Hanoi - like its traffic: going in the wrong direction.

Full disclosure: I have made ten visits to Hanoi since 2017, not one of which has been for pleasure. Frankly, I'm not even sure, had I ever set out to visit for pleasure, that I would have found it - certainly not the appropriate kind. You see, if Hanoi in 2017 was congested, polluted and tired, fast forward to post-pandemic, resurgent Vietnam in 2023 and you will find its capital morbidly obese with rampant middle-class growth, loafing unhealthily, slob-like, in a quagmire of traffic, filth, litter and disorganisation. This is a city with a proud people, a remarkable history, and an incredible story to tell, rapidly losing itself in a tragedy of its own making. In that sense, it is a leader in illustrating a major, global problem: urban decay in emerging economies.

There are few great walking cities: New York; London; Paris; Vienna; Singapore. Debatable, no doubt. What constitutes a great walking city? Is it as simple as being able to stroll, unimpeded, between its main attractions, enabling the discovery along the way of little pockets of intrigue and mystery? Is it the effort put in to signage, exploratory prompts, storyboards, parks, and accessibility (think about bikes or wheelchairs, for those unable to walk)? Is it about the presentation and protection of key locales, such as churches, temples, mosques and museums, and bolstering these with the frills of bars, cafes, shops and restaurants? It is all of these things, and more. As major Southeast Asian cities go, Hanoi should, by all accounts, be a beacon of emerging-economy success and a mecca for tourists. It should be a regional leader in how to reinvent a tiring, ageing city. Yet it appears intent on foregoing meaningful and sustainable development and expansion in favour of individualised wealth and self gain. It's not dissimilar to Phnom Penh, in many ways. That's a story for another day, suffice it to say the sight of many a street-side beggar with an empty bowl poking out opportunistically between the bumpers of Bentleys and Range Rovers parked on the streets of Cambodia's capital is one of startling contradiction.

Back to Hanoi, and let's start with the obvious. The scooters. Or as the locals like to say, motorbikes. Thank God, at least, that's not what they actually are, for the scooters themselves take up the vast majority of space on the roads, as well as the sidewalks. There are an estimated 6.5 million scooters in Hanoi, whilst its population is estimated to be around 5.2 million. I don't know the exact details, but I am guessing that translates to one for every person living in Hanoi, plus one for the other 1.3 million who likely commute into and out of the city daily or weekly for work. And yes, I said sidewalks, which are used with gay abandon for scooter parking, as well as for shortcuts around traffic lights and for frantic forays off busy arterial roads onto well-worn back streets and into alleyways to get hastily from A to B. The unsuspecting pedestrian is expected to get out of the way, without exception. I have frequently caused much consternation by not budging at the sound of a toot behind me when walking down the middle of a sidewalk. The sheer arrogance and expectation that one on foot should yield to a scooter on a sidewalk is mind-boggling. What side of the road do they drive on in Hanoi, I hear you ask? Both sides. Officially the right, but if and when you feel brave enough to step out to cross a road, the simple rule of thumb is to look in every direction, including down, as you will likely step into some sort of filth.

The filth. Hanoi is the capital city of a major Southeast Asian country and an extremely important global economic and political hub. Yet I have seen liberal defecation, urination, spitting, changing (and discarding) of nappies, meat butchery, fish filleting, feather plucking, fruit and vegetable chopping, welding, spray painting, incineration and rubbish dumping, all being carried out streetside (wherever there is space between the scooters), much of which is then hosed away from the shop- or house-front from which it originated, so that it simply becomes someone else's problem, or gathers in piles, which are half-heartedly cleared away by unenthused council workers. At first glance, the manic combination of industry, retail and cuisine can seem like charming, organised chaos, leading to many a tourist exclaiming enthusiastically, "Wow, isn't Hanoi crazy?" Yes, it is. Is that a good thing? The roads and traffic are, at times, unnavigable and intolerable. So you choose to walk, but it's not the walk in the park it should be ... and the parks ... they are few and far between, yet Hanoi is supposedly famous for them. Forget trying to spot a wild bird or breathe in some fresh air. On my last visit, in October this year, I ambitiously went for a jog around hồ Bảy Mẫu (Bảy Mẫu Lake). Rotting fish, discarded at the water's edge by local fishermen, and the ubiquitous Eurasian Tree Sparrow was as close as Hanoi allowed me to get to nature. Although I almost got a little closer when, on an intriguingly empty and spacious stretch of path, I was overtaken by a younger, fitter jogger, who politely gave me a friendly shoulder nudge as he passed, as if to say, "Hello there, visitor. Welcome. Now $%#@ off."

I'm trying to believe that somewhere, behind the curtain of crazy, under the visage of vulgarity, beneath the ponging piles of putrid plastic, there is a new, progressive, quaint, charming Hanoi, just itching to burst out, open its arms, and say, "Hello world, I'm ready for you, are you ready for me?" But, you see, aside from my very pessimistic view of its future, based solely on the state of its present, there is a final, more troubling, tragic and personal issue I have with Vietnam, ergo with its capital, and it comes down to the simple fact that I am from Zimbabwe. Behind China, between 2015 and 2021, Vietnam was the world's second largest importer of pangolin scales by volume, a ranking only measurable by what is found and seized. Over this period, 70,300kg of pangolin scales were seized in Vietnam. Over 50% were from Africa. A pangolin weighs, on average, around three kilograms. Their scales make up 20% of their body weight, or about 600 grams. That means roughly 117,000 pangolins visited Hanoi unwillingly over this period, and it's safe to say they enjoyed it less than I did. Never mind the estimates of what isn't found and seized, thought to be amounting to more than one million individual pangolins to China and Vietnam over the last decade. Don't even get me started on ivory.

Hanoi - and broadly speaking Vietnam in general - has, in my view, the same problems the rest of the world has: over consumption; wanton waste; unfettered population growth; increased disposable income; and an acute case of me-mentality. The trouble in Hanoi is that these problems are on steroids. And as a major global city, it's sadly not alone. You want to address the world's real problems when it comes to climate and environment, cost of living, political turmoil and regional stability? Forget think-tanks and global summits, the solutions start with the individual. The one who rides 500m on a scooter every day, or drives the same distance in a car, to buy some take-away food, half of which will be callously thrown away (possibly to the verge). The one who changes their third child's nappy on the sidewalk and leaves it there. The one who ate pangolin scale soup yesterday, simply because they can.

Perspective, Please - my letter to The West Australian

Dear Sir,

The demise of Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran is no doubt tragic. Tragic in the sense that young men have lost their lives in entirely unavoidable circumstances. Unavoidable in the sense that not only did they know the potential consequences of their original actions and chose to proceed, but that an emerging economy and society like Indonesia should be examining alternative means of punishment for such crimes. What is also a tragedy is the impact the drug trade has on societies, both in Australia and Indonesia, and the fact that discourse on this front has taken a back seat to the emotionally charged, ratings-fuelled media circus surrounding these executions.

Indonesia’s action has been labelled ‘cold-blooded murder’ (Carmel Guppy, Girawheen) and ‘state-sanctioned murder’ (Tasmanian Greens Leader, Kim Booth). It is neither. It is a sovereign nation carrying out its judicial process, as it has a right to do. We need to remember that and not get lost in the emotion. A better example of cold-blooded, state-sanctioned murder is the loss of 27 Australians – innocent, mind you – blown out of the sky last year over Ukraine as they flew home from holidays and business trips. Was the Australian Ambassador to Russia recalled? It might be hard, but let’s try some perspective.

Lessons from Zimbabwe

“Good morning Mr Austin and your visitors!” The class of young, tiny, impeccably dressed Zimbabwean school children slowly and proudly shouts out the rehearsed greeting as we walk into its quaint classroom. This is Heritage School in Harare. Neither the oldest nor the most renowned of Zimbabwe’s schools, it is one of hundreds spread across a country which, despite ongoing social, economic and political pressures, continues to offer students from a variety of backgrounds a consistently high standard of education. With most schools in Zimbabwe offering a British Cambridge-based curriculum, it is perhaps no surprise that the curator of Heritage, Tom Austin, speaks in glowing terms with a relaxed English accent and infectious Zimbabwean cadence. He describes the work he has put in to establish one of Zimbabwe’s premium schools, and as we stroll around the immaculate property, Austin proudly showing it off, I note to myself that whilst financial investment varies across this Southern African country’s schools, their ability to deliver quality schooling rarely does. In fact, it can almost be argued that the less fortunate schools often produce the best performing students. And they’re not ashamed to admit it.

 

As part of a small delegation of Australian university representatives, I am in Zimbabwe promoting Australia as a potential destination for tertiary studies. How does Zimbabwe, with all its woes, continue to provide such a robust grounding for its children, which not only includes lofty academic heights but also resoundingly successful sporting and cultural programs? How important to its future, whatever course it may take, will young Zimbabweans of tomorrow be? A product of a Zimbabwean schooling myself, I have always been an advocate for the high standards I was fortunate enough to experience, but that was nigh on 20 years ago; returning now knowing the trajectory Zimbabwe has taken over the last two decades, nothing prepares me for what we discover as we journey from Bulawayo, through Gweru, to the capital, Harare.

Bulawayo’s brand new airport sparkles in the bright, hazy winter sun. It’s my first time in the nation’s second largest city since the mid-90s, and after a lengthy flight from Western Australia I am pleasantly surprised to see the new building and perhaps the hope it brings of a slow shift in the direction of modernity and efficiency, things Zimbabwe has been grappling with for the best part of 20 years. We enter the immigration hall and are immediately confronted by the dichotomy Zimbabweans face on a daily basis. There are three desks equipped with passport scanners, computers and various other high tech frills. One desk is labelled ‘visa payments’. I join its queue and note a piece of paper sticky taped to an adjacent office window offering an email address to contact if one has any complaints about the way things are being run. I almost immediately regret not taking the address down – as I approach the desk it becomes obvious that the technology is just for show. The attendant has a large invoice book in front of him with pieces of blue carbon paper emerging from its edges, like lettuce in a bureaucratic burger. He is not only hand-writing receipts but is directing travellers to the queue at the neighbouring desk. His job is the payment of the visa, his colleague is the one tasked with the complex process of actually sticking it into the passport. She also has access to a fully computerised system and mercifully, unlike the last time I arrived in Zimbabwe through Harare’s airport, it does not have a paused game of Solitaire on its screen. She does, however, take her time to press repeat on her smartphone’s music player, returning it to the beginning of an Oliver Mtukudzi number, which twangs out through the tinny speaker. Welcome to Zimbabwe, in many ways a parallel universe – old-world processes and 21^st century innovation are uneasy bedfellows here. Mtukudzi’s rough, melancholic voice complements perfectly his fluid, rhythmic melody. The country he so often laments in his lyrics sadly does not often strike has harmonious a key as his music.

We drive through Bulawayo’s sandy streets, shaking through bone-jarring potholes. The air is parched, dusty and smoky – mid-winter in this part of the world is a bleak time. We rumble towards out guest lodge as our host tells us the country is on its knees, but as we stagger out of the car onto the lodge’s green lawns we are briefed about such things as WiFi in the well-appointed chalets, how to find BBC on the TV, which button to press on our personal remote controls to open the front gate should we wish to venture out, and how to access the tennis court or the nine-hole golf course. The contrasts are coming thick and fast now. That evening, over an indulgent glass of South African red wine, we receive our schedule for the days ahead. We are due to visit a series of schools, as well as hold a public expo in another hotel. The lingering frustrations from the airport and the sense of sadness at the visual state of this once great city and country are replaced by the sensation that, in true Zimbabwean fashion, it is business as usual. There is no country better at keeping calm and carrying on.

The following day, our first visit is to Petra High School. We settle into our chairs at the front of the well-ventilated school hall, which accentuates a cloudy, chilly day – it is designed to cope with the searing summer heat. Petra does not meet the eye well. It is run down in parts; red brickwork is smothered in the ubiquitous reddish dust, and at first glance the school appears poor and deprived, struggling to direct its moderate student body through their O and A levels. Don’t be fooled. It is the dry season, not an aesthetically pleasing time of the year, and being mid-year exam time there is a buzz amongst the students now quietly filing in. The focus at Petra, as with many other schools, is academic output. We talk to the students, they listen attentively. A glance around the room takes in young boys and girls, black and white, with keen eyes and ready smiles. They all have phones and teenage attitudes, but not one is texting or giggling at some juvenile joke. Not all are blessed with wealth, but most are blessed with ambition and brains. Insightful questions flow, and at the end a trend is set for the rest of our trip as a lean, athletic senior student stands, gently signals with authority to his peers to hush, and thanks us eloquently for coming to see them. The extraordinary levels of discipline, maturity and manners have never left the Zimbabwean curriculum. And nor should they.

We move onto one of Zimbabwe’s most famous of Christian schools, Christian Brothers College. CBC turns 60 this year and that sort of longevity brings reputation, tradition and class. On the wall of one of its corridors sits a framed newspaper article from 2009. The cut-out shows the image of two sheepishly smiling students and the news that they ranked 1^st and 2^nd in the world in their Cambridge IGCSE Computer Studies and Design and Technology subjects. As Moira Davies, the school’s career counsellor sits us down for a pot of Tanganda tea and Lobels biscuits in the resplendent catering hall overlooking the sport fields, the answer to one of my questions begins to dawn on me. The retention of the well-established Cambridge system at the time of independence in 1980, coupled with what were particularly forward-thinking education policies from Mugabe’s incoming government, resulted for many years in some astonishing statistics. According to the African Economist, in 2013 Zimbabwe lead Africa in adult literacy at 90%. In the mid-90s, TIME magazine reported that the country boasted a 72% pass rate at O Level. Even now, 34 years on from independence, despite the incredible challenges schools face and the degradation of formerly sound education policies, UNICEF indicates the country had an 88% primary school attendance rate from 2008 to 2012. The horizon, however, is not without its clouds – for the same period, secondary schooling attendance was at 48%. The question is not how Zimbabwe manages to provide such a robust system of education, it is how long can it continue to. The foundations of the system are so solid and reinforced so strongly by the resolve of the students, parents and teachers, that shaking them will take an utterly catastrophic breakdown in the almost sacred perception Zimbabwe has of education. The foundations are being well and truly tested now, but with such innovations as CBC’s night school for underprivileged students, there continues to be hope. The University of Zimbabwe is still, despite calendar disruptions, State-sanctioned meddling, funding challenges and student riots, regarded very highly overseas in such areas as medicine and veterinary.

Our road trip continues, taking in Falcon College, one of many rural boarding schools that formerly catered for the burgeoning farming population. It now ekes out a living serving dwindling agricultural families and boarders from the cities pursuing the perceived qualities that day-schooling cannot provide. The road is almost unnavigable in parts and a sobering sight greets us as we pass a police station, where a line of steel coffins is propped up outside its entrance, apparently airing in the sun. Falcon College is a vast property, oozing confidence and reputation. There are university campuses that would easily fit within its boundaries. The drive to Falcon is nothing compared to the drive to Gweru. If education has, so far, largely resisted the state of affairs in Zimbabwe, the transport infrastructure has not. Progress is slow, the road surface brutal; entering this one-time industrial hub brings us to a grinding halt – there are missing patches of road so large that one has to take a moment to plot the best route through. Signs of improvement are not far off – huge road projects are underway here, resulting in long waits and plenty of time to reflect.

We visit the energetic Midlands Christian College (MCC) and the conservative, quietly confident Regina Mundi High School. Church backing is not far from the agenda in Zimbabwe, and many schools have impressive chapels at their heart. I meet a young student who gleefully tells me her sister is currently studying in Australia, which is not the first time this has happened, and I meet a charismatic young teacher giving back to MCC what he got out of it as a child: passion. He tells me he has aspirations to be an actor, and I wholeheartedly believe he will succeed. Zimbabweans often reach global fame, most notably in the sporting arena. MCC’s junior school was once attended by David Pocock, an excellent flanker for the Australian national rugby team who often returns to Gweru for philanthropic duties. Gary Ballance, a test cricketer for England is the product of another great boarding school, Peterhouse. South Africa’s rugby side has two Zimbabweans playing in it; eventually you have to ask the question, where are all the academic success stories? They are there aplenty, they just aren’t as obvious. Zimbabwean doctors, veterinary surgeons, engineers and lawyers are sprinkled around the world. They go largely unnoticed by dissolving into communities in which they settle as part of that dreaded but increasingly important sector of Zimbabwe’s population: the diaspora. Zimbabwe has a chronic brain drain. It is a torrent of skill loss that has the odd salmon of hope leaping against it. You get the sensation that any time now, especially with a change of regime, of investment and foreign policies, the spawning of a new era might just begin.

In the capital, Harare, we arrive at Chisipite Senior School, which, quite simply, is one of the best schools you are ever likely to encounter. It is an all-girls school celebrating its 60^th anniversary this year, just like CBC in Bulawayo. Its Deputy Headmistress, Lorraine Hill, ushers us towards a small lecture theatre. We pass classrooms where students are diligently sewing, cooking, playing piano, singing and fiddling with Bunsen burners. The classes appear unsupervised, and it is only upon closer inspection that I realise the teachers are indeed present. It’s just that they aren’t quite teachers here, they’re peers. This is a school that is doing things differently; it is innovating, and imparting a sense of maturity, independence and critical thinking on its students, the likes of which you would only expect to find beyond secondary school. It’s not my first visit to Chisipite but it is quickly turning into my most memorable. As the young ladies file politely into the theatre, we are presented with a thick book showcasing their six decades of achievement and a CD of musical pieces, recorded recently in the nearby chapel. Over dinner, Hill describes to me how one of her students is in the midst of writing an essay on what the benefits are of smacking children versus the psychological effects – is there a pay-off either way resulting in a loss-gain scenario? Impressive, and an indication of just what sort of student is coming out of Zimbabwe. The schools soldier on, doing what they do best, and what they have done so well for so long. Whether the students they produce and inevitably lose to the lure of further education and opportunity abroad ever start to return in substantial numbers largely depends, like many things in Zimbabwe, on the political developments and the impact they will have on foreign investment. Innovation, unsurprisingly, is increasingly a part of many African economies. It is often born out of necessity due to the absence of a more typical product or solution. Take M-Pesa in Kenya. With its roots in Mozambique, where those who struggled with cash flow took to swapping mobile phone credit as a means of payment and trade, M-Pesa is now used everywhere in Kenya, especially those places where cash machines or banks are scarce. It is a simple, effective innovation, guises of which have only recently popped up in developed nations, and it is a mark of just how resourceful Africa can be.

We descend upon our final school in Zimbabwe, St. John’s College, where as we arrive a rugby match is underway. Their opponents are St. George’s College. This is a derby; closing my eyes, I could imagine being at a college football match in the USA. The atmosphere is crackling with tension and anticipation. As we watch the sun set and the match unfold – and it’s a fabulous game – I am reminded of the commitment in Zimbabwe to a well-rounded education. Only days prior I was admiring the brilliance of the record-setting students from CBC; I was strolling the lawns of Heritage School listening to Tom Austin describe how it was designed with a gradual uphill rise from the gardens of the kindergarten, through the classes of the junior school, up to the senior school to give students a sense of moving up in the world; I was reading the cover of a CD of classical music recorded by students at Chisipite. Now I am watching a rugby match that is close to professional in standard. It is this commitment that one can only hope secures this great nation’s future. It seems to me that Zimbabwe closely resembles its most famous of trees, the baobab. Known as the tree of life, it can shelter, clothe, feed, and provide water. With fire-resistant bark, it can produce innovative solutions in the worlds of fabric and twine, and with edible fruit loaded with vitamin C, and leaves that contain medicinal properties its annual international market potential is estimated to be billions of dollars a year. If only it were cultivated. It can last for thousands of years and, at sunset, which is now peering through a dusty cloud billowing up from a scrum in this pulsating rugby match, the baobab can be breathtaking. Above ground, the baobab can endure extreme hardship because below ground it possesses a unique, extraordinary root system. When this system falters, something incredible will surely die.

New but Ashamed Australian - my letter to Premier Colin Barnett

Honourable Colin Barnett MEc MLA

Premier; Minister for State Development; Science

1 Parliament Place, WEST PERTH WA 6005

wa-government@dpc.wa.gov.au

Dear Premier,

I am sure you have received numerous letters and emails over recent months relating to a range of issues. We as the general public of Western Australia appreciate that at present you have great State responsibilities to manage, coupled with a frantic schedule to fulfil. I expect you probably don’t personally read all the letters you receive, but I truly hope this one reaches your desk, your eyes, your mind and, most importantly, your heart.

I can imagine that in light of the State’s recent introduction of a shark cull you have been on the receiving end of much written and verbal attention from environmentalists, ocean lovers, youth groups, scientific research bodies, nature lovers, wildlife protection societies and so on. I presume there are also those who have expressed their support for the cull. I want to point out at this juncture that I represent none of the above. I mentioned earlier the general public of Western Australia. I suspect that when it comes to this cull you have had to engage extensively with opposite ends of the support spectrum, being the vocal and noble minority who have gone out of their way to vociferously voice their objection to this heinous endeavour, and the possibly naïve and ill-informed minority who have backed you all the way. I am a member of the aforementioned general public and it strikes me as most curious that we, this majority group in the middle of this spectrum, have never really been asked what we think. And I’ll bet my bottom dollar that if we were asked we would lean heavily towards leaving the sharks to do as they are born to do: swim freely in their territory as part of nature’s infinitely old ecological system.

I am from Zimbabwe originally. It is a landlocked country but I was lucky enough to embark on numerous family holidays to the beautiful coast of South Africa where I first encountered the Indian Ocean. It was love at first sight but like most people I never really thought of admirably devoting my entire life to understanding and protecting it. This role seems to be left to the brave few of Sea Shepherd or Greenpeace ilk who take it upon themselves to stand up for those creatures within the world’s oceans who literally themselves cannot. I know you recently visited South Africa where you came upon some of these hardy individuals protesting against the actions of your Administration – I bet that was unexpected. I fell in love a second time when, as a 19-year-old international student, I came to Perth and discovered what Australia really and truly boils down to: a fair go for everyone. Yes, the beaches and forests are stunning, the economy is sound, the lifestyle is as close to perfect as one can come, but it is this enduring idea of everyone having a fair go that is quite simply, secretly and beautifully Australia’s trump card. This attitude is what really opened up my heart. In short, Australia had me at “g’day”.

Fast forward 18 years and not only am I now a resident of Perth, but I am a proud citizen of this great nation as of January 26^th, 2014. My interesting job involves promotion of a Western Australian education to an overseas audience and I do it with immense pride. But for the first time since arriving on these shores I am ashamed. I’ve been Australian for barely three months, and I am ashamed. I am neither an environmentalist nor a scientist, but I am ashamed. I love City Beach and frequent it often, yet I am ashamed when I step foot on it. What we – and I say ‘we’ because we’re sadly in this together now thanks to your Administration – are doing to the sharks of the great oceans that surround us is nothing short of criminal, murderous, ignorant and bloody primitive. It is a witch-hunt, the likes of which would not be out of place in the dark ages. Where is our compassion? Where is our humanity? Where, more than anything, is the opportunity for US to decide what to do with OUR oceans? The sharks and we both deserve a fair go at deciding their fate. Frankly, we don’t really even have the right to decide their fate, but seeing as they aren’t about to breach our shores and conduct media interviews, it falls in the lap of the very few who take the time to speak out to do just that – speak out. The State has in the past spent a fortune on asking us whether we wish to push the clocks back in winter and yet cannot be bothered to even launch a free online survey to see what we think. Go ahead and ignore us if you like, but at least ask us. You owe it to us.

Premier, it is a well-known fact that the creature responsible for most animal-inflicted injuries and deaths in Australia is of the equine variety. Where is the cull of horses? Would it help if they had large, sharp and replaceable teeth that came about through plain old evolution? Would it help if Hollywood persistently cast them as villains? Would it help if we couldn’t see them underneath us? Where are the drum lines in paddocks? Why do we have these ridiculous double standards? The hippopotamus and the buffalo are near the top of the list of most dangerous animals in Africa. Where are the snares and the trucks carrying around people whose job it is to shoot the ensnared? The great white shark was declared vulnerable by the Australian Government in 1999 and its numbers are yet to recover. However, your Administration has declared it fair game. Is it a surprise to you to learn that the ocean is their domain? Once we step foot in it we literally step out of continental Australia and into the wild ocean. Where is the cull of jellyfish or of stingrays? In fact, if ocean-dwelling creatures could walk and talk do you think there’d be something equivalent to drum lines on the beach to stop us going in?

Forgive my emotion. I want to close by mentioning another great injustice. The grey nurse shark became critically endangered in Australia in the 1970s as a result of increased hunting. It is now 2014 and, despite your Administration spending millions of our dollars on exterminating sharks as if they were rats, ignoring the wishes of the majority, scientists in Australia are still, decades later, working on miniscule budgets to regrow the numbers of this amazing species of shark. How is that even remotely fair? Premier, on average over the last fifty years there has been a single death each year in Australia from a shark attack (source: the Australian Shark Attack File). Statistically, a person has more chance of dying from a vending machine accident. I’ll wager that the vast majority of shark attack victims understand the risk and wholeheartedly disagree with your Administration's knee-jerk reaction.

I am now eligible to vote but sharks are not. Politics shouldn’t even be a part of this, yet I have had to resort to writing to the Premier of my State about something that should never have been their responsibility in the first place. I hope you have taken the time to digest my comments. I have shared them with as many friends as I can communicate with around the world, as well as the West Australian and Sunday Times. You needn’t reply to me. What you need to do is reply to everyone and, most importantly, reply to the sharks. Tell them why. Tell us why. Ask them and us for permission. Or better still, stop and ask all of us for forgiveness.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Ingram

'til Beth do us Part

I remember the first time we met – I was a young, naïve student in Australia. We met at a friend’s house and I was totally blown away by you. I think there may have been a rugby match on, or something we had all come to watch. I was dazzled by you – couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were a Fox. You were so different from anything I had experienced growing up in Zimbabwe. I saw you several times over the four years I spent here as a student but never thought I would ever have you. I wanted you badly. You were beyond me. I couldn’t even pluck up the courage to talk to you, or email you, instead resorting to gawking at you across the room whenever we crossed paths.

I moved to London in 2001 and wondered if I would ever have the pleasure of seeing you again. Amazingly, I met your sister Sky. I shouldn’t have been surprised, she was so popular, and everyone knew her. Everyone loved her. And she loved everyone. She wasn’t like you, but she did look a lot like you. She was more arrogant, more aloof, further out of reach. Just like you she loved her sport and movies, but from what I heard she liked money the most. I must have seen her in almost every pub I ever visited. Slag.

When I moved back to Australia for good eight years later you were still on my mind. I wondered what you would be like if we ever bumped into each other again. It wasn’t long before I found out – I saw you in a shopping mall. You hadn’t changed much; you were more breathtaking than you had ever been – like you were in HD, or something. You were promoting an end-of-financial-year sale. I couldn’t resist, I simply had to talk to you. There was no point asking if you remembered me, I knew you wouldn’t, but I told you I remembered you very well and had thought about you all those years in London. You were flattered but didn’t have time for small talk, so I cut to the chase and asked if you wanted to get together. You said yes! I was so, so happy.

The first six months together were bliss. The early months were in winter 2009 and we spent as much time as we could indoors at my flat, remember? Those were the days. You were happy to let me watch whatever I wanted and we had those infinite comfortable silences. Watching sport with you was amazing. Sometimes we would have to record it if there were other things to do, if you know what I mean. Of course you know what I mean, you always did have a great IQ. Coming home from work was the best – you knew when I didn’t want to talk and just left me to control the remote undisturbed. Sometimes we would go for months with hardly any conversation. I know I shouted at you once in a while, and to your credit you never once talked back. And at least I can say that it didn’t take me long to work out how to press your buttons. People say your kind is complicated, but you really aren’t. You don’t want or need much, just to be turned on once in a while, right? A little … electricity every now and then? A little spark? I thought that was enough. Sadly, I was wrong.

I don’t know what happened to us after the first six months. We hit a rocky patch. I wish it was as simple as the batteries just running flat, but it wasn’t. I started to ask if I really needed you in my life. I know you didn’t need me, I could tell. We were beginning to turn each other off. Your movie selections left a lot to be desired. I took to reading, jogging, golfing, watching DVDs and going to the cinema. You just sat there. Square. Boring. So we decided to take a break from each other.

Well, life just wasn’t the same. I kept seeing you out and about and people kept asking about us. We must have been apart for a year or so. I eventually broke – I couldn’t take it anymore. I called you and begged you to reconsider, but I didn’t have to beg, did I? You wanted the same thing! I was over the moon when we got back together! It was a crazy time … I wanted to have you in every room! We were insatiable together, like something off Animal Planet! I promised to spend more time focussing on Lifestyle and less time on ESPN, you promised not to demand so much financially. I promised to pay more attention to TLC, you promised not to cut me off all the time. We had a good run. We had a lot of laughs. We spent a lifetime watching Seinfeld re-runs, but the question always lingered, didn’t it? Was this right? Was this meant to be? Was this love? No. Emphatically, no.

I know the precise moment I realised things weren’t going to work out between us. I was supposed to be cleaning one morning. I couldn’t motivate myself. I was doing some half-hearted dusting in the bedroom. I thought I would go and put the kettle on, but what the hell did I stumble across? I’ll tell you what … your Discovery Turbo Max +2. What the hell was this? I was speechless. Livid. I’d never felt so betrayed. Just when I was trying to figure out how to talk to you about it, you got your friend Bethany to call me at work. That was a low blow. I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say to her. When she told me this relationship was unsustainable in its current form, I was devastated. Who is she to tell me? Bethany explained that you were leaving on July 8th, and that nothing I could say would change your mind. I was helpless. My paltry offer of $57 a month to get you to stay in all your glory just wasn’t enough. It was like I was on the verge of losing a part of me. I went home and slumped into my recliner, and stared at the wall. And you know what? I got out of that recliner and made a Thai red curry. I turned on the radio and listened to the BBC World Service – they had a report on about how a German pianist was redoing AC/DC’s entire collection as classical concertos. I put some pictures up on the wall. I set up internet. I went for a walk. Washed the car. Phoned my family. Rode my bike. Booked a holiday. And you know what I realised? That there is a whole world out there without you! I HATE you Foxtel! I never want to see you again, ever! I HAVE the entire Seinfeld collection on DVD, for God’s sake. Why the hell would I watch it with you? I’m free! Free [view] at last!

Ahem … does anybody know what the score is in The Open Championship?

Hey Adam, can we have our football back?

Rarely is my patience for idiocy stretched to the point where I feel I must dust off the keyboard and clear my virtual throat for a rant. And seldom do I express a loathing for anything relating to sport, notwithstanding my previous berating of Elderick Tont Woods – and yes, that is his name; a name that befits an ageing has-been. Sadly, however, idiocy and sport too often meet. They have, once again, eloped into a sordid sunset for a brief and catastrophic romance, which, on this occasion, has resulted in the national icon, Eddie McGuire.

Before I continue, allow me to douse the flames of abuse already crackling in the mouths of Eddie-lovers out there. I have nothing against the man. I have always admired his autocue and earpiece skills used with aplomb to give the impression of being intellectually gifted on Millionaire Hot Seat. I have watched in awe at the restrained, eloquent advice he often metes out to umpires when proudly wearing a Collingwood tie. It is along this AFL vein, however, that I take umbrage. The season is finally upon us and this year we have been subjected to countless instalments of Eddie’s supposedly rousing AFL promotional message.

In this glossy marketing video, we are treated to a string of astonishing marks that defy gravity, a montage of emotional moments from the 2011 season and a series of references to pride, strength, grit and determination that appear to make up the modern-day player. However, the last line out of Eddie’s multi-chinned mouth suggests that the things we love about football today – the drama, the excitement, the skill, the sublime, the unfolding seasonal stories of success and failure – have absolutely nothing to do with the game’s natural, historical evolution. Apparently, according to Eddie, old Tom Willis was not one of the founding fathers of this great game back in 1858. Apparently, according to Eddie, the origins cannot be traced back to rugby or the even older “foot balle” played in Ireland in 1527. According to Eddie, this game’s origins go much farther back, to the dawn of time, in fact. According to Eddie – wait for it – footie is “the greatest thing God ever invented.”

Yes people, footie is not just the greatest sport God invented, but the greatest thing He invented. Never mind the apparent genius behind the construction of a woodpecker’s tongue. Never mind the deft touch it must have taken to knock together the Great Barrier Reef. Evidently, as God was engineering an entire planet – in the dark, as Ricky Gervais so brilliantly points out – He amazingly had time to suggest a quick backyard Garden of Eden kick-about for Adam and Eve. Of course! It wasn’t an apple, it was a shiny new Sherrin!

What an absurd, ill-advised and ignorant thing to say about a sport. I say ill-advised because I can only assume, somewhat in Eddie’s defence, that some ad agency flunkie with a scraggly beard, a John Deere cap and Onitsuka Tiger trainers, who is convinced he sits somewhere near the Stephen Colbert end of the wit scale, has stuffed these pearls of wisdom into Eddie’s mouth. But more fool Mr. McGuire for uttering the words without protest! Isn’t it bad enough we invented the idea of a God, let alone the notion he returned the favour with an oval-shaped leather ball? Are we delusional? Why can we not just give ourselves a pat on the back and say, “footie is the greatest thing we’ve ever invented”? OK, it’s not, but you get my point.

At the end of the day, I must confess it is neither the fault of Edward McGuire, nor of the Zach Galafianakis-wannabe ad agency flunkie. It is the fault of the AFL’s governing body who commissioned this drivel. The magic of sport, in all its disciplines, is that it is supposed to circumvent all things relating to politics and religion, ensuring it is played in its purest of forms and most natural of manners: competitively; respectfully; enjoyably. If the AFL is aiming to embrace a multitude of cultures and communities in this country, then why is footie not the greatest thing Allah ever invented, or Ishvara, or Yahweh? Well, I’ll tell you why: for the simple reason that we humans, through a period of amazing evolution, invented footie ourselves. As we did the wheel, the second wheel, tiddlywinks, cheese rolling and the ahh-bra.

Tiger? It's Eldrick, actually.

Tiger back on the winner’s podium? Pah!

His own tournament, unsanctioned by any of the tours, against a selection of journeymen pros, some of whom at their best can just compete on the world stage. He’s hacking away trying to get past Zach Johnson down the stretch, on a course he has played a thousand times, whilst the genuine quality players (Kaymer, Donald, McIlroy (won in Hong Kong this weekend), Westwood (won in South Africa this weekend), Day, Scott, et al) were all noticeable by their absence. Tiger is a hack. His record on day one of the President’s Cup a few weeks ago shows us exactly where he is.

He’s had the cushiest of years, having barely played, where everyone else (the field in this tournament included) have slaved away from one side of the world to the other. He was fit and fresh this weekend, at a time where the rest of the world are about to have their well-earned end-of-season break.

Having said that, it should be noted that Tiger likes to win. And a win is a win. I don’t think … actually firmly do not believe … that he will win another major. The majors are won by class players who seduce the game of golf over four consecutive rounds. The only seduction he has ever been capable of is of trailer-park trash who were looking for a kick. I have never warmed to the man. He took the sport of golf to another level, I will concede, but he did nothing for the game of golf. He ruined it … not just by his off-course antics, but by this arrogance and belief, whether intentional or not, that he was the game. He wasn’t. He isn’t. He will never be. And yes, the sport and the game are different. It could be argued he has turned it into a sport, some say for the better, but I don’t think so. Sadly, money talks, and he brought shed-loads of it into the game, opening it up for a plethora of average Joes who now thought this was the coolest thing in the world. The greatest relief for me is that no sooner had he met his demise, than his impact on the game paid dividends in the introduction of several young stars, many of whom would have watched him as nippers (Fowler, Ishikawa, McIlroy). Fortunately, where he may have inspired these people into the game, the only way to really make it these days is through the structured, morally solid, measured world of College golf in the USA, which as far as I can tell is run by true aficionados of the game. Couple this with the overall authority being the Royal and Ancient, and golf lives on … long after Tiger has become caged and toothless.

Of course, I claimed back in 2001 he would struggle to win more majors. I also have the yips, and my short came achieves less these days than a dung beetle rolling a ball of poo, so who am I to talk?