Cablog

True blue habibs

This time last year, Punchbowl Boys High School, in Sydneys south-west, were taking some heavy hits to an already tarnished reputation. The press went feral over some riotous behaviour at a Books Not Bombs rally in the City. A rally noted more for its pubescant fervour than any positive achievement. In the end the community leaders settled things down.

Well, a year on, good and responsible folk have made real efforts to instill some pride and respect into young Muslims out there. And encouraging results are available. A bunch of Punchbowl High students have just taken on the Kokoda Trail in New Guinea. An Australian sacred site.

One of the students, Mohammed, says they had a point to prove,

We was born here, not one of us was born overseas, we have Australian blood, we are Australian, our background is Lebanese.

I feel both embarrassed and jealous, having not done the Kokoda Trail myself. For I’ve long believed Kokoda has as much significance to our era, as Gallopoli has for our grandparents. Now we’re talking heroes.

Recently I picked up two civil engineers working on a road project over the New Guinean Highlands. They talked of 30 metre deep topsoil, on 40 degree inclines, with treacherous shifts after rain. The Trail from Hell.

Not a problem. The Punchie Boys did the Trail in 6 days flat. They took along a Camp Dare guide, natives related to the WW2 carriers, and a Vietnam Vet who cracked the whip by re-creating the history of the Trail. Without the hardware. Mohammed came out raving,

I didn't know anything about this before, I can now say I know it fully with passion

Anzac night

It was another busy evening as folk made the most of a free night, ahead of a holiday Monday. I was hoping to pick up a Veteran returning home from the Anzac Day festivities. Taking a punt, I accepted a radio job from Balmain Leagues Club. On busy Victoria Road and a real pain to get to, I arrived to find the job gone. In disgust, I logged off the radio and headed to the City.

Around 8 pm outside the Centennial Hotel in Woollahra, I picked up a bloke who wanted to go to an Irish pub out near Windsor. Being from Queensland he didn’t realise it was an hour away, on the north-western outskirts of Sydney. He had just divorced his second wife and was in Sydney on a blind-date. I said, ‘Mate, this is going to be an expensive root - it’ll cost you $80 to get there !’. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he replied, ‘sex with my last wife cost me $40,000 a throw !’

Anzac Dawn

This morning after work, I took a quick shower and returned to the City, for my second Anzac Dawn service. In Sydney at least. My 26 year old son, who lives downtown, was also up for it. This was his third or fourth Dawn service. A couple of years ago he had done me proud by attending the Gallopoli Dawn service, in Turkey.

We grabbed a cab and at 4.30am joined some 15,000 in Martin Place. A solemn yet rare crowd for a public Sydney gathering. Looking around, I noted the dominant feature of the participants, mono-cultural. At first you wonder what’s different, before realising there are no Asians, Arabs or Africans amongst the worshippers. A real bush crowd.

No-Desto radio

Last night was my first shift under new regulations governing radio bookings in New South Wales taxis. Where once radio job-offers nominated the destination, this new system gives no destination at all. Or no-desto, as it’s now known. Radio jobs are an adjunct to the bulk of my work, namely street hails and ranks. It's the extra I rely upon for at least 20% of my work.

Most week days, I having a regular booking, whom I collect from work. On starting, I’ll poke around my own district picking local radio jobs. This allows me to stay handy whilst waiting for my booking. The last place I want to go is into the City or out to the Airport, and miss my booking. However with no-desto radio yesterday, I found I could no longer use it to control my location. Consequently, I logged out of the radio system and worked a suburban railway station instead.

Another Tuesday

During the evening peak hour I accept a radio booking from Ryde to Wahroonga. The job requires I drive up to the front door of a wheelchair-friendly house. Out comes a 60 year old bloke with no legs. After locking the house for him- he lives alone- it takes a further 10 minutes to load him out of the chair and into the cab.

For a lone aged man with no legs, going out for the evening is a major exercise. He’s probably planned this all day. He is a solidly built, cantankerous bastard, barking commands as to how he wants everything done. He must figure I’m a stupid cabbie, so I give him extra attention to prove otherwise. Though I'm sorely tempted to tell him to clean up his soiled and greasy wheelchair. It feels disgusting...

Easter Saturday

Saturday was jumping in Sydney. The traditional Easter Saturday sports fest had Sydney jamming, come Saturday night.

Starting late, I elected to bypass the drunken assholes at Randwick Racecourse to work the Homebush crowd. In addition to the Royal Easter Show, there was a National Rugby League double-header at Olympic Stadium. Much too early though, I ended up back in the City. Fortunately, the traffic crush around Moore Park for the Swans/Geelong Aussie Rules game had waned somewhat.

Just after 8pm I warily approached Randwick racecourse. A lone, shabby figure clutching a plastic bag hailed me as I waited for the lights. As he nervously paced the kerb I pinned him for an Iraqi refugee . He was anxious to beat the drunks to my cab. I was anxious for him to do so.

He got in the front, and with an Aussie accent nominated Manly. He looked poorly, undernourished with sallow features, vague and mumbling. Smelling no alcohol, I was immediately suspicious...

Drunken assholes

Here's a sobering story from late-night taxi world. On Saturday night around 11pm a violent confrontation between a cabbie and passenger from a Subura WRX, has left the passenger fighting for his life with multiple stab wounds.

Apparently, the taxi passengers upset the WRX occupants at traffic lights. An all too common occurrence. A WRX passenger then got out and put his head in the drivers window. The driver promptly grabbed a screwdriver and stabbed the kid in the head. And made sure of it. Allegedly.

Christ, how many times have I seen the makings of such a confrontation. Drunken heroes in taxis doing and saying stuff to other motorists, they wouldn't dare do in their own vehicles. But being in a cab gives them a false sense of bravado. Stupidly, they think being in a cab renders them immune to a reaction.

A few thoughts sprang to mind as I read this story. Heaps of cabs have screwdrivers in the door pocket or glovebox, for the endless replacing of roof-light globes. Additionally, all night long, drivers are under constant threat from alcohol-related pranks, stupidity and violence. Saturday night in particular was ugly. There must have been at least a half-dozen radio broadcasts for assistance to drivers under attack, Code M13.

It all emanated from the big Easter Carnival at Randwick Racecourse. Drunken assholes sleazed out of Randwick well after 8pm, as the AJC put on a concert and grog, after the last race. Slobs in formal wear and fast sunglasses, vomit on the street. Sluts in stilletoes, pissing in garden beds. The middle class having fun, skippy style.

When I attended Taxi school, 7 years ago, I was required to complete a module on driver safety. The lecturer one day asked each student how they intended to defend themselves, in the event of trouble. Out of a class of 15 students, 11 indicated they would contemplate carrying a weapon. They were either Asian or Persian. The remaining 4 of us, who nominated convential methods of self defence, were Caucasians.

The skippy drunks are a immigrant cabbies worst passengers. (Conversely, my worst passengers have been pissed Asians) They're trashed, out with their mates and, shitty they can't drive their own cars. So they give the driver grief from go to whoa. They leave me, a fellow skippy alone, yet unload on immigrant drivers. Whether it's Coogee, Earls Court or Bali, they are a fucking disgrace and an embarrassement to all Australians. Or should be. And society does nothing, tutt-tutting about their darling children out having a bit 'o fun like.

See you in court, or at the funeral, assholes.