The Crisis Of The Cabana

There really aren’t a lot of things Australians take very seriously when you think about it. We’re an immature nation that collectively lacks the self-confidence to stand up for anything. We look at Americans with utter confusion, baffled by the sheer passion they have for ‘their’ corporate-owned political parties. We scratch our heads when we see Europeans tearing each other apart over some niche soccer rivalry that dates back 150 years. We sigh in relief when we see religious conflicts overseas, guiltily thankful that we won the life-lotto and were born on a corner of the earth where ancient history was pushed aside and replaced with an empty, apathetic culture that struggles to comprehend caring about literally anything that much. There’s just this inner Aussie voice we all have that says it’s really lame to care about something so much that you’d actually do something about it.

Two years ago, I was traveling solo through Europe, exploring the Balkans. I’d already visited that part of the world on my first Europe trip, but this time, instead of the ‘Coastal’ Balkans—think Croatia and the stunning Adriatic Sea—I was in the ‘Inland’ Balkans—picture Serbia, where topless old men sit around plastic tables, spitting sunflower seeds onto the floor. I eventually found myself under the bright lights of Belgrade—a strange city with chain-smoking taxi drivers who, after watching me panic for 10 minutes trying to unearth a buried seatbelt, aggressively insisted I put it away as they sped through busy streets, possibly drunk off Rakija.

There was something really charming about this strange place. My renegade taxi driver finally dropped me off in the city centre after a frantic life story in broken English about his time as a personal driver for a mining magnate in the West African nation of Mali.

He drove off and suddenly I realised I might have some trouble finding my hostel.

Unlike most of Europe, Serbia’s strained relations with America and the West meant that they gave the middle finger to having literally anything in English, or even in an alphabet you could comprehend. Some of the streets were just mud and entire 15 story buildings were still blown out from the 90’s Nato bombing of the city. They didn’t even have Uber here.

Everywhere I went, I was reminded that this wasn’t the Europe I thought I knew. Serbian flags were everywhere—draped from buildings, hanging in shop windows—and massive plasma screens dotted the city, their sole purpose seemingly to display poorly animated, 2004-era GIFs of Serbian flags waving endlessly.

I was keen to experience the nightlife in this place, and I was not disappointed. Not in the “wow this place is fun” way but in the “wow this place is so interesting" way. The first thing I noticed was the looks me and my ragtag crew of 3 hostel buddies got at some of the venues—actually, no—the first thing I noticed was how insanely hot every single woman I saw there was, and how offensively not good-looking their boyfriends were.

As we sat there people-watching in this tacky nightclub that played the kind of music you hear in the Borat movie—while pretty girls all sat on one side and 6'5", shaved-head men in ultra-tight shirts stood on the other—we were approached. I looked up and was greeted by the faces of three rough-looking Serbian men. One of them leaned down to yell something in my ear over the loud turbo-folk music.

“What is your reason!?” he said, as I tried not to flinch at the vodka-Red Bull/cigarette smell of his breath.

“What?” I replied, confused and growing increasingly worried as his other friends continued to stare me down.

“What is your reason!!” he repeated.

What does he mean by “my reason”? Like, for being here? Or was this some deep question about the absurdity of life itself?

“I can’t hear you!” I yelled, hoping he would give up.

He grabbed my shoulder and leaned in further.

“What is your religion!?” he yelled impatiently.

What? My religion? Who even asks that? Did I teleport to feudal 11th century Europe?

“I’m not religious!” I replied, really hoping that this was the right answer.

“Where are you from?” He asked.

“I’m Australian,” I replied.

The response seemed to calm him down and reassured him that my browner complexion was not the sign of an undercover Albanian. He returned to the boys side of the club.

We were slightly unsettled by the drunken religious interrogation but couldn’t help but find the whole situation hilarious. We decided to find somewhere else to go and spent the rest of the night trading stories about our experiences in this part of the world—where entire towns and villages had these invisible, zig-zagging borders that divided Catholics, Muslims, and Orthodox families. Tour guides in scenic river towns explained to me how the local Muslims were banished from there in 1995. Not 1595—1995. Everywhere you went there was a reminder of exactly who’s turf you were standing on after a decade of civil war.

This level of care about something, that we take as fairly trivial, is something my Australian mind just couldn't understand.

We just don’t give a shit about anything like that like the rest of the world that gets all wound up over something like religious or ethnic tension.

We just don’t have time for such pointless things. We’re Australian, we’re chill.

Right?

Oh—there’s actually one thing.

One single thing.

It can send us into a rage rivaling that of a drunk Serbian man who just found out his daughter is dating someone from two hours away that happens to be Bosnian.

Our beaches.

Do not fuck with our beaches.

You know what? Don’t even talk about our beaches if you’re not from here.

That’s my advice.

If any Aussie hears a European talking about how nice the beaches are in Spain, or an American recounting their vacation at a beach resort in Mexico, they are bound to be quickly reminded that their experience is null and void—because Australian beaches simply eclipse anything they could possibly comprehend.

The knowledge that our seemingly unlimited beaches absolutely destroy anything a foreigner could point to in their country is a thing of pride for any Australian overseas that borders on serious delusion.

We won’t even shut up if we feel like someone is even slightly suggesting that one of the beaches in their country is being compared to ours.

We’ll flex our swimming abilities that we claim all Australians have, and then wonder to ourselves why for the first time we are boasting about our ability to swim in front of people we only met a few days ago.

We won’t let them change the subject. Instead, we’ll pull up Australia on Google Maps and double fucking dare them to drop a Street View pin anywhere they want on the coast, confident that it will reveal a scenic beach. Not stopping until everyone has submitted to Australian beach supremacy.

It doesn’t stop on the international stage either. Within Australia, every state is confident that their state has the best beaches (except maybe Victoria). A Western Australian living on the East Coast will struggle not to mention how the beaches back home are incomparable to the shitty beaches of Sydney.

Zoom in even closer, and Sydney beach politics become a shared discourse among all ages, backgrounds, and areas. Shire locals and South West Sydney day-trippers are in a never-ending tug of war over beach ownership that sometimes ends in international headline-grabbing race riots. Bondi’s constant stream of strange health fads is an ongoing butt of any Sydney joke, and the Northern Beaches continue to pray that the state doesn’t build a train line there so they can keep their beaches to themselves.

Somehow, we even argue on the micro-beach level. Sydney-siders will literally argue over which side of Bondi they prefer. Beaches are sacred to a people living in a city that is constantly pricing them out of housing, nightlife, and general fun. The beach is that one activity that everyone can enjoy that doesn’t cost money.

It’s what makes us wince in pain when we go to European beaches with commercial music blasting, elaborate day beds, vendors on the beach, and paid entry. Beaches are sacred. And when something even slightly infringes on this, it gets the entire city talking about the appropriate course of action.

I think it started last summer, but this summer it seemingly became the main beach-politics talking point in the city, Cool Cabanas.

“Cool Cabana” is the ultimate solution for anyone who wants to enjoy the beach without the sunburn or sand in their face. These portable, easy-to-set-up cabanas provide shade, comfort, and a touch of luxury, so you can relax in style while everyone else fights over the best spot under the flimsy umbrella. Perfect for beach lovers who prefer their relaxation with a side of convenience.

Seems harmless right?

In reality they are taking up sacred beach real estate and making our beaches look like Glebe Markets.

And it’s not just the way it makes the beach totally inaccessible for the rest of us. There’s something about a Cool Cabana that feels like an intrusion on the very essence of what makes a beach day Australian. It's like someone showed up at your mate's BBQ with a gourmet meal kit, acting like they’re the hero of the day. The beach is meant to be a laid-back, DIY affair—towels on the sand, a salty breeze in your hair,maybe a respectful umbrella. The sight of rows of pristine, perfectly-assembled cabanas with people casually lounging inside, looking like they belong in a luxury resort commercial, is a glaring contradiction to the spirit of Aussie beach culture. It’s just not what we do.

When I posted a story on my Instagram last week, I was met with mixed responses. Many agreed with my feelings, but a large portion defended these things.

“Some of us don’t want skin cancer!”

“Do you realize sun safety is important?”

“If you’d seen family members go through skin cancer, you’d use one too!”

These are some of the DMs I received, as if 3-metre by 3-metre carnival tents were the only way to avoid sun damage.

You guys do realize that you don’t need these, right? Some sunscreen, a hat, and an umbrella if you’re really doing a beach marathon will keep you safe, I promise.

Fellow meme-star @missdoublebay made a video yesterday with her very diplomatic solution to this growing issue:

The Cabana Corner.

A designated zone on the beach where those who feel it’s really important to have a tent capable of hosting a wedding can congregate. Out of our sight.

But is this the right solution?

Should we even be talking about giving these beach double parkers an inch of ground on this issue?

I say no.

I say this is our moment to go on the offensive and maybe even gain back some lost ground on the issue.

Casual local beachgoers who cherish the fact that the beach is a simple and easy outing should be calling for a total ban on these things. Council by council.

Make taking up five times more space on the beach than necessary completely socially unacceptable, as it should be.
I fear that if we concede on this issue, it could be a slippery slope to the Eurofication of our treasured beaches.

It starts with the normalization of Cool Cabanas.

“Oh nah, we can’t go to that beach, we won’t be able to get a spot on the sand now that there are all those Cool Cabanas on the beach.”

Then some genius brings one of those fold-out beach bed/chair things.
It catches on.

“Oh wow, did you see? At Bondi, you don’t even need to bring your own beach chairs anymore. Some Marivale-run bar across the road is letting you use them for free.”

And then we start hearing about certain beaches charging a fee to enter parts of the beach that provide amenities.

Don’t tell me I’m overreacting. This is how most city-beaches around the world are, and we take for granted that we still treat our beaches like public parks.

It starts with ultra-elaborate beach setups, and it ends in private ownership of the beaches.

It’s the domino effect, and I’m Joseph McCarthy in 1952.

While Miss.Doublebay has advocated for a more measured approach to this problem, I say we need to treat this like 1950s America, where anyone even suspected of being sympathetic to communism was alienated from friends, family, and the workplace.

Cool Cabana enthusiasts should not have the liberty to threaten our perfect beach culture.

If you own a Cool Cabana and feel like I’m overreacting, I implore you to do some self-reflection.

Am I the one being dramatic about a seemingly trivial personal choice at the beach? Or are you being selfish by taking up space? If enough of you get together, you're essentially taking away dozens, maybe hundreds, of beach experiences from other people who couldn't find space because of you.

This is the one thing me and most other Australians take very seriously.

Do not rock the boat.

If you keep this up for all we know in 30 years men in our nightclubs will also start approaching unsuspecting tourists and interrogating them on if they’re a “towel and hat person” or a “Cool Cabana person”.