"There but for the grace of God ..."

 

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A.A.S.A, A.C.I.S, A.A.I.M
PUBLIC ACCOUNTANT

 

Remember the Australian Tax Office's simple "S" form for wage and salary earners? Or the equally simple forms for trusts, businesses, and companies? Simple two-page forms: half an hour to fill in the blanks, and you were done for the year!

Things have become so much more complicated since then. No wonder that even the smallest town has a resident accountant even before it gets a Domino's Pizza, McDonald's, or - Heaven forbid! - Dan Murphy's. Every time I see one of those small-town accountants displaying their trade, I keep thinking to myself, "There but for the grace of God ..."

There was a time when I would've thought it the pinnacle of my career to run my own accounting practice, but the fickle finger of fate pointed me in a different direction which saved me from sitting behind the same desk and looking out the same window for the next thirty-odd years.

Instead, I sat at hundreds of different desks and looked out of hundreds of different windows, often not even long enough to use the toilet in the days before liquid lunches worked like a diuretic on my bladder.

The above signage hung over one of those small-town accounting offices. It belonged to a friend from my Bougainville days who, after having left New Guinea and travelling down the east coast of Australia, came to this little coastal town and said, "This reminds me so much of Bougainville", and settled down to open his own accounting practice.

His wife opened a shoe shop, which was just as well because his own office, squeezed in between a delicatessen and a laundromat, catered mainly to cow cockies who needed his help with the filling-in of their unemployment forms, which alone would never have fed his family. Years later, having barely recovered the cost of the signage above the door, he left his office and his family and bummed around Australia.

When I last heard from him several years ago, he'd just moved from a bedsitter in Cairns to another one in Port Douglas, and already thought of moving on again. I guess he was trying to make up for all that time lost while he had filled in unemployment forms for those cow cockies.

"There but for the grace of God ..."

 

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The War on the West

 

Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6
Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9 — Part 10 — Part 11

 

It is now fashionable to celebrate non-Western cultures and disparage Western ones. In doing so, we undermine the very things that created the greatest, most humane civilisation in the world (notwithstanding the momentary Trump aberration).

In his book "The War on the West", Murray tackles some of the worst consequences of "woke" culture in the world today. He asks: "If the history of humankind is one of slavery, conquest, prejudice, genocide and exploitation, why are only Western nations taking the blame for it?"

 

 

The book commences with a brief history of the origins of political correctness and wokeism and progresses through the ways in which woke has infiltrated academia, art, literature, religion and society in general, his comments well-argued, thought provoking and insightful.

I may not agree with everything Douglas Murray writes (and says in his audiobook) but, as Elizabeth Beatrice Hall writes in her book "The Friends of Voltaire", "... I will defend to the death [his] right to say it".

A perfect book to read - or to listen to - on "Invasion Day". And to all of those who hate Australia Day (but not the benefits that flow from it)"

Happy Australia Day!

 

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Dreaming in my donga

 

 

True isolation is very hard to find these days. Go backpacking in the Himalayas, and there'll be an internet café waiting for you at the end of the track. Take a boat down the Amazon River, and you'll still have reception on your mobile phone.

There's still reception in "Melbourne" but I won't take my mobile phone with me when I go there. I go there to relax or read or write, with the only disturbance being an occasional soft-footed thump-thump from a nearby mob of kangaroos moving from one grazing spot to another.

 

 

If I'm not immediately taken back to my time on Bougainville Island where we all lived in "dongas" on Loloho Beach, then I'm reminded of it when I open my eyes after a short nap and look at the photos on the wall. "Millionaires Row Dongas" says one of them, and "A quiet day at Loloho Camp 6 beach" the other. We'd never heard the word "donga" - which is Australian slang for a portable, modular building - but we all used it from the day we got there. "See you at my donga after dinner!"

 

... because, Roy, an electrical engineer, forgot to plug it in!
Photo courtesy of Roy Goldsworthy, now residing in Malaysia

 

We were happy without telephones, newspapers, and only a scratchy radio reception, but there was almost a riot on that night the "boozer" didn't open because they had run out of beer. Life was so simple then!

 

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Einstein's desk

 

 

Albert Einstein succumbed to heart failure on 18 April 1955, at the age of 76. The next day, Ralph Morse, a celebrated photographer for LIFE magazine, captured the untouched state of Einstein's office, freezing a moment in time.

Within this room filled with books, papers, and chalkboards adorned with equations, one can find a poignant glimpse into the daily life of this genius whose mind came up with the formula E = mc² which has been called "the world's most famous equation".

At the request of Einstein's son, LIFE's editors decided not to publish it, and for over five decades, it lay forgotten in the magazine's archives.

 

 

I'm no Einstein, and I'm sure that no one is going to take a photo of my library the day after I have died - if anyone would even take notice - but the photo of Einstein's desk has prompted me to take one of my library.

You may call it a bloody mess, but I call it an organised chaos because I can find any book within minutes - just don't ask me how many minutes.

It's all relative, isn't it?

 

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P.S. I've just realised that this is the long weekend: Australia Day, or as it is known now: Invasion Day. We'll be invaded by tourists. I will keep my gate shut and hang out my usual deterrent, a large sign that reads:

 

TRESPASSERS ARE FORCED TO WATCH A CEREMONIAL WELCOME TO COUNTRY

 

It sure keeps them away! Happy Non-invasion Day!

 

I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, and old wine.

 

This bottle of wine is fairly old: I opened it on New Year's Eve when I drank one small glass and gave a toast to the new year, after which I went to bed well before the fireworks started.

I have been taking no more than the occasional sip from it every few days since then. My heavy drinking days are well and truly behind me, although I still drank the odd glass on an almost weekly basis when a friend from up the road used to visit me. He liked his wine and I kept him company while we talked about "the good old days", his in Austria and mine in Germany, although we both knew that they hadn't been all that good, or why else did we bother to emigrate to far away Australia?

Then he shot himself - click here. He had been 85 years old and in poor health, so it couldn't have been the wine which we had always chosen carefully. Still, I can't help thinking of him whenever I lift my glass now.

On the rare occasion when I still drink, I drink to remember the many heavy drinkers I encountered during my career in far-off places, who drank to forget broken marriages or lost fortunes or abandoned dreams.

I hadn't got there yet, but now that I have tasted most of life's highs and woes, I have found my refuge in books and music and boring domesticity which, even though it's already lasted a quarter of a century, I still find hard to get used to at times. It is then that I pour myself a very small glass of wine to drink to all those whose only solace had been alcohol.

IN VINO VERITAS, or "A drunk person's words are their sober thoughts".

 

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Another abbreviated classic

 

 

Woody Allen quipped: "I took a speed-reading course once and was able to read 'War and Peace' in twenty minutes. It's about Russia". How would he have summed up Fyodor Dostoyevsky's not-so-short story "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man"? I would sum it up as a story that can save lives.

It begins with a man walking St. Petersburg's streets while musing upon how ridiculous his life is, as well as its distinct lack of meaning or purpose. This train of thought leads him to the idea of suicide, which he resolves to commit using a previously-acquired gun. However, a chance encounter with a distressed little girl in the street derails his plans.

 

 

In 1990, it was adapted by the BBC as a thirty-minute television special, “The Dream”, directed by Norman Stone and starring Jeremy Irons.

 

 

If you ever find yourself drifting into indifference, this small book may be worth an evening of your time. It can be read in a single sitting, perhaps with a cup of tea, yet it carries a weight that many much longer books never manage. Not that it makes any difference to me.

 

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If I were an American, I'd hand in my passport!

 

 

These days the news is no longer the news, it is the Trump news, because no day goes by without this man hogging the headlines.

But wait, there's more:

 

 

 

If I were an American, I'd hand in my passport!

 

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Don't judge a book by its cover

 

 

The Moruya Bowling Club not only offers a reasonably priced lunch but also a free book swap. I often bring a book along and swap it for another. Today's selection was fairly ho-hum until my eyes caught the title of this slim 150-page book.

We'd left home early for an appointment with my solicitor to discuss a mortgage that's falling due - no need to worry: I am the mortgagee - and then once again suffer my very efficient German doctor's "deutsche Gründlichkeit", who checked my weight, my blood pressure, and my heart rhythm, rate, and ageing strength. If only Donald Trump had a heartbeat as even as mine, we would all be sleeping better at night.

 

 

Mind you, my heartbeat did a little skip when I saw BHP jump by 88 cents to $49.36 in early-morning trading. However, Trump must've still been sulking about not getting his Peace Prize or threatening to invade Greenland again, because by the time we had finished our lunch, the shares were down to $47.92, but we still managed to pay for our lunch.

 

 

We even managed to look for some books at the Vinnies shop. Apart from a stack of CDs of four childhood classics read by Alan Bennett - The Wind in the Willows; Alice in Wonderland; Through the Looking Glass; The House at Pooh Corner - which should help to send me off to sleep for the next few nights, I also picked up Professor Robert M. Carter's thoroughly researched and footnoted book "Climate - The Counter Consensus". Its opening remarks by Paul Johnson sum it up neatly:

 

"The idea that human beings have changed and are changing the basic climate system of the Earth through their industrial activities and burning of fossil fuels -- the essence of the Greens' theory of global warming -- has about as much basis in science as Marxism and Freudianism. Global warming, like Marxism, is a political theory of actions, demanding compliance with its rules.

Marxism, Freudianism, global warming. These are proof -- of which history offers so many examples -- that people can be suckers on a grand scale. To their fanatical followers they are a substitute for religion. Global warming, in particular, is a creed, a faith, a dogma that has little to do with science. If people are in need of religion, why don't they just turn to the genuine article?"

Paul Johnson

 

 

The blurb on the back says it all: "... it's a cracker. By the end, your're left feeling ... that the scientific case against AGW is so overwhelming that you wonder how anyone can still speak up for so discredited a theory without dying of embarrassment." I'll be sleeping well tonight.

Oh, and before I forget to put your mind to rest, the book I picked up at the bowling club was about a girl who went through anorexia, bulimia, bulimarexia, strict dieting and binge eating. Thankfully, I grew up in post-war Germany with never enough to eat. It was a simpler life then.

 

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SCHLIMM by name, schlimm by nature

 

For more empty cans to fill up your empty time, click here

 

Schlimm, of course, means 'terrible' in the language which we'd all be speaking if a certain Charlie Chaplin-like person had had his way all those many years ago. And Reinhold Schlimm is the name of a certain person who left a comment on my facebook page which led me to discover his collection of empty softdrink cans. Schlimm indeed!

I guess we all have the collecting instinct in us. I started collecting postage stamps when I was a boy in Germany. Selling that collection to raise the money for my fare out to Australia put a final stop to that.

For the next twenty years I travelled light and didn't collect anything other than work experience. Since settling down at "Riverbend" I have been collecting books, at first in mint condition and, after discovering op-shops, second-hand, and movies, first on videos and then on DVDs.

I've always felt a bit guilty about my collecting habit (although not as bad as a certain model railway collector in the U.K. whose collection grew so big that his family had to move out of the house), but seeing Sclimm's collection of empty softdrink cans makes me feel slightly better. His collection is really 'schlimm', but there's hope for me yet!

And just think, Des, what a big collection of empty COKE cans you would have by now, if back then in Camp 6 you had started "doing a Schlimm"!

 

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Julian Barnes' last book

 

 

I've been a fan of Julian Barnes' writing since I read his book "Flaubert's Parrot" - or was it "The Sense of an Ending"? - and have followed him through "A History of the World in 10½ Chapters" and "England, England" and "The Only Story", and several others.

He's just turned eighty two days ago, and "Departure(s)" is supposed to be his last book. It's all about looking back, facing the future, and coming to the end of life, written in Julian Barnes' inimitable style (no, not 'inimicable', Des; that means something totally different!)

 

 

My greatest pleasure when reading his books is simply being with Julian Barnes as he thinks on the page: wry, elegant, pragmatic and self-aware. He is a warm and generous writer, and he makes me feel as though I were in the room with him, pondering life’s big questions.

This book has only just been released and won't show up in my op-shop for years to come, if ever - after all, this is Batemans Bay, and who reads Julian Barnes in Batemans Bay? Indeed, who reads at all, which may explain why there are no more bookshops in the Bay. BOOKTOPIA sell it on ebay for $34.98 - that's less than the price of one share in BHP which is just recovering from yesterday's $1-drop - so I clicked here.

 

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The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis

 

 

Whenever I see a bookcover which displays the author's name in larger print than the book's title, I walk right past it. Not so Padma. She bought me Dan Brown's "Inferno" and, not wanting to let $29.95 go to waste, I began to read it. And what a page-turner and eye-opener it has been!

In it, Dante's Inferno, the Black Death, geometric progression, agathusia, transhumanism, Children of the Corn, Logan's Run, biological warfare, the world's overpopulation, and the Malthusian Theory of Population are all turned into an intellectual cliff-hanger which won't let you stop until you've reached the last page some 600 pages later.

Just consider this: if you picked up a piece of paper and ripped it in half and then placed the two halves on top of each other and then were to repeat the process ... hypothetically speaking, if the original sheet of paper is a mere one-tenth of a millimetre thick, and you were to repeat this process ... say, fifty times ... it would be one-tenth of a millimetre times two to the fiftieth power. It's called geometric progression and the stack of paper, after only fifty doublings would reach almost all the way ... to the sun! --- click here

 

 

And thus the book makes its point: that the history of our human population growth is even more dramatic. The earth's population, like the stack of paper, had very meagre beginnings but alarming potential. It took the earth's population thousands of years - from the early dawn of man all the way to the early 1800s - to reach one billion people. Then, astoundingly, it took only about a hundred years to double the population to two billion in the 1920s. After that, it took a mere fifty years for the population to double again to four billion in the 1970s. Every day, rain or shine, we're adding another quarter-million people to planet Earth. Every year, we're adding the equivalent of the entire country of Germany. Genesis 1:28 "Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the earth" has turned from a blessing to a curse.

If you and I live for another nineteen years, we will have witnessed the population triple in our lifetime. The mathematics is as relentless - and as non-negotiable - as the law of gravity. - Animal species are going extinct at a precipitously accelerated rate. The demand for dwindling natural resources is skyrocketing. Clean water is harder and harder to come by. By any biological gauge, our species has exceeded our sustainable numbers. And the gatekeeper of the planet's health, the World Health Organization's feeble response is to dispense free condoms in Africa! They are followed by an army of Catholic missionaries sent out by the Vatican (who better than a bunch of celibate octogenarians to tell the world how to have sex?) that tell Africans if they use condoms, they go straight to hell. Africa's latest environmental problem are landfills overflowing with unused condoms.

Free condoms in Africa! It's like swinging a flyswatter at an incoming asteroid. The time bomb is no longer ticking. It has already gone off, and without drastic measures, exponential mathematics will become our new God ... a very vengeful God who will bring to you Dante's vision of hell right outside on Park Avenue ... huddled masses wallowing in their own excrement.

The world's politicians, power brokers, and environmentalists hold emergency summits, all trying to assess which of these problems are most severe and which they can actually hope to solve. The outcome? Privately, they put their heads in their hands and weep. Publicly, they assure us all that they are working on solutions - what solutions? solar power, recycling, and hybrid cars? - but that these are complex issues.

 

Complex? Bullshit! Lack of clean water, rising global temperatures, ozone depletion, rapidly dwindling ocean resources, species extinction, CO2 concentration, deforestation, rising global sea levels - it's all caused by one single variable: global population! If you want more clean water per capita, you need fewer people on earth. If you want to decrease vehicle emissions, you need fewer drivers. If you want the oceans to replenish their fish, you need fewer people eating fish!

 

I'm neither a 'connesewer' of doomsday books nor a Dan Brown aficionado. I tend to agree with a friend of mine who's banished all Dan Brown books to the darkest and coldest and most unlikely-ever-to-see-the-light-of-day-again corner of his library. But forget about literary merit! "Inferno" has hit so many buttons and made me scurry off into so many directions to seek out additional information that I challenge you to read this book. You can always go back to your state of denial and pious hand-wringing later.

 

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Going nutmeg!

 

To explore these islands on GOOGLE Map, click here
Read the book "Nathaniel's Nutmeg" here

 

It's been far too many years since my last island-hopping tour through the Indonesian archipelago - click here - and even longer since I had my last meal of 'gedämpfte Eier mit Muskatnuss', both of which bring back memories of the Spice Islands which I always wished I had visited but never did — and now it's too late anyway.

Indonesia is the world's largest archipelagic nation ('archipelagic' means 'about island groups and their interconnected waters', Des), comprising over 17,000 islands. You would need several lifetimes to visit them all.

William Somerset Maugham writes about them in his novel "The Narrow Corner", whose principal setting is Kanda-Meria, based on the actual island of Banda Neira, once a wealthy centre of the nutmeg trade.

"The dawn slid between the low, wooded islands, gravely, with a deliberate calmness that seemed to conceal an inward apprehension," Maugham writes on page 85. "The virgin forests on each side of them still held the night, but then insensibly the grey of the sea was shot with the soft hues of a pigeon’s breast. There was a pause and with a smile the day broke. Sailing between those uninhabited islands, on that still sea, in a silence that caused you almost to hold your breath, you had a strange and exciting impression of the beginning of the world."

 

No idea who this chap is, but he's doing what I wished I could do

 

Of the island itself, Maugham lets Erik Christessen, a Dane representing a Danish company, speak, "It’s a fine place. It’s the most romantic spot in the East. They wanted to move me, but I begged them to let me stay on" ... "The place is dead. We live on our memories. That is what gives the island its character. In the old days, you know, there was so much traffic that sometimes the harbour was full and vessels had to wait outside till the departure of a fleet gave them a chance to enter. I hope you’ll stay here long enough to let me show you round. It’s lovely. An unsuspected isle in far-off seas." ... "The old Dutch merchants were so rich here in the great days of the spice trade, they didn’t know what to do with their money. There was no cargo for the ships to bring out and so they used to bring marble and use it for their houses. If you’re not in a hurry I’ll show you mine. It used to belong to one of the perkeniers. And sometimes, in winter, they’d bring a cargo of nothing but ice. Funny, isn’t it? That was the greatest luxury they could have. Just think of bringing ice all the way from Holland. It took six months, the journey. And they all had their carriages, and in the cool of the evening the smart thing was to drive along the shore and round and round the square. Someone ought to write about it. It was like a Dutch Arabian Nights' Tale." (Pages 94 & 95)

 

Click on the website of the luxurious phinisi yacht PRANA here

 

I wrote about the swap of Rhun Island for New Amsterdam (Manhattan) elsewhere - see "The real estate deal of the millennium" - so I needn't repeat it here. Instead, I just concentrate on the two videos above, which are arguably the best and most comprehensive ones I have seen.

And how much I would have loved to visit those exotic Banda Islands! But perhaps not on board the luxurious phinisi yacht PRANA, unless someone else paid the eyewatering daily charter rate of US$20,000.

 

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Those lovely op-shop ladies have done it again!

 

 

There I was, aimlessly browsing the bookshelf marked TRAVEL at my favourite op-shop when, wedged in tight between an outdated Lonely Planet guide of Australia and an equally outdated "Europe on 5 Dollars a Day" — $5 wouldn't buy you a cup of coffee now! — I saw this book with the spine that read "The Wonder Down Under".

 

 

"Great!" I thought. "Another book about Australia" — until I read the book's subtitle (which those op-shop ladies must've missed too).

 

 

Funny, I felt a bit like the chap in this BIG JUGS video clip, except the other way around. What did I do with the book? I bought it for two dollars and added it to the SELP-HELP section in my personal library.

 

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The view is always on the menu

 

 

Slow start to another week. We have had some rain overnight which is good, and the place is alive with a whole mob of kangaroos enjoying the new sprouts of grass. I'm not so much into grass — not even the psychedelic variety — and am tossing up between a jam toast and a cooked porridge.

My social 'colander', which is usually full of holes, is quite a busy one this week: a trip to the solicitor to discuss what to do when a loan I gave to a good friend matures next month; then a get-together for lunch at the Catalina Club with a bunch of Germans who, like me, are glad to be here and not there; and then a dash to the GP for another burn-off of various sun spots which are a constant reminder that I have spent too many years in hot climates without sun creme or even a hat.

Polonius was right when he said, "Neither a borrower nor a lender be", because the friend I lent money to when no bank would touch him is no longer a friend, which again proves Polonius right when he continued, "For loan oft loses both itself and friend". Another lesson learnt too late.

So what's for breakfast? Does it matter? The view is always on the menu.

 

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Where are they all today?

 

 

From the air Bougainville is a romantic island. Lush and rugged, surrounded by reefs and an emerald sea. Cloud sits on the rain forest that mats the mountains. The tall volcanic cones of Bagana and Balbi smoke sullenly and glow at night.

But along the Crown Prince Range and down on the flat country, life was not always as romantic as it seems from a passenger's window.

Rain, mud, dust, heat, boredom. These are deep in the memories of the men who built the mine. But deeper in their consciousness is another feeling, almost of pride, that they were part of a tremendous and exciting adventure. That they were pioneers.

 

 

The Bougainville Copper Project in the then Territory of Papua New Guinea ran from 1966 to 1973 and cost some US$350 million. At its peak in mid-1971, it employed a labour force of some 10,700. The Bougainville Copper Project was not only the largest grass roots copper project undertaking in the world to that date - it was truly a monument to every man who turned his hand toward its successful completion.

 

See the BFD markings on the wing? That was Brian Frank Darcey's plane - click here

 

As the Mine neared completion, so did Arawa, the "dormitory town" for most of the mine workers. What had been a beautiful copra plantation on the long sweep of a black-beach bay, became a bustling town with supermarket, tavern, post office, and a general hospital which was the best in the Territory. A total of 446 residences were completed in 20 months employing a labour force of some 600. Seven different houses were built ranging from 3- to 4-bedroom residences, some fully air conditioned.

 

 

But there was always Kieta with its hotel, the Kieta Club, the sailing club, a branch of Breckwoldts, several Chinese shops, and Green & Co on the waterfront. This shop as no other catered to the "touristy" needs of the mine population with postcards of 'maris' suckling pigs, carvings, grass skirts, and tee shirts. And beyond it, Aropa Airstrip, the 'Gateway to Freedom' after the daily 10-hour grind of the construction work.

The Loloho Powerhouse had already been built to supply power to the copper concentrator, mine, portsite facilities and townships of Arawa and Panguna via a 132 KV transmission system. Loloho Port was also nearing completion. What a moment when the first Japanese ore carrier tied up alongside it! The beach at Camp 6 was always an attraction for those of us who lived at the Minesite and had to endure daily downpours and mud and slush.

 

 

The construction of the new 16-mile 24 ft wide Mine Access Road through the Crown Prince Range posed many problems and was the most spectacular of all the work undertaken. It became trafficable in October 1970 and, except for a few major deviations, followed the route of the first access road built by C.R.A. Building it involved a mammoth earth moving operation: ridge tops were cut off and sometimes used to fill ravines to provide a gradually ascending route. A complicated bench system often rising 200 ft. above the road was necessary in some sections to protect it against landslides and also to allow for the effect of earth tremors in the area.

 

Bougainville Island is 30 miles wide and 130 miles long with its dominant feature a range of mountains which rises to 8,000 ft. and runs the length of the island. This mountainous land is jungle covered and swampy in low lying coastal areas. The terrain formation for the most part consists of volcanic ash and fractured and weathered rock. The weather is tropical with coastal rainfall ranging from 100 in to 150 in. per year while the mountain areas receive from 150 in. to 300 in. per year.

 

Did you spend some time on the Bougainville Copper Project in the sixties and seventies? If you did, I want to hear from you! They aren't many of us left and it would be good to hear from those who lived with us in the camps or in Arawa or Kieta and shared with us the experience.

Wouldn't it be great to revisit Bougainville, drive up to Panguna or swim at Loloho Beach? The Bougainville Copper Project shaped our lives as many of us continued in overseas projects. Others returned to suburbia and ordinary jobs but they, too, were forever changed by the experience.

Where are they all today? Many are settled back in Australia while others stayed on in New Guinea and some are still on the move. When were you on Bougainville? Who did you work for and what did you do? Have you photographs or memories to share which I could publish on the Bougainville Copper Project website? [Read some of the other comments here]

As one contributor put it so aptly, "You only have to scratch the surface and you bleed PNG..." So next time you bleed a little and feel a bout of "Bougainvilleitis" coming on, share your thoughts and memories with us. I very much look forward to hearing from you and any of your mates who may have spent time on the Bougainville Copper Project.

By the way, do you remember the rumours about the stuff they put in our tea in the camp, to keep our minds off it...? Well, 50 years later, I think mine's beginning to work.

 

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