Vocational Training

Every job in the world has its perks … and its lurks; the butcher is a legally sanctioned killing machine who gets to walk around all day with a lethal weapon at his hip … but spends his days up to his nuts in guts; the baker makes tonnes of dough*, but is up at 1am and covered in flour; the candlestick maker does a roaring trade each year during Earth Hour … but has hands covered in burns; the primary school teacher get 38.4 weeks a year holiday … but those bloody kids; and the podiatrist gets around in a Maserati with a hooker on his lap … but suffers a daily ordeal of toe-jam and horny old nails.

Obviously, in business as in life, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and in order to enjoy the good, you have to put up with a bit of the bad.

Here in Vanuatu, the good is most certainly the fantastic climate, the laid-back pace, the wonderful people and the brilliant, sparkling sea, and understandably it is not uncommon for adventurous folk from places like Australia and New Zealand to move here and sign-up for an extended, working tropical holiday through managing small scale tourism businesses such as resorts and restaurants.

Over Easter, the Donkeys visited one such establishment where a young couple taking a break from a year or two on the backpacking trail, had recently arrived to service the needs of their fellow travellers, and at the same time, enjoy living on a stunning coastline in one of the world’s few remaining tropical coastal wildernesses.

But instead of being happy with the perks they enjoy every day, at three weeks, they are at each other’s (and their resort guests’) throats; he wanting to hang-out all afternoon with the young [and female] guests and she wanting to visit the local tourist sites because, as she would tell all within earshot, “it’s not fair.  I have been here for weeks and I never get to go anywhere”.

Every job has its perks, people … and its lurks.  The explosive sunrises, azure reefs and balmy evenings aren’t free; you might also have to do some work, like stock the larders, fix things, clean things and look after guests.  One thing’s for sure, as someone who paid for my explosive sunrises, azure reefs and balmy evenings, I was not entirely happy with the nagging lurk of a disgruntled and dysfunctional resort management. 

Still, life has a way of working itself out, and looking around at the haunted looks of my fellow guests every time one of these managers walked out onto the balcony, I have a feeling that they may soon find themselves enjoying far more ‘me time’ than they’d signed-up for.  It’s called hospitality for a reason … and it aint about you!

Bit of a mixed metaphor here, but the point is that even these guys suffer lurks in return for the perks of their jobs … and they don’t look to be complaining.  Pic:  http://www.robertabaird.com

*urgh – that was terrible

Mind-numbing national capital

The midweek, Melbourne – Canberra run must be the biggest money-making scam this country has going; at best you might be lucky enough to snaffle a 1-way fare for about three-fitty, but in the main, you're looking at a blow-out of six-fitty and up.  I guess it's supply and demand; and charging exorbitant travel tabs to tax-payer [over-]funded execs and pollies may well be the only way to keep a fabricated city with no industry or self-sustaining infrastructure afloat.

The result of this feat of award-winning town planning is that Donkey, visiting our national capital next week for a one-and-half hour meeting, is looking down the barrel of having to kill 3 hours until after five just to escape the day within a reasonable budget.  What the hell am I going to do, other than sit in bland cafes fitted-out with generic office partitions, drinking disgusting brews at twice the price?  God Save the Governor General, indeed!

The title of this pic is "Painfully bored woman in cafe" – welcome to Canberra.  Pic: http://dailypic.co.uk

On the down-low

It’s that time of year again, and I am feeling low.  I know Melbourne winter is nothing like the perpetual darkness of, say, the London working week, nor as cold, but at this time of year, every year, I fall into the kind of funk that can’t even be overcome by the great working class escapes of beer and football.  It seems to have come early this year … I wish I could get outta here.

More coffee might help, but I am sure if I had a cardiologist, they’d be getting pretty worried about the extent to which I seek solace in that particular vice. 

More blogging might help a bit … if the fine writers out there hadn’t gotten completely over it all – why the nothing, people?  Does anyone know of anything good and reliable to read?

Urgh, I hate winter.

I hate the darkness, too.  Pic: http://www.chud.com

Man lovin'

As a final fling before Mrs D returns from her debauchery in Europe, I'm having the ironically-named Boarking over for a few beers and a night of oggling fit young men in tight shorts.

The last time I had a few lads over in Mrs D's absence I ended up getting plastered, chucking my guts up and then falling over in the bath room, cracking a couple of ribs and turning my left side a wonderful shade of puce (rather appropriately, given the title of this post).

So clearly I can't be trusted around alcohol and men when my main squeeze is away.  Who knows what'll happen tonight before half time? He is a good looking man, after all ... for an old bloke.

If only Warrick was on the tube as well ... oooooh pinch me!  Pic: http://www.afl.com.au

Give me strength

Hit the 'Next Blog' button and odds are you'll end up staring at one of the following;

1. Horses and dressage,

2. Gay sex tourists in Asia,

3. US-based Eastern European immigrants showcasing a series of big-breasted sports models, or

4. A new mother coming to terms with full-time parenting, and sharing her new little bundle's daily developmental milestones with the world.

Now I don't know much about what options 1-3 mean in real-time, but I can tell you that after only 3 days of single-parenting, I can't for the life of me work out how these new Mums have enough energy to blog.  I'm knackered!  And I've still got 2 weeks to go!

Surely gay, Asian, big-breasted horses with plaited tails would be an easier option than this?

Just wait 'till your MOTHER get home, Young Man!  Pic: http://www.flyfmkingston.com

Sold Out

The worm has turned for Donkey … I have completely sold out and am now ‘one of them’.

Back in the day … back when I was a REAL development worker, I wouldn’t have been seen dead in Honiara’s Lime Lounge.  Every location in the developing world where you’ll find a collection of two or more expatriates will have one of these joints.  The coffee is bad, the food is bad, the staff are hopelessly slow and the clientele suck, but it’s the only coffee in town, the only place you can get a BLT and, if you’re that way inclined, the only place you can scoff down a [relatively] fresh piece of chocolate cake.

Sounds alright, doesn’t it?  The only thing that I’ve failed to mention is that the only dark faces in the room are behind the counter, and the cost of a cup of the afore-mentioned muddy water is about three times their hourly wage.

But times’s changed, and I’m moving up the slippery ladder of self-importance, so I’ve been in here everyday, scoffing disgusting, greasy food and closing my eyes as I French-kiss my coffee cup in an attempt to remember the special relationship I enjoy with my espresso machine at home.  Actually, I’d rather not be here, but it’s the only way I can access email while I’m here in the Sols, so they’ve got me.

Is it so bad after all?  Well, let’s see.  Opposite me on this Wednesday morning at 11.30 are three young, bored looking Australian women, by the appearance of them, partners of blokes who are working here.  Each of them are completely done-up to the nines; short, black cocktail dresses, 4 inch heels, immaculate hair and painted nails.  Screaming with laughter as they ostentatiously blow their cigarette smoke around the sealed room.  And I should mention, they were here yesterday … and the day before … and the day before.

Over the other side are three very fat, wispy-white-haired, ruddy-faced consultants (I know this cause they are wearing fawn-coloured pants and a shombre shirts).  They are making lude remarks to the waitress who is smiling apprehensively at their errant hands.

At the counter is standing an angry, grey-haired, middle-aged woman – a kiwi – abusing the staff as she demands her coffee which she claims she’s been waiting ages for.

And it goes on … Looks like I’ve finally made it to the big time; I’ve found my people … and my place.

The Stairway to [Development] Heaven.  Pic: http://www.geckogo.com/Guide/Solomon-Islands/Honiara/

Grumpy Old Man

This week I've donned the tweed jacket with patches on the elbows and I'm playing Professor Donkey up front of class, pontificating on all things applied and statistical.

Most of my pupils are older than your average students, and subsequently, their life and professional experience are plain to see from their insight and the thoughtful way they approach their learning, particularly during participative group activities.

But there are a few much younger bods who are straight out of their undergrad studies, and who have comparatively very little life experience. 

Each day I've watched one particular, younger student, clearly struggling with some of the difficult concepts we're exploring through group activities, more or less throw a tantrum and storm-off to work alone, rather than through collaboration with her classmates as intended.  Today, the issue with which she found such exception was related to an iterative exercise exploration and mapping people's ideas and thought processes, which was evolving in organic, radiating thought bubbles from the centre of the table.

After about an hour of complaining bitterly, this young woman completely lost-it with her group members, and demanded that, in order for her to be able to follow the discussion, the ideas they were transposing to the paper needed to be presented linearly (from the top of the page to the bottom, and not radiating in all directions); "I'm sorry, but my mind just doesn't work that way, it's going to have to be changed".

Now I don't want to sound like some old man banging-on about the "younger generation", but aren't the Facebook and Twitter Generation supposed to be more able to think in three dimensions than us paper-based folk?  It's a testament to the patience and empathy of the latter that the former got her way, but the imaginative processes which had been unfolding only a few moments before immediately ceased, and the self-satisfied Ms Tanty was neither encouraged to acknowledge, nor apologise for her atrocious behaviour, and she certainly was unsuccessful in grasping any of the learning on offer.

How about a little less frivolous, self obsession, Gen Y; time to toughen-up and get on board the world around you.

No discussion about Gen Y would be complete without some reference to their media spokesperson, Josh Thomas – Car-iced, with this annoying little twerp at the helm, it's no wonder the rest of us have had a gutful! Pic: http://www.theage.com.au

Drag queens for the kiddies

Oh yeah – I do very much love a provocative title.

Hambones was going nuts this morning, demanding to watch a DVD of his new obsession, Thomas the Tank Engine (urgh – there really is an argument for Warner Bros-type cartoon violence, and that’s it right there).  But because we are fantastic, attentive and engaged parents, I opted for a book instead … well, actually, I opted for the audio CD which tends to come with any children’s book worth its salt these days.  So while I flew ‘round the house packing bags, scoffing toast and scrubbing armpits (don’t worry, I always wash my hands before scrubbing my armpits), I powered-up the hi-fi for the wee one to listen to Margaret Atwood reading her illustrated children’s book, Up in the Tree.

Yes, THE Margaret Atwood; doyen of fine, feminist-leaning literature (I always get into trouble when I go with that description at our book club - I thought this site could use some provocativeness).  Normally she’s writing about the poor plight of women in North America, or about post-apocalyptic mutant freaks and their interactive politics.

But here, she’s released a hand-drawn, minimal colour, illustrated kids’ book that she wrote years ago, while a student.  Whatever your opinion of Ms Atwood’s work (and I’ll admit that mine is not particularly high), this book is a very pleasant, stripped-back piece of honest literature, and I love it.  So does Hambones, as it happens, so we both sat and waited for ‘Aters’ to crank-up and provide us with a whole, new, loving perspective of the story we had been reading for a year or so.

But what do we get?  Some deep-voiced, heavy-breathing drag queen in a hurry to get to her next Abba Tribute Show such that she’s through each page quicker than Hambones and I can even follow them.  Of all people who I thought might have taken the time to inflect surprise, emotion and drama into the tale, it might have been the author.  We’re really sorry to have taken-up so much of your precious time in the studio, Margaret … selfish cow!

Pic: http://www.bloomsbury.com/Up-in-the-Tree/Margaret-Atwood/books/details/9780747594178

Rudd Sighting

Newspoll released figures describing him as "Australia's most popular Prime Minister" ... about five minutes before the man himself received a knock on his office door in the middle of the night (what was he even doing there at that time?) by the "faceless men of the Australian Labor Party", and like a streaker who is surrounded by a dozen, black-clad security guards in the middle of the MCG, was led-off through the Halls of Power with flaming cheeks and helpless, slumped shoulders.

So where does one go when, one minute you're the leader of the free world*, darling of both the Chinese and the Australian political Left (not known for seeing eye-to-eye), and saviour of the Australian Aid and Development Industry; and the next you're ... well, what exactly is he doing now?

Pic: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kevin_Rudd

As it transpires, I find myself watching a lot of children's TV these days, and just this morning I happened to come across a very down-and-out Kevin Rudd, clearly crawling his way back into the work force any way that he can.

Poor Kevin ... I would have thought, in light of Therese's business interests being a worth a bomb, such denigration may have been a little extreme.

* or at-least an un-strategic, economically and geographically insignificant portion of it.