Cablog

Reality Bites

About five years ago, one Sunday evening around midnight, I accepted a radio job in Balmain. On arrival I was greeted by a woman waiting at the front gate. She opened my door and politely requested I wait for the passengers.

The fare was an aboriginal mother and her three young kids. They had been guests at the home of two middle-aged white women who presented as typical inner-city ‘progressives’ - compassionate, educated and middle-class. The aboriginal mother was really drunk and her kids had been asleep. Under much protestation from the mother it took ages for them to board the cab.

The house owner thrust a twenty dollar note through my window, apologized for keeping me waiting and requested I take the family to...Annandale, from memory. It seemed she was glad to finally get rid of them as the family had obviously worn out their welcome.

The kids were crying from being woken and taken out into the evening, whilst their mother started swearing heavily. After telling the kids they had been chucked out into the cold with nowhere to stay, she insisted I drop them at a local park. I point-blank refused and after much confusion she directed me to an inner-west women’s shelter.

Anyway, whilst cruising around Balmain last Sunday night I recalled this incident and got to thinking. In light of recent revelations concerning systemic domestic violence against indigenous women, have white Australian feminists ever been proactive in championing the plight of their abused sisters ? Indigenous domestic violence is so endemic I would have thought it warranted a selective campaign by powerful white feminists.

Some Hope

At 1am this morning a middle-aged fella opened the cab door and said, ‘Mate, I’ve only got twenty bucks - can you take me to Glebe for that ? It’s usually around twenty-six’. Geez, work was so dead I would have done it for ten bucks. ‘Mate, no worries’, I told him, ‘jump in’.

He’d spent the weekend at his girlfriend’s place and was going home. ‘So you don’t live with her then ?’. ‘Nah, she’s got kids. They’re not mine so I don’t wanna get too involved. Anyway, I’ve already got a son’. ‘Oh yeah, how old is he ?’, I asked. ‘Um...’, and he hesitated, ‘ahh...he’s twenty-two’. ‘You see much of him ?’. ‘Nup, he’s a junkie’.

This caught me by surprise, but I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s not often I meet a junkie's parent. ‘How long has he been a junkie ?’. ‘I dunno, he went off the rails years ago. He was fine until thirteen, but then he went crazy’. ‘So you never see him ?’, I asked. ‘Nah, I can’t stand to see him like that’, he replied. ‘I mean, my brother was a junkie and I hate that stuff - the lying, the stealing, broken promises....it shits me’.

We traveled in silence for a bit, then I asked, ‘What about his mother, what does she say ?’. ‘Aww, she don’t talk to me. We never got on together’. This would be no help to their son, I figured. ‘Do you think much about when your boy was okay, you know, as a kid ?’. ‘Yeah, that’s how I remember him. It saves me thinking how he is now ‘cause it really depresses me to see him wasting away like that’. It sounded like the bloke had given up on his boy and was resigned to burying him one day.

‘Mate, just keep in touch’, I suggested. ‘It doesn’t matter if he shits on you...or even if he despises you. You might be his only hope when he’s really low. And I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a place in his heart, somewhere, which still loves you’. He thought about this, then said, ‘You know, I have been thinking about getting in touch with him again, so yeah, maybe I will’. Hope to God he does.

Assumptions

Early yesterday evening I responded to a radio booking from a western suburb into the city. An attractive young woman bounced out carrying a large sports bag and climbed in the front seat. Her attire was kind of summery or sporty, certainly underdressed for a winter Saturday evening.

It was only when she nominated the address that the penny dropped. ‘Are you going out or going to work ?’, I asked her. ‘No, I’m going to work’. This told me she was a ‘working’ girl in an area renowned for street ‘girls’ and massage parlors. Working girls typically lug such bags holding their ‘uniforms’, towels, toys and other accouterments of the trade.

Often I carry working girls and there’s an implicit understanding that cabbies know their business. Rather than delve into their job I’m content to chat generally, unless they specifically raise the subject. In this case I continued, ‘So are you expecting a busy night ?’. ‘All depends’, she answered brightly, ‘last night we were really busy !’.

As we traveled down Victoria Road I noticed a number of Vacant cabs heading into the City. ‘Well those empty cabs don’t look promising’, I said. ‘On a busy night at 6 pm they would have fares’. With that I reflected on the cold weather and lack of big events as mitigating factors, but she failed to respond and fell silent for the remainder of the journey. As she’d chosen to sit up front I wondered whether I’d said the wrong thing, somehow.

Only on arriving at the location did I realize my mistake. The address was a gentleman’s restaurant which featured lingerie waitresses, popular amongst blokes who liked classier girls to entertain them. That I’d presumed she was a common massage girl and/or prostitute was the issue, for she was an erotic dancer, a girl of 'style and class'. Therein lay the difference, though one could argue it was a fine distinction.

Music Bits

Friday is music-video night for me as I forget about the hack and check out ABC TV's Rage for the latest tunes.

After quizzing many passengers I've finally located a great music-video on high rotation last month. It's called Today by Junkie XL featuring hilarious hairstyles and a sexy tune.

Another amazing video currently showing is God Lead Your Soul by The Sleepy Jackson. Not only a lush video but a fantastic tune from a really talented Perth outfit.

Eskimo Joe is another hot Aussie band from Perth. Their latest single Black Fingernails, Red Wine is a ripper but sorry, can't supply a taste. Also worth a mention is Perth band End of Fashion, another promising indie rock outfit also receiving airplay on Rage. Must be something in the water over there.

For a flashback check out Tim Blair's gruesome images of some Aussie rock legends. 

Obsessive

It would seem every second bloke in my cab is heading to Germany to follow Australia in next months World Cup. If not, they are scouring E-Bay for spare tickets. For some fans nothing will stop them from attending this once, twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity to watch the Socceroos in the world's biggest sporting event.

Early this morning I carried one such fan, a fella aged around forty years old who exited an office building well after midnight. ‘So you been working overtime or normal time ?’, I asked him. ‘Nah, this isn’t normal for me’, he said, ‘I’m going on holidays next month and need to finish a project'. ‘Where you going ?’. ‘Germany, to see the World Cup’, he replied. ‘I'm going with some mates - it’ll be fantastic’.

‘What about tonight, you going to watch the game against Greece ?’, I asked. ‘Nah, I’ve got to take the wife out to dinner’, he said. ‘I promised to take her out for her birthday’. ‘That’s unfortunate timing’, I said. ‘Well actually', he laughed, 'it’s her birthday whilst I’m in Germany so I thought I’d better make the effort before I went’.

My passenger revealed that not only did they have two young children but his wife was six months pregnant. Moreover, he was working excess hours before departure, meaning he was effectively already away from home. When I suggested he was lucky to have such an understanding wife, he jokingly responded, 'She married a football obsessive - she has no other choice !'.

Waiting Places

Here's some late-night haunts of mine at work. From left we have the Fairfax forecourt, one of the most attractive entrances. Conversely the News Limited entrance is fairly ordinary (except the cleaners vacuum and mop the footpath) but supplies the friendliest fares. They not only freely chat but often give drivers the daily papers. Little things like that make a big difference to us cabbies.

Of course 'waiting' is what taxi driving is all about on a quiet midweek night. There is nothing to do but read, snooze or pace barren forecourts wondering what the hell we're doing there after midnight, when most folks are at home in bed.

The ABC building forecourt is maybe the ugliest space of all (a windswept rubbish-trap) reflecting the Soviet architecture of the University of Technology opposite. To it's credit the ABC sometimes has interesting displays in the lobby, currently showing vehicles from the Peking to Paris rally. Finally, the NSW Premier's office is in a monstrous edifice on the unfortunately named Bent Street. Nothing else to say really. (images enlarge)

Great Legacies

In 2002 historian Keith Windshuttle published The Fabrication of Aboriginal History. A history which charged colonial Australians of a policy of genocide and warfare against aborigines. Windshuttle's scholarly Fabrication took this view apart,

When it is closely examined, much of the evidence for the claims about massacres, terrorism, and genocide turns out to be highly suspect. Most of it is very poorly founded, other parts are seriously mistaken, and a good deal of it is outright fabrication.

The book sparked furious debate amongst historians, academics, politicians and activists in what became known as 'the history wars'. In the ensuing ‘debate’ it’s evident Windshuttle was proved correct in refuting the politicising of aboriginal history by a generation of revisionist historians.

Until Windshuttle’s expose this black-armband view of aboriginal history took root and, sadly, served to influence much of our current, socially-engineered, aboriginal policy.

In today’s Australian, Windshuttle has written an article titled, Manhood Whitewashed. In it he provides the most cogent explanation to date for aboriginal child sexual abuse,

The root cause is that white Australia has deprived Aboriginal men in remote communities of their manhood. The instrument we used was social welfare: giving handouts that did not require them to work. The social policy of the past 30 years is the principal culprit...

...The social consequences of this should have been entirely predictable. No matter what their race or where they live, men who do not work have no social status, no sense of self-worth and little meaning in their lives.

Windshuttle closes the article (which deserves to be read in full) by encouraging Indigenous Affairs Minister, Mal Brough to remain resolute in his desire to make a difference in his new portfolio. And more power to him.

Which has me thinking - what Minister Brough now needs is personal support from the highest level, the Prime Minister. With the increasing likelihood John Howard may retire by years end, he couldn’t go out on a better note than wholeheartedly addressing our aboriginal crisis. And yes, it is our crisis, as much as their's.

For a man already regarded as one of Australia’s best Prime Ministers, the parlous and unresolved status of our indigenous is one area blotting Howard's copybook.

If an Australian Prime Minister achieved nothing else during his tenure but the successful rehabilitation of indigenous Australians, then it would surely rate as the greatest legacy an Australian leader could wish for.

UPDATE : Letter writers respond

UPDATE 2 : Archbishop laments closing of missions

UPDATE 3 : Sense and Nonsense in Australian History

Cabbie Style

Whether it's the onset of winter or a general malaise on my part I struggled over the weekend to find a reportable fare. Short of the general idiots one encounters that is. However there's been a couple of overseas reports of late on interesting cabbies...

Famous New York hack, Melissa recently returned to work after a Californian vacation, only to be promptly booked for a traffic infringement. In what was a surprise to herself, the ticket was accepted graciously, confirming there's something in that Californian air.

From Israel, an English teacher relates her experiences of the local cabbies. According to Jessica Kendler the only qualification for an Israeli taxi license must be personality. Kendler provides three vignettes to demonstrate their unique charm.

Regarding personality, in the United States St. Louis journalist/blogger Dana Loesch posts on her experiences with Chicago cabbies,

I noticed that in Chicago cab drivers are equally deranged. I think that there’s something in a person’s personality that qualifies them to be a cab driver because I’ve yet to meet one who didn’t think of his vehicle as a Traffic Assault Projectile.

Hmm, maybe this is what I'm missing, a certain craziness to generate some war stories.

Some Relief

After a few depressing recent posts some light relief is needed. Who better to call upon than Australia's comic master, Tim Blair. In an hilarious short piece, Blair channels Keith Richard's long-suffering brain. It's a cracker...

They Knew

During last nights peak hour at North Sydney a middle aged fella requested I take him out to Concord Hospital, in the western suburbs. ‘No worries’, I exclaimed, ‘anything to get away from this City traffic’. The joint had gone into gridlock ahead of the big boxing match at Moore Park.

‘So you going to visit someone or to work ?’, I asked him. ‘I have a meeting there tonight’, he replied. ‘Do you work in the health industry ?’. ‘Yes’, he said, ‘I’m a doctor with an aboriginal health service’. Talk about coincidences.

My passenger had just flown in from Kempsey, one of the largest aboriginal populations in the State. ‘I’m here for two days of conferences’, he explained. ‘It’s a regular event with my counterparts from around the State. Unfortunately this meeting tonight is something which arose at the last minute, as I was planning to see a movie tonight’.

He was born in Syria and come to Australia twenty-five years ago to work with the Fred Hollows Foundation. After a stint in Redfern he moved around western NSW ministering to the aboriginal communities.

‘Mate, compared to your homeland’, I suggested, ‘it must have felt like another planet out west’. ‘Sure did’, he agreed, ‘and it was pretty lonely too. Finally I took a position in Kempsey and I just love it up there’.

The heavy traffic gave us plenty of time to explore the crisis within aboriginal Australia. Initially he used standard leftie rhetoric to suggest the Howard Government had failed aborigines - not enough money and resources; the dissolution of ASTIC; reconciliation.

Yet he quickly realised I was up to speed with aboriginal politics after I gently countered some of his claims. Thereafter we danced around the contentious issue of physical and sexual abuse with enough mutual respect to avoid a confrontation.

For he knew as well as I that if anyone was cognisant of the plight of aboriginal women and children it would be a dedicated health officer such as himself. He was an softly spoken and intelligent bloke and I felt it would’ve been impertinent to challenge him on sensitive issues such as,

Community organisations say a culture of silence is fostering the problem, with claims health workers are often discouraged from reporting cases of abuse.

It’s obvious that those working in the aboriginal support industry are overwhelmed by these problems and how to solve them. Undoubtedly they witness on a daily basis the consequences of ‘black on black’ crime, yet often adopt politically-correct notions of 'cultural sensitivity' to justify and excuse the violence.

They know all right, but as individuals what can they do short of bucking the reigning orthodoxy, which would amount to professional suicide ?

In the end, my passenger and I found common ground on two issues. Namely the general lack of interest from commercial media in positive aboriginal affairs and, the lamentable lack of senior aboriginal role models for their community. They need more Mundines to remind the media and authorities of the ongoing aboriginal catastrophe.