Tuesday, September 12

One Easter, around 1980, we were camping on Bruny Island and came across groups of people harvesting mutton-birds.  We knew this went on because we had seen the salted and dried birds in butcher shops and and heard the old-timers describe the fishy taste of this so-called delicacy.  But, nothing prepared us for the reality of the business of bringing these creatures to market.

The Short-Tailed Shearwater makes an annual migration from the Arctic Ocean, down the coast of California and across the Pacific Ocean to breed in Australian waters in our Autumn, laying their eggs in burrows.  For many generations, Aboriginal people exploited this food source.  Of course, late-comers have got into the act and the government has had to put on some limitations.  But, in 1980, it seemed there were no rules.  

The mutton-birder camps we saw on the island were appalling.  It's dirty work, killing birds, and the feathers get into everything.  The smell takes your breath away and the debris left behind makes your heart sink - particularly discarded blankets and clothing which no amount of washing could bring back to life.  

Watching a TV show today about islands in the North Sea, there was a story about a 600 year-old cultural tradition of harvesting gannet chicks from a rock called Sula Sgeir, in the middle of the ocean.  Only inhabitants of the town of Ness on the island of Lewis are allowed to take part and no more than 2000 chicks can be taken.  And, of course, a harvest of 2000 is more than enough.  The taste of the baby gannets is so awful, no one wants to buy them.

After 600 years of harvesting, the gannet is still thriving in the North Sea and, after several thousand years of harvesting on Tasmanian islands, the Short-Tailed Shearwater is the most abundant species in our water.

Dragging baby chicks from their burrows with a hooked stick is clearly a terrible thing to do, but it doesn't seem to be having any effect on the mutton-bird population.  But, it might just be time for two more out-dated cultural traditions to fade into obscurity.

Monday, September 11

Spring is certainly upon us and we've become more aware of little birds hanging around the garden.  A couple of blackbirds have established their territory here and have been going through a courting ritual.  They run around each other with heads down and then fly up into the air for about ten feet.  No doubt, we'll see them nesting soon and eventually will feel the crunch of the discarded bluey-green eggshell underfoot.  Blackbirds are a mixed blessing as they scratch around in the bark of the gardens looking for grubs and making a terrible mess on the concrete.  They have a very unfortunate Latin name: turdus.

We also have a Superb Fairy Wren most days, accompanied by two or three drab brown females.  Generally, one sits on the fence or a twig, watching, while the others scavenge for seeds.  They say the Superb Fairy Wren is the prettiest bird in the Tasmanian bush.

The latest little collection is a group of goldfinches.  The European goldfinch was introduced to Tasmania in the 1880s and has adapted very well. The little flock which came down this afternoon had nine individuals, all pecking for grass seeds outside our lounge room window.

Sunday, September 10

I've just finished reading a book by a woman called Rabia Siddique.  She was brought up in Perth, the daughter of an Australian mother and an Indian-born Muslim.  The book talks about her early life, how she trained as a lawyer and, like many other young Australians, headed off to London to experience the wider world.

She was clearly looking for adventure and, after taking part in an expedition to South America, she decided to join the British Army, as a lawyer.  It wasn't long before she was posted to Iraq.  Her job was to liaise with the relatively new Iraqi Government, helping sort out the relationship between the UK troops and the Iraqis and how international law applied in that volatile country.

One day, two British soldiers were arrested by the Iraqis and thrown into prison.  The rules at the time set out that they should be handed over immediately to the British authorities but the Iraqis were reluctant and Rabia was told to go in and get it sorted.

It was a pretty sticky situation and she had no training as a negotiator.  However, the two prisoners, Rabia and another soldier were finally released.  Sounds like a happy ending, but that's when things started to go wrong.  As Rabia explained, instead of a debriefing, she was shepherded off to rest.  She was kept in the dark about what was happening with the other soldiers involved, but she found out later that they had all been debriefed.  She got the impression that she was being sidelined and treated differently because she was female.

The bombshell came when the other soldier was awarded the Military Cross.  Rabia didn't even get a mention.  By this stage of the book, I was becoming suspicious that Rabia's re-telling of the story was a little biased, with more than a touch of sour grapes, but I read on.

She finally took the British Army to court, accusing them of sexism.  Unfortunately, the Army decided to settle so we didn't hear the other point of view.  Rabia is now back living in Western Australia.  I wish I was able to accept her story without qualification, but I found it a little glib and I couldn't bring myself to believe the British Army could be so prehistoric.

Saturday, September 2

I've never been a fan of personalised number plates although I can appreciate people might want to celebrate the acquisition of a individual car by having some special identification.  I know companies might look for plates which will relate to their company (MACCAS01 or RAYWHTE11) but pink plates with DEBBI07 leave me cold.  A car is just a tool to help people deal with their busy lives.  To tag them with a personal name seems a bit over the top.  My iPad is just as important to me as my car but I don't feel the need to name it.

Too many people think adding 007 to their initials on a number plate make them seem special.  But you need more than that to be James Bond.  Apparently, there's quite a market for some plates and people snap them up as an investment.  I could pay $400 and buy a Victorian plate saying SUDOKU but why would I want to?  If I couldn't live without WSSSUP, I'd have to fork out $750, but you'd have to have deep pockets to buy WOG - $14000 to carry around a racial slur!

Next door has a visitor today, in a little red Honda with the number plate TITI.  I can't begin to think what message she is trying to convey.  

Thursday, August 31

I'd missed the development but it seems that an important icon of my wardrobe is under threat.  My treasured white polo shirts have suddenly become the garment of choice for white supremacists.  How do I know?  Because, more than you would expect of the torch-bearing marchers at Charlottesville sported pristine white shirts with neat collars and two buttons at the neck.  Apparently, someone decided that white polo shirts would give an air of respectability.  As if!

What's the world coming to?  Nobody really knows whether polo shirts grew out of British polo players in Argentina or India, but they soon became associated with sports like polo, yachting and golf, games which necessitated access to a horse, an ocean-going vessel or a dozen or more hand-tooled clubs. The polo shirts soon became an aspirational garment.  I know, when I wear one of mine I'm treated with more respect.  People don't know whether I have a yacht tied up in the Meander River so go out of their way to be deferential.

Coloured polo shirts don't have the same cachet as white ones and the bizarre invention of long-sleeved polos will soon be confined to the dustbins of history.  .Ralph Lauren seems to be the brand of choice, with the famous man on a horse logo.  David Jones is selling them this week for $139.  I have a couple of similar shirts I bought in Manila - called Santa Barbara Polo and Racquet Club with a similar man on a similar horse.  I think I paid about $39 for them.  

The question is: do white supremacists buy genuine Ralph Lauren, made in China by sweat shop labour, or do they buy cheap knock-offs, also made in China by sweat shop labour?  It's a tricky ethical question.

Sunday, August 27

I had a teacher at school called Fred Smith who was a bit eccentric.  He drove an old car (something like a Model A Ford) and was ostensibly in charge of the Wednesday afternoon Tennis program.  His involvement took the form of identifying where tennis could be played and allocating budding Rosewalls and Hoads to appropriate venues.  After the last lesson on Wednesday morning, we would grab our Bluebird racquets, catch a bus and head to our court of the week.

In all the time I went to tennis, Fred only came once to check that we were there.  No doubt, he had lots of venues to patrol, and maybe Brian and I had shown early signs of becoming responsible adults and didn't need close supervision. Whatever the reason, our Summer Wednesday afternoons were treasured.  In the winter, of course, it was Soccer and that was regarded as a real sport and teachers made sure we turned up and had our names ticked off.

I thought of that today when I came across a Richard Fidler conversation podcast with someone called Fred Smith: the Musical Diplomat.  His real name is Ian Campbell,Smith and he works for the Department of Foreign Affairs.  His work is interesting but his hobby is more so.

He plays guitar, sings and writes songs.  The first song he wrote was called The Ballad of Jose and Charmaine.  He envisaged them as a waiter and waitress in a small restaurant in Wollongong.  Even if you move to Tasmania you can't escape your past!

Friday, August 25

I was half-watching a TV program last night about tourism in Scotland.  I suppose I was hoping to get a glimpse of places I knew but, apparently, the most scenic parts of Scotland have passed me by.  Then a comment by the presenter made me prick up my ears.  Talking about mountain climbing he made the extraordinary statement that, after the First World War, working-class men from Glasgow and Edinburgh started to get involved in climbing on their free weekends.  My first thought was, why does the fact that they are working-class matter?

But, of course, in that era, sport was very much the bailiwick of the idle upper classes (I've always wanted to use that word).  Who can forget the great film Chariots of Fire with the talented amateurs, who were not obliged to make a living, putting their energies into Olympic participation.  My favourite scene is the one where Lord Andrew Lindsay, played by Nigel Havers, puts a full champagne glass on each of his hurdles while training, to make sure he didn't bump them.

When I was young, I used to read stories about a working class athlete called Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track.  'Tough' had a particular meaning: it wasn't necessarily derogatory but differentiated the working class men from the 'toffs'.  I revelled in the fact that Alf used to win his races despite the efforts of various upper class twits putting obstacles in his way.

Of course, with the appalling loss of upper class twits during the First World War, organisations like the Alpine Club had to look further afield for new members, even if they had to accept people who wore flat hats and drank beer.  The older members might have had to change their attitude a bit.  One of their journals of the time gave some advice to prospective mountaineers:

1. Make your travel arrangements through Thomas Cook. 2. Keep your ice axe firmly in front of you. 3. Follow the guides because they know the way.

The new working class mountaineers were more likely to travel on their bicycle (if they were lucky) and the idea of paying for a guide would have been laughable.

Anyway, the new egalitarian approach to mountaineering paid dividends right across Europe with the conquering of faces like the Eiger, and eventually Everest itself.

Finally, I love this contemporary photograph from 1937 highlighting the gulf between the toffs and the toughs.  It was taken the Eton-Harrow cricket match.  The two boys from Harrow are waiting to be collected to go home for  the weekend; the 'toughs' have wagged school to try and make a bob or two at the match opening taxi doors and carrying luggage and so on.