rooms since colonial times, poor, unqualified and ill-educated white girls, the type not so long ago decorating Darlinghurst Road in the Cross and nearby William Street, had been almost entirely vanquished. Where did they go? What did they do now? Were they forced to become "honest women"? No-one knew. But here's the crucial point: the newcomers were charging less. The extinction of local street-walkers had been caused largely by simple economics, the same economics causing havoc among the Australian working class generally.

Leveraging their hold on the lazy money of sexually frustrated punters was the form of prostitution hardly existing in Australia before mass Asian immigration - the happy-ending massage, known colloquially as a "rub and tug".  This enterprise has proliferated like the proverbial mushrooms after a rain-storm. Few inner city suburbs would be without a friendly rub and tugger. And why not? It's a perfect contented cash-cow. These little money-makers, even in an era of legalised prostitution, rarely make the effort of obtaining a licence, thus operating illegally and without scrutiny from either the long dick of the law or the Australian Taxation Office. It is almost pure black money.  Even more damaging to the Australian economy is that a generous proportion of this money would be being sent overseas to help family, as is the Asian third-world tradition

 All that's needed for a cashed up investor is the flimsy front of a legitimate therapeutic massage provider complete with a few cheap wall charts showing illustrations of muscle groupings. Who knows? Perhaps the dim-witted sometimes wander in wanting nothing more than relief from knotted muscles. Conversely however, it would no doubt be much more disappointing for a man with an anticipation erection to discover that he'd blundered into a legit operation providing merely what its promotion was saying it was providing.

Less naive types with a hidden agenda - the undercover cop - it seems, isn't a completely unknown visitor to non-legit establishments. (Competition to be part of these investigations must be as fierce as a shark feeding frenzy.) The indication of this is the laughably useless method - rather more of a security blanket - that has evolved for screening out the spy from the genuinely horny guy who in a pinch would probably be happy to dispense with the massage altogether. It simply comprises asking only for the standard massage fee upfront. At the end of the massage, usually signified by gentle finger-tips wandering over the still face-down body if it's been decided the customer doesn't have a badge hidden somewhere, the soft words of "you turn over now please" are heard spoken. At the same time as the customer is turning, a pillow is placed expertly under his head. Sometimes the question is then asked, "you like extra?" but more often the up and down motion of a partly clenched fist accompanied by a questioning look does the trick. A nod in response and a quick negotiation fixes the extra payment at $20. Another $20 gets the gear off, the tacit understanding being that this includes a feel-up. Some haggling is sometimes involved here but it's only for dopes unaware of the standard price. It's an honour system. The girl seems to have complete confidence in not being stiffed, so to speak, for the surcharge(s). She then turns to reach for the oil bottle.

So that's $40, when added to the first forty paid for the basic half hour massage, and with the usual 50/50 split between the house and the girl, the masseuse cum hand operator is making a cool tax free $80 per hour - better than working in a factory or sweat-shop for less than half the take-home pay. And the cherry on the cake is in knowing they are bringing joy, albeit of the most fleeting kind, to so many men. And was it really prostitution? If someone of the status of Bill Clinton could affirm that a blow-was simply a token of affection, rather than a sex-act, how innocent was a hand-job?

My agents had been issued with further instructions to subtly (or at least as subtly as this crew is capable) tease out any further information they can about the girls performing this valuable service: what do they do when not spanking monkeys etc? A surprising number, it turns out, are students, naturally enough, here on student visas. When one girl was pressed for what she was actually studying, the reply was "Kung Fu". She'd travelled from Beijing to Sydney to study Kung Fu. Shouldn't surprise though. The corruption inherent in the "colleges" involved in the overseas student racket is legendary. It's essentially a set and forget system. Once the student has signed on and attended his/her first class the fact that they are never seen again is conveniently forgotten. Particularly worrying is that overseas students have pole positions for citizenship.

The intell was streaming in smoothly from my investigators who were obviously warming to the assignment. But another tier existed between the bargain basement and the top drawer, more of which  later. The problem was that my team, more tight-arsed than a Jew at a church bazaar, was claiming this level of entertainment, as conscientious as they were, was simply out of their price range. Luckily one of the boys volunteered the information that he had a brother, although just as ugly as himself and equally hopeless with women but a lot more cashed up, who spent a lot of this cash in exactly the environment I wanted the dirt on. Moreover, over a half carton of Foster's provided by moi he would be happy to divulge as much information as I desired. Eureka!

He seemed a bit cagey at first, perhaps even a little embarrassed talking to someone he didn't know well about paying for sex which, let's face it, isn't the same  as talking about  about fair and square conquests, something that's difficult to shut most men up about. However, after ripping the zip-pull on his third can, his recollections were beginning to sparkle. The type of establishment we're talking about here is a well run, with clean and and modern, although not luxurious rooms, with a Mama-san or well dressed male to greet you and invite you to be seated in a foyer while the girls available  are rounded up and paraded past you with smiles lighting up the room on their being introduced.

They are invariably Asian - it's a closed shop; everyone here is Asian, including a cleaner once spotted spiriting away a full bin of condoms - with unlikely Asian names such as Tiffany, Georgia or Smokey, but of course bodgy names go with this entire territory. These girls have obviously been screened for age, nubility and prettiness - in a word, fuckablity. A basic "service" will usually get you a shared shower, a blow-job sans condom and of course a fuck - with condom, entirely worth it for peace of mind alone. My new friend was becoming quite garrulous now. "Half an hour is plenty. Why pay for longer when most of that time is spent just re-loading. And if it's talk you're after, why, you can get that for nothing with an Asian girl at a bus-top." With his face, I doubted it but I took his point.

So, as promised, it was time to scale the peak, to the type of establishment that pays for big, glossy ads in the Daily Telegraph. There was an idea. Actual visits were out of the question on the non-existent budget for the operation so why not follow the breadcrumb trails left by the ads and obtain the necessary information by phone? I'd be cunning. I'd begin each enquiry by stating my preference for Asian girls. "How many do you have there?" The replies I got ranged between none and a few or a couple. With places boasting of between 15 and 20 girls on their books, this was a minuscule proportion. Later, poring over photos on these establishments' websites revealed their girls were overwhelmingly white with perhaps a sprinkling of non-whites.

But while on the phone I was going for the jugular, "what are your rates?" The average charge for a half-hour get-together was $220. That was a big chunk on top of the standard $150 - $160 charged for a half hour at the up market Asian brothels. One of the  top drawer joints was offering "a girl-friend experience" for "only" an extra fifty. Essentially, this means merely that kissing is allowed. Kissing is otherwise banned by Australian whores. This is strongly enforced. An acquaintance of mine can laugh about it now, but one can easily imagine his mood when attempting to kiss a white whore  and instead of melting lips meeting his, he copped instead a Kleenex tissue shoved in his kisser. When a different girl was asked by another acquaintance for the rationale behind the no-kissing rule, he met with pure, loopy female logic: "oh, because that's personal". My friend was far too polite to verbalise his thought that surely if a penis in a vagina wasn't personal, what was it? Some kind of internal handshake?

With the Asian girls, instead of kissing being an optional extra if lucky, it is standard. It's cliche, but cliches wouldn't be cliches if not containing a kernel of truth, and the truth here may be that Asian women really do know how to look after a man. This, along with price-cutting, is most likely the key to why Asian women are cleaning up in the Australian sex industry. For now at least, white girls control the top end of the market. They are meeting certain prerequisites. They would need to be, as well as exceptionally attractive, not entirely stupid and at least able to hold a basic, civil conversation, and with some measure of sophistication, at least enough to not grate on the kind of men providing their custom - professional men, or at least men with good jobs and plenty of money, discriminating men who like to think they're getting value for their money.

However, as the Asian invasion continues unabated, and home-grown Asian women benefit from an education that would be all but impossible to receive in their ancestral homes and are speaking in well-modulated Australian accents, the white whores at the top of the heap better start watching their backs or they'll end up being foremost in the "white trash of Asia" that Lee Kwan Yew, the former leader of Singapore, predicted to be the fate of  us all.

Friday, February 9, 2018


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The Year of Living Dangerously was an Australian film directed by Peter Weir and starring Mel Gibson, who we could still then claim as an Australian, released in 1985. It was based on the 1978 novel of the same title by Australian writer, Peter Koch. The title is said to have come from the words used by President Sukarno in an Independence Day speech he gave in 1964. Little did Sukarno know that his 22-year stint as the republic’s first president would come to an abrupt halt soon after. The year of truly living dangerously was 1965, a year which saw a volcanic eruption of violence in Indonesia.
Even to this day, historians and Indonesia-watchers are not entirely sure of the minutia and intricacies that culminated effectively in one of the bloodiest revolutions in modern history but the bare bones of the story are generally agreed on.

For most of his time in power, Sukarno had walked a tight rope above the abyss that finally swallowed him. It was a delicate balancing act needed to keep him in power, one that entailed playing off the world’s third largest communist party, the Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI) and largest Indonesian political party against a right-wing military, with organized Islamists also on the far right. The tension between the two extremes could best be illustrated in an analogy in which two gun-fighters have their guns drawn in a “Mexican stand-off”.

The question was, who would fire the first shot. However, as with other such upheavals, factors other than the purely political played their part, notably the economic factor. By the mid ‘60s, inflation was running at between 500 and 1,000% annually, wiping out the savings of the middle class, and downgrading the lives of the peasants and workers (proletarians as the PKI would no doubt have it) from bad to very bad.

When the first shot sounded, the smoking gun was not exactly in the hand of either side. It was fired by a leftist military faction calling itself the 30th September Movement, the night of September 30 – October 1 being the first stage of an attempted coup when six top Indonesian generals were kidnapped, summarily executed and their bodies thrown down a well. The Movement claimed its actions were a pre-emptive strike against a planned coup by the military. But then again, the military may have been marshalling its forces after rumours of a planned Leftist coup began to surface.

Perhaps the greatest mistake of the leftist soldiers was not including the execution of General Suharto in their attempted coup d’├ętat perhaps because of his not being perceived as overly political. Huge mistake as it was around the eminently capable Suharto that the backlash quickly developed.

Although no conclusive supporting evidence has ever been produced, it was immediately assumed that the attempted coup had the backing of the PKI, leading to its destruction by the army leading in turn to what was described by the US CIA as the bloodiest massacre in modern history, knowing full well that much of the blood was dripping from the hands of the US Government which had been alarmed at the rapid growth and influence of the PKI. Accordingly, during the blood-letting, arms and information was being provided to the Indonesian military courtesy of Uncle Sam. The American government was additionally not enamoured of the anti-American Sarkarno who was perceived as getting a little too cosy with the PKI, he himself upsetting the delicate balance of Indonesian power.

Initially by the army and then by another army of blood-lusting camp-followers, communists were hunted down and murdered on an industrial scale. First the communists, then the families of communists, then those suspected of having communist sympathies and then anyone who even looked like a communist. How could it be determined? The suspect usually had Chinese characteristics. If not exactly communists yet they formed a sleeping fifth column. This perception may not have been completely off the mark as we in Australia are obviously saddled fifth column ever ready to act on behalf of the People’s Republic of China. This has been evidenced repeatedly in the ease with which the Chinese government can galvanise protests in its interest by hordes of Chinese students studying in Australia.

Be that as it may, during this time of a peculiar Malay habit of running “amok”, a Malay word, the destruction of communists morphed into the destruction of Indonesian Chinese. However, this wasn’t the first time Chinese in Indonesia had suffered at the hands of the people who saw themselves as indigenous to the islands. Ever since the arrival of the Chinese in Indonesia in the eighteenth century, bloody pogroms had been the cause of many of their numbers dead.

The blood-letting finally petered out but only after between 100,000 and two million no longer drew breath. The figure now most commonly agreed on absolute minimum, perhaps by coming up with a rough average, is half a million. It’s more than likely a conservative figure though given reports of rivers and streams being literally clogged with bodies.

With the PKI totally destroyed and any chance of a resurrection prevented by law, Sukarno being yesterday’s man, strong man Suharto now holding the reins of power, the nation was in transition to the “New Order”. This was a change of direction that would see the Left dumped from the see-saw of power, Indonesia securely lodged on the path of an American orbit, and much of the old order rotting on the garbage dump of history. Retained however was the doctrine of “Pancasila”, the national philosophy and an attempt at a glue that would hold a disparate country together. The term is the mating of two old Javanese words: Panca, meaning five and Sila, meaning principles. Introduced by Sukarno in 1945, it became part of the constitution with only slight alterations. The five principles are:

1)     Belief in one god
2)     Just and civilized humanity
3)     Indonesian unity
4)     Democracy under the wise guidance of representative consultations
5)     Social justice for all the peoples of Indonesia 

After the unprecedented violence of ’65, it’s difficult for an outsider, or even possibly a thoughtful insider, to not see this declaration as a grotesque and ironically twisted joke and to wonder how its retention could even have been considered. The belief in one god had always been a stretch, that is, if Christians, Hindus (with a multitude of gods) Muslims and Buddhists with no god at all, had not somehow been hypnotized into the belief that no godly differences actually existed, even between a god and no god. Theoretically, it’s possible when it’s considered that a goodly proportion of the White race has been hypnotized into the belief that no differences exist between the races.

A just and civilized humanity? The less said about that after ’65, the better. Indonesian unity? Possibly, if you consider the destruction of a part not fitting so well as achieving unity. Democracy? No, military dictatorship, no matter how much gloss, is still merely a pig wearing lipstick. Social justice for all? The piles of corpses rotting and stinking under the tropical sun were of course deaf to that one.   

This focus on the Indonesian cataclysm of 1965  is just one part of a series of posts on this blog intended to show the pandemic of racism in our region - institutionalized racism in the cases of Fiji and Malaysia. While we Australian Whites, just like our sisters and brothers all over the world, flagellate and curse ourselves, want to disown our entire histories, prostrate ourselves and issue unending abject apologies for our very existence because of the blackest evil of racism that only we are capable of, we are laughed at by races to whom real racism is as ordinary and omnipresent as the clouds above. For hundreds, if not thousands of years they have lived with racism in all its manifestations, be it actual racial strife, instinctive immutable mutual distrust and antipathy, or even outright beliefs in racial superiority. 

They know enough to be able to see that racial separation is the optimum prevention of racial strife. For most though, that is a luxury beyond the bounds of possibility. The second-best option is a political heavy handedness such as Tito’s which, when it was lifted, the ethnic kaleidoscope of the Balkans descended into a whirlpool of blood and the word “Balkanisation” became a prophecy of doom for any nation tempted to flirt with multiculturalism. Much more than soothing words such as the Pancasila were needed to keep people together who would be happier cutting each other’s throats.

When the white-ants and their Jewish urgers-on were busy plotting the destruction of the so-called White Australia Policy, thus the destruction of Australia, a justification given was that the Asians to our north were beginning to dislike us for it. This became a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy but only because after witnessing the intense soul-searching our “betters” were engaging in, their guilt and the self-induced pain it was sincerely hoped we’d all share, our neighbours weren’t going to let an opportunity like that go to waste. Of course they understood our need to maintain a racially homogenous nation. Of course they understood our wanting to avoid the strife and fragmentation that they’d suffered for centuries. And of course they recognized the wisdom of taking note of the problems in old countries and taking the opportunity to avoid them in a brand new country.

 It’s unlikely they didn’t resent our not wanting to include their huge excess populations in our immigration but neither were they so dim as to not appreciate the reason for it. But if we were going to be stupid enough to dump all of that wisdom generated by thousands of years of experience and turn our country on its head, by Christ, they were going to take advantage of it. Here at last was a chance to dispose of some of that excess population and why not expedite the process by making the white man feel even worse than he was making himself. 

The Taiwanese author of The Asian Mind Game, Chin-ning Chu, has provided an invaluable service to Westerners in lifting the lid on this whole  pot-calling-the-kettle-black and getting away with it scam. On page 9, she writes:
“Asians do not feel guilty about thinking in racial terms, but they do understand that Westerners … do. They will often use accusations of racism to disarm their Western opponents. The same Japanese politician who loudly imputes racist motives to American criticism of Japan himself believes implicitly that the Japanese are racially superior to Caucasians, and also to their Korean and Chinese neighbours. He would never admit these beliefs to Westerners, but among Asians it is so commonplace to think in racial terms that they do not even bother with denial or guilt.”

Thank you Chin-ning Chu. RIP

Saturday, February 3, 2018


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Port Fairy. If the town had still been named "Belfast", I may have kept going, impatient as I was to get onto the Great Ocean Road, but how could anyone go past such a picturesque sounding name?

 I'm still in what was once a front line in the war against the hapless whale. The curving bay on which the town developed was named after a whaling ship by its crew. The Fairy seems an incongruous name for something as macho-masculine as a whaling ship, as unlikely as the Bismark being named instead the Barbie Doll, but there you go.

In 1845 a whaling station was established. Eight years later, a man of extraordinary vision and deep pockets to match began virtually single-handedly to build a town. His name was James Atkinson. He was a Sydney solicitor originally from Belfast, hence the name he chose for the town. Given, as it seems, the town's name changing with the frequency of the fortunes of war, the name, "Belfast", was soon under threat when the grand opening of the post office took place with the freshly painted "Port Fairy" proudly displayed on its front wall. Atkinson was having none of that and the Post Master General, or more likely merely an intimidated underling, meekly acquiesced to changing the name of the post office, thereby restoring the official name of the town to Belfast. However in 1887, with the larger than life Atkinson now presumably safely in his grave, "Port Fairy" became once again the town's official name.

The re-namers, unknown to themselves no doubt, were way ahead of the curve, given that tourism was still an idea whose time hadn't yet come. However, if a modern town official with an eye to the riches tourism could provide and needed a hook with tasty bait, he or she would probably be haled as a hero for coming up with the name "Port Fairy". It could even be safely left to someone else to come up with slogan, "gateway to the Great Ocean Road". Case in point: as noted earlier, if the town was still called Belfast, I would have probably not turned off the Prince's Highway. It would have though been a great shame.

It's a hot day but I swear I can feel a different sort of warmth. Could it be the warmth of the town's inherent friendliness? OK, the town's people know a tourist dollar as well as anyone else, and the tourist tidal wave is about to hit the town, but nothing can convince me that the friendliness I'm experiencing is anything but genuine as I do my usual getting-to-know-you stroll about this quaint, little burg. Although not even on the scale by European standards where I've seen houses centuries older than this entire nation, by our own much more modest standards, this town, built in the time when remnants of living memory of the first fleet still existed, has to be considered old. The people responsible for Heritage Listing obviously think so. Many of the original cottages, scrubbed up and in pristine condition which I stop to admire are Heritage listed.

I've arranged accommodation for only one night but after standing on an almost deserted beach being mesmerised bythe gentle splash of waves and deciding that peacefulness should be added to friendliness as the town's main attributes, I'm reconsidering. Two nights at least is what's merited here.

I return to my digs, arrange an additional night's accommodation and take a long, refreshing shower. Since applying a second, this time, water-proof bandage to the leg wound I sustained in the bike mishap on Kangaroo Island, I really haven't thought too much about it. But now as I notice the supposedly water-proof bandage is acting more like a sponge, I accept that I can't postpone a check-up any longer. So I remove the bandage but don't like what I see. A film of yellow pus covers the actual wound and the skin around it is an angry red.

With self-delusion bolstered by wishful thinking, I find a pharmacy where I somewhat stupidly enquire if an ointment or cream might exist which would solve my problem. Not satisfied with my informing her that my wound "might" be infected, the female pharmacist suggests it might be better if she could take a look at it, so we go into a small side room and I show her. A concerned look appears on her face. I already know what she's going to say. She says, "you'll have to see a doctor. You need antibiotics."

It's late in the day by this stage and the availability of a doctor is problematical. The pharmacist suggests I go to the clinic attached to the local hospital. She looks at her watch. "Five O'clock,"
she says. "The doctor there would be leaving about now, but if you hurry you might catch her."
I thank her very much, hop on my bike and follow her directions to the hospital."

I read a sign which tells me to push a button which will ring a bell to summon a nurse. I push, it rings, she appears. I explain the problem. She tells me I'm in luck; the doctor hasn't yet left. She leaves me with a form to fill out and goes to find out if the doctor can see me. She returns quickly with an answer in the affirmative. Then the doctor appears in the waiting room where I'm waiting.

She tells me her first and second names - no Doctor this or Doctor that - in an informal but no-nonsense manner. To use an almost disappeared chunk of vernacular, she's a "good sort" or "a looker", young, juicy and white. I'm trying to keep my mind on why I've come here, and concentrate on seeing her as a doctor and not a woman but it's struggle.

The upshot of all this is that my wound is cleaned, bandaged, a prescription for antibiotics is written out for me and I'm provided with enough pills to tide me over until I can get the prescription filled the next day. This has all happened rapidly, efficiently and highly professionally and it hasn't cost me a cent.

The experience and comparison with what one could expect in many other parts of the world lead me to reflect a short time later on how it shouldn't be a mystery to anybody why third-worlders are smashing down our doors to get in. I could tell some hair-raising stories about the ordeal of attempting to get medical help in "developing" countries but they wouldn't come close to what a young American woman serving in the Peace Corps in Senegal relates about her experience in a "fecalised" environment, aka, a shithole:

"The medicine was stolen by the medical workers and sold to the local store. If you were sick and didn't have money, drop dead. That was normal ... One of my most vivid memories was from the clinic. One day, as the wait grew hotter in the 110 degree [F] heat, an old woman two feet away from the medical aides - who were chatting in the shade of a mango tree instead of working - collapsed to the ground. They turned their heads so as not to see her and kept talking. She lay in the dirt. Callousness to the sick was normal." (What I Learned in the Peace Corps in Africa: Trump is Right by Karin McQuillan - website: Western Voices World News)

My luck has run out. After more than two weeks without so much as seeing a drop of rain, now, as the more uncouth amongst us would say, it's pissing down. I'm in two minds as to whether to go or stay. After finding out the hard way how easy it is to come off a bike on a wet road, I'm not overly happy about the prospect of riding through a rain-storm. I know from past experience how challenging the Great Ocean Road can be and with this extra degree of difficulty, the lure of the road is severely muted. On the other hand, if I stay, I'll simply he holed up indoors and having my otherwise pleasant memories of Port Fairy considerably dampened. I decide to bite the bullet. I don my wet-weather gear and hit the road. Damn the torpedoes! Why am I thinking of torpedoes? Probably because of all this water.

By the time I hit coastal clifftops high above the town I've left behind, the rain has dwindled to a drizzle. Perhaps Mother Nature is giving me a break, although I still have the problem of my helmet visor constantly fogging up. The demands of riding on a road such as this is perversely pleasurable but holds me in a grip of tension. Flashes of scenery from the sea, the beaches and the rocks below are poignantly beautiful but I can spend very little time admiring the view, such is the need to keep my mind on the task at hand. This old route along the coast, hacked out of the rocks and scrub by men a lot better acquainted with hard graft than today's pampered counterparts, is a survival course of twists, turn and hairpin bends. I'm silently giving thanks to whoever it is responsible for placing the recommended speed signs at the entrance of every new hazard. They're very close to being right on the money and are potential life-savers. At regular intervals, on another type of sign, is written "In Australia we drive on the left-hand side of the road". This is a response to the number of collisions caused on this already treacherous road by overseas tourists driving on the wrong side. This doesn't diminish the tension I'm feeling

The sharp changes of direction, a lot of the time causing my heart to relocate to my mouth, seem to go on forever. It's punctuated with a few straight runs, albeit short and then I'm twisting and turning again. The longest stretch of unremitting torment, I calculate to be at least fifty kilometres long. I remember with some amusement, and perhaps with even a touch of gloating, how the young guns of Sydney like to test themselves out over a similar challenge through the nearby Royal National Park - lasting perhaps all of ten minutes.

The scrub has given way to rain-forest, indicating high precipitation, but luckily for me, today's rain has ceased, at least for the time being. I'm now stifling in the wet-weather gear but it's probably fifteen minutes or so before I can find enough room off-road to stop and shed it.

I'm now on the stretch of the road that has given the Great Ocean Road its fame and allure - where the crazy limestone formations have somehow survived while the rest of the coast has retreated inland. They have names such as Loch Ard Gorge, The Grotto, and the London Arch which was formerly known as the much more evocative London Bridge until the span connecting it with the cliff suddenly collapsed stranding two hapless tourists until their rescue by helicopter.

Seeing the formations entails parking in designated areas and following paths to lookouts at the very edge of the cliff. A gang of ethnically diverse tourists await me at each location, gabbling, shutter-bugging and craning their necks unnecessarily, there being no more to see than with un-craned necks. With all the hogging going on, it's sometimes difficult to gain a space at the railing.

I do this a few times and find that I'm essentially moving with the same crowd and our familiarity with one another is falling just short of signs of acknowledgment. But as I've never liked crowds and the law of diminishing returns seems to be applying in regard to the impact of the formations, the process starts to wear thin.

I decide to do one more stop at the Twelve Apostles, the numerically overblown name given to towers of rock standing roughly in a long line as though guarding the coast.  Numbering only nine with they were originally named, there are now only eight due to an unfortunate collapse. To earn that moniker, eleven may have cut it - something could have been said about Judas being punted for obvious reasons - but eight? Perhaps Victorian Tourism is simply banking on no-one actually counting.

I remember from a visit years ago being able to simply pull up by the side of the road, walk perhaps fifty metres along a rough track and be able to take in the vista punctuated by the brooding limestone towers. How things have changed. If one wants to stop here now, a side road must be taken leading away from the cliff tops to a car-park, the size of which would do a major sporting complex proud, and even with this enormous size I'm hard-pressed to find a sliver of space for my bike. The building the car-park fronts could actually be mistaken for a Coliseum-like stadium. It's a "visitor centre" and I'm musing on just how many visitors stop here to warrant a building of this size. Evidently it houses a restaurant, cafe, gift shop and all the usual razzmatazz to part the visitor from the money loosened by the excitement of visiting a natural wonder, or wonders. Beyond the car-park is a heli-pad from which a helicopter is whisking eager sight-seers away on a twenty minute aerial tour. I can't take this. It's not so much a fear of crowds that afflicts me; it's more a strong desire to not be a part of them. Do I really need to see the Apostles again given I've seen them before, and that was when there were nine of them. The answer is no.

A few minutes later I'm a happily blasting along the coast road again in splendid isolation. I'm marvelling that apart from people in cars, not another soul is around. Did I really just see such a multitude of people concentrated in such a small space where everywhere else is wide open space?
It's starting to seem I've suffered some kind of vivid delusion.

After descending from what we in Australia would call a mountain (known as a hill in most other parts of the world) I arrive at a town with a name as equally captivating as Port Fairy, if not even more so. It's Apollo Bay,  narrowly hugging a long scimitar of beach to where huge cliffs arise again in the north. It's still broodingly overcast but a few beams of sunlight are slanting down to colour parts of the beach gold, and parts of the long, adjoining park a bright green. I won't be going any further today, feeling as physically and mentally washed out as I do by the grueling ride.

I locate a large hostel called Surfside, which unsurprisingly is popular with nomadic surfies. The manageress is a pleasant and helpful elderly woman who never seems to stop smiling even when she points out a tree to me, which she complains is the nightly haunt of two koala bears who keep her awake with their ongoing altercation. Perhaps it's a territorial thing; although it may be simply a domestic disturbance. Either way, I'm surprised. I've always assumed koalas were always too whacked out on eucalyptus leaves to argue with anybody. She seems to like my lame joking that, given the circumstances, she should perhaps consider raising their tariff.

Maybe because she can see I'm a man with a sense of humour, she allocates me a large room with six beds with mine being the only bed that will be slept in. Jackpot! A private room at the cost of share room.
To be continued

Monday, January 29, 2018


Richard Di Natale infobox Crop.png

Before the onslaught of PC and the space-travel-like "progress" given us by "progressives", he would have been called a Wog. But of course you can't say that word any more. It's tantamount to the dreaded "N" word. However, it's a safe bet that Richard DiNatale, a senator and leader of the Australian Greens, was  called a Wog by his less swarthy school-mates. No big deal really. The cruelty of children is legendary. The name and the face that didn't quite fit in would have combined in a juicy target.

I'll hazard a guess here and say that young Richard was a sensitive type who, instead of sucking up the rough verbal treatment, which is what most did before the declaration that "bullying" was a crime against humanity in our feminized society. Richard probably quietly stewed over the affronts, nay, fairly marinated in them, plotting the type of revenge that hailed from the same boot-shaped country his parents did - one best served cold.

How else to explain his apparent hatred of all things Australian Anglo Saxon: Australia Day, the Australian flag, our system of Constitutional Monarchy and probably Anzac Day as well given the arse-kicking Australian soldiers dished out to their Italian counterparts during WW11. To digress slightly, who can forget the story of a lone Australian soldier armed only with a pistol who was highly decorated after taking a score of enemy soldiers prisoner? Rumours of him being asked for the return of the medals when it was discovered they were only Italian soldiers are highly exaggerated.

 Admittedly, he's not alone in this ongoing, treasonous sabotage; many trendy Anglo Saxon (and Celtic) Leftists cherish the same destruction as worthy goals, a noteworthy example being a former Wallaby (for the uninitiated, Australian representative Rugby player ), now wannabe pirate, judging by the childish and ridiculous red bandanna he habitually wears around his skull, who also sees the fool's gold of an Australian republic being about the best thing since humans discovered sex.

The naivety and stupidity of those who truly believe that Australia, once freed from the apron strings of Mother England, or so the thinking goes of brains that haven't quite caught up with the 21st century, possibly even the 20th, and becomes a republic, will magically be transformed into a rolled-gold, 100% guaranteed, totally independent state is beyond incredible. One can only assume they've never heard of Globalisation which daily, like some, monstrous, earth-moving machine, rolls back the nation state into a status whereby its government is merely a branch management of Global United. Even if this wasn't happening, just how independent is Australia, regardless of its being a republic or a constitutional monarchy, when all factors leeching away its autonomy are considered; factors such as the UN which never tires of blackening our human rights record while studiously ignoring some of the worst outrages imaginable in the countries constituting the bulk of the UN.

Similar to a man believing he has free-will until he actually stops to consider all the factors eating away his supposed freedom of action, the same process at a national level dissipates much needless illusion. In order to avoid boring readers, a full list of the institutions and nations robbing Australia of true sovereignty will not be given, but here are some of the main offenders: the World Bank, the World Trade Organisation, various "think tanks" such as the Bilderbergers, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Club of Rome, the Pacific Asian Group (from out of the loins of the infamous Trilateral Commission), the People's Republic of China which if it ever decided to stop selling us stuff could blow us back to the pre-industrial age, and of course the good ole USA who's collective arse must be tender from all of our kissing -that is when our leaders are not kissing Indonesian arse for reasons totally unfathomable.

But back to DiNatale. He's not stupid, or at least not as stupid as Australians who have deep roots in the country, thus much more skin in the game than DiNatele but who nevertheless express the same sentiments. At least DiNatale, arriving effectively in the last shower, can feel unsoiled by the mythical blood- guilt for which he demands Anlgo Saxons atone. This is most likely the reason his self-righteousness know no bounds.

DiNatale knows that once (probably not if) his favourite obsessions are realised and historical ties are irrevocably severed, Australian Anglo Saxons will have their legs cut out from under them. Welcome to year zero. The people who once considered Australia theirs, people who demographers once referred to as the "host population", including other whites who've seamlessly assimilated, will be relegated to being just another ethnic group, another tribe, albeit the one most other tribes like to despise and one without the privileges and rights of all the others in what, if history is anything to go by, will culminate in the war of all against all. For DiNatale, how's that for getting square for all those school-yard slights?

 But of course his imagined Utopia is the unspoken goal of all truly dedicated  multiculturalists. For those who watch a never-ending parade of colourful characters from, to use a Trumpism, every shithole on the planet and quietly ask, "haven't we got enough multiculturalism by now?", this is your answer.

DiNatale's recent rabid cultural-Marxist support for homosexual marriage which the mugs recently agreed to after an almost unprecedented blizzard of propaganda (what harm can it do? in a wheedling tone) was a two-for-one deal. Not only did he succeed in sticking it right up Australian conservatives, he was there at the undertaker's when one of the final nails was driven into the coffin of Western civilization.

DiNatale is a perfect fit for the Greens, which is just as well as it's unlikely any other party would be loony enough to have him, as, as it seems, one would have to be loony to want to join the party which originated from a patching together of rabble from outfits comprising tree-huggers, anti-nuclear King Canutes, Marxists wandering lost, dazed and confused after the fall of the USSR and champions of "refugees", aka, illegal immigrants.

One of the looniest of the loons to find eventually find her way to the Greens' loony bin was one Sarah Hanson-Young who went on to be added to the list of Greens senators whose at all times total number could be comfortably accommodated in a telephone booth. She may be remembered for a stunt she pulled in 2015 in which she claimed to be helping to rescue refugees when in fact she was participating in the transportation of illegals by boat to Italy. Hanson-Young is the nation's number one self-appointed bleeding-heart and big-mouth advocate for illegal immigration into Australia. You'd think there'd be a law against that. Wait a minute! There is! It's called incitement to commit a criminal offence. So why the get-out-of-jail card? According to deep-thinkers like Hanson-Young, national borders are just so silly - a patriarchal invention to oppress the brothers and sisters of colour.

Initially, though it prominently displayed the colour green, its other true colours were kept tightly under wrap. One can imagine an early party meeting where the first order of day was the problem of being seen as a "single issue party" which as anyone with any political nous knows is poison to any party wishing to be taken seriously. The rationale for single issue parties, such as Peter Garrett's erstwhile Nuclear Disarmament Party - Peter later proved himself  a true politician when as a member of the Labor Party he couldn't see anything wrong with uranium mining in South Australia -  is to attract attention, be a form of protest or simply to annoy rather than be a credible competitor in the political power struggle.

And of course the latter is how the Greens wanted to be seen. The enormity of the problem would have been enough to settle a pall of silence over members at this early meeting until broken by an enthusiastic bearded chap at the back of the room who leapt from his chair and cried, "I've got it! Lets fill the gap left by the collapse of the Communist Party of Australia." Most looked doubtful. Some were sadly shaking their heads. However, the bearded one lifted a sandal-shod foot onto a vacant chair and continued, "but we don't need to be too specific and we won't be touching any of that Marxist economic mumbo jumbo with a barge pole. Capitalism with a human face; that's all we'll asking for." He was beaming. It was somehow contagious. Smiles were breaking out all around.

So the party, ostensibly concerning itself with environmental matters quickly forgot about such nonsense, busy as it was stationing itself somewhere between the Labor Party and Marxist/Leninism but much closer to the latter with the afore-mentioned economic mumbo jumbo jettisoned, ergo being informed by an ideology of Cultural Marxism with all the trimmings.

 It was for example one of the earliest proponents of homosexual marriage, this perhaps having something to do with its founder and first leader, Bob Brown, being a homosexual ... oops, can't say that any more. That's a term which, although value free, appears to be becoming almost as verboten as some of the old favourites like "shirt-lifter", "pillow-biter" and "wind-jammer". Bob, however, balanced things out by continuing to bang on about the environment and of course its greatest threat, climate change - the boogy man sure to frighten the bejesus out of children and adults and ultimately such a monumental problem that only a world government could solve. The early scare mongers of this myth predicted that well before now the inhabitants of most of the smaller Pacific Islands would be needing extra long snorkels, polar bears, or those remaining, would be ripping off their fur faster than an actress wanting a part in a Harvey Weinstein film shedding her clothes, and Australians would be living on a coastal belt thinner than a heroin addict with AIDS. Anyone with his head still above water would be aware that a measure of exaggeration had slipped into the narrative.

After considering all of the foregoing, it has occurred that no-one should really be giving a rat's about Richard DiNatale or the Greens even as much as they would like to be taken seriously and be seen as anything other than a party for which to provide a negative vote, that is, in protest at being forced by the stupidity of compulsory voting to vote for anyone at all, especially Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee when the largely disenfranchised wouldn't even consider ... well, doing anything at all for any of them even if they were on fire.

Without this negative protest vote the Greens and the traitorous DiNatale would be promoting a cause more lost than NASA succeeding forever with the fairy-tale that astronauts were actually sent to the moon rather than Stanley Kubrick's movie set. Sad but true: political illiterates vote for the Greens from a misapprehension that they are either doing something for the environment or choosing an impotent but innocuous alternative to voting for Lib/Lab. But that's democracy for you - a political system about which, none other than Winston Churchill  once claimed, a five minute conversation with the average voter would cause one to have serious doubts.

Friday, January 26, 2018


Here we are at last, thankfully on the other side of the annual shit-storm known as Australia Day - our supposed national day. A full year before we have to go through it again. Given what it's become, it would be best if it was scrapped altogether. What has it become? Our illustrious prime-minister told us himself: it's a celebration of multiculturalism. "It's for everybody," he enthused, "from (weirdly) the hunter and gatherer who existed 65,000 years ago (the figure growing almost daily) to the baby in the arms of its migrant mother." Omitted of course is any mention of the silent, suffering, white majority descended from the pioneers who built the country - racist, murderous rednecks every one and as soon as a memory-hole big enough is bored out they'll all be dropped into it.

So now it is a colourful celebration of our propositional (non) nation held together by ... well, gloriously diverse people existing on the same plot of land. God forbid that it be a nation held together by such unmentionables as race, ethnicity and the religion that one thousand years go instigated a vicious war against peace-loving Muslims

The only way out of this annual quagmire of self-loathing and guilt is to scrap it altogether. Moving the date, as the current chant urges, will not solve anything and will definitely not change the history of this country being discovered, settled and developed into a shining outpost of civilization by white people. The pretend history preferred, that 300,000 stone-age nomads could have selfishly kept this continent to themselves would never have happened - even if Britain had never existed. Historical inevitability would not have allowed it. If not the British - perhaps the most humanitarian of colonialists - it would have been the French, the Dutch, the Spanish, the Portuguese or even Asians if they had not preferred the spadework to be already done before coming here. Without the British claiming the entire continent and willing to defend their claim, the land may even have been carved up between various powers. What could possibly have gone wrong with that?

Scrapping Australia Day would at least deprive the whingers, the bleeding hearts, race-traitors and human white-ants of a spot-lit stage. Unfortunately, this would only cause a minor slow-down. Once victim-hood is achieved, it will never been given up. Being a victim is a cherished position. It matters not what the supposed victimisers do to atone for the sins of the fathers; it will count for nothing. Victim-hood is too powerful a position ever to relinquish. It is no doubt so gratifying to be able to make so many people squirm and prostrate themselves in the dirt, as is the wont of white people, alone of all people to have such exquisite sensitivities to criticism of past wrongdoing. This is an Achilles's heel in the truest sense and where whites are most vulnerable - as so many nonwhites know only too well.

The most pathetic part of this Australia Day was seeing so many self-flagellating whites marching with Aborigines - of various shades from ebony to ivory - in their "day of mourning" protest, although most of these would simply be gullible stooges of the destructive Leftists pulling the strings.

These fools know so little, especially of history. "Invasion Day", as they refer to the date of the country's founding. When Arthur Phillip, the man who would become our first governor and who was given strict instructions from the British Government to treat Aborigines fairly and kindly, was organising settlement in Sydney Cove in the first few days of arrival, it's been recorded that curious Aborigines milled about trying to cadge food or whatever shiny objects were  available.

When one particular ignoramus was asked if this really sounded like an invasion, the response was, "well I don't know about that but ...." Of course she didn't know about that as well as any other relevant histgory. Her opinion, her jumping on the bandwagon when the direction it was taking could be safely determined, was based on nothing but feeling and emotion. This is perhaps excusable in a woman but to know beyond a doubt that so many men are arriving at the same opinion, the same way is almost enough to cause one to be embarrassed to be an Australian for a reason opposite to the cause of so many others' cringing pitiful embarrassment at being Australian.

The most nauseating characteristic of these idiots is their rank hypocrisy. Given that the hair-shirt syndrome is essentially a middle class disease, and almost by definition the middle class comprises property holders, here's a tip so golden it should be taken straight to the bank: instead of dicking around with meaningless, feel-good activities such as the change-the-date chant, do something that will really make a difference, such as giving your stolen property back to the rightful owners, the dispossessed Aborigines, then fucking off back to wherever you think your ancestors may have invaded from. What? No takers? 

If perhaps the cards had fallen a different way in the 1940s, if Hitler had been able to overcome his sentimental liking for the British and allowed his generals to eliminate its army at Dunkirk thus knocking Britain out of the war and at the same time precluding the US from using Britain as a springboard and becoming involved in the European war, the rationale for the US starting a war with Japan would have evaporated. Given this premise, it's arguable that Japan, emboldened, would have gone ahead and raided the Dutch East Indies for the oil of which it was being starved. Japan's "Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere" may well have become a reality. How tempting then would poor, lonely, isolated Australia have become to the Japanese, after kicking the Dutch and the British - the once mighty whiteman - out of the way.

Even though we are now constantly told that Aborigines are the only real Australians, Australian white men, sadly deluded into thinking they were not merely blow-ins or "immigrants", recklessly threw away their lives to prevent the feared Japanese invasion of Australia that the Japanese High Command  had, unknown to anyone here, actually scotched.  In our alternate reality though, a Japanese invasion of Australia would almost have been assured. The British invasion of the Great South Land? That's not an invasion! The Japanese invasion of Australia? Now that's an invasion! Would Aborigines still be whinging about the Japanese invasion? That is highly unlikely. That's because, given the savagely racist nature of the Japanese - they regarded the Chinese as subhumans so one struggles to imagine their view of Australian Aborigines - in contrast to the trumped up racism of whites, it's highly unlikely an trace of Aboriginal life would still exist.

Scrap Australia Day? You can't be serious. I hear you. But look at it this way: it's headed for the scrapheap anyway so we might as well get it over and done with. We are involved in a war of attrition only one side knows is being fought. The Left, the side that is fully aware of the war and is actively  waging it, is fired with religious fanaticism and is indefatigable and will keep attacking like ravenous wolves against a herd of sheep. A decade ago, for example, who would have thought homosexual marriage would be legalised? The same will happen with every other obsession of the Left - the flag will fall, Australia will become a republic, the borders, if not completely abolished will become ever more porous, the name of Australia changed perhaps to something a little more indigenous (if not already given a Chinese name)  and Australia Day, a thing of shame, will be air-brushed out of history. That is, unless the other side gets to know about this war.

Monday, January 22, 2018


Image result for the blue lake mt gambier

The air smells like Pine-O-Clean, only natural. I'm entering the lush pine forest surrounding the city of Mount Gambia. Years ago as a dopey kid hitch-hiking through the area I had thought all these pine trees had sprung up of their own accord. I know now however they've arrived courtesy of the hand of man, one man in particular who had the perspicacity and vision to be able to see the area's potential for such a valuable co-operation with nature. It's late in a day of baking heat and I've been beginning to droop but the pine air has revived me like a dose of smelling salts.

I'm soon in the centre of the city, riding up a steep hill which is actually an extinct volcano, relatively young as extinct volcanoes go, coming in at a mere 4,800 years. Aborigines would have been present during its active life and indeed myths still exist in the uniquely creative way Aborigines have of explaining natural phenomena.

What I like about this particular volcano - admittedly I haven't seen many although the sight of the aftermath of Mount Pinatubo's last eruption in the Philippines is one I won't soon forget - is the lake held in the crater. By the time I reach the rim still enough light is left in the sky to paint the lake its unique bluer-than-blue colour. Scientists, volcanologists and geologists have scratched their brainy heads over this phenomenon but alas in vain. No-one has a clue why the lake is the colour it is - it just is.

I take some time to drink in the strange beauty then ride off to pitch my tent in a caravan park conveniently close to the lake. It's an upmarket park with fees reflecting the fact and if I wasn't feeling so good I'd be stewing over how much I have to pay for the minuscule patch of grass my tent takes up. I know I won't be using the swimming pool as I prefer a real swim as opposed to a splash and I definitely won't be using the huge inflated rubber "jumping cushion" although it's amusing to watch kids doing their moon-walks, or rather moon-runs along its length.

It's a Friday night and in town the joint's jumping, the pubs are full of drinkers still in the happy stage before their individual personalities take them to whatever mood in which they are destine to end up.

My road-diet fails to improve as I strategically ensconce myself in a pizza joint across the road from one of the big pubs from where I can keep an eye on the dolled-up girls exiled to the footpath outside the pub while they smoke their all but outlawed cigarettes. Blondes predominate. In my mind, trained as I have it in my own peculiar way, blondes are somehow quintessentially Australian (no telling how many times I've been fooled by the peroxide variety). Perhaps the sentiment is not completely groundless; early observers of Australia, including DH Lawrence, noted the suntanned bodies and blondness of Australians. I'm no sport's fan but I'm oddly gratified at the sight of handsome female Nordics representing Australia at international sporting events - Valkyries prowling the battlefield.

 The male companions of the footpath girls, some of whom are not even smoking so it's easy to tell their real reasons for being outside while the beer remains inside, are healthy looking, strapping specimens lacking the pallor one often sees in office workers.

As I confirm in my wandering about the city in the couple of days I stay, this is another solid Australian town, suspended in amber to show how all of Australia once was. It is so far from Sydney and Melboune in ways in which distance is only a bit player, it could be an alternate reality. It is Australia before the Fall.  Here one hears only pure Australian accents, not the Babel-like mixture of languages one can hear on any street corner in the central business district of Sydney, not the English so heavily accented it is incomprehensible, just the English we've styled for ourselves.

Unsurprisingly, the volcano in which the Blue Lake nestles was not a solo outburst of the Earth's internal furnace; the entire area saw forms of volcanic activity. Virtually in the city's centre is a deep sink-hole. It is now the site of a nightly light show with projections of images telling of the spiritual characters and their conflicts that caused so much fiery mayhem so long ago.

An English couple I meet in the caravan park who have been touring the country on, from all accounts, an indestructible BMW bike for the last eight months - given I'm starting to wilt after a mere couple of weeks in the saddle, I can't help being impressed - tell me of another extinct volcano sans lake about twelve K out of town, so I decide to investigate.

No road leads to the rim of this one. Shank's pony (for non-Australians, this is Australian English for going on foot) is the only mode of transport. Very considerate I think, noting the well-fashioned steps and smooth inclining paths of the initial climb but I change my opinion and decide that these exist simply to lure the unwary into a climb that soon dispenses with the helpful paths and steps in a return to an au naturel state, that is, a rude, rugged track. Luckily, showing rare foresight, I’d decided motorcycle boots weren’t exactly ideal footwear for climbing volcanoes but to save weight the only other shoes I've packed are a pair of light sneakers. After a short distance on the new, unimproved path it's apparent that neither are these the ideal apparel for the task at hand. It seems I'm feeling every little pebble and for preventing ankle twisting I might as well be barefooted. But I have no choice but to continue - that is if I want to continue living with myself. 

After a slog, although and liberally punctuated with rest breaks, that has my shirt soaked with perspiration, I finally reach the rim of the volcano and am able to look down at the bottom of the crater far below. For souls far more ambition than myself, another track leads down the inside wall of the crater and across it’s floor. Why does a floor exist and not a hole leading somewhere like in Jules Vern’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth? Being the ultimate layman in this regard, I can only surmise that after a volcano finishes its hell-raising and settles down, the hole becomes plugged with lava. I can see that some energetic person is taking the alternative route but from my lofty perch he or she appears only as a moving dot.

Looking outward from the rim affords me a magnificent view of the surrounding countryside of patchwork farms. I can see so far, the curvature of the earth is easily discernible. As far as I can tell, views like this provide the only reason people climb mountains, besides of course because they are there.

After the effort of getting up here, it seems a shame to go straight down again so I set off on what is about a five kilometre hike around the rim, stopping periodically to look back down into the crater and try to comprehend the energy necessary to blow a hole this big in the Earth’s crust. The dot is now moving up the wall opposite the part of the rim on which I’m standing.

The sign at the border welcoming me to Victoria should be accompanied by another adding “and we apologise for not spending nearly as much on roads as is done in South Australia”, because right on cue the smooth bitumen ceases as though its been neatly guillotined and on the Victorian side of the invisible line the road becomes like someone would design to test automotive suspension. There is though a sign a little further along that informs in hilarious understatement “Rough Road Ahead”. How about the road behind? If that wasn’t rough, I grimace at trying to imagine what Victorian’s consider true roughness. I’ll find out later that the two very hard-boiled eggs and small coffee plunger, which I can’t do without and has survived some serious punishment, and which I have stored in the bike’s rear top-box have shattered and have formed a mixture of specks of broken glass, tiny pieces of eggshell and almost atomized egg that has become evenly dispersed throughout everything else in the tightly packed top-box.

However, blissfully unaware of this, my attention is lasered on the road ahead as I try, sometimes standing on the pegs to absorb the shocks with my legs, to pick paths through the worst of the bumps, holes and corrugations.

I’ve left the calming scent of the pine groves surrounding Mount Gambia far behind. Now, reaching high, are drab green and, in comparison to the orderly and well-dressed pines, wildly non-symmetrical and unkempt natives, mostly eucalypts. In an uncanny flash of synchronicity, I spot a huge tree, evidently of great age, the trunk of which bears a long scar. It’s an obvious memento of, as I’ve learnt only a few hours earlier, while reading over coffee, Blainey’s The Triumph of the Nomads, the Aboriginal practice of removing bark with which to fashion one-man, throw-away canoes. The missing bark would never regenerate, leaving an elongated bald-patch, but no injury would be caused to the tree which would continue to grow.

 Here and there, creepy, pale and misshapen dead trees are transformed by my overactive imagination into emaciated, bony-fingered crones lying in wait for an unsuspecting Hansel and Gretel. 

To be continued


Retreating in the face of even the stickiest issue has never been my style. And being one with nary a qualm when wading in where angels fe...