Why do activists have to be almost unchanged in style as their 1960’s predesssors? Why does someone who is concerned about, say, Uranium mining, have to wear a kaftan with various colourful trinkets and symbols tied around and about their person? Whats with the matted mega-beard in rainbow beanie hats? Have you people no imagination, sense of pride?! You make me cringe to display my dreadlocks. I find myself hiding them inside hats to avoid one of you mistaking me as one of your own. Don’t you try giving me that warm smile of recognition as part of your “global family” – I like using toilet spray, I’ll have you know.

Hey, lets talk fluffy non-specific spirituality (which somehow makes me think of a “non-specific urinary infection”, although the two may only be related by my intention to never experience either)… lull in the coversation? lets meditate on how beautiful the fire is, pity the city folk so removed from the essence of nature and how clever we are to be the enlightened ones.

Acting on injustice in the world would be so much easier without the well meaning “Swampies” of the scene.

Anyway, they are playing guitar - Bob Marley tunelessly, no doubt, so I’ve retreated politely from the campfire, skillfully avoiding a genuine response to “goodnight, peace be with you”, and am happily sharing my rant with my beautiful (proudly brand name, made from toxic and non-renewable materials, a product of global capitalism, contributory, probably, to exploitation of third world workers, support of the IRA, child pornography and broken homes) laptop. Thank fuck for a full battery.

Why am I here? In Australia’s capital? Staying in parliament square with assorted Aboriginals, Maori and skanky-haired eco-warriors? Because I have a digital camera.

All makes sense now doesn’t it?

Oh, ok, truth is I needed to see a friend, and dear Sean, geek-with-a-conscience, teacher of all things perl and the first person to show me the guts of http via telnetting to port 80, is here in his activist capacity to record a news piece for Sydney Indymedia, and well, he required a photographer, or actually only really a digital camera, but he got me too and I don’t have a problem helping out.

No really. The Aboriginal embassy in front of Old Parliament house has been an ugly reminder to white Australia of it’s sordid past and present for over 30 years, and I don’t relish the idea of the slow and systematic abuse it’s onsite champions have received from unhappy politicians and their lackies.

No really.

I can tell you aren’t taking me seriously.

So, I suppose I should fulfil my role as international activist by pointing you toward his story (and my beautiful pictures). Don’t worry – the hairy people in rainbow clothes were artfully avoided.

In peace, love and solidarity -Sunflower