I visited my grandmother again today. This is nothing terribly special or unique - I visit her everyday. Some days are more depressing than others, though, even though I'm not sure why. This was one of them, although it wasn't as bad as some have been.
Maybe it's the way she heard me come up behind her, thought I was a nurse and said, pitifully, "please help me", because she needed to go to the toilet and it had been some time since she pressed the button but no one had come.
There's something about watching someone succumb to old age that just sucks. Their life sucks, and you get to live a sucky life vicariously through them. We shouldn't have to get that old. We shouldn't have to live past the stage where we can take ourselves to the toilet without asking someone to help us and hoping against hope that they help us in time.
We shouldn't have to live past the stage where we can walk, breath and eat without feeling as if we've run an ultramarathon. Life shouldn't get to the point where the basic living of it is beyond us. Not if people are going to insist we keep on living.
If not for the marvels of modern medicine, my grandmother would have died years ago. She would have died with a lot more dignity than she has the way she's living now, and she wouldn't have had her world shrink on her so much for so long. It's been years since she has actually enjoyed life, and now she actively hates it. But she's still alive. All because we take her to the doctors when she gets sick, and the doctors find a way to stop her from dying from whatever sickness she has.
It's not their fault. We simply live in a society that has forgotten what death is for. We think life is vitally important, so we go out of our way to make sure people who shouldn't really be alive manage to stay in the game. Babies that would once never be conceived/never be born/never survive past the first few nights/never live past the age of five are now making it through childhood - even though they might not do it very well. Adults who would once have died while still with some quality of life after some illness or accident are now living long enough to see the quality drain away - and then go on living a few years more.
We weren't meant to live forever. Some of us weren't meant to live very long at all. It's sad, it's tragic, but it's life. Death is a part of life. It defines it, puts it in perspective and keeps the living honest. Yet, we try so hard to avoid dying, even when living isn't really the best thing we could do - for ourselves or for those around us.
But how do you die in this society, in this day and age? We're trying to stamp out death by natural causes and no one approves of death by intent. In the olden days, you'd get sick and die. That was reasonably normal. These days, you don't go down without a fight - even when winning the fight would actually be more like loosing. And when you do die, everyone says it should never have happened and tries to find way to stop it happening to others. We've lost the concept of a good death.
Except when it comes to our animals. We're quite happy to put our dogs out of their misery, but not our parents. They get to stay miserable (apparently it makes us all feel better).
I've been joking with some of my friends who have parents and grandparents in similar situations - saying I don't want to get that old, so after a certain age I'm just going to live recklessly and hope I get taken out in a motorcycle accident or something.
The problem with that plan is I'm likely to get "saved", so I'll be old and suffering from permanent damage that will stop me from base-jumping or engaging in other death-inviting activities.
I thought of a new plan today: Exposure. I've been reading a magazine on trail running and it mentioned things to do to avoid catching hypothermia and dying of exposure. It made me think of the RSPCA's recommendation for killing cane toads - putting them in the freezer. Apparently, their temperature drops gradually, they fall asleep and freeze to death in blissful ignorance. (Why they honestly think that anyone who isn't going to dissect a toad is going to bother catching them and putting them next to their steak and lamb chops is beyond me. I think they might be delusional).
From what I think I know about hypothermia and dying of exposure, it's a similar pattern. You get really, desperately, uncomfortably cold for a few hours, then you start to nod off. Once you fall asleep, if help doesn't get to you soon, it's all over bar the coroner's inquiry.
That doesn't sound like a bad way to go, all things considered. Find a beautiful spot somewhere really cold (Arctic Circle, perhaps), go for a nice, long bush walk in the middle of winter, make sure you've got enough supplies to get far enough away from civilisation that no one will come along and try to save you, and let nature take it's course. Sure, you'll probably end up being eaten by something - but at least then you're giving something back to the planet, I suppose. Circle of life and all that.
Beats dying slowly because people insist you should be trying to stay alive.
So, yeah, that's my new plan: Live a rich and full life for as long as I can and face old age as valiantly as I may until I feel I've jumped the shark and it's time to go. Then I'll take myself out into the woods somewhere (if there are any left by that time) and die of exposure. Hey, they say wild animals do it all the time, so it must be reasonably civilised.
Of course, I may change my mind by then - it may be quite a number of decades away.
How would you like to die?
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Happy Place
Fancy that.
According to a survey by the World Values Survey organisation (a US funded body), Estonia is the 84th happiest country in the world.
They should put that on a T-Shirt.
Sure, someone could complain that 84th place in a field of 97 surveyed countries is a bit of a poor showing, but you have to admit, it sounds kind of cool:
Come to Estonia, the 84th Happiest Place on Earth...
According to a survey by the World Values Survey organisation (a US funded body), Estonia is the 84th happiest country in the world.
They should put that on a T-Shirt.
Sure, someone could complain that 84th place in a field of 97 surveyed countries is a bit of a poor showing, but you have to admit, it sounds kind of cool:
Come to Estonia, the 84th Happiest Place on Earth...
Friday, July 18, 2008
Russian
So...
I'm learning Russian. I don't know why, especially since I'm at that stage with trying to learn Estonian (on my own) where I could probably quite easily confuse myself, but I found a Russian teacher and I figured I should try to learn at least one language with professional help.
Why Russian and not, say, French or Spanish?
I don't rightly know, exactly.
I always felt that if you were going to learn a language you should learn one that could be used in a wide number of countries. I refused to learn Japanese when I had the chance because it was only spoken in Japan. I studied Indonesian in school, but largely because that was the only language on offer. I didn't feel the need to pursue it with any vigor as Indonesian is only spoken by Indonesians (and not even all of them). All I can really remember from those lessons is saya tidak mengerti, which means "I don't understand". A little bit useful, but not much.
And yet, here I am, trying to learn Estonian, which is spoken by less than two million people. Why? Because I refuse to have an Estonian passport and be entitled to help from the Estonian embassy if I've never been to Estonia and I can't even speak the language. So I'm trying to learn Estonian and I'm planning a trip to Estonia next yet (just a holiday this time, but with a view to moving there for a year or so in the foreseeable future).
Learning Estonian is, of course, ridiculous. It's ridiculous for exactly the same reason that learning Finnish would be ridiculous. Why try to learn one of the hardest languages on the planet when:
That said, it's so darn pretty to listen to that I can't wait until I understand enough words well enough to hear the meaning behind the poetry. Plus, the fact that it is such a challenge makes me feel strangely victorious whenever I've managed to wrap my head around part of it.
Which leads me to Russian. Okay, it's spoken by more people in more places than Estonian (including Estonia), but a heck of a lot of the non-Russian countries which used to speak it try to avoid it like the plague these days. It will probably help me read a few signs and talk to a few shopkeepers in certain quarters of Estonia, but if I'm not really planning on visiting Russia, and the Estonian speakers would have more respect for me if I spoke French, why learn Russian?
I think its partly because, when I was growing up, Estonia was part of the USSR, and, in the 1980s, the USSR was kind of cool. That was where all the best Bond villains came from. That was where the best competition came from in the Olympics. That was where all of the really cool scientists and artists defected from. The USSR, in the 80s, had a strange attraction for a young kid who read comics and watched action films. Every time you heard about a ballet dancer, gymnast or chess master from an Eastern Block country taking out some big honour, something in the back of your mind would register: "Eastern European countries rock".
That was all tied up with Russia. Knowing very little about Estonia, thanks to my grandmother's more-or-less total assimilation into the Australian culture, every time I learnt something new about Russia or any of the other countries in the USSR, I also felt as if I was learning more about Estonia. After all, it was a member of the Eastern Block...
Even though I have now spoken to enough ex-pat Estonians to know that they don't particularly like Russia, Russian or anything to do with the Russians, something deep down inside of me still feels that learning Russian somehow gets me closer to my Eastern European roots. And, even though Russia itself is now a bit boring and slightly obnoxious, the part of me that grew up during the last hurrah of the Cold War still finds something strangely alluring about it all.
Plus, it comes complete with a new alphabet. The part of me that always loved finding new letters and working out their names and pronunciations is completely over the moon. I mean, I used to amuse myself during boring lectures by translating words into phonetic symbols, so this is just great.
One of these days I'm going to learn French and Spanish, too, but right now it's Estonian and Russian. That will do for the present, I think.
I'm learning Russian. I don't know why, especially since I'm at that stage with trying to learn Estonian (on my own) where I could probably quite easily confuse myself, but I found a Russian teacher and I figured I should try to learn at least one language with professional help.
Why Russian and not, say, French or Spanish?
I don't rightly know, exactly.
I always felt that if you were going to learn a language you should learn one that could be used in a wide number of countries. I refused to learn Japanese when I had the chance because it was only spoken in Japan. I studied Indonesian in school, but largely because that was the only language on offer. I didn't feel the need to pursue it with any vigor as Indonesian is only spoken by Indonesians (and not even all of them). All I can really remember from those lessons is saya tidak mengerti, which means "I don't understand". A little bit useful, but not much.
And yet, here I am, trying to learn Estonian, which is spoken by less than two million people. Why? Because I refuse to have an Estonian passport and be entitled to help from the Estonian embassy if I've never been to Estonia and I can't even speak the language. So I'm trying to learn Estonian and I'm planning a trip to Estonia next yet (just a holiday this time, but with a view to moving there for a year or so in the foreseeable future).
Learning Estonian is, of course, ridiculous. It's ridiculous for exactly the same reason that learning Finnish would be ridiculous. Why try to learn one of the hardest languages on the planet when:
a) only a small group of people speak it,Plus, the language itself is ridiculous. I'm sorry, but it is. You don't need fourteen cases - especially if you are also going to have prepositions and postpositions. You do need gendered pronouns and articles. Whoever invented the Finno-Ugric languages was a bit like one of those sociopaths who lock up abandoned children in the basement and only speak to them in a series of complicated grunts. I'm almost convinced it was some sort of twisted sociological experiment that has gone on for far too long.
b) everyone who speaks it also speaks at least one other language - any one of which would be much easier to learn,
and
c) the native speakers have a reputation of having little patience for people who haven't got a complete grip on the language, and can speak your language so much better than you could ever hope to speak theirs?
That said, it's so darn pretty to listen to that I can't wait until I understand enough words well enough to hear the meaning behind the poetry. Plus, the fact that it is such a challenge makes me feel strangely victorious whenever I've managed to wrap my head around part of it.
Which leads me to Russian. Okay, it's spoken by more people in more places than Estonian (including Estonia), but a heck of a lot of the non-Russian countries which used to speak it try to avoid it like the plague these days. It will probably help me read a few signs and talk to a few shopkeepers in certain quarters of Estonia, but if I'm not really planning on visiting Russia, and the Estonian speakers would have more respect for me if I spoke French, why learn Russian?
I think its partly because, when I was growing up, Estonia was part of the USSR, and, in the 1980s, the USSR was kind of cool. That was where all the best Bond villains came from. That was where the best competition came from in the Olympics. That was where all of the really cool scientists and artists defected from. The USSR, in the 80s, had a strange attraction for a young kid who read comics and watched action films. Every time you heard about a ballet dancer, gymnast or chess master from an Eastern Block country taking out some big honour, something in the back of your mind would register: "Eastern European countries rock".
That was all tied up with Russia. Knowing very little about Estonia, thanks to my grandmother's more-or-less total assimilation into the Australian culture, every time I learnt something new about Russia or any of the other countries in the USSR, I also felt as if I was learning more about Estonia. After all, it was a member of the Eastern Block...
Even though I have now spoken to enough ex-pat Estonians to know that they don't particularly like Russia, Russian or anything to do with the Russians, something deep down inside of me still feels that learning Russian somehow gets me closer to my Eastern European roots. And, even though Russia itself is now a bit boring and slightly obnoxious, the part of me that grew up during the last hurrah of the Cold War still finds something strangely alluring about it all.
Plus, it comes complete with a new alphabet. The part of me that always loved finding new letters and working out their names and pronunciations is completely over the moon. I mean, I used to amuse myself during boring lectures by translating words into phonetic symbols, so this is just great.
One of these days I'm going to learn French and Spanish, too, but right now it's Estonian and Russian. That will do for the present, I think.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Russians and Turks
I had a rather revelatory conversation the other night.
A group of us were discussing the parable of the good Samaritan: about how most people today forget that an important part of the story was the fact that Samaritans and Jews hated each other's guts. In fact, a Samaritan would probably prefer to help anyone in the world rather than a Jew (and a Jew would probably prefer to think of anyone in the world helping them rather than a Samaritan). The point of the story was that the people you would expect to help the Jewish business man (the priest and the 'pillar of the community') didn't, but the man you wouldn't expect to help did - thus leading to the conclusion that a "neighbour" isn't someone who lives next door or in your community, but rather someone who acts "neighbourly" towards his fellow man.
While talking about how you would re-cast the parable in modern times, the general consensus of the group was that it would be hard to pick a 'despised' race to take the place of Samaritans as, being middle class white Australians, we are so separate from the rest of the world and their cultural problems that we both love and are loved by all.
I had to point out that such thoughts were a bit of a WASP delusion. There are many middle class Australians who still harbour feelings of bitterness towards certain groups of people, and would be just as likely to expect help from that quarter as a Jew would have expected help from a Samaritan. I know of a number of Estonian Australians who get worked up at the very mention of anything Russian, and a number of Greek Australians who have to resist the urge to spit whenever they mention the Turks, for example. Also, there are Chinese and Korean Australians who can't stand the Japanese, and the Australians who have their origins in the Middle East... well there's not an awful lot of love in certain quarters.
In the course of discussing these examples, a rather obvious similarity struck me. The most bitter feelings towards the most "hated" races come from people who were on the receiving end of massacres and invasions. From what I can gather, the main reason the Russians and the Turks hate the Estonians and the Greeks is because the Estonians and Greeks hate them ("for no good reason"), while the main reason the Estonians and Greeks hate the Russians and the Turks is because the Russians and the Turks invaded their countries, killed their family members and treated them like scum, making it impossible for them to continue living in their own countries.
In my white-middle-class-Australian delusion, I was feeling rather detached from it all - after all, we (as in, white, middle-class Australians) have never been involved in any such invasions or massacres...
But, then, of course we have. We moved into an entire continent, told the original inhabitants that they were scum, forced them to leave their own countries, killed their family members (often in horrible massacres), made it clear that they didn't belong here as far as we were concerned and - when we finally admitted that maybe they did belong here after all - treated them like second class citizens and wondered why they didn't pull their socks up and get on with being just like us.
We are just like the Russians and the Turks. The only difference is, we were much more successful. We've managed to stay long enough and out number the original inhabitants so vastly that no one would ever expect us to leave. The Greeks looked with hope and longing for the days when the Turks would leave and they could have their own land and culture back, and the Turks eventually did leave (well, there's Cyprus, but we're going to ignore that for now). The Estonians held on to their land, language and culture looking forward to the day when the Russians would let them have their country back, and eventually it happened (albeit begrudgingly).
The Indigenous people of Australia (and New Zealand, and America) have no such hope. Their countries are irrevocably our countries, and we're not going anywhere. The most they can hope for is that we'll occasionally give them pack a small piece of land to call their own. Even then, there are white Australians who think we shouldn't have to do this, and will treat the entire concept of "native title" with fear and loathing.
It's weird that, for all my life, I've thought that the Aboriginal people of Australia were bitter and angry "for no good reason". I knew the history, but I figured it was just that - history - and there was no reason to let it continue to torment the future. It wasn't until I connected the Indigenous Australians with other invaded peoples that I realised exactly where they were coming from, and exactly what we must be to them. We are the Russians to their Estonians. The Turks to their Greeks. The Japanese to their Eastern Seaboard Chinese... And it's not like they can grin and bear it and wait for us to leave.
And, sure, there's the argument (that someone like me can make quite easily) that I wasn't personally involved in any of these acts of invasion and violence, and none of my ancestors were personally involved in any of the acts of invasion and violence, so I shouldn't be hated and despised for something I didn't do... But racial memory doesn't know individuals, it knows groups. For as long as I regard myself as a white Australian, I'm a member of the group that did these horrible things to those people, and I get tarred with the same brush as every other member of my group. It's my history, whether I like it or not, and I need to take responsibility for it as surely as we expect the Germans to take responsibility for the Nazis and the Russians to take responsibility for their oppression during the Soviet Era.
By the same token, I also feel a better appreciation for the "bad guys" of the past. Everyone likes to demonise the invaders... unless of course we happen to be the invaders.
I suddenly have a much better understanding of why the Russians think the Estonians are ungrateful little snots, and why they'll probably never apologise. Who wants to apologise for making the world a better place? That's what we invaders do, really. Sure, we make your lives miserable on a number of levels, but we also provide the opportunity to live a better quality miserable life. If you don't want to take advantage of that, it's your problem, not ours.
A group of us were discussing the parable of the good Samaritan: about how most people today forget that an important part of the story was the fact that Samaritans and Jews hated each other's guts. In fact, a Samaritan would probably prefer to help anyone in the world rather than a Jew (and a Jew would probably prefer to think of anyone in the world helping them rather than a Samaritan). The point of the story was that the people you would expect to help the Jewish business man (the priest and the 'pillar of the community') didn't, but the man you wouldn't expect to help did - thus leading to the conclusion that a "neighbour" isn't someone who lives next door or in your community, but rather someone who acts "neighbourly" towards his fellow man.
While talking about how you would re-cast the parable in modern times, the general consensus of the group was that it would be hard to pick a 'despised' race to take the place of Samaritans as, being middle class white Australians, we are so separate from the rest of the world and their cultural problems that we both love and are loved by all.
I had to point out that such thoughts were a bit of a WASP delusion. There are many middle class Australians who still harbour feelings of bitterness towards certain groups of people, and would be just as likely to expect help from that quarter as a Jew would have expected help from a Samaritan. I know of a number of Estonian Australians who get worked up at the very mention of anything Russian, and a number of Greek Australians who have to resist the urge to spit whenever they mention the Turks, for example. Also, there are Chinese and Korean Australians who can't stand the Japanese, and the Australians who have their origins in the Middle East... well there's not an awful lot of love in certain quarters.
In the course of discussing these examples, a rather obvious similarity struck me. The most bitter feelings towards the most "hated" races come from people who were on the receiving end of massacres and invasions. From what I can gather, the main reason the Russians and the Turks hate the Estonians and the Greeks is because the Estonians and Greeks hate them ("for no good reason"), while the main reason the Estonians and Greeks hate the Russians and the Turks is because the Russians and the Turks invaded their countries, killed their family members and treated them like scum, making it impossible for them to continue living in their own countries.
In my white-middle-class-Australian delusion, I was feeling rather detached from it all - after all, we (as in, white, middle-class Australians) have never been involved in any such invasions or massacres...
But, then, of course we have. We moved into an entire continent, told the original inhabitants that they were scum, forced them to leave their own countries, killed their family members (often in horrible massacres), made it clear that they didn't belong here as far as we were concerned and - when we finally admitted that maybe they did belong here after all - treated them like second class citizens and wondered why they didn't pull their socks up and get on with being just like us.
We are just like the Russians and the Turks. The only difference is, we were much more successful. We've managed to stay long enough and out number the original inhabitants so vastly that no one would ever expect us to leave. The Greeks looked with hope and longing for the days when the Turks would leave and they could have their own land and culture back, and the Turks eventually did leave (well, there's Cyprus, but we're going to ignore that for now). The Estonians held on to their land, language and culture looking forward to the day when the Russians would let them have their country back, and eventually it happened (albeit begrudgingly).
The Indigenous people of Australia (and New Zealand, and America) have no such hope. Their countries are irrevocably our countries, and we're not going anywhere. The most they can hope for is that we'll occasionally give them pack a small piece of land to call their own. Even then, there are white Australians who think we shouldn't have to do this, and will treat the entire concept of "native title" with fear and loathing.
It's weird that, for all my life, I've thought that the Aboriginal people of Australia were bitter and angry "for no good reason". I knew the history, but I figured it was just that - history - and there was no reason to let it continue to torment the future. It wasn't until I connected the Indigenous Australians with other invaded peoples that I realised exactly where they were coming from, and exactly what we must be to them. We are the Russians to their Estonians. The Turks to their Greeks. The Japanese to their Eastern Seaboard Chinese... And it's not like they can grin and bear it and wait for us to leave.
And, sure, there's the argument (that someone like me can make quite easily) that I wasn't personally involved in any of these acts of invasion and violence, and none of my ancestors were personally involved in any of the acts of invasion and violence, so I shouldn't be hated and despised for something I didn't do... But racial memory doesn't know individuals, it knows groups. For as long as I regard myself as a white Australian, I'm a member of the group that did these horrible things to those people, and I get tarred with the same brush as every other member of my group. It's my history, whether I like it or not, and I need to take responsibility for it as surely as we expect the Germans to take responsibility for the Nazis and the Russians to take responsibility for their oppression during the Soviet Era.
By the same token, I also feel a better appreciation for the "bad guys" of the past. Everyone likes to demonise the invaders... unless of course we happen to be the invaders.
I suddenly have a much better understanding of why the Russians think the Estonians are ungrateful little snots, and why they'll probably never apologise. Who wants to apologise for making the world a better place? That's what we invaders do, really. Sure, we make your lives miserable on a number of levels, but we also provide the opportunity to live a better quality miserable life. If you don't want to take advantage of that, it's your problem, not ours.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Hunky Dory
Memo to self:
Must not use idioms like "every thing's all hunky dory" when talking to people for whom English is not their first language...
Heck, I can even think of some native speakers who would have trouble with that...
Must not use idioms like "every thing's all hunky dory" when talking to people for whom English is not their first language...
Heck, I can even think of some native speakers who would have trouble with that...
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Electric Uno Motorcycle
Not a motorised unicycle, but it looks like one from the side, which is kind of cool:
Not bad, for an 18 year old inventor. More info here.
Hope the guy gets his investors. Can't see it really replacing cars and 'real' motorbikes outside of the busy city centres, though.
Not bad, for an 18 year old inventor. More info here.
Hope the guy gets his investors. Can't see it really replacing cars and 'real' motorbikes outside of the busy city centres, though.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
You learn something new every day
And today, I learned that Estonia is half the size of Tasmania.
Literally.
Estonia has an area of 45,227 square km, while Tasmania has an area of 90,758 square km. Divide Tasmania's land area in half and you get 45,392, which is close enough to 45,227 for me to feel confident in saying that Estonia is half the size of Tasmania (although technically it should be "less than half").
Having lived in Tasmania for two years, and found the "smallness" of it all rather refreshing compared to the wide open spaces of North Queensland, the knowledge that Estonia is half the size is filling me with strange ambitions.
I know I said before that I'm thinking of cycling about in Estonia a fair bit, but that was before I put the size of the place in context. Now I want to cycle around the whole lot.
I don't know whether I actually will or not, but why wouldn't you? After all, the thing's half the size of Tasmania, and there are towns all over it.
Sure, some people might think this is a weird way of looking at the world, but let me put it into context for you.
I live in a city. One of the largest cities in the state, and the largest city in the northern half of the continent of Australia. The nearest other city is six hours away when travelling by car. The nearest town is 95km south. That is, depending on the conditions of the road, approximately an hour-and-half's drive from where I live.
There's a reason why Queenslanders always give distances in times. That's how we figure out whether or not it's worth the effort: Yes, this great festival is happening in the next town. The next town is two hours away, and the road between here and there isn't great for driving at night. If I go, I'll probably have to plan to stay overnight. I can't really afford that, so I'll just go to a movie instead.
I understand people who live in the Northern Territory and Western Australia do exactly the same thing.
"How far is X from Y?"
"About a forty-minute drive."
When you live in remote locations, almost all the distances you have to think about are large distances. While I'd like to ride my bike to the next town, that's probably going to take me the better part of four-to-five hours. I'm going to have to do a lot of work to build up my fitness and endurance before I take on a challenge like that.
In comparision, when I lived in Tasmania I was in a town that was only 15km away from the nearest city. Less than a twenty minute drive. All of the born-and-bred Tasmanian locals would talk about how remote we were in the North West of the state, and I just kept thinking, "What are you talking about? In the time it would take me to get to a 'nearby' town back home, I can get to the other side of the state from here." Heck, Hobart, the state's capital, was less than half a day's drive from my home. Where I came from, if you started driving in the mornin you wouldn't get to the capital until the afternoon of the next day.
I was so intoxicated by the nearness of everything that I just drove everywhere. I hardly spent a weekend in my own town. I mean, why would you when you've got the wonders of Tasmania all around you - and so darn close to boot?
There's a dancing festival on the other side of the state? Of course I'll be there, is basically a stone's throw away.
I never rode to the next town, but that was largely because I was afraid of riding on the highway. Cars had some trouble avoiding other cars on that part of the highway. Plus, I wasn't really at a point in my life when a ride to the next town sounded like something I had to do, and my fitness/endurance levels weren't really up to the challenge. But I took some comfort from knowing I could have, if I wanted to.
I felt like I practically owned Tasmania - there was barely a thing that wasn't within my reach. Okay, driving from Wynyard to Dover would probably take some time, but who would want to do that anyway? Certainly not without stopping off at dozens of interesting places along the way.
That's another thing about North Queensland. We don't have quite so many interesting places to visit at regular intervals along the way. Oh, we have them, all right, there's just a fair amount of space between them.
So, this discovery that Estonia is half the size of Tasmania, and has even more towns taking up that tiny, tiny space, fills me with a strange and glowing confidence. If I owned Tasmania, I'll - like - totally own Estonia. Bring it on, man, I can take it.
Literally.
Estonia has an area of 45,227 square km, while Tasmania has an area of 90,758 square km. Divide Tasmania's land area in half and you get 45,392, which is close enough to 45,227 for me to feel confident in saying that Estonia is half the size of Tasmania (although technically it should be "less than half").
Having lived in Tasmania for two years, and found the "smallness" of it all rather refreshing compared to the wide open spaces of North Queensland, the knowledge that Estonia is half the size is filling me with strange ambitions.
I know I said before that I'm thinking of cycling about in Estonia a fair bit, but that was before I put the size of the place in context. Now I want to cycle around the whole lot.
I don't know whether I actually will or not, but why wouldn't you? After all, the thing's half the size of Tasmania, and there are towns all over it.
Sure, some people might think this is a weird way of looking at the world, but let me put it into context for you.
I live in a city. One of the largest cities in the state, and the largest city in the northern half of the continent of Australia. The nearest other city is six hours away when travelling by car. The nearest town is 95km south. That is, depending on the conditions of the road, approximately an hour-and-half's drive from where I live.
There's a reason why Queenslanders always give distances in times. That's how we figure out whether or not it's worth the effort: Yes, this great festival is happening in the next town. The next town is two hours away, and the road between here and there isn't great for driving at night. If I go, I'll probably have to plan to stay overnight. I can't really afford that, so I'll just go to a movie instead.
I understand people who live in the Northern Territory and Western Australia do exactly the same thing.
"How far is X from Y?"
"About a forty-minute drive."
When you live in remote locations, almost all the distances you have to think about are large distances. While I'd like to ride my bike to the next town, that's probably going to take me the better part of four-to-five hours. I'm going to have to do a lot of work to build up my fitness and endurance before I take on a challenge like that.
In comparision, when I lived in Tasmania I was in a town that was only 15km away from the nearest city. Less than a twenty minute drive. All of the born-and-bred Tasmanian locals would talk about how remote we were in the North West of the state, and I just kept thinking, "What are you talking about? In the time it would take me to get to a 'nearby' town back home, I can get to the other side of the state from here." Heck, Hobart, the state's capital, was less than half a day's drive from my home. Where I came from, if you started driving in the mornin you wouldn't get to the capital until the afternoon of the next day.
I was so intoxicated by the nearness of everything that I just drove everywhere. I hardly spent a weekend in my own town. I mean, why would you when you've got the wonders of Tasmania all around you - and so darn close to boot?
There's a dancing festival on the other side of the state? Of course I'll be there, is basically a stone's throw away.
I never rode to the next town, but that was largely because I was afraid of riding on the highway. Cars had some trouble avoiding other cars on that part of the highway. Plus, I wasn't really at a point in my life when a ride to the next town sounded like something I had to do, and my fitness/endurance levels weren't really up to the challenge. But I took some comfort from knowing I could have, if I wanted to.
I felt like I practically owned Tasmania - there was barely a thing that wasn't within my reach. Okay, driving from Wynyard to Dover would probably take some time, but who would want to do that anyway? Certainly not without stopping off at dozens of interesting places along the way.
That's another thing about North Queensland. We don't have quite so many interesting places to visit at regular intervals along the way. Oh, we have them, all right, there's just a fair amount of space between them.
So, this discovery that Estonia is half the size of Tasmania, and has even more towns taking up that tiny, tiny space, fills me with a strange and glowing confidence. If I owned Tasmania, I'll - like - totally own Estonia. Bring it on, man, I can take it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)