Ballina to Taree, NSW

I have fallen so far behind on my blog. The photos will show where we've been. From Ballina to Taree, as the title suggests!

Did you all have a lovely Christmas? New Years?

I was in Kempsey with friends I met whilst travelling, Denise & Dennis, over Christmas, and stayed in a nun's front garden. Not a euphemism. I missed out on Big Ben tolling in the New Year, Australian TV is skewed to only showing everything Australian. You'd genuinely think the rest of the world didn't exist.

We're back at Taree Showgrounds (where we originally turned around and headed north due to the floods). Dick is having an assessment for his assistance dog scheme thingy on Friday. The 13th. Everything south of here is new ground.

So, today's topic of discussion is inequality.

I've never considered myself a feminist. In fact, I've traditionally looked down on the movement in the past, wondering what they were all going on about and repelled by the hairy armpits and lack of deodorant. Why would they want to burn their bras? They're really expensive!

But then I joined South Australia Police (SAPOL) and experienced sexism, racism, cronyism, narcissism, gas lighting and misogyny in all their vast ugliness. I was once given a 'lawful order' (not lawful at all) by a Sergeant to either do the washing up or go and do the bail checks whilst the 'men' went to intercept an armed offender from an organised crime group.

Knowing the Sergeant was a grossly incompetent howling moron, I gleefully skipped off into the night laughing to myself at the monumental balls up they'd make of the job and wondering who would shoot themselves with the station rifle by mistake. Naturally, they embarrassed themselves. And I could not contain my glee when the Superintendent demanded the 'Please Explain' the following day, by joyfully declaring I'd been ordered to do the washing up.

Ultimately, I had my revenge. Once when I left that country town and then again during both of the industrial tribunals where I joyfully aired their dirty laundry in public.

The bosses at that country station are no longer allowed to leave work at 11am on a Friday morning, get into their job cars and spend the rest of the day on the golf course. One was made to retire and the boss was punishment posted back to HQ to manage a broom cupboard. Been meaning to send them a thank you card for paying for my 40 acre retirement fund.

During a typical business meeting, the men folk will dominate 75% of the discussion. And a recent study in America has shown that men will interrupt women 47 out of 48 times, during that same meeting.

Typically, it's unconscious bias at work. Men demonstrating their unconscious belief that they are superior - because that behaviour is rooted in inequality. Often, he is ignorant of his behaviour. Some, the ones who like to sneer that 'women are only good for gossiping', which I heard constantly as I grew up, not so unconscious. We'd love to Bob, if only we could get a word in.

I was recently subjected to a manalogue from a bloke who stated that sexism doesn't exist. Trying to gas light me by shutting me down, telling me it wasn't real. How would he know? He's not a woman, therefore would never experience it. A man, mansplaining to a woman that sexism doesn't exist? The very definition of sexism. How about the man who manterrupts her to say: "Not all men!" It's him. He's the problem.

The subject is not debatable. Women earn less than men. Women are under-represented in the higher echelons of management. Women are underepresented in government. Women are more likely to be sexually assaulted by men, and are more likely to be murdered by men. These stats are publicly available on Google Scholar.

That brings me to today. When we arrived here in Taree, it was bloody hot. It is the middle of the Australian summer. I'd almost finished setting up the van, which takes around 45 minutes, was sweating my hole out (Australianism) and doing the very last job of hammering in the last peg for the awning guy ropes. I was being hindered by a layer of stones, so there was muttering and probably some quiet swearing.

A man appeared from the van next door, confirming, quite unnecessarily, that there were stones. 'Try again Bob. I think your brain fell out' The narrator inside my head replied.

He commenced a lengthy manalogue about the incorrect angles of my guy ropes and the physics of why they should be further out front. I was telling him why, because "Jog on, you patronising jerk" seemed rude - when he manterrupted after two words, took the hammer out of my hand and told me to move out of the way. As he used my hammer to hammer in my awning peg, he next began questioning how I'd attached the guy ropes to the awning. And proceeded to question the angle at which I had my awning.

You can picture my face, I'm sure. The narrowing of the eyes, the folding of the arms, the enquiring right eyebrow having flown off my face, disappearing into my hairline.

I took a deep breath.

"The awning is at that angle for privacy. To prevent nosy neighbours from watching everything I do, then wandering over here telling me I'm doing it wrong. Do you see? How perfect the angle is to suit just that purpose? It is astonishing. How I've travelled alone for a year and not needed your help. Or anyone to mansplain the physics of guy ropes. Thanks. For hammering in the last peg. Allow me to swoon." Then meandered off for a contemplative poo.

Feminism. Yeah.Read more