I've stopped flying. There. It's said. You might want to avoid me at parties if you're planning to talk about, say, your next trip to Bali. Or maybe you have an academic conference on the other side of the world? Avoid me. Conversation-stopper or not, I will tell you that I believe the climate scientists; I'm terrified for my grandchildren's future and have stopped flying.
Actually, I'm joining the majority — 95 per cent of humans never fly. My father didn't fly until his 40s. One generation later, we think it's a natural human right. Five per cent of us are disproportionately harming the planet's ability to support the rest. Rather than stuffy airports, give me trains, ferries, random smiles and serendipitous conversations with total strangers. Slow travel, like slow food, is the new me.
But my decision not to fly is just symbolic. It's not going to fix the world. Only by working collectively will we build the power to conserve a liveable world for our grandchildren and it's urgent. It's up to us. This is the new meaning of conservation.
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Last month the arctic polar vortex swept Chicago while across the world a year's rainfall drenched Townsville in a week, and bushfires scorched 1000-year-old trees in Tasmania. Did you see the pictures of dead fish belly-up in the Darling River? It's the creatures that get me the most.