Queensland

Google Maps screen capture showing locations of Biloela (bordered), and Jambin at the top left.

By John Wade

Every month ‘the dreaded 92s’ would arrive from Brisbane. This was the company Form 9201 which listed all the overdue accounts from BP Australia in my territory: it was a big blue form and the duplicate white copy had to be returned to Merv Carey, the credit manager in Brisbane, showing details of action taken and money collected.

As a BP country sales representative living in Biloela, Central Queensland, collecting overdue accounts as part of the job was daunting, to say the least. Only once was I physically threatened: one irate farmer, who was incensed when I asked for the payment of an overdue account, threatened to get his rifle if I did not get off his property. Collection of the debt was immediately passed over to legal action by the company. In hindsight I should have reported this incident to the police and made a statement.

On a more entertaining note, another of my early experiences was when I called on a farmer living between Biloela and Jambin. I got out of the company car and approached Mr Sid Dickenson: this was in late 1966 and soon after I arrived in the district. Work ‘clobber’ for me was double pocket, short sleeve shirt with tie, shorts and long socks.

We eyed each other off for a few seconds and then the conversation went something like this: “Good morning Mr Dickenson; my name is John Wade from BP.”

He replied, “That bunch of bastards. I suppose I owe some money?”

“Yes” I replied, “$278” (or thereabouts, as I recall).

He said: “I only ever see anyone from BP when I have not paid my account.”

I then attempted to get a conversation going about farming and every time I opened my mouth he shot back some negative comments, so the conversation was ‘hard going’ and I thought I should try another tack.

Just then a small mob of sheep came around the corner of the house fence. They were a sorry sight – some were ‘daggy’, some had long tails, and some had not been shorn for a lot longer than 12 months. I recall there were about 20.

As I had a rural upbringing and work background, I made the suggestion: “Mr Dickensen, they need a bit of a haircut.”

And he replied, “Yes, I know but there is no one around here who can shear them”.

I said, “I will do a deal with you. I‘ll come out on Sunday morning and shear them for you and you can give me the cheque to square up the account at that time.”

He looked me up and down and ventured, “You couldn’t shear them!”

I shot back, “I’ll be here on Sunday at 9 o’clock.”

This got his attention and he asked: “What will you need?”

I said, “A pair of hand shears and an oil stone”.

He said, “Okay.”

And we left it at that.

I arrived at the farmhouse on Sunday morning, just before 9am and called out, “Hello! Anyone about?”

Sid appeared with some children and he seemed quite surprised to see me.

I asked, “Where are the sheep?”

He looked a bit nonplussed and told the kids to fetch them from out in the paddock and when they came up we put them in the dairy yard. I then asked for some tarpaulins and we spread them on the ground to keep the wool clean.

Next thing was to get a decent wide board and two kerosene tins. The trick in hand shearing is to sit on the board set up horizontally on the two tins and with one leg extended along the plank: the shearer then cradles the sheep being shorn on his lap.

This is a comfortable position for both the shearer and the sheep and far easier on the shearer’s back than bending over in the traditional shearing position. I learnt this sitting-down trick from an English calendar Margaret Bell had given me some years previously when she worked at the British Consulate in Brisbane.

One photo showed a shearing scene in the UK with a few waist-coated, crusty looking countrified gents with tweed hats and caps standing around, not even trying to look busy. To an experienced Australian eye, a more unlikely and inefficient shearing scene could not be imagined. The onlookers were observing the shearer sitting on his plank with a sheep being shorn and he was doing a very clean cutting job. Any time after I first saw the calendar, whenever I needed to shear a killer, it was an easy matter to do it by hand using that method without the necessity of preparing and starting the engine in the shearing shed.

Anyway, back at the Dickensen farm, we all got into the swing of things: the kids were putting the wool into clean wool packs as it was being ‘peeled.’ I was ‘pinking them’ beautifully and the ‘big shearing’ was all going well.

Sid looked very surprised and pleased. Later, Mrs Dickensen came over with morning tea and we were all getting along well.

When I had finished, we went over to the house for a late lunch and I became good friends with that family. Anytime I was going past and a cheque needed to be collected I would call in and Mrs Dickensen used to let me have some eggs or vegetables or a jar of jam or some other small gift or invite me to join the family for a cup of tea.

So, this was a good lesson in customer service and an example of how to approach a problem from a completely different perspective.

It was a prime example of the Dale Carnegie way of communicating with people which I had learned from his book, How To Win Friends And Influence People.

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One of the routes is from Warana to Dickie Beach. The bike path is a great way to travel as there is no traffic to contend with. It also very picturesque. We start at the park at the end of Wyanda Drive. There is a shelter built on the sand dunes which overlooks the beach. 

 Traveling south on the pathway you travel through sand dunes. There is a seat along the path which you can sit and admire the views.  As you continue to travel on the path there are several exits which lead to the beach. 

The path then comes out at Bokerina a new subdivision with parkland and paths through the wetlands.  There is also a Cafe  here which is popular with bikers.

continuing on the path it takes you through more bushland and the back of housing till it reaches Currumindi lake.  You then travel east till you reach the main road Nicklin Way where you turn left and cross a bridge over the river. You then turn left and follow the road to the left until it reaches another path .  By following this path for about 2 kms you will reach the main entrance at Currumindi lake.

This is a popular spot for many activities including kayaking, hang gliding and of course surfing on the beach which is just a short 50 meters away. 

There is a popular cafe here which is always busy. They also have twighlight markets here on a regular basis. 

Continuing south on the road for a short distance you will eventually re-join the path which takes you through more bushland and the back of Dickie Beach School.  When you pass the Surf Lifesaving club continue for a short distance and you will arrive at Dickie Beach. 

This is a popular spot as it beside the local caravan park and across the road are various shops and cafes. 

Writer JJ Rose camped out for five days at Queensland’s annual Woodford Folk Festival, not expecting to like it too much. In spite of a few ‘outdoorsy’ challenges for him and his family – and an unfortunate ‘crowd coward’ moment, plus missed opportunities – Woodford’s ‘folksiness’ and intimate musical performances (well, even though in 2019 the festival had 2000 performers. 35 venues and 438 acts) compellingly won the Rose family over. 

FOR SOMEONE who takes to camping like a pelican takes to the desert, five nights at the Woodford Folk Festival loomed as a daunting post-Christmas event.

Amid various early disasters, I thought about heading home after an hour. I’m glad I didn’t.

If you’ve never been to Woodford, it’s hard to envisage. Some 30 venues, hundreds of retail stalls and eateries, a kids festival, something like 100,000 people turning up over six days between December 27 and January 1 each year, wall-to-wall entertainment from morning to well into the night. And the cantankerous Queensland summer weather.

All crunched together on a plot of land called Woodfordia, about a one-hour drive north of Brisbane.

The most difficult-to-imagine aspect is that it works.

Sure, we can overstate this. It’s only a few days etc. But all of us have seen how massed humanity can go ugly. Woodford, at least from what I could see this year, never did. Rules were sensible and common sense was in abundance. It’s a credit to all.

OPEN AIR OF ENTERTAINMENT

But, yes, it is a cultural festival, not an experiment in political philosophy. So what about the actual entertainment?

I probably saw about 40 acts at this year’s Woodford. Most were good, some were very good, one or two were truly memorable. A few were disappointing.

Personal highlights were Christine Anu with her – for me – tear-jerking set of pure voiced stunners. After days of rain she sang Sunshine on a Rainy Day and the blue sky broke through the clouds – I kid you not – and the rain only intermittently returned after that. 

Neil Murray played Bill’s Bar, a small venue perfect for his intimate approach, and I felt I knew him as family (so much so, I spontaneously waved to him when I saw him packing his car to leave. He waved back).

Kate Miller-Heidke was delightfully kooky and listenable, like an opera singer with Tourette’s. I caught her evening set at The Grande and couldn’t believe what I was hearing, both the acrobatic voice and the in-between-song profanity – a story about farting with nerves while playing with the Violent Femmes the night before – making her one of a kind. Quirky and fabulous.

The Cat Empire rocked the Amphi and introduced my 11 year-old daughter to the delights of being on shoulders (mine) in a mosh pit. When they stuck to playing actual songs, the Empires audience buzzed and bounced. When they indulged overly in drum solos or in clever musical tricks, they seemed to lose us a bit, milling instead of moshing.

Christine Salem and band tattoo’d New Year’s day with pulsating African tempos. A native of La Reunion, an island in the Indian Ocean, she and two amazing drummers hammered a largely listless and hung-over New Year’s Day crowd – although some brave and possibly still partying souls braved the dance dirt in front of stage – at the Concert. It was unfortunate scheduling as she was better than the sleepy vibe in the tent suggested. The drumming alone near blew my head off. 

Tibetan Tenzin Choegyal was a ubiquitous presence, somewhat colonising the major folk venue, The Folklorica. Both on his own and with other musos, memorably a fusion session with celloist Katherine Philp, his voice and passion lifted the roof. He sang the mountains and the plains of Tibet, and its pain and strength into being.

Shigeru Yomei Nakajima played memorising shakuhachi that drew me in as I wandered in an early morning search for caffeine. I had to stop and take it in. His breathy runs and the fanning, tumbling melodies had me back in the Zen hostel I stayed at in rural Japan many years ago. 

Brilliant all.

Honourable mentions too to Mia Wray, Dance Masala, Pocketlove, Kylie Auldist, Mr Percival, Delhi 2 Dublin, The Brisbane Celtic Fiddle Club, Sam Okoth, Tunesday Irish Ensemble, Darren Middleton, Fred Smith, The Mr Spin Show, Andrew Veivers and finally, AziMbira Zimbabwe for having both a nice act and the cutest kids at the festival.

CROWD ‘CLOUD’ OVER NEW YEAR 

Nakho and Medicine for the People accompanied us for our New Year’s Eve (NYE) ring in. I found them disappointing.

The potential is there, though, and my wife and friends who caught them the night before, when I was elsewhere, raved about them. They too felt they fell short on NYE.

But, part of the problem was that my daughter at her first real NYE gig got pinched hard by some unknown dickhead behind us and we had to shuffle from our hard-earned prime spot to the back, her in tears, as a result. Certainly didn’t help.

Bertie Blackman at the The Amphi too (and I am a fan) failed to work for me, her set sounding a little tired and dated.

While on the subject of NYE, the three-minute silence is one of the most stunning innovations I have come across at any event for a long time.

At 11.30pm on NYE, the whole Woodfordia ship and all who sail in her stop, and all is quiet. Candles are handed out and lit.

Those images of tens of thousands of people scattered across a vast complex remaining respectfully silent, seraphic faces shimmering in the flickering light, crickets chirruping into the silence and at a half moon parting the clouds like curtains, will stay with me forever.

Despite this, Woodford's NYE scheduling seemed a little off. Lots of contemplative, meditative acts and relatively few bona fide party acts in the early hours of NYE seemed an odd choice.

Placing someone like Christine Salem, say, on New Year’s Day, not the night before, or Pocketlove, seemed an opportunity missed.

I expect the earthy ochre tones of the Tjintu Desert Band and Kylie Auldist’s Bamboos-style soul riffs made the Songlines venue the place, perhaps, I should have been for NYE.

The Amphi’s Hogmanay shindig, fashioning a mix of Celtic acts like Shooglenifty and indigenous supergroup Tjupurru and the Bulldawadda, may also have hit the money.

Maybe I just got it wrong – first timer error perhaps. 

ITS A FOLK FESTIVAL, FOLKS

It’s handy to remember Woodford is supposed to be a folk festival.

While acts like say, Paper Lions (think 5SOS with Canadian accents), Husky or Sticky Fingers may push the folk genre out of a shape most of us could recognise, the vast bulk of the acts – music, dance, info sessions, circus, vaudeville, spoken-word and so on – could be roped into a folk culture corral.

As such, it is perhaps unfair to expect a rock concert or a dance festival.

Looking at its folk chops, the festival is to be respected. While the balance was perhaps weighted too much to African, and Middle Eastern vibes (this particular festival was co-sponsored by the Moroccan Government, which may explain a bit), with Asian acts, for instance, few and far between, the program is incredible.

It’s a list of such range, depth and quality unlikely to be found anywhere else in the world. 

It’s overwhelming. It’s gruelling. It’s long. And it’s camping.

But there are scant negatives to take out of my first Woodford experience. I’ll be back.

ends