The book which discusses the consultation process undertaken by the Federal Government in Aboriginal communities ahead of introducing it's Stronger Futures legislation and paints pretty appalling and disenchanting picture.
It won't be an election issue, but while our politicians engage in petty stunts for media attention, everyone is ignoring some of the most disadvantaged and disempowered people in our country.
"A Decision to Discriminate: Aboriginal Disempowerment in the Northern Territory"
Almost 70 years ago Albert Camus wrote that “goodwill can cause
almost as much damage as ill-will if it is not enlightened” - a
sentiment it seems that could well apply to the Australian government’s
approach to Indigenous affairs.
Reading A Decision to Discriminate: Aboriginal Disempowerment in the Northern Territory, published by Concerned Australians, leaves you with the troubling impression that the Gillard Government’s Stronger Futures legislation – which followed on from the Howard Government’s Northern Territory Emergency Response
(NTER) and drifted quietly through Parliament in early 2012 – was at
worst a continuation of arrogant and destructive disempowerment, and at
best an act of wilful naivety in what is deemed by government and media
to be an issue of minimal importance.
They are just symbols. Inanimate sculptures of metal, pieces of fabric, with no inherent meaning other than that which I choose to allow them. No magical powers. Yet a source of heavy burden for many years, a burden assigned by the mind - influenced by the world outside it - and reflected back with greater intensity as neurons fire and anxiety pulses through the brain.
For years now, they've been packed away, close but virtually non-existent. I couldn't throw them away. I don't know why, it just felt ... wrong. Out of sight to spare my mind. Left sitting in a dark place devoid of meaning.
This is the one aspect of my 15 or so years of chronic OCD that I never thought I would publicly disclose, or at least not for a long time. Honesty is fine, but some things people just don't get. It was the most absurd and personally embarrassing. But, the hell with it.
On the wall just inside the door to my bedroom at my parents house, just above the light switch and in direct line of sight, less than a metre away as you opened the door, was a crucifix. I think I received it as a First Communion gift.
I was raised a good catholic boy. God fearing. I was more superstitious than religious now I think of it, so perhaps it was inevitable that I would reject it when I realised it didn't satisfy my soul. I feared the unknown power of God, hell and religion more than anything else ever. It was so abstract and so overwhelming it was one thing my obsessively rationalising mind could not combat when anxieties kicked in. The 'what ifs' were endless. And, at times, terrifying.
I couldn't look at that crucifix much of the time for fear of thinking a 'bad thought' and feeling like I'd prayed for it. So at any time I feared I might slip into prayer (basically any time I thought about it) my thoughts went into lock down, heavy control, so I didn't inadvertently ask the almighty for something bad. Something like the Mr Stay Puft scene in Ghostbusters. Over time I developed measures of avoiding these outcomes, though each time my mind found a loop hole and they are too many and absurd to describe here. I had internal debates about what constituted praying. When did a thought become a prayer.
Religion was the bane of my life. It was made more torturous by the fact I 'knew' no one else had these concerns. Still, I couldn't rest easy or allow free thought until I was absolutely, beyond any doubt convinced four, eight or sixteen times over that I had nothing to worry about. Welcome to the world of OCD.
Thought suppression is not just essentially impossible, but counter-productive. Looking at that crucifix made me think of prayer, which brought anxious thoughts of things I didn't want to pray for, which made me try to not think those thoughts, which, of course, made it impossible to get those things out of my mind, which made me *want* to think them just for the relief, which created more tension as I desperately suppressed those thoughts more tightly, thinking in explicit, super-conscious, 'front of mind' words to avoid my worst fears potentially coming to fruition.
I got frustrated and desperately angry with myself. Often I would hit myself in the head with the heel of my hand to teach myself a lesson.
Once I threw Jesus across the room and broke his arm. I later placed him back up on the wall, a bread bag wire holding his arm on the cross, and wondered what mum and dad thought when they saw it.
As an aside, this history of religion-related OCD might also explain for my friends who were with me in Munich where I drunkenly and joyously yelled abuse at God and the Church as we stumbled home from Oktoberfest one night. It wasn't hatred so much, or even grandstanding, but a primal uninhibited release harking back all those years. Why that night, I don't know - I was happy and free of worry perhaps. It wasn't cool, but it was harmless. And it feels good to break the shackles of your oppression.
I started trying to get out of going to mass in my mid-late teens because it was such a tortorous experience. It wasn't until a few years later that I became disillusioned with the Church, and later realised I didn't really believe in it. Not believing in it was no reason not to feel the anxiety though. That went on a few more years along, or in interchange, with other fears. I still couldn't prove beyond obsessive doubt that I had nothing to worry about.
So, when I moved out, for some reason I took pieces of religious memorabilia with me. They never saw daylight, just sat in a cigar box I souvenired from my Dan Murphy's days on a shelf. A sense of foreboding unease prevented me throwing them away. I couldn't think of it, it had a bad feeling to it.
Until this weekend past. Cleaning out all the crap from my crowding bedroom I found an old communion plaque, a card from my confirmation and a scapular I wore religiously in year 8. Discarding them out was not easy, per se. I didn't want them, but there was an instinctive discomfort with throwing them out. And not because I'm a hoarder. Other than band t-shirts most other things can go when past their usefulness.
Overriding that though, was the fact they no longer reflect my identity in any way, and it was empowering to toss them. What would my parents think? It doesn't matter.
These were reminders, not of joyous times, but of pain. By throwing them in the bin, where they still sit in my room as a sustained show of strength, I'm not running from those memories but prioritising my energy and focus on things that reflect who I am. It was liberating. I felt my 15 year old self smile. I'll never forget. But I have no space for oppressive symbolism.
I'm tired of being cynical. View my Twitter feed this morning and that may seem at odds with where my head's been at, but gimme a break, my head's full of phlegm.
Cynicism is draining. I hate when I get caught up in it. It's egotistical. It's lazy. It's easy. It's pathetic. It's miserable. It's a waste of energy and passion. It's tedious and people don't like it unless they absolutely agree. I'm quite cynical about it.
My cynicism now traditionally spikes around December, or immediately following media coverage of an NRA statement.
The primary cause - nine years working amongst the Christmas madness, three at a bottle shop where people take things very seriously on Christmas Eve. All those shitty, impatient customers and their Christmas sneer.
December is dominated by shopping and it's a jungle of materialistic animals, every man and woman for his and herself. I don't want any fucking presents, any small anonymous gifts left on my desk at work. Let's just be social. I'll even make an effort despite this fucking cold I picked up at work.
Sorry, another momentary lapse. Six years distance from those memories has actually starved my Grinch of a significant amount of bitter oxygen. Also, I spend as little time as possible shopping - either heading out once I know what I want, or at the last minute when I'm resigned to settling for crap.
This year we have a Christmas tree! First time since I left the parental home six years ago. Well we had a 'Christmas branch' one year, in a vase of stones, decorated with silver tinsel, but from my point of view that was as much a 'fuck you' to the traditional tree as it was a delightful decorative piece. I'd have kept doing it if I'd been able to find another such perfect branch, and my housemate hadn't taken the vase, stones and tinsel.
This year's is a real one though. Well, it's fake, but it's a step back towards my childhood Christmas experiences. The happy ones. We even have a Nativity Scene, if only because Mum "inoffensively" insisted. But I don't mind it for pleasant, nostalgic value. Santa isn't real either.
Meanwhile there's so much nasty cynicism from people on Twitter at the moment, who see to build notoriety and popularity by mistaking nastiness for wit. Okay, they're funny sometimes, but I don't want so much of that negativity in my world. I just want to see people more more open and accepting, because it'd make it a damn sight easier for me to be.
Last week I was a groomsman at a wedding for two of my closest friends, one of whom I've known for more than 20 years and was unspeakably stoked to share her special day with.
They think a little differently to me. Out on location a day before, the weather was causing havoc with arrangements, we ran through a rehearsal that was not quite what I'd have done and there was much frantic organising taking place, which continued into the next morning. I wanted to tell them to relax and enjoy the day for what it would be, you can't control these things no matter how much you plan. I should have taken my own advice.
It was perfect. It was their wedding, and 'them' to a tee, and amazing, and - most importantly - truly genuine. I even caught the tiniest salty discharge trying to escape the corner of my eye.
I tried a few times to express to them how amazing I thought it was and how much it meant to be part of it, knowing people sometimes to struggle to know how seriously to take me.
And then on TV last night two quotes summed up what I was thinking. Some guy on the ABC said that "tolerance is not the opposite of intolerance, hospitality is" and Father Bob said on The Project that people are "so busy whinging you can't hear the beautiful things". Touche. Or see or feel them.
There will always be shit people in the world. Indeed, one must be grateful for it, as it makes it that much easier to be better than most. I want to bitch less, get caught up less in other people's unproductive negativity, but you'd be sorely mistaken if you think that means a reduction in passion, so there will continue to be angry rants with hopefully at least a dash of constructive thoughtfulness.
Back to Christmas. This is the most festive I've felt in years and why should I fight that. There's heaps to enjoy about Christmas. For me, being grateful for friends who continue to stand by my side and some awesome new ones I've made this year, as well as a family I don't actively appreciate enough. Time off and the general opportunity to spend time away from the desk and with special people. Not even gun-toting menaces with cold, dead hearts half a world away, or impatient, rude, selfish shoppers can distract me from that for more than few moments.
I'll do my Christmas shopping and I'll take it slow, and smile at people and let them go ahead of me if they must - unless they're being a total arse, in which case perhaps I'll just cough on them ... I can't fight my nature too much. I might even notice someone else takin' it slow and free and easy. just digging it for what it is - crazy activity in our strange world. And that will make me happy.
Then I'll go have a beer with friends and talk about all sorts of random stuff. And I'll have fun, as long as this fucking cold eases off.
Thirty is the new 'who gives a toss how old you are'. An indifference I expect will - naturally and counter-intuitively - increase with time. The happiest people in the world don't care about their age. Most of them are 'old'. Writing about getting old at 30 must seem as foolish to anyone older than me as it would seem normal to most people younger.
"Are you feeling older and wiser today?" my workmates asked on Tuesday - the day I dropped the "2" prefix forever.
"Yeah," I replied. "Same as every other day."
I don't feel anywhere near as old as I probably seem to those kids that drunkenly stumble around the bars around the corner from my house. Not that I care. I was the same. They'll get it one day. Maybe.
My 18-year-old self would have been shocked to find out 12 years on I'd be renting in a share house, with no wife, no girlfriend, in a barely-satisfying job.
Aging worried me more when I was 16 than it does now. I was dumb. Why spend today worrying about how you might feel tomorrow? How else is there to live other than moving through life?
People complain about getting old, but no one wants to miss out on the privilege.
I didn't get it, but you're not supposed to, otherwise what would be the point?
I could never have dreamed of my life at 30 - the people, the opportunities, more actively getting out and seeing things, looking at small gigs and realising that not everyone buys into the myth of adulthood that's sold to us early on, not everyone lives by the numbers. It can still be fun and that doesn't mean balking at the responsibilities and serious stuff. It just means being happy. I don't have to be married right now (or ever); I don't have to have kids, though it would be a shame given how awesome an uncle I am; I don't have to be bidding on houses in places I can afford but don't want to live; I don't have to start tuning in to classic hits radio.
My twenties were tough. And fantastic. And memorable. Defining. I've picked up so much and left behind a restrictive, miserable, instructed way of thinking about myself and the world. I realised that it's weird to be normal and it's normal to be weird. Normal for you is who you are, what you desire, how you express yourself. Guaranteed it will seem weird to other people but that's just a great filter of figuring out who is worth talking to.
I've never been older, I've never been happier.
Thirty is a good round number, so it's a worthwhile time, sit back for a moment and think about how things are going, write a blog post perhaps.
Life is moving fast, as ever. There's more to do than can be done. But you will never have so much life left again.
Mostly, turning 30 has made me think about my priorities and how to achieve what I really want from my life, particularly the next few years.
Saturn's Return has fascinated me for a few years, because I wanted it to be truth. I wanted upheaval in my life, and better if it came because of some external, universal force that didn't require me waking up to myself. I wrote one of my first blog posts about it, on the occasion of my 28th birthday.
I was excited about this period when “a person crosses over a major threshold and into the next stage of life”.
“The
first Saturn Return is famous because it represents the first test of
character and the structures a person has built their life upon.
According to traditions, should these structures be unsound, or if a
person is living out of touch with his or her true values, the Saturn
Return will be a time of upheaval and limitations as Saturn forces him
or her to jettison old concepts and worn out patterns of living. It is
not uncommon for relationships and jobs to end during this time of life
restructuring and reevaluation.”
And on turning 30:
"During this time astrologers note that goals are consolidated and
people tend to gain a better vision of where they are going in life.
There are added responsibilities and a person may reap the rewards from
his or her hard work. Many major life milestones seem to happen around
the ages of 29 and 30. This is why astrologers believe that the
thirtieth birthday is such a major rite of passage because it marks the
true beginning of adulthood, self-evaluation, independence, ambition,
and self-actualization.”
Maybe I just wanted it to be true, I had the right mindset to make it self-fulfilling. Maybe it was coincidence that that girl passed through my life right at that time and shook everything up. Whether astrological, psychological or random chance, the last two years of my life have been the most amazing, most transformative, of my life. Or perhaps I'm just more aware of myself now.
"You're shit - do stuff!": Friendly advice in early 2010
Two years ago I desperately wanted a relationship, partially as a distraction from myself to make me happy. Instead I did it myself. I had some guidance and good friends, friends who saw the gap between my life and my potential and were willing to say "You're shit, do stuff!". And I did, I am, I will. I got to work on being happy with myself so I could get going pursuing the things that made me happy. I'm keeping an eye out for that special someone, whoever she is, but I don't need her anymore - to the resistant dismay of some friends. There is so much else in my life that drives me and makes me happy anyway. I will never rely on just one person for companionship, inspiration, advice, conversation, wisdom, fun, telling-it-like-it-is, love and everything else my friends provide. I am tired of spooning my pillows though.
The notion of being a grown up is bullshit. It suggests being done growing. No one never knows much at all, and we know taking life too seriously is hazardous for your health. The day I stop growing as a person is the day I say goodbye, be it 30 or 80.
Today is always today. Yesterday is a memory. Tomorrow will never arrive. This is the start of what I expect to be the best decade of my first four. But maybe it won't be. Maybe I won't see it out. I'll just enjoy living it for better and worse. I'm not going to base my life around a job I don't like and work towards a day I might not reach, only to get there and wonder where the time went?
I'm the least stressed member of my family and I'm the one living the least conventional life (and the one with the - diagnosed at least - anxiety disorder...).
Every day is a highly unlikely gift, so don't make it a cliche - you're not one, once you realise it. Even if that sentence is.
They say dogs resemble their owners. I wonder if you picked up certain unfortunate traits from me, at least me as a youth, things like a palpable anxiety at times (no doubt also due to being zipped over, miraculously unharmed, by a car in the very early days), a fierce temper and being just a little bit, healthily, crazy.
Sixteen and a half years ago, Mum and Dad just sprung it on me one ordinary June Saturday that we were to get a dog. A lesson for all kids there - pester long enough and you can win. Dad had, years earlier, promised me a dog for my eighth birthday, undoubtedly hoping I'd forget. We had an old Labrador for a short while - the most timid animal I've ever met, very unlike you Lucy - but she became too much stress for Mum I think so we gave her to a family friend where she was well looked after. Perhaps if I'd been more aware of things I would not have half-jokingly pestered Dad for the five or six between turning eight and this June day in 1996. Still, it was a shock. Why had they suddenly come to this decision? Was there bribery involved...?
I don't know why I chose a small dog, I've always liked big ones. Maybe the pressure of the situation. I don't know what stood out about you, I vaguely remember a certain energy. It would make sense if you were the terror of the litter, even at six weeks.
It was so unexpected that Nick and Dave freaked out when they saw what looked like an over-sized rat running around the kitchen upon returning home from a weekend in Queensland. I remember when you used to sleep in Dave's The Late Show cap. He loved that cap. I love that you claimed it. Man, I wish I could find that photo!
I was naive in a lot of ways. I wanted the dog but not the responsibility. But I was now old enough to take on responsibility. I sure as hell didn't know what I was in for. None of us did. You included, I'm sure.
For years I wanted a dog, but as soon as we got you home I became depressed. It wasn't you, it was me. All I could think about for days was that I was going to get attached to you and someday you would die. That was the sentiment in my irrational head and locked-up heart. In the first days you were a constant reminder of an unavoidable sadness I couldn't handle. Maybe it was the sudden change in my life. I never much liked change.
But change is inevitable, and irrationality passes. And who could maintain such detached thinking with such bursts of unbound energy racing around the place.
I'm not gonna lie, you brought more than your fair share of trouble. We had a complex friendship you and me, but that just made it more real. I think I was the only one that actually talked to you sometimes, but don't tell anyone.
Lucy, 11 November 2012, aged 16
I always knew exactly where you stood. Your temperament needed work as much as my energy and motivation did. It didn't make things easy. I didn't train you well at all, but on the flipside, I'm glad we didn't train the personality out of you. You were moody a bit more than is generally acceptable for a dog, and we had to make sure the kids were careful with you - which was sad - but you were genuine. When you came to me, jumped all over me in your unruly, enthusiastic way, I knew it was because you wanted to - maybe because I had a schmacko - not out of mere obedience.
I should have socialised you more. I was not a great owner, but I hope I was as good a friend for you as you were for me, especially in those early years when I didn't have many of the human variety.
As I spent two weeks unable to settle on a name, Nick and Dave - inspired by a film they'd just seen - enthusiastically suggested Kaiser. It would have been somewhat fitting. Dave lovingly called you "Psycho". Unbound sometimes meant aggressively undisciplined, but in all you were a loving, loved, bundle of fun and joy.
It's fair to say I have some regrets, though I don't know how you feel about it all. about lots of things. You didn't want to be trained, and I made mediocre teenage efforts to train you. You had temperament issues, I had motivational ones. In some ways, we made a good pairing, but I think I let you down. I definitely let Mum and Dad down. I'd do things differently, I don't know how you felt about it all.
I'm sorry I had to leave you behind when I moved out. I probably didn't wash you often enough, especially after moving out, but I'm not sure you're too fussed about that one. I was thrilled that we continued to have that special owner/pet bond, as if you know you were "my" dog. Though I don't like the term "owner" between friends.
I'm sorry for the conflicted feelings I felt as you aged. The guilt of leaving you behind, when having a dog around was a stress Mum didn't need and had her own health to worry about. When signs of age appeared - when you stopped racing to the side of the house barking as my car pulled up because you couldn't hear so well, and when you stopped running to the front door as I entered jumping all over me because you didn't have the energy - I felt some relief of this guilt, which was horrible and created new conflicted feelings and guilt in me.
The last week was tough. Seeing you stop eating and fade so fast, no longer responding to your name, I wasn't even sure if I was being a comfort or annoyance. I don't know if you even knew who I really was anymore so far were you gone. You were not the little loveable menace of years past. But you were still Lucy.
The hardest part was that I didn't know what the best thing for you was. I prepared myself to make that difficult decision - on advice - but the vet encouraged persistence. You seemed to have made up your mind though.
I'm sad I wasn't the one there with you on Friday when you fell asleep for the last time, to look you in the eye and comfort you like all those other times the bad man gave you needles (he really is a nice fellow, I should say). I'm sorry one of the last moments we shared involved me forcing tablets down your throat.
I hate saying I felt some relief when we all decided it was time, but I did, for various reasons. It was nothing like my anxious fears when you first arrived. We were all ready. It's horrible. Or is it? Is it coping? Is it the way when a life comes to a prolonged, (almost) natural end?
But now you are actually gone and it's been a long time - before you were born - since I've lost anyone/anything dear to me. Looking at photos of you makes me much much sadder than I felt when I knew your time was up. Do I miss you more than I loved you? Fuck, I hope not, that's horrible. It's reality sinking in. I look at these photos and want to scruff you up again, chase you round the back yard, yell "cat!" and see you bolt out the back to try in vain to intimidate the darn things. I look at that photo, of the dog that's been some years gone, and still I have to remind myself. She's gone. She's gone. She's gone. I think I had a tear yesterday. I'm not sure, wind was blowing in my eyes. But I am sad.
I'm coming round tomorrow. It might sink in then, seeing your bowl and bed - or not seeing them. I'm going to sit next to where Dad buried you, have a beer and thank you for being the crazy, untameable, troublesome, fun life you were. I'm glad I picked you.
Miss you buddy. You were one of a kind. It was far from perfect, but I hope we gave you a happy life.
A friend gave me some words from Ben Hur Lampman (I'd never heard of him, but he seems to be switched on): "The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master".
I'm not sure I was ever your master, but you know you always have a comfortable spot there.
Rest well, or just give 'em hell, wherever you are.
Slightly edited version of internal ramblings jotted down while sitting with a beer at the Weihenstephaner Restaurant, Hackescher Markt, immediately after a five-hour walking tour of Berlin on Tuesday 9 October 2012.
Berlin is exploding my mind.
Ich bin ein Berliner!
I arrived Sunday evening, am staying on the north-east fringe of town - and a large town it is - and didn't really feel it yesterday. All I did yesterday though, was visit the nice but relatively pitiful Oktoberfest set up in Alexanderplatz (comparison aside, it's actually kinda cool) and went up the TV Tower where I finally started to get my bearings. You can study maps all you like but it's not until you've been in and around the city for at least a day or two that it starts to make sense. And perhaps even then, without contextual knowledge of history and culture, this place wouldn't be so flash. Yesterday I walked right past Lustgarten, barely giving it a glance.
Today I did a walking tour. It was five hours of cultural and historical sights and information. A barrage of thought-provoking information bites, one after another for five hours. It was full on. Possibly the best paid tourist experience I've had. Today, back at Lustgarten with a little knowledge, the same space affected me deeply.
Yesterday I wondered whether Berlin would meet my expectations. Today I declare it my favourite of all the cities I've visited! One I could really see myself spending an extended period of time in. I love Germany overall, but this city has so much to offer.
New York makes you feel like you are at the centre of the world, Berlin feels like the centre of modern human history. New York's appeal is largely built on ego. Berlin's is based on culture, counter-culture, history, revolution, misery, and tough lessons that they've taken head on. My country could learn a lot about dealing with shameful history from Berlin and Germany generally.
There is such contrast and diversity in the history and place of this city. So much to think about.
How would modern Australia treat 'wall jumping' asylum seekers?
One place, one city that has been a leader in tolerance, was home to the greatest intolerance and human rights abuses of living memory, was bombed to pieces, ripped in half as part of a conflict not it's own, and came out the other side - finally - as one of the most vibrant, accepting and open cities on the planet.
The Mayor is openly homosexual - surely one of very few in the world - in a city where homosexuals were executed 70 years ago. My tour guide was an Israeli artist who moved to Berlin because it allowed her greater freedom of expression than her homeland. The same Berlin that was the capital of a country that executed six million Jews is now more accepting of some of them than Israel. Shocking, amazing, disappointing, fantastic.
Were the decades of pain and suffering necessary to make the city what it is? No doubt tourism thrives on atrocious historical events, but not culture, right? Why have the people of Berlin progressed so rapidly on respect for others while we in the lucky country languish in the struggle to shift - to open - supressed conservative minds. Perhaps drastic events are necessary for rapid change - sometimes for the worse, as post-World War I Berlin showed - but surely we can progress without suffering. Why does it often take a wall to drive people to seek to move beyond the ground its on.
This man. Is my hero
Berlin is what it is - something great - because of its past. Who's to say what it might otherwise have been? Or more the point, it is the city it is because of how the people of Berlin responded to their circumstances: accepting the past, learning from it and moving forward.
At one point on the walking tour we stopped by a memorial for a man who tried to assassinate Hitler in 1939. The guide wondered aloud, "if he has assassinated Hitler, maybe we would have avoided these atrocities."
It was a pertinent, thought-provoking and troubling. An ordinary man, an attempted murderer, presented as a hero. Yes, I felt a ping of admiration for him. He could have saved millions of lives and spared decades of misery for Germans, particularly of the east. Or maybe it would have made little difference. The Nazis were more than Hitler. Maybe things would have escalated. Maybe all hell would have broken lose. Assassinations tend to start more wars than they end. Who knows?
I'm opposed to the death penalty and certainly people taking justice into their own hands, so it was difficult to reconcile my feelings. If he'd been successful, maybe we'd view him differently - after all, Hitler would have died with far less blood on his hands and no one would ever have known the lengths to which he was prepared to go for his vision and to win the war.
As I said, I felt some admiration towards and sympathy for this man - admittedly given the full and subsequent context of Hitler's life - and disappointment that he had failed like so many others did, before I realised I was perhaps being hypocritical and now I'm not really sure.
Truth is it's complex. I dare say he was a decent man with well-intentioned - even admirable and courageous - motives who tried to do something that was morally questionable. I think questioning the morality of such action is the only way to promote and maintain a civil society. Can you bring back civility with uncivil action? Or is it better to die standing by your values no matter what? It's easy to stand by your morals when you're not the one doing the dying I guess.
That was just one of many complex questions Berlin has thrown at me today
No city has ever made me think so much about the complexities in humanity. Complexities too often glossed over or shoved into a convenient pigeon-hole.
Here the contrasts and complexities are - more than anywhere I've ever been - set free and promoted. By government, but mostly, and somewhat passively, through art.
I get it now. I understand why so many artists come here.
This city makes you think, question, explore - if you're willing to take the journey.
JFK was right, we're all Berliners (not doughnuts), it's the world's city of human struggle. This place has seen it all and has something to teach every person on the planet.
We're all prone to lying to ourselves sometimes to avoid uncomfortable or unpopular truths.
I reckon there is a massive myth around the way we travel. Few people ever admit to not enjoying a holiday - it’s sacrilege.
Each year over the last six years I’ve taken three-to-five weeks leave and gone on adventure, almost always overseas. Every time I’ve suffered a bout of depression and anxiety at some point for a variety of reasons – one time so bad I was painfully close to flying home a week early – but I always returned home with a smile and revelled in the photos and stories of a wonderful adventure. I do love travelling; I had just never found the right way for me. But I think I’ve cracked it.
Right now I’m in a Munich hotel, with about 24 hours left of a three-week journey through Germany and Eastern Europe, and this time I can genuinely say has been a fantastic trip; easily the most enjoyable yet. I’m not gonna lie, it hasn’t all been easy, but it’s the first time I’ve consistently forgotten what day it is; the first time I haven’t struggled to occupy my mind when travelling alone; the first time I haven’t started counting down days in anticipation of getting home (though I am now ready). Never before have I been able to so completely forget about home and my comfort zone for such long periods of time.
There are a few reasons. Partly it’s just being in a better place mentally. These trips have always been somewhat of a benchmark of where I am really at in my management of anxiety. I think I’ve kept doing it because I like challenging myself, or I’m a maniacal optimist.
But I’ve learnt from previous mistakes. This time I did things differently. I did it the way that worked for me, not how other people do it.
I mixed things up.
I started with a bang at Oktoberfest with friends, one of the craziest experiences I’ve had and one we’ll be talking about to the point of boredom for those who weren’t there as long as we hang out.
I then spent a week or so on my own. I knew I needed some relaxation, downtime and my own space on this trip. That meant taking things a bit slower that I have in the past and slashing my list of places to visit so I could enjoy those I did and relax as well as get out amongst it. In that time I splashed out and stayed in hotels. I can afford it and the trip was short enough that the extra cost was worth maintaining my sanity by paying to have my own space with the basic luxuries.
One of the lies I’ve told myself while travelling is that people always have fun in hostels - that I’ll meet people and we’ll be friends and maybe I’ll even hook up with someone and it’ll be awesome. Maybe it’s true for confident extroverts but I’m socially stunted when it comes to meeting people, lack the energy to engage with strangers, hate small talk and have had few conversations in the many hostels I’ve stayed in, let alone made friends. In fact, once I start to feel mental fatigue and the downs of travel – detachment, isolation, boredom – hostels suffocate me. I feel like there’s already friendships established so why would they want me talking to them (talking to people in the lobby these days means interrupting them while they’re checking the Facebook on the free wi-fi anyway)and I don’t sleep well from paranoia about snoring and pissing people off. I don’t want to have to flee my base to get the space I need.
I realised if I want to relax, I needed my own comfortable space. It’s not the cool or youthful way to travel, but fuck me, it worked a treat. And I was quite happy being anti-social for a week, especially while I dealt with the mind explosion that is Berlin. It also allowed me to address the single most important element in keeping my head – getting plenty of rest.
In that time I also made sure I had things to keep me occupied in my downtime that weren’t Facebook, or the internet in general. Previously I’ve thought the way to stave off boredom and anxiety was to keep a busy itinerary. But I think, for me, it’s just the opposite. Take time, and have time to myself where I have things to do. Sightseeing is the main activity, but you can’t feel guilty taking a break from it. It should be an experience not a distraction. Don’t drive yourself nuts getting to all the sights listed in Lonely Planet because you feel like you should. See what interests you. Spend a few hours reading or writing or just people watching in a bar and soaking up the vibe of a city. Whatever.
I didn’t want to spend two weeks on my own, and I know I need a bit of force to mingle with strangers, so I signed up for a tour for the following week. One that was long enough to actually get to know people, but not too long that it wore me down. In 2009 when I was ready to pay whatever it took to fly home early, the saving grace was a four-day tour of the Canadian Rockies. It got me out of my own head after a couple of weeks mentally isolated in hostels racking up a massive phone bill looking to Facebook for human connection and made me actually interact with real people.
Once past that awkward initial stage I’m a social animal. I made up for my lack of getting-to-know-you skills by never shying away from activity, especially involving that social lubricant, alcohol. After a few days you realise a few cool people actually like you and you wonder why you doubt yourself so much, because really you are pretty fucking awesome.
Now it’s over and I’m missing a bunch of random strangers who happened to pick the same tour as me that I’d never met a little over a week ago. People I had deep and diverse conversation with that I wouldn’t have with family or work colleagues, and many of whom I’ll likely never see again. I don’t have the stomach to do that over and over for a few months. At least Facebook makes it easier to either stay friends or gently slip away.
Maybe there are lessons here for others, I don’t know. A lot of people get stressed out when they travel, much more than they’ll admit. Do be confined by how others define the experience of travel. Find your own way. It should be a fun, joyous thing. But as little as it’s ever spoken, there’s a lot of stress that can come with travel.
Modern tourists get caught up worrying about schedules and itineraries. We visit tourist sites because they’re tourist sites, take their photos and leave, not actually really enjoying it. We race from city to city to say they’ve been there so they can partake in masturbatory conversations about the best city in the world (I personally think its Berlin). Even though my travels have been largely based on it, I don’t think three or less days does any city justice, even Canberra. We see places through a camera lens, desperately trying to capture a moment for fear of forgetting it - or so it can be relayed to others (not possible unless you’re a mega creative photographer) - rather than actually immersing ourselves in it with all our senses and soaking up the atmosphere, which a camera can’t do.
Travelling alone makes you more prone to taking too many photos because you want to share all the little interesting moments with someone. I actually find it relieving when places don’t allow photos because I take it in without thinking about the camera.
I don’t care that I didn’t experience an onslaught of cities through booze-wearied Contiki eyes. Better to experience a few places properly than visit a lot briefly.
I’m not bothered that I never spent my youth travelling and/or working in Europe as seems to have become a rite-of-passage for many young Aussies. It’s great for some, it’s not for everyone and it’s sure as hell not an automatic ticket to maturity or worldliness. I know people who never left Australia that are more world-wise than others who’ve been to 20 countries.
Travel is a fantastic learning experience though. It offers a chance to get outside your comfort zone and away from the daily grind, see different cultures, meet new and diverse people, gain perspective, learn about life and reflect on your own. Do it your own way and learn from the inevitable – sometimes painful, sometimes fun, sometimes hilarious – mistakes and it’s one of life’s greatest activities.
I’ve learnt a lot every time, and no less on this trip time, about myself and this crazy, messed up world and time I randomly find myself in.
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