The Terrace is empty now, for the briefest of moments silence reigns on this battle torn street. Only the wind runs down the canyon created by the skyscrapers. A thin grey light has started to seep in before the sunrise. Sheets of yesterdays newspaper, plastic bags, and a thin trail of heavy black smoke describe the wind with their journey east. The low smouldering burn rises from the wreck of a heavy looking Kona outside 77. A small stain on the cracked pavement just beyond the bikes charred remains shows where the rider was felled. Further down, across the Barrack street intersection two car wrecks, long since burnt out and destroyed, have been dragged into the street. Around one side of them spent shell casings, a broken 700cc wheel set for a road bike, the rear wheel has a scaffolding pole sticking out of it, the front is bent at almost a 90 degree angle. Across the street from the cars is the looming hulk of the old council building, its once proud façade now an empty shell, its shattered and glassless windows staring out bleakly into the early morning like eye sockets in a skull. Beneath this burnt out wreck of a building, below street level, hidden in the hollow emptiness of the car park behind a heavily reinforced steel door is the offices and living quarters of First Couriers, motto; ‘We put your package first … every time’. It’s 4.30am and mobile 15 reaches for his Kevlar vest. It’s the first thing he puts on and, next to his bike, it’s the single most important piece of equipment in his line of work. He lights a small kerosene lamp and slips noiselessly from his bunk and creeps out of the room. He closes the door to the dorm quietly and slips into the mess. He lights a compressed garbage block and throws it into an old wood burning stove, fills a battered old kettle with water from a large open barrel and sets it down on the stove. He pulls the thin skin coloured wire of his radio mike from the back of the Kevlar vest and attaches it to his cheek. Another small wire fits snugly inside his ear. He pulls his uniform on over the top of the vest. He doesn’t switch on yet. He drinks his coffee and warms his hands against the stove. When he is ready he moves down the hall to the bicycle room. He slings his bag over his head and onto his shoulder. He pulls his ride from the rack and checks the tyres and the drive train. Last he puts his helmet and goggles on and clips in. He rides to the door and leans forward to undo four large dead locks. He opens the door and, once on the outside, activates a trip switch to lock them all again.
Outside he switches on and flips the switch on his scrambler. As soon as he switches on the strap of his bag lights up with scrolling text from around twenty different companies and his earpiece becomes a cacophony of sound. Around twenty different voices are repeating jobs over and over again. They talk very fast and although at first it is hard to make any sense of it if you listen for a long enough you start to realise that there is order in this madness. Each voice gets to repeat their list of pick up and drop off zones before the next voice steps in, each list of jobs lasts roughly the same length of time hence the frantic pace at which these operators call them out. Across this rapid fire maze of information cut the couriers, calling their numbers preceded by a short prefix. Mobile 15 announces his presence. ‘FC15, FC15’ he says across the airwaves. There is no pause in the repetition of jobs but his number and presence on the channel is noted. ‘I’m in’ he tells me, ‘ready to work now. Without a location it’s all about what I call on. It’s tricky see because I’ve got to get the work but at the same time I don’t want to reveal too much of my position. Usually I start with a bid on some East work. They can’t tell that I’m not already East so it’s a safe call and for some reason there’s never much competition there in the mornings, especially on the dawn shift.’ We cycle down the Terrace a little way. Three of the buildings, number 20 and number 12 as well as the old Duxton hotel, have seen heavy shelling. The Duxton looks structurally unsound with a gaping hole in the north west corner and large chunks taken out of the façade. Mobile 15 turns and nods to this as we pedal past. ‘That was a conference attack. Japanese carpet fitters I think. It was pretty rough. I can’t believe they chose to stay there, they must have been nuts! I had to get two of their life cards out. It was that big outfit from over East that attacked. They were good, some of their own crew and some hired guys. Had a tank and all sorts. Those warehouse carpet guys with all the last minute sales, you must have heard of ‘em. Jeez mate they were vicious’. We move on past the Duxton and down into Adelaide Terrace. Two buildings here have seen so much action that they are no longer there, just the odd wall and pillar jutting out of the scorched earth. Outside 197-201 Adelaide Terrace the dark stain of blood and the shattered windows attest to a gun battle of some kind. The windows of level one are blown out and a desk leans out of the window at a precarious angle. I hear FC15 call for a series of jobs. He turns round to look at me and nods to his left before accelerating up Bennet Street. I stand on the pedals and push hard to keep up. We ride up and over the brow of a slight hill and down toward Royal street. He throws his bike around the wreck of an SUV and into 130 Royal. He leans against the wall in the entrance way and buzzes up. Two cameras swivel around to look at us. ‘Don’t look at them.’ FC15 tells me. I do as he says. He looks up. ‘The goggles prevent retinal scan so I’m safe. Hackers sometimes get into the security systems of these places and they can id you from a scan and then you’re screwed.’ The door slides open and we roll slowly in and dismount. The lift id’s us and FC15 shows them his bag. The information on the strap rearranges itself briefly to allow the lift to id us. We ride up into the office of an architects on level one. ‘It’s these pick ups I like. Smaller offices, not so much danger. Less likely to get hit up for a roll of plans than for some legal documents bound for some big corp, know what I mean?’ I nod dumbly. I don’t know what he means, how could I? FC15 and scores of others like him exist in a world fraught with danger at every turn. For many of us the gated communities, the armoured SUV’s and the closed networks that surround our daily lives make life in this brave new world of the free market manageable and safe but information still needs to cross corporate lines, communication still needs to run between the warring factions. So while Suncorp might take out a factory in Malaysia in a bid to hit at a competitors share price or its bottom line it may well be locked in a legal battle with that same company, or, bizarrely, may be financing its next mall development or product line. It’s a topsy turvy world we live in and FC15 is caught smack bang in the middle of it all running messages and data across town.
We walk into a large reception area and on a small table are two rolls of plans. The receptionist asks us for thumb prints. FC15 declines politely. ‘Sorry only company id. You know the rules. I’m nobody but I’m registered to First and that’s gold.’ He places the plans in an expandable tube and puts it in his bag. He scans the barcode on the line pad and leaves. The receptionist isn’t fased it’s all part of the game theey play. She has to ask for thumb prints from every single person that walks through the doors and, in this day and age, when identity is everything, everybody has to refuse. Roll out onto the street and make five other pick ups along Royal street before heading over to Fielder street for a pick up from one of those new places that look like a couple of sea containers stacked one on top of the other. It’s bomb proof and windowless and the package comes to us from a small hole at the base of the building. He registers this last one picked up and indicates his intension to cross on the walk way that runs across the freeway and railway tracks. We ride up the gentle incline of the ramp and onto the walkway before I hear it. The freeway is starting to fill with vehicles. The rush hour is coming and the noise from the road drowns out the low whump whump whump of the helicopter. FC15 hears it and turns around to me. ‘Ride, ride now.’ He says before standing up, out of his saddle and throwing the bike forward as fast as he can. I hear it then and from behind the hulk of the old power station I see it too. A gunship peels round and turns to fly low along the freeway toward us. I rush to keep up with FC15 but he is leaving me behind. I feel a sense of panic rising. I see a flash of orange and red come from the gunship and a trail of light coloured smoke speed toward us, I hear the hiss of the missile as it speeds toward us. We’re half way along the over pass now. The covered area obscures our view of the gunship. Behind me, but only just, I hear the missile crunch into the over pass and feel the spray of broken concrete on my back. My heart jumps into my mouth and my stomach twists itself around my lower intestine. I want to be sick and empty my bowels in one fluid motion, instead I cycle as hard as I can toward FC15. I clear the covered area just as another missile hits. This one destroys the metal roof and the sound of metal twisting and shattering is added to the crunch of exploding concrete. FC15 is near the point at which it becomes a down ramp. He spins the bike around underneath him to face me. I am cycling as hard as I can, I shift down into the hardest gear to try and gain more speed. The gunship passes underneath me. I feel the air whir violently around me. It circles around as I catch up to FC15. ‘Come on mate, you’re doing well. We’ve got a couple of seconds before he can get us back in his sights now.’ He shouts to me encouragingly. I try not think about those fragile seconds and stare at my front wheel as I push as hard as I can into the pedals. FC15 waits until I am nearly up with him and then uses the ramp to gain speed quickly. We shoot off the end of the ramp quickly. He loses us in the small roads before Lord street. My heart is pumping like mad. I can’t tell whether it is fear or excitement. I feel as though I haven’t slept in a month and I’ve done about a pound of Crank. The gunship gives up almost instantly. ‘Bounty hunters. They won’t spend long looking, not worth it. They’re on a free call system just like us. They’ll pick up another target soon enough. On an open area like that walkway we’re a target but down here we’re pretty safe from those guys. Snipers is what we wanna watch for here but they’re pretty rare nowadays. No money in it now.’ We make a slight detour to a drop on Money street, two packages get dropped there. It’s pretty quick, there’s a drop slot on the outside of the building and the id is registered by remote. We ride on through the battle scarred financial district of east Perth, past the crater that was the soccer stadium and into Northbridge.
to be continued....
This one is fo 18 Terry. That's some bad hat!
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Rum Riders
The early settlers relied on convict labour to supply them with their cycle couriers. There were 15 cycle couriers in 1815 when they were first introduced. This number stayed steady until 1827 when a further 17 convicts were put to work in this fashion. Records show that although numbers stayed the same individual riders were changed frequently, probably as a result of the gruelling nature of the work and the harsh punishments metered out for offences that were often unavoidable. Both men and women were put too work in this fashion with as many as one hundred different convicts working as cycle couriers in any given year. The work was hard with heavy loads carried between many of the settler’s farmsteads as well as mail and smaller fare for Government officials and the like. By 1827, when the number of couriers was doubled, the work that they performed was of such importance to the fledgling colony that the Governor took to doubling the rum ration and the meat allowance of those convicts who achieved certain targets. Those that attained these targets (usually handed out on a job by job basis) became known as the ‘Rum Riders’ as they were frequently seen after their work had been completed riding about the settlement drunk on their additional ration of rum and full of rowdy energy. These ‘rum riders’ formed a core of couriers who had stayed in the job longer than others and had achieved a certain notoriety as a result. A particularly long serving group of Rum Riders actually formed a small cabal in the winter of 1834 and plotted to overthrow the Governor of the day and install a Jacobin style democracy in the fledgling settlement. The rebellion was defeated at a very early stage however when one of the band turned them over to the Governors men for additional rations. All the men were arrested and tried by a military tribunal. Six of the riders hung for their crimes. Three were sent to Rottnest and later died building the wharf. Only two survived and though they lived they were never able to ride again as the injuries they had received were too severe.
The life was hard, the bicycles were primitive by modern standards, usually on a fixed wheel with no brakes, there was rarely even a basket to place the goods in and so most of the couriers would construct bags from old flour sacks. A good bag was a much prized item as a lot of effort went into trying to make the bags waterproof and as hard wearing as possible as packages and mail that arrived damp or in poor condition frequently brought the rider a flogging. Flogging was common for the riders with punishment for tardiness, recklessness, wet goods, goods that had dried in the sun, goods that had not been given adequate packing in the sacks. It was not uncommon for a rider to be flogged three times in a day for offences of this nature. Riders were sent from the centre of the settlement to any and all destinations. It is hard to estimate just how far a rider would ride in any given day but the farmsteads were spread out and many riders would spend an entire day riding through the bush with a sack of mail and goods on his or her back just to drop it off with one farmer and they would then return to the settlement. If they returned late they would be flogged, usually nightfall was the cut off point but for the farmsteads that lay further out the farmer would often put them up overnight and they would return the following day. Attacks by local Aboriginals were not uncommon and a good few riders were killed or injured in this way. As the convict supply dwindled and their need in construction and farming increased the use of Aboriginal labour for cycle courier increased. These mixed groups of cycle couriers are amongst the first in Australia. Although there was often harsh divides between the convicts and the Aboriginals there was also some camaraderie and friendship between them also. In fact four of the Rum Riders involved in the plot to overthrow the Governor were Aboriginal and a later attempt at forming a courier union was lead by a mixed race man called Tobias Jones. The following extract from a letter to England shows the harsh conditions under which the Swan River settlements early bicycle messengers worked:
“Cycling in leg irons is a most difficult and indeed tiresome affair but, once mastered, can bring certain rewards. The Governor will increase the Rum ration of any man, or woman (for here they will even put the women to work in this manner), who can complete three score or more jobs per day or ride for more than forty miles across this harsh country. He has also been known to offer double the meat rations to those riders whom he deems to be of the hardest metal. I have taken to riding in a fashion that is both fast and feckless with little regard for my person nor those around me as this is the only way to ensure that I transfer the goods in manner to which the Governor and all his men insist. I fear the floggings that result from a late delivery and I cannot deny that the additional rum is most welcome. The shouts of anger and annoyance as we rattle past on our way to the court or the Governors house or some homestead or other serve only to sharpen our determination and many of us have developed a wit to match their anger. For we are the lowest of the convicts in many free peoples eyes, too rough for even farm hands, too simple for clerical work and too light fingered for the stores and docks we rank at the bottom of the convict ladder, below even the lowliest farm hand. It is, dear sister, far from the truth of the matter, despite what you may hear, and we riders are not only as fine a band of men and women as you would find anywhere on this Earth but we are also from many walks of life. I myself was once a printers letter maker, a member of the printers guild and were it not for the crime of printing union letters I would still be so. Jack, one of the finest riders here, was a tanner from Oxford way and has fashioned a bag from Roo skin that is the envy of us all. There is even a native rider, who stood accused of murdering a sergeant in the dead of night (although we all know the sergeant was of ill temper and a fiend for the rum with a powerful temper) and earned himself a set of irons and a life in the saddle along with the rest of us. Two of the riders hail from Ireland and their only crime was to try and feed their starving children whilst their landlords took all that they saw for themselves.
After the day is done we gather around a fire and tell stories of the lives we had and the lives we now lead. We are comrade’s dearest sister and stand together, riders one and all. Who would have thought that we could sail to the ends of the Earth and that the same things that stood true in the bowels of darkest London would stand true here, but tis as true now as when I first laid eyes on the works of Thomas Paine; “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.” So my leg irons keep me in bondage to my English masters but I ride with men and women who share my vision of freedom and fraternity for all and whose every waking hour is spent pushing the limits of what their endurance will bear. It is that dearness for my fellow man that keeps my heart and soul free whilst my legs are in chains.”
For 24 the crack whore. Yes I’m reading and romanticizing ‘The Fatal Shore’ brother! If your gonna write fiction it might as well be fiction!!
The life was hard, the bicycles were primitive by modern standards, usually on a fixed wheel with no brakes, there was rarely even a basket to place the goods in and so most of the couriers would construct bags from old flour sacks. A good bag was a much prized item as a lot of effort went into trying to make the bags waterproof and as hard wearing as possible as packages and mail that arrived damp or in poor condition frequently brought the rider a flogging. Flogging was common for the riders with punishment for tardiness, recklessness, wet goods, goods that had dried in the sun, goods that had not been given adequate packing in the sacks. It was not uncommon for a rider to be flogged three times in a day for offences of this nature. Riders were sent from the centre of the settlement to any and all destinations. It is hard to estimate just how far a rider would ride in any given day but the farmsteads were spread out and many riders would spend an entire day riding through the bush with a sack of mail and goods on his or her back just to drop it off with one farmer and they would then return to the settlement. If they returned late they would be flogged, usually nightfall was the cut off point but for the farmsteads that lay further out the farmer would often put them up overnight and they would return the following day. Attacks by local Aboriginals were not uncommon and a good few riders were killed or injured in this way. As the convict supply dwindled and their need in construction and farming increased the use of Aboriginal labour for cycle courier increased. These mixed groups of cycle couriers are amongst the first in Australia. Although there was often harsh divides between the convicts and the Aboriginals there was also some camaraderie and friendship between them also. In fact four of the Rum Riders involved in the plot to overthrow the Governor were Aboriginal and a later attempt at forming a courier union was lead by a mixed race man called Tobias Jones. The following extract from a letter to England shows the harsh conditions under which the Swan River settlements early bicycle messengers worked:
“Cycling in leg irons is a most difficult and indeed tiresome affair but, once mastered, can bring certain rewards. The Governor will increase the Rum ration of any man, or woman (for here they will even put the women to work in this manner), who can complete three score or more jobs per day or ride for more than forty miles across this harsh country. He has also been known to offer double the meat rations to those riders whom he deems to be of the hardest metal. I have taken to riding in a fashion that is both fast and feckless with little regard for my person nor those around me as this is the only way to ensure that I transfer the goods in manner to which the Governor and all his men insist. I fear the floggings that result from a late delivery and I cannot deny that the additional rum is most welcome. The shouts of anger and annoyance as we rattle past on our way to the court or the Governors house or some homestead or other serve only to sharpen our determination and many of us have developed a wit to match their anger. For we are the lowest of the convicts in many free peoples eyes, too rough for even farm hands, too simple for clerical work and too light fingered for the stores and docks we rank at the bottom of the convict ladder, below even the lowliest farm hand. It is, dear sister, far from the truth of the matter, despite what you may hear, and we riders are not only as fine a band of men and women as you would find anywhere on this Earth but we are also from many walks of life. I myself was once a printers letter maker, a member of the printers guild and were it not for the crime of printing union letters I would still be so. Jack, one of the finest riders here, was a tanner from Oxford way and has fashioned a bag from Roo skin that is the envy of us all. There is even a native rider, who stood accused of murdering a sergeant in the dead of night (although we all know the sergeant was of ill temper and a fiend for the rum with a powerful temper) and earned himself a set of irons and a life in the saddle along with the rest of us. Two of the riders hail from Ireland and their only crime was to try and feed their starving children whilst their landlords took all that they saw for themselves.
After the day is done we gather around a fire and tell stories of the lives we had and the lives we now lead. We are comrade’s dearest sister and stand together, riders one and all. Who would have thought that we could sail to the ends of the Earth and that the same things that stood true in the bowels of darkest London would stand true here, but tis as true now as when I first laid eyes on the works of Thomas Paine; “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.” So my leg irons keep me in bondage to my English masters but I ride with men and women who share my vision of freedom and fraternity for all and whose every waking hour is spent pushing the limits of what their endurance will bear. It is that dearness for my fellow man that keeps my heart and soul free whilst my legs are in chains.”
For 24 the crack whore. Yes I’m reading and romanticizing ‘The Fatal Shore’ brother! If your gonna write fiction it might as well be fiction!!
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