http://www.mickware.com/index.htmlMW: ArticlesenCynthia@mickware.comCopyright 20072001-05-07T00:00:00-07:00 hourly 1 2000-01-01T12:00+00:00 Thu, 14 Feb 2008 13:52:41 -0800Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome2001-05-07T00:00:00-07:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/dc7a555daf9e41a7fb3a1bb4ddf14fcb-22.php#unique-entry-id-22http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/dc7a555daf9e41a7fb3a1bb4ddf14fcb-22.php#unique-entry-id-22In Papua New Guinea's highlands, misfortune is often blamed on magic - and the killing of alleged sorcerers is on the rise

By MICHAEL WARE / GOROKA

Joe Jomani has not killed a witch for four years, but he knows there are more out there. Like the rest of his village in Papua New Guinea's Eastern Highlands province, he lives daily with the specter of witchcraft, carefully disposing of food scraps and collecting his cut hair and nails for fear they might be used in sorcery against him. Jomani is a married man with children, a practicing Christian and a respected member of his community. But he believes witches, or sangumas, are everywhere. Dressed in brown slacks and a worn North Sydney rugby league jersey, he sits cross-legged on the grass outside his thatched stilt home and talks candidly of murder. He reminisces about the night he and other men from the tiny hamlet of Mondo One-less than an hour's drive west of Goroka, the provincial capital -butchered four women they believed were sangumas. They were neighbors whose families Jomani knew well, yet he speaks of the murders as if he's discussing a chore as mundane as weeding his gardens.

Sometime in 1997, Jomani and fellow villagers hauled the women from their homes and questioned them about deaths in the village, including that of an 18-year-old youth whose brain the men believed had been replaced with water by a sanguma. In villages where belief in witchcraft lingers, such interrogations are brutal: hot metal may be applied to genitals, flesh incised with machetes, or the accused strung up by an arm or leg. In the end, the Mondo One women were killed: three with homemade shotguns, the fourth with knives, because the men ran out of bullets. Jomani says the women had all confessed to being sangumas. Asked why they would do that, he replies coolly: "Because we stab them until they do." And if they hadn't admitted to sorcery? "We stab them anyway."

Jomani's village is not unique. Yauwe Riyong, an M.P. from nearby Chuave district, in Simbu province, told Parliament last December that as many as 15 women had been "chopped to pieces" as suspected sangumas. He said similar killings had taken place in other highlands areas and in P.N.G.'s capital, Port Moresby. Police Minister Gabia Gagarimabu asked for details of the alleged incidents, but said there was little his officers could do.

Two months before Riyong's speech, a band of tribesmen attacked a remote village in Simbu's Gumine district, burning houses, wounding residents and killing three men suspected of sorcery. Police deputy commissioner Sam Inguba says that when officers went to investigate two days later, they were shot at and a skirmish erupted, leaving one man dead. Chief Superintendent Simon Kauba, who is investigating the most recent sanguma killing-which took place in Simbu just two weeks ago-says few killers are caught and even fewer convicted. "During an investigation the whole village refuses to cooperate," he says. "Either no one will provide statements or the entire village will claim they participated in the killing."

Blaming witchcraft for unexplained events is common in rural P.N.G. "Just let your mind wander," says Jim Tanner, a missionary who spent almost three decades in a highlands village and is now an administrator for the U.S.-based New Tribes Mission. "Consider what you would think if you had no scientific knowledge and someone suddenly died. I tried to tell people about germs-tiny things you can't see which cause harm-and they thought I must have some kind of white magic to see them." Says Chief Superintendent Kauba: "If a person dies, villagers believe somebody should be held responsible. They accuse someone of sorcery and the whole village decides what should happen to them."

In the early 1980s, American anthropologist Bruce M. Knauft studied the lowlands village of Gebusi, in Western province. He recorded "inquests" conducted through spirit mediums, and the belief that the presence of a witch among villagers paying their respects to the dead caused a corpse to gurgle or split open (though these are natural stages in decomposition). "It can be said Gebusi [people] attribute all natural death to some form of human agency," Knauft wrote in 1985. "The resulting sorcery attributions lead to an extremely high rate of killing." Tracing family histories over 42 years to 1982, Knauft found that almost 1 in 3 adult deaths were homicides; of these, he estimated, 86% were related to sorcery. Villagers who were female, elderly, or had few relatives ran the greatest risk of being murdered as witches.

These patterns are not universal; in some regions and most urban centers, traditional ideas of puripuri (magic) are fading. Nor is there a single sanguma tradition: the powers and practices ascribed to sorcerers vary from place to place. Witches are said to turn into creatures-bats, possums, birds-to move about at night (near Henganofi, in Eastern Highlands province, dogs are jokingly referred to as sangumas' "buses"). Their powers may be vested in their person, or derived from a location, like a river bank or grove. They may use twigs or leaves in their rites, or they may take personal items such as leftover food or excrement, parcel them in leaves and curse them, making their targets ill until the bundle is found (curing them) or destroyed (killing them). Some sangumas are said to eat the dead, or replace the organs of the living with grass or stones. The traditions are as diverse as the tribes that adhere to them.

There are signs of a new surge in sanguma killings. Missionary Tanner says that in his 26 years living in a highlands village there were no such lynchings; in the five years since he left, there have been four. Says Garry Trompf, a professor of Religious Studies at the University of Sydney: "A worrying trend since European contact, with roads and improved communication, is lethal forms of sorcery traveling, or being exported, from one region to another." There is concern about a possible link between increased fear of witchcraft and the hiv epidemic sweeping P.N.G.: a U.N. fact-finding team has recorded 12,000 new infections in the past six months, and Prime Minister Sir Mekere Morauta says the rate is increasing by 50% a year. Many citizens will find witchcraft a more plausible explanation for aids than a virus. "We're already seeing things go backward," says Tanner. "aids will make it [witch killing] worse."

P.N.G. is a mesh of contradictions, with threads of modernity woven into an ancient fabric. It is a country where women are still seen as property and prospective husbands must compensate a girl's parents for the loss of her labor; where the wantok system of mutual assistance saddles the political culture with nepotism and corruption; and where community ties are still strong enough to make orphanages and retirement homes unnecessary.

Ten years ago, Arnold Roy and others from his Simbu village burned alive four women they believed were witches; he says they hid the remains in caves, among the bones of World War II soldiers. Like Joe Jomani, Roy says he would kill again to stop sorcerers. Both men grew up in modern P.N.G., with electric light and airplanes, trucks and canned beer, antibiotics and elections. But 60 years after white explorers first penetrated their highlands home, the grip of ancient fears remains as powerful as ever.]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome2000-09-18T00:00:00-07:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/2a4dde18306871a4cae14803d2fc6d72-87.php#unique-entry-id-87http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/2a4dde18306871a4cae14803d2fc6d72-87.php#unique-entry-id-87By TIM BLAIR and MICHAEL WARE

For Michael Diamond, less practice makes perfect. Australia's laser-eyed trap shooter becomes bored and loses focus if he overtrains, so usually restricts his stints at the range to two a month — far fewer than most of his Olympic opponents, who tend to train like, well, Olympians. They blast away at flying clay discs for days on end. Diamond goes to the beach.

But Diamond boosted his training before the Games, practicing twice a week, dutifully working through 100 rounds each time. Diamond didn't work nearly so hard before taking gold in Atlanta, and deliberately didn't shoot at all for three months before the World Cup in March. "I upped the tempo because I knew these were going to be hard targets," said Diamond on Sept. 17, after claiming his second Olympic gold medal.

It was a far-sighted call. The 28-year-old Diamond finished with an overall score of 147 targets hit out of 150 launched. It was two fewer than his winning total in 1996, but Cecil Park in 2000 was immeasurably more difficult. "It's a bitch of a range," complained Canadian shooter George Leary. The main problem: 11-cm orange discs become nearly invisible when fired at 100 km/h past a background of brown grass. Diamond said he'd never experienced tougher conditions. Yet he missed only three of Saturday's 75 targets, and none of Sunday's. Fellow Australian Russell Mark never recovered from a troubled Saturday and failed to make the medal round, leaving Italy's Giovanni Pellielo and Briton Ian Peel to battle Diamond.

Peel is a minor Diamond nemesis, having exposed hitherto unknown anxiety in the Australian during the World Cup, also held at the Olympic venue. Peel won after Diamond missed four of the final 11 targets, nervous at performing for the first time before a big hometown audience. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack," Diamond said at the time. "I was green to the pressure."

Green no longer, he played the Olympic crowd expertly, at one point holding a finger to his lips to silence screams of delight so other competitors could concentrate. To Diamond's fans, the car-radio salesman is the most charismatic wielder of firearms since Dirty Harry. Says the racing driver Peter Brock: "You have to appreciate someone who can operate under these kinds of pressures."

Diamond shot better and faster as he closed in on his goal of becoming the second man to win back-to-back Olympic trap titles, and later revealed that his strategy was mapped out by his father, Con, who died in May: "I've heard his words all through the Olympics. He didn't teach me for 20 years for me to just walk out there and fail." Diamond's determined training made perfectly sure of it.]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome2000-07-08T00:00:00-07:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/c66df7bb39f5da9d160373888c8a9ef3-20.php#unique-entry-id-20http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/c66df7bb39f5da9d160373888c8a9ef3-20.php#unique-entry-id-20The world's most intensive pub tour, a literary paradise, a land of history and of beauty. For Michael Ware, Ireland is all this and more

"HAVE you kissed the Blarney Stone yet?" she asked.

Hazel was talking about the famous tourist rite at Blarney Castle, in the south of Ireland. The stone is famed for bestowing the "gift of the gab" on its pilgrims. Thousands kiss it every year.

I told her, no, I hadn't. We had only arrived in Ireland that morning.

"Good," she smiled. "Because drunks go up there at night and piss on it, you know."

I'm not sure she was right, after all, she'd just finished pointing out the faerie fort in the middle of the field where the "wee people" lived, but her advice was so deliciously Irish. Warm, irreverent, genuine, frank.

There's any number of ways to see Hazel's homeland. You can tackle it like a roving antiquities scholar: probing, grilling and quizzing for every snippet of history, visiting every monument, ambling through every ruin. For sure, you'll be there forever.

Or you can roam and simply discover, let Ireland lead you, follow its people and its places, never in a hurry.

Besides, you can't rush anyone who measures bad weather by the winter of '47, like Dennis Maguire, a fly fishing guide on Loch Melvin, Northern Ireland. "I caught three here just the other day," Dennis said pointing to a stretch of water. "But I couldn't stay long, I was late for a funeral."

Or a radio sportscaster who, lauding Cork's surprise win in last year's All Ireland Hurling Final dubbed the Clash of the Ash, screamed like a thick-accented Norman May: "Cork has done the double: 1999 and 1890".

The island is divided in two: Northern Ireland, brimming with outdoor adventure, taking in six of the counties of Ulster and actually British soil; and the Republic of Ireland, vibrant and alive, rich in music and entertainment, comprising the bulk of the island. Together they represent the Celtic tiger -- two of the most dynamic and expanding economies in Europe, driven largely by new technologies.

Tourism, however, remains a wellspring for the Republic, with a well-oiled industry catering for every need, niche and nuance. For the North, tourism's only tentatively making its return with the relative peace.

While it's impossible to completely escape the spectre of the Troubles, the decades of conflict between Irish nationalist and loyalist paramilitaries and the British, it's not all-pervasive for the visitor.

Where sandbagged bunkers and roadblocks once ruled the border crossings, gun barrels trained on every car, now there's nothing but open road. Passing from one side to the other is no more arduous than crossing the Tweed.

In the Republic, stumbling on the Sinn Fein bookstore on Parnell Square, north of the River Liffey in Dublin, is as close as anyone would get to the conflict.

I wasn't sure that I'd found it, but the people inside knew I was there without even knocking.

"What the (expletive) do you want?" a voice said as I turned to leave, having taken a photograph. "Is this the bookstore?" I asked.

"Oh. Aye," a fat man said stepping back to let me in. A fatter man was sitting behind a panel of tiny TV screens, monitoring the building. "It's in there," the fat man motioned. "You from Australia then?"

IN THE North the Troubles are more palpable: divided neighbourhoods, war-like murals, Union Jacks and Irish tri-colours on lampposts marking sectarian territories, fortified army posts atop tenement blocks, helicopters buzzing like dragonflies. But to find the old oppressiveness -- like troops in the street -- you really have to look. Foot patrols are now only in Derry and a few places, such as Crossmaglen.

In fact a tourist industry is growing out of the conflict. For a fee a guide, black taxi or special bus will drive you down The Falls Road and up the Shankhill, stopping for snaps along the way. "On your right is an IRA pub. Further up here is Gerry Adams's office, and look quickly folks, that's Milltown Cemetery, an IRA graveyard."

Belfast has just come out of a period where a new restaurant was opening in the city centre every two months. And major hotels are being constructed with vigour, five in the past year alone, including a Sheraton and a Hilton.

Still growing, and a little disjointed, is Belfast's Golden Mile, a strip of shops, pubs and restaurants in the heart of the city. It doesn't yet rival Dublin's Temple Bar district, an area so full of pubs you could drink and explore for days, but it's on its way. Look for the Crown Liqueur Saloon where delicious Guinness pies and Irish stew are served in private drinking booths. Simply wander and try for yourself.

THERE'S been some inadvertent upsides to the conflict, such as pedestrian shopping malls, some of the first in Europe, a by-product of security measures against car bombs, as well as extremely low levels of street crime (what mugger wants to run into a squad of patrolling Paratroopers?). And there's always the funny side, like the T-shirt: "I am a bomb technician. If you see me running try to keep up".

So don't be put off Belfast. I found more disruption in London -- delays on the Tube because of suspicious packages, and try finding a rubbish bin on a London street -- than anywhere in the North.

Throughout Ireland life begins and ends in the pub. A recently-widowed grandmother drinking in a low-ceilinged pub in Irvinestown, Northern Ireland, proof of that. "I'm trying to find all my old boyfriends," she winked, sipping from a pint of Guinness. The family throng gathered around her bobbing their heads as one to say it was true.

In Belfast there's Bittles Bar, writer James Joyce memorabilia dripping from the walls. There I found half a dozen men playing poker, a smoky haze above their heads. Among the group was one wizened man with a green felt hat. At the bar he uttered his name: "Alex. Alex Higgins." An Irish institution and former world snooker champion. Drink in hand, he blended back into the pack of cardplayers.

Also try McHugh's bar and restaurant, although it can get busy. They say when a council inspector visited last year there were so many patrons he couldn't find his way out. The Monday night I was there wasn't too bad. They have a selection of Australian wines, and spicy chicken wings to die for.

When in Dublin simply amble from one doorway to the next. Or for the socially cautious, join a pub tour, there's plenty on offer and they're advertised in all hotels. Guinness, of course, is the staple. "There's eatin' and drinkin' in it," I was told. "Come on, your dinner's poured." The home of this wonderment, the Dublin brewery, a high altar of Irish life, is an extremely popular attraction.

There are more pubs in Ireland, a fervently Catholic country, than churches, there are more golf courses than days of the year and, with four Nobel Laureates for literature, they rejoice in their storytelling. In fact, the dead Joyce is a living industry, with tours, museums, re-enactments, memorabilia and exhibitions aplenty, particularly in Dublin.

Music is the other thread that binds Ireland, with a rich blend of folk and rock permeating daily existence. From Robinson's or Fibber McGee's in Belfast, to Dublin's Temple Bar district, or the tiniest of one-street, back-of-nowhere villages where behind every fifth door is a pub, the sounds and tastes of the drinking houses lends a richness to Irish life.

A celebration of all this is the Dingle Music Festival, held in mid-September in the seaside town on the horn of the indescribably beautiful Dingle Peninsula. The entire town comes alive with bands and musicians. Restaurants, like the Beginish, overflow with patrons and fine food, and the pubs reel all night to the endless melodies.

The fast track approach is to visit the Hot Press Irish Hall of Fame in Middle Abbey Street, Dublin. Even for non-music buffs (like me) it's an event. It's also a good alternative to the regular suspects: the Writers Museum, Trinity College and the Book of Kells (which isn't a book, wasn't written in Kell, you have to shove past the busloads of Americans to see, but is awe-inspiring), the Abbey Theatre, the Joyce Centre, the Joyce Museum, Dublin Castle, Shaw's birthplace or the Viking Adventure centre.

WHILE you're in Dublin poke your head in to the exclusive La Stampa restaurant and you'll see one of the finest dining rooms you could imagine. A few doors down Dawson Street is the Cafe en Seine, a Parisian feel with real Irish warmth. Again, a stunning place just to sit and enjoy.

Beyond Dublin your best bet is to simply hire a car and go. The roads are narrow but picturesque, and the navigationally-damaged are sure to survive. Why? Because you're never far from anywhere.

On my travels I saw the limestone Crag Caves near Tralee, which were only unearthed in 1983 under a farm (farmer's wife Margaret Geaney: "You have seven children and when they grow up you ask what now? Then you find a cave."), the incomparable Cliffs of Moher, the barren moonscape of the Burren district, and the much-adored Aran Islands.

Accommodation throughout Ireland covers the full range. From backpackers to B&Bs to boutique hotels (see the minimalist-styled Morrison in Dublin) and luxury beyond your wildest dreams (the Merrion on Dublin's Merrion Square and, outside Limerick, in the village of Adare, the sprawling Adare Manor -- unforgettable for its grandeur but the pricing is like heart surgery). In Belfast, I stayed near Queen's College at Maddison's boutique hotel, which has the Dannii Minogue guestbook seal of approval: "Oct '98 -- Thanks. Excellent."

But the greatest of all is the humble, remote and extremely basic Seacrest House on the Aran Island of Inishmoor. Forever it will hold a special place in my heart. Stricken with food poisoning, in a near-death state and ready to throw myself into the sea, Geraldine Faherty took me in until it was time for my return flight and bus to Galway. I was violently ill in one of her small rooms and for the refuge she gave me, and the towels I defiled, all she would accept was my green-gilled thanks -- no matter how hard I pressed Irish punt into her hand.

Now that's Ireland. Bloody good craic.


* The writer's trip was organised by the Irish Tourist Board and the Northern Ireland Tourist Board. He flew with Cathay Pacific.]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome2000-03-11T00:00:00-08:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/f4d9bd4dea048dc2c72b605fb130b4d8-21.php#unique-entry-id-21http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/f4d9bd4dea048dc2c72b605fb130b4d8-21.php#unique-entry-id-21Courier Mail journalist Michael Ware and photographer Rob Maccoll returned from assignment in East Timor this week where they witnessed the birth of new hope in a country ravaged by more than two decades of Indonesian occupation

AGAINST the teak of her skin, her white dress is luminous. She's been alive with delight all night, her pleated skirt frilling out in a blurring whirlwind. She whisks about the party: it's the first she has hosted, the first she's been to in a free East Timor.

It's Valentine's Day and simply everyone from the village in their late teens is here. The square yard in Becora, in the capital Dili, is ringed by rows of plastic chairs, gaggles of girls and broods of boys sit timidly facing each other: all smirks and giggles and blushes. Their formality and grace has a lost-world charm.

The hostess matches her dress with sheer white shoes, her hair is pulled back off her face and when she sits, only for a moment at a time, it's stiff-backed, sipping tinto wine.

"Excuse me," she says taking her leave. "I must see that all is well."

The music drifting out of crackling speakers doesn't prompt anyone to dance. So a young man bursts balloons with his cigarette and scraps of paper with dance partners' names flutter out of the rubbery debris. As the names are announced pockets of excited applause go up in the darkness beyond the yard, betraying the presence of the village families sitting outside, chattering and laughing, sounding support when their child's paired off.

It's a fantastic night. And it's special, not just for the young love that dances in self-conscious shuffles with straight arms and sweaty, handkerchief-filled hands, but because months earlier it could not have happened.

"The Indonesians wouldn't have let us do this," one young man says. A virtual curfew had applied during the 24 years of Indonesian occupation, with army patrols and hit squads roaming night and day.

"They wouldn't have liked us to get together like this. They would be worried. It could cause trouble. But now we can do it, we're free," he says proudly, waving his hand past the crowd, encompassing his friends in the expanse of his declaration. "Here, have some more wine, please. I'll have some too. You know, now we can do what we like. We are not afraid."

All at the party are too young to know anything other than Indonesian rule. For them, fear and a clandestine mood has always been a part of life. Their friends from school, their cousins, their brothers, their sisters, the kids next door, have always been disappearing. Students were shot in demonstrations or at funerals, people were arrested walking on footpaths and taken to army barracks, returning months or years later after being beaten and tortured in some East Javanese prison hell. Some never returned. Others spent their youth in the mountains, a captured Indonesian army rifle in their hands, fighting with the ragtag guerrilla army, Falantil. Many of those never returned, either: martyrs of the motherland.

Scores of others joined the diaspora, as entire lifelines of family history were cast around the world, refugee flotsam and jetsam, marooned in Australia, the United States, Portugal: dislocated and yearning for identity.

But that's all changing now in East Timor. The country these teenagers are going to inherit is beginning to unravel, stand up and look at itself, as if for the first time. No one can predict how the new, or ultimately true, face of Timor will look. Not even the Timorese.


WHEN the former Indonesian government approved an independence vote for East Timor in January last year, and, later, on May 5, when the period of "popular consultation" took shape, violence enveloped the whole country. First as a brutal means of intimidation, to frighten independence votes away, and then, with the publication of the ballot results on September 4, in vicious retribution.

The world's disgust fuelled the establishment of the Interfet multinational force, led by Australia, which landed in East Timor on September 20. It took another six weeks before the killing and destruction stopped and Interfet could claim full control.

Since then, and the creation of the UN administration on October 25, the task has been one of rebuilding an entire country from the vacuum the Indonesians ensured they left behind.

But the sense of liberation in the half-island nation is overwhelming. Graffiti screaming "Welcome Interfet" still adorns scorched walls in Suai and Dili, and the adoption of, in particular, Australian soldiers as some kind of out-of-town cousin remains undiluted, despite Major-General Peter Cosgrove pulling out on February 23.

For hours on end recently adolescent Australian soldiers stand at sentry posts, their hat brims the only shelter, their weapons slung off their shoulders, and with them, under their feet, in the dust, are always groups of children. Sometimes a tiny horde will stand adoring and conferring, offering child-prizes, such as a stick with a wheel nailed to one end, or other things of interest for inspection, cracking jokes and smiling as they surround the one on guard. Or perhaps it will be just one little boy, with the classic dirt-smeared face, standing silently and intently, next to the camouflaged pants leg of the Digger, staring off to some unexplained distant place.


IN THE first weeks of the operation it comes as no surprise to approach a heavily-sandbagged gun emplacement, the barrel of a Minimi machine gun nosing the ground, ripples of ammunition slung about, and encounter heat-bothered soldiers bristling with menace, scanning every movement, only to have a ragged little boy suddenly crawl out of the makeshift bunker from where he's been playing as comfortably as if it were home. The soldiers don't twitch, he's an integral part of their watch.

At Cosgrove's final parade, where the Interfet flag is lowered for the last time at 7.04 on the morning of his departure, a soldier waits for the official party to safely retreat into the headquarters building before whistling over the fence, with an "Oi" thrown in for good measure, to grab the attention of a couple of kids playing in the dirt. Quickly looking behind to see who is watching, he lobs two bottles of clean water over the barbed wire barrier and the children tackle the rolling treasures with the zest of an under-7 footy team.

Similarly, someone has been looking after the Runner of Timor. In a Forrest Gump-like athletic epic, a Timorese, somewhere in his 30s, with an awkward gait and an ever-smiling disposition, runs. Constantly. He's always out there pounding the roads. He's not quick but he can go and go and go. When first seen he was wearing an old T-shirt and a pair of filthy shorts but now he's decked out in a brand new athletic singlet and shiny black tracksuit pants.

Others haven't fared so well. Like the crippled midget in Dili who once worked for the Indonesian military intelligence apparatus and now is not even allowed to beg in the city's foreign workers' pubs, chased out by Timorese. "He did all right once, taking the Indonesian's money, let him do all right now," they say.

In Indonesia itself refugee camps still hold up to 100,000 desperate people, many of whom will never be able to return home, not after the horrors they've committed in the name of pro-Indonesian "integrasi". In one of the camps, in December, a wisp of a boy, no more than six years old, tags along behind a visiting group of aid workers. He mutters to himself constantly in Indonesian, speaking up only occasionally to tug at a loose hand or pocket and stammer: "Lapar, lapar." Afterwards, leaving the camp, an interpreter is asked what the boy had been saying. "Oh," he says with a dejected look. "He was telling you he's starving."]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome2000-02-05T00:00:00-08:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/7edff8f8ec4bc3e2ad73d01b21539d1b-31.php#unique-entry-id-31http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/7edff8f8ec4bc3e2ad73d01b21539d1b-31.php#unique-entry-id-31While Indonesia's new President tours the globe trying to shore up his country's finances, tension mounts at home, writes Michael Ware in Jakarta.

THE question is on everybody's lips in Jakarta this weekend: will there be a military coup?

Political turmoil has engulfed Indonesia's fledgling democracy and the strain is apparent.

People's lives go on, the streets remain choked with traffic and business continues, but the tension is palpable.

The republic's new President, Abdurrahman Wahid, the enormously popular, near-blind and ailing Muslim cleric, is overseas trying to lobby world leaders and financiers on his country's behalf to support his troubled economy while, at the same time, assuring foreign leaders he is still in control.

But his absence now, of all times, has played into the hands of those who, some fear, might seek to destabilise his new Government.

Prompted by the findings by an Indonesian human rights commission of widespread military involvement in the destruction of East Timor as it opted for independence in an August 30 ballot sponsored by the UN, Wahid has been forced to accelerate moves to dismantle the military's privileged position of power in society.

The military power bloc had been led, until recently, by General Wiranto.

Appointed armed forces chief by then-president Suharto, who assisted his early rise to prominence, and kept in the position by interim president B.J. Habibie, who made him defence minister, Wiranto was stood down as commander last year by Gus Dur, as Wahid is affectionately known.

The Defence Ministry portfolio was taken from him and the lesser post of Co-Ordinating Minister for Political and Security Affairs was given in its place.

Since then the balance within the military has shifted with seismic-like impact.

The navy, a more moderate arm of the services, has been elevated to a new dominance, with Wiranto's successor an admiral.

Wahid's revamping of the military has been adept, but politically risky.

The reason for Indonesia's teetering on the brink is the clash of these forces: the old and the new.


WIRANTO was named with 32 others, according to his lawyers "unfairly" and "in denial of natural justice", as being indirectly responsible for the horrors of East Timor.

Now his President has ordered him to resign from his remaining Cabinet spot and surrender his Co-ordinating Ministry.

And, a worse indignity, it is said the president has signed-off on his removal as a general.

The people have never seen anything like it. For three days Wiranto has refused to go.

How Wahid resolves this stand-off will, in many respects, define the nature of his democracy.

And every Indonesian, from the educated elite to the soldiers in the ranks and the vendors on the chaotic streets, knows it.

Most don't want to discuss it, not with a newly arrived foreigner. But everywhere you go people are keenly watching their television sets for news.

Each new press conference, like yesterday's with Defence Minister Juwono Sudarsono, and every little development, is avidly discussed.

However, almost everyone you speak to wishes Gus Dur was back at home.

"Oh yes, it would be better for him here, I know it would make me happy," is typical of the reply.

Instead he is walking the halls of power in Europe on a 13-nation tour.


BUT running an administration as diverse and problematic as his -- the first to be freely elected in 44 years -- by remote control is proving a difficult task.

His vice-president, Megawati Sukarnoputri, is in charge until his return. But, it is reported, she failed to confront the defiant general when he appeared at Wednesday's Cabinet meeting, less than a day after being ordered to resign.

The people now wonder what this means for her, with the topic of Wiranto's dilemma not even discussed by Cabinet.

Instead, images of Gus Dur ambling out along a red carpet or of a nighttime meeting with Dutch leaders, have been playing continually on Indonesian television and satellite news channels all day.

The shots are fleeting but are designed, perhaps, to be reassuring.

Meanwhile, local news and current events programmes have screened interviews with generals, officials and politicians dispelling the rumours of an overthrow by disenchanted elements of the Indonesian armed forces, presumably those loyal to Wiranto or the five other accused generals.

The people certainly want to believe, but no one is sure. And for every word of assurance is another of discontent.

On the other side of the globe, Wahid has revealed claims that a group of generals held a "covert meeting" somewhere in Jakarta's Chinatown, implying their agenda was to plot a coup.

He added that a massive demonstration of Muslim militants was being plotted by those with "dirty hands".

The new armed forces chief, Admiral Widodo, and the National Police Chief, General Roesdihardojo, had been given full authority to deal with the situation, he said.

The flames of speculation were fanned on every street corner and in every restaurant conversation.

The change in tone was evident.

Mention the issue and people, who moments before spoke well-practised English, suddenly look at you devoid of all expression.

"I'm sorry," they mutter. "I do not understand."

In the morning press most analysts and commentators are stressing just how unlikely a coup really is.

But the rumours have been enough to dampen the stock market and hurt the value of the rupiah.

The smart money, though, is banking on Wiranto's stand being merely a time-soaking ploy to produce a better deal for his departure.

The people of Indonesia, meanwhile, simply wait.

They've seen it all before, and sometimes worse, especially when the armed forces were truly at their peak, yet their faith in Wahid is strong.

"Ya, Wahid," they say with a smile when they pick his name out of your conversation.

Ask for anything more, and a smile and a nod is all that comes back.

However, most seem comfortable with the events, believing, in their hearts, that all will be well.

They're banking on the fact the reformists, most importantly in the military, appear to be gaining the upper hand.

Or so the people hope. ]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome1999-07-24T00:00:00-07:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/acbc2dfbd5086eb7b447641c795e86cf-30.php#unique-entry-id-30http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/acbc2dfbd5086eb7b447641c795e86cf-30.php#unique-entry-id-30The Crime Commission is considering radical change. Michael Ware reports


UNTIL just a month ago he was an accused child molester. Now he walks the streets a free man.

But he hasn't been cleared, or found not guilty. And the 11-year-old girl, who claimed he had interfered with her, has not admitted fabricating the story. The man has simply walked away, scot-free.

A jury will never have the opportunity to determine his guilt or innocence and an unanswered black mark hangs over his head.

When she came forward, some time ago, the police investigated the girl's claims. The more they looked, the more her story appeared to ring true. Charges of indecently dealing with a child under the age of 14 soon followed.

The allegations could not be dismissed lightly and the man's committal hearing in a Brisbane Magistrates Court took place in late February. It was a torrid affair.

When her time came, the young girl braced herself to take the stand: her chest pounding, her heart full of trepidation. At first she stood her ground, taking the hand-fed questions from the prosecutor. That part was easy.

But then things changed. The defence barrister rose from his seat, looked up from his notes and drew a breath. From the moment he first spoke, the child began to quiver. The barrister's booming voice filled the room. She thought he must be screaming. Question after question. Unrelenting. Unwavering. So personal, so intrusive. Her body began to shake uncontrollably, tears blossomed in her eyes. Her strength dissolved before his eyes.

Her distress was evident and the barrister was asked to lower his voice. You're frightening the witness, he was told. More than three times he had to be stopped, so the child could regain her composure. But the ordeal was rapidly tearing her apart.

Before too long she had lost it. Rocking back and forth in her chair, the questions rolling on, her tiny hand held a handkerchief to her mouth. Her timid responses became virtually inaudible. To those who were there, she seemed scared out of her mind.

"Why are you being so mean to me?" she implored. "I just want my Mum."

Mission accomplished.

But what was it all for? Despite being committed to the District Court, the man will never stand trial. That was the first, and last, time the girl would give evidence. Her mother refused to expose her to more. Once was enough. Left with no other choice, the office of Director of Public Prosecutions Royce Miller, QC, withdrew the indictment.

"That's not an isolated incident," Miller said this week. "It's not that uncommon, I'm afraid."

According to the Australian Law Reform Commission, he's right. For some barristers, particularly at committal stage, it's a stated tactic to intimidate the child; muscle them out of the game.

"The absence of a jury at committal can leave defence counsel free to pursue aggressive and intimidating tactics," a 1997 ALRC report on children in the legal process found. "Many defence counsel seem to proceed on the basis that the more intimidating and terrifying the committal is for a child witness, the less likely it is that a child witness will be willing or able to give evidence at trial."

Another mother remembered: "When my 14-year-old daughter was put up to be cross-examined, she was up for five hours . . . When cross-examining her (the defence barrister) accused her of doing this for gain of money. He told her he thought she reacted like she did because she was sleeping around. Mind you, at the time of the assault, she was nine years old... In two sentences he ruined my daughter. She came out of court, she was sick, she could not stop vomiting."

Other stories abound. In April, a Brisbane committal fails apparently because a 16-year-old, allegedly abused from the age of 11, asks for a volunteer supporter to sit next to her in court. Mum or Dad weren't there. She had to face That Man. But the magistrate refused, even in the absence of a jury.

And the same month, in the District Court, two girls tell of alleged abuse by a man. Both in their early teens, an almost all-male jury (10 to 2), and again not a family member in sight. Can a volunteer supporter be with us as we testify? Again, refused. It would be prejudicial to the jury, they're told. Their evidence was adversely affected and they feel the man was acquitted as a result.

All this despite the ALRC recommendation: "Children should be allowed to choose at least one person who may come into the courtroom with them while giving evidence. This person should be permitted to sit next to the child while the child gives evidence."

The issue of how we protect (or, rather, neglect) our children when they're forced to take the stand has flared hotly this week. A gripping audio tape of a seven-year-old boy's brutal, five-hour cross-examination at a Brisbane committal brought it home to national television viewers on the ABC's Four Corners this week. "Have you ever seen this (oral sex) done before?" the defence barrister grilled. "Have you ever been in the house when your mother's done this?"


YOU must be lying about your rape, the boy was told.

The boy and his then five-year-old sister haven't been the same since, their desperate mother says. Their alleged rapist walked free, a jury later acquitting him at trial, despite rips in the little girl's anal canal and semen on the back of the seven-year-old boy's underpants (boys that age do not produce semen).

A Crown prosecutor later summed it up: "The verdict in this trial was a crushing disappointment ... in my opinion, contrary to the weight of the evidence. This case provides a perfect example of the inability of the criminal justice system to protect our most vulnerable ... The children had been traumatised by the committal process and that affected them thereafter." For some people, this is the way, regrettably, it must be. Even with a child. A person's liberty could be at stake and, make no mistake, false allegations are made.

"I can see no evidence of a problem for children giving evidence," criminal lawyer and Australian Council for Civil Liberties president Terry O'Gorman said. More than 90 percent of accusations of child sex abuse taken to court resulted in a plea of guilty.

"There are institutional checks in place where, if you plead guilty, and save the child the cross-examination, you get a reduced sentence," he said.

"But the difficulty with this debate is that there are simply no figures for the rate of unsuccessful prosecutions. You can't have a debate without statistics.

"And these people and their studies that show all this traumatising: on what basis do they make these findings? All everyone is basing their conclusions on is simply what the complainants told them, as opposed to ordinary legal research where you go to the transcript, you make an objective assessment. But that's not happening here.

"And when people complain that closed-circuit television is not used to help the child give evidence ... they blame the defence. But it's the prosecution who choose, for reasons of tactics, to have children sit before a jury.

"I, like any defence lawyer who has any feeling, grit my teeth when I have to cross-examine a child," he said. "But I swore an oath of office to defend people without fear or favour."

Indeed, barristers are required to listen to their clients' instructions -- no matter what their personal view of them may be. But experienced counsel say it's not a matter of battering away at the child's story to do it successfully.

"It's more like a commando raid," one said. "You slip in, get what you want, and get out as quickly as possible. In front of a jury or not, you do not want to make the child cry, for any reason."

Crime Commissioner Tim Carmody, who is due to release a discussion paper next month on child sex offenders, said if the balance must be tipped, put it back the other way. "The world is full of injustice," he said. "If it is to fall anywhere, it shouldn't fall on the shoulders of children.

"Perhaps we need to be asking ourselves: what do we want to achieve here? Maybe it's a matter of offering more options, like a diversionary system, a treatment-oriented approach. Or is there some other option instead of the current dilemma -- make a complaint or not; be institutionally victimised or not? There has to be some middle road.

"The criminal justice system at the moment is a proven failure in child sex abuse cases. And we have to confront that really hard question: is our system serving our children well?

"With all the submissions, Project Axis (the Crime Commission's upcoming paper) raises the question of moving from an adversarial system, where the child's interests oppose that of the accused, towards an inquisitorial system where we seek the truth. Perhaps instead of a judge we should have a tribunal of experts hearing these cases. These are some of things we will be raising."


APART from hardcore defence lawyers and extremist groups, it is widely conceded children are being unduly re-abused within the justice system. So where to from here? Do we tinker with the old, or do we search for a greater, more holistic answer (although such a move will be opposed by a largely static and conservative legal profession)?

"You don't want dramatic changes," former DPP, and author of a groundbreaking 1986 report on child abuse issues, Des Sturgess, said. "I'm a conservative at heart -- use the current system and modify it. Trial without jury, that'll take them another 10 years to get around to that one."

Much of what Sturgess recommended -- such as use of video recordings of a child's entire evidence, both examination-in-chief and cross-examination, played before the jury -- is now on the table again.

And with 1216 children giving evidence in Queensland from 1994 to 1996 in proceedings involving sexual assault charges, it's time changes were made.

It appears real change is actually in the wind, because Queensland has been moving towards reform since the most recent Coalition government initiated a Queensland Law Reform Commission review. Former Attorney-General Denver Beanland doesn't want a politically charged debate leading to a knee-jerk response. And current Attorney-General Matt Foley says he's approaching the issue with an open mind, even refusing to rule out radical change.

But most of the legislative protections are already in place, such as the use of screens to shield children from the accused in court, use of closed-circuit TV and the removal of the need to warn juries against accepting children's inherently "unreliable" evidence (because research has shown it's no more unreliable than adults') at face value.

Yet the old practices persist, suggesting it may be necessary to enshrine these protections into law as the first option, rather than the possible alternative, available at the judge's discretion. Perhaps the onus should be the other way round, with the discretion to rule them out rather than in.

Or should we adopt the West Australian model, where video evidence means no child under 12 enters a witness box? Either way, the legal and, after this week, political winds of change are blowing. ]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome1999-03-20T00:00:00-08:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/687e4fd74eae8030bab01625e4c493c0-29.php#unique-entry-id-29http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/687e4fd74eae8030bab01625e4c493c0-29.php#unique-entry-id-29Queensland's Children's Commissioner Norm Alford quit this week in the face of a Criminal Justice Commission investigation and revelations by The Courier-Mail. Michael Ware reports


IT ALL began with the ramblings of a "drug-addicted transsexual". A man whose motives some tried carefully to dress up, using the subtlest of insinuations, as the perverse retribution of an unrequited love.

But it ended with the political killing of a champion for children's rights.

The ordeal has put the Queensland political system and the public through the sausage-grinder after a Criminal Justice Commission report this week forced ousted Children's Commissioner Norm Alford to resign.

The Children's Commissioner's role was always going to be a tough one, with Alford making it clear his mission was to rid the state of paedophilia and protect the rights of children.

"In my early 20s, when I was at university, I became shocked and acutely aware of the billions of hungry mouths in the world," he said. "I took a decision then that I wouldn't marry and contribute to the numbers of hungry mouths but I would do what I could to help the children already on the Earth."

Within nine months, he was attacking the CJC and police for failing to aggressively combat paedophile networks -- immediately putting him at loggerheads over files alleging official misconduct in relation to paedophilia.

On such a daring path he was bound to make enemies -- and he did in abundance. Not from the scores he helped but from those within politics who appeared to resent his uncompromising agenda.

But Alford also had -- and has -- his backers who cling to the wispy vestiges of a conspiracy or, instead, struggle with their personal reconciliation of the enigma that is Norm Alford.

They are trying to fit the man they knew as a bold adversary for children's rights to the now-bloodied image of the flawed public official.

Alford, 65, is a gentle, affable man who came from a small country town called Traveston, near Gympie. A man who, it was reported, was the dux of his high school, and a prestigious Fulbright scholar who became a teacher and administrator.

His career in the public service took him through the ranks of the Education Department, rising to become deputy director-general before taking a voluntary redundancy in 1990 with the change of government, only to return in 1996 as a researcher for the National Party family services minister. From there, he became Children's Commissioner.

Even today, he maintains a strong interest in Traveston, where he owns five properties, as well as two houses in Brisbane's "old money" suburb of Graceville.

He was not viewed by many as the ideal man for the job of Children's Commissioner, and even he admitted that he was not prepared for the role, telling the public service's in-house magazine 18 months ago that he "wasn't ready for the experience".

As a servant of government, Alford achieved much. As Children's Commissioner, he did not resile from what he believed had to be done for the sake of what's right.

In the performance of his official functions -- the watchdog over the treatment of children by government and the community -- it's hard to find an occasion when he wavered.

This week, however, it all fell apart -- not so much because of his public role, but more because of the fact it had intersected with his private life.

Alford quit over an alleged drug and misconduct scandal which has enveloped his former office.

An interim CJC report claimed a member of his staff -- a 22-year-old man with whom Alford has admitted having a physical relationship -- had allegedly used Alford's government-supplied car to deal drugs and allegedly used government computers to download pornography.

The young man was Michael Birnie, whom Alford met when the youth was a 17-year-old attendant at the McDonald's fast-food restaurant in Toowong Village. Alford, then working at various universities, helped Birnie with his tertiary applications.

But it was later, as Children's Commissioner, that he employed or, at the very least, allowed to be employed on his staff that same young man.

He then compounded his mismanagement by actions that suggest he protected and sponsored Birnie once he was given a junior administrative officer's job: twice reacting oddly to complaints of the young man's alleged wrongdoing.

From the first day of his appointment as Children's Commissioner, there had been a smear campaign against Alford, for his role was an unpopular one, with faceless political advisers whispering mean-spirited nothings to journalists in the parliamentary gallery at the time of his 1997 paedophilia report.

The attacks quickly became public, though, when he stoutly challenged the CJC and successive governments' histories of combating child sex issues. War erupted between his office and the anti-corruption body, with the Labor Party's forces on the flanks.

And when allegations against him were made to his office and the police by a transsexual man who had befriended Birnie at a popular gay hotel, Alford claimed it was yet another smear campaign.

But after a 16-week investigation, the "smear" has produced a case the CJC says Alford must answer. Meanwhile, police continue criminal investigations into unresolved allegations about Birnie's "unlawful drug-related activity" and pornography.

The scandal started brewing last August, when the transsexual called the Children's Commission and made allegations about Birnie, drugs, the Commissioner's car and the Commissioner.

As the CJC puts it, "rather than immediately refer the matter to the CJC, (Alford) directed that an internal investigation be conducted" into the young man with whom he had a physical relationship.

The transsexual also went to the police, who launched a secret investigation. Alford gave the names of purported drug dealers, which the transsexual had provided, to a police assistant commissioner, unaware he himself was under investigation.

About two weeks later, with the matter coming increasingly to a head within his own office, Alford bundled up his "investigation", including exculpatory statements for himself and Birnie, and sent it to then CJC chairman Frank Clair.

Alford's lawyer claims that in the three months after he gave his file to the CJC, the Children's Commissioner "had not received a reply from the CJC" and at no time "did the CJC in any way criticise any action" he took.

But on November 4, while he was being interviewed by The Courier-Mail, Alford rang Clair and spoke directly to him about the status of his information. It now appears Clair was necessarily circumspect.

Later that month, Premier Peter Beattie learnt of the matter and empowered the CJC to take over the investigation, which tried, unsuccessfully, throughout December and January to interview Alford and an "uncooperative" Birnie.

The CJC's governing body authorised use of the draconian "star chamber" on January 29 after Alford's lawyers notified investigators he would not speak to them of his own accord. During the star chamber's hearings between February 8 and 12, Alford admitted having a physical relationship with Birnie.

That proved a mortal blow.


IT'S an unexpected end for a Children's Commissioner who, before the furore, expressed a determination to "get on with his job", despite smear campaigns.

But as a long-surviving bureaucrat, schooled in the hard politics of the Bjelke-Petersen era, he well knew what was at stake, the level of scrutiny he would be under and the real meaning of accountability of government.

Wise in the ways of departmental politics, he spoke of personal victories over individual ministers in Bjelke-Petersen's former cabinets.

He was no innocent abroad.

In 1997, at the height of a tug-of-war over files about alleged official misconduct, he placed guards in his office to forestall any CJC raid. It was also he who repeatedly out-manoeuvred his own minister on a number of key issues while Children's Commissioner.

But as he stepped down this week, he said that he felt privileged to have assisted victims of child abuse through his office, saying: "I trust they will accept me into their ranks as a co-victim of systemic abuse."

While he made his enemies, though, Alford also made his friends and does not stand alone at this time.

Some of those he once helped, particularly from former children's homes such as Neerkol, have rallied behind him, calling themselves Alford's Army and have launched a legally dangerous attack on those they believe are behind his downfall.

The media also has come under attack. Critics have rejected the need for aggressive vigilance to ensure transparency in government and law enforcement. But when the Premier's advisers quip they do not advertise everything government does, when asked about a crucial review of crime-fighting agencies, many believe the need is clear, even when it comes to the Children's Commission.

The question now is who will take on the vital role of Children's Commissioner.


[SIDEBAR]
December 1996: Norm Alford, former schoolteacher and research officer with the department of Families, Youth and Community Care, is appointed by the Borbidge Coalition government as Queensland's Commissioner for Children -- the first such appointment in Australia. Alford's suitability for the position is questioned because he is a childless bachelor. He says this is the result of a decision he made as a young man.

June 1997: Alford refers two cases of alleged official misconduct by officers of the Families, Youth and Community Care Department to the Criminal Justice Commission. He attacks secrecy provisions contained in the Children's Services Act, saying they provide a shield for "unethical behaviour" by bureaucrats.

August 1997: Alford's report on paedophilia in Queensland is tabled in State Parliament and accuses the Criminal Justice Commission of failing to aggressively combat paedophile networks, and criticises the police Juvenile Aid Bureau and the Child Exploitation Unit for failing to give paedophilia a high priority. Alford says there is evidence that an interstate network of paedophiles, which included some high-profile Queensland figures, had been protected. A tug-of-war then develops between the Children's Commission and the CJC over files alleging official misconduct in relation to paedophilia.

September 1997: Alford upsets the people of Logan by calling the satellite city south of Brisbane "an unplanned social experiment" in a newspaper article. He also suggests, later in the month, that the State Government should consider castrating convicted paedophiles.

March 1998: Alford attacks the Families, Youth and Community Care Department for contravening the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, and says his office is receiving about 10 complaints a day about the department.

April 1998: Alford calls for adoption reform and suggests the Government consider laws which would terminate the rights of natural parents who had chronically abused or neglected their children.

August 1998: Alford's report on allegations of abuse at the Neerkol orphanage is tabled in Parliament. It claims the Families, Youth and Community Care Department hindered the investigation.

November 1998: The Courier-Mail reports that Alford is at the centre of a police, CJC and Crime Commission investigation into the activities of a junior administrative officer on his staff who is a close personal friend. The allegations relate to how Michael Birnie, 22, was appointed to the commission, and use of Alford's government-supplied car to allegedly deal drugs. Alford himself says that he is being targeted in a smear campaign by a "drug addicted transsexual". Alford says there has been no physical or improper relationship between himself and Birnie, and denies wrongdoing over Birnie's appointment. Alford agrees to stand aside and Birnie is suspended on full pay during the investigation.

December 1998: Investigations are intensified following the discovery of alleged child pornography on a Children's Commission computer. Photographs taken at Alford's home which suggest a "level of openness" between himself and Birnie are also said to exist.

February 1999: Alford is summonsed to appear before a CJC investigative hearing to answer allegations of misconduct.

March 1999: Birnie resigns from the public service. The Courier-Mail reports that Alford told CJC investigators under cross-examination during an investigative hearing that there was a physical element to his relationship with Birnie. Alford resigns on March 17 as Children's Commissioner, claiming he has been a victim of "systematic abuse" and has lost confidence in the CJC. "While maintaining absolute innocence of any wrongdoing, legal costs to date have been considerable and I simply cannot afford the further costs of pursuing justice through the legal system," Alford says in a statement. ]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome1998-05-16T00:00:00-07:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/7f61d0588509dee240b5671a9444f3bb-28.php#unique-entry-id-28http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/7f61d0588509dee240b5671a9444f3bb-28.php#unique-entry-id-28Male prostitution is flourishing in Queensland. A special investigation by Courier-Mail reporters Matthew Fynes-Clinton and Michael Ware sheds light on a dark side of Brisbane

WHILE much of Brisbane sleeps, a few of its teenaged sons lurk under the massive canopy of a century-old weeping fig tree in Albert Park, Spring Hill.

Their shapes are faint in the virtual blackness. The tree is 12m in from the poorly lit Wickham Tce frontage to the park -- 7.5ha of rolling grounds with an amphitheatre in the middle and the gable of Brisbane Boys Grammar School's Great Hall just visible in the distance.

Outreach workers recall one night last January when the slatted bench which runs in a continuous square around the tree -- known to insiders as "The Tree of Knowledge" -- was chockers. Sixteen fresh-faced males, some of them possibly as young as 17, had come to try to sell their bodies.

Their clients? By and large, they are the city's fathers.

"Shaun", 21, who turned his first trick as a 15-year-old male prostitute in Sydney, has worked Albert Park for the past four years. He says the park is the hub of Brisbane's open-air male prostitution activity, in exactly the same way as a strip along Brunswick St, New Farm, functions for female sex workers.

Yet somehow Albert Park and its surrounds have been shielded from parallel notoriety. Maybe no one wants to know. Maybe no one knows.

At 12.20am on a Friday, a man and a woman are embracing while sitting on a low brick wall outside the Soho Hotel. They are on the corner where Wickham Tce bends and heads for the Holy Spirit Hospital, the Old Windmill and the suddenly rarefied air of its medical precinct.

The lovers stare into space, oblivious to the signals (his saunter, the drawn-out sweep of his hand through his hair) of a smartly dressed teenager who has been pacing the footpath on the other side of the road.

Cars pull in to the kerb. They are vehicles, more often than not, exuding status: four-wheel drives, BMWs, near-new hatchbacks.

The drivers generally stay in their seats, sometimes flicking on the interior light, on other occasions opening the passenger door a fraction. If the sex worker, or "rent boy", does not know the potential client, also referred to as a "John" or "Mug", it may be minutes before he makes an approach. Then again, the driver may just be "window shopping" and will take off before contact occurs.

The whole process, so reliant on posturing, is incredibly subtle -- too easy to observe absently and think: "So what?"

However, when that question is properly addressed, some alarming truths emerge. Shaun claims that 80 percent of his clients are married men.


TWO children's car seats strapped into a station wagon's rear bench seat.

This is what used to greet Shaun whenever he'd get into the car of one of his regular clients at the Albert Park pick-up zone.

Shaun still services the client. About 10.30 on Thursday night last week, the station wagon swept into a parking bay near the Tree of Knowledge. Shaun walked out into the slightly brighter light and the pair drove away to the vacant car lot of a nearby business.

Shaun masturbated the driver (the industry term for the service is "hand relief"). His fee was $50.

But the client had detached the children's seats, placing them in the boot of the wagon before seeing Shaun. Shaun explains he had become so "disgusted" performing sex acts in the man's car with his two children's seats in full view that he requested him some time ago to at least put them in the boot.

"It was a case of out of sight, out of mind," Shaun says.

"I feel guilty if I'm looking at kids' car seats while I'm pleasing somebody, because you think, `I could be destroying someone's marriage'. You think, `this is pretty bad' because this guy's got kids and he's got a wife and they don't know about this.

"But, at the same time, you've got to think, `Well, this person's making this decision -- not me'. At least now he knows that he's got to put those seats in the back before he arrives."

Last year, the same client dropped his wife in the City to do last-minute Christmas shopping before he drove to Albert Park, a couple of minutes away, for another session of sex with Shaun.

Other Albert Park rent boys nominate early Thursday evening for the best trade of the week. As well as being pay day for many of their clients, a pattern has emerged where husbands transport their wives to late-night suburban shopping outlets, then scoot off to the park for a paid sexual liaison with a young man -- making sure they are back in time to collect their partner and the groceries.

"It's basically a quick get-off session," Shaun says. "A lot of it's hand relief and oral sex. We'll normally drive to a dark street, pull over, get it over and done with and then they bring me back here (Albert Park).

"A lot of the time, all they've done is duck out from their wives for half-an-hour, so it's got to be quick."

Earlier this year, the group Self-health for Queensland Workers in the Sex Industry (SQWISI) convinced privately sponsored drug and alcohol agency Drug-Arm of the urgency of getting health and emotional support to the sex workers of Albert Park.

Ten weeks ago, a Drug-Arm mini-bus made the first of its now regular Thursday night visits to the park: serving tea and coffee, taking blood and urine samples and distributing clean needles, condoms and health literature from a position it takes up in Wickham Tce, usually diagonally opposite the imposing Hotel Grand Chancellor.

For SQWISI's male and trans-gender project officer Bradley Reuter, who forms part of the outreach team along with a Brisbane Sexual Health clinician and two Drug-Arm volunteers, securing the service was a milestone. Even if the demands on Drug-Arm at other locations (including a scheduled contact stop at New Farm for the female sex workers) mean the van can only remain at the park for about two hours.

Reuter, 29, says he and a friend from the Brisbane Youth Service began trying to help the Albert Park workers 18 months ago. "I was just hearing all these stories from other agencies about the amount of sex work that was happening and I just thought, `Oh my God, we've got to do something'," Reuter recounts.

"It took a long time for the boys to realise they could trust us. So, you know, after going up there night after night and handing out hundreds of condoms and cigarettes -- they all smoke -- we formed relationships with a number of workers. Then as soon as we would leave, the others would scuttle over to them and get the run-down."

Reuter says the warm January night that flushed out 16 workers astonished him. "I think it was just a case of finding them all up there at the same time," he says.

"To find six of them would be more normal. We would think eight is a busy night."

Reuter says they generally range in age from 18 to early 20s. In no way can the men who desire intimacy with them be construed as paedophiles.

"But a high percentage of clients are middle-aged, married men," Reuter confirms.

"And it's a worry because gay men are really social. It's quite easy to tap into that community and educate it through nightclubs, venues, newspapers and that sort of thing...

"But now this new term, `Men who have sex with men', has come in. These people say, `I'm not gay. I'm married and I've got two kids at home. I just, you know, want to play touch wee-wees with another man occasionally -- and there's no need to wear condoms because HIV is a poofters' disease'.

"Because they're not openly gay, that's a really hard section of the community to get information to. The boys get told the `I'm straight. I only sleep with my wife' scenario. I just try to tell them ... I just hope they're using the condoms that I give out constantly."

Shaun says he will not insist that a client to whom he is giving oral sex wears a condom. He says he is screened every three months for HIV and a range of sexually-transmitted diseases (STDs) including hepatitis B, which has been prevalent among gay men of late.

The "park rates" are $50 for hand relief or oral sex and $100 for anal sex. But Shaun charges more for both oral sex ($80) and to receive anal sex (offered as part of a $130 hourly booking for which the client is invited back to his near-city unit).

Wearing a matching long-sleeve shirt and hugging trousers in black polyester, Shaun is well-spoken and says the higher prices are in keeping with his experience and his drug-free status.

On a good night, he could make more than $500. He spends his money on rent, bills, clothes and other disposables.

"There's boys up here who are not with it. They're drugged off their nut," Shaun says.

"When that happens, there's also a one in five chance that they're going to rob the client.

"Another problem is that a lot of people on drugs seem to get STDs a lot quicker. I tell the client that, with me, they know what they're getting. And I know what I'm doing."

Reuter says the rent boys gravitate to Albert Park from all sorts of backgrounds and histories. Some are gay, like Shaun, but others maintain girlfriends.


HE SAYS a proportion are "ridgy-didge street kids". "For them, it always starts the same way. They're not looking for it. It's opportunistic," Reuter says.

"Someone offers them money for a fiddle in the dark. And they might also get supplied with food or a roof over their heads.

"The money pays for cigarettes, drugs, a pair of Reeboks or whatever, so of course they're going to come back the next night and do it again. It's not going to be opportunistic for long."

Could they also hail from the other side of the tracks?

"I have known workers who drive themselves up in cars that mummy and daddy have bought them,'' is Reuter's dead-pan reply.

"They have nice, gorgeous little Italian leather shoes. And they work because it's a cool thing to do. It's bizarre."

Yet as disturbing as Reuter's insights are, the real tragedy is that they only touch the surface. While this newspaper did not see any evidence of child prostitution taking place at Albert Park over the past two weeks, it has been collating information for a year on the evil committed by paedophile rings in Australia.

It is a fact that many of the young men who work as prostitutes in Albert Park are only there because as children they were corrupted by paedophiles. Three former victims of organised paedophilia are now ready to publicise their stories.


THE direct but uncorroborated evidence they have provided to The Courier-Mail comes closer than ever to uncovering the past operations of a sinister web that linked paedophile groups in Queensland with those in southern states -- and may still be active.

Some of the allegations date back to the late 1970s, involving names such as one-time Brisbane radio announcer Bill Hurrey, ex-Queensland police constable Dave Moore and the former mayor of Wollongong, Frank Arkell.

While Hurrey and Moore have been convicted of paedophilia-related offences and Arkell is before the courts, Australian law enforcement agencies still display a tendency to rebuff the accounts of victims as unverifiable.

Queensland's Criminal Justice Commission has denied responsibility, stating such criminal activity is not within its jurisdiction.

Meanwhile, more and more current and former child sex workers are managing to tell the same stories. Featuring many of the same players...


IN THE late 1970s and early 1980s, "Grant" was a youth toying with drugs and earning his apprenticeship in petty crime. It was then that he met a known Brisbane paedophile.

Grants claims that while he was staying with the man, he began to witness a seemingly endless parade of children through the man's home.

He says the man, who has been the subject of a number of police investigations, usually would befriend boys on the streets and offer them accommodation, food and drugs.

The boys came to be treated lavishly. They were wined and dined and taken to parties and nightclubs.

Before long, the typical fare of male pornography, sensation-heightening amyl-nitrate or "rush" and probing touches would be introduced.

Many of the boys had been inducted into the "scene" already, having prostituted themselves in the city's public toilets, train stations and streets.

The boys would supply sex to the man and his friends in and around Brisbane.

Grant says that, from time to time, the man would offer the boys a chance to have an all-expenses-paid holiday to Sydney or Melbourne. Snapping at the chance, the boys were told they would have to work to pay their way.

According to Grant, the man believed that an older youth travelling with 13 and 14-year-old boys was far less suspicious than a middle-aged businessman. That was where he came in.

He says he was asked on a number of occasions to "accompany" the boys on flights or to drive them to their southern destinations. He was 17 when he embarked on such a journey for the first time.

Grant would deliver the boys to addresses handed to him before he left Brisbane. He was met by particular men who would accept the "transfer".

Grant says he can recall dropping off boys to men's parties at private homes. The children were then taken to bedrooms to entertain the guests.

He says he would not see the boys again until returning to the address two or three days later to collect them.

One trip still reels in his mind.

In the early 1980s, towards the end of a week, the Brisbane man told Grant he had a job for him if he wanted to spend the weekend in Sydney. Grant's role was to drop off someone along the way.

Provided with a car, Grant says he drove an Asian boy -- whose age he guesses at 13 or 14 -- across the border.

By twilight on Friday, he had arrived at the destination: an address in Wollongong where a man was waiting. Invited inside briefly, Grant says he can still remember the fine details of the house's interior.

At the time, he was unaware of the identity of the man awaiting the Asian boy. But the address -- 1 Reserve St -- was that of disgraced Wollongong mayor Frank Arkell.


THOUGH uncorroborated, Grant's tale is the first piece of first-hand evidence establishing a meaningful connection between a Brisbane paedophile group and the alleged Wollongong network fostered by Arkell.

It was this alleged network that was exposed by the ground-breaking Wood royal commission into police corruption in New South Wales.

Grant has told The Courier-Mail that he returned to Arkell's house two days later. He says he had to wait in the mayor's living room for the boy.

It was obvious from the boy's condition on the long drive back to Brisbane that his weekend in Wollongong had caused enormous discomfort, Grant says.

In fact, the boy was in such pain he could not sit properly. He spent most of the 14-hour trip laying on his stomach.

Grant returned the boy to the Brisbane man's home where they both stayed for a couple of nights. After that, Grant says, he never saw the boy again.

When he grew older, Grant broke away from the Brisbane man and the sleazy underworld he had fallen into. Now in his mid 30s, he has re-built his life.

Police sources, while unable to quantify the extent of it, have confirmed Grant's involvement with the Brisbane paedophile.

The man eventually was convicted of child sex offences. He was brought undone through his predatory relationship with a 15-year-old boy whom he had plucked from the streets.


"JAMIE" knew the man as well. Living on Brisbane's suburban fringe, Jamie discovered there was money to be made by skipping school and catching a train into the City.

At 15, Jamie began offering himself to men in public toilets. Working what he describes as the "lunchtime crowd", he would wait at the King George Square toilets for strangers who paid him $20 to give them oral sex in a filthy cubicle.

"There was no shortage of business down there, or at Albert Park, or at the North Quay toilets," says Jamie, now in his late 30s.

"After a while I came to know what they'd want; I learnt how to really milk the lunch crowd.

"I would catch the train to school in the mornings but I would get off at a different station and take the train heading in the opposite direction to Brisbane.

"Normally I had a change of clothes in my bag. But when I went to work I would put my school uniform back on. I'd hang around the toilets in my sports uniform and that really got business going.

"It was a real turn-on for them and it made things more lucrative for me."

Men he met in the toilets would ask to see him again elsewhere. Some arranged for him to come back to the city in the evening to go to nightclubs and restaurants.

Consequently, Jamie met the paedophile who Grant says used him to traffic other children.

This led to associations with a new spectrum of men wishing to fawn over him. Jamie was blonde and fit with a striking, angular face.

In the late 1970s, Jamie says he was introduced to a colourful, outgoing group of men who liked to live the high life and who enjoyed Brisbane's burgeoning gay scene.

He says he slept with a range of people in this upwardly mobile circle. He was rewarded with money or gifts.


THROUGH the scene he met Bill Hurrey, an outlandish and enormously popular ABC radio personality. A meeting with Hurrey's friend, police Constable Dave Moore, followed soon after. Hurrey and Moore were part of a clique whose members delighted in calling each other by pet names stolen from famous female movie sirens.

By age 17, Jamie had left Brisbane to work as a full-time prostitute in brothels and agencies in southern states. However, he says that as a fledgling prostitute in Brisbane he was also used in photographic shoots.

Amateurish photographs were taken of him engaging in a variety of sexual exploits with a menagerie of men, he claims.

Again, Jamie's account cannot be substantiated. But police have asked him to help with evidence in the past and he can rattle off the names of other boys who were entangled with him.


FORMER Wollongong schoolboy John David says he suffered sexual assault from the age of four until he was 17.

David, who assisted the Wood royal commission, says the abuse meted out to him in his home environment turned into an enforced commercial enterprise when a family member exposed him to a network of paedophiles.

He says the relative who first began sexually assaulting him was involved with other Wollongong men who traded in underage sex. The men included Arkell and another former Wollongong mayor Tony Bevan, who died in 1991 of cancer.

Arkell, 67, has been committed to face trial on child sex charges involving three alleged victims.

Maintaining contact by mail and through furtive conversations from public telephones, the men would arrange meetings at which children were provided for sexual purposes. David identified to the royal commission 10 Wollongong addresses where he claims he was taken and abused.

Much of David's recollections relate to incidents that occurred 30 years ago. They have proven virtually impossible to corroborate with physical evidence.

But 10 years before Grant's experience with the trafficking of young boys between a Brisbane paedophile group and other loose networks around the country, David says he was shipped to the Gold Coast to "meet" a group of Queenslanders.

It was autumn 1969 and he was aged 12. David says his relative drove him to the coast, while other men travelled up from the Illawarra district in their cars.

The major contact on the Gold Coast was a grossly overweight and flamboyantly dressed man, his face overrun by a grey beard.

David claims he was taken to the fat man's Broadbeach unit, where his relative made him stay. The apartment had views to the beach and was adorned with expensive furniture and artefacts.

David says that over the next four days, men and women sexually assaulted him and a number of other boys and girls.

"The (Broadbeach) man was the main organiser. He knew the clients, who seemed to live in the Surfers Paradise area as they were able to travel quickly to the premises," David says.

"My (relative) was paid for his organising of selling the children. The (Broadbeach) man would organise beforehand and phone perpetrators, telling them that `the goods had arrived' and arrange times.

"The men would pay the (Broadbeach) man for the abuse and he would then pay my relative. I distinctly remember the cash transactions. The perpetrators would pay before the abuse. They would select the children in the lounge-room and take them to the bedrooms."


DAVID says he and the other children were fondled, digitally penetrated, raped and urinated on in the three bedrooms of the high-rise unit.

"There were children from other areas," he says. "I remember my relative asking people where they were from. It was New South Wales -- mainly Sydney but also Tamworth -- and rural Queensland ... Toowoomba."

David says his relative made the Gold Coast connection through a man he believes to have been either Arkell or Bevan.

Confidential witness W26 told the royal commission his abuse began with his scout leader, before he was "recruited" by Bevan to service a number of his paedophile associates.

Bevan was a paedophile, who, in an example of his obsessiveness, recorded many of his conversations with other paedophiles across Australia and overseas.

In hundreds of taped exchanges, Bevan referred to the existence of organised paedophile groups throughout Australia, to child sex tourism and to a Wollongong "paedophile school".

The tapes were handed to the Wood royal commission. The pattern of recruitment, "advertising" and trafficking which was revealed mirrors David's statement to The Courier-Mail.

The National Crime Authority last year concluded that "as indicated by the Bevan tapes, paedophiles within Australia have organised and actively recruited (and may still be recruiting) children as prostitutes for paedophile groups".

But Queensland police efforts in the 1980s to target child molesters were limited. Evidence given to the CJC's recent Kimmins inquiry into paedophile-related corruption ran into another dead end.

None of the paedophile investigators from the 1980s who testified at the inquiry could conclusively show direct interference or hindrance. Although it appears some requests for assistance were ignored or only sparingly met.

In one instance, during September 1982, a father and son gave statements that Hurrey and Moore had been pressuring a boy to agree to perform sexual acts with men in a "blue movie". Hurrey and Moore were going to produce the film.

The boy told police the pair offered him $200 -- and had assured him boys he knew had helped them make other movies.

Moore and Hurrey told the boy the films were regularly distributed to Melbourne.

His father called in the police, after overhearing one of these discussions.

But the investigating officer's request for surveillance was denied, because, according to corrupt former commissioner Terry Lewis, the police did not spy on their own.

In the same era, other boys told police how they had made pornographic films for suspected paedophiles. They pinpointed addresses in south-east Queensland where the films were shot and named each of the men involved.

Police produced little in the way of results, their investigations too often conducted in a beleaguered and ad hoc manner.

Boys prostituting themselves on Brisbane's streets today continue to tell shocking stories of abuse and child pornography. Without prompting, many of the offenders' names given by the boys belong to the same perpetrators of 15 years ago.

In June 1995, the Queensland Child Exploitation Unit launched a probe into an organised paedophile group believed to have been importing Asian boys for sex work.

"Operation Hinge" was triggered by new intelligence and its findings are still unknown. But one startling bit of information is that many of the 1995 paedophile targets were men identified to police in 1984.

No Queensland law enforcement agency has ever been able to locate a locally made child porn video -- despite the recurring admissions of participation from young boys.

So the questions still linger.

Did it really happen? Is it happening now? ]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome1996-01-24T00:00:00-08:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/91ef647d066be5753a84518e4502133c-27.php#unique-entry-id-27http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/91ef647d066be5753a84518e4502133c-27.php#unique-entry-id-27If the law won't come to the Internet, then it seems the Internet is coming to the law. MICHAEL WARE reports.

AN Internet star chamber is evolving in the United States with cyber-magistrates about to oversee virtual courtrooms.

"Will the defendant click here to plead not guilty and download his defence?"

The virtual-courtroom move was announced last month by a panel of legal and computer-science experts at the Georgetown University Law School in Washington state.

Tired of the legal quagmire which policing copyright, trademark and censorship laws has become with the Net, the board wants virtual magistrates to determine Internet cases.

Given the international, freewheeling nature of the Net, it has been impossible for conventional legal frameworks to keep pace in cyberspace.

Conflicting legal standards, jurisdictional discrepancies of unprecedented proportions and the impossibility of preventing offences have forced the hand of the Net guardians.

In many ways such a move is not surprising. The law has had a cautious and somewhat tentative feel for the Net and other emerging information technologies. Old worlds colliding with the new.

Yet with a hiccupped, truncated kind of enthusiasm, both the profession and the law are bracing themselves to deliver.

Bill Bennett, editor of PC Magazine Australia, recognises the difficulties with protecting legal rights on the Net, but muses about the legal profession's reticence in adopting new technologies.

"The crux of the matter (with the cyber courts) is who gets chosen to be a virtual magistrate," he said. "The concept in its purest form is great, but we all know that trying to control the Internet is a controversial issue.

"And with information, there are governments that want to put things on-line, but there are companies who make money from putting these things into other forms.

"The real issue is not technology but money. The legal profession has a real problem with using the technology to make this information accessible because I think they do not want to de-mystify the law."

But not everyone in the profession has been slow to make the change.

Within 30 minutes of the US Supreme Court handing down a decision, it is available on the Net, and lawyers armed with laptops and modems can cite the authority immediately in court.

In Florida, the state legislature has set the pace with "On-line Sunshine'', the government/legal site to beat them all.

Florida's lawmakers produce up to 20 megabytes of statutes a day during their annual 60-day sessions, but it is all reproduced on the Net within days. Members of the public can browse through and search statutes, lobbyist information and calendars, all with hyperlinks and all updated daily.

A measure of the interest the site has generated is that 1451 people visited it every week in the first five weeks.

Other well-established sites include the American Civil Liberties Union and the US federal criminal statutes.

The High Court of Australia recently allowed its decisions to be posted on the Net. The move has been ground-breaking considering the prevarication by other superior courts in Australia.

One Queensland court is said to have been poised to publish its decisions on-line for the past two years, but has chosen not to.

Two sources for local legal information are the Australian Legal Information Index and the Australasian Legal Information Institute (but this one can be quite slow).

The interesting thing about the Legal Information Index is that it is the creation of an Australian National University undergraduate, Dan Austin, who must get very little study done, given the amount of work required to maintain this site.

Butterworths, the legal publisher, also has an excellent site with a wonderful collection of links, including a list of all the government sites on the Net. The tragedy was that Queensland was the only state without any sites whatsoever -- but, as of last Friday, there is now a Queensland Government home page.

Searchable indices of federal and state legislation are the most useful sites, but Queensland statutes will not be found, due, it is said, to a jealous guarding of copyright by the State Government.

Although very few Australian law firms are on the Net (Butterworths' list of firms on the Net is seven names long), some are eagerly embracing advances in information technology.

Databases of statutory regimes and common-law precedents have been developed, first as in-house reference guides then as saleable products for major clients.

Feez Ruthning offers its clients an environmental law database replete with all the relevant obligations, offences and penalties.

"There is no doubt this is a growth area," Feez Ruthning executive director John Hall said. "Clients will be better informed. They won't have to come to us for everything.

"We see ourselves in the future having to target the problem-solving side of the law, no longer the day-to-day things. Databases like this will release us from that.

"These, and greater electronic communication with clients, colleagues and government, will make for a much more effective profession; more timely, but much more stressful."

Greater communication through e-mail, the Internet and other networks will make clients the winners, according to many.

"It comes down to better client service. Lawyers are information dealers," Clayton Utz's Geoff Hartley said.

"Information of itself is worth nothing; but the right information at the right time is worth a great deal. It is really about offering clients a faster response because we have quick access to more information."]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome1995-04-01T00:00:00-08:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/97f4dbd876d805f98d11ca703849dd4b-24.php#unique-entry-id-24http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/97f4dbd876d805f98d11ca703849dd4b-24.php#unique-entry-id-24MORE than 13 million travellers a year pass through the hands of Australia's airport Customs officers. The officers' powers in some areas exceed those of police. MICHAEL WARE reports.

The hypersensitive wet nose of the sniffer dog dabbed every passenger from flight TG987 queueing at Brisbane's international airport Customs desk and moved on.

Until I made my mistake.

As the dog approached me, I gave him a short hello. The friendly canine leapt up and pressed his front paws against me. I gave him a scratch behind the ear and his minder led him off.

But the four-legged Customs employee was not so easily distracted.

No matter how much further along the line of passengers he went he kept straining on his leash to get back to me.

After the search was over he was rewarded by his handler with his customary soft toy and immediately raced down and dropped it at my feet.

This, I thought, was getting ridiculous. I had arrived at 11am tired and a little dishevelled and keen to see my waiting friends and family.

I had been backpacking through Vietnam and Cambodia for five weeks with a one-night stopover in Bangkok.

The Customs officers had marked me as a suspected drug smuggler.

By the time I had collected my bags from the carousel I had been "casually" approached by three members of what I presumed to be the Sierra Team -- a unit that operates at all Australian airports to interact with potential suspects.

In my case, all three times, it pretty much went like this: "Morning sir. Can I see your passport please? Where'd you go? Vietnam, eh? How was that? Any problems?"

No, it was good actually, thanks.

"Business or holiday? Bit of both huh? Whaddya do? Journalist, yeah? Did you find much while you were over there? No, oh well. Thank you sir."

In the baggage hall, the first of the Customs officers who had spoken to me ushered me by the elbow to a desk. I placed my bags on the bench and my ordeal began.

I was asked if I packed my bags myself (yes), was I aware of their contents (yes), did I leave them unattended at any time (no) and was I carrying any prohibited substances (no).

He then proceeded to go through every single thing in my bags. He studied my film canisters, he strangled my toothpaste.

Hw was soon joined by another officer. I dismantled my camera and surrendered my notebooks for inspection.

"So, do you have any drugs on you? Anything you want to tell us
about?" -- No, I do not have any drugs.

"Nothing you're trying to bring back?" -- No.

"No pot, eh? Nothing to smoke? But you tried some while you were over there?" -- No.

"Did you see any drugs? No? You must have. Well, how about narcotics. Are you carrying any narcotics?" -- No, I can guarantee it.

"You can, huh? Did you do any while you were there? Come on, you can tell me, I don't care what you did while you were there so long as you don't try to bring any back with you." -- No. I did not do any drugs.

"But did you do any narcotics while you were over there?" -- No.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said.

They told me the reason I was being searched was the dog had alerted them to the fact that I was carrying something.

They turned my bags inside out and pulled at every loose thread. They came up blank.

I was escorted to a room off to the side and I was informed of their plan for me. I was given a copy of the relevant provision of the Customs Act covering my rights.

Then the officers left and two new ones came in ... wearing surgical gloves.

I was instructed to strip, one item of clothing at a time in the order they dictated: shoes, belt, T-shirt, jeans and finally underpants.

After the ordeal, the senior officer returned and told me I was free to go. I quietly repacked my bags, trudged out to meet my waiting family and left the terminal as fast as I could.

My homecoming was one I know I will never forget.]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome1994-03-11T00:00:00-08:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/be870a25eef3ddd610a366ea0e3b7f2e-25.php#unique-entry-id-25http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/be870a25eef3ddd610a366ea0e3b7f2e-25.php#unique-entry-id-25By ANDREW DAWSON

Michael Ware's head was in a spin when he tumbled from his motorcycle and was seriously injured in early 1990. Yesterday Ware's life was again in a spin, this time in celebration of his call to reinforce the 28-man Queensland rugby union touring party in Argentina.

The GPS hooker, 24, will leave today for South America after answering an SOS from Queensland coach John Connolly to replace first-choice hookers Michael Foley (ribs) and Brendan Cannon (concussion).

An associate to Mr Justice Tony Fitzgerald, Ware has dropped everything at work to grab a chance, which first emerged in 1990. That season Connolly had gone to a club match between GPS and University at St Lucia to check the form of Anthony Herbert and Isei Siganiyavi, but came away raving about Ware.

Ware was bound for the state reserves bench in the match against Auckland when, one week later, he was thrown from his bike in a collision with a car.

Ware sustained head and back injuries, and a broken and dislocated shoulder, while bruising of his brain affected his memory and concentration. As a result, he did not play again until 1992.

"I came back in 1992 but my shoulder kept dislocating," Ware said. "I saw Dr Peter Myers and he diagnosed it as a broken shoulder and put me in for a reconstruction. Last season I missed two-thirds of the season recovering from the operation but played the last seven matches."

Ware, his frame as light as 87kg when he returned, has started this season weighing 103kg after undertaking a weights and dietary programme in the off-season.

Ware is originally out of the Alex Evans stable after being coached by the former Wallaby assistant coach throughout his secondary schooling at Brisbane Grammar School.

Ware could be thrust straight into Sunday's match against the powerful Tucuman.]]>Cynthia@mickware.comWelcome1986-10-22T00:00:00-07:00http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/93827d2d10534cb07ef3851723ae1274-26.php#unique-entry-id-26http://www.mickware.com/MoreWork/EarlyWork/files/93827d2d10534cb07ef3851723ae1274-26.php#unique-entry-id-26By EATON M

As jobs grow harder and harder to find and the Prime Minister tells us to tighten our belts, the prospect of finishing school and entering the workforce is a daunting one to many.

When you look through the employment column of city newspapers, it's easy to see that the majority of jobs are for professional people.

For people who have specialised in one specific area and have a university degree to back up their skills.

But degrees, like jobs, are in many cases becoming harder and harder to obtain. Each year the number of school leavers increases, though the number of university and technical institute places is not rising at the same rate.

We asked some of this year's grade 12 students about their thoughts on their future when they leave school and further study...



Michael Ware, 17, from Brisbane Boys Grammar, says he couldn't handle having to repeat final year. He wants to get it right the first time. He reckons on going close to a score of 970. With that he will study arts/law.

That sort of course has been in his thinking for the past two years, dating back to when he chose his subjects for the final two years of school. He is in the lucky position of being happy and confident about doing just what he wants, with the right subjects to help him along.

While Michael sees faults in the present school system he is realistic about the situation. "The system is not perfect but its the only one we have got, so we have to try to work in it. No one is ever really confident."

For the 230 grade 12s at Grammar that meant a concerted effort on the ASAT, with a view to lots of study for the end of the year.

But maybe a more individualised system would be better for deciding on tertiary entrance. "Everyone thinks TE is marks and how hard you work for two years, but perhaps that is not the best way of judging whether you would be good in a profession."

Michael suggests personal interviews to sound out course applicants, although he concedes that such a process would be very time consuming.
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