James and the Blair Witch

I met James and Nadine in Kalgoorlie. James worked with me at the Super pit as a Diesel Fitter. Nadine as a Registered Nurse. (Free medical advice from her consisted of, "You'll be right", or "Toughen up.")

I first got to know James on a night shift. At the start of shift I told him about a weird, low budget horror movie I’d just seen. The Blair Witch Project. The film creeped me out you might say. James’ mind busily filed this information to use against me later.

I started my shift fuelling mine equipment while the sun went down. I’d almost forgotten about the movie as I drove back to our busted-arse shed. We used a deserted, dark, back haul road for access. As I neared the gate I saw the fitters ute stopped in the middle of the road. All the lights were on and both doors are wide open. No-one is in sight. The quiet moonlit scene was quite eerie, and the Blair Witch movie quickly came back to me.

I stopped and got out to look for them, wondering what the hell was going on. Mostly I worried they might be setting off explosives without me and I didn’t want to miss that! As I walked to edge of the road, James’ offsider Chris leaped out from behind a bush and let out a scream that took about ten years off me. I’m pretty sure James had something much worse in store. If he’d had the time to arrange it my nerves would still be screwed. I don't know how long they’d waited there for me but I hope it was worth it, you pair of bastards.

One thing James and I, and our wives, have in common is our love of cars. Especially V8 Holdens and Chevs. He had a 454 big block in a HJ ute. His pride and joy. As you’d expect, a a truck engine in a car with no weight over the back wheels will have predictable results. The impressive twin sets of black rubber leading from the ute’s parking spots didn’t surprise me. We were taught ‘Safety First’ in our many inductions, and James considered warming the tyres as an important safety preparation to maintain grip.

James signed the street in front of our house on a few occasions. Never in the troublesome Candy-apple red 400 cube Camaro though. It spent so much time on the back of a tilt tray the owner and James knew each other well.

James and I talked about going to Lake Gairdner for the Dry Lake Racers Speed Week. I was struggling to build a car to race there at a later date but I didn’t want to commit to anything until it was finished.

James said, “Screw waiting, let’s go now”.

To pull this stunt off he had to combine our awesome trip with a marriage proposal to Nadine. I’m assuming the way he explained it to her went something like this:

“How about we go to Adelaide to get married? Before the ceremony Coops and I will bugger off hundreds of kilometres into the desert where you can’t reach us by phone or mail while you organise the wedding. I’ll come back within the barest minimum of time to get fitted for the monkey suit to say “I do” then we can look at all my photos salt lake racers.” She said, “that sounds okay”, so he booked us room at a sheep station near Lake Gairdner, hired a plastic 4X4 and we went.

Some of the dialogue above may not be accurate but, in my opinion, it’s pretty close.

People might think letting the groom disappear days before a wedding might be a mistake. They’d be wrong. Those same people also might think he chose a strange venue for a buck’s night. Wrong again. It suited both of us not to go to strippers and get blind drunk. We could do that anytime. Seeing and hearing cars, trucks and motorcycles being thrashed to their limits seemed a far better use of our time.

(Jokes aside, I am still indebted to Nadine for allowing us to do this while she organised the wedding. I don't know many women who have the confidence and trust in their partner to allow them to drive several hundred kilometres AWAY from the impending stressful day. Especially when the less stable partner has to choose between a suit fitting or sitting on a salt lake watching a twin-turbo Hayabusa achieve 400kph.)

Luckily both our wives are keen on the car scene so we’d take our holidays together at the SummerNats car show in Canberra. Even drunk, virginal kiddies screaming, “show us your tits”, at them couldn’t ruin those awesome three days of horsepower heaven.

James and Nadine aren’t ‘wanna-be’ people. If they say they’re doing something, they’ll be working towards it. Their projects may have the inevitable disasters but they never give up.

Currently two kiddies and resurrecting a 57’ Chev from a stripped shell in a remote mining town are keeping them occupied.

(Like it? See - Friends)

Friends

(Skip to - Chilli and curry - the same thing?)

When selecting your friends ensure you balance your needs. Obviously some friends should be more outgoing than is socially acceptable, for entertainment value. You can live vicariously through their actions even while you’re saying, “I don't think you should be doing that”. A couple of your friends should be slightly saner to prevent the crazed ones going too far. One of these steadfast blokes, (or shelias), will also be on hand to stop you from joining the craziness, without being gay about it.

The dullest tasks become bearable when accompanied by friends. It’s good to have a few mates around to drink your beer and watch you dig that new swimming pool by hand. Their advice on how to hold the shovel and their uncanny ability of spotting any mistake you’ve made is invaluable.

Some of your friends should have specialised skills you lack, and be willing to use those skills for your benefit on the odd occasion. At mates rates. All friends should own different tools and freely lend them to each other. The friend should come with the tool to help if the job requires it. Borrowed tools should be replaced with new tools if damaged, (unless the damage takes place after they returned your mower with smashed blades. It is then acceptable to run over their grinder and return the pieces in a small box).

It’s natural to want to compete with your friends but it is bad form to become an expert at that particular PlayStation racing game so you can kick their arses every time you play.

A true friend helps you hold it together when everything turns to shit. They will make fun of you when you screw up, and praise you when you do something exceptionally dangerous and get away with it. They are there for you, despite your faults and failures. Hopefully everyone has friends with these qualities.

Over the years I’ve been lucky enough to find good friends everywhere the wife and I move to. Although circumstances separate us from these excellent people as we move about this huge country, we stay in contact and meet up on the odd occasion. Looking at the map of Oz shows just how spread out they are. Almost every state and territory is covered. If I was paranoid I might think they are trying to get as far away from me as possible.

I value my friends very highly, therefore I’ll be kind enough to keep the really personal stuff to myself. The rest is fair game. Stay tuned for your individual acknowledgment.

(Like it? See - James and the Blair Witch)

Tanami Desert Diary - PART 2

(Return to – PART 1)

What’s in a name? I got my nickname (Coops) in the desert and it has stuck to me for the last 15 years. I barely respond to my real name now.

The necessity to give me a nick name came about at my interview for the Tanami Exploration job. The boss looked at my resume and said “You seem OK, but I don't know. We’ve already got a Mike, a Mick and a Michael out there. It might be confusing on the radio.”

I wanted the job bad enough so I said, “call me Coops.”

My brother worked at the same mine. He was also known as Coops, so I don't know that my theft of his nickname made identifying us any less confusing.

Arriving at a new job already labelled is handy. There’s less likelihood of being tagged with something a creative joker might come up with when you screw up royally. I’ve had good reason to worry about screwing up.

I knew one guy called ‘Whoremonger’. No kidding! He actually introduced himself that way.

I never thought too much about being called Coops until I met a bunch of traditional owners who’d broken down at Rabbit Flat. Another Fieldie and I gave them a hand to fix their car. They shook hands with us as they left and wanted to know our names. I introduced myself as Coops. The elder jerked his head back and said “What? Like chicken coop?” I shrugged and said “yeah, close enough”. My mate was next. Juck. A nick name from childhood when his little brother couldn’t say his real name properly. The elder looked amazed again “Juck? Coops? And you think our names are strange!”

(Coming soon – Tanami Desert Diary – PART 3)

Tanami Desert Diary - PART 1

(Skip to - Politics)

There are several mine sites and mining towns in the NT and WA that I’ve called home. The only one with any claim to fame would be the Tanami Gold Mine. It is, or was, the most remote mine site in Australia, slap bang in the middle of the Tanami Desert. This dubious honour does not make it any more desirable to visit but I guess it helps with bragging rights. I also met my wife after the place was recommissioned which gives it a certain amount of sentimental value.

The roster at one time had me living there for 6 insane weeks at a time with 2 weeks off to spend the money piling up in the bank. Legally it was my primary place of residence. This worked out well a tax time as we could claim a heap in zone rebates. Working with the same people for 6 weeks at close quarters didn’t always work out that well.

I’ve already mentioned some of the hell flights experienced while flying to and from this place so I’ll go from there. Landing on the dirt strip involved a very low approach over the end of a deep pit. The strip had a hump in it too so the landings could be rough, depending on the winds and the pilot. We had to refuel the plane with 44’s of Avgas using a hand pump. You always cracked the seal of a new drum if you were flying out.

The mining had stopped as the pits reached the edge of the leases and the company abandoned the place to five blokes who filled the Care and Maintenance duties. Another fifteen or so Exploration blokes used the mine as a base when they weren’t scrounging the desert looking for more gold.

The camp was a ghost town. I had hundreds of empty rooms to choose from when I moved in. They were all very poorly maintained 3m by 3m dog boxes. The mine owners had held off repairing or upgrading anything as the available gold ran out so everything had deteriorated to a condition today’s miners wouldn’t accept.

I picked a donga and deemed it habitable. The way it rocked on the besser blocks that held it up as I walked across the room was only a minor irritation. The room felt a bit small so I kicked out the partition between my room and the next with my steel caps to make a double room. I had a squeaky single bed with a thrashed out mattress, an old bar fridge and an air-conditioner that had seven different squealing or grinding settings.

The desert can be frosty in the morning and scorch you skin off at over 55 degrees during the day so you left your A/C on all day. The camp electricity came from a smallish generator so every now and then the cleaner would turn off the power to our rooms in order to use the oven without tripping the circuits. She could have cooked a chicken faster in our rooms after it heated up without the A/C on.

Most of the lads in the field were young Geologists straight out of Uni and Fieldies (also known as JAFFA’s. Just Another Fucking Field Assistant). The exploration team lived in tents away from the mod cons my poxy room afforded me. I slept 5 star every night in comparison. Technically I belonged to exploration but since I drove the truck that delivered fuel, food and water to the camp sites I usually returned to the mine every night.

Finding the exploration teams in the middle of a desert wasn’t that easy. They moved around a lot. I had to do a bit of GPS work and got some very basic instructions third hand from my boss who manned the satellite phone.

The morning instructions might go like this. “Go down the road to the big anthill, turn left and drive 30 kilometres in a straight line until you see a water tank, follow the left hand creek bed until you see the drill rig mast somewhere out that way.” The two-way radio sometimes worked well enough to use to fine tune their location.

My truck was an old MAN cab/chassis with VW motor. I ripped the VW symbol off. (Hey, I was only young and it embarrassed me to be driving a VW. I gradually built up a lot of respect for that motor later on.) It could carry about 7 tonne and was 4 X 4 capable with a diff lock that I wasn’t allowed to touch. No air conditioner. It wasn’t a bad truck but we severely overloaded it at times and took it places better suited to a proper all-terrain vehicle, like a tank. I managed to keep it in fairly good nick by taking it steady.

I did bend it once while using the rear mounted HIAB to pull out star pickets. Climbing in and out of the truck to move it, and then lower the leg, and then pull out the picket got tedious. I tried to get a picket that was too far out and didn’t put the leg down. That laziness bent the chassis. I was not popular with the mechanic.

Sometimes I’d push my own track through the desert. Every now and then I’d hit a grid line and use that. Either way the going was so rough I’d be crawling along at 20 kph. Sometimes for eight hours at a time. A day might consist of 16 hours driving and one hour of loading and unloading. I learned to pack pillows around my legs. The rough country tried to smash me to pieces against the door, dash, roof and gear lever.

Ultra-fine Tanami desert dust is famous for destroying electronics. After my 'dust-proof, O-ringed' walkman died after only a few weeks these slow trips became incredibly monotonous. The mine sparky hooked up a couple of speakers and a stereo for me. I asked him to put the speakers just behind my head so I could blast heavy metal into my head properly.

Happy again! It didn’t take much in those days.

(Like it? See - Tanami Desert diary - Part 2)

The toilet switch

I swear the new toilet we installed has a switch that activates the phone. As soon as my arse touches the seat the phone rings. Sometimes there is a short delay to lull me into a false sense of security.

The sensor must know when someone else is in the house as it deactivates and makes my accusations seem paranoid.

Normally I’ll ignore the phone. The fact that it knows what I’m doing is creepy and annoying though.

Much worse are the times I’m waiting for a call-back. Do I snap it off and run, or bang my head on my knees and worry the neighbours with yells of frustration.

I’ve tried to use the toilet switch to my advantage. I thought I could force people to call me back by going in for a sit. Those experiments have revealed the following exceptions to the rule.

• It doesn’t work if you take the phone into the toilet (and that’s not very professional behaviour either).

• The phone never rings if I’m expecting a positive result from the call.

• If I cave in and run for the phone it’s always a telemarketer and never the Lotto man.

It must be a wireless system. I’ve checked to see if it’s hooked up to the mains. Maybe it’s heat sensitive?

There’s a pressure pad in the garage too. It only activates the phone when I’m carrying something heavy.

(Like it? See - Recliner lounges)

On the road again

Some of you are pretty familiar with the big, black, Monaro money pit that has provided so much filler material for our Christmas letters. I have achieved another milestone with her and I thought you’d all love to get an update. At the moment I almost think it’s all been worth it again, even though the entire experience has played merry hell with my state of mind.

A lot of time has passed since the beginning of the Monaro restoration project. 6 years 7 months and 20 days worth to be precise. When I look back through the receipts and remember the rip offs, the failed parts, the injuries and pain I wonder, what the hell was I thinking?

Being told ‘it can’t be done’ has been a major incentive to continue dragging this old bitch back into life. Some said she’d have been better off left quietly rusting away in the field she was found in. Many repairers tried to warn me off her charms but, young and confident, I wouldn’t be told.

The first hurdle was NSW’s Roads and Traffic Authority. They weren’t too keen on giving me rego plates. The car had no compliance plates, no record of previous registration, and major modifications. In the end, I not only managed to get NSW plates on her, but she was motivated by 500+ horsepower as well. (That was the engine I blew up on our way from Orange to Sarina).

Then I had to deal with Qld laws and requirements. (They are completely different of course.) They shook their heads and said it can’t be done here too. For three and a half years I did my research and bought the parts to make it compliant and fitted a detuned version of the first motor. I’m here to tell you that a 400 rear wheel horsepower Monaro is sitting in the carport with Qld plates on it. Can’t wait to fill it with fuel for the first time at $1.80 a litre.

This massive effort has drained any urge for future restorations. The wife must be breathing a sigh of relief. It has, however, taught me many things that maybe could have stayed undiscovered. I know exactly how angry I can get without screaming (and beyond). I know one in ten bolts will strip. I know the one that strips will be in the most awkward position and will always be a special bolt not available anymore.

I wanted to finish what I started though, and the lack of knowledge, tools, and workshop space only made me more determined not to fail. Failing would give all those I-told-you-so insufferable pricks the ammunition they’d need to remind me forever after that they were right. I couldn’t allow that.

It’s hard to justify the highs with the lows though. The highs were great. There’s the two rego achievements motioned above where I got to drive around giving my detractors the finger. The first drive and burnout with a 500 HP motor. The first drive and burnout with a 400 HP motor. The Monaro’s at Bathurst weekend with 400 Monaro’s from around Australia. The first 100 metre long burnout with sun hardened tyres on the way to get new ones fitted. You get the picture.

The Monaro now waits patiently to be taken out on the odd occasion and treated in a manner befitting her general attitude. It’s a nasty attitude; she likes to hurt me. She’s spent long enough languishing in the carport, providing a home to spiders and ants and depressing me every time I looked at it. For now she’s finished with being shipped off to various repairers, gutted and molested, and fitted with Ford parts (diff).

That is until I build up the courage to get her painted. Then it all starts again.

I must take this opportunity to defend myself against something I heard a lot of during the build. To the arrogant ‘if only he’d put his talent/money/time to some other use’ people.

Like what?

Talent? I’ve learned plenty of useful skills and techniques while working on that heap of crap.

Money? I wouldn’t have that money anyway. I only worked two jobs a day and did 31 hours straight every weekend for 6 months to pay for the first motor. (I have an aversion to loaning money from banks.) I stayed with companies far too long and took far more shit from bosses and co-workers than I would have normally because I wanted to finish the second motor. That money was earned for a purpose and its purpose has been achieved. There will be no ‘if only’ breast beating from me.

Time? Well, I could have gotten pretty good at my Playstation games if I hadn’t been lying under the car on freezing concrete, ramming my head into sharp protrusions and smashing my knuckles while rounding off bolts. Fair call on that one.

I might as well remind the woulda, coulda, shoulda’s while I’m feeling so high and mighty. Your arguments don't wash around here, there’s no excuse other than laziness not to achieve at least one of your goals. It might not be much compensation for what you have gone through, but you get to stick it up everyone else who can’t be bothered.

Regardless of past dramas, I’m going to feel good about myself, even if it’s for the briefest time. I persevered and I won.

(Like it? See - Flying)

The cult of Amway

(Skip to - The toilet switch)

We’ve all heard of Amway and the cult following it appears to enjoy. They have a very, very effective marketing strategy that has influenced a fair percentage of the western world’s population to join and ensnare their friends and family.

Twenty years ago I briefly fell into Amway’s tricky clutches. A friend I hadn’t seen since leaving school the year before suddenly appeared out of the blue and convinced me he was about to become a millionaire.

I liked the guy and I listened to him describe a way to make shit-loads of money without doing a lot for it. I’m all for easy money. There was no mention of Amway. He called it ‘Network Marketing’ and explained its methodology well enough for me to believe we could both be millionaires.

He offered to take me to see ‘the plan’ at a big meeting. I later found out this practice is recommended to ensure new recruits got to the meeting and that they had to stay until the end. The ‘up-line’ leaders were on hand the give the hard sell at that time.

We got to the meeting and I’m impressed by all the people in suits and ties and evening dresses. I felt a bit under-dressed in shorts, shirt and sneakers. A large screen fronts about a hundred and fifty chairs, most of them filling up fast. I had no idea what this is all about. We took a seat and the doors closed. The projector started up. Huge pictures of cars, boats and holiday destinations flashed across the screen. People around me jump out of their chairs and cheer. I didn’t get it. Was this some sort of religious ceremony? Had they won something? Should I jump up and yell too?

I actually felt slightly afraid. Being a virgin and locked in an enclosed space with some mighty strange people who might just participate in human sacrifice will do that. (I’m told I have an over-active imagination.) Carefully I check out a path to the exit, a bunch of suits standing around the doors blocked them. They were jumping up and down and cheering too. I was trapped.

The fear was real but the utter strangeness of the whole experience was exhilarating. At first I didn’t get it, but after some research I realised the effectiveness of deliberately provoking people to behave like this. It's a controlling method used to make individuals feel that they belong to a group.

Being surrounded by unnaturally happy zealots, worshipping everyday objects, had a negative effect on me. I’d read about this sort of thing and could distance myself enough that the psychology they use didn't work as well as it might. I'm not saying I had a higher intelligence, it's just that they approached me the wrong way.

I need pampering and a slow, steady build up from someone to properly take advantage of me.

They were a bit heavy handed from the start. They fed off each other’s outlandish behaviour until they’d whipped up a common state of euphoria. I’d heard of brainwashing, group hypnosis, mental manipulation, disassociation and affiliation and now I was seeing and hearing it for real. This stuff was gold to my writers mind.

So they wouldn’t pick me out as a non-believer I offered up a few ‘Hoorays’ hoping that would be the extent of their expectations. If they’d shown pictures of V8 Torana’s I’d be able to express myself more convincingly.

The funniest thing happened at the overbearing meet and greet afterward. My good friend diverted me from a sprint to the door, so I had to meet his ‘up-line’ mentor. Supposedly I’d be his underling when I signed up. He was friendly and attentive to everything I said. Like any good used-car salesman, he knew how to listen. An important skill for manipulating people.

I saw some Amway pamphlets lying around and said “Oh, you’re selling Amway?” The Triple-Plated Platinum leader, or whatever title he’d been awarded with, was shocked. “No, absolutely not. Amway is just a vehicle, what we’re doing is Network Marketing, nothing to do with Amway. When you get your friends to come to the next meeting don't mention Amway. It’s Network Marketing” (Read, Pyramid Selling).

I thought long and hard about the highly optimistic projections of what I’d be earning. I asked him, “If I have to convince 10 people to be under me and they convince 10 people and so on you’re going to run out of people pretty quick, aren’t you?” Even a 17 year old can see market saturation comes about fairly quickly at this rate. He didn’t like my questions and fobbed me off.

I accepted what they were saying so I could go home with my free literature and starter pack. (That ‘free’ pack would be recovered from your earnings without your knowledge later.)

Dubious, if somewhat intrigued, I went to several more less formal meetings. I wanted to ensure my cynicism wasn't screwing up a sure-fire way to make money. They must have gotten to me a little bit.

Unfortunately for my up-line, each meeting convinced me less and less that the concept could work. A large percentage of the town's population had already been approached and either wanted nothing to do with it or had joined and dropped out when they’d failed to make any money. It became obvious the people at the bottom of the pyramid turned over at a massive rate to keep the people at the top fed. Achieving enough points to make even a minimum wage was restricted to those already high up the pyramid.

After several more meetings I’d had enough. High pressure sales and brainwashing meetings couldn't compete with a youthful desire to go out and drink piss with my mates.

I told my up-line I wanted to quit. That’s when they really started on me. For several hours they forced motivational tapes on me. I said I couldn't afford it so they drew up a budget for me. They concluded I was bankrupt and only by listening to their tapes and attending meeting could I dig myself out of debt. (I spent what I earned, so what? Their answer to my bankruptcy made no sense either. How can I afford to buy their tapes if I have no money?) One bloke even told me he'd ring me up in the near future when he was rich to tell me how much of a loser I was for dropping out. Why? If you’re rich, surely you’d have better things to do than ringing people who failed to make it.

That ‘intervention’ was the last straw. I broke free of these scam artists and made it my calling for a while to badmouth Amway. I'd explain exactly how the scheme works and warn people off.

I’m glad dropped out. I was pressured to shun my friends and family and to only concentrate on showing ‘the plan’, watching other people showing ‘the plan’ and buying motivational tapes.

As good as Amway products are, their marketing is immoral. I'd never buy that brand on that principle.

(Like it? See - Employing children in the wrong industries)