Uncle Tom's Tale
My father’s side of the family like to travel, as
‘Jack’s Story’ (on this site) indicates. Also, they emigrate a lot….
This is a tale told by my Uncle Tom Griffiths, who went
out to
I was working in
I got the job, and went on a course at the Cooma Scientific Services
laboratories. The course included field trips and on our first trip to the
mountains, we paid a visit to the Tumut One underground power station, just
getting under way. The access tunnel had already been excavated. As we walked
the 1400 feet into the tunnel we were assailed by an increasing volume of noise
– drilling and excavating equipment was raising clouds of foul smelling, dusty
air which reeked of gelignite residue. The tunnel was illuminated by scanty
low-powered lighting. And the water! Water was dripping everywhere. It turned
out that half a million gallons of water were pumped out daily! The ambience of
this delightful tunnel was not improved by the Tournapul loaders roaring past
every few minutes, belching diesel exhaust as they took rock for disposal. As we
left the place, gasping for breath, our group was of the unanimous opinion that
we would rather quit than work in that particular place.
Of course, at the end of the training, where was I assigned? You guessed it –
Tumut One! I didn’t follow up on my vow to quit, but it was with great
reluctance that I started work on the site. Fortunately, during the early part
of construction, work was in the open, so as the project moved on, I was able to
acclimatise myself gradually to the conditions, rather than be flung in at the
deep end straight away.
Access to the power station site was by ‘The Creelman’s Track’ – a very steep
fisherman’s trail down to the
The contract had been let to a number of French companies managed by a
principal, so each company had a section of the main contract to look after. A
bigger bunch of backbiters would be hard to find: they went to any length to
denigrate the efforts of their colleagues, who were their commercial rivals in
their own country. As overall supervisors, we were not too well liked either but
individually we got on well. Their own supervisors would criticise the work of
staff supplied by other companies, jeer at their efforts and relate personal
histories of an uncomplimentary nature: ‘Oh! Monsieur so-and-so, when he had to
go for a job interview with the Company President, in
There was much squabbling about construction methods, specifications and safety
matters, resulting at one stage in people losing consciousness because of the
foul air. The contract requirements were based on American methods, and the
French supervisors did not regard
When we prepared to pour the first structural concrete, Gallic stubbornness
reared its ugly head. The specification required that rock surfaces should be
cleaned with an air/water jet, a device any competent mechanic could knock up in
five minutes. No! That was too easy. Because they did not have the equipment
provided, they decided simply to hose down the rock surface with water alone.
This was not accepted so they tried the same thing again, which of course was
also rejected. After a hold-up of three days, the group of men turned up with
nail brushes and buckets and began scrubbing the rock, followed by the French
ambassador and a bevy of news photographers. ‘Look what the
Ventilation was a constant problem underground. The completed lift shaft was
used to exhaust air from below. A huge fan, about eight feet in diameter, drew
air up 1200 feet to the surface. It was so powerful you couldn’t stand up.
Unfortunately, when the outside temperature at the surface was low, cold air
sank down the shaft and effectively blocked the exhaust air coming up, despite
the fan. Some bright spark thought it would be better to suck fresh air down the
shaft and blow it through the access tunnel into the construction area by
reversing the fan. This was a great idea, unless you were aware that miners
working in the shafts had been using the tunnel as an open toilet.
Until they sorted it out, the atmosphere was filled
with the stench and the air-borne detritus of the miner’s exertions, blasted by
that powerful fan.
We worked three shifts, six days a week. On Sunday, we had PR escort duties, so
we had little opportunity to get the back-to-work blues, as we got up to start
our shift at
The highlight of the week was getting the Sydney Morning Herald on the Saturday
with the chance of applying for another bloody job and getting out of there!