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22nd Dec 2006, 01:54
Wait for the punch line at the end... :}
Barry Cohen: Flying into a host of troubles
Remembering an outback adventure when the meaning of fear was learned
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
December 21, 2006
I WAS less than excited about the prospect of my maiden flight in a small plane, particularly when I noticed that the pilot had just graduated from puberty. It being 1970, the Wright brothers had only recently proven that machines could fly. A Cessna, however, was the only way the Labor Party's Aboriginal affairs committee could traverse the Northern Territory in a few days.
Three other MPs, my 10-year-old son, Stuart, and yours truly flew to Wave Hill, Roper River and Groote Eylandt before arriving at Gove (Nhulumbuy) where we were to visit Nabalco's bauxite mine and the Yirrkala Aboriginal community.
At Gove we were met by Nabalco's public relations officer, an entertaining young man who insisted on showing us around the mine site before our lunch with the bosses. The mine site was the Sydney Cricket Ground sans grass but with a smattering of rocks the size of large footballs. Our host decided, for some obscure reason, to enliven the tour by driving slowly over as many of the rocks as possible. It was an uneventful tour until we came to a rock five times the size of a football. The car came to a shuddering halt as rock and the underbelly of the car came into contact. It was not a pleasant sound.
We disembarked to gaze at the oil leaking from the sump while our PR man called for a replacement vehicle. Through gritted teeth his assistant muttered, "The boss will be pleased. That's the second car he's wrecked in a week." To our raised eyebrows he responded: "Last week he was driving another group of VIPs around and he spotted some buffalo so he took off after them into the bush. He thought he was on safari. The car's a write-off."
In our new vehicle we were transported without further mishap to the mine headquarters, where we partook of a sumptuous repast and convivial company.
Peering down on us was a framed photograph of the then minister for the interior, Peter Nixon, with a handful of large fish. Noting my interest, our host inquired, "You like fishing?" To our positive response, he said, "I'll pick you up at five and then run you over for your breakfast with the Yirrkala community."
The fishing was a resounding success. In an hour we had 30 moonfish, most of which were caught by Stuart. No angler, I managed to get my line tangled and watched helplessly as everyone else kept hauling in the fish. Scaled and cleaned, the fish were packed away for our journey home. Then it was on to Yirrkala.
It was at this point that our intrepid host decided our visit needed further excitement. He took off, Brabham-like, clearly intending to break the local land speed record.
Now, 100km/h is not overly quick on a large highway, but on winding sandy roads in the outback it is a tad fast. We discovered how fast when we came to the first bend. It's a weird sensation sliding sideways for 100m on a sand road, particularly when the car starts rolling.
When it finally stopped, upside down, bodies were everywhere and there was a pronounced smell of petrol. I decided to get Stuart and myself out as quickly as possible before trying to estimate how many by-elections we were facing. Fortunately, none. Our host was out cold but the rest of us, including our pilot, were only shaken and bruised. The car was not a pretty sight. We never did get to Yirrkala because we were at the mine hospital.
The flight to Darwin was interesting. Our pilot, who should not have been flying, insisted he was fine.
The white-knuckled committee silently contemplated who would take over when the pilot lapsed into unconsciousness. These are the moments when one can become quite spiritual.
At our next meeting in Canberra, the misadventure and our PR man's performance was, not surprisingly, the main topic of conversation. Rumour had it that Nabalco had decided to dispense with his services on the grounds that it could not afford a car every week and that killing four MPs, even Labor ones, was not a good look.
We felt some sympathy for our guide, for despite his driving skills he remained charming and solicitous of our health. Our concern was for his future. He would have some difficulty finding employment, we felt, particularly in the transport field.
We should not have worried. Geoff Dixon found his niche in life and managed to avoid the dole. I'm just grateful he became only the chief executive of Qantas and didn't fly the planes.
Barry Cohen is a former federal Labor minister.
Barry Cohen: Flying into a host of troubles
Remembering an outback adventure when the meaning of fear was learned
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
December 21, 2006
I WAS less than excited about the prospect of my maiden flight in a small plane, particularly when I noticed that the pilot had just graduated from puberty. It being 1970, the Wright brothers had only recently proven that machines could fly. A Cessna, however, was the only way the Labor Party's Aboriginal affairs committee could traverse the Northern Territory in a few days.
Three other MPs, my 10-year-old son, Stuart, and yours truly flew to Wave Hill, Roper River and Groote Eylandt before arriving at Gove (Nhulumbuy) where we were to visit Nabalco's bauxite mine and the Yirrkala Aboriginal community.
At Gove we were met by Nabalco's public relations officer, an entertaining young man who insisted on showing us around the mine site before our lunch with the bosses. The mine site was the Sydney Cricket Ground sans grass but with a smattering of rocks the size of large footballs. Our host decided, for some obscure reason, to enliven the tour by driving slowly over as many of the rocks as possible. It was an uneventful tour until we came to a rock five times the size of a football. The car came to a shuddering halt as rock and the underbelly of the car came into contact. It was not a pleasant sound.
We disembarked to gaze at the oil leaking from the sump while our PR man called for a replacement vehicle. Through gritted teeth his assistant muttered, "The boss will be pleased. That's the second car he's wrecked in a week." To our raised eyebrows he responded: "Last week he was driving another group of VIPs around and he spotted some buffalo so he took off after them into the bush. He thought he was on safari. The car's a write-off."
In our new vehicle we were transported without further mishap to the mine headquarters, where we partook of a sumptuous repast and convivial company.
Peering down on us was a framed photograph of the then minister for the interior, Peter Nixon, with a handful of large fish. Noting my interest, our host inquired, "You like fishing?" To our positive response, he said, "I'll pick you up at five and then run you over for your breakfast with the Yirrkala community."
The fishing was a resounding success. In an hour we had 30 moonfish, most of which were caught by Stuart. No angler, I managed to get my line tangled and watched helplessly as everyone else kept hauling in the fish. Scaled and cleaned, the fish were packed away for our journey home. Then it was on to Yirrkala.
It was at this point that our intrepid host decided our visit needed further excitement. He took off, Brabham-like, clearly intending to break the local land speed record.
Now, 100km/h is not overly quick on a large highway, but on winding sandy roads in the outback it is a tad fast. We discovered how fast when we came to the first bend. It's a weird sensation sliding sideways for 100m on a sand road, particularly when the car starts rolling.
When it finally stopped, upside down, bodies were everywhere and there was a pronounced smell of petrol. I decided to get Stuart and myself out as quickly as possible before trying to estimate how many by-elections we were facing. Fortunately, none. Our host was out cold but the rest of us, including our pilot, were only shaken and bruised. The car was not a pretty sight. We never did get to Yirrkala because we were at the mine hospital.
The flight to Darwin was interesting. Our pilot, who should not have been flying, insisted he was fine.
The white-knuckled committee silently contemplated who would take over when the pilot lapsed into unconsciousness. These are the moments when one can become quite spiritual.
At our next meeting in Canberra, the misadventure and our PR man's performance was, not surprisingly, the main topic of conversation. Rumour had it that Nabalco had decided to dispense with his services on the grounds that it could not afford a car every week and that killing four MPs, even Labor ones, was not a good look.
We felt some sympathy for our guide, for despite his driving skills he remained charming and solicitous of our health. Our concern was for his future. He would have some difficulty finding employment, we felt, particularly in the transport field.
We should not have worried. Geoff Dixon found his niche in life and managed to avoid the dole. I'm just grateful he became only the chief executive of Qantas and didn't fly the planes.
Barry Cohen is a former federal Labor minister.