Quotes of the Day

While most australians are sleeping, Dick Estens is plotting. Between 3 a.m. and 6 a.m., when truck drivers, factory hands and bakers are in a skirmish with their circadian rhythms, the 56-year-old cotton farmer from Moree, in northern New South Wales, is in bed whirling his mind through a problem. Estens might be crafting a game plan to outwit a Canberra bureaucrat or thinking of a way to motivate a juvenile criminal offender; he might be trying to understand the power structure in a small town or finessing a schmooze assault on a CEO target. This social entrepreneur finds the wee, small hours a bountiful period for clarifying ideas about his self-appointed mission: to get Aboriginal people into jobs, and to keep them there. If you offer ironbark-sized Estens your hand, he'll gently squeeze it; if you lend this salesman an ear, he'll bash it; if the irrigator gets his fingers on your money, he'll channel it straight into a community's grass roots. And if you're crazy enough to stand in the way of a human road train, Estens will drive on - over, under, around or right through you.

So far, Estens and his team have had success in Moree (pop. 10,250), a place known for its artesian baths and, since the 1950s, its festering racial tensions, crime, poverty and social dysfunction. Forty years ago, Moree was one of the key stops on the Freedom Ride, led by Charles Perkins and other students, to draw attention to discrimination against blacks. In 1997, Estens started the Aboriginal Employment Strategy (AES), a not-for-profit company that tries to find work for indigenous people through corporate partnerships; going beyond the standard approaches of employment agencies, the AES is staffed solely by indigenous people, who provide mentoring support for the 300 or so workers they place each year. "There's a third of Aborigines who'll just never work. Welfare can handle them," says Estens. "The top third, educated and with good work experience, will always be okay. The AES is here for that middle third. We want to build a big middle class and to stretch a community as far as it can go." Or, as he tells employers in his most provocative pitch: "Why not employ a middle-class black instead of white trash?"

Indigenous Australians, particularly those living in remote areas, are a long way behind their countrymen on all indicators of wellbeing. In an age of material wealth and job growth, with the nation's unemployment rate at 5%, the indigenous jobless rate is 20%. The broader economic game continues to move against Aboriginal people. A recent Australian National University study suggests that if work-for-the-dole participants are categorized as jobless, Aboriginal unemployment could be as high as 50% by 2011. After decades of ineffectual programs, Prime Minister John Howard's government has shifted gears on Aboriginal policy. Treating totems such as land rights and self-government as dead ends, it has been pursuing what it calls "practical reconciliation." At the heart of it are policies to improve Aboriginal employment and reduce welfare dependency. "A steady job remains the best means of overcoming disadvantage in our society," Howard said in describing his welfare reform proposals earlier this year.

The times have brought to the fore a pragmatic indigenous leadership, which in turn has inspired a broader range of people and institutions - from banks to think tanks - to support Aboriginal initiatives. Leaders, such as Noel Pearson from Cape York, now speak of ownership, responsibility and individuality; urging indigenous people to be mainstream, mobile, acquisitive and ambitious, and to reject the so-called "sit-down money" of welfare. The Moree jobs model, with its ethos of pride, self-reliance and social mobility, fits the new thinking, and is now on the move. In the past few years, the AES has opened offices in the N.S.W. regional centers of Tamworth and Dubbo; in recent weeks new AES shop fronts have appeared in inner-Sydney's Glebe, Blacktown in the city's western suburbs and Maitland in the Hunter Valley. The offices are decorated in brash reds and yellows, and are located amid the bustle of the main street, so people know "we're here and we belong. It lifts the spirits of Aboriginal people," says Estens. About 100 towns have requested the AES, which is itself still being fitted out and road-tested, to set up camp. As Farmer Estens has learnt, sustainable progress needs the right soil and climate, clever management and a little luck.

How does a whitefella end up inspiring an Aboriginal social movement? Born in Gilgandra, in central N.S.W., Estens can trace his bloodlines back several centuries to both the Protestant Huguenots and the father of English empiricism, John Locke. Estens' Dreaming is the Enlightenment and the rich earth of the Moree plains - liberty and equality, with a dash of Aussie bush can-do and toil. He started the AES with the idea of providing skilled labor for the cotton industry; that modest venture seemed to lift the town and as the institutions surrounding job placement changed under the Howard government, the innovator started to work the system. As supportive elders held off the "radical and ratbag elements," Estens turned the AES into a crusade. Perhaps a non-indigenous person is the only one who can prevail in places that have competing Aboriginal tribes and a redneck underbelly. "I advised Dick not to go into it," says friend and legal counsel Roger Butler about the personal financial liabilities Estens has had to endure ever since. "It's fortunate that this mission was undertaken when his farms could stand on their own feet."

With a well-thumbed contact book, an overflowing diary and sheer bloody-mindedness, Estens is traveling around the state in his six-seat Cessna on a new assignment: lifting his troops for the next phase of expansion, and marketing the organization to corporate leaders. Although the federal government has given the AES funding for the next four years, the contract allocates too much money for training and not enough to cover the new management structure of a larger agency. Estens also expects AES managers to be creative and productive in earning revenue - through job placements, traineeships, security work and sponsorships. But they won't be offering prospective employers the carrot of a wage subsidy, as many agencies do. ("It kills the self-esteem of workers who are treated differently by their colleagues," says Estens). Often, the AES will find a job for an unemployed Aborigine but will receive no fee because the person was registered with another Job Network provider.

At the AES Dubbo office, Estens is speaking to four men from the local council about a proposal to increase night-time security around a troubled housing estate and areas vulnerable to vandalism during school holidays. The Estens road train starts its engine; the AES chairman settles into his pitch, which always comes with dramatic hand gestures. "It's about stretching communities." "We want people to lift themselves up." "Those on welfare are a pull-down on others." "I'm interested in that middle third." If the money can be found, Estens would like to employ a manager for the security service, to ease some of the workload of local AES boss Mike Nolan. While some in the AES worry about a change in direction in the security service - away from events and supermarkets to quasi-policing in no-go estates - Estens believes the work is important in restoring male status. "The idea of the warrior and the place of men in Aboriginal families has been eroded," he says. "Security work builds male self-esteem in these towns." By the time the Dubbo meeting is over, Estens has generated a flurry of phone calls, report-backs and a soiree with a senior bureaucrat. It's been fruitful and a jolly party compared with some meetings Estens has had with public servants. "Like Colin Powell in the first Gulf War, I've threatened to use overwhelming force on some departments," says Estens. "Bureaucrats have trouble understanding my psychological game plan." To Estens' mind, the AES is "best practice indigenous employment policy" that politicians support - but which baldly reveals the failings of bureaucrats. He's scathing about the good-hearted, impotent officials who "fund, cut and then scrap" policies that need time to grow. Estens senses there's a mindset in government that "Aboriginal employment is an intractable problem." He claims corporate Australia has lost confidence in old-style government programs and is looking for ways to bypass existing structures. "Business wants to help Aboriginal people," he says. "But they need to be convinced the money, and the effort, will actually improve people's lives."

In mid-November, a rust-colored mountain of barley looks as if it has spilt out from the silos at Moree's southern end. The barley will need to be cleared quickly, says Andrew Dahlstrom, 31, an AES worker who has spent most of his life in the town. "The wheat harvest is about to start and they'll need all the storage space available." As well, cotton has been planted and in coming weeks, under a harsh sun, teams of casual workers, known as "chippers," will flock to the vast fields to remove weeds from the crop. Dahlstrom, like many other indigenous people, has relied on this work for extra pre-Christmas cash. He's traveled the country as a fruit picker, where his blue eyes and fair hair left him indistinguishable from the Scandinavian backpackers he befriended. Until recently, Dahlstrom worked on a cotton gin a few hours away near the Queensland border. The money was terrific, but the 12-hour shifts and living away from his young family were too much to bear. Like so many others, he's found his way back to Moree - whose grains, oil seeds and cotton can be worth $A750 million in abundant years.

Dahlstrom is on trial for a month as one of several AES employment coordinators. The role is the most crucial for the agency, as it combines marketing, local knowledge, and savvy in getting employers to hire Aboriginal people; it then requires poise and wisdom to mentor the new workers and to maintain the relationship with the employer. "The employment coordinators are our lifeblood," says Estens. "They're our strongest and weakest link." Finding people with the necessary experience is difficult; the pressure to perform is high, as is the turnover; and the best ones always seem to end up with a better-paying job in a large company or in government. Dahlstrom is most comfortable away from the office, out in the ute, visiting cockies, tradesmen and factory managers.

On the edge of town, Dahlstrom parks an AES vehicle at Irritek, a company that makes and supplies agricultural irrigation equipment. General manager James von Drehnen is committed to the AES. "Real jobs move a community forward," he says on a break from the busy factory floor. "Getting youngsters through the door, who will give you a four-year commitment for an apprenticeship, is the hard part." Von Drehnen says the AES can be too soft on its placements, delivering their lunch or driving them to work - generally making life too easy for them. He looks to senior men such as Nigel Swan and Lyndon "Charlie" Briggs to act as mentors for the younger "Murris" (the term for the local Kamilaroi people). In terms of racial harmony, on a scale of zero to ten, von Drehnen thinks the town is at about three. "Moree is much better than it used to be," he says. "And a lot better than other places nearby. We've put a lot of issues away here." The next day, passing a building lot as the frame for a new house is going up, Dahlstrom laments there are no Murris on site - even though there are several indigenous carpenters in town. He points out an industrial workshop: "That bloke will never employ Aboriginal people. He's bringing in workers from Asia and the Pacific."

Despite a sizable idle army, indigenous folk aren't equipped to fill all Moree's job vacancies. Even if they turn against peer pressure and the welfare culture, getting the unemployed "job ready" takes time. Students, recent school leavers, those changing industries and mature people who have never worked, all come under the AES's watch. At different times of the day, Moree's AES resembles a cross-generational drop-in center. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, Dallas Brown takes a minibus to local schools and collects around a dozen younger teenagers who take part in a program called My Business Rules. The students learn about the world of work and do a team project to design a product and sell it. Craig Jenkins, a public servant who works with indigenous small businesses in northern N.S.W., explains to students the concept of business plans and what is needed to succeed. "The first 12 months is the most difficult for any business," says Jenkins, as the eager group contemplates the likely profits from its coming line of recyclable shopping bags. Motivating the town's indigenous youth requires indefatigable vigilance. Estens says there are 20 or 30 key people driving things forward in the Moree community. "There's a lot of horsepower in that group," he says, "and they're getting things done." Zona Moore, who as a teenager joined the Freedom Riders' bus, runs the Moree AES. She's often out speaking to young people. "There's enormous wealth in this town," says Moore, who grew up in Moree's mission. "I ask young people, Don't you want a part of it? I said to some boys the other day, You can have the flash car and the blonde on your arm. But you've got to work for it." One of Moore's slogans, reproduced on a mobile-phone holder is leave the mob, get a job. Making the initial step into work for a young person from a troubled family is difficult, she says, especially with the peer pressure that comes from being different and taunts of "shame." "Become a role model, I say to them. The only 'shame' about it is if you don't stick with the job."

At Café 2400, on the town's tree-lined main drag, waitress Janice Wager, 16, is convinced she did the right thing in leaving school in August to work as a trainee at the upmarket café. "Some of my friends and cousins, who just hang around doing nothing, said to me, Why do you want to work? Others believed I thought I was now better than them because I had a job and money." Bright-eyed and polite, Wager is contemplating further hospitality training, modeling, obtaining her driver's license and buying a car. At the nearby Moree Panel Works, Joe Tighe, 19, is putting in another day as a spray painter. Winner of an Apprentice of the Year award, Tighe is an AES poster boy and a rare, non-sporting success story in these parts - in spite of a difficult upbringing, dropping out of school in Year 9, and little contact with working people. The AES mentored the quiet tradesman during his transition. "I now try to help other kids whenever I can," says Tighe. One of the best ways to break the pattern for wasted youth is a school-based traineeship. The AES has developed a program with the ANZ and Commonwealth banks in regional N.S.W. During their final two years of high school, recruited students work in bank branches in customer-service roles one day a week during term and full-time during holidays. At the end of the program, students gain a certificate in financial services. Some, like Wayne Langenbaker, 17, from Tamworth, are offered full-time jobs. "The traineeship and working at the Commonwealth Bank has given me great confidence," says Langen-baker, who also found peer support at school from the other trainees. Career banker Bruce McQualter, an ANZ Bank regional manager based in Tamworth, is a staunch AES ally and is proud that having lived his life in this part of the country he now has the opportunity to help Aboriginal people. "The program is a great discipline for young people. It gives them direction," he says. "We need local people to stay in our towns. I want to be able to say to Aboriginal young people, Here's a career path, you could be running this branch one day." On a recent morning, Ivy Washington is in front of a computer terminal at the Moree AES. The 54-year-old grandmother, recently widowed, tentatively taps away at the keyboard. Washington is near the end of a 12-week course to update basic skills. She's gained her driver's license, completed a first-aid course and would like a stint of work experience.

Washington was looking for a change in her life, determined to avoid the common domestic trap among Aborigines known as 'Granny Burnout.' "My husband always worked," she says. "And I'd like to try it as well. I've finally found some independence, away from the family and grandchildren. I wonder whether any of the things I've learnt in this course will be of use. Who would want to employ me?" Employment coordinator Natalie Tighe says mature women are seen as a safe bet by employers - they aren't going to have more children, are settled and have the people skills required for services. Like Natalie Green who, having completed an AES course, does the evening security round at Woolworths three times a week. "I know all the faces in town," she says. "If the kids step out of line in the store, they seem to respond better to my warnings because I'm an Aboriginal person."

But there's a prevailing movement that Estens and a gaggle of bureaucrats can't reverse: Australia's booming economy is not generating enough unskilled work, particularly for men. According to Bob Gregory, professor of economics at the ANU, it's getting harder - not easier - for Aboriginal people to gain mainstream employment (that is, outside the burgeoning indigenous work-for-the-dole scheme). Despite massive spending on job training programs, the results have been "extraordinarily poor," argues Gregory, who estimates each full-time job from one intensive assistance program has cost taxpayers $A75,000. Without a change in economy-wide forces, things will only get worse, says Gregory, who has calculated that 50% of indigenous people could be termed as unemployed by 2011. "Whether you look forward, or look back, the optimists are arguing for a break in the trend," says a gloomy Gregory. "It's time to look for something new."

The AES offers some - certainly not all - of the clues for growing indigenous employment. As Estens has found, progress takes time, even with the best will in the world; some kids fall by the wayside, towns lose heart, officials stuff up. In Sydney last month, at the end of a long day, Estens is recalling the time he scored a turn at the controls of a 747 passenger jet (okay, it was a simulator). "I took the bloody thing over Sydney Harbour," says Estens, his voice cracking, eyes watering with delight. "I wanted to fly under the Bridge. So there I am, wondering whether the Bridge is 100 or 300 feet above the water. I turn, I'm heading for the Bridge, flying under 50 feet, the plane is vibrating, the ground-proximity radar is going off. I'm trying to keep the whole thing above the water. And I did! It was exhilarating." After a long, deep laugh, he pauses. He flicks the switch from nostalgia to cold reality. "I'm probably crazy thinking I can make this thing work. But I can't afford to fail. I'm not just going to walk away."

• Tom Dusevic
• A relentless farmer—and a team of enterprising Aborigines—could be sowing the seeds of an indigenous middle class