With time expiring on my tenure in
Tasmania, it seemed appropriate to take in a bit more of the state
before I left. The North Western town of Burnie would probably not
feature on any sane persons list of tourist destinations, and had it
not been for a friend that lived there, I doubt it would have goten
a mention on my list either. Being at the opposite end of the state
to Hobart, the bus trip there offered just as much interest as what
the town itself did.
Not to speak badly of the town, as
there was nothing negative to say about the place. Unfortunately, as
a small town in outback Tasmania, it had nothing special of which to
speak of positively either. The winding approach along the coast line
was scenic, but not spectacular, as were the views of Bass strait
offered by the houses spread across the hills of Upper Burnie. Such
benefits were counter balanced by the fact some locals thought Upper
Burnie had a higher bogan ratio than the rest of the town. I may
sound judgemental saying this, but as an outsider, I found it hard to
distinguish between bogan numbers in Upper and Lower Burnie, as well
as between Burnie and well, most of the state. A large percentage of
the population seem proud of the distinction whether by acquiescence
to the label or by so thoroughly exemplifying the classification as
to defy repudiation. Even those violently opposed to such a
slanderous term often confess to tendencies that they consider proof
of inherent boganess.
I mean no real disrespect when I apply
such a label as it is no secret that I was raised in a more
bogan-like suburb of Melbourne. Travelling so extensively may have
cured me, or merely repressed my inner bogan, enough so that I can
see some difference between myself and the bogans I am currently
referring to.
Tasmanians by and large laugh off the
jokes from the mainland folk about inbreeding and the scars left over
from having their second head removed, but the term 'bogan' fails to
garner the same degree of acceptance unless it playfully comes from
one of their own. The bus ride to Burnie was blighted by a collection
of the extreme end of stereotypical bogan kids. All sported teeth
like a badly shuffled deck of cards, half cut hairstyles with shaved
bits here and long bits there, multiple facial piercings in awkward
places that no professional would accept responsibility for, clothes
comfortable enough to match every occasion but not appropriately, and
a contradictory glare of vacant intensity punctuated by outbursts of
profanities that often include a reference or two to hotted up cars,
AC/DC or some girl named 'Shazza'. (I 'hotted up' my first car by using my apprentice signwriting skills to give it a new paint job and rendering it significantly less valuable, AC/DC was the first band I saw in concert, and I've kissed a girl who was playfully called 'Shazza' by her friends!) They openly mocked me for my
obvious non-locality and their snarls indicated they may have just
been envious of my coordinated outfit, my lack of arousal at family
reunions or my full set of teeth.
Expeditions to Boat Harbour and Penguin
revealed there was more to do in this part of the country than making
jokes about the familial nature of the gene pool. Both had beautiful
beaches that required only my footprints for validation. Penguin
ended up winning on points, not by the overwhelming number of penguin
effigies that adorned the streets and shop facades, but for offering
the cheapest veggie burger I have come across in a developed country.
This in a state largely defined by the inflated cost of absolutely
everything. For $3.50 I was presented with a white sandwich roll with
mayonnaise, lettuce and a store brought patty deeply fried to artery
clogging perfection. Hardly worth handing out a Michelin star for,
but an amazing bargain irrespective of its counter-productiveness as
a source of nutrition. When the purveyor of grease charged me 50
cents for a thimble of sauce to go with my chips, it became obvious
that any financial shortfall from the annual sale of a veggie burger
was made up for with the necessary addition of sauce to everything
else the shop sold.
And while I could harp on about the
cultural significance of a cheap burger and its impact upon a small
community, I did so at such length on the day that I lack the
enthusiasm to repeat myself for anyone's interest other than my own.
Tasmania's own burger King, nay Emporer, may appreciate the free
publicity as each burger sold would bring him closer to being able to
afford another fibreglass penguin for his shop roof.
