Tag: Australia

So many people

For five years, I lived in Chennai (south India), a city of 4 million. Imagine—that’s more than 10 times the people in Canberra.

I’ve been living in Canberra for about three months now, and the one thing I’m certain is that this green, bushy, mountainous, and lake-laden (words I’d never place alongside in any other scenario) city is small.

Yet I hear locals musing how fast Canberra’s population seems to be growing. I see it too—much like the ducks and swans, cranes are also an inevitable element of my everyday lake walks—expectable like the sunset. Commercial names are popping up all over residential areas, and corporates are fighting over who gets to build the tallest building and how to overcome challenges of the already-manifested leaks and rat-infested homes.

But—

I hadn’t heard of Canberra until about two-and-a-half years ago. That’s when I started planning for migration. My friends and colleagues know it now because I’m here, but they still think of it as a quaint, rather mysterious town far away from anything remotely familiar.

And aside from the clever kids who won general knowledge quizzes in school, most of the world believes Sydney’s the capital, Melbourne the corporate centre, and Queensland the Miami Down Under. Like the Tassie tigger, the remainder of this vast pool of sand is lost to the world.

Canberra is to Australia what Australia is to the rest of the world.

At least from what I observe. People come here on school trips, visiting the national museums, the parliament, the war memorial. It’s where national policies are concocted. Apart from that, Canberra’s small and boring for most people. It’s got no late life, no night lights, and not much life at all. Winters are horrible, summer’s terrible, and the average day is as bland as saltless porridge. The average person is an adulting public service worker—pointed black shoes, black trousers or skirt, shirt tucked in, and a jacked pulled over. It’s like looking at a well-directed tele series depicting the non-existent social lives of political members. They go to work, attend official meetings and gatherings, and return home to a cozy white villa, with clean-cut apple rings in the fridge, A-grade children, and a stony watchman guarding the house 24/7.

So contradictory, if you think about it. How is such a self-contained community attracting so much construction—who’s coming to Canberra? And why?

I may have found a clue.

I dread pitching the “is this vegan?” question at any place with food, because of the weird looks that accompany it. And so I’ve always avoided such situations. However, in the last month, I’ve tried to go out more—to food festivals, poetry readings, casual meetings in bars.

I wanted to meet people—the real Canberrans behind the bushy facade that most others see.

And I’m amazed every day.

So far, I’ve come across scientists who write poetry, writers who dance, dancers who sing, chemists who write songs, psychologists who study bartending, bartenders who are professors, and most recently—a full-time employee who makes fudge over the weekends—just for the hell of it (and partners with wineries to launch their vintages).

Canberra is like the secret life of adulthood. Micro breweries, cafés, bakeries, and shops support and welcome quirky hobbyists. Hundreds of small, family-owned businesses thrive here.

It seems like more and more people come here for something beyond 9-to-5 weekdays and weekend hangovers. This is a place to explore a world of opportunities. And I’m excited to be part of it.

Alternative reality

“I’ll have a flat white with an extra shot and almond milk, please.”

For most of us, that’s just another coffee order. A custom drink unlike the regular rather milky beverage.

However, until recently, that was more than a luxury for me. Before I moved to Australia, I took my coffee black or with home-made oat milk, which I wasn’t a huge fan of anyway. I’m vegan, and so my only option back in India was to go black or go home. I didn’t mind much, because I’ve always felt that functional coffee should be strong, sugarless, and black.

Still, it would’ve been nice to blend a splash of almond milk in my coffee.

Sure, I could still get it off one of those niche supermarkets that almost no one goes to, where they stock about two or three cartons of alternative milk every six months. The reason—almond milk is an imported good. And so, naturally it was far too expensive for my lifestyle. It remained a rare and pricey trinket I could observe from a distance, without ever a hope of possession.

Coffee shops stood no chance of offering it.

Does that sound pathetic?

Because it is.

Now though, I have three cartons of almond milk in my pantry. Yes, it costs little more than regular milk, but it’s still abundant and accessible. That’s first-world privilege.

We don’t often realise that even the most negligible aspects of our everyday life is such a big deal for the rest of the world. Coming from the rest of the world, I am stunned at the level of eschewal in society. Of course, I don’t expect people to worship the alternative milk aisle, but instead, I realise I’ve become more grateful than I thought I could be. It’s a strange side of my character I didn’t know I had—a side that’s so conscious and appreciative of the little things in life.

But let’s talk about something more important.

A child from an average household in a developing country wouldn’t need or want alternative milk.

I didn’t until I went vegan. Although I didn’t grow up vegetarian, my family thrived on vegetable nutrition at least 6 days of the week. Sundays were special—lamb days. Or chicken. Or eating out. You get the idea. 

But, milk was the beverage staple, just as rice was for meals. It was a habit I grew into as I got older, because that’s the way we’ve always done things. No questions asked. It also helps that most Indian foods are largely plant-based. Alternatives weren’t part of the culture, and so weren’t an available option anywhere.

Someone once told me that health-conscious dietary practices are first-world problems. And the more I thought about it, the more I realised it’s true. A family that survives on gruel twice a day wouldn’t bargain or complain about not getting almond milk. Any milk is blessing. 

And when you’re growing up in such an environment, you don’t always know or listen to your body. You’ll just shrug off the bloat from gluten and the gas from milk as just another bad day. Because you’ve never experienced gluten-free, vegan, or raw food habits.

Lack of awareness leads to lack of wants. Which may seem like a good idea, but it also leads to unhealthy practices and lifestyles. Which is the disappointing reality in many of our so-called under-developed countries.

Backpacker in Bondi

“Is Bondi Beach worth visiting?”

“Not if you’re not a surfer or a couple.”

So, yes.

I was in Sydney for work, and stayed in the central business district. Bondi was a good 50 minutes away by public transport. It was my last day in the city and I had a flight back home at 5 pm.

Piece of cake, you’d think. True. If you take an Uber, spend about an hour lounging in the beach, and take a cab back.

But what’s the fun in that?

The real fun lies in taking the train halfway, walking crazy distances, gaping at the ocean waves crash against the rocks, and resting on a cliff just for the thrill of it. The real fun is in hunting great food hidden in the nooks of intersections, wolfing down a pie uncaring about appearing a barbarian—and buying more pie to go. The real fun in travelling, is cherishing every moment of it.

And that’s exactly what I did.

When I left my hotel at 9 am, it was foggy. It was about 15 degrees Celsius, but towering buildings were shrouded in a mist unlike any I’d seen in Canberra. Not at that hour, at least.

Bondi junction on a foggy morning

But the best thing about living in Canberra is that my body has adapted to cold. I was the only person walking around jacket less (or in a light jacket at times), and appearing like a complete jackass to the locals. I didn’t care, though.

When I exited the train at Bondi junction, I knew I had a long way still to go. Buses run from the junction all the way to the beach. I stood in the queue for about three minutes before realising I’d rather hike all the way. It was only a 30-minute walk, after all. I love when my mind makes spontaneous choices like that. Bonus—because I left the station, I got hot chocolate to go with my walk. Sweet.

And so I walked sipping my drink. What’s better than having smooth, extra dark hot chocolate for breakfast? The beach only made my day better.

Bondi Beach

When I arrived at last, the mist still hung around. So were enthusiastic surfers and beach goers. Everywhere I turned, eager tourists captured photographic memories while kids in shorts ran amok into the water. Volleyballers spiked at each other and laughter echoed with the waves.

My heart soared. The last time I was at a beach was during a brief, half-day, team trip with my colleagues, and I don’t even recall the time before that. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed watching the sea spray at my face. Then I turned around to the walkway along the coast—the next thirty-minutes featured sensational views, active runners, dog wakers, couples, sightseers, and me.

It’s amazing how much energy you have when you enjoy what you do. I walked about 15 kilometres that day and I although my feet killed me two days later, I didn’t feel a thing while I scaled the Bondi path. Excitement and expectation masked pain and hunger. It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

From the beach, I walked over to a famous pie shop. Funky Pies is renowned for making (and distributing across Australia!) delicious vegan pies for unreasonably reasonable prices. I had to stuff my face. And so I did.

Funky Pies

But not before I spent a good ten minutes deciding which pie to order. The variety is insane. When I did order, it arrived at my table steaming with peas and gravy on the side. I skipped the mash. Not long after I started eating, I knew I could’t stop with one. So I got one to go as well. It’s an understatement to say it was good.

When I finished, it was just past midday. Though the airport was a long way off, I ended up walking all the way back to the junction to get on the train from there.

Sydney has pretty good footpaths. Yes, it’s annoying to wait for the signals to turn green because they take much longer than they do in Canberra—thanks to the sheer amount of vehicles on the streets. Despite that though, walking was fun. It was nice to look around at the various little stores selling thousands of trinkets I’d never splurge on. Row after row were sign boards advertising cuisines from all over the world, broadcasting the incredible number of cultures that reside in Sydney.

You’ll never experience all of that on an Uber. Or a private vehicle. You’ll never enjoy a city’s true nature when you’re busy trotting along in groups, chatting away in mindless abandon. The only way to understand a city, a locality, to feel its pulse, is to take it by foot.