BORDERLINE ALBURY WODONGA

You'd think the Mayor of Wodonga, Mark Byatt, might take the option of laying low for a while after he was discovered double-dipping into the public purse when it became public that he was being paid for two full-time jobs funded by Wodonga and Albury ratepayers, bringing his combined 'package' something in excess of $160,000. The majority of councillors were also in favour of lifting their allowances to $22,018.

There's no doubt about it since Mr Byatt was first elected to Wodonga Council then got the Mayor's job for a guaranteed two years, Byatt has taken to the trough with such consummate ease. That it's obvious he's a natural.

Surely at least the majority of councillors would have voted to forgo the eighteen cents as a gesture to the residents of Wodonga in these difficult economic times that the councillors understood that some of them were doing it tough like after all it's the thought that counts.

You can say this about most councillors on the Wodonga Council they eschew any semblances of subtlety one could almost come to the conclusion that their utter contempt for the people they represent is such that many residents have started pondering about it a bit. Some of them are starting to realize that they have been taken for a self-funded, all expenses paid ride.

Spin which reached epic proportions in the Mahood/Marshall affair is starting to become an essential ingredient in justifying Mr Byatt's excesses (not from Byatt though he prefers his lackeys to do his bidding) that and sheer ineptitude such as the arguments espoused by the likes of Cr Speedie who justified Mr Byatt's $7000 increase in his mayoral allowance from $61,000 to a tad over $68,000. Cr Speedie who seemed so desperate for the increase presented her argument tinged with liberal sprinklings of hypocrisy.

She was aware, she said, that people are finding it tough to make ends meet and that the timing was very poor but 'we can't help that but for me it is essential that this is accepted.'

Is Cr Speedie suggesting her argument is based on that fact that she's a bit short like many of the ratepayers she supposedly represents? I'm sure a few of them are a bit short as well; the difference was that they were in no position to top up their coffers with a show of a few hands. All they were to receive was a 4.75 percent rate increase. Like it or lump it.

Cr Speedie also told the Midweek Express that 'the role of councillors has changed dramatically over the last five or six years. She went on, 'Councillors aren't simply volunteers because they stand for election and therefore they are directly and immediately accountable to their electorate.'

Is Cr Speedie suggesting that prior to the last 'five or six years' elected councillors were not directly and immediately accountable to the electorate?' One well might ask Cr Speedie who then were they accountable to or weren't they accountable to anyone? Some type of municipal no man's land was it then. Perhaps in Cr Speedie's defence she may have been suffering an affliction that particularly affects local government when lip movements and brain function are poorly calibrated leading to confused and irrational outcomes. Cr Speedie should get a transcript of the proceedings and engage in a bit of self criticism. If she were to do so she might be less prone to talking drivel.

Cr Foulston added that the mayor puts in at least another 50 percent in time compared to the rest of us councillors and that the job was a great impost on his family. Did he mention that Mayor Byatt's other full-time job at DAW (Destination Albury Wodonga, salary $80 thousand plus) has to be shared with his mayoral duties that might be a bit of an impost as well. Not on your life, because it's a well paid impost.

Mayor Byatt said very little, undoubtedly aware he had the numbers but he's a bit embarrassed about it all. Even when Helen Ballard asked for his comments about it he refused to respond.

Accusations that he's a rorter of considerable calibre have already taken Wodonga residents imagination as to the exact value of his combined package does he drive the DAW car when he's on DAW business and the council car on council business. Maybe he substituted one for cash. DAW is such a secretive organization that it's anyone's guess what sort of largesse he's getting out of them. You would think that anyone who is being paid for two full-time jobs by Wodonga and to a lesser extent by Albury ratepayers that a bit of self-respect would kick in and he would resign from his DAW position, one which spin aside, he has served without distinction or competency.

The former Mayor, Cr Lisa Mahood, rallied against the councillors getting their increases. To Cr Mahood no stranger to the gravy train herself ('not drowning just haven't finished'), she obviously thought it was a timely bit of political acumen. Then again Cr Mahood is somewhat insulated against the present economic climate with her $100,000 plus advisory role with the Brumby Government. What she does in return for the taxpayers of Victoria is anyone's guess. Like a lot of similar type jobs it sounds like money for jam. Does she just spy on the Wodonga Council on Brumby's behalf so that Brumby is continually up to speed on what provincial Victoria is thinking? I wonder. No doubt it's in code in case in falls into the wrong hands. Maybe her report is delivered personally over a pleasant dinner and a couple of bottles of wine.

Unfortunately for Lisa, Brumby after having to swallow the ombudsman's report into Brimbank's Council dysfunction and corruption has decreed that Cr Mahood and others in a similar situation will no longer be able to serve two masters and she will have to decide which way she wants to go. Basically the choice is money the $22,018 0r the $100 thousand plus she gets from the Victorian Government. Our guess is she'll take the $100 thousand plus because $22,018 is hardly sufficient to afford her the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed.

Interestingly Cr Mahood's situation drew comment from the chief executive of Wodonga Council, Gavin Cator, who told the Wodonga Ratepayers Association that democracy was under threat when the legislation is passed that disallows councillors in Victoria working for a state or federal politician. It's pretty hard to understand that type of comment and shows a naivety and extraordinary inability to see the issues and the consequences that can come from a councillor working for a state or federal politician. Just last week two Geelong councillors, David Saunderson and Cameron Granger, voted for a development. The problem is, they failed to reveal a donation they received from the developers Lascorp. They also were working for the local state and federal members of parliament. It seems a bit more widespread than the one example Mr Cator quoted from Brimbank Council. His argument that just because a councillor in Brimbank crossed to the dark side, it was no reason Lisa shouldn't be able to serve Wodonga reflects an attitude that is all too common in local government and that is conflict of interest. Instead of Mr Cator lecturing the Victorian Government on issues that haven't been properly thought through, he might engage in a similar dialogue with them and think through a few issues using a bit more foresight and intellectual stamina. After all that's what he's paid for.

It seemed on Monday May 11, Mayor Byatt and his fellow councillors were so disorientated by their need to justify the money that is given to them that they went inadvertently haywire at the thought of a bit of extra cash. No doubt they think they're entitled to it and to hell with the public perception of their insensitivity to calls of restraint in these uncertain times. When Cr Speedie talks about the immediacy of accountability we haven't heard much about how they got into the $32 million black hole they find themselves in. Mr Cator puts it all down to 'asset rich and cash poor'. Does Mr Cator realize that assets are only valuable if someone wants to buy them - and no one does, not for the foreseeable future. The potential of LOGIC has been mainly spin from the start though Cr Speedie and her rhetorical flushes of accountability tend towards pretense rather than spin. They'll have you believe the whole place is bloody goldmine. Just have a bit of patience. Accountability can be a very selective thing when it comes to local government. You could also look at it this way. If Wodonga's debt increased in the good times it's hardly going to get any better in the bad times and you can only slug the ratepayers for so much before they rebel at the ballot box. A lot of them would probably like to do it right now given half the chance.

Meanwhile Byatt luxuriates in the trough with not a worry in the world. Music Please.

To an Albury building designer the Albury City Council's decision to suspend a land covenant on land owned by Helen Spittle comes as no surprise. The designer who told Borderline said he wanted his name kept out of it because he has to deal with local councils including Albury.

'I prefer to keep away from Albury and advise my clients to do so given the chance because when I do work in Albury I have to follow Albury council's protocols which I find to be confusing and variable."

'They have a habit of changing their minds. This will vary from planner to planner. Knowing this, I now arrange a "pre-meeting" with the town planner and my client. This is for my client's peace of mind and more than anything else to cover myself when things go skew-whiff which they invariably do.'

'In one instance we came up with a concept plan and took it in to show the planner. There was a fair amount of optimism on both sides with their parting advice "Please complete your proposal, pay your fees and we'll take it from there." What happened next was the department looked at the proposal, then rejected it and then told us that we needed to amend our documents and pay them more money. This has happened more than once. My client and I were not impressed,' He said.

'The last time we went to ACC to ask for advice. We wanted to design some private open space into a double storey dwelling on a second level. We were told by ACC that this was not permitted.'

If you check the real estate section of last week's border mail you will see two examples of this type of design currently for sale in Albury. There is another example in east Albury and another example currently under construction in Sackville Street. It would be interesting to know who owns these developments. We were flatly refused.'

Another developer on the condition of anonymity took Borderline on a tour of a development in Lavington.

'There's no way I would get planning permission to build these, for a start the minimum private space (by law, a dwelling must have a certain amount of private open space: that is an out-door area that relates directly to the internal living space. This is usually north facing (again by law) and has to achieve a 5 metre x 5 metre minimum in Albury's jurisdiction) does not comply. Then there's overlapping gutter lines the setback of the buildings. None of them comply.'

'The developers of these buildings had connections in the Albury City Council and that's a fact and we're not talking about their discretionary powers to alter covenants on the land. Here we're talking about building regulations being ignored. As for the Albury City Council's attitude to setting aside the covenants on land is grossly unfair to the residents who bought land in the first place. That's what a city plan is all about- giving residents the confidence to build knowing that certain covenants will safeguard the integrity of the locale that attracted them to the area in the first place.'

'Look at Helen Spittle's development. The original owners of the land, the Albury Wodonga Development Corporation put certain covenants on the land which they expected the Albury City Council to comply with as the land was subdivided and sold. Then someone comes and throws their weight around and the covenants are modified or worse, thrown out the window. Of course that is their right in NSW, but a lot of councils are very reluctant to use these powers.'

The developer who has had his fair share of run-ins with the Albury City Council was adamant that it wasn't sour grapes that motivated him to speak out.

'What I would like is a level playing field. That's all I want. And we haven't got one in Albury and something should be done about it. Look at the Mayor, Pat Gould's son. He gets permission to build a ten storey building and a month or two later they're talking about a seven storey height limit. Now that's what I call opportunism - or corruption. Or Both'

When his time had come, John W Howard was led to his boat. He had no official bodyguard to protect him, but an intimate friend to show the way. Costello frowned down at the fragile craft.
        "I thought I told them to fix the leaks," he said.
        "The bastards," Howard echoed.
        But his heart wasn't in it. It had finally come to this-the voyage to the other side. And what would await him there? He'd already received the tributes of his People. Would God also approve?
        Howard looked around. His surroundings were familiar, yet unknown, like a landscape in a dream. He recognised the old parliament house behind him, and the drifts of sand beneath his feet. But the shallow water in which the boat lapped was strange to him, unless it was Lake Hindmarsh, where the Wimmera ended far out in the west. He dipped in a finger and tasted salt, but that told him nothing.
        More strange were the mountains rising behind parliament, where no mountains had ever been seen. Unless the country had been foreshortened and he was looking at the Australian Alps. But these mountains seemed to be treeless-high, jagged peaks, snow-capped. The pale golden light of a summer's evening softened the outlines of the country he was leaving, but in some way added to its menace. It was almost, Howard thought, as if the light had been adjusted to disguise the dangers in his situation. Look! There! Surely something had moved beneath that sheet of corrugated iron? Some hidden enemy? Some terror? Quick now, Howard, a voice within him urged, it's time to leave. His friend also seemed to be pushing him.
        "It's time, old man," Costello insisted.
        He was rarely so familiar.
        "I suppose so," Howard agreed.
        He didn't feel old. It was just that his various parts were beginning to weaken and wear out. As he took one last look behind him, parliament house seemed to contort and rise up like a black snake, preparing to strike. Howard shrank back from the fading red belly. His vision had always been poor, but had never prejudiced his career. Neither had his stature. Indeed his insignificant height had helped him slip out of sight when crises arose in his government, so that when the People forgot his broken promises he could reappear with his reputation intact. As he stood on the Lake Hindmarsh foreshore, he was comforted by the thought that he was taking an unsinkable reputation with him to the other side.
        The light began to change from gold to sunset red, although there was no sun in the sky. It was almost crimson in places, glinting from the forbidding peaks at his back, and urging him forward to the frail craft in the shallows.

"You really have to go," Costello insisted.
        He pushed at the stern of the boat, freeing the keel from the sand, as the old man clambered aboard.
        "Not coming, too?" Howard asked.
        Ahead, the red light reflected from the waves. Lake Hindmarsh was more like a vast inland sea. The Conservative Patriarch looked around for the rudder.
        "How do I steer?"
        "I believe you have to trust in fate," Costello replied.
        "At least there'll be no overcrowding."
        "Or debate."
        "I have voices in my head."
        Already Howard seemed to be listening to them. His brow was furrowed, after staring so intently into the gloom. The red light had darkened. At first the waves had taken on a deep maroon, then bronze. Now they were losing their colour completely. Far ahead, on the horizon, lay the darkness of night.
        "Goodbye!" Costello called. "Hope all goes well!"
        His voice was as sincere as ever.
        "See you in Hell!" Howard replied, as one might say break a leg before going on stage.
        For this was the Patriarch's final curtain, his swan song, even if he looked more like an ugly duckling crouched in the stern of the boat. In truth he was no bigger than a child, with an overly large head. He clutched a blanket around his drooping shoulders, as he felt the air turn chilly. He glanced backwards once to see if Costello had decided to wade out, after all, and pull him back-but it was to be a one-man show in death, as it had always been in his political life.
        His final view of his homeland was of those high jagged mountains, black against the darkening sky. He couldn't recall ever seeing anything in his country so high. Australia was such a level playing field, such a flat pitch. It reminded him more of the geographical reports he once received of Afghanistan, of turbaned men dashing through the Khyber Pass.
        Occasionally he thought he heard seagulls. There had always been salt lakes and sea birds around the Wimmera. Was it possible he was near an ocean? John W Howard was in a suggestible frame of mind, alone with his thoughts and memories, adrift. The only certainty, if anything could be certain on that bobbing boat, was that he was heading in the general direction of Heaven and that he'd be greeted there with the great kindness accorded all those seeking asylum on unknown, difficult seas. Unless he were the vanguard of an invasion force… He chuckled grimly. Imagine attempting to invade Heaven, as an illegal immigrant!
        He dozed. It was hard to stay asleep long, his position was so cramped. Then there was his hunger, which was really a memory of hunger, since he no longer needed food. Oddly enough he had a thermos with him, provided by his wife: grief-stricken at his passing, she hadn't known what she was doing. Unless Costello had given it to him, as a final supercilious gesture. Since it was empty, Costello was probably responsible.
        "How's it going out there, old man?" he heard his friend call.

The question died in the still, cold air. Would there ever be an end to that uncertain night?

        He must have slept deeply at last, because by morning he was aground on a rocky beach. The boat had sprung a leak with the impact. Ankle-deep in water, Howard stood up to stretch and look around, to get his first view of Heaven. He seemed to be at the end of a barren stretch of coast that ended a little way along to his right, where mangroves grew into the sea. Next to them, canoes were drawn up on the beach. A knot of people stood nearby, gesticulating. Finally they set off down the beach towards him, before coming to halt after a dozen or so paces and retracing their steps.
        Howard decided to take the initiative. Shaking off his blanket, he waved his arms about, in case they thought he was carrying a weapon. Then he walked half the distance between boat and canoes, and stopped.
        "I'm journeying to the other side!" he called. "Have I arrived?"
        The knot huddled more closely, conferring, before an individual detached himself and came forward.
        "You're on an island, Sir," he said.
        His tone was neither friendly nor rude. He didn't smile, but seemed curious. Howard tried to look enthusiastic, but his facial muscles had long forgotten what they had to do. Instead, he grimaced, at which the reception party took a step backwards.
        "You must forgive me," he said. "I've come a long way without food or water, and my boat has a leak."
        "Ah!"
        There was a collective sigh from the distant group, which edged towards their spokesman.
        "May we look, Sir?" he inquired.
        Without waiting for the shipwreck to reply, they strode on to the boat, and swarmed over it, examining it closely.

The spokesman returned.
        "We can have it fixed for you, Sir," he informed Howard. "We may even be able to make some improvements."
        The Conservative Patriarch was unused to events unfolding without his direct control. He felt impatient, but in the circumstances wasn't sure how to proceed. If these were God's minions, he thought, he should be cautious.
        "Improvements?" he asked. "Hasn't my boat brought me to the end of my journey?"
        The other laughed.
        "You're only halfway, Sir," he explained, recovering his breath.
        There was laughter in the group as well, when they were informed of Howard's mistake.
        "Halfway?" he queried. "Is this Purgatory?"
        "We know of no island of that name, Sir."
        He was shown up from the beach and led a short distance inland along a narrow path. The vegetation was tropical and here and there he had to brush by bunches of green bananas. Remarking on them, he received no reply, and thereafter kept his thoughts to himself. If Purgatory included being sent to Coventry, he would play the game. He recalled the times in his political life when it would have been helpful to have been sent to Coventry, particularly by the media. Besides that, Coventry was so English. It had long been his secret desire that Heaven might include an English country lane. Even if he no longer had life, he might hope.
        He was shown to a ramshackle hut, which reminded him again of parliament house. It was so overcrowded. As he settled down with his back to a wall, rubbing shoulders with his dark-complexioned neighbour, Howard thought he was in Hell. Proximity to other people was his special fear, as others feared rats, or mice, or spiders. Some even feared rejection by their fellow human beings, which the Prime Minister had never understood at all. But it took all kinds. One only had to look at the diversity of his former People. Fortunately, one didn't have to actually like them. One didn't have to like anyone, really. He fell into a reverie, considering whom he'd liked in his life, but apart from the Queen and the American President-and his wife, he supposed-no one sprang immediately to mind. He hadn't even liked the Bishop.
        Time passed slowly in Purgatory. It was a test of patience, he realised. Fortunately he wasn't inconvenienced by toileting necessities, or food or drink, although he still seemed to be sensitive to heat and cold. That would be to make sense of the fires of hell, he guessed. Despite the warmth of the tropical climate, and despite huddling with so many others in the hut, Howard found he liked to keep the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It gave him some protection from his companions.
        They seemed to wait a very long time. Occasionally one or two would be invited outside-once, an entire family made their departure-but their places were taken by new arrivals, and the congestion in the room continued. As he still retained his sense of smell-again, no doubt, to appreciate the fumes of Hell-it was a sickening ordeal, with so much body odour. But to the extent that his government had been a trial by ordeal-for his People if not for himself-he was prepared for it.
        It eventually came to an end, as all things must, if only to begin again. Blinded by the unaccustomed light, Howard and two others were led back along the path and down to the beach, where his boat, repaired and refurbished, was waiting. It seemed to have sprouted wings. On closer inspection they turned out to be additional seats, like sidecars on motorcycles, balancing each other on either side of the vessel. Howard worried it would be too cumbersome, although, to take a positive view, it now appeared unsinkable. At least until it was loaded.
        Once he and his two fellow voyagers were aboard, there was an unseemly scramble to fill the rest of the seats. Not that there were many, but because there was so much competition, and so much pushing and shoving, it was some time before things settled down, and the boat rocked unsteadily in the shallows. How would it fare on the open sea? Of course it was understandable people should be so eager to be aboard. The prospect of a future on the other side was so alluring, they'd risk anything to make the journey. But had they all been guaranteed their places in Heaven, Howard wondered, as he had? Would any be disappointed? As long as they were more orderly on arrival than on departure, he supposed it didn't matter.
        The voyage now took an unlikely turn, not so much in its direction-it was one way traffic to the other side-but in the expectations of the seafarers. Howard had imagined everyone would be pleased to be on their way to perpetual bliss, but it wasn't the case. Some openly regretted leaving their lives behind, despite fighting so hard for a berth on the boat. It was a paradox. Were they fearful, perhaps? Misinformed? Had unscrupulous religious leaders got into their ears and created distrust, and doubt? Had someone taken a leaf from his own book of political life and toyed with the truth?

The small boat wallowed in the heavy sea. Sometimes it was hailed by voices through the mist, but it plunged on regardless. Its captain might not even have heard. A young man on one of the sidecar seats had assumed command, although it wasn't clear why. There was no steering to be done, or any course to set. His only function seemed to be to humour his fellow passengers. Then, as they drew nearer to the other side and were hailed by a loud voice, the fellow jumped overboard. At least, that was what Howard imagined had happened when he noticed the seat was empty.
        At his departure, the other passengers became even more despondent. Wild lamentations rent the salty air, as Howard tried to calm them.
        "My People!" he called.
        But they didn't come to order: it was as if he were speaking a foreign language.
        "My fellow passengers!" he tried again. "Please calm yourselves! We're all in this together!"
        He felt sick as he spoke, although whether it was from the unpleasantness of the sentiment, or from the closeness of Heaven's other asylum-seekers, was uncertain. They turned away from him in fear and disgust.
        "We seem to have landed," he said, "but I see no signs of bliss… Can this really be Heaven?"
        Their immediate surroundings looked more like a wheat farm in drought. The paddocks were bare-dry as mice bones-and eddies of warm air blew sandy loam into the air. Here and there a thistle flourished, spikily green, where nothing else could grow. Howard felt the painful prick of a four-cornered jack in his foot as he was taken over to a bag shed. Beyond the shed, the house paddock fence, which was a yard or two higher than he remembered, was surmounted by a double twist of razor wire. His guide patted his arm reassuringly. He wouldn't be detained long. Only certain formalities had to be observed before he was given the freedom of Heaven. In the meantime, the guide was sure the Conservative Patriarch would find the bag shed dry and comfortable. The drought was so bad, he laughed, not even the mice had survived. Howard could see for himself that his old bunker, uncovered behind the shed, was deserted. Wondering what had happened to the sheet of corrugated iron, he approached the bunker and found some consolation in the dry rodent droppings scattered about the area. That much, at least, hadn't changed. He was approaching the edge of the hole, curious to see what time and the other side had made of it, when a sound grated out of the earth, followed by a head with a lot of grey hair. It rose slowly, until an entire body was revealed standing on the rusted sheet of iron. The appearance of the figure-a smallish man in white robes-reminded Howard of the ghost in Don Giovanni.
        "Is this God or the Devil?" he wondered.
        The ghost heard him, and laughed.
        "It's been a poorly kept secret," he said, "that they're one and the same. As for me and my function," he continued, clearing his throat, "although I have no particular title, I suppose I'm a kind of leader, as you were. Occasionally, like you, I have an unpleasant duty to perform."
        "And what might that be?"
        The Conservative Patriarch was suspicious.
        The ghost cleared his throat again, looking Howard up and down, as if assessing his value and the distance between them.
        "Just this," he pronounced gravely.
        Clearing his throat a third and final time, he spat in the dust at the asylum-seeker's feet.
        "I have to inform you," he said, "there's no place for you here."
        "You mean I have to go back?"
        The ghost laughed: "Of course not! You're a dead man back there!... No, it's simple enough. We just forget about you, so the problem goes away."
        "Forget about me?"