Alice Springs Diary ...
During the week I was stopped along Leichhardt Terrace , in Alice Springs, by two young coppers who claimed I was “speeding” at 75 kph in a 60 kph zone, and I was to be fined $110.
When I first sighted the police driving towards me on the opposite side of the road, I automatically glanced at my speedometer, and it was registering 60 kph.
When I disputed the police allegation, the copper said: “We’ve been watching you since you came around the roundabout (near Imparja’s headquarters), and you were speeding then.”
Such an observation was physically impossible. Leichhardt Terrace is not a straight road; it has several bends between the roundabout and the then position of the police car approaching from the south.
Presumably, our newly-recruited police staff have somehow acquired the capacity to see around corners!
We all know such actions have nothing to do with law enforcement; it is essentially revenue raising by the N.T. government to help pay for the extra police presence the resident’s demanded to counteract a soaring crime rate. If the alleged traffic infringement were to be disputed by the victim in court, we all know who the magistrate will believe, don’t we?
Such police behaviour raises ethical questions, one being: if the police force are to be utilised, cynically, as tax gatherers for cash-strapped politicians, is it any wonder that their victims are quickly losing respect for them both?
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Recently I survived being interviewed by an over-paid, under-worked bureaucrat in a goverment office.
He enquired into the usual biographical stuff – name, address, age, marital status, etc., the particulars of which he duly
noted on the appropriate form.
Then he asked: “Are you an Aboriginal?”
Without hesitation, I replied: “Yes, I am.”
He at once raised his pen, looked up to curiously scrutinize my obviously Celtic complexion, then enquired: “Um … Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Yes,” I responded confidently, “there’s no doubt about it. I’m definitely Aboriginal.”
Tentatively scratching his ear, he stated: “You don’t look like an Aboriginal.”
“Oh?” I responded. “What does an Aboriginal look like?”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, a little embarrassed.
“You’re not being rude,” I assured him. “But let me ask you a question … How would you define the word ‘Aboriginal?’”
“Well “… (more scratching of the itchy ear) … “an Aboriginal is a person who is indigenous to a country.”
“Exactly,” I concurred. “So that makes me an Aboriginal of Australia. I was born in this country, Australia, or so my old Mother told me, and I have no reason to doubt her integrity, God rest her poor Irish soul.”
The bureaucrat stood up, saying: “Please excuse me. Perhaps I should consult with my senior officer before we proceed any further.”
On his return, the public servant declared with a perfectly straight face: “My colleague and I have mutually agreed as of this moment to render this document redundant.
“We will arrange to have a replacement form designed to be more specific about the information being solicited of clients.
“In the meantime, you are free to leave, and you do not have to answer the question as originally presented …”
Isn’t democracy wonderful?
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I see Damien Ryan, the mayor, came back to the Alice skiting about having a feed with the prime minister.
That’s nothing. Only last week I phoned The Lodge to talk to Kevin Rudd and he very obligingly came onto the phone
straight away when he knew I was calling from Alice Springs.
After the usual pleasantries, Kev asked the reason for my call.
I told him I had been following the ruckus in parliament about him being given the loan of a mate’s ute.
“Um, yes,” he responded. “What about it?”
“Well, “ I said with typical Centralian candour, “I reckoned it was a bloody great shame the way they tried to rub your nose in the mud over that.”
“Um, yes,” said the PM once more.
“It’s a poor world if your mate can’t give you a lend of his spare vehicle when you’re down on the bare bones of your
(censored) while you’re trying to get along on a prime minister’s wages.”
“Er … Um … I see,” replied Kev in total agreement. “But why are you calling me about this in the middle of the night?”
I explained: “Well, mate, I came up with a good idea. Now that they are going to take the loaned car off you, I’ve got a spare ute I could loan you for a while …”
At this point the line went dead and I wasn’t able to re-establish contact with the honourable gentleman, despite repeated attempts over the next 48 hours.
Nevertheless, I like to think my old mate, Kev, was profoundly moved by my generous offer.
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Outside the post office an American tourist asked to be directed to the nearest “public convenience,” as he put it.
I told him: “Go behind one of those gumtrees near the carpark.”
“What?” he said. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” I assured him. “That’s the way it’s done in Alice Springs. Just do it wherever it’s convenient.”
“But what if a woman comes by?” he asked.
“Just pretend you didn’t see her,” I advised. “Look the other way and she’ll probably do the same.”
Doing my bit for the local tourism industry, I guided the American visitor to a nice, big, sturdy gumtree and told him to go around to the other side to do his business.
Neither of us saw the young copper who came up behind us and suddenly barked: “Hey! “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, my mate’s just having a leak,” I explained.
“Well, cut it out,” snapped the cop. “You’re breaking the law. You’re not allowed to urinate in a public place.”
“I beg to disagree,” I told the officer. “I see people peeing all over the place in broad daylight and nobody cares two hoots.
Any day around here you can see blokes peeing behind trees, up laneways, against the fence – anywhere! – and no one says anything to stop them.”
Taken slightly aback, the copper said: “Well … yes … I know what you mean, but that’s different, isn’t it? … They don’t know any better.”
“My mate here’s from America and he doesn’t know any better either,” I explained. “What’s good for one is good enough for another, eh?”
Looking slightly uncomfortable, the copper shrugged non-commitally, saying, as he turned away: “Yes … well … don’t do it again, will you? … See you later.”
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Full credit to the N.T. historian, Peter Forrest, for openly questioning the integrity of the $60,000 grant to restore the alleged “Namatjira House” near the old Hermannsburg mission.
Unlike some other so-called “historians” in this part of Australia, Peter Forrest has well established his impartiality as an historical chronicler over many years, unlike some other self-ordained “authorities” who have an engrained do-gooder/left wing bias tempering their statements, and particularly so in Aboriginal matters.
The entire Aboriginal Industry in the Labor-led N.T. is rife with a pseudo mythology that is aimed squarely at grabbing the naive tourist dollar. Truth and genuine tribal traditions have been forsaken and replaced by a faked concoction of fanciful lies and fabrications that have no basis in fact.For those who have a personal knowledge of the modern Aboriginal scene, it is known that unaccountable millions of tax payer’s money is poured into Aboriginal groups and organisations (?) to employ conniving lawyers who do little else but scheme and plot the ways and means of extorting vast amounts of government finances on one false pretext after another, all supposedly with a “cultural significance.”
I strongly suspect that the “Namatjira House” is yet another falsification designed to defraud the Australian tax payers.
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A total of 48 Aboriginal corporations are listed for deregistration
because the Registrar says they have not lodged their required returns “for the past five years.”
Consequently, the Registrar has no reason to believe these alleged
“Aboriginal corporations” are still functional and they will therefore be
terminated by the Registrar of Indigenous Corporations.For those of us who have wasted much of our lives working in the Aboriginal Industry, we are well aware that these bogus corporations were initially established to milk government funds for fictitious projects that were largely never launched.
Imagine the wealth of tax payer’s money that was frittered away by 48
groups within a five year period.
Another point for consideration is this: once the faked corporations
are de-registered, there is nothing to prevent the same culprits from re-forming under another name and dipping into the public purse for another five years.
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Here in Alice Springs is a man and his wife, both Aussies, who, like myself, love language. They run a little cafe in a shopping mall. On the wall is a sign which is changed every day. It reads: “Word Of The
Day.”
I often supply them with an interesting word to add to their own list, and they are most appreciative of my gifts and interest.
I notice on my current list are three new words which I will deliver to them on Friday morning when I habitually drop by for a coffee. The words are: ELUCIDATE (meaning to clarify), RECALCITRANT (wayward or unruly), DAWDLE (to loiter or go slowly).
You often notice customers standing at the counter ruminating over the Word Of The Day, trying to work out its meaning, arguing about its meaning, and finally agreeing as to its meaning. The coffee makers stand by patiently listening to various minds struggling and battling.
One time I tricked everyone. I gave them a word, INFINITESIMAL , (meaning very small) and not one customer could interpret it correctly. Another time I gave them an unusual word, OSTROPULOUS, and none could define that one either.
That’s because I made it up.
But we all liked it so much we mutually decided to incorporate it into the English language. We agreed that the meaning of “ostropulous” should
mean disagreeable or quarrelsome. That done, we now use the word every time we meet to describe something, anything at all, but especially politicians. Customers overhear us using the word and invariably ask what the word means and we quickly enlighten them. Thus, in this devious manner, we are enlarging the volume of the English language which is already said to contain 1,000,279 words, so we have agreed that one more won’t matter.
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That is a beaut 1st chapter in your new section Alice Springs Diary.
I LIKE it! Much!
Cheers!
from Holland,
The Dutch girl.
— Linda Smidt · 17 August 2009 · #