Frankly … social  Local Reflections of Global Crises

Small-scale symptoms of global crises and disasters worm their way in and leave traces wherever you go - even on holiday. Maximilian Buddenbohm took notes on the traces he found during his summer vacation.

We spend our summer holidays on a farm in the hinterlands of the North Sea coast. There's plenty of countryside all around here - and that's about all there is. We're far away from everything here. At least at first glance. We stay for a fortnight, during which we don't undertake many excursions. World history and the news only take place on our smartphones now - if we feel like checking at all. I don't really feel like it.

But it turns out there's no getting away from what's going on in the world, even on holidays. Global crises and disasters worm their way in everywhere, leaving more or less visible traces all over the place. I keep an eye out for these signs of the times and take notes about the small print on the local map from what's writ large in the headlines during my vacation.

Labour shortage

I notice the first of them early in the morning, around 5 o'clock. In previous years, a car used to drive up and stop at the farm every day. I'd hear the door bang shut, hurried footsteps, a door opening, the grating of a box top - and then fresh bread rolls were brought in for the guests. But those days are over. There's no one to bring us bread rolls anymore, due to the ubiquitous manpower shortage. You notice it wherever you go: Some of the restaurants have abnormally short hours - how come they open so late in the day and close so early? You can tell from the shuttered kiosks and closed tourist attractions, the endless queues for chips at outdoor swimming pools and, of course, the signs and slips of paper in every shop window urgently seeking workers, who are simply nowhere to be had. And probably won't be anytime soon.

The manpower shortage is a conundrum: no one quite understands why. In every discussion of the problem, people wonder where they are, all the hands we're short on now? Where'd they go? No one knows. The surprisingly few explanations to be found in the press are all unconvincing. What remains is a vague sense of mystery. These explanations won't do, something's wrong here. Where are the people? They keep enumerating factors that have been brought up somewhere or other: migration to other sectors, early retirement, excess mortality, young folk want to work shorter hours, boomers are retiring en masse. Or people are sick, quarantining, have long since burnt out, or are suffering from long Covid - might this account for the latest wave? It doesn't all add up to a complete picture that you look at and say, "Aha, I see!" On the contrary, you look at it and say broodingly and strangely perplexed, "It really is odd when you think about it."

Covid: Now you see it, now you don't 

In the common room for guests at the farm as well as in local restaurants, there are still notices here and to which no one pays any mind anymore. Social distancing and hygiene rules, even instructions on how to wash your hands with the usual brightly coloured illustrations, we've seen them a thousand times and don't even notice them anymore. In the stall I see an empty beat-up-looking hand sanitizer dispenser that doesn't look very functional anymore. No one misses its function. We drive past closed testing centres in the surrounding villages. The next small towns still have signs indicating vaccination centres, which aren't open anymore either. Walking across a meadow, I spot a discarded blue surgical mask lying in the green grass. It must have been blown all the way here, a stray vestige of Covid. To judge by these signs alone, the pandemic seems to be over.

Everyone's down south 

And then there are the overnight departures, suddenly vacant holiday rentals, spur-of-the-moment dashes to the nearest pharmacy for a rapid test after all, kids with colds whom you're inclined to leave in their rooms for a couple days' isolation just in case… because you never know. And all the guests (every last one of them!) can tell you how they got it and when, and how many times they've had it. Covid: now you see it, now you don't. Any mention of the impending autumn is immediately brushed aside.

We see fewer tourists than usual on our outings. Not even the main attractions are crowded, it's easy to get a table even at the most popular cafés with the best cakes. On rainy days, there's no mile-long queue for the best swimming pool in the area. Folks must have headed further south to catch up on the big trips they put off during Covid or they're travelling now just in case they won't be able to next year, who knows. At any rate, they're not here.

One holidaymaker at the farm needs a reliable connection with more bandwidth for a video call, he has to work for a day whilst on holiday. Not easy to find here in the coastal countryside, the network is still patchy. But we google it and it turns out they now have coworking spaces right by the sea. Work where others vacation! urge the ads. The daily rent for a space is cheap, much to our surprise: "There you go!" So working from here isn't a problem anymore. It would have been unthinkable pre-Covid. We talk about our working arrangements, about working from home and mobile working. It occurs to us that many of us really could work effectively in a coworking space like this, and the pre-Covid era feels like it must have been decades ago. That's how sweeping the changes in the working world have been. 

(A)political conversations 

On an outing to the closest town, I spot a flagpole by the harbour flying a Ukrainian flag - the only one I see during this summer vacation. At a narrow intersection in the old town, a woman is clumsily trying to turn her SUV around. It lurches back and forth, back and forth - she's not exactly an expert driver. With her little daughter seated next to her, the woman turns the steering wheel round and round a lot. It says on the number plate that the car's from Ukraine. Several passers-by notice, pointing to the number plate. But no one makes any nasty remarks or grumbles about the lady's lousy driving. This forbearance is perhaps significant in and of itself. It is perhaps more than one would expect, it might even be considered a form of hospitality.

During our small talk around the fire pit that night, someone mentions the arms shipments to Ukraine. No reaction. It's quiet for a moment, then someone finally changes the subject and the conversation resumes apolitically.

Or someone asks where you can recharge an e-car around here. He doesn't have an electric car, at least not yet, he's just inquiring as a matter of principle. After all, it's a logical question to ask these days. There's supposed to be something of the sort in one of the villages back there. There will be more of them soon, it's generally assumed, a whole lot more. After all, people will need to recharge.
The climate thing is the hardest to get one's head around. We experience climate only as weather, and we're always talking about the weather. Now, with a new undertone of concern: Is it just weather? It wasn't this hot here before, was it? Look at those sheep with their thick fleece in the sunshine, how awful! But without the wool they'd get sunburnt. No, talking about the weather doesn't get us anywhere.

We'll just keep building houses in the meantime

Perhaps more interesting than chit-chat about the weather is the building site on the outskirts of the village. They're putting up houses for families there. But some climate scenarios say this area won't be around for much longer: it's going to be submerged under rising sea levels - and perhaps sooner rather than later, depending on the climate model. This land here may soon be under water, it lies below sea level.

No date has been set for the deluge. So we'll just keep building houses in the meantime, you might sum it up like that. This is also how you might sum up our attitude towards climate change in general, too. I see in the local press that property prices are markedly rising again around here. I also occasionally see stories in the papers about the construction of dykes and ongoing efforts to protect the islands off the coast, which are already far more threatened by storm surges than before.

What else? Inflation. Sometimes you recall what was cheaper last year: the cakes here, admission there, parking. And then there's this slight hesitation about booking again for next year - we don't know yet how things are going to turn out. Though you could say the same about all the crises: we don't know how things are going to turn out. You shake your head, with question marks in your eyes. 

And then you go ahead and book anyway. One way or another, things will go on, and you'll certainly need a vacation. From whatever crisis it may be.
 

August 2022