It has been a long day on the river, too much sun, sore muscles and it was pleasing to have the Amity secure, the fire alight, and the second beer about to be broached.
We note another couple, one hundred metres or so downstream, and as the stubby tops are opening, Gail, wielding a plate of nibbles and Ivan, esky in hand, monologue-in-mouth, approach. “G’day, nice boat. Been fishin’? I’m Ivan. You gotta table to put the nibbles on. Oh, this is the missus, Gail.” Ivan briefly retreats, returning with two camp chairs.
River protocols are upon us, it seems, or is it simply the fact that we obviously have firewood and a cheery fire on the go. Regardless, there is a neighbourly arrival.
“Er G’day. I’m Bill.” “Yep g’day, Chris” and “Hi, Steve” completes the circle work, as our camp table is brought out and the semi-circle forms. Ivan’s bare chest make a statement. Gail’s chest, squished into a smallish, Richmond AFL jersey, reiterates a relaxing holiday escape!
“Wheresya from? Whees’ from Bendigo. Love the river, and this South Australian bit – wide, deep, the cliffs, great!” Gail passes her snacks around, while I mentally consider what we might have in the dry goods store, to complement the cheese squares, sliced cabanossi and alternating red and green cocktail onions. I draw a blank, but Steve noodles deeper, and finds a box of Shapes.
Ivan quickly moves on to his deep love for fishing this river, the holiday shack they have on the Edwards, the family holidays, the boat, water-skiing. Bill demonstrates knowledge of parts of the Edwards “Yep, Balranald, Moulamein, and those tricky channels”, before the spectacular Cod catches, some that got away, the problems with the bloody Carp, and about how some bastard had left a dozen to rot, next to their shack, again seeks ascendency. He and Gail match each other, beer for beer – possibly one of their matrimonial necessities?
I mention that I come from Ballarat, but the “Jees that’s a cold hole!” indicates that that line of social intercourse isn’t going to fly! We learn that Ivan has a construction company. I’m not sure if we learn what it constructs but the boat, the shack, the free time spent on the river, demonstrate that Ivan assesses he is a successful constructor.
Gail endorses titbits, as their adventures are told; the delight of the kids, whenever the shack visits are on, the cubby they build in a nearby gum, their enthusiasm and skills behind the boat. She passes the cheese squares again. More beers, more shared glories from Ivan.
I notice that Steve is engaging Gail in a side conversation. It takes another couple of minutes before Bill and I are able to switch channels, to politely disentangle. “I count money” I hear Gail declare. “Waddaya mean”, we collectively query, and I sense a bit of a party starter. “I am paid to count money. I work for the Bendigo Bank, and my job is to count the cash deposits coming in from across the state.”
We three are tuned in, obviously an appreciative break from the previous piscatorial monotone, but also expressing a genuine interest in what sounds like an intriguing job. Ivan starts to recount a particularly exciting Cod episode.
“I thought we were all using credit cards.” “No way, you’d be surprised how much cash is still sloshing around the system, especially through the fast-food outlets! Maccas, KFC, there the biggies but JB HI-FI deposit lots!” Gail has our total attention.
“I usually count about twenty to thirty million dollars every day. I have a machine that does most of the counting, but I am there looking for damaged or counterfeit notes. Ballarat and Warrnambool are the major counterfeit hubs; fifties and one-hundred-dollar notes!” “Do ya get any coins?” “Yep, but we don’t bother to count ‘em, simply accept what their deposit slips declare.”
“So how do you pick the dodgy notes?” “There are a couple of tell-tale signs. The polymer notes have a very precise weight, the machine is calibrated to not only count but to actually weigh every ten-thousand-dollars. It stops if the weight doesn’t tally, and I then go back manually and look through the hundred individual notes.” We pause, grab another drink, a cheese cube, and Gail continues.
“Counterfeiters try to get their hands on the polymer blanks, but they are held securely at the Mint. They mostly bring paper in from Thailand. But it doesn’t have the same look and feel. My fingers pick them straight away. You know, last month we had two-hundred-dollar bills that were only printed on one side! Can you believe it?”
From the corner of my eye, I could see that Ivan is getting a bit antsy. He floats ‘… outrage at the National’s ongoing water trading scams… ’ – that’s desperation for you. He starts to wiggle his arse in the chair, he inspects the now empty, esky. He takes the last piece of cabanossi and then proffers a throaty cough. He stands, declaring that it is “time to get tea on the go.”
Gail stands, a twinkle evident in her eyes, probably confirming that with a mob like us, money will usually out-interest fishing. In farewell, we note a grin, that we discuss later around the fire. We take it to mean that there has been a movement within some marital, point-scoring log. “We probably find eight or ten counterfeit hundreds amongst the stacks every day, not so many fifties. Be careful with those green notes, boys” as she turns and follows the esky, chair and Ivan back towards their camp.
Over our chicken casserole, we continue to reflect on the intricacies of the cash economy, the jobs that none of us would ever have imagined existed, the technology and the intervention and reliance on humanity, to make these finer calls. We finish the evening acknowledging Ivan’s point about the lack of integrity surrounding the water trading activities within the Canberra bubble. Disgraceful bloody corruption!