Most of the people I’ve met in Vancouver tell me that British Columbia is full of Australians. So, you’ve probably encountered a few of us sun-loving, beer-drinking folk who drive on the wrong side of the road, and boast of childhoods spent running amuck in backyards full of deadly critters.
You might also know that travelling Australians typically stay in packs, inhabiting a particular area where others have already settled. Case in point: Whistler. We gather at “‘Aussie”’ pubs decorated with boomerangs and stuffed crocodiles so that, even though we’ve flown for hours on a plane ticket we’ve spent our life’s savings on, we can feel like we’re back home.
In an attempt to distinguish myself from the masses, I introduce myself as Tasmanian. This is not to be confused with Tanzanian.
You’d be amazed to know how many people make this mistake. Their confusion is plainly obvious when their eyes widen in surprise as they imagine me galloping through the Serengeti with wildebeest. Tasmania and Tanzania should not be confused: Tasmania is Australia’s southern island state. Tanzania is in Africa. Tasmania has kangaroos and devils. Tanzania has zebras and lions.
Yes, the Tasmanian devil is a real animal. But, no, it doesn’t spin around like the Warner Brothers cartoon character. It’s not nearly as big as the cartoon suggests, either. It’s more like an oversized trash-compacting rat that scavenges for pre-prepared meals on the forest floor. The fact that it crunches and consumes a whole carcass – bones and all – has always terrified me, but thankfully, they tend to keep to themselves.
The Tasmanian devil, of course, is not the only thing that sets us apart from mainland Australia. Our stunning, largely unspoiled wilderness is recognized world-wide as some of the most breathtakingly beautiful scenery on the planet. It extends from the wild and remote highlands of the West Coast – where the now extinct Tasmanian Tiger is occasionally sighted by some lunatic hippie – to the post-card worthy white sandy beaches of the East Coast. Don’t be disheartened, though – our mountains are like cub-scouts compared to yours.
You may also know of Crown Princess Mary of Denmark – she’s from Tasmania. We’re fiercely proud of this state achievement and commonly refer to her as “our Mary”. This is great and all, but it has certainly ruined my odds of meeting my own Prince Charming.
To be fair, though, I seem to be doing a pretty good job of that myself. All hope of being an effortlessly fabulous traveller was crushed the second I stepped out of Vancouver’s airport and tried to climb into the driver’s seat of the cab. I’m not sure who was alarmed the most, me or the driver.
Mainland Australians would delight in this faux pas. This is because Tasmania has a rather unique reputation: we’re thought of as a kind of backwater full of hillbillies. Unfortunately, there is some truth to their mockery. Tasmania was largely colonized by society’s rejects. In the 1800s the British government thought Tasmania would be a great place to dump their convicts. Even Canada got on board in 1840 by sending down a bunch of exiles who’d participated in the 1837 Rebellions against the British Crown.
But I’d like to think this has bred into us a distinct cheekiness and the ability to stand up for ourselves – something I had to call upon after my taxi ride when I was met by a scammer and a thief at my hostel. Or so I thought.
A dread-locked girl at the front desk tried to scam me by charging a higher price than what was stated on the counter. She claimed it was some sort of tax. In Tasmania, what you see is what you get. This is true for both the people and price tags. All costs are inclusive of taxes. If someone tried to ‘add tax’ on top of the agreed price, you’d laugh hysterically and probably report them to the authorities.
That’s another thing about Tasmania: it has a small-town feel to it. I’m from the capital city of Hobart and we have just over 250 000 people. It’s the kind of place where your Mum’s going to hear about your first kiss before you even get home. And don’t even think about trying to have a wild night out because your Dad’s best friend’s son is bound to walk past and see you falling face-first down the stairs.
Our size and isolation means the mainlanders think all Tasmanians are related. It’s obviously an absurd suggestion, but in true Australian style they love to make fun and tease us about it, nonetheless.
So please don’t tell anyone that I bumped in to my ex-boyfriend’s cousin on the Sea Wall last Tuesday – I’d never live it down.
